Dat war eber so long ago, 'cause me granmammy tell me so. It h'aint no
white-folks yarn--no Sah. Gall she war call Dicey, an' she war borned
on de plantation. Whar Jim Orpus kum from, granmammy she disremember.
He war a boss-fiddler, he war, an' jus' that powerful, dat when de
mules in de cotton field listen to um, dey no budge in de furrer.
Orpus he neber want no mess of fish, ketched wid a angle. He just take
him fiddle an' fool along de branch, an' play a tune, an' up dey
comes, an' he cotch 'em in he hans. He war mighty sot on Dicey, an'
dey war married all proper an' reg'lar. Hit war so long ago, dat de
railroad war a bran-new spick an' span ting in dose days. Dicey once
she lounge 'round de track, 'cause she tink she hear Orpus a fiddlin'
in de fur-fur-away. Onyways de hengine smash her. Den Jim Orpus he
took on turrible, an' when she war buried, he sot him down on de
grave, an' he fiddle an' he fiddle till most yo' heart was bruk.
An' he play so long dat de groun' crummle (crumble) an' sink, an' nex'
day, when de peoples look for Jim Orpus, dey no find um; oney big-hole
in de lot, an' nobody never see Jim Orpus no mo'. An' dey do say, dat
ef yo' go inter a darky's burial-groun', providin' no white man been
planted thar, an' yo' clap yo' ear to de groun', yo' can hear Jim's
fiddle way down deep belo', a folloin' Dicey fru' de lan' of de Golden
Slippah.[1]
[Footnote 1: Mr. Phillips, writing in 1896, says that the tale was
told him by a plantation hand, thirty years ago, 'long before the
Uncle Remus period.']
* * * * *
The original touch, the sound of Orpus's fiddle heard only in the
graveyards of the negroes (like the fairy music under the fairy hill
at Ballachulish), is very remarkable. Now the Red Indian story has no
harper, and no visit by the hero to the land of the dead. His grief
brings his wife back to him, and he loses her again by breaking a
taboo, as Orpheus did by looking back, a thing always forbidden. Thus
we do not know whether or not the Red Indian version is borrowed from
the European myth, probably enough it is not. But in no case--not
even when the same plot and incidents occur among Egyptians and the
Central Australian tribes, or among the frosty Samoyeds and Eskimo,
the Samoans, the Andamanese, the Zulus, and the Japanese, as well as
among Celts and ancient Greeks--can we be absolutely certain that the
story has not been diffused and borrowed, in the backward of time.
Thus the date and place of origin of these eternal stories, the
groundwork of ballads and popular tales, can never be ascertained. The
oldest known version may be found in the literature of Egypt or
Chaldaea, but it is an obvious fallacy to argue that the place of
origin must be the place where the tale was first written down in
hieroglyph or cuneiform characters.
There the stories are: they are as common among the remotest savages
as among the peasants of Hungary, France, or Assynt. They bear all the
birth-marks of an early society, with the usual customs and
superstitions of man in such a stage of existence. Their oldest and
least corrupted forms exist among savages, and people who do not read
and write. But when reading and writing and a class of professional
minstrels and tellers of tales arose, these men invented no new plots,
but borrowed the plots and incidents of the world-old popular stories.
They adapted these to their own condition of society, just as the
plantation negroes adapted Orpheus and Eurydice. They elevated the
nameless heroes and heroines into Kings, Queens, and Knights,
Odysseus, Arthur, Charlemagne, Diarmid, and the rest. They took an
ancient popular tale, known all over the earth, and attributed the
adventures of the characters to historical persons, like Charlemagne
and his family, or to Saints, for the legends of early Celtic Saints
are full of fairy-tale materials. Characters half historic, half
fabulous, like Arthur, were endowed with fairy gifts, and inherited
the feats of nameless imaginary heroes.
The results of this uncritical literary handling of elements really
popular were the national romances of Arthur, of Charlemagne, of
Sigurd, or of Etzel. The pagan legends were Christianised, like that
of Beowulf; they were expanded into measureless length, whole cycles
were invented about the heroic families; poets altered the materials
each in his own way and to serve his own purpose, and often to glorify
his own country. If the Saracens told their story of Roland at
Roncevalles, it would be very different from that of the old Frankish
_chansons de geste_. Thus the romances are a mixture of popular tales,
of literary invention, and of history as transmitted in legend. To the
charm of fairy tale they add the fascination of the age of chivalry,
yet I am not sure but that children will prefer the fairy tale pure
and simple, nor am I sure that their taste would be wrong, if they
did.
In the versions here offered, the story of Arthur is taken mainly from
Malory's compilation, from sources chiefly French, but the opening of
the Graal story is adapted from Mr. Sebastian Evans's 'High History of
the Holy Graal,' a masterpiece of the translator's art. For permission
to adapt this chapter I have to thank the kindness of Mr. Evans.
The story of Roland is from the French Epic, probably of the eleventh
century, but resting on earlier materials, legend and ballad. William
Short Nose is also from the _chanson de geste_ of that hero.
The story of Diarmid, ancient Irish and also current among the
Dalriadic invaders of Argyle, is taken from the translations in the
Transactions of the Ossianic Society.
The story of Robin Hood is from the old English ballads of the
courteous outlaw, whose feast, in Scotland, fell in the early days of
May. His alleged date varies between the ages of Richard I. and Edward
II., but all the labours of the learned have thrown no light on this
popular hero.
A child can see how _English_ Robin is, how human, and possible and
good-humoured are his character and feats, while Arthur is half
Celtic, half French and chivalrous, and while the deeds of the French
Roland, and of the Celtic Diarmid, are exaggerated beyond the
possible. There is nothing of the fairylike in Robin, and he has no
thirst for the Ideal. Had we given the adventures of Sir William
Wallace, from Blind Harry, it would have appeared that the Lowland
Scots could exaggerate like other people.
The story of Wayland the Smith is very ancient. An ivory in the
British Museum, apparently of the eighth century, represents Wayland
making the cups out of the skulls. As told here the legend is adapted
from the amplified version by Oehlenschlaeger. Scott's use of the story
in 'Kenilworth' will be remembered.
All the romances are written by Mrs. Lang, except the story of Grettir
the Strong, done by Mr. H. S. C. Everard from the saga translated by
Mr. William Morris.