This general affinity established, we proceed to narrow our subject to
its proper limits, and to confine it to the consideration, _first_, of
Popular Tales in general, and _secondly_, of those Norse Tales in
particular, which form the bulk of this volume.
In the first place, then, the fact which we remarked on setting out,
that the groundwork or plot of many of these tales is common to all the
nations of Europe, is more important, and of greater scientific
interest, than might at first appear. They form, in fact, another link
in the chain of evidence of a common origin between the East and West,
and even the obstinate adherents of the old classical theory, according
to which all resemblances were set down to sheer copying from Greek or
Latin patterns, are now forced to confess, not only that there was no
such wholesale copying at all, but that, in many cases, the despised
vernacular tongues have preserved the common traditions far more
faithfully than the writers of Greece and Rome. The sooner, in short,
that this theory of copying, which some, even besides the classicists,
have maintained, is abandoned, the better, not only for the truth, but
for the literary reputation of those who put it forth. No one can, of
course, imagine that during that long succession of ages when this
mighty wedge of Aryan migration was driving its way through that
prehistoric race, that nameless nationality, the traces of which we
everywhere find underlying the intruders in their monuments and
implements of bone and stone—a race akin, in all probability, to the
Mongolian family, and whose miserable remnants we see pushed aside, and
huddled up in the holes and corners of Europe, as Lapps, and Finns, and
Basques—No one, we say, can suppose for a moment, that in that long
process of contact and absorption, some traditions of either race
should not have been caught up and adopted by the other. We know it to
be a fact with regard to their language, from the evidence of
philology, which cannot lie; and the witness borne by such a word as
the Gothic Atta for _father_, where a Mongolian has been adopted in
preference to an Aryan word, is irresistible on this point; but that,
apart from such natural assimilation, all the thousand shades of
resemblance and affinity which gleam and flicker through the whole body
of popular tradition in the Aryan race, as the Aurora plays and flashes
in countless rays athwart the Northern heaven, should be the result of
mere servile copying of one tribe’s traditions by another, is a
supposition as absurd as that of those good country-folk, who, when
they see an Aurora, fancy it must be a great fire, the work of some
incendiary, and send off the parish engine to put it out. No! when we
find in such a story as the Master-thief traits, which are to be found
in the Sanscrit _Hitopadesa_,[4] and which reminds us at once of the
story of Rhampsinitus in Herodotus; which are also to be found in
German, Italian, and Flemish popular tales, but told in all with such
variations of character and detail, and such adaptations to time and
place, as evidently show the original working of the national
consciousness upon a stock of tradition common to all the race, but
belonging to no tribe of that race in particular; and when we find this
occurring not in one tale but in twenty, we are forced to abandon the
theory of such universal copying, for fear lest we should fall into a
greater difficulty than that for which we were striving to account.
To set this question in a plainer light, let us take a well-known
instance; let us take the story of William Tell and his daring shot,
which is said to have been made in the year 1307. It is just possible
that the feat might be historical, and, no doubt, thousands believe it
for the sake of the Swiss patriot, as firmly as they believe in
anything; but, unfortunately, this story of the bold archer who saves
his life by shooting an apple from the head of his child at the command
of a tyrant, is common to the whole Aryan race. It appears in Saxo
Grammaticus, who flourished in the twelfth century, where it is told of
Palnatoki, King Harold Gormson’s thane and assassin. In the thirteenth
century the _Wilkina Saga_ relates it of Egill, Völundr’s—our Wayland
Smith’s—younger brother. So also in the Norse Saga of _Saint Olof_,
king and martyr; the king, who died in 1030, eager for the conversion
of one of his heathen chiefs Eindridi, competes with him in various
athletic exercises, first in swimming and then in archery. After
several famous shots on either side, the king challenges Eindridi to
shoot a tablet off his son’s head without hurting the child. Eindridi
is ready, but declares he will revenge himself if the child is hurt.
The king has the first shot, and his arrow strikes close to the tablet.
Then Eindridi is to shoot, but at the prayers of his mother and sister,
refuses the shot, and has to yield and be converted.[5] So, also, King
Harold Sigurdarson, who died 1066, backed himself against a famous
marksman, Hemingr, and ordered him to shoot a hazel nut off the head of
his brother Björn, and Hemingr performed the feat.[6] In the middle of
the fourteenth century, the _Malleus Maleficarum_ refers it to Puncher,
a magician of the Upper Rhine. Here in England, we have it in the old
English ballad of _Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough_, and _William of
Cloudesly_, where William performs the feat.[7] It is not at all of
Tell in Switzerland before the year 1499, and the earlier Swiss
chronicles omit it altogether. It is common to the Turks and
Mongolians; and a legend of the wild Samoyeds, who never heard of Tell
or saw a book in their lives, relates it, chapter and verse, of one of
their famous marksmen. What shall we say then, but that the story of
this bold master-shot was primaeval amongst many tribes and races, and
that it only crystallized itself round the great name of Tell by that
process of attraction which invariably leads a grateful people to throw
such mythic wreaths, such garlands of bold deeds of precious memory,
round the brow of its darling champion.[8]
Nor let any pious Welshman be shocked if we venture to assert that
Gellert, that famous hound upon whose last resting-place the traveller
comes as he passes down the lovely vale of Gwynant, is a mythical dog,
and never snuffed the fresh breeze in the forest of Snowdon, nor saved
his master’s child from ravening wolf. This, too, is a primaeval story,
told with many variations. Sometimes the foe is a wolf, sometimes a
bear, sometimes a snake. Sometimes the faithful guardian of the child
is an otter, a weasel, or a dog. It, too, came from the East. It is
found in the _Pantcha-Tantra_, in the _Hitopadesa_, in Bidpai’s
_Fables_, in the Arabic original of _The Seven Wise Masters_, that
famous collection of stories which illustrate a stepdame’s calumny and
hate, and in many mediaeval versions of those originals.[9] Thence it
passed into the Latin _Gesta Romanorum_, where, as well as in the Old
English version published by Sir Frederick Madden, it may be read as a
service rendered by a faithful hound against a snake. This, too, like
Tell’s master-shot, is as the lightning which shineth over the whole
heaven at once, and can be claimed by no one tribe of the Aryan race,
to the exclusion of the rest. “The Dog of Montargis” is in like manner
mythic, though perhaps not so widely spread. It first occurs in France,
as told of Sybilla, a fabulous wife of Charlemagne; but it is at any
rate as old as the time of Plutarch, who relates it as an anecdote of
brute sagacity in the days of Pyrrhus.
There can be no doubt, with regard to the question of the origin of
these tales, that they were common in germ at least to the Aryan tribes
before their migration. We find those germs developed in the popular
traditions of the Eastern Aryans, and we find them developed in a
hundred forms and shapes in every one of the nations into which the
Western Aryans have shaped themselves in the course of ages. We are
led, therefore, irresistibly to the conclusion, that these traditions
are as much a portion of the common inheritance of our ancestors, as
their language unquestionably is; and that they form, along with that
language, a double chain of evidence, which proves their Eastern
origin. If we are to seek for a simile, or an analogy, as to the
relative positions of these tales and traditions, and to the mutual
resemblances which exist between them as the several branches of our
race have developed them from the common stock, we may find it in one
which will come home to every reader as he looks round the domestic
hearth, if he should be so happy as to have one. They are like as
sisters of one house are like. They have what would be called a strong
family likeness; but besides this likeness, which they owe to father or
mother, as the case may be, they have each their peculiarities of form,
and eye, and face, and still more, their differences of intellect and
mind. This may be dark, that fair; this may have gray eyes, that black;
this may be open and graceful, that reserved and close; this you may
love, that you can take no interest in. One may be bashful, another
winning, a third worth knowing and yet hard to know. They are so like
and so unlike. At first it may be, as an old English writer beautifully
expresses it, “their father hath writ them as his own little story”,
but as they grow up they throw off the copy, educate themselves for
good or ill, and finally assume new forms of feeling and feature under
an original development of their own.
Or shall we take another likeness, and say they are national dreams;
that they are like the sleeping thoughts of many men upon one and the
same thing. Suppose a hundred men to have been eye-witnesses of some
event on the same day, and then to have slept and dreamt of it; we
should have as many distinct representations of that event, all turning
upon it and bound up with it in some way, but each preserving the
personality of the sleeper, and working up the common stuff in a higher
or lower degree, just as the fancy and the intellect of the sleeper was
at a higher or lower level of perfection. There is, indeed, greater
truth in this likeness than may at first sight appear. In the popular
tale, properly so called, the national mind dreams all its history over
again; in its half conscious state it takes this trait and that trait,
this feature and that feature, of times and ages long past. It snatches
up bits of its old beliefs, and fears, and griefs, and glory, and
pieces them together with something that happened yesterday, and then
holds up the distorted reflection in all its inconsequence, just as it
has passed before that magic glass, as though it were genuine history,
and matter for pure belief. And here it may be as well to say, that
besides that old classical foe of vernacular tradition, there is
another hardly less dangerous, which returns to the charge of copying,
but changes what lawyers call the _venue_ of the trial from classical
to Eastern lands. According to this theory, which came up when its
classical predecessor was no longer tenable, the traditions and tales
of Western Europe came from the East, but they were still all copies.
They were supposed to have proceeded entirely from two sources; one the
_Directorium Humanae Vitae_ of John of Capua, translated between
1262-78 from a Hebrew version, which again came from an Arabic version
of the 8th century, which came from a Pehlvi version made by one
Barzouyeh, at the command of Chosrou Noushirvan, King of Persia, in the
6th century, which again came from the _Pantcha Tantra_, a Sanscrit
original of unknown antiquity. This is that famous book of _Calila and
Dimna_, as the Persian version is called, attributed to Bidpai, and
which was thus run to earth in India. The second source of Western
tradition was held to be that still more famous collection of stories
commonly known by the name of the “Story of the Seven Sages,” but
which, under many names—Kaiser Octavianus, Diocletianus, Dolopathos,
Erastus, etc.—plays a most important part in mediaeval romance. This,
too, by a similar process, has been traced to India, appearing first in
Europe at the beginning of the thirteenth century in the Latin
_Historia Septem Sapientum Romae_, by Dame Jehans, monk in the Abbey of
Haute Selve. Here, too, we have a Hebrew, an Arabic, and a Persian
version; which last came avowedly from a Sanscrit original, though that
original has not yet been discovered. From these two sources of fable
and tradition, according to the new copying theory, our Western fables
and tales had come by direct translation from the East. Now it will be
at once evident that this theory hangs on what may be called a single
thread. Let us say, then, that all that can be found in _Calila and
Dimna_, or the later Persian version, made A.D. 1494, of Hossein Vaez,
called the _Anvari Sohaïli_, “the Canopic Lights”—from which, when
published in Paris by David Sahid of Ispahan, in the year 1644, La
Fontaine drew the substance of many of his best fables.—Let us say,
too, that all can be found in the _Life of the Seven Sages_, or the
Book of Sendabad as it was called in Persia, after an apocryphal Indian
sage—came by translation—that is to say, through the cells of Brahmins,
Magians, and monks, and the labours of the learned—into the popular
literature of the West. Let us give up all that, and then see where we
stand. What are we to say of the many tales and fables which are to be
found in neither of those famous collections, and not tales alone, but
traits and features of old tradition, broken bits of fable, roots and
germs of mighty growths of song and story, nay, even the very words,
which exist in Western popular literature, and which modern philology
has found obstinately sticking in Sanscrit, and of which fresh proofs
and instances are discovered every day? What are we to say of such a
remarkable resemblance as this?
The noble King Putraka fled into the Vindhya mountains in order to live
apart from his unkind kinsfolk; and as he wandered about there he met
two men who wrestled and fought with one another. “Who are you?” he
asked. “We are the sons of Mayâsara, and here lie our riches; this
bowl, this staff, and these shoes; these are what we are fighting for,
and whichever is stronger is to have them for his own.”
So when Putraka had heard that, he asked them with a laugh: “Why,
what’s the good of owning these things?” Then they answered “Whoever
puts on these shoes gets the power to fly; whatever is pointed at with
this staff rises up at once; and whatever food one wishes for in this
bowl, it comes at once.” So when Putraka had heard that he said “Why
fight about it? Let this be the prize; whoever beats the other in a
race, let him have them all”.
“So be it”, said the two fools, and set off running, but Putraka put on
the shoes at once, and flew away with the staff and bowl up into the
clouds”.
Well, this is a story neither in the _Pantcha Tantra_ nor the
_Hitopadesa_, the Sanscrit originals of _Calila and Dimna_. It is not
in the _Directorium Humanae Vitae_, and has not passed west by that
way. Nor is it in the _Book of Sendabad_, and thence come west in the
_History of the Seven Sages_. Both these paths are stopped. It comes
from the _Katha Sarit Sagara_, the “Sea of Streams of Story” of
Somadeva Bhatta of Cashmere, who, in the middle of the twelfth century
of our era, worked up the tales found in an earlier collection, called
the _Vrihat Katha_, “the lengthened story”, in order to amuse his
mistress, the Queen of Cashmere. Somadeva’s collection has only been
recently known and translated. But west the story certainly came long
before, and in the extreme north-west we still find it in these Norse
Tales in “The Three Princesses of Whiteland”, No. xxvi.
“Well!” said the man, “as this is so, I’ll give you a bit of advice.
Hereabouts, on a moor, stand three brothers, and there they have stood
these hundred years, fighting about a hat, a cloak, and a pair of
boots. If any one has these three things, he can make himself
invisible, and wish himself anywhere he pleases. You can tell them you
wish to try the things, and after that, you’ll pass judgment between
them, whose they shall be”.
Yes! the king thanked the man, and went and did as he told him.
“What’s all this?” he said to the brothers. “Why do you stand here
fighting for ever and a day? Just let me try these things, and I’ll
give judgment whose they shall be.”
They were very willing to do this; but as soon as he had got the hat;
cloak, and boots, he said: “When we meet next time I’ll tell you my
judgment”; and with these words he wished himself away.[10]
Nor in the Norse tales alone. Other collections shew how thoroughly at
home this story was in the East. In the Relations of _Ssidi Kur_, a
Tartar tale, a Chan’s son first gets possession of a cloak which two
children stand and fight for, which has the gift of making the wearer
invisible, and afterwards of a pair of boots, with which one can wish
one’s self to whatever place one chooses. Again, in a Wallachian tale,
we read of three devils who fight for their inheritance—a club which
turns everything to stone, a hat which makes the wearer invisible, and
a cloak by help of which one can wish one’s self whithersoever one
pleases. Again, in a Mongolian tale, the Chan’s son comes upon a group
of children who fight for a hood which makes the wearer invisible; he
is to be judge between them, makes them run a race for it, but
meanwhile puts it on and vanishes from their sight. A little further on
he meets another group, who are quarrelling for a pair of boots, the
wearer of which can wish himself whithersoever he pleases, and gains
possession of them in the same way.
Nor in one Norse tale alone, but in many, we find traces of these three
wonderful things, or of things like them. They are very like the cloth,
the ram, and the stick, which the lad got from the North Wind instead
of his meal. Very like, too, the cloth, the scissors, and the tap,
which will be found in No. xxxvi, “The Best Wish”. If we drop the
number three, we find the Boots again in “Soria Moria Castle”, No. lvi.
[Moe, Introd., xxxii-iii] Leaving the Norse Tales, we see at once that
they are the seven-leagued boots of Jack the Giant Killer. In the
_Nibelungen Lied_, when Siegfried finds Schilbung and Niblung, the
wierd heirs of the famous “Hoard”, striving for the possession of that
heap of red gold and gleaming stones; when they beg him to share it for
them, promising him, as his meed, Balmung, best of swords; when he
shares it, when they are discontent, and when in the struggle which
ensues he gets possession of the “Tarnhut”, the “cloak of darkness”,
which gave its wearer the strength of twelve men, and enabled him to go
where he would be unseen, and which was the great prize among the
treasures of the dwarfs;[11] who is there that does not see the broken
fragments of that old Eastern story of the heirs struggling for their
inheritance, and calling in the aid of some one of better wit or
strength who ends by making the very prize for which they fight his
own?
And now to return for a moment to _Calila and Dimna_ and _The Seven
Sages_. Since we have seen that there are other stories, and many of
them, for this is by no means the only resemblance to be found in
_Somadeva’s_ book[12] which are common to the Eastern and Western
Aryans, but which did not travel to Europe by translation; let us go on
to say that it is by no means certain, even when some Western story or
fable is found in these Sanscrit originals and their translations, that
that was the only way by which they came to Europe. A single question
will prove this. How did the fables and apologues which are found in
Æsop, and which are also found in the _Pantcha Tantya_ and the
_Hitopadesa_ come West? That they came from the East is certain; but by
what way, certainly not by translations or copying, for they had
travelled west long before translations were thought of. How was it
that Themistius, a Greek orator of the fourth century[13] had heard of
that fable of the lion, fox, and bull, which is in substance the same
as that of the lion, the bull, and the two jackals in the _Pantcha
Tantya_ and the _Hitopadesa_? How, but along the path of that primaeval
Aryan migration, and by that deep-ground tone of tradition by which man
speaks to man, nation to nation, and age to age; along which
comparative philology has, in these last days, travelled back thither,
listened to the accents spoken, and so found in the East the cradle of
a common language and common belief.
And now, having, as we hope, finally established this Indian affinity,
and disposed of mere Indian copying, let us lift our eyes and see if
something more is not to be discerned on the wide horizon now open on
our view. The most interesting problem for man to solve is the origin
of his race. Of late years comparative philology, having accomplished
her task in proving the affinity of language between Europe and the
East, and so taken a mighty step towards fixing the first seat of the
greatest—greatest in wit and wisdom, if not in actual numbers—portion
of the human race, has pursued her inquiries into the languages of the
Turanian, the Semitic, and the Chamitic or African races, with more or
less successful results. In a few more years, when the African
languages are better known, and the roots of Egyptian and Chinese words
are more accurately detected, Science will be better able to speak as
to the common affinity of all the tribes that throng the earth. In the
meantime, let the testimony of tradition and popular tales be heard,
which in this case have outstripped comparative philology, and lead
instead of following her. It is beyond the scope of this essay, which
aims at being popular and readable rather than learned and lengthy, to
go over a prolonged scientific investigation step by step. We repeat
it. The reader must have faith in the writer, and believe the words now
written are the results of an inquiry, and not ask for the inquiry
itself. In all mythologies and traditions, then, there are what may be
called natural resemblances, parallelisms suggested to the senses of
each race by natural objects and every-day events, and these might
spring up spontaneously all over the earth as home growths, neither
derived by imitation from other tribes, nor from seeds of common
tradition shed from a common stock. Such resemblances have been well
compared by William Grimm,[14] to those words which are found in all
languages derived from the imitation of natural sounds, or, we may add,
from the first lisping accents of infancy. But the case is very
different when this or that object which strikes the senses is
accounted for in a way so extraordinary and peculiar, as to stamp the
tradition with a character of its own. Then arises a like impression on
the mind, if we find the same tradition in two tribes at the opposite
ends of the earth, as is produced by meeting twin brothers, one in
Africa and the other in Asia; we say at once “I know you are so and
so’s brother, you are so like him”. Take an instance: In these Norse
Tales, No. xxiii, we are told how it was the bear came to have a stumpy
tail, and in an African tale,[15] we find how it was the hyaena became
tailless and earless. Now, the tailless condition both of the bear and
the hyaena could scarcely fail to attract attention in a race of
hunters, and we might expect that popular tradition would attempt to
account for both, but how are we to explain the fact, that both
Norseman and African account for it in the same way—that both owe their
loss to the superior cunning of another animal. In Europe the fox bears
away the palm for wit from all other animals, so he it is that
persuades the bear in the Norse Tales to sit with his tail in a hole in
the ice till it is fast frozen in, and snaps short off when he tries to
tug it out. In Bornou, in the heart of Africa, it is the weasel who is
the wisest of beasts, and who, having got some meat in common with the
hyaena, put it into a hole, and said:
“Behold two men came out of the forest, took the meat, and put it into
a hole: stop, I will go into the hole, and then thou mayst stretch out
thy tail to me, and I will tie the meat to thy tail for thee to draw it
out”. So the weasel went into the hole, the hyaena stretched its tail
out to it, but the weasel took the hyaena’s tail, fastened a stick, and
tied the hyaena’s tail to the stick, and then said to the hyaena “I
have tied the meat to thy tail; draw, and pull it out”. The hyaena was
a fool, it did not know the weasel surpassed it in subtlety; it thought
the meat was tied; but when it tried to draw out its tail, it was fast.
When the weasel said again to it “Pull”, it pulled, but could not draw
it out; so it became vexed, and on pulling with force, its tail broke.
The tail being torn out, the weasel was no more seen by the hyaena: the
weasel was hidden in the hole with its meat, and the hyaena saw it
not.[16]
Here we have a fact in natural history accounted for, but accounted for
in such a peculiar way as shows that the races among which they are
current must have derived them from some common tradition. The mode by
which the tail is lost is different indeed; but the manner in which the
common ground-work is suited in one case to the cold of the North, and
the way in which fish are commonly caught at holes in the ice as they
rise to breathe; and in the other to Africa and her pitfalls for wild
beasts, is only another proof of the oldness of the tradition, and that
it is not merely a copy.
Take another instance. Every one knows the story in the Arabian Nights,
where the man who knows the speech of beasts laughs at something said
by an ox to an ass. His wife wants to know why he laughs, and persists,
though he tells her it will cost him his life if he tells her. As he
doubts what to do, he hears the cock say to the house-dog “Our master
is not wise; I have fifty hens who obey me; if he followed my advice,
he’d just take a good stick, shut up his wife in a room with him, and
give her a good cudgelling.” The same story is told in Straparola[17]
with so many variations as to show it is no copy; it is also told in a
Servian popular tale, with variations of its own; and now here we find
it in Bornou, as told by Kölle.
There was a servant of God who had one wife and one horse; but his wife
was one-eyed, and they lived in their house. Now this servant of God
understood the language of the beasts of the forest when they spoke,
and of the birds of the air when they talked as they flew by. This
servant of God also understood the cry of the hyaena when it arose at
night in the forest, and came to the houses and cried near them; so,
likewise, when his horse was hungry and neighed, he understood why it
neighed, rose up, brought the horse grass, and then returned and sat
down. It happened one day that birds had their talk as they were flying
by above and the servant of God understood what they talked. This
caused him to laugh, whereupon his wife said to him “What dost thou
hear that thou laughest?” He replied to his wife “I shall not tell thee
what I hear, and why I laugh”. The woman said to her husband “I know
why thou laughest; thou laughest at me because I am one-eyed”. The man
then said to his wife “I saw that thou wast one-eyed before I loved
thee, and before we married and sat down in our house”. When the woman
heard her husband’s word she was quiet.
But once at night, as they were lying on their bed, and it was past
midnight, it happened that a rat played with his wife on the top of the
house and that both fell to the ground. Then the wife of the rat said
to her husband “Thy sport is bad; thou saidst to me that thou wouldst
play, but when we came together we fell to the ground, so that I broke
my back”.
When the servant of God heard the talk of the rat’s wife, as he was
lying on his bed, he laughed. Now, as soon as he laughed his wife
arose, seized him, and said to him as she held him fast: “Now this time
I will not let thee go out of this house except thou tell me what thou
hearest and why thou laughest”. The man begged the woman, saying “Let
me go”; but the woman would not listen to her husband’s entreaty.
The husband then tells his wife that he knows the language of beasts
and birds, and she is content; but when he wakes in the morning he
finds he has lost his wonderful gift; and the moral of the tale is
added most ungallantly: “If a man shews and tells his thoughts to a
woman, God will punish him for it”. Though, perhaps, it is better, for
the sake of the gentler sex, that the tale should be pointed with this
unfair moral, than that the African story should proceed like all the
other variations, and save the husband’s gift at the cost of the wife’s
skin.
Take other African instances. How is it that the wandering Bechuanas
got their story of “The Two Brothers”, the ground-work of which is the
same as “The Machandelboom” and the “Milk-white Doo”, and where the
incidents and even the words are almost the same? How is it that in
some of its traits that Bechuana story embodies those of that earliest
of all popular tales, recently published from an Egyptian Papyrus,
coeval with the abode of the Israelites in Egypt? and how is it that
that same Egyptian tale has other traits which reminds us of the Dun
Bull in “Katie Woodencloak”, as well as incidents which are the germ of
stories long since reduced to writing in Norse Sagas of the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries?[18] How is it that we still find among the
Negroes in the West Indies[19] a rich store of popular tales, and the
Beast Epic in full bloom, brought with them from Africa to the islands
of the West; and among those tales and traditions, how is it that we
find a “Wishing Tree”, the counter-part of that in a German popular
tale, and “a little dirty scrub of a child”, whom his sisters despise,
but who is own brother to Boots in the Norse Tales, and like him
outwits the Troll, spoils his substance, and saves his sisters? How is
it that we find the good woman who washes the loathsome head rewarded,
while the bad man who refuses to do that dirty work is punished for his
pride; the very groundwork, nay the very words, that we meet in
Bushy-bride, another Norse Tale? How is it that we find a Mongolian
tale, which came confessedly from India, made up of two of our Norse
tales, “Rich Peter the Pedlar” and “The Giant that had no heart in his
body”?[20] How should all these things be, and how could they possibly
be, except on that theory which day by day becomes more and more a
matter of fact; this, that the whole human race sprung from one stock,
planted in the East, which has stretched out its boughs and branches
laden with the fruit of language, and bright with the bloom of song and
story, by successive offshoots to the utmost parts of the earth.