Once upon a time there lived a king and a queen, who had three beautiful
daughters. The youngest of them, who was called Psyche, was the
loveliest; she was so very beautiful that she was thought to be a
second Aphrodite, the Goddess of Beauty and Love, and all who saw
her worshipped her as if she were the goddess; so that the temples
of Aphrodite were deserted and her worship neglected, and Psyche was
preferred to her; and as she passed along the streets, or came into the
temples, the people crowded round her, and scattered flowers under her
feet, and offered garlands to her. Now, when Aphrodite knew this she
grew very angry, and resolved to punish Psyche, so as to make her a
wonder and a shame for ever. So Aphrodite sent for her son Eros, the
God of Love, and took him to the city where Psyche lived, and showed the
maiden to him, and bade him afflict her with love for a man who should
be the most wicked and most miserable of mankind, an outcast, a beggar,
one who had done some great wrong, and had fallen so low that no man in
the whole world could be so wretched. Eros agreed that he would do what
his mother wished; but this was only a pretence, for when he saw Psyche
he fell in love with her himself, and made up his mind that she should
be his own wife. The first thing to do was to get the maiden into his
own care and to hide her from the vengeance of Aphrodite. So he put it
into the mind of her father to go to the shrine of Phoebus, at Miletus,
and ask the god what should be done with Psyche. The king did so, and he
was bidden by an oracle to dress Psyche as a bride, to take her to the
brow of a high mountain, and to leave her there, and that after a time
a great monster would come and take her away and make her his wife. So
Psyche was decked in bridal garments, was taken to a rock on the top of
a mountain, and was left there as a sacrifice to turn away the wrath
of Aphrodite. But Eros took care that she came to no harm. He went to
Zephyrus, the God of the West Wind, and told him to carry Psyche gently
down into a beautiful valley, and to lay her softly on the turf, amidst
lovely flowers. So Zephyrus lulled Psyche to sleep, and then carried her
safely down, and laid her in the place where Eros had bidden him. When
Psyche awoke from sleep she saw a thick grove, with a crystal fountain
in it, and close to the fountain there was a stately palace, fit for the
dwelling of a king or a god. She went into the palace, and found it very
wonderful. The walls and ceilings were made of cedar and ivory, there
were golden columns holding up the roof, the floors were laid with
precious stones, so put together as to make pictures, and on the walls
were carvings in gold and silver of birds, and beasts, and flowers, and
all kinds of strange and beautiful things. And there were also great
treasure places full of gold, and silver, and gems, in such great
measure that it seemed as if all the riches of the world were gathered
there. But nowhere was there any living creature to be seen; all
the palace was empty, and Psyche was there alone. And while she went
trembling and fearing through the rooms, and wondering whose all this
might be, she heard voices, as of invisible maidens, which told her that
the palace was for her, and that they who spoke, but whom she might not
see, were her servants. And the voices bade her go first to the bath,
and then to a royal banquet which was prepared for her. So Psyche, still
wondering, went to the bath, and then to a great and noble room, where
there was a royal seat, and upon this she placed herself, and then
unseen attendants put before her all kinds of delicate food and wine;
and while she ate and drank there was a sound as of a great number of
people singing the most charming music, and of one playing upon the
lyre; but none of them could she see. Then night came on, and all the
beautiful palace grew dark, and Psyche laid herself down upon a couch to
sleep. Then a great terror fell upon her, for she heard footsteps, which
came nearer and nearer, and she thought it was the monster whose bride
the oracle of Phoebus had destined her to be. And the footsteps drew
closer to her, and then an unseen being came to her couch and lay down
beside her, and made her his wife; and he lay there until just before
the break of day, and then he departed, and it was still so dark that
Psyche could not see his form; nor did he speak, so that she could not
guess from his voice what kind of creature it was to whom the Fates had
wedded her. So Psyche lived for a long while, wandering about her palace
in the daytime, tended by her unseen guardians, and every night her
husband came to her and stayed until daybreak. Then she began to long to
hear about her father and mother, and to see her sisters, and she begged
leave of her husband that these might come to her for a time. To this
Eros agreed, and gave her leave to give her sisters rich gifts, but
warned her that she must answer no questions they might ask about him,
and that she must not listen to any advice they might give her to find
out who he was, or else a great misfortune would happen to her. Then
Zephyrus brought the sisters of Psyche to her, and they stayed with her
for a little while, and were very curious to know who her husband was,
and what he was like. But Psyche, mindful of the commands of Eros, put
them off, first with one story and then with another, and at last sent
them away, loaded with jewels. Now Psyche's sisters were envious of her,
because such good fortune had not happened to themselves, to have such
a grand palace, and such store of wealth, and they plotted between
themselves to make her discover her husband, hoping to get some good
for themselves out of it, and not caring what happened to her. And it
so fell out that they had their way, for Psyche again getting tired of
solitude, again begged of her husband that her sisters might come to see
her once more, to which, with much sorrow, he consented, but warned her
again that if she spoke of him, or sought to see him, all her happiness
would vanish, and that she would have to bear a life of misery. But it
was fated that Psyche should disobey her husband; and it fell out in
this way. When her sisters came to her again they questioned her about
her husband, and persuaded her that she was married to a monster too
terrible to be looked at, and they told her that this was the reason
why he never came in the daytime, and refused to let himself be seen at
night. Then they also persuaded her that she ought to put an end to the
enchantment by killing the monster; and for this purpose they gave her a
sharp knife, and they gave her also a lamp, so that while he was asleep
she might look at him, so as to know where to strike. Then, being left
alone, poor Psyche's mind was full of terror, and she resolved to follow
the advice of her sisters. So when her husband was asleep, she went and
fetched the lamp, and looked at him by its light; and then she saw that,
instead of a deadly monster, it was Eros himself, the God of Love, to
whom she was married. But while she was filled with awe and delight at
this discovery, the misfortune happened which Eros had foretold. A drop
of oil from the lamp fell upon the shoulder of the god, and he sprang up
from the couch, reproached Psyche for her fatal curiosity, and vanished
from her sight; and then the beautiful palace vanished also, and Psyche
found herself lying on the bare cold earth, weeping, deserted, and
alone.
Then poor Psyche began a long and weary journey, to try to find the
husband she had lost, but she could not, for he had gone to his mother
Aphrodite, to be cured of his wound; and Aphrodite, finding out that
Eros had fallen in love with Psyche, determined to punish her, and to
prevent her from finding Eros. First Psyche went to the god Pan, but
he could not help her; then she went to the goddess Demeter, the
Earth-Mother, but she warned her against the vengeance of Aphrodite,
and sent her away. And the great goddess Hera did the same; and at
last, abandoned by every one, Psyche went to Aphrodite herself, and the
goddess, who had caused great search to be made for her, now ordered her
to be beaten and tormented, and then ridiculed her sorrows, and taunted
her with the loss of Eros, and set her to work at many tasks that seemed
impossible to be done. First the goddess took a great heap of seeds of
wheat, barley, millet, poppy, lentils, and beans, and mixed them all
together, and then bade Psyche separate them into their different kinds
by nightfall. Now there were so many of them that this was impossible;
but Eros, who pitied Psyche, though she had lost him, sent a great many
ants, who parted the seeds from each other and arranged them in their
proper heaps, so that by evening all that Aphrodite had commanded was
done. Then the goddess was very angry, and fed Psyche on bread and
water, and next day she set Psyche another task. This was to collect
a quantity of golden wool from the sheep of the goddess, creatures so
fierce and wild that no mortal could venture near them and escape with
life. Then Psyche thought herself lost; but Pan came to her help and
bade her wait until evening, when the golden sheep would be at rest,
and then she might from the trees and shrubs collect all the wool she
needed. So Psyche fulfilled this task also. But Aphrodite was still
unsatisfied. She now demanded a crystal urn, filled with icy waters from
the fountain of Oblivion. The fountain was placed on the summit of a
great mountain; it issued from a fissure in a lofty rock, too steep for
any one to ascend, and from thence it fell into a narrow channel, deep,
winding, and rugged, and guarded on each side by terrible dragons, which
never slept. And the rush of the waters, as they rolled along, resembled
a human voice, always crying out to the adventurous explorer--"Beware!
fly! or you perish!" Here Psyche thought her sufferings at an end;
sooner than face the dragons and climb the rugged rocks she must
die. But again Eros helped her, for he sent the eagle of Zeus, the
All-Father, and the eagle took the crystal urn in his claws, flew
past the dragons, settled on the rock, and drew the water of the
black fountain, and gave it safely to Psyche, who carried it back and
presented it to the angry Aphrodite. But the goddess, still determined
that Psyche should perish, set her another task, the hardest and most
dangerous of all. "Take this box," she said, "go with it into the
infernal regions to Persephone, and ask her for a portion of her beauty,
that I may adorn myself with it for the supper of the gods." Now on
hearing this, poor Psyche knew that the goddess meant to destroy her; so
she went up to a lofty tower, meaning to throw herself down headlong so
that she might be killed, and thus pass into the realm of Hades, never
to return. But the tower was an enchanted place, and a voice from it
spoke to her and bade her be of good cheer, and told her what to do. She
was to go to a city of Achaia and find near it a mountain, and in the
mountain she would see a gap, from which a narrow road led straight into
the infernal regions. But the voice warned her of many things which must
be done on the journey, and of others which must be avoided. She was to
take in each hand a piece of barley bread, soaked in honey, and in her
mouth she was to put two pieces of money. On entering the dreary path
she would meet an old man driving a lame ass, laden with wood, and the
old man would ask her for help, but she was to pass him by in silence.
Then she would come to the bank of the black river, over which the
boatman Charon ferries the souls of the dead; and from her mouth Charon
must take one piece of money, she saying not a word. In crossing the
river a dead hand would stretch itself up to her, and a dead face, like
that of her father, would appear, and a voice would issue from the dead
man's mouth, begging for the other piece of money, that he might pay for
his passage, and get released from the doom of floating for ever in the
grim flood of Styx. But still she was to keep silence, and to let the
dead man cry out in vain; for all these, the voice told her, were snares
prepared by Aphrodite, to make her let go the money, and to let fall the
pieces of bread. Then, at the gate of the palace of Persephone she would
meet the great three-headed dog, Kerberos, who keeps watch there for
ever, and to him, to quiet his terrible barking, she must give one piece
of the bread, and pass on, still never speaking. So Kerberos would allow
her to pass; but still another danger would await her. Persephone would
greet her kindly, and ask her to sit upon soft cushions, and to eat of
a fine banquet. But she must refuse both offers--sitting only on the
ground, and eating only of the bread of mortals, or else she must remain
for ever in the gloomy regions below the earth. Psyche listened to this
counsel, and obeyed it. Everything happened as the voice had foretold.
She saw the old man with the overladen ass, she permitted Charon to take
the piece of money from her lips, she stopped her ears against the cry
of the dead man floating in the black river, she gave the honey bread to
Kerberos, and she refused the soft cushions and the banquet offered to
her by the queen of the infernal regions. Then Persephone gave her the
precious beauty demanded by Aphrodite, and shut it up in the box, and
Psyche came safely back into the light of day, giving to Kerberos, the
three-headed dog, the remaining piece of honey bread, and to Charon
the remaining piece of money. But now she fell into a great danger. The
voice in the tower had warned her not to look into the box; but she was
tempted by a strong desire, and so she opened it, that she might see and
use for herself the beauty of the gods. But when she opened the box it
was empty, save of a vapour of sleep, which seized upon Psyche, and made
her as if she were dead. In this unhappy state, brought upon her by the
vengeance of Aphrodite, she would have been lost for ever, but Eros,
healed of the wound caused by the burning oil, came himself to her help,
roused her from the death-like sleep, and put her in a place of safety.
Then Eros flew up into the abode of the gods, and besought Zeus to
protect Psyche against his mother Aphrodite; and Zeus, calling an
assembly of the gods, sent Hermes to bring Psyche thither, and then he
declared her immortal, and she and Eros were wedded to each other; and
there was a great feast in Olympus. And the sisters of Psyche, who had
striven to ruin her, were punished for their crimes, for Eros appeared
to them one after the other in a dream, and promised to make each of
them his wife, in place of Psyche, and bade each throw herself from
the great rock whence Psyche was carried into the beautiful valley by
Zephyrus; and both the sisters did as the dream told them, and they were
dashed to pieces, and perished miserably.
Now this is the story of Eros and Psyche, as it is told by Apuleius, in
his book of _Metamorphoses_, written nearly two thousand years ago. But
the story was told ages before Apuleius by people other than the Greeks,
and in a language which existed long before theirs. It is the tale of
Urvasi and Pururavas, which is to be found in one of the oldest of the
Vedas, or Sanskrit sacred books, which contain the legends of the Aryan
race before it broke up and went in great fragments southward into
India, and westward into Persia and Europe. A translation of the story
of Urvasi and Pururavas is given by Mr. Max-Muller,[3] who also tells
what the story means, and this helps us to see the meaning of the tale
of Eros and Psyche, and of many other myths which occur among all the
branches of the Aryan family; among the Teutons, the Scandinavians, and
the Slavs, as well as among the Greeks. Urvasi, then, was an immortal
being, a kind of fairy, who fell in love with Pururavas, a hero and a
king; and she married him, and lived with him, on this condition--that
she should never see him unless he was dressed in his royal robes.
Now there was a ewe, with two lambs, tied to the couch of Urvasi and
Pururavas; and the fairies--or Gandharvas, as the kinsfolk of Urvasi
were called--wished to get her back amongst them; and so they stole one
of the lambs. Then Urvasi reproached her husband, and said, "They take
away my darling, as if I lived in a land where there is no hero and
no man." The fairies stole the other lamb, and Urvasi reproached her
husband again, saying, "How can that be a land without heroes or men
where I am?" Then Pururavas hastened to bring back the pet lamb; so
eager was he that he stayed not to clothe himself, and so sprang up
naked. Then the Gandharvas sent a flash of lightning, and Urvasi saw her
husband naked as if by daylight; and then she cried out to her kinsfolk,
"I come back," and she vanished. And Pururavas, made wretched by the
loss of his love, sought her everywhere, and once he was permitted to
see her, and when he saw her, he said he should die if she did not come
back to him. But Urvasi could not return; but she gave him leave to
come to her, on the last night of the year, to the golden seats; and he
stayed with her for that night. And Urvasi said to him, "The Gandharvas
will to-morrow grant thee a wish; choose." He said; "Choose thou for
me." She replied, "Say to them, Let me be one of you." And he said this,
and they taught him how to make the sacred fire, and he became one of
them, and dwelt with Urvasi for ever.
Now this, we see, is like the story of Eros and Psyche; and Mr.
Max-Muller teaches us what it means. It is the story of the Sun and the
Dawn. Urvasi is the Dawn, which must vanish or die when it beholds
the risen Sum; and Pururavas is the Sun; and they are united again at
sunset, when the Sun dies away into night. So, in the Greek myth, Eros
is the dawning Sun, and when Psyche, the Dawn, sees him, he flies from
her, and it is only at nightfall that they can be again united. In the
same paper Mr. Max-Muller shows how this root idea of the Aryan race
is found again in another of the most beautiful of Greek myths or
stories--that of Orpheus and Eurydike. In the Greek legends the Dawn has
many names; one of them is Eurydike. The name of her husband, Orpheus,
comes straight from the Sanskrit: it is the same as Ribhu or Arbhu,
which is a name of Indra, or the Sun, or which may be used for the rays
of the Sun. The old story, then, says our teacher, was this: "Eurydike
(the Dawn) is bitten by a serpent (the Night); she dies, and descends
into the lower regions. Orpheus follows her, and obtains from the
gods that his wife should follow him, if he promised not to look back.
Orpheus promises--ascends from the dark world below; Eurydike is behind
him as he rises, but, drawn by doubt or by love, he looks round; the
first ray of the Sun glances at the Dawn; and the Dawn fades away."
We have now seen that the Greek myth is like a much older myth existing
amongst the Aryan race before it passed westward. We have but to look
to other collections of Aryan folk-lore to find that in some of its
features the legend is common to all branches of the Aryan family. In
our own familiar story of "Beauty and the Beast," for instance, we have
the same idea. There are the three sisters, one of whom is chosen as the
bride of an enchanted monster, who dwells in a beautiful palace. By the
arts of her sisters she is kept away from him, and he is at the point of
death through his grief. Then she returns, and he revives, and becomes
changed into a handsome Prince, and they live happy ever after. One
feature of these legends is that beings closely united to each other--as
closely, that is, as the Sun and the Dawn--may not look upon each other
without misfortune. This is illustrated in the charming Scandinavian
story of "The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon," which is told
in various forms; the best of them being in Mr. Morris's beautiful poem
in "The Earthly Paradise," and in Dr. Dasent's Norse Tales.[4] We shall
abridge Dr. Dasent's version, telling the story in our own way:
There was a poor peasant who had a large family whom he could scarcely
keep; and there were several daughters amongst them. The loveliest was
the youngest daughter; who was very beautiful indeed. One evening in
autumn, in bad weather, the family sat round the fire; and there came
three taps at the window. The father went out to see who it was, and
he found only a great White Bear. And the White Bear said, "If you will
give me your youngest daughter, I will make you rich." So the peasant
went in and asked his daughter if she would be the wife of the White
Bear; and the daughter said "No." So the White Bear went away, but said
he would come back in a few days to see if the maiden had changed her
mind. Now her father and mother talked to her so much about it, and
seemed so anxious to be well off, that the maiden agreed to be the wife
of the White Bear: and when he came again, she said "Yes," and the White
Bear told her to sit upon his back, and hold by his shaggy coat, and
away they went together. After the maiden had ridden for a long way,
they came to a great hill, and the White Bear gave a knock on the hill
with his paw, and the hill opened, and they went in. Now inside the hill
there was a palace with fine rooms, ornamented with gold and silver,
and all lighted up; and there was a table ready laid; and the White Bear
gave the maiden a silver bell, and told her to ring it when she wanted
anything. And when the maiden had eaten and drank, she went to bed, in
a beautiful bed with silk pillows and curtains, and gold fringe to them.
Then, in the dark, a man came and lay down beside her. This was the
White Bear, who was an Enchanted Prince, and who was able to put off
the shape of a beast at night, and to become a man again; but before
daylight, he went away and turned once more into a White Bear, so that
his wife could never see him in the human form. Well, this went on for
some time, and the wife of the White Bear was very happy with her kind
husband, in the beautiful palace he had made for her. Then she grew dull
and miserable for want of company, and she asked leave to go home for a
little while to see her father and mother, and her brothers and sisters.
So the White Bear took her home again, but he told her that there was
one thing she must not do; she must not go into a room with her mother
alone, to talk to her, or a great misfortune would happen. When the wife
of the White Bear got home, she found that her family lived in a grand
house, and they were all very glad to see her; and then her mother took
her into a room by themselves, and asked about her husband. And the wife
of the White Bear forgot the warning, and told her mother that every
night a man came and lay down with her, and went away before daylight,
and that she had never seen him, and wanted to see him, very much. Then
the mother said it might be a Troll she slept with; and that she ought
to see what it was; and she gave her daughter a piece of candle, and
said, "Light this while he is asleep, and look at him, but take care you
don't drop the tallow upon him." So then the White Bear came to fetch
his wife, and they went back to the palace in the hill, and that night
she lit the candle, while her husband was asleep, and then she saw that
he was a handsome Prince, and she felt quite in love with him, and
gave him a soft kiss. But just as she kissed him she let three drops of
tallow fall upon his shirt, and he woke up. Then the White Bear was very
sorrowful, and said that he was enchanted by a wicked fairy, and that
if his wife had only waited for a year before looking at him, the
enchantment would be broken, and he would be a man again always. But now
that she had given way to curiosity, he must go to a dreary castle East
of the Sun and West of the Moon, and marry a witch Princess, with a nose
three ells long. And then he vanished, and so did his palace, and his
poor wife found herself lying in the middle of a gloomy wood, and she
was dressed in rags, and was very wretched. But she did not stop to cry
about her hard fate, for she was a brave girl, and made up her mind to
go at once in search of her husband. So she walked for days, and then
she met an old woman sitting on a hillside, and playing with a golden
apple; and she asked the old woman the way to the Land East of the Sun
and West of the Moon. And the old woman listened to her story, and then
she said, "I don't know where it is; but you can go on and ask my next
neighbour. Ride there on my horse, and when you have done with him, give
him a pat under the left ear and say, 'Go home again;' and take this
golden apple with you, it may be useful." So she rode on for a long
way, and then came to another old woman, who was playing with a golden
carding comb; and she asked her the way to the Land East of the Sun and
West of the Moon? But this old woman couldn't tell her, and bade her
go on to another old woman, a long way off. And she gave her the golden
carding comb, and lent her a horse just like the first one. And the
third old woman was playing with a golden spinning wheel; and she gave
this to the wife of the White Bear, and lent her another horse, and told
her to ride on to the East Wind, and ask him the way to the enchanted
land. Now after a weary journey she got to the home of the East Wind,
and he said he had heard of the Enchanted Prince, and of the country
East of the Sun and West of the Moon, but he did not know where it was,
for he had never been so far. But, he said, "Get on my back, and we will
go to my brother the West Wind; perhaps he knows." So they sailed off to
the West Wind, and told him the story, and he took it quite kindly,
but said he didn't know the way. But perhaps his brother the South Wind
might know; and they would go to him. So the White Bear's wife got
on the back of the West Wind, and he blew straight away to the
dwelling-place of the South Wind, and asked him where to find the Land
East of the Sun and West of the Moon. But the South Wind said that
although he had blown pretty nearly everywhere, he had never blown
there; but he would take her to his brother the North Wind, the oldest,
and strongest, and wisest Wind of all; and he would be sure to know.
Now the North Wind was very cross at being disturbed, and he used bad
language, and was quite rude and unpleasant. But he was a kind Wind
after all, and when his brother the West Wind told him the story, he
became quite fatherly, and said he would do what he could, for he knew
the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon very well. But, he said,
"It is a long way off; so far off that once in my life I blew an aspen
leaf there, and was so tired with it that I couldn't blow or puff for
ever so many days after." So they rested that night, and next morning
the North Wind puffed himself out, and got stout, and big, and strong,
ready for the journey; and the maiden got upon his back, and away they
went to the country East of the Sun and West of the Moon. It was a
terrible journey, high up in the air, in a great storm, and over the
mountains and the sea, and before they got to the end of it the North
Wind grew very tired, and drooped, and nearly fell into the sea, and got
so low down that the crests of the waves washed over him. But he blew as
hard as he could, and at last he put the maiden down on the shore, just
in front of the Enchanted Castle that stood in the Land East of the Sun
and West of the Moon; and there he had to stop and rest many days before
he became strong enough to blow home again.
Now the wife of the White Bear sat down before the castle, and began to
play with the golden apple. And then the wicked Princess with the nose
three ells long opened a window, and asked if she would sell the apple?
But she said "No;" she would give the golden apple for leave to spend
the night in the bed-chamber of the Prince who lived there. So the
Princess with the long nose said "Yes," and the wife of the White Bear
was allowed to pass the night in her husband's chamber. But a sleeping
draught had been given to the Prince, and she could not wake him, though
she wept greatly, and spent the whole night in crying out to him; and in
the morning before he woke she was driven away by the wicked Princess.
Well, next day she sat and played with the golden carding comb, and the
Princess wanted that too; and the same bargain was made; but again a
sleeping draught was given to the Prince, and he slept all night, and
nothing could waken him; and at the first peep of daylight the wicked
Princess drove the poor wife out again. Now it was the third day, and
the wife of the White Bear had only the golden spinning-wheel left. So
she sat and played with it, and the Princess bought it on the same terms
as before. But some kind folk who slept in the next room to the Prince
told him that for two nights a woman had been in his chamber, weeping
bitterly, and crying out to him to wake and see her. So, being warned,
the Prince only pretended to drink the sleeping draught, and so when his
wife came into the room that night he was wide awake, and was rejoiced
to see her; and they spent the whole night in loving talk. Now the next
day was to be the Prince's wedding day; but now that his lost wife had
found him, he hit upon a plan to escape marrying the Princess with the
long nose. So when morning came, he said he should like to see what his
bride was fit for? "Certainly," said the Witch-mother and the Princess,
both together. Then the Prince said he had a fine shirt, with three
drops of tallow upon it; and he would marry only the woman who could
wash them out, for no other would be worth having. So they laughed at
this, for they thought it would be easily done. And the Princess began,
but the more she rubbed, the worse the tallow stuck to the shirt. And
the old Witch-mother tried; but it got deeper and blacker than ever.
And all the Trolls in the enchanted castle tried; but none of them could
wash the shirt clean. Then said the Prince, "Call in the lassie who
sits outside, and let her try." And she came in, and took the shirt,
and washed it quite clean and white, all in a minute. Then the old
Witch-mother put herself into such a rage that she burst into pieces,
and so did the Princess with the long nose, and so did all the Trolls
in the castle; and the Prince took his wife away with him, and all the
silver and gold, and a number of Christian people who had been enchanted
by the witch; and away they went for ever from the dreary Land East of
the Sun and West of the Moon.
In the story of "The Soaring Lark," in the collection of German popular
tales made by the brothers Grimm, we have another version of the same
idea; and here, as in Eros and Psyche, and in the Land East of the Sun
and West of the Moon, it is the woman to whose fault the misfortunes are
laid, and upon whom falls the long and weary task of search. The story
told in brief, is this. A merchant went on a journey, and promised to
bring back for his three daughters whatever they wished. The eldest
asked for diamonds, the second for pearls, and the youngest, who was her
father's favourite, for a singing, soaring lark. As the merchant came
home, he passed through a great forest, and on the top bough of a tall
tree he found a lark, and tried to take it. Then a Lion sprang from
behind the tree, and said the lark was his, and that he would eat up
the merchant for trying to steal it. The merchant told the Lion why he
wanted the bird, and then the Lion said that he would give him the lark,
and let him go, on one condition, namely, that he should give to the
Lion the first thing or person that met him on his return. Now the first
person who met the merchant when he got home was his youngest daughter,
and the poor merchant told her the story, and wept very much, and said
that she should not go into the forest. But the daughter said, "What you
have promised you must do;" and so she went into the forest, to find the
Lion. The Lion was an Enchanted Prince, and all his servants were also
turned into lions; and so they remained all day; but at night they all
changed back again into men. Now when the Lion Prince saw the merchant's
daughter, he fell in love with her, and took her to a fine castle,
and at night, when he became a man, they were married, and lived very
happily, and in great splendour. One day the Prince said to his wife,
"To-morrow your eldest sister is to be married; if you would like to be
there, my lions shall go with you." So she went, and the lions with her,
and there were great rejoicings in her father's house, because they were
afraid that she had been torn to pieces in the forest; and after staying
some time, she went back to her husband. After a while, the Prince said
to his wife, "To-morrow your second sister is going to be married," and
she replied, "This time I will not go alone, for you shall go with me."
Then he told her how dangerous that would be, for if a single ray from
a burning light fell upon him, he would be changed into a Dove, and in
that form would have to fly about for seven years. But the Princess very
much wanted him to go, and in order to protect him from the light, she
had a room built with thick walls, so that no light could get through,
and there he was to sit while the bridal candles were burning. But by
some accident, the door of the room was made of new wood, which split,
and made a little chink, and through this chink one ray of light from
the torches of the bridal procession fell like a hair upon the Prince,
and he was instantly changed in form; and when his wife came to tell
him that all danger was over, she found only a White Dove, who said very
sadly to her--
"For seven years I must fly about in the world, but at every seventh
mile I will let fall a white feather and a drop of red blood, which will
show you the way, and if you follow it, you may save me."
Then the White Dove flew out of the door, and the Princess followed it,
and at every seventh mile the Dove let fall a white feather and a drop
of red blood; and so, guided by the feathers and the drops of blood,
she followed the Dove, until the seven years had almost passed, and she
began to hope that the Prince's enchantment would be at an end. But one
day there was no white feather to be seen, nor any drop of red blood,
and the Dove had flown quite away. Then the poor Princess thought, "No
man can help me now;" and so she mounted up to the Sun, and said, "Thou
shinest into every chasm and over every peak; hast thou seen a White
Dove on the wing?"
"No," answered the Sun. "I have not seen one; but take this casket, and
open it when you are in need of help."
She took the casket, and thanked the Sun. When evening came, she asked
the Moon--
"Hast thou seen a White Dove? for thou shinest all night long over every
field and through every wood."
"No," said the Moon, "I have not seen a White Dove; but here is an
egg--break it when you are in great trouble."
She thanked the Moon, and took the egg; and then the North Wind came by;
and she said to the North Wind:
"Hast thou not seen a White Dove? for thou passest through all the
boughs, and shakest every leaf under heaven."
"No," said the North Wind, "I have not seen one; but I will ask my
brothers, the East Wind, and the West Wind, and the South Wind."
So he asked them all three; and the East Wind and the West Wind said,
"No, they had not seen the White Dove;" but the South Wind said--
"I have seen the White Dove; he has flown to the Red Sea, and has again
been changed into a Lion, for the seven years are up; and the Lion
stands there in combat with an Enchanted Princess, who is in the form of
a great Caterpillar."
Then the North Wind knew what to do; and he said to the Princess--
"Go to the Red Sea; on the right-hand shore there are great reeds, count
them, and cut off the eleventh reed, and beat the Caterpillar with it.
Then the Caterpillar and the Lion will take their human forms. Then look
for the Griffin which sits on the Red Sea, and leap upon its back with
the Prince, and the Griffin will carry you safely home. Here is a nut;
let it fall when you are in the midst of the sea, and a large nut-tree
will grow out of the water, and the Griffin will rest upon it."
So the Princess went to the Red Sea, and counted the reeds, and cut off
the eleventh reed, and beat the Caterpillar with it, and then the Lion
conquered in the fight, and both of them took their human forms again.
But the Enchanted Princess was too quick for the poor wife, for she
instantly seized the Prince and sprang upon the back of the Griffin, and
away they flew, quite out of sight. Now the poor deserted wife sat down
on the desolate shore, and cried bitterly; and then she said, "So far
as the wind blows, and so long as the cock crows, will I search for my
husband, till I find him;" and so she travelled on and on, until one day
she came to the palace whither the Enchanted Princess had carried the
Prince; and there was great feasting going on, and they told her that
the Prince and Princess were about to be married. Then she remembered
what the Sun had said, and took out the casket and opened it, and there
was the most beautiful dress in all the world; as brilliant as the
Sun himself. So she put it on, and went into the palace, and everybody
admired the dress, and the Enchanted Princess asked if she would sell
it?
"Not for gold or silver," she said, "but for flesh and blood."
"What do you mean?" the Princess asked.
"Let me sleep for one night in the bridegroom's chamber," the wife said.
So the Enchanted Princess agreed, but she gave the Prince a sleeping
draught, so that he could not hear his wife's cries; and in the morning
she was driven out, without a word from him, for he slept so soundly
that all she said seemed to him only like the rushing of the wind
through the fir-trees.
Then the poor wife sat down and wept again, until she thought of the egg
the Moon had given her; and when she took the egg and broke it, there
came out of it a hen with twelve chickens, all of gold, and the chickens
pecked quite prettily, and then ran under the wings of the hen for
shelter. Presently, the Enchanted Princess looked out of the window, and
saw the hen and the chickens, and asked if they were for sale. "Not for
gold or silver, but for flesh and blood," was the answer she got; and
then the wife made the same bargain as before--that she should spend the
night in the bridegroom's chamber. Now this night the Prince was warned
by his servant, and so he poured away the sleeping draught instead of
drinking it; and when his wife came, and told her sorrowful story, he
knew her, and said, "Now I am saved;" and then they both went as quickly
as possible, and set themselves upon the Griffin, who carried them over
the Red Sea; and when they got to the middle of the sea, the Princess
let fall the nut which the North Wind had given to her, and a great
nut-tree grew up at once, on which the Griffin rested; and then it went
straight to their home, where they lived happy ever after.
One more story of the same kind must be told, for three reasons: because
it is very good reading, because it brings together various legends, and
because it shows that these were common to Celtic as well as to Hindu,
Greek, Teutonic, and Scandinavian peoples. It is called "The Battle
of the Birds," and is given at full length, and in several different
versions, in Campbell's "Popular Tales of the West Highlands."[5] To
bring it within our space we must tell it in our own way.
Once upon a time every bird and other creature gathered to battle. The
son of the King of Tethertoun went to see the battle, but it was over
before he got there, all but one fight, between a great Raven and a
Snake; and the Snake was getting the victory. The King's son helped
the Raven, and cut off the Snake's head. The Raven thanked him for his
kindness and said, "Now I will give thee a sight; come up on my wings;"
and then the Raven flew with him over seven mountains, and seven glens,
and seven moors, and that night the King's son lodged in the house of
the Raven's sisters; and promised to meet the Raven next morning in the
same place. This went on for three nights and days, and on the third
morning, instead of a raven, there met him a handsome lad, who gave him
a bundle, and told him not to look into it, until he was in the place
where he would most wish to dwell. But the King's son did look into the
bundle, and then he found himself in a great castle with fine grounds
about it, and he was very sorry, because he wished the castle had been
near his father's house, but he could not put it back into the bundle
again. Then a great Giant met him, and offered to put the castle back
into a bundle for a reward, and this was to be the Prince's son, when
the son was seven years old. So the Prince promised, and the Giant put
everything back into the bundle, and the Prince went home with it to his
father's house. When he got there he opened the bundle, and out came the
castle and all the rest, just as before, and at the castle door stood a
beautiful maiden who asked him to marry her, and they were married, and
had a son. When the seven years were up, the Giant came to ask for the
boy, and then the King's son (who had now become a king himself) told
his wife about his promise. "Leave that to me and the Giant," said the
Queen. So she dressed the cook's son (who was the right age) in fine
clothes, and gave him to the Giant; but the Giant gave the boy a rod,
and asked him, "If thy father had that rod, what would he do with it?"
"He would beat the dogs if they went near the King's meat," said the
boy. Then Said the Giant, "Thou art the cook's son," and he killed
him. Then the Giant went back, very angry, and the Queen gave him the
butler's son; and the Giant gave him the rod, and asked him the same
question, "My father would beat the dogs if they came near the King's
glasses," said the boy. "Thou art the butler's son," said the Giant;
and he killed him. Now the Giant went back the third time, and made a
dreadful noise. "Out here _thy_ son," he said, "or the stone that is
highest in thy dwelling shall be the lowest." So they gave him the
King's son, and the Giant took him to his own house, and he stayed there
a long while. One day the youth heard sweet music at the top of the
Giant's house, and he saw a sweet face. It was the Giant's youngest
daughter; and she said to him, "My father wants you to marry one of my
sisters, and he wants me to marry the King of the Green City, but I will
not. So when he asks, say thou wilt take me." Next day the Giant gave
the King's son choice of his two eldest daughters; but the Prince said,
"Give me this pretty little one?" and then the Giant was angry, and said
that before he had her he must do three things. The first of these
was to clean out a byre or cattle place, where there was the dung of a
hundred cattle, and it had not been cleaned for seven years. He tried to
do it, and worked till noon, but the filth was as bad as ever. Then the
Giant's youngest daughter came, and bid him sleep, and she cleaned out
the stable, so that a golden apple would run from end to end of it. Next
day the Giant set him to thatch the byre with birds' down, and he had
to go out on the moors to catch the birds; but at midday, he had caught
only two blackbirds, and then the Giant's youngest daughter came again,
and bid him sleep, and then she caught the birds, and thatched the
byre with the feathers before sundown. The third day the Giant set him
another task. In the forest there was a fir-tree, and at the top was a
magpie's nest, and in the nest were five eggs, and he was to bring these
five eggs to the Giant without breaking one of them. Now the tree was
very tall; from the ground to the first branch it was five hundred feet,
so that the King's son could not climb up it. Then the Giant's youngest
daughter came again, and she put her fingers one after the other into
the tree, and made a ladder for the King's son to climb up by. When
he was at the nest at the very top, she said, "Make haste now with the
eggs, for my father's breath is burning my back;" and she was in such a
hurry that she left her little finger sticking in the top of the tree.
Then she told the King's son that the Giant would make all his daughters
look alike, and dress them alike, and that when the choosing time came
he was to look at their hands, and take the one that had not a little
finger on one hand. So it happened, and the King's son chose the
youngest daughter, because she put out her hand to guide him.
Then they were married, and there was a great feast, and they went to
their chamber. The Giant's daughter said to her husband, "Sleep not, or
thou diest; we must fly quick, or my father will kill thee." So first
she cut an apple into nine pieces, and put two pieces at the head of the
bed, and two at the foot, and two at the door of the kitchen, and two at
the great door, and one outside the house. And then she and her husband
went to the stable, and mounted the fine grey filly, and rode off as
fast as they could. Presently the Giant called out, "Are you asleep
yet?" and the apple at the head of the bed said, "We are not asleep."
Then he called again, and the apple at the foot of the bed said the same
thing; and then he asked again and again, until the apple outside the
house door answered; and then he knew that a trick had been played on
him, and ran to the bedroom and found it empty. And then he pursued the
runaways as fast as possible. Now at day-break--"at the mouth of day,"
the story-teller says--the Giant's daughter said to her husband, "My
father's breath is burning my back; put thy hand into the ear of the
grey filly, and whatever thou findest, throw it behind thee." "There is
a twig of sloe-tree," he said. "Throw it behind thee," said she; and he
did so, and twenty miles of black-thorn wood grew out of it, so thick
that a weasel could not get through. But the Giant cut through it with
his big axe and his wood-knife, and went after them again. At the heat
of day the Giant's daughter said again, "My father's breath is burning
my back;" and then her husband put his finger in the filly's ear, and
took out a piece of grey stone, and threw it behind him, and there grew
up directly a great rock twenty miles broad and twenty miles high. Then
the Giant got his mattock and his lever, and made a way through the
rocks, and came after them again. Now it was near sunset, and once more
the Giant's daughter felt her father's breath burning her back. So, for
the third time, her husband put his hand into the filly's ear, and took
out a bladder of water, and he threw it behind him, and there was a
fresh-water loch, twenty miles long and twenty miles broad; and the
Giant came on so fast that he ran into the middle of the loch and was
drowned.
Here is clearly a Sun-myth, which is like those of ancient Hindu and
Greek legend: the blue-grey Filly is the Dawn, on which the new day, the
maiden and her lover, speed away. The great Giant, whose breath burns
the maiden's back, is the morning Sun, whose progress is stopped by the
thick shade of the trees. Then he rises higher, and at midday he breaks
through the forest, and soars above the rocky mountains. At evening,
still powerful in speed and heat, he comes to the great lake, plunges
into it, and sets, and those whom he pursues escape. This ending is
repeated in one of the oldest Hindu mythical stories, that of Bheki,
the Frog Princess, who lives with her husband on condition that he never
shows her a drop of water. One day he forgets, and she disappears: that
is, the sun sets or dies on the water--a fanciful idea which takes us
straight as an arrow to Aryan myths.
Now, however, we must complete the Gaelic story, which here becomes like
the Soaring Lark, and the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, and
other Teutonic and Scandinavian tales.
After the Giant's daughter and her husband had got free from the Giant,
she bade him go to his father's house, and tell them about her; but
he was not to suffer anything to kiss him, or he would forget her
altogether. So he told everybody they were not to kiss him, but an old
greyhound leapt up at him, and touched his mouth, and then he forgot all
about the Giant's daughter, just as if she had never lived. Now when the
King's son left her, the poor forgotten wife sat beside a well, and when
night came she climbed into an oak-tree, and slept amongst the branches.
There was a shoemaker who lived near the well, and next day he sent his
wife to fetch water, and as she drew it she saw what she fancied to be
her own reflection in the water, but it was really the likeness of the
maiden in the tree above it. The shoemaker's wife, however, thinking it
was her own, imagined herself to be very handsome, and so she went back
and told the shoemaker that she was too beautiful to be his thrall, or
slave, any longer, and so she went off. The same thing happened to the
shoemaker's daughter; and she went off too. Then the man himself went
to the well, and saw the maiden in the tree, and understood it all, and
asked her to come down and stay at his house, and to be his daughter.
So she went with him. After a while there came three gentlemen from the
King's Court, and each of them wanted to marry her; and she agreed with
each of them privately, on condition that each should give a sum of
money for a wedding gift. Well, they agreed to this, each unknown to the
other; and she married one of them, but when he came and had paid the
money, she gave him a cup of water to hold, and there he had to stand,
all night long, unable to move or to let go the cup of water, and in
the morning he went away ashamed, but said nothing to his friends. Next
night it was the turn of the second; and she told him to see that the
door-latch was fastened; and when he touched the latch he could not let
it go, and had to stand there all night holding it; and so he went away,
and said nothing. The next night the third came, and when he stepped
upon the floor, one foot stuck so fast that he could not draw it out
until morning; and then he did the same as the others--went off quite
cast down. And then the maiden gave all the money to the shoemaker for
his kindness to her. This is like the story of "The Master Maid," in Dr.
Dasent's collection of "Tales from the Norse." But there is the end of
it to come. The shoemaker had to finish some shoes because the young
King was going to be married; and the maiden said she should like to
see the King before he married. So the shoemaker took her to the King's
castle; and then she went into the wedding-room, and because of her
beauty they filled a vessel of wine for her. When she was going to drink
it, there came a flame out of the glass, and out of the flame there
came a silver pigeon and a golden pigeon; and just then three grains of
barley fell upon the floor, and the silver pigeon ate them up. Then
the golden one said, "If thou hadst mind when I cleaned the byre, thou
wouldst not eat that without giving me a share." Then three more grains
fell, and the silver pigeon ate them also. Then said the golden pigeon,
"If thou hadst mind when I thatched the byre, thou wouldst not eat that
without giving me a share." Then three other grains fell, and the silver
pigeon ate them up. And the golden pigeon said, "If thou hadst mind when
I harried the magpie's nest, thou wouldst not eat that without giving
me my share. I lost my little finger bringing it down, and I want it
still." Then, suddenly, the King's son remembered, and knew who it was,
and sprang to her and kissed her from hand to mouth; and the priest
came, and they were married.
These stories will be enough to show how the same idea repeats itself in
different ways among various peoples who have come from the same stock:
for the ancient Hindu legend of Urvasi and Pururavas, the Greek fable of
Eros and Psyche, the Norse story of the Land East of the Sun and West of
the Moon, the Teutonic story of the Soaring Lark, and the Celtic story
of the Battle of the Birds, are all one and the same in their general
character, their origin, and their meaning; and in all these respects
they resemble the story which we know so well in English--that of Beauty
and the Beast. The same kind of likeness has already been shown in the
story of Cinderella, and in those which resemble it in the older Aryan
legends and in the later stories of the Greeks. If space allowed, such
comparisons might be carried much further; indeed, there is no famous
fairy tale known to children in our day which has not proceeded from our
Aryan forefathers, thousands of years ago, and which is not repeated in
Hindu, Persian, Greek, Teutonic, Scandinavian, and Celtic folk-lore; the
stories being always the same in their leading idea, and yet always so
different in their details as to show that the story-tellers have not
copied from each other, but that they are repeating, in their own way,
legends and fancies which existed thousands of years ago, before the
Aryan people broke up from their old homes, and went southward and
westward, and spread themselves over India and throughout Europe.
Now there is a curious little German story, called "The Wolf and the
Seven Little Kids," which is told in Grimm's collection, and which shows
at once the connection between Teutonic folk-lore, and Greek mythology,
and Aryan legend. There was an old Goat who had seven young ones, and
when she went into the forest for wood, she warned them against the
Wolf; if he came, they were not to open the door to him on any account.
Presently the Wolf came, and knocked, and asked to be let in; but the
little Kids said, "No, you have a gruff voice; you are a wolf." So the
Wolf went and bought a large piece of chalk, and ate it up, and by this
means he made his voice smooth; and then he came back to the cottage,
and knocked, and again asked to be let in. The little Kids, however,
saw his black paws, and they said, "No, your feet are black; you are
a wolf." Then the Wolf went to a baker, and got him to powder his feet
with flour; and when the little Kids saw his white feet, they thought
it was their mother, and let him in. Then the little Kids were very much
frightened, and ran and hid themselves. The first got under the table,
the second into the bed, the third into the cupboard, the fourth into
the kitchen, the fifth into the oven, the sixth into the wash-tub, and
the seventh into the clock-case. The wicked Wolf, however, found all of
them out, and ate them up, excepting the one in the clock-case, where he
did not think of looking. And when the greedy monster had finished his
meal, he went into the meadow, and lay down and slept. Just at this time
the old Goat came home, and began crying for her children; but the only
one who answered was the youngest, who said, "Here I am, dear mother,
in the clock-case;" and then he came out and told her all about it.
Presently the Goat went out into the meadow, and there lay the Wolf,
snoring quite loud; and she thought she saw something stirring in his
body. So she ran back, and fetched a pair of scissors and a needle and
thread, and then she cut open the monster's hairy coat, and out jumped
first one little kid, and then another, until all the six stood round
her, for the greedy Wolf was in such a hurry that he had swallowed them
whole. Then the Goat and the little Kids brought a number of stones, and
put them into the Wolf's stomach, and sewed up the place again. When the
Wolf woke up, he felt very thirsty, and ran off to the brook to drink,
and the heavy stones overbalanced him, so that he fell into the brook,
and was drowned. And then the seven little Kids danced round their
mother, singing joyfully, "The wolf is dead! the wolf is dead!" Now this
story is nothing but another version of an old Greek legend which tells
how Kronos (Time), an ancient god, devoured his children while they were
quite young; and Kronos was the son of Ouranos, which means the heavens;
and Ouranos is a name which comes from that of Varuna, a god of the sky
in the old sacred books, or Vedas, of the Hindus; and the meaning of the
legend is that Night swallows up or devours the days of the week, all
but the youngest, which still exists, because, like the little kid in
the German tale, it is in the clock-case.
Again, in the Vedas we have many accounts of the fights of Indra, the
sun-god, with dragons and monsters, which mean the dark-clouds, the
tempest thunder-bearing clouds, which were supposed to have stolen the
heavenly cows, or the light, pleasant, rain-bearing clouds, and to have
shut them up in gloomy caverns. From this source we have an infinite
number of Greek and Teutonic, and Scandinavian, and other legends.
One of these is the story of Polyphemos, the great one-eyed giant,
or Kyklops, whom Odysseus blinded. Polyphemos is the storm-cloud, and
Odysseus stands for the sun. The storm-cloud threatens the mariners; the
lightnings dart from the spot which seems like an eye in the darkness;
he hides the blue heavens and the soft white clouds--the cows of the
sky, or the white-fleeced flocks of heaven. Then comes Odysseus, the
sun-god, the hero, and smites him blind, and chases him away, and
disperses the threatening and the danger, and brings light, and peace,
and calm again.
Now this legend of Polyphemos is to be found everywhere; in the oldest
Hindu books, in Teutonic, and Norse, and Slav stories; and everywhere
also the great giant, stormy, angry, and one-eyed, is always very
stupid, and is always overthrown or outwitted by the hero, Odysseus,
when he is shut up in the cavern of Polyphemos, cheats the monster by
tying himself under the belly of the largest and oldest ram, and so
passes out while the blind giant feels the fleece, and thinks that all
is safe. Almost exactly the same trick is told in an old Gaelic story,
that of Conall Cra Bhuidhe.[6] A great Giant with only one eye seized
upon Conall, who was hunting on the Giant's lands. Conall himself is
made to tell the story:
"I hear a great clattering coming, and what was there but a great Giant
and his dozen of goats with him, and a buck at their head. And when the
Giant had tied the goats, he came up, and he said to me, 'Hao O! Conall,
it's long since my knife is rusting in my pouch waiting for thy tender
flesh.' 'Och!' said I, 'it's not much thou wilt be bettered by me,
though thou shouldst tear me asunder; I will make but one meal for thee.
But I see that thou art one-eyed. I am a good leech, and I will give
thee the sight of the other eye.' The Giant went and he drew the great
caldron on the site of the fire. I was telling him how he should heat
the water, so that I should give its sight to the other eye. I got
leather and I made a rubber of it, and I set him upright in the caldron.
I began at the eye that was well, till I left them as bad as each other.
When he saw that he could not see a glimpse, and when I myself said to
him that I would get out in spite of him, he gave that spring out of the
water, and he stood in the mouth of the cave, and he said that he would
have revenge for the sight of his eye. I had but to stay there crouched
the length of the night, holding in my breath in such a way that he
might not feel where I was. When he felt the birds calling in the
morning, and knew that the day was, he said, 'Art thou sleeping? Awake,
and let out my lot of goats!' I killed the buck. He cried, 'I will not
believe that thou art not killing my buck.' 'I am not,' I said, 'but the
ropes are so tight that I take long to loose them.' I let out one of the
goats, and he was caressing her, and he said to her, 'There thou art,
thou shaggy hairy white goat; and thou seest me, but I see thee not.'
I was letting them out, by way of one by one, as I flayed the buck, and
before the last one was out I had him flayed, bag-wise. Then I went and
put my legs in the place of his legs, and my hands in the place of his
fore-legs, and my head in the place of his head, and the horns on top of
my head, so that the brute might think it was the buck. I went out. When
I was going out the Giant laid his hand on me, and said, 'There thou
art, thou pretty buck; thou seest me, but I see thee not.' When I myself
got out, and I saw the world about me, surely joy was on me. When I was
out and had shaken the skin off me, I said to the brute, 'I am out now,
in spite of thee!'"
It was a blind fiddler, in Islay, who told the story of Conall, as it
had been handed down by tradition from generation to generation; just as
thousands of years before the story of Odysseus and Polyphemos was told
by Greek bards to wondering villagers.
Here we must stop; for volumes would not contain all that might be said
of the likeness of legend to legend in all the branches of the Aryan
family, or of the meaning of these stories, and of the lessons they
teach--lessons of history, and religious belief, and customs, and morals
and ways of thought, and poetic fancies, and of well-nigh all things,
heavenly and human--stretching back to the very spring and cradle of our
race, older than the oldest writings, and yet so ever fresh and new that
while great scholars ponder over them for their deep meaning, little
children in the nursery or by the fire-side in winter listen to them
with delight for their wonder and their beauty. Else, if there were time
and space we might tell the story of Jason, and show how it springs from
the changes of day and night, and how the hero, in his good ship Argo,
our mother Earth, searches for and bears away in triumph the Golden
Fleece, the beams of the radiant sun. Or we might fly with Perseus
on his weary, endless journey--the light pursuing and scattering the
darkness; the glittering hero, borne by the mystic sandals of Hermes,
bearing the sword of the sunlight, piercing the twilight or gloaming
in the land of the mystic Graiae; slaying Medusa, the solemn star-lit
night; destroying the dark dragon, and setting free Andromeda the
dawn-maiden; and doing many wonders more. Or in Hermes we might trace
out the Master Thief of Teutonic, and Scandinavian, and Hindu legends;
or in Herakles, the type of the heroes who are god-like in their
strength, yet who do the bidding of others, and who suffer toil and
wrong, and die glorious deaths, and leave great names for men to wonder
at: heroes such as Odysseus, and Theseus, and Phoebus, and Achilles, and
Sigurd, and Arthur, and all of whom represent, in one form or another,
the great mystery of Nature, and the conflict of light and darkness;
and so, if we look to their deeper meaning, the constant triumph of good
over evil, and of right over wrong.