The most careless reader can hardly fail to see that many of the Tales
in this volume have the same groundwork as those with which he has been
familiar from his earliest youth. They are Nursery Tales, in fact, of
the days when there were tales in nurseries—old wives’ fables, which
have faded away before the light of gas and the power of steam. It is
long, indeed, since English nurses told these tales to English children
by force of memory and word of mouth. In a written shape, we have long
had some of them, at least, in English versions of the _Contes de ma
Mère l’ Oye_ of Perrault, and the _Contes de Fées_ of Madame D’Aulnoy;
those tight-laced, high-heeled tales of the “teacup times” of Louis XIV
and his successors, in which the popular tale appears to as much
disadvantage as an artless country girl in the stifling atmosphere of a
London theatre. From these foreign sources, after the voice of the
English reciter was hushed—and it was hushed in England more than a
century ago—our great-grandmothers learnt to tell of Cinderella and
Beauty and the Beast, of Little Red Riding-hood and Blue Beard, mingled
together in the _Cabinet des Fées_ with Sinbad the Sailor and Aladdin’s
wondrous lamp; for that was an uncritical age, and its spirit breathed
hot and cold, east and west, from all quarters of the globe at once,
confusing the traditions and tales of all times and countries into one
incongruous mass of fable, as much tangled and knotted as that famous
pound of flax which the lassie in one of these Tales is expected to
spin into an even wool within four-and-twenty hours. No poverty of
invention or want of power on the part of translators could entirely
destroy the innate beauty of those popular traditions; but here, in
England at least, they had almost dwindled out, or at any rate had been
lost sight of as home-growths. We had learnt to buy our own children
back, disguised in foreign garb; and as for their being anything more
than the mere pastime of an idle hour—as to their having any history or
science of their own—such an absurdity was never once thought of. It
had, indeed, been remarked, even in the eighteenth century—that dreary
time of indifference and doubt—that some of the popular traditions of
the nations north of the Alps contained striking resemblances and
parallels to stories in the classical mythology. But those were the
days when Greek and Latin lorded it over the other languages of the
earth; and when any such resemblance or analogy was observed, it was
commonly supposed that that base-born slave, the vulgar tongue, had
dared to make a clumsy copy of something peculiarly belonging to the
twin tyrants who ruled all the dialects of the world with a pedant’s
rod.
At last, just at the close of that great war which Western Europe waged
against the genius and fortune of the first Napoleon; just as the
eagle—Prometheus and the eagle in one shape—was fast fettered by sheer
force and strength to his rock in the Atlantic, there arose a man in
Central Germany, on the old Thuringian soil, to whom it was given to
assert the dignity of vernacular literature, to throw off the yoke of
classical tyranny, and to claim for all the dialects of Teutonic speech
a right of ancient inheritance and perfect freedom before unsuspected
and unknown. It is almost needless to mention this honoured name. For
the furtherance of the good work which he began nearly fifty years ago,
he still lives and still labours. There is no spot on which an accent
of Teutonic speech is uttered where the name of Jacob Grimm is not a
“household word”. His General Grammar of all the Teutonic Dialects from
Iceland to England has proved the equality of these tongues with their
ancient classical oppressors. His Antiquities of Teutonic Law have
shown that the codes of the Lombards, Franks, and Goths were not mere
savage, brutal customaries, based, as had been supposed, on the absence
of all law and right. His numerous treatises on early German authors
have shown that the German poets of the Middle Age, Godfrey of
Strasburg, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Hartman von der Aue, Walter von der
Vogelweide, and the rest, can hold their own against any contemporary
writers in other lands. And lastly, what rather concerns us here, his
Teutonic Mythology, his Reynard the Fox, and the collection of German
Popular Tales, which he and his brother William published, have thrown
a flood of light on the early history of all the branches of our race,
and have raised what had come to be looked on as mere nursery fictions
and old wives’ fables—to a study fit for the energies of grown men, and
to all the dignity of a science.
In these pages, where we have to run over a vast tract of space, the
reader who wishes to learn and not to cavil—and for such alone this
introduction is intended—must be content with results rather than
processes and steps. To use a homely likeness, he must be satisfied
with the soup that is set before him, and not desire to see the bones
of the ox out of which it has been boiled. When we say, therefore, that
in these latter days the philology and mythology of the East and West
have met and kissed each other; that they now go hand and hand; that
they lend one another mutual support; that one cannot be understood
without the other,—we look to be believed. We do not expect to be put
to the proof, how the labours of Grimm and his disciples on this side
were first rendered possible by the linguistic discoveries of Anquetil
du Perron and others in India and France, at the end of the last
century; then materially assisted and furthered by the researches of
Sir William Jones, Colebrooke, and others, in India and England during
the early part of this century, and finally have become identical with
those of Wilson, Bopp, Lassen, and Max Müller, at the present day. The
affinity which exists in a mythological and philological point of view
between the Aryan or Indo-European languages on the one hand, and the
Sanscrit on the other, is now the first article of a literary creed,
and the man who denies it puts himself as much beyond the pale of
argument as he who, in a religious discussion, should meet a grave
divine of the Church of England with the strict contradictory of her
first article, and loudly declare his conviction, that there was no
God. In a general way, then, we may be permitted to dogmatize, and to
lay it down as a law which is always in force, that the first authentic
history of a nation is the history of its tongue. We can form no notion
of the literature of a country apart from its language, and the
consideration of its language necessarily involves the consideration of
its history. Here is England, for instance, with a language, and
therefore a literature, composed of Celtic, Roman, Saxon, Norse, and
Romance elements. Is not this simple fact suggestive of, nay, does it
not challenge us to, an inquiry into the origin and history of the
races who have passed over our island, and left their mark not only on
the soil, but on our speech? Again, to take a wider view, and to rise
from archaeology to science, what problem has interested the world in a
greater degree than the origin of man, and what toil has not been spent
in tracing all races back to their common stock? The science of
comparative philology—the inquiry, not into one isolated language—for
nowadays it may fairly be said of a man who knows only one language
that he knows none—but into all the languages of one family, and thus
to reduce them to one common centre, from which they spread like the
rays of the sun—if it has not solved, is in a fair way of solving, this
problem. When we have done for the various members of each family what
has been done of late years for the Indo-European tongues, its solution
will be complete. In such an inquiry the history of a race is, in fact,
the history of its language, and can be nothing else; for we have to
deal with times antecedent to all history, properly so called, and the
stream which in later ages may be divided into many branches, now flows
in a single channel.
From the East, then, came our ancestors, in days of immemorial
antiquity, in that gray dawn of time of which all early songs and lays
can tell, but of which it is as impossible as it is useless to attempt
to fix the date. Impossible, because no means exist for ascertaining
it; useless, because it is in reality a matter of utter indifference,
when, as this tell-tale crust of earth informs us, we have an infinity
of ages and periods to fall back on whether this great movement, this
mighty lust to change their seats, seized on the Aryan race one hundred
or one thousand years sooner or later.[1] But from the East we came,
and from that central plain of Asia, now commonly called Iran. Iran,
the habitation of the tillers and _earers_[2] of the earth, as opposed
to Turan, the abode of restless horse-riding nomads; of Turks, in
short, for in their name the root survives, and still distinguishes the
great Turanian or Mongolian family, from the Aryan, Iranian, or
Indo-European race. It is scarce worth while to inquire—even if inquiry
could lead to any result—what cause set them in motion from their
ancient seats. Whether impelled by famine or internal strife, starved
out like other nationalities in recent times, or led on by adventurous
chiefs, whose spirit chafed at the narrowness of home, certain it is
that they left that home and began a wandering westwards, which only
ceased when it reached the Atlantic and the Northern Ocean. Nor was the
fate of those they left behind less strange. At some period almost as
remote as, but after, that at which the wanderers for Europe started,
the remaining portion of the stock, or a considerable offshoot from it,
turned their faces east, and passing the Indian Caucasus, poured
through the defiles of Affghanistan, crossed the plain of the Five
Rivers, and descended on the fruitful plains of India. The different
destiny of these stocks has been wonderful indeed. Of those who went
west, we have only to enumerate the names under which they appear in
history—Celts, Greeks, Romans, Teutons, Slavonians—to see and to know
at once that the stream of this migration has borne on its waves all
that has become most precious to man. To use the words of Max Müller:
“They have been the prominent actors in the great drama of history, and
have carried to their fullest growth all the elements of active life
with which our nature is endowed. They have perfected society and
morals, and we learn from their literature and works of art the
elements of science, the laws of art, and the principles of philosophy.
In continual struggle with each other and with Semitic and Mongolian
races, these Aryan nations have become the rulers of history, and it
seems to be their mission to link all parts of the world together by
the chains of civilization, commerce, and religion.” We may add, that
though by nature tough and enduring, they have not been obstinate and
self-willed; they have been distinguished from all other nations, and
particularly from their elder brothers whom they left behind, by their
common sense, by their power of adapting themselves to all
circumstances, and by making the best of their position; above all,
they have been teachable, ready to receive impressions from without,
and, when received, to develop them. To show the truth of this, we need
only observe, that they adopted Christianity from another race, the
most obstinate and stiff-necked the world has ever seen, who, trained
under the Old Dispensation to preserve the worship of the one true God,
were too proud to accept the further revelation of God under the New,
and, rejecting their birth-right, suffered their inheritance to pass
into other hands.
Such, then, has been the lot of the Western branch, of the younger
brother, who, like the younger brother whom we shall meet so often in
these Popular Tales, went out into the world, with nothing but his good
heart and God’s blessing to guide him; and now has come to all honour
and fortune, and to be a king, ruling over the world. He went out and
_did_. Let us see now what became of the elder brother, who stayed at
home some time after his brother went out, and then only made a short
journey. Having driven out the few aboriginal inhabitants of India with
little effort, and following the course of the great rivers, the
Eastern Aryans gradually established themselves all over the peninsula;
and then, in calm possession of a world of their own, undisturbed by
conquest from without, and accepting with apathy any change of dynasty
among their rulers, ignorant of the past and careless of the future,
they sat down once for all and _thought_ —thought not of what they had
to do here, that stern lesson of every-day life which neither men nor
nations can escape if they are to live with their fellows, but how they
could abstract themselves entirely from their present existence, and
immerse themselves wholly in dreamy speculations on the future.
Whatever they may have been during their short migration and subsequent
settlement, it is certain that they appear in the Vedas—perhaps the
earliest collection which the world possesses—as a nation of
philosophers. Well may Professor Müller compare the Indian mind to a
plant reared in a hot-house, gorgeous in colour, rich in perfume,
precocious and abundant in fruit; it may be all this, “but will never
be like the oak, growing in wind and weather, striking its roots into
real earth, and stretching its branches into real air, beneath the
stars and sun of Heaven”; and well does he also remark, that a people
of this peculiar stamp was never destined to act a prominent part in
the history of the world; nay, the exhausting atmosphere of
transcendental ideas could not but exercise a detrimental influence on
the active and moral character of the Hindoos.[3]
In this passive, abstract, unprogressive state, they have remained ever
since. Stiffened into castes, and tongue-tied and hand-tied by absurd
rites and ceremonies, they were heard of in dim legends by Herodotus;
they were seen by Alexander when that bold spirit pushed his phalanx
beyond the limits of the known world; they trafficked with imperial
Rome, and the later empire; they were again almost lost sight of, and
became fabulous in the Middle Age; they were rediscovered by the
Portuguese; they have been alternately peaceful subjects and desperate
rebels to us English; but they have been still the same immovable and
unprogressive philosophers, though akin to Europe all the while; and
though the Highlander, who drives his bayonet through the heart of a
high-caste Sepoy mutineer, little knows that his pale features and
sandy hair, and that dusk face with its raven locks, both come from a
common ancestor away in Central Asia, many, many centuries ago.
But here arises the question, what interest can we, the descendants of
the practical brother, heirs to so much historical renown, possibly
take in the records of a race so historically characterless, and so
sunk in reveries and mysticism? The answer is easy. Those records are
written in a language closely allied to the primaeval common tongue of
those two branches before they parted, and descending from a period
anterior to their separation. It may, or it may not, be the very tongue
itself, but it certainly is not further removed than a few steps. The
speech of the emigrants to the west rapidly changed with the changing
circumstances and various fortune of each of its waves, and in their
intercourse with the aboriginal population they often adopted foreign
elements into their language. One of these waves, it is probable,
passing by way of Persia and Asia Minor, crossed the Hellespont, and
following the coast, threw off a mighty rill, known in after times as
Greeks; while the main stream, striking through Macedonia, either
crossed the Adriatic, or, still hugging the coast, came down on Italy,
to be known as Latins. Another, passing between the Caspian and the
Black Sea, filled the steppes round the Crimea, and; passing on over
the Balkan and the Carpathians towards the west, became that great
Teutonic nationality which, under various names, but all closely akin,
filled, when we first hear of them in historical times, the space
between the Black Sea and the Baltic, and was then slowly but surely
driving before them the great wave of the Celts which had preceded them
in their wandering, and which had probably followed the same line of
march as the ancestors of the Greeks and Latins. A movement which
lasted until all that was left of Celtic nationality was either
absorbed by the intruders, or forced aside and driven to take refuge in
mountain fastnesses and outlying islands. Besides all these, there was
still another wave, which is supposed to have passed between the Sea of
Aral and the Caspian, and, keeping still further to the north and east,
to have passed between its kindred Teutons and the Mongolian tribes,
and so to have lain in the background until we find them appearing as
Slavonians on the scene of history. Into so many great stocks did the
Western Aryans pass, each possessing strongly-marked nationalities and
languages, and these seemingly so distinct that each often asserted
that the other spoke a barbarous tongue. But, for all that, each of
those tongues bears about with it still, and in earlier times no doubt
bore still more plainly about with it, infallible evidence of common
origin, so that each dialect can be traced up to that primaeval form of
speech still in the main preserved in the Sanscrit by the Southern
Aryan branch, who, careless of practical life, and immersed in
speculation, have clung to their ancient traditions and tongue with
wonderful tenacity. It is this which has given such value to Sanscrit,
a tongue of which it may be said, that if it had perished the sun would
never have risen on the science of comparative philology. Before the
discoveries in Sanscrit of Sir William Jones, Wilkins, Wilson, and
others, the world had striven to find the common ancestor of European
languages, sometimes in the classical, and sometimes in the Semitic
tongues. In the one case the result was a tyranny of Greek and Latin
over the non-classical tongues, and in the other the most uncritical
and unphilosophical waste of learning. No doubt some striking analogies
exist between the Indo-European family and the Semitic stock, just as
there are remarkable analogies between the Mongolian and Indo-European
families; but the ravings of Vallancy, in his effort to connect the
Erse with Phoenician, are an awful warning of what unscientific
inquiry, based upon casual analogy, may bring itself to believe, and
even to fancy it has proved.
These general observations, then, and this rapid bird’s eye view, may
suffice to show the common affinity which exists between the Eastern
and Western Aryans; between the Hindoo on the one hand, and the nations
of Western Europe on the other. That is the fact to keep steadily
before our eyes. We all came, Greek, Latin, Celt, Teuton, Slavonian,
from the East, as kith and kin, leaving kith and kin behind us; and
after thousands of years the language and traditions of those who went
East, and those who went West, bear such an affinity to each other, as
to have established, beyond discussion or dispute, the fact of their
descent from a common stock.