The Project Gutenberg eBook of The legend of Perseus, Volume III (of 3), by Edwin Sidney Hartland

This volume contains, in addition to the final instalment of the inquiry sketched at the beginning of the first volume, a Supplementary List of Works referred to in volumes ii. and iii., and the Dedication and General Index for the whole.

Since the publication of the second volume local inquiries have satisfied me that the account of the ceremony at Market Drayton (or rather at Wollerton, near that town), mentioned on p. 292 of the volume in question, is inaccurate. The wine and biscuits were handed to the bearers, but not across the coffin; and the minister merely reprobated in general terms the custom of drinking at funerals.

Corrigenda of a minor character are, in volume i. p. 57, note 1, for 217 read 178, and p. 61, last line but one, for fisherman read merchant; in volume ii. p. 147, note, after letter xxviii. insert to Daines Barrington, and p. 271, note 4, for 68 read 57.

I cannot lay down the pen without reiterating my very inadequate thanks to Mr. Rouse and Mr. Alfred Nutt for the unstinted and invaluable aid I have received in various ways from them: aid which, beginning with the opening chapter, has been continued to the latest pages of this effort to solve the problem of the Legend of Perseus.

Simplest form of the incident—Strong Jack—The Herdsman type—Menial hero in other tales—Punishment of impostors—Attacking the monster from inside—Faithless Sister type—Stolen Sister type—Underworld type—Fearless Johnny type—Helpful Animals—Change of sex—Rescue of youth—Omaha tale—Its European origin—Vira, the Tuscan forest-sprite.

Classical stories—Saint George—The Pollard Worm—Cuchulainn and Devorgoil—Susa No and Inada—The Dragon of Deerhurst—Other British legends—Variants in the East and Africa—The Maiden her own deliverer—Christian legends—Chinese tale—Rescue of youth—Maiden rescued from thraldom only—Ragnar Lodbrog.

Legends of the slaughter of a monster are widespread—Origin of the conception of the monster—Totemism—Animal gods—The incident of the Rescue a record of the abolition of human sacrifices to animal gods—Examples of such sacrifices in Africa and the East—Relics of the same among the South Sea Islanders, the Greeks and Romans—Tales of dragons inhabiting springs and lakes—Human sacrifices to water in India, America, Europe—Legends pointing to the same practice in various parts of the world—Legends of rescue of human sacrifices to other divinities.

The Tzitzinæna—Petrifaction by the witch—Petrifaction on breach of various taboos—Power of the witch’s hair—Játaka containing the incident, its relations with the European tales—Petrifaction for preservation—The witch’s hair.

The witch’s hair—Other examples of the power of a hair—The Magical Fetter—The Magical Word—Power of a curse—Magical effect of an incautious word—The Magical Blow—Petrifaction by divine vengeance—Petrifaction as transformation—The Gorgonian power of petrifying by a look—The Evil Eye.

The origin of the story to be sought for among nations who have passed beyond human sacrifices to brutes—The story as a whole confined to certain parts of the Eastern Hemisphere—Differences between classical and modern stories—Relation between them—Traditional selection in classical times—The Helpful Animals—The Gift of Weapons—Cambodian märchen—Modern variants independent of the classical tale—The Impostor and the Tokens—Legend of Saint George—The Deliverer’s Sleep—Result of the inquiry—Bearing of some of the subjects discussed upon matters of Christian controversy—Conclusion.

THE LEGEND OF PERSEUS

CHAPTER XVI.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN MÄRCHEN.

We have traced the incidents of the Supernatural Birth and the Life-token throughout the world: the two remaining incidents of the Rescue of Andromeda and the Medusa-witch have a more restricted range. For though traditions of a fight with a monster and of human beings turned to stone, the germs of the incidents in question, are almost universal, yet the special forms evolved from these germs in the Perseus saga seem to be confined to the Eastern Continent, save where immigrant peoples have taken them in modern times to the New World and given them in some rare instances currency there among the aboriginal tribes.

Of these incidents, the first with which we are concerned is that of the Rescue of Andromeda. Its popularity in Europe is hardly exceeded by that of any incident in traditional fiction, while it is known to story-tellers over vast spaces of the Orient and of Africa. The simplest form of the incident is found in a Berber märchen preserved in a manuscript at the Bibliothèque Nationale at Paris, and translated some years ago by M. René Basset. In this tale a youth, whose earlier experiences vividly recall those of Joseph down to his temptation in Potiphar’s house, is {2} more leniently treated than the Hebrew patriarch, being simply expelled from his master’s family. He wanders away and reaches a fountain inhabited by a serpent, which allows no water to be drawn, save in return for the sacrifice of a woman. That day it was the king’s daughter’s turn to be devoured. The youth, finding her at the spring, inquires why she weeps, and undertakes her deliverance. The snake appears to have had more than one head, though how many is not recorded. At all events the hero beat them one after another, as they were stretched forth to seize the prey, until the serpent died. The water was then free to everybody; and when the king inquired whose doing it was, the stranger youth was led before him and frankly owned his exploit. It is hardly necessary to say that he was rewarded with the hand of the young lady he had saved, and was named the king’s vicegerent. The wedding festivities, we are told, lasted seven days.^2.1

Sometimes the hero is possessed of extraordinary strength, which enables him to overcome his foe. An example is found on the island of Syra, where a tale is told of an ogre who was in the habit of eating anybody who came in his way. Strong Jack fights and kills him, thus delivering a king’s daughter, whom he marries. But she is afterwards carried off by a monster, a half-man with only one eye, one hand, and one foot. Her husband, strong as he is, attacks the half-man in vain. He cannot be killed, for his external soul consists of two doves in the belly of a certain wild sow. To such a monster the hero falls an easy prey; but he is restored to life, and in due time has his revenge.^2.2 In another story, from Agia Anna, the ogre is a female {3} called the Krikeça, who eats a maiden daily. Though already a married man, the hero undertakes the adventure; and the maiden on whose behalf he fights brings him food enough to quell his craving—a difficult task, for these strong heroes are enormous eaters—and so supplies him with a continuance of strength to conquer the Krikeça. The latter begs for life and becomes a converted character.^3.1 So, in an Armenian tale from the Land beyond the Forest, does a wild sow who has fallen into the same vicious habit of devouring maidens, and who turns out to be an enchanted youth whom the hero frees from his spell.^3.2

These tales are closely allied with a type of which, with one exception, I have not found any variants outside the Celtic and Basque populations of the west of Europe. It may be called The Herdsman type. Lod, the farmer’s son, in an Argyllshire tale, is unusually strong. He takes service as herd with a king; and in the course of his day’s work at different times encounters and puts to death two giants and their mother, bringing home his cattle safe and sound as no herd had done before him. A big giant then comes for the king’s daughter, whom a squint-eyed, red-haired cook undertakes to save, his price being the maiden in marriage. The cook hides behind a stone and covers himself with sea-weed. Lod comes upon the scene and meets the heroine weeping. He comforts her, and lying down with his head on her knee he begs her to relieve him of the vermin. If he fell asleep under the lulling influences of this operation she was to waken him by cutting off the point of his little finger. On the giant’s appearance the princess wakens him. He springs up, draws his club, {4} sweeps off the giant’s three heads and throws them contemptuously at the cook, who takes them and the king’s daughter home, as if he himself were the deliverer. A day is appointed for the wedding; but the heroine identifies Lod as the man, and proves it by the point of his finger, which she produces from her pocket. She marries him accordingly, and the cook is burnt to death.^4.1 The same story in effect is given by Campbell as a variant of The Sea Maiden, cited in an earlier chapter.^4.2 In Ireland the tale appears as that of The Thirteenth Son of the King of Erin. The king having thirteen sons is advised to give one to fate. The eldest is the one on whom the lot falls. His father dismisses him with the gift of a steed of supernatural fleetness; and he hires himself as cowherd to another king. He slays three giants and takes possession of their castles and wealth, among which are a black, a brown, and a red horse. The king’s daughter is to be devoured by “an urfeist, a great serpent of the sea, a monster which must get a king’s daughter to devour every seven years.” Hundreds and hundreds of kings’ sons and champions were anxious to save her, but were so frightened at the terrible urfeist that they would not go near her when she was conducted to the beach in readiness for her death. The hero rides down on the black horse, clad in the black gear he has found in the first giant’s castle. Dismounting, he lays his head in the maiden’s lap and falls asleep, waiting for the monster. While he slept she took three hairs from his head and hid them in her bosom. With his sword of light he took off the serpent’s head, but it rushed back to its place and grew on again. The serpent, however, declined to fight any more that day. In a twinkle it {5} returned to the sea, saying: “I’ll be here again to-morrow, and swallow the whole world before me as I come.” Undaunted by this threat, the hero appeared on the morrow in the blue dress of the second giant and mounted on his brown horse. He laid his head on the lady’s lap and slept as before; and she, taking out the three hairs, compared them with his head, and said to herself: “You are the man who was here yesterday.” He cut the monster in two, but the halves rushed together and were one as before. “All the champions on earth won’t save her from me to-morrow,” cried the urfeist as he plunged into the sea again. The third day the hero donned the third giant’s dress. It had as many colours as there are in the sky, and his boots were of blue glass. The giant’s housekeeper gave him a brown apple, with instructions to throw it into the serpent’s open mouth. The princess identified him as before; and when the urfeist came up out of the sea, “enormous, terrible to look at, with a mouth big enough to swallow the world, and three sharp swords coming out of it, Sean Ruadh threw the apple into his mouth, and the beast fell helpless on the strand, flattened out and melted away to a dirty jelly on the shore.” The red steed bore the victor away from the maiden, though she tried to cling to him and stay him: she only succeeded in retaining one of his blue-glass boots. Then a proclamation was made for all men to come and try on the boot. Sean Ruadh tried to evade the proof. In vain: by his old blind sage’s advice, the king sent men, twenty at a time, to fetch him; but he bound them twenty in a bundle, and the bundles together. At last the king himself went and, kneeling, prayed him to come; and the boot sprang through the air to him and fitted itself on his foot. The princess was downstairs in a twinkle, and in {6} the arms of Sean Ruadh. He put all the other claimants to death without more ado, and wedded her.^6.1 This tale, with unimportant variations, has been found more than once during recent years in the west of Ireland. It has been recovered also in Brittany, where one of the variants takes the following form. A noble maiden disguised as a youth becomes page to the queen of France, who falls in love with her, and, being repulsed, sickens and dies. The page’s real sex is disclosed to the king in consequence of a false accusation affecting one of the maids of honour. The king marries her, and she bears him a son. A strange animal appears, called a murlu, is caught and caged, but released by the king’s son, who is, in consequence, compelled to flee from his father’s wrath. The murlu befriends the youth, and takes him to the palace of the King of Naples, where he is engaged as herd. With the murlu’s aid he satisfactorily performs his duties, and overcomes a giant, whose wealth he obtains. The murlu transforms itself into a magical steed, and helps him to conquer in a two days’ fight the seven-headed serpent to which the king’s daughter was to be sacrificed. The herd cuts out the seven tongues and goes away, leaving the heads on the ground. They are carried off by a charcoal-burner, who professes to be the princess’ deliverer. The king is about to give the maiden in marriage, in spite of her protests, to the pretender, when the herd presents himself and, by means of the seven tongues, proves himself the true victor. The charcoal-burner undergoes the usual penalty of his falsehood; and on the occasion of the hero’s {7} wedding the murlu appears, declares itself the King of France’s first wife, condemned for her sin in attempting the page’s virtue to this transformation. The conditions of her punishment are now fulfilled and her expiation complete.^7.1

In one of the Basque variants the mysterious animal is called a Tartaro. The youth is called Petit Yorge, which causes Mr. Webster to suspect that the tale is borrowed from the French; though the identification of Saint George with the slayer of the dragon, not unknown in märchen, and more fully developed, as we shall hereafter see, in the sagas, may suggest a different explanation. He takes service as gardener. With a horse, a handsome dress, and a sword, furnished by the friendly Tartaro, he fights the dragon on behalf of the king, his master’s, youngest daughter. The fight lasts three days. A charcoal-burner is the impostor. As the lady declines to marry him a proclamation is issued for all the young men to ride under a bell, and whoever can carry off on the point of his sword a diamond ring suspended from the bell shall wed her. The hero succeeds and rides away; but as he does so the king hurls his lance at him and wounds him in the leg. He is thus identified, and then produces the serpent’s tongues and forty-two pieces of silk he has cut from the damsel’s dresses.^7.2 The other Basque variants are less elaborate, and perhaps represent more nearly the original tale. The hero is the youngest of three sons. In one of the variants, the two elder, sallying {8} forth successively, refuse a morsel of cake to an old woman and are eaten by a bear. The youngest, more charitable, is rewarded by the hag with a magical stick, the touch whereof kills seven bears that attack him, one after the other; and he obtains their palace and riches. He takes service as shepherd, and with his stick slays the seven-headed serpent, cutting out its tongues and also a little piece of silk from each of the seven robes worn by the princess. The usual charcoal-burner takes the heads and claims the reward, but is confuted by means of the tongues and the silk.^8.1 In the other variant, the youth on setting forth buys a pack of cards and a formidable mace armed with teeth. He hires himself as cowherd; and when the kine, having broken into the forbidden pastures, as in most of the variants, draw down the wrath of the Tartaro who owns the pastures, the youth challenges the monster to a game of cards. The Tartaro was not unaccustomed to play with his adversaries; and his trick was to drop a card, ask his opponent to pick it up, and kill him while he was politely complying. But now he has met his match. The youth tells him to pick up the card himself. As he stoops for the purpose a blow from the mace puts an end to him. Three Tartaros are thus overcome; and their mansion passes into the possession of the hero. The combat with the triple serpent lasts two days. The victor returns to the Tartaro’s palace, merely taking the seven tongues and the seven pieces of silk, and thus enabling the charcoal-burner to make his false claim. The king in his joy gives a dinner to his friends, to which of course the hero is not invited. The Tartaros owned three olanos, ogre-dogs. One of these is sent by the hero to fetch him a dish from {9} the banquet. This of course leads to his discovery, and to the establishment of his right to the king’s daughter.^9.1

The single variant of this type found elsewhere than in Celtic and Basque lands comes from the Odenwald. In it the widowed King of Orange falls in love with the portrait of the daughter of the King of Septentrion, but is daunted by the dangers of the way. His only son, Ferdinand, seeing the portrait, then attempts the adventure. A mannikin directs him to dig at the first crossway, where he will find a can of strength-giving wine and a magical sword and whistle. He slays in fight eight giants, and makes his way to the realm of Septentrion, taking possession, ere he reaches the capital, of a magnificent palace, gaily furnished, having many fine horses in the stable, but void of human inhabitants. Then he enters the king’s service as fowl-herd. Clad in three different suits of armour from his palace, he fights the dragon on three successive days, and cuts off his three heads, disappearing after each combat, so that nobody knows who the princess’ saviour is. In the same armour he takes part in a three days’ tournament for the maiden’s hand. It is necessary to run full tilt with his spear at a ring suspended from a beam, to carry it off, and to hang it up again in returning. He succeeds where all others have failed, and again makes off; but on the third day he is wounded in the leg by one of the king’s men as he escapes. By this token he is recognised; he marries the princess and becomes King of Septentrion. The horses in his palace turn out to be enchanted men, whose spell is dissolved by his success.^9.2 This tale seems to bear traces of literary influence; and in any case it is obviously of a less barbarous character than the others. Probably it is not {10} indigenous to Germany, but has been carried thither from the west, and has suffered some change in the transmission. The indications point to a Celtic or Iberian population as the originators of the Herdsman type.

At the same time stories found among other nations represent the hero as a herd or a menial servant. In a Swabian märchen already cited he is a shepherd.^10.1 A Norwegian tale, bearing some markedly Norse characteristics, also comprises a similar incident. Here Osborn Boots is the youngest of three brothers, who successively hire themselves to a king. The two elder had been dismissed with three stripes cut out of their backs, and the wounds rubbed with salt or hot embers. Boots shares his food with an old hag he meets on the way, and receives in return an old key, which has the property of showing him, when he looks through the ring, whatever he wishes to see. With the help of this and of his own shrewdness, he drives off a troll from the king’s mill-dam, and on another occasion saves the king’s sheep from him. But one day the king, when hunting, trod by chance upon wild grass and lost his way in the wood. The troll met him and offered to let him go home in consideration of having the first thing the king set eyes on when he got to his own land. The victim proved to be his eldest daughter. A man called Glibtongue accompanied her to the spot where the troll was to meet and fetch her. He turned out to be a coward; and Boots, opportunely appearing, overcame the monster by trickery, but spared his life on condition of his restoring the king’s younger daughter, whom he had stolen before. The maiden thus rescued gives him a ring; but Glibtongue of course takes the credit of the deed, and is to be married to {11} her. The troll then stops the springs, so that there is no water to boil the bridal brose. Boots to the rescue again; and now he is identified by the ring, which is seen glistening in his hair. Glibtongue is thrown into a pit full of snakes; the troll is slain; Boots weds the younger princess, and with her receives half the kingdom.^11.1 The hero of a Negro tale from the Bahamas, is a boy who is first a shepherd and then a horse-herd or stable-boy. His master had every year to give one of his daughters in exchange for water. The last daughter he had was about to be thus bartered. Her coachman declined to allow the stable-boy to accompany him when he took the maiden to exchange her, but set him a task instead. The boy performs the task by magical power, obtains horse, carriage, and armour, and follows. By the utterance of a wish he sets two boar-lizards fighting; and while they fight the water is obtained and brought back with the lady. The next day the adventure is repeated, with the variation that it is two cocks which fight. The boy stains his handkerchief red and passes it to the girl. Her father offers her in marriage, with a dowry of two thousand dollars, to any one who can take the stain out of the handkerchief. “All on ’em was tryin’, dey couldn’ git it out. This fellah haxed dem to let ’im try it. Fathe’ told ’im, ‘All right, ’e could try it.’ ’E rolled up ’is sleeve; spread the handke’-chief over ’is harm; then ’e spit on it, taken ’is hand and rubbed over it. The stain went out. Her fathe’ give ’er to ’im to wife, and ’is two thousan’ dollahs. Dat en’s de hold story.”^11.2 A Portuguese tale from Brazil begins with the barter by a fisherman of his son, born unknown to him, {12} for a catch of fish. It belongs to the Forbidden Chamber cycle. After flying from the ogre the hero takes service as under-gardener to a king. The youngest princess penetrates his disguise. The king offers his eldest daughter to him who would slay a seven-headed beast which was devastating the realm. The under-gardener performs the feat and takes the tips of the beast’s tongues. As nobody appeared to claim the reward, the king decided to marry all his daughters. The youngest refuses to marry anybody but the under-gardener. The prince who is to marry the eldest claims to have slain the beast, and the bridegroom of the second sister claims another achievement of the hero; but the latter at the wedding-feast puts them to open shame.^12.1

There is one characteristic, however, which is common to a vast number of variants belonging to almost every type, and which, in the story from the Odenwald, stands out in full relief. If it be not a savage characteristic, at least it is not in accordance with the etiquette of civilisation in the nineteenth century for the hero to persist in such unaccountable modesty, that, having slain the monster and won the princess, he must be pursued like a criminal flying from justice, and compelled to confess and claim his reward. When at last he is made known, and the impostors, whom his want of gallantry and overload of humility had encouraged, if not instigated, are convicted of their fraud, he indulges in a savage revenge. Burning alive, indeed, is in harmony with a certain kind of civilisation, such as that of Saint Dominic or Bloody Mary; and the punishments the peasantry delight to recount in these tales are an index of their culture. The hero is deterred no more {13} than the most bigoted fanatic by any considerations of humanity, or even of kinship. As a single example of the disregard of kinship, take the story of The King of Al-Yaman and his three Sons, found in some versions of the Arabian Nights. There the king’s youngest son, disliked by his father and despised by his two brethren, picks up a string of pearls and emeralds, and is deprived of it by the elder sons, who pretend themselves to have found it. Their father lays upon them the injunction to bring him the wearer. After they have set out, the youngest goes forth too, and delivers a princess from the scourge of her father’s city, a monstrous lion, to which a maiden is offered by lot every year. He refuses in the usual way to return with her, and is only discovered by means of a proclamation requiring all the men in the city to defile before the palace. He is married to her; but, arising before day, while she is still asleep, he exchanges rings with her and writes upon her hand his name, Aláeddín, his parentage and a request, if she love him truly, to come and seek him at his father’s capital of Al-Hind. He departs, and repeats the adventure, slaying this time an elephant. Afterwards he continues his quest, and succeeds in obtaining the enchanting bird Philomelet, the wearer of the necklace, while its mistress, a princess, is sleeping. He writes his name on the palm of her hand also, and a similar request to seek him at home. As he returns his brothers fall in with him, rob him of the bird, and carry it to their father as their own prize. The three princesses, each with her father and an army, go after him and meet together. They of course reject the two elder brothers as impostors, and Aláeddín is at last vindicated. He then, having put his brothers to shame, falls upon them, and with a single blow {14} of his sword despatches them both; nor is it without difficulty that he is restrained from putting his father to death too. He adds to the number of his wives the princess to whom the bird Philomelet belonged, and lives happy ever after.^14.1 The vengeance in the Arab tale, reported from a region where no reminiscences of the auto-da-fé linger, shows to advantage in comparison with the cruelties in which the tales of the peasantry of Christian Europe rejoice. And if the hero spare not his own flesh and blood, it must be remembered that he is only the half-brother of the impostors, and that both he and his mother have suffered great personal wrong at their hands and those of his father. In a variant of the story, cited from the same source in a previous chapter, the hero even intercedes with his father for his brothers’ lives.^14.2 Happily in western stories he does not always visit their sins on their heads. In the Shetlandic story, originally from Scandinavia, Assipattle is treated with contempt by his six elder brothers. But he had a fast friend in his only sister, who was taken to court to be the king’s daughter’s maid. The Mester Stoorworm, a terrific sea-monster in which we have a reminiscence of the Midgard Snake, threatened the land. By a mighty sorcerer’s counsel, every Saturday seven damsels were bound upon a rock and delivered to him, to glut his maw and save the kingdom. The only way to get rid of the scourge, the sorcerer declared, was to deliver Gemdelovely, the princess, to be devoured. All the champions who volunteered to save her shrank from the task when they beheld the grisly foe. Assipattle alone had the courage to get a boat and go out to meet the worm, whose horrid length stretched half across the world. {15} He allowed himself to be swallowed, boat and all; and once inside the cavernous throat he “waded and ran, and better ran, till he came to the enormous liver of the monster.” Then he cut a hole in it and placed a live peat, which he had brought for the purpose, in the hole and “blew till he thought his lips would crack.” By and bye “the peat began to flame; the flame caught the oil of the liver, and in a minute there was a stately euse. In troth, I think it gave the Stoorworm a hot harskit.” Hurrying into his boat again, Assipattle was spewed out by the monster’s dying spasms, and thrown high and dry on the land. Of course he married the princess; and the vengeance, without which the story would not be complete, fell not on his brothers for their ill treatment of him, but on the sorcerer, who it turned out was the queen’s lover.^15.1

The conquest of the dragon by attacking it from the inside carries us back to Herakles’ deliverance of Hesione. The incident, rare in modern folklore, is also found in a Gipsy tale from Transylvania; but there, as might be anticipated, there is no question of a sea-monster. Radu, a young Gipsy of the Kukuya stock, driven to desperation by his shrewish wife, cleaves her head with a hatchet and flees for his life from his tribal brethren. In the forest he finds a large horse’s head lying under a tree. It bids him creep into its left ear; and he becomes so small as to do it easily. There he lies hidden safely until all pursuit is over, when he creeps out again through the right ear, returning at once to his proper size. He takes the head with him, for it tells him it will protect him; and when he longs for a horse he is met by two cavaliers who direct him to make water into the head, which will immediately change into a {16} steed, red in the morning, white at noon, and black at night. Mounted on this mysterious animal he reaches a town hung with black, because a ninety-nine-headed dragon, living on the Glass Mountain, has carried off the king’s daughter and will eat her on the morrow. The next day, having taken his horse’s advice, he rides at morning, at noon, and at evening once up and down the mountain, daunting the dragon by the belief that he has three champions to contend with. He again rides to the hill, alights, makes water thrice over the steed, and thus changes it back into a horse’s head. Creeping into the left ear, he is swallowed by the serpent. Once in the serpent’s body, he crawls out of the skull, and, tearing off his clothes, he sets fire to them. The dragon bursts; the Glass Mountain disappears; Radu finds himself in the arms of the princess, whom he soon weds; and as it is recorded that he lived with his second wife in joy and happiness, we may indulge the pleasing thought that she lacked the exasperating tongue of the first.^16.1

In an earlier chapter I have abstracted a Lithuanian tale where the hero, having taken charge of a sister, is betrayed by her to a robber. This is quite a common incident in Slav märchen, not always found in connection with the Rescue of Andromeda. Another Lithuanian tale presents {17} a brother and sister, turned out of doors by their father for bad conduct, arriving at a robber’s dwelling. Before leaving home, the youth had possessed himself of his father’s magical staff, which paralysed opponents. Aided by this he slays eleven of the twelve robbers, and severely wounds the twelfth. Having thrown their corpses into a Bluebeard’s chamber, already used for a similar purpose by the robbers themselves, he gives the keys of the house to his sister, forbidding her to enter the room where the bodies lie. She naturally disobeys, and is seized by the still living robber and compelled to bring him certain healing plants, which are hanging from the ceiling. The robber makes love to her, not without success, and persuades her to feign illness, and get her brother to procure, first, wolf’s milk, and then lioness’ milk, wherewith the wounded man is completely restored to health. When this is effected he comes forth, attacks the brother and threatens him with death. But in procuring the milk the hero has also won the favour of the she-wolf and lioness, as well as of a hare, for sparing their lives; and they have given him each a whistle to be blown when he is in need of help. He now blows; and immediately the grateful beasts rush to his help, tearing the robber and his paramour to pieces. Setting out with the animals, he comes to a town where the king’s last daughter is about to be given to a nine-headed dragon. His conquest of the dragon follows, and the cutting out of its nine tongues; after which he and his beasts lie down and fall asleep with utter weariness. While he sleeps, the princess puts her ring on his finger. She has hardly done so when some servants of the king, her father, come to the place, kill and bury him, and oblige her to take an oath to recognise their chief as her deliverer and bridegroom. On awaking, the {18} hero’s animals miss their master and disperse, to meet again at the same spot three years later, in accordance with a tryst given them by him before lying down to sleep. The bear smells the corpse; the lion and wolf dig it up; and the hare fetches some leaves of a herb used by two snakes they have seen in combat at an earlier stage of their adventures. With these he restores the hero to life; and they all return to the town, as luck will have it, on the day of the wedding. The hare carries a letter to the princess, who induces her father to invite the stranger to the festivities. There he inquires what token of victory over the dragon the bridegroom had produced; and when the heads are shown him he draws the tongues out of his pocket, fits them into the throats and adds as a proof of his own identity the princess’ ring. The pretender is torn to pieces by oxen, and the hero happily married to the princess.^18.1 Variants of the story are well known in Italy. It is found in Brittany and Andalucia, and has even crossed the Atlantic with the Portuguese to Brazil.^18.2 None of these need be mentioned now, save a Piedmontese version, which accounts for the hero’s refusal to claim his bride as soon as he has won her, by the excuse that he was in mourning for his sister, slain by his dogs for her treachery, together with her paramour.^18.3 In variants from Bohemia and Transylvania, the sister is, after her lover’s death, shut up by her brother for her misconduct, and left when he goes abroad on his travels. When he is married he releases her and takes her to live in {19} the palace. But she sticks in his bed a knife which pierces and kills him. He is brought to life again by his hounds, and his sister receives the reward of her double guilt.^19.1 In these two, as well as in a Sienese variant, the dogs are enchanted men who regain their true form after the hero is finally settled in life.

A type of the story found in Italy opens with the search made by a brother for a sister who had been carried off by an ogre. According to the Venetian tale he meets a priest, who bestows on him three dogs, called Rend-iron, Seize-all, and Now’s-the-time-to-help-me. With their assistance he slays the ogre; and then, leaving his sister in possession of the ogre’s palace and magical wand, he sets out for further adventures. The dogs at his command slay the seven-headed beast and bring him the heads. He will not return with the king’s daughter; but cutting out the beast’s tongues he puts them in a box, gives a ring to the lady as a pledge that he will return, and goes back with the good news to his sister. On the way he stops at an inn, and there meets a chimney-sweeper—a new and more modern shape of our old acquaintance, the charcoal-burner. Imprudently he shows the tongues to his new acquaintance, who robs him of them, and boldly claims the princess. The hero, however, gets wind of the wedding, and, breaking into the festivities, demands permission to speak. He cross-examines the bridegroom: “Are you the bridegroom?” “Yes.” “How did you manage to deliver this maiden?” The chimney-sweeper shuffled: “How did I do it? Look, here are the seven tongues!” “I ask you, How did you manage to deliver her? I will have an answer.” “With those three dogs.” “Good! Since you {20} managed to deliver her by the help of those three dogs, in the presence of this noble company call the dogs by their names.” The impostor was confounded, dumb. Then the youth turned to the company and told his story, adding sarcastically: “And this gentleman here is he who stole the box.” The gentleman denied it. Like a trained advocate, the hero calls as a witness the innkeeper, who saw him showing the tongues to the chimney-sweeper, and confronts him with the bridegroom. The king is convinced; and the hero gets permission to do as he likes with his opponent. “Rend-iron, Seize-all, Now’s-the-time-to-help-me, eat him up.” And in the presence of the assembled guests, the chimney-sweeper was eaten up accordingly. The wedding then proceeded with a new bridegroom.^20.1

This dramatic solution combines ancient and modern elements in an unexpected and interesting manner. A variant current in Sicily returns to the usual proof of the deliverer’s identity by means of the tongues. He slays the dragon with a magical sword belonging to the giant who has carried off his sister, and heals the wound he and his horse have received in the combat by means of a salve he has extracted from the giant’s head after putting him to death.^20.2 In a Georgian tale the hero is not born until after his sister has been carried away by a hundred-headed monster, and her three elder brothers, in attempting to rescue her, have been slain. Their desolate mother is given by a stranger an apple to eat, whence she bears a son called Asphurtzela. He conquers the monster, opens his breast and brings out the dead bodies of his brothers, {21} restoring them to life by means of an enchanted handkerchief, also found in the monster’s breast. On the way home the ungrateful brothers tie him to a tree and leave him; but he succeeds in escaping. He cannot, however, remain at home after their evil conduct. So he sets forth again, and picks up two companions of supernatural power, with whose aid he liberates three fair maidens about to be married to three ogres. One ogre is left. He cozens the hero’s companions, one after the other, out of the food being prepared for their supper. Asphurtzela shoots the ogre and cuts him in two. The head rolls into a hole, wherein they find three lovely maidens. The two companions attempt successively to rescue them, but on letting them down their courage fails and they call out to be drawn up again. Asphurtzela descends and sends up the damsels. His companions close the hole and leave him to his fate. Wandering about in the lower regions he rescues a king’s daughter from a dragon, and sets free the water withheld by the monster. The king offers him presents, which he rejects, only asking to be sent back to his own land of light. Ultimately he finds a dragon attacking a griffin’s nest and shoots it. The griffin in gratitude carries him up to the surface of the earth. But to give her strength for the purpose it is necessary that she should be constantly supplied with food. When the provisions he has taken run short he cuts a piece off his own leg and throws it into her mouth. She restores it to him on arriving at the top, and heals the wound. He finds his two companions about to marry the maidens rescued from the hole and slays them, afterwards wedding the youngest maiden, and giving the two elder ones to his brothers.^21.1

Here we find what we may call the Stolen Sister type, combined with another. The Underworld type, as it may be named, is somewhat more fertile in variants. Among Galland’s manuscripts is a tale he obtained from a Christian Maronite of Aleppo, named Hanna—that is, John. It concerns the three sons of the Sultan of Samarcand, who built a house for Rostam, his eldest son, unwittingly just above the underground dwelling of the eldest daughter of the genius Morhagian. The genius destroys it, and, when pursued by the prince, disappears in a well. The sultan then builds a similar house for his second son above the dwelling of Morhagian’s second daughter, with the same result. The house intended for the third son, Badialzaman, is built over the genius’ third daughter’s palace. It is destroyed like the others; but Badialzaman succeeds in wounding the genius thrice ere he reaches the well, and persuades his brothers to join him in pursuing the foe down into the well. Of course Badialzaman is the only one of the three who has the courage to be let down to the bottom. There he is entertained for forty days, first by one and then by another of Morhagian’s beautiful daughters, of whom the youngest is the loveliest. He announces his intention of taking vengeance on their father. Each of them endeavours to dissuade him, but in vain; and the youngest warns him that he has no chance against the genius, who will simply take his head in one hand and his feet in the other and rend him in twain. As she has foretold, so it happens. The pieces, however, are brought to the lady by two of her women; and when she has put them together she revives the hero by applying the Water of Life to his wounds. Having then made him swear to wed her, she teaches him how he may kill her father, by {23} attacking him asleep and giving him one blow—no more—with his own sword, which will be found hanging above his head. The treachery of his brothers in drawing up the three maidens and leaving Badialzaman in the pit, his conquest of the monster, deliverance of the princess and release of the water, and finally his conveyance to the upper world by a grateful rokh whose young he had saved from a serpent, follow the course of the Georgian tale. Before the three maidens were sent up they had reduced their palaces to the size of three balls, which they had put into his care; and by the advice of the youngest he had cut some hair from the tail of Morhagian’s magical steed. A little of the hair had only to be burnt to bring the steed to him. With the help of these things, having taken service with a tailor, he prepares a robe for the youngest maiden on the occasion of her marriage to his brother Rostam, and attending the festival he slays the bridegroom with Morhagian’s sword. Then he disappears; but three months afterwards, when the same damsel is to be married to his second brother, he repeats the performance. Poetical justice is completed by his marriage with the lady; and her sisters are given to two other princes.^23.1

The tale is current in Italy, and is widely spread in the Levant. As it is told at Lesbos, the cause of the hero’s descent into the lower world is the robbery every year by a monster of the three golden apples growing on a tree in a king’s garden. The youngest brother succeeds in wounding the thief and tracking him to a pit. He slays the monster and delivers three maidens, whom he sends up to his brothers above. His brothers’ treachery and all the other incidents follow. Here he has to prove against other pretenders {24} that it is he who has put the dragon to death. This he does in the ordinary way by means of his tongues. He rejects the king’s treasures, the half of his kingdom, and even his lovely daughter, and will only accept the provisions necessary for the eagle which is to carry him up to this world again. His father having awarded the youngest maiden to his eldest brother, she demands three dresses representing, one, the heaven with all its stars, another, the earth with all her trees and flowers, and the third, the sea with all the fishes that dwell therein. These, of course, can only be furnished by the hero from three walnuts handed by her to him before parting. When they have been obtained the master-tailor is summoned and compelled to declare whence he got them. The hero is recognised; but his vengeance on his brothers is limited to banishing them from the realm.^24.1

In a story of the Avares of the Caucasus the hero is the offspring of a king’s daughter by a bear, and is called Bear’s-Ears from a peculiarity which he owes to his parentage. His companions are not his brothers, but two heroes like himself, of extraordinary strength, who, however, are successively robbed of their food by a dwarf. Bear’s-Ears catches the dwarf, cleaves a plane-tree and fastens him by the beard in the cleft. The dwarf uproots the plane-tree and escapes into a pit. Bear’s-Ears liberates only one princess from the dwarf. The dragon has nine heads; and the hero, cutting off his ears, carries them to the king.^24.2 In this tale there seem no impostors. As the Nubians tell it, an ogre obtains {25} the food of the hero and his companions, of whom there are four; and here again only one lady is delivered from the pit. When he is left at the bottom by his treacherous friends, he rescues a king’s daughter from a crocodile that stops the river. Then dipping his fingers in its blood he marks the damsel’s thigh; and this serves as the proof when others claim to have performed the deed of valour.^25.1 Among the Vlachs we return to the dwarf; but there is no lady to be rescued from his power. Peter Firitschell, as the hero is called, however, makes friends with a blind old woman, who is captive to certain dragons. He slays the dragons and restores the woman’s sight. He then acquires three Helpful Beasts, a fox, a wolf, and a bear. The monster to whom the princess is to be given has twelve heads, and dwells in a marsh outside the city. Peter lies down to sleep in the maiden’s lap while he is waiting for the monster, and she abstracts one of his twelve arrows. With the rest he shoots off eleven of the monster’s heads, and borrows of her a pin to shoot the twelfth. He cuts out the tongues, and lies down again to sleep. A Gipsy strikes his head off, takes the dragon’s twelve heads and claims the victory. Peter is brought to life again by his faithful animals, and is in time to prevent the Gipsy’s marriage to the king’s daughter. Wallachia being a Christian country, the punishment inflicted on the impostor is merely that of being rolled down a hill in a barrel studded inside with spikes. Peter then weds the lady and remains in the Underworld, where he succeeds in due time to her father’s throne.^25.2

Nearly related to the Underworld type is that of Fearless Johnny. A Breton story, obtained by M. Sébillot at Dourdain in the department of Ille et Vilaine, has also lately been given by a contributor to the Rivista delle Tradizioni Popolari Italiane, as coming from Cagliari, so nearly in the same words as to lead to the conclusion that it must have been in very recent years carried directly from Brittany to Sardinia, or vice versâ. It relates that Johnny, being a lad of noted courage, discovers a practical joke played upon him by some of his companions with the object of frightening him by the apparition of a pretended corpse. He then sets out to learn what fear is, and rescues the souls of some robbers who have been hanged, by finding the treasure they have stolen from a church and restoring it to the priest, from whom he will take no reward except his consecrated stole—a magical article of considerable value in the legends of Roman Catholic lands. With this stole he delivers a house from a devil that haunts it, and afterwards kills the dragon, taking its tongues, with which he proves himself the victor. A swallow scratches up a little earth over his face as he lies asleep on the ground weary from his combat; and awaking he cries: “Ah! I did not know till now whether Fear was furred or feathered; now I see that it is feathered.” That was the only time he ever experienced even the beginning of fear; and then he was more than half asleep.^26.1

It will have been observed that a common opening of stories which culminate in the incident of the Rescue is the hero’s acquisition of Helpful Animals. Sometimes, as in a tale from Oldenburg, it is the only other incident.^26.2 More {27} often it forms part of a larger series of adventures. Occasionally the hero obtains the power of transformation instead of the personal service of the beasts. Thus, in a Norwegian tale he divides a dead horse between a lion, a falcon, and an ant, and in return for the service they confer on him this power. It enables him to get into a princess’ chamber and secretly make love to her; and it stands him in good stead when he goes to fight the dragon. This dragon was a less delicate feeder than some, for he only demanded a tax of pigs, not maidens. The king had promised his daughter to the deliverer; but before the wedding could take place she was stolen by a hill-ogre, whose life was bound up with a grain of sand under the ninth tongue of the ninth head of the slaughtered dragon. Here, again, the power of transformation enables the lad to triumph.^27.1

There remain one or two types of a more abnormal kind briefly to mention. A märchen of the Gipsies of Southern Hungary speaks of a dragon which threatened a certain city with destruction, unless in ten years the king’s fair daughter were given to him. In the interval she marries a man who wins the favour of a Keshalyi (a forest-fairy, or Fate) by kindly combing her hair. The Keshalyi’s hairs, as we have already seen, are powerful talismans, identified in Gipsy superstitions with the floating cobwebs of autumn. He obtains one of them, and by this means is able to take from the horns of the moon-king’s black cattle a gold ring, a similar ring from the horns of the sun-king’s white cattle, and one from the horns of the cloud-king’s yellow cattle. These he gives to his bride. Their virtue causes her to give birth successively to three heroes, of whom one is so strong he can throw high into the air a stone which ten horses cannot {28} move, another can by blowing burn everything around him to ashes, and the third can spit balls from his mouth farther and truer than the best guns can carry. When, at the appointed time, the great dragon comes for her, sons like these prove invaluable. Though the very houses shook with the monster’s voice, the youths quickly riddled his skin with balls, buried him beneath great rocks, and burnt him up.^28.1

Another Gipsy tale concerns a youth who piped so well for the dancing of a silver-clad river-nymph, daughter of the moon-king, that she gave him a silver sickle and prayed him to come again on the morrow and she would give him yet fairer gifts. But he is late for the tryst, and finds her dead on the ground, heart-broken at his breach of faith; for these ladies’ hearts are very fragile. Her sister appears from the river and curses him, if a man, to become a woman, if a woman, to become a man. She then carries the dead nymph back into the river, and, as it seems, there restores her to life; for immediately afterwards a magnificent black steed stands before the desolate youth (now become a girl) and declares that he is sent by the deceased maiden to bear him where his fortune blossoms. Mounted on the steed, he is borne through the air like lightning to the aid of a king’s daughter, given to a dragon who dwells in a fountain and requires a maid once a year for dinner. He slays the dragon with the sickle; and the king in his joy gives him his daughter to wife. He accepted the lady amid the general excitement, without thinking that he was no longer a man but a woman. This was awkward. The bride complained to her father, who was afraid to attempt {29} his life by direct means. Wherefore he sent him instead to rob the cloud-king of three golden apples which had the property, one of them of making wealthy, another of making lucky, and the third of making healthy. His steed helps him to accomplish the task. But when the monster, half-man, half-dog, that guards the apples, finds that he has been cozened, he flings the curse after the robber: “If a man, become woman; if a woman, become man.” The curse sets matters right again. “I don’t know what has happened, dearest father,” says the bride to the king, “but my husband is a man after all.”^29.1 In an Albanian variant the dragon-slayer is born a girl. She kills a lamia to whom the king has given his son, and is rewarded with a magical steed. Later on she wins another king’s daughter in marriage by a feat of athletics, and, as in the last tale, is guilty of the thoughtlessness of taking the bride. Being prescribed a series of tasks by the king with the same object of getting rid of her, she at last is cursed by some serpents with the requisite change of sex.^29.2

In this tale it is no longer Andromeda who is rescued, but a young man. The variation is doubtless due to Oriental influence, conveyed through a Mohammedan channel. At least, all the variants of this form with which I am acquainted are of Arab or Indian provenience. In a story from the Panjáb the hero is the younger of two brothers, princes, the elder of whom has eaten a parrot and the other a starling. Now the fate of these birds {30} was that whoever ate the parrot would become a king, and whoever ate the starling a prime minister. The elder brother received his kingdom; but the younger is slain by a snake-demon and afterwards restored to life. Coming into a strange town, he takes shelter with an old woman whose turn it is to provide the victim for an ogre who daily eats a young man, a goat and a wheaten cake. She has no difficulty about the goat and the cake; and the prince volunteers to take the place of the human victim, in order to kill the ogre. He is successful; and then, cutting off the monster’s head, he ties it up in a handkerchief and falls asleep. An impostor in the shape of a scavenger finds him, buries him in a clay-pit and, taking the ogre’s head, claims from the king half the kingdom and his daughter in marriage, as a reward for overcoming the monster. We should expect the end to be the impostor’s conviction and the hero’s wedding. However, the further adventures of the latter result in his obtaining a different wife. With self-denial unusual in polygamous countries, he finds one enough; so he makes the princess over to his brother.^30.1 It would seem as though we had here a relic of an earlier form of the tale wherein it is a maiden who is rescued. Another tale, also from the Panjáb, countenances the supposition.^30.2 As given in the Siddhi-Kür, on the other hand, there is no reference to a lady. Two dragon-frogs who dwell at the source of a river and can withhold the water, demand every year a human being to eat. The lot falls on the khan himself; and no one but his son will go in his stead. The son is accompanied by a poor man’s son, who is his friend and will not quit his side. They overhear the frogs incautiously talking, after the manner {31} of supernatural beings in fairy tales, and telling one another how they may be subdued. Thus they succeed in ridding the land of the pest; and further, by eating the frogs’ heads, the one acquires the power of spitting gold and the other of spitting emeralds—an endowment which develops the plot in a new direction.^31.1 It would be strange if the endless adventures of the favourite Arab hero, Hatim Taï, did not include the incident. Accordingly, we learn that Hatim reaches a village where a giant devours one of the villagers every week. That week the lot has fallen upon the chief’s son. Hatim rescues him from his impending fate by causing a mirror to be prepared and set up in the monster’s path. When the giant beholds his own ugliness he bursts with rage in the most natural but horrible manner. Substantial rewards are offered to the deliverer. He rejects them, however, and goes about his business as if nothing had happened.^31.2

A Sanskrit story found in one of the manuscripts of the Twenty-five Tales of a Demon relates that a certain king had had a quarrel with some demons about a lady, whom he had taken to wife, whereas they had intended her for their son. Peace was established on the terms of making over to them daily a human victim. When it came to the turn of the king’s own son he was fortunately rescued by a stranger-prince, named Mahâbala. The demon, who expected a good meal, was overcome and made to swear that he would henceforth protect brahmans and never again set foot in the city. In contrast, however, to the generous Hatim Taï, Mahâbala was dissatisfied with the rewards offered him, and allowed the demon to return to his evil {32} ways. This of course resulted in a fresh application to the deliverer, who made the monster renew his oath. He had no cause for dissatisfaction a second time.^32.1

It will have been observed that the stories cited in the present chapter, like those mentioned in the first volume as embodying more complete versions of the Perseus legend, present in the majority of cases the curious incident of the impostor. Concerning this personage I shall have more to say hereafter. We have found him in the story, from Quilimane, of Rombao and Antonyo. He is equally popular among the Omahas and Ponkas of North America, where the tale of the Rescue is so thoroughly domesticated, as to be considered by authorities familiar with the customs and modes of thought of the aborigines as for the most part “of Indian origin.” Two versions have been recorded differing only in details. An outline of one of them will enable the reader to judge of their “Indian origin.” An orphan, we are told, who lives with his grandmother, is possessed of a gun of unerring aim. He exchanges it for a magical sword and two hounds which always find and kill game at their master’s command. The villagers are heard lamenting; and the old woman tells him it is because the water-monster with seven heads has asked for the chief’s daughter, and in case of refusal has threatened to devour the whole tribe. The orphan determines to deliver her. He finds her bound by the stream, unties her and sends her home. With his dogs and sword he overcomes {33} the monster, cuts off his heads and takes the tongues. A black man finds the heads, pretends to be the victor and claims the chief’s daughter in marriage, in accordance with an offer her father has previously made. The maiden denied that he was her deliverer; but the chief decided against her and “they cooked for the marriage.” The orphan became aware by supernatural consciousness of what was going on. He sent one of his dogs to steal one of the best slices of the meat. The dog was pursued, and the orphan discovered. He justifies having sent the dog, for he it is who has killed the water-monster and taken his tongues. On this being reported to the chief he sends for the orphan and confronts him with the black man. After the orphan has told his story, “Come, black man, confess!” he says. “ ‘Hold on! I wish to go outside,’ said the black man. ‘Take hold of him,’ said the orphan. The black man did not tell the truth, therefore they burnt him. And thus, after all, the orphan married the chief’s daughter.”^33.1

The most hardened believer in the possibility of the independent origin of folktales having a similar plot will scarcely refuse to admit that this tale at least must have come to the Sioux from a European source—probably through French trappers or missionaries. It may be true, as the translator tells us, that only two words in it (namely, those for gun and sword) are of foreign origin. This is a fact of no importance against the multifarious coincidences of plot and idea with those of the Old World summarised in the present and previous chapters: it is only an additional testimony to the completeness with which the mind of the barbarous Ponka has absorbed the story. When an alien people thus receives and assimilates a tale, {34} it is because the tale is suited to the alien digestion. The mental growth it indicates is the same on the part of the people giving and the people acquiring it. It satisfies the imaginative instincts of both. But though accepted among the traditions of the Cegiha-speaking tribes, the tale of the Rescue has not received that final seal of adoption which identifies the action, or some of the actors, with the mythical history of the race: it has not attained to the dignity of a saga, such as we are about to examine in the next chapter.

In the Ponka and Omaha variants the black man is burnt in accordance with Christian precedents; and this is one of the notes of their European origin. A Tuscan story, linked to the ancient mythology by the use of what seems to be a veritable tree-spirit who has survived in rustic belief to the present day, confers a very different reward on the impostor. A poor but handsome youth goes to cut wood. To him appears Vira, the forest-sprite, and comforts him. If he will do as she tells him he need not despair of making his fortune. She directs him to a district near Benevento, whose king has a daughter. This damsel has been given to a seven-headed ogre to devour; and the king has offered her in marriage to any one who will slay the ogre and bring him his heads. Signore Slaniani has conquered the monster and put his heads on a wagon to carry them to the king. But the reward is not for him. When the wagon was being loaded Vira secretly took the tongues, and she now gives them to the youth. “Carry these tongues to the king, and say that thou didst slay the ogre, and that thou dost wish for his daughter.” The tale is told with snatches of verse, which are some evidence of its antiquity. The youth readily falls into the plot.

To the amazement of the true victor, who had never let the heads go out of his sight, the tongues are no longer in them.

A moral amply justified, no doubt, by the Italian peasant’s experience of life.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN SAGAS.

How far the tale of the loving spirit, Vira, is accepted by the Tuscan peasant as a recital of facts may be disputed. We have little but internal evidence to guide us; and that hardly seems conclusive. It may perhaps be regarded as a saga once inspired by faith in the powers of a supernatural being, but now the subject of more or less scepticism. The effect of doubt on a story would be to sever its moorings and set it free on the vague waters of tradition, unhampered by any names of known persons or places, or to which a serious credit is intended to be attached. The tale, as it was found by Mr. Leland, had not yet reached entire freedom. It is therefore a convenient link between the true märchen and the true saga,—neither wholly believed, nor recognised as merely told for pleasure.

That the story of the conquered dragon was believed, at least in classical times, we have already seen. Perseus, the slayer of the dragon and of Medusa, was one of the minor divinities of Greece; and the rescue of Hesione by Herakles seems to have been admitted among the achievements of a personage even more renowned and more generally worshipped than Perseus. Nor were these heroes alone in ancient Hellas. The Athenians honoured Theseus for a similar {37} deed. Minos, who reigned at Gnossos in Crete, having desolated Attica with war to avenge the treacherous death of his son Androgeos, made peace at last for an annual tribute of seven young men and seven virgins, chosen from the most illustrious families of Athens, to be thrown as victims to the Minotaur, a monster half-bull and half-man, the issue of Pasiphae, the queen of Crete. Theseus volunteered as one of the victims. When the devoted band arrived at Crete, Ariadne, Minos’ daughter, fell in love with Theseus, and furnished him with a sword to kill the monster, and a clew of thread to enable him to find his way out of the labyrinth wherein it was kept. The city of Thespia at the foot of Mount Helicon rejoiced in a legend which bears a somewhat closer resemblance to Herakles’ adventure. By command of Zeus certain youths were every year exposed to a dragon. The lot fell on one occasion on Kleostratos. Clad in brazen armour set with hooks he went boldly forth; and though he lost his own life, he proved the monster’s bane.^37.1

In later times the most famous name to which the exploit has been attributed is that of Saint George. Some versions of the legend reproduce one or other of the classical stories with more or less fidelity. Saint George is one of that numerous class of saints about whom nothing whatever authentic is known. It is indeed “very improbable that such a person ever lived.”^38.1 So much the greater scope has there been for the exercise of the pious imagination. The horrible details of his martyrdom, a subject on which ecclesiastical writers have expatiated with congenial extravagance and delight, have been grafted on those of the Rescue of Andromeda; and the Church may be congratulated on having converted and baptized the pagan hero, Perseus. The story of his fight with the dragon, as found at large in the Golden Legend of Jacob à Voragine, relates that a great swamp or pool near the town of Silena in Libya, was the lurking-place of a dragon, against which the people had often taken arms, only to be driven back. When it approached the city walls its pestiferous breath poisoned every one. Rather than suffer these visits, the citizens gave two sheep every day to appease it. After a while their flocks began to fail; and to meet the deficiency it was determined to offer for the future one sheep and a human being. The children, sons and daughters of the citizens, were chosen for the purpose by lot, and none were exempted from the chance. Almost all had been thus sacrificed when the lot fell upon the king’s only daughter. Her afflicted father offered his treasures of gold and silver and half his {39} kingdom to purchase her exemption from so terrible a death. In vain. The people angrily, though justly, replied: “Thou thyself, O king, didst issue this edict; and now all our children are dead, and dost thou wish thy daughter to be saved? Unless thou obey the commands thou hast enforced upon others, we will deliver thee and thy house to the flames.” A delay of eight days, on the pretext of lamenting her fate, was all the monarch was able to obtain. At the end of that time the populace returned and said: “Why lose thy subjects for the sake of thy daughter? Lo! we are all dying from the breath of the dragon.” Then the king, seeing that there was no escape, caused the maiden to be clad in royal garments, and, folding her in his arms, bewailed her fate. At last, kissing her, he sobbed: “Would, my daughter, that I had died before thee, rather than to have lost thee thus!” She fell at his feet and besought his blessing, which, when he had bestowed amid his tears, she rose and went forth to the lake. Now it happened that the blessed George, a Cappadocian by birth, and a tribune, was passing by at that very time, and seeing her weeping he stopped and asked what was the matter. She replied: “Good youth, mount thy horse quickly and fly, lest thou die as well as I.” But the stranger answered: “Fear not, maiden, but tell me what thou awaitest here, with all the people looking on.” And she: “Thou hast a noble heart, good youth, I see, but why wilt thou die with me? Flee quickly.” “I will not stir a step,” quoth George, “until thou tell me what is the matter.” Then she explained it all to him. “Fear not, maiden,” he cried, “for in Christ’s name I will help thee.” “Good soldier, save thyself rather, lest thou perish too. Enough that I perish alone; for thou canst not deliver me—thou wouldst only die with me.” While they were thus {40} talking, the dragon, approaching, lifted his head above the water. The maiden, trembling, cried: “Fly, sir, fly quickly!” But George mounted his horse, and, fortifying himself with the sign of the cross, he boldly advanced to meet the monster. Brandishing his lance, and commending himself to God, he pierced it with a mighty wound and threw it to the ground. Then he called to the damsel: “Pass thy girdle round its neck, nothing doubting.” When she had done so the dragon followed her like a gentle hound; and she led it to the city. The people fled in terror; but the blessed George signalled to them to stop, saying: “Fear not, for the Lord sent me unto you for this very thing, that I should deliver you from the torment of the dragon. Wherefore believe in Christ, and let every one of you be baptized, and I will slay the monster.” Then the king and all the people were baptized, to the number of twenty thousand men, beside women and children. The blessed George unsheathed his sword, slew the dragon; and four pairs of oxen were required to take it out of the city. The king built in honour of the blessed Mary and the blessed George a great church, from beneath whose altar a living fountain flowed for the healing of all who were sick. Moreover the king offered the victor an immense sum of money; but he commanded it to be given to the poor, and instructed the king in these four precepts (and here comes the moral), namely, to take care of the Church, to honour the priests, diligently to attend divine worship, and to be ever mindful of the poor. Then, having embraced the monarch, he departed.^40.1

Such is the legend in its ecclesiastical shape; and in this edifying guise (though not to the same length) it seems to {41} have been given, at least in England, together with some equally valuable details of the saint’s martyrdom, every year by the priest at the proper moment during divine service, on the Sunday preceding the saint’s festival, as part of the notice of the feast. It thus came to the people stamped with the authority of the Church.^41.1 The Christian nations of the Balkan peninsula have preserved it in popular tradition, with some circumstances which more nearly recall the classic saga. The name of the city desolated by the dragon is given as Troyan. Its inhabitants were given up to various kinds of sin. The blessed Virgin, having paid a visit to the place, returns to heaven bathed in tears, and recites in an assembly of the saints a dreadful catalogue of iniquities whereof she declares the inhabitants are guilty. The thundering Elijah advises that God send them terrible maladies, the plague, the typhus and the small-pox, to convert them from their evil ways. After seven years, however, they are still unconverted. Unseasonable and severe frost and snow are then tried for seven years, and after that seven years of drought; but all in vain. Then God made a lake beside the city; and in it He placed an insatiable dragon, which entered the town thrice a day, and devoured on every visit three hundred of the people. Over and above these hearty meals the monster every night exacted a fair maiden from the white city of Troyan; and soon the whole place was depopulated. The turn of Sava, the king’s daughter, came at last. She was conducted by the nobility of Troyan to the cold waters of the lake, and there abandoned to her fate. Suddenly a youth appeared {42} upon a dappled courser, brandishing his mortal lance. Advancing to the shore, he greeted the maiden with the name of God; and she politely returned the salutation: “Life and health to thee, O hero on the dappled steed!” He goes on to inquire what she is doing there alone by the water; and she tells him her story. Then he catechises her as to her morals. Has her heart been always pure? Has she always been obedient to her parents? Has she ever adored the god of silver, or the god of gold, to which her people are in the habit of bowing down? When this highly orthodox knight has been satisfied on these points, he dismounts from his dappled steed, plants his lance in the grass, and says to the princess: “Pray examine my head a little, for I feel strangely sleepy.” Whereupon he lays his head in her lap, and she proceeds to perform for him a service doubtless highly appreciated by the peasants who sing the ballad. Under the soothing influence of her gentle fingers he falls asleep; and while he rests the lake rises in waves and the dragon emerges. The bashful maid was ashamed to awaken her deliverer; but her tears rolled down upon his face, and he leaped up like one possessed. He tore out the lance from the earth, and pricking his steed forward until it stood up to its knees in the lake, struck the monster in the jaw with his lance, dragged it ashore, bound it with a silken girdle, and put the girdle into the princess’ hand. He directed her to conduct it through the city, in the hope that the sight would at last convert the inhabitants, that they might desist from their infinite wickednesses, destroy the god of silver, worship the true God, and venerate himself, Saint George, as their patron. “If they will not be converted, set free,” he says, “the insatiable dragon, and he will devour the people of Troyan.” {43} The argument thus presented on his behalf by the princess was irresistible. The city was converted, and its harvests of corn and wine thenceforward prospered. Its patron, Saint George, became an object of reverence, as he is to this day; but whether the dragon also became a reformed character, or was put to death, the ballad omits to inform us.^43.1

The Bosnian folk-song I have here summarised reappears with little change, both in Servia and in Bulgaria.^43.2 In the island of Lesbos, on the other hand, it has greater affinities to the märchen discussed in previous chapters. A monster, having established himself near a fountain, is propitiated with a human being every morning and evening, otherwise he would stop the flow of water. The lot fell in due course on the king’s daughter. On one side wept the king; on the other wept the queen. They wept and cried: “Alas, our only daughter!” Saint George heard their lamentations, and drew nigh to save her. He did not stop to put her through her catechism; but having learnt in the briefest words from the maiden that the dragon was to eat her, he hurriedly called to her: “Come here, my dear; sit down and louse me; and when the water foams, then awaken me!” The abrupt transitions of a traditional ballad do not enable us to judge whether the damsel was long occupied in removing the consequences of his saintly disregard of cleanliness; for her next exclamation is: “Rise up, rise up, O conqueror! The water foams, and the dragon is sharpening his teeth for me!” Her tears flowed like an impetuous river, and wetted the saint in his {44} armour of gold. He sprang at the winged monster, and with a thrust of his javelin stretched him dead. The king in his gratitude offered him his daughter in marriage. “Instead of marrying thy daughter,” the holy and unambitious man replied, “instead of calling me thy son-in-law, build a church in the name of Christ. In the midst of the church erect a knight; write on the knight this one word: Saint George, that all the world may come and pay him homage.”^44.1

The name and legend of Saint George are known in Abyssinia, where the story is perhaps told in a fashion as pious as the foregoing. Unfortunately I am unable to give the edifying details. But at the Exhibition at Palermo a few years ago, some pictures were shown as specimens of native art. One of them represented Saint George on horseback, and another was thus described by an interpreter: “There was a dragon that slew all the virgins; Saint George killed it. Near the place where the dragon died was a euphorbia tree, wherein a virgin who was afraid of the beast had taken refuge. The virgin did not believe that the dragon was dead, and Saint George gave her the cord, saying: ‘Pull it, and thou wilt see that it does not move.’ ”^44.2

We are not immediately concerned with the revolting legend of the saint’s martyrdom. It may be well, however, to point out that this appears to be the oldest part of the story. Mr. Baring-Gould, indeed, conjectures that the incident of the Rescue of Andromeda attached itself to his name in consequence of a misunderstanding—on whose part he does not specify—of the concluding words of {45} an encomium on the saint made by Metaphrastes, a Byzantine writer of the early part of the tenth century, in which he ascribes to his hero the feat of confounding and making a mock of the cunning dragon, meaning of course the Devil.^45.1 Such misunderstandings are not unknown in the legends of the saints. M. Maury enumerates forty-two saints, not including Saint George, to whom a victory over a dragon has been ascribed by a similar blunder; and it {46} would not be surprising to find that his list is far from complete.^46.1 Whatever may have been the cause of the appropriation of the incident to Saint George, it is certain that the belief in the story is to be found everywhere in Europe. In some places it has even been localised, as at Mansfeld, where the saint is declared to have been a knight named George, who was Count of Mansfeld, and whose own daughter was the damsel rescued from the maw of the dragon. His statue as he slew the monster stands over the church-door; and there can be little doubt that the statue, whether intended for Saint George or any other person, has caused the localisation of the tradition.^46.2

The islanders of Sardinia have a Saint George of their own, who was bishop of Suelli. In the commune of Sant’ Andrea Frius, a village in the province of Cagliari, is a {47} tract called “the Plain of Blood,” where grew a reddish plant, said to have been tinged by the blood of the dragon, whom this very saint slew there.^47.1 This is an instance in which coincidence of name has been the cause of confusion.

Outside the legends of the saints, the deliverance of a maiden is, with one exception, hardly found in modern Europe. Tales of the conquest of a dragon or other monster are common enough, both in this island and on the Continent; but since there is no lady in the case it is needless to refer here more particularly to any save the remarkable story of the Pollard Worm. The tradition is that long ago a huge and savage wild boar—not a serpent—infested the woods of Bishop Auckland, and every effort to destroy it failed, the adventurers who had undertaken the achievement having all perished in the attempt. At length both the king and the prince-bishop of Durham, whose favourite residence was at Auckland Castle, offered rewards for its destruction. A member of the Pollard family, already an honourable and ancient one, rode forth in search of the monster, and after a desperate struggle succeeded in severing its head from the trunk. Having done this he cut out the tongue, which he placed in his wallet, and then, overcome with weariness (for he seems to have fought during the night), he stretched himself on the ground and fell fast asleep. Now the terms of the king’s proclamation were such that the reward was due to any one who would bring him the boar’s head to his palace at Westminster. While the victor slept, the lord of Mitford Castle, near Morpeth, {48} rode by on his way to London, and seeing the slaughtered boar and the sleeping man, he could not be in any doubt as to what had happened. So he played the charcoal-burner’s part, and stealthily dismounting took up the head, slung it at his saddle-bow, leapt again upon his steed, and made all haste to London, where he showed the head and won the reward. When Pollard awoke, to his dismay the head had disappeared. However, he made the best of his way to Auckland Castle, where he arrived at an unseasonable moment, for the bishop was just sitting down to dinner. When the message was brought to his lordship, he “sent the champion word that he might take for his guerdon as much land as he could ride round during the hour of dinner. Weary as he was, Pollard had all his wits about him. He turned his horse’s head and rode round Auckland Castle, thus making it, and all it contained, his own. The bishop could not but acknowledge his claim, and gladly redeemed castle, goods, and chattels on the best terms he could. He granted the champion a freehold estate, still known as Pollard’s Lands, with this condition annexed: the possessor was to meet every bishop of Durham on his first coming to Auckland Castle, and to present him with a falchion, saying, ‘My lord, I, on behalf of myself, as well as several others, possessors of Pollard’s lands, do humbly present your lordship with this falchion at your first coming here, wherewith as the tradition goeth he slew of old a mighty boar which did much harm to man and beast, and by performing this service we hold our lands.’ It may be added that the crest of the Pollard family is an arm holding a falchion.” Pollard’s next business was to go to London and urge his claims there. He pleaded that the head Mitford had brought was without {49} a tongue, but to no purpose. Mitford had fulfilled the terms of the royal proclamation, and to Mitford the reward had already been given.^49.1

Before leaving the subject of European sagas one important Rescue story must, however, be mentioned. It forms part of the Irish tale of The Wooing of Emer, and is to this effect: Cuchulainn, coming to the house of Ruad, king of the Isles, on Samuin night (Hallowe’en), hears wailing in the dun of the king. Inquiring the cause of the lamentations, he is told that Devorgoil, the king’s daughter, has been taken as tribute to the Fomori, a monster race dwelling beneath the sea, and she is exposed on the sea-shore that they may fetch her. He goes down to the strand and there finds the maiden. “He asked tidings of her. The maiden told him fully. ‘Whence do the men come?’ said he. ‘From that distant island yonder,’ said she; ‘be not here in sight of the robbers.’ He remained there awaiting them and killed the three Fomori in single combat. But the last man wounded him at the wrist. The maiden gave him a strip from her garment round his wound. He then went away without making himself known to the maiden. The maiden came to the dun and told her father the whole story.… Many in the dun boasted of having killed the Fomori, but the maiden did not believe them.” So the king prepared a bath, to which every one was brought separately. Cuchulainn came, like everybody else, and the maiden {50} recognised him—doubtless by the strip of her garment on his wound. The king offered him the damsel to wife, but he said: “Not so. Let her come this day year to Erinn after me, if it be pleasant to her, and she will find me there.” “He ought of course to have married her,” as Mr. Nutt, commenting on the story, remarks; “but this would have conflicted with the purpose of the tale… which is to celebrate the heroic loves of Cuchullainn and Emer.” So the marriage is prevented by a device mentioned in one of our earlier chapters. Devorgoil came with her handmaid in bird-form, and Cuchulainn, not recognising her, struck her with a stone from his sling, which he afterwards sucked from the wound, thereby becoming her blood-brother.^50.1 Here it is plain, as has been noted by both Professor Rhys and Mr. Nutt, that we have a variant of the incident under consideration. The manuscript containing the story was compiled in A.D. 1300; and there are reasons for thinking that in its present form the story is at least as old as the early part of the eleventh century. It is probable that the incident is “a folktale arbitrarily altered in order to be introduced into the” saga of Cuchulainn. This at least is Mr. Nutt’s acute conjecture; and I scarcely know how else to account for the resemblance the incident bears to that found in stories of the Herdsman type. The Herdsman type, as we have seen, appears to have originated among the Celts, or rather perhaps among that Iberian race which overspread in far prehistoric times the whole of the west of Europe, and after the Celtic conquest of these islands formed the substratum of the population. We shall hereafter see the bearing of this fact on the question of origin. Meanwhile, we may turn to other variants.

The tale of the Rescue of Andromeda is known to the farthest limits of Asia. Mr. J. F. Campbell describes a picture he saw in a temple at Shimonoshua in Japan. “A man with long black hair and a hooked nose, and a long straight sword, loose red trousers, a flowered white cloak, and curled-up shoes, like those of the Mikado and Laplanders. Eight round China vases, breaking waves and the sea; a weird tree, and a storm of wind and rain driving at the man; eight heads, like the head of the dragon of the fountain [previously described]. A woman crouched in a cago, behind the warrior, dressed in Japanese draperies; a great deal of unpainted wood to make the background of this curious old sketch by a very clever hand; a lot of Japanese writing, and a black frame which had remnants of gilding. That was the picture. The whole was much weathered and battered and in a bad light. It is at least three hundred years old.”^51.1 Mr. Campbell was not the man to look at such a picture without having his curiosity aroused to know its meaning; and he learned from Massanao, his youthful squire at Shimonoshua, a story substantially identical with the account I follow derived from a different source. Susa No, the tricksy son of Isanagi, the Japanese Creator, being forbidden to return to heaven after his exploits there, and reluctant to turn his steps to the Underworld, which he had of his own free choice inherited as his abode, wandered through the earth. From Corea he crossed the strait and landed at Idzumo in Japan. As he trod the shore eager to know who dwelt in that strange country he heard the sound of weeping and wailing. Passing onwards in the direction of the sound, he beheld in a little glen an old man and woman, and {52} between them was seated a lovely maiden whose bitter sighing and tears they were striving in vain to still. Susa No quickened his steps towards the group, and gently inquired the reason of this grief. “I am Ashinadzutchi, the god of this country,” said the old man, rising and bowing low before the stranger. “Peacefully I and mine tend the cultivation of rice; and there were nothing left for us to wish if only we were freed from one frightful, indescribably cruel calamity. Seven daughters have already been devoured by a hideous sea-monster. The creature came hither when my daughters were in the very flower of their beauty. It was incapable of compassion; it regarded not their screams of agony, but devoured them. This is the last of our daughters, our beautiful and good Inada; and of her too the monster will rob us; we know it only too well; and that is why we are mourning and weeping with our dear child.” The astounded Susa No inquired more particularly about the monster, and learned that it was a terrible dragon with eight heads, whose glowing eyes shone afar and were red as red berries. Its back was overgrown with downright forests; its belly was blood-red, and continually bedabbled in blood; its whole coiling length was as long as some winding valley. Undaunted, however, he promised help against the oppressor; only he prayed the old man and his wife to give him the fair Inada to wife if he succeeded in rescuing her from the dragon’s maw. His measures were soon taken. He requested Ashinadzutchi to prepare a great quantity of saki. He himself the while built eight small rooms or enclosures, open above; and in each room he put a large vat of saki. When the monster drew nigh he threw a woman’s robe around him and placed himself so that his reflection fell into the first vat. The hungry {53} dragon, seeing it, plunged its first head into the vat, deeming that its prey was there. With headlong speed it drained the saki to reach the maiden, but found her not. Her image was shimmering and beckoning from the second vat; and rashly and greedily it plunged another head into that. In vain it emptied the second vat; in vain it pursued the same false image into the depths of the remaining vats one after the other. By the time the eight vats were emptied the monster rolled over on the earth in a drunken sleep. Then Susa No stepped forward, flung off his disguise, drew his sword, smote off the heads of the ungainly brute, and hewed his mighty body into small pieces. But when he came to the tail his good sword was notched and blunted with the blows. Then he discovered in the dragon’s tail a sword even better than his own. He took the prize, called it Cloud-sword, because the dragon was ever girt with dense clouds, and sent it as a gift to his sister Amaterasu, the sun-goddess, up yonder in heaven. She held it ever in high esteem, and in after-days gave it to her grandson, the ancestor of the Mikado. By him it was bequeathed to his descendants, and it is still, if report lie not, among the most precious treasures of the imperial crown. Inada was not unwilling to be bestowed upon a wooer who had won her so nobly. They dwelt long and happily together in Idzumo, and became the parents of a race of heroes and rulers renowned in story. And Susa No made upon his conquest of the dragon and his marriage the oldest poem in the Japanese tongue, whence he is honoured as the inventor of the art of poetry.^53.1

I may pause here to observe that the device of rendering the dragon torpid by gorging it is not unknown in Western tales. To give a single example, it shall be one that Sir Robert Atkyns turns aside from his dreary genealogies and heraldic studies to mention, because the hero was the traditional founder of one of those innumerable county families whose exciting chronicle of births, marriages, and deaths is of such vast importance to the local historian, and of none whatever to the rest of the world. The story is that the neighbourhood of Deerhurst, in Gloucestershire, was plagued by “a serpent of prodigious bigness,” which poisoned the inhabitants and slew their cattle. The people petitioned the king; and a proclamation was issued in response, offering an estate, then belonging to the Crown, on Walton Hill in the parish of Deerhurst to any one who should kill the serpent. This was accomplished by one John Smith, “a labourer.” He put a quantity of milk in a place frequented by the monster; and the brute, having swallowed the whole, “lay down in the sun with his scales ruffled up. Seeing him in this situation, Smith advanced, and striking between the scales with his axe, took off his head. The family of the Smiths enjoyed the estate when Sir Robert compiled this account, and Mr. Lane, who married a widow of that family, had then the axe in his possession.”^54.1 Here for saki we have milk; and the Mikado’s sword is replaced by Mr. Lane’s axe. The church {55} at Deerhurst is one of the most ancient in the country. Its tower in particular is of singular interest; and it has been assigned to a date as early as the eighth century. Beyond doubt it witnessed the Norman Conquest, and was probably by no means a new building then. Immediately over the door projects a broken stone, roughly carved into the shape of a dragon’s head; and above a window higher up is a second stone of a similar form. It is quite likely that, as in the case of the statue at Mansfeld, so here, the carving on the church has caused the localisation of the legend.^55.1

These examples stand by no means alone. The carving at Brent Pelham, referred to in a note on a previous page, appears to be the origin of a similar story. In the church of Mordiford, in Herefordshire, is a painting representing a winged serpent about twelve feet long, with a large head and open mouth. The tradition is that a dragon infested {56} the neighbourhood, and a condemned malefactor was promised pardon if he would destroy the creature. He fought and killed it in the river Lug, but fell a victim to the poison of its breath. Here again the representation probably suggested the tradition as a special appurtenance of the village; and among others of which we may suspect the same are the famous worms of Lambton in Durham, and Linton in Roxburghshire.^56.1 The dragon held a prominent place in the mythology of the northern nations, as it has done in many others, and was a favourite subject of both Teutonic and Celtic Art. To trace its somewhat complex artistic history is foreign to my purpose; but the briefest notice of local traditions could hardly be considered complete without some mention of the influence of sculptures and pictures whose meaning had been lost.

We may now return to sagas more properly coming within our ken. From Candahar is reported a Mussulman legend, which relates that in pagan times the king of Candahar found himself compelled to promise a young girl every day to a dragon. Accordingly a maiden mounted on a camel was daily sent to the monster. As soon as the camel arrived within a certain distance of the cavern where the dragon dwelt, the latter inhaled its breath with such force that its prey was inevitably drawn into its throat. One day the lot fell on the fairest maid of Candahar, when Ali, “the sword of the faith,” happened to pass through the country, and saw the victim in tears. Learning the cause of her distress, he placed himself in her stead on the camel, and at the moment of being drawn into the monster’s throat he cut off its head with his irresistible blade.^56.2 In Abyssinia {57} the tale is told with variations, due to Christian and Jewish influences. Axum, we learn, was the seat of a serpent-king, for whose appetite a virgin was daily provided. When it came to the turn of Saba, a virgin of high birth and pure spirit, she was rescued by a “celestial warrior in earthly form,” but not before the serpent’s saliva had fallen on her foot, causing her thereafter incurable ulcers and lameness. She was acclaimed queen; but her disease marred her joy. Wherefore she crossed the seas to seek for healing at the hands of the renowned King Solomon, from whom she obtained not only restoration to health but also a son, born after her return to Abyssinia. He was named Menelek, and to him the kings of Gondar have ever since traced their ancestry.^57.1 In the basin of the Upper Niger, the story concerns not the beginnings of a royal race but the destruction of a kingdom—that of the Bakiris whose capital was called Wagadu. It was said to be colossally rich; the kings possessed an immense treasure; but they owed their fortune to the protection of a serpent which dwelt within a well near the king’s village. Every year, by lot, one of the loveliest maidens of the country was chosen, and, arrayed like a bride, she was conducted to the well, when the serpent would come forth and, rolling his scaly folds around her, would carry her off to his den. Now, one year the lot fell on a damsel betrothed to the bravest warrior of the land, who, besides, was the king’s cousin. He swore to save her, and mounted on his steed, which he had tethered near the well, he awaited the dragon’s coming. Twice the serpent put forth his head, and twice drew back. {58} But the third time, the moment he stretched out to seize the prey the warrior lunged forward, cut the brute in two with a single blow of his sabre; and seizing his beloved he carried her off with all the speed of his courser, which no horse has ever surpassed. As he disappeared, a voice was heard from the well denouncing seven years of drought and every evil a country could suffer. The king sought his cousin and would have put him to death; but he could not be caught. Soon the predicted woes were accomplished; and forced by drought and sickness the population deserted the capital in a body for other lands. It is even said that the king, unable to carry off his riches, buried them, and that no man since has been able to find them, for the soil burns and bursts into flame beneath the hardy treasure-seeker. Certain it is that scourges of various kinds, which transformed the country into desert, caused the emigration of a once numerous people.^58.1

Variants in east and west represent the maiden as her own deliverer. In the Golden Legend of à Voragine we read that Saint Margaret was flung into a dungeon, after tortures of the kind that churchmen, with equal piety and delight, ascribed to their martyrs and inflicted on their opponents. In her cell she prayed to the Lord that the Enemy with whom she was fighting might appear to her in visible form. A huge dragon instantly assailed and attempted to devour her; but she made the sign of the cross, and it vanished. It is elsewhere stated, we are told, that the dragon had actually got her into its mouth and was about to swallow her, when she fortified herself with the sign of the cross: the dragon forthwith burst asunder {59} and the virgin came forth unharmed. Here, however, the pious author becomes critical. It was not incredible that the Devil should come in the shape of a dragon and should seek to devour her, nor that she should repulse him unaided save by the sign of the cross. But that he should have got her between his jaws, and that he should have burst asunder, was apocryphal and frivolous.^59.1 Obviously it would never have done to let people believe that the Devil had come to an end in this way: it would be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.

In Germany the maiden’s victory is localised on the far-famed Drachenfels. While Rome was yet mistress of the left bank of the Rhine, and Christianity under her power had established itself there, the heathen hordes on the right bank continued to assert their independence, and made constant raids on the opposite side. On one of these freebooting excursions they captured a Christian king’s daughter. The son of the ruler of the Löwenburg fell in love with her, and would have wedded her had she not refused to give her hand to a worshipper of false gods. Whereupon it was decreed in a council of the chiefs that the damsel should be offered up to a ferocious dragon dwelling in a cave on that one of the Seven Mountains whose steep top looked down into the green waves of the surging Rhine. Early on the morrow, while the dragon yet slept, she was accordingly dragged up the rock and fettered to a tree near the cavern. At the foot of the mountain gathered an expectant crowd—among them her {60} heathen lover, who longed to hasten up and shield the maiden’s life with his own; but she was condemned to death by the nobles, and he durst not interfere. Meanwhile she stood unterrified; and as she quietly awaited the dragon, she drew from her bosom a crucifix and fixed her trustful gaze upon it. Out came the monster from his hole, and, catching sight of the sacrifice provided for him, he rushed upon her. The crucifix, however, proved too much for him. When he beheld it in her hands terror and stupefaction seized him; he fell down in the most natural way and rolled from the precipitous cliff right into the foaming flood below, there to find a watery grave. Nothing more of course was wanted to convert the heathen; and the legend winds up, in a manner somewhat more idyllic than orthodox, with the wedding of the pious maiden to the king’s son after he had received “the bath of regeneration.”^60.1 The story has clearly been provided with a religious and literary gloss; but there is no reason why in substance it may not be of traditional origin, and the conclusion indicates a strong probability that as originally told it was the king’s son who effected the maiden’s deliverance. The Kwang-po-wu-chih, a compilation of the end of the sixteenth century, furnishes a Chinese version also literary in appearance, the popular provenience of which cannot be doubted. “In the eastern regions of Yueh Min (the present Fuhkien) there exists a range of mountains called the Yung Ling, many tens of li in height, in the north-western recesses of which there abode a mighty serpent, seven or eight chang (seventy or eighty feet) in length and ten feet in circumference, which was held in great awe by the people of the country. At a certain time it signified, {61} either to some person in a dream or to those versed in the art of divination, that it lusted to devour a maiden of the age of twelve or thirteen; and the governors and men in authority of that region, equally alarmed respecting the monster, sought out female bond-servants and the daughters of criminals to satisfy the serpent’s appetite. In the morning of the day in the eighth moon, after offering sacrifices, the victim was taken to the mouth of the serpent’s cavern, and at night the serpent suddenly issued forth and devoured its prey. Year after year this happened, until at length nine maidens in all had been offered up; and a fresh demand was being made but no victim could be obtained. At this time Li Tan, Magistrate of Tsing Lo, had six daughters and no sons. His youngest daughter, named Ki, responded to the call and was ready to proceed (to the cavern), but her parents refused consent. She urged, however, that she was unable to be of use to her parents, as was Ti Ying (the faithful daughter of olden times), and being a mere source of useless expense might as well bring her life to a speedy close, and only requested to be supplied with a good sword and a dog that would bite at snakes. In the morning of the day of the eighth month she visited the Temple with the sword beside her and the dog provided. She had also previously prepared several measures of boiled rice mixed with honey, which she placed at the mouth of the cavern. At night the serpent came forth, its head as large as a rice stock and its eyes like mirrors two feet across—when, perceiving the aroma of the mess of rice, it began to devour it. Ki forthwith let loose her dog which seized the serpent in its teeth, and the maiden hereupon hacked the monster from behind, so that after dragging itself to the mouth of its cave it died. The {62} maiden entered the cavern and recovered the skeletons of the nine previous victims, whose untimely fate she bewailed. After this she leisurely returned home, and the Prince of Sueh, hearing of her exploit, raised her to be his Queen.”^62.1

In the last chapter I summarised several märchen wherein Andromeda was replaced by a youth of the opposite sex. Such examples are rare among sagas. Beside the cases of Kleostratos and Theseus already cited I am only aware of one other, which indeed appears to be merely one of the märchen from the Panjáb with its hero identified as the celebrated Râjâ Rasâlu. The râjâ comes with his pet parrot of supernatural wisdom to Nîlâ City and finds an old woman, six of whose seven sons have been already sent by the king to feed a certain giant. It is now her seventh son’s turn, and he is to be sent that day for the giant’s dinner, together with a basket of bread and a buffalo. The râjâ offers himself in place of the youth. It turns out that there are in all seven giants, who are fated to be overcome by Râjâ Rasâlu. They candidly tell him, as these stupid monsters are accustomed to do, how to perform the feat. Taught by them, he looses the heel-ropes from his horse and drops the sword out of his hand. The ropes tie up the giants and the sword cuts them in pieces. But this is not enough to satisfy the conditions; and the giants, still living, are obliging enough to put seven frying-pans, one behind the other, and behind the frying-pans to arrange themselves one behind the other, so that their antagonist may conveniently loose an arrow from his bow to pierce them all through the frying-pans, and slay them at one blow in the predestined manner. A giantess, {63} their sister, however, escaped to a cave. The hero pursued her, and placed a statue of himself at the mouth of the cave, so that, being afraid to venture forth again, she was starved to death within.^63.1

A few variants are also found, in which the maiden is rescued, not from death by the dragon, but only from thraldom. Such is the tale of Ragnar Lodbrog as developed in his Saga. As told by Saxo, Herodd, king of the Swedes, found some snakes in the woods and gave them to his daughter Thora to bring up. They grew and became such a nuisance to the whole country-side that at last the king was forced to issue a proclamation, offering his daughter in marriage to any one who would remove the pest. Ragnar procured a woollen mantle and thigh-pieces thick with hair that would protect him from snake-bites. To make assurance doubly sure he plunged into water on a frosty night and froze his clothing stiff. Thus defended, and armed with his sword and spear, he attacked and killed two serpents; the courtiers, meanwhile, flying from the struggle and hiding like frightened little girls. After the combat the king, laughing at his uncouth garb, nicknamed him Lodbrog, or Shaggy-brogues.^63.2 The Saga, however, gives a somewhat different version. It only mentions one worm, found when quite small in a vulture’s egg which Thora’s father had brought to her as a gift from Bjarmeland. She took a fancy to the creature and made a bed of gold for it in a little box. There it grew, and the gold with it, until at length it lay coiled round the house and allowed no one {64} to approach except the man who brought its daily food. The Jarl Herraud was moved to offer his daughter and the dragon’s hoard to any one who would kill it. Ragnar’s shaggy mantle and leggings were boiled in pitch and then rolled in sand. He attacked the monster with his lance early in the morning while all men yet slept, and drove the weapon home. So mighty were the worm’s death-struggles that the building shook with them and Thora was awakened. She cried out, inquiring the hero’s name. He replied by singing some verses in which he hardly gave her more than his age, and hastened away, leaving the iron spear-head imbedded in the carcase, but carrying the shaft with him. The Jarl forthwith summoned an assembly and passed round the spear-head, that it might be found who owned the shaft it would fit and who was entitled to the reward.^64.1 Note here the inveterate habit of the adventurer in these tales: the habit of running away after performing the deed and thus necessitating his discovery by a token. This is wanting in Saxo’s account; but we cannot infer that it was unknown to him. A careful examination of his narrative shows, in more than one place, evidence of omissions not unconnected, probably, with his purpose of turning popular traditions into serious history.^64.2

A story of the deliverance of a maiden imprisoned by a dragon, still current in the mouths of the people, places the scene of the captivity on a little island, called Lindwerder, in the Lake of Dratzig, in Pomerania. After many knights had essayed the task in vain one came who, with a song, {65} threw a spell over the monster and slew him. The lady, however, refused marriage with her deliverer, having vowed her life to God; and she became a nun.^65.1 I might refer to other cases of rescue from the toils of a serpent or some such monster, but it is needless to pursue this form of the tale, since it seems connected rather with the myth of the Enchanted Princess, which I have studied elsewhere,^65.2 than with that of Perseus and Andromeda.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA: ITS RELATION TO HUMAN SACRIFICES.

Popular as the story of the rescue of the devoted maiden is, and appealing as it does to the imagination, it is not a little remarkable that it appears to be indigenous only in the Old World. Legends of the slaughter of a destructive monster are by no means so confined in their range, where there is no specific human being to deliver; and not infrequently they form part of the cosmogony of peoples alien in race and occupying distant portions of the globe. Few of them exhibit any details in common with those of the Perseus cycle. I have already mentioned some, and to others I shall have occasion to refer hereafter. The rest it would little avail us to analyse. Enough to note that the thought underlying them all is that the monster slain is preternatural and hostile to mankind. The suggestion has often been made that these stories are traditions of the saurians which abounded in geologic times. Of this, not a particle of evidence has been adduced; and it is in itself so wildly improbable as hardly to deserve notice. None of the giant reptiles of the secondary period were contemporary with man. The process of evolution was still far short of that consummation. And when man {67} appeared in the Quaternary, or perhaps at an advanced stage of the Tertiary, period, the remains of iguanodons and pterodactyles had long been peacefully fossilised beyond his reach. It is true that he made war on the mammoth and the woolly rhinoceros; but these could have furnished no hints for the construction of the winged dragon or the lindwurm. We may indeed reasonably ask what hints were needed beyond the existence of snakes and birds or bats? The conscious weakness of humanity, the mystery of serpentine motions, the magnifying, the combining and the distorting powers of human imagination, amply account for the result. The hero who is believed to have succeeded in vanquishing a monster thus created, is regarded as somewhat more than man; he is frequently worshipped as a god. This, however, we know, was comparatively late in civilisation. There was a time when gods, in the sense of beings distinct from and above man, though human in their passions, and more or less human in their proper form, did not exist in the belief of mankind. The worship of confessedly human ancestors, totemism, and other and ruder superstitions preceded them. Science has not yet determined the exact relations of ancestor-worship and totemism. But it is at least certain that the dead were constantly held to assume animal shape. Multitudes of the lower animals—even noxious and repulsive creatures like snakes—were venerated as totems. Veneration grows easily into worship; the totem-feast develops into what we understand by a sacrifice. That many of the classical deities themselves emerged into anthropomorphism from an earlier and less advanced existence is probable from the tales which represented them on various occasions and for various purposes “disguised in brutish forms,” and from {68} the wolves, the horses, the swine, the dogs, the mice and even the flies associated with them, or dedicated to them in the ordinary offerings of the temples or in the more secret and solemn cult of the Mysteries. Egypt, down to the latest moment of its independence, in spite of the political vicissitudes of its long and splendid history, and the consequent evolution of its manifold religious faith, never got beyond its zoomorphic deities. The crocodile and the goose, the ibis and the ram, the jackal, the cat and the bull, decorated with divine names, received in their proper bestial persons the adoration of their worshippers. To living gods like these food was a daily necessity; and for such as were carnivorous flesh, doubtless part of the daily sacrifices, must have been provided. A savage nation on days of festival, or under stress of some great impending calamity, would not hesitate to give human flesh. If, by the concurrence of an advance in civilisation and a political revolution, the worship of any such divinity were suppressed, he would become in tradition a deadly monster; and the milder divinity who succeeded to his place in popular regard would be credited with his conquest and destruction.

The hypothesis I venture to put forward to explain the incident of the Rescue of Andromeda is, that it is the record of some such religious reformation. In dealing with the previous incidents I was able to show that they were founded on beliefs, which, if we may not call them primitive, at least go down very deep into savage life. Here it is different. Considerable progress in civilisation must have been made before such a reformation could have been effected, though it would still be compatible with the continuance of a vast amount of wilful and deliberate {69} cruelty constantly inflicted on human beings in the service of the gods. The Church, that zealously propagated the legend of Saint George, regarded the tortures inflicted on the hero as highly improper for an orthodox knight, but quite suitable for a heretic. Even the polished Greeks occasionally offered human sacrifices—if we may trust some of the reports, with torments which would have done no dishonour to the genius of Saint Dominic or the most amiable of his “sons.” But the practice of presenting such offerings to wild beasts in their capacity as gods had been abandoned; and the story of the Slaughter of the Dragon would seem to be the mode wherein tradition preserved the effect upon the collective mind, not indeed of a specific event, so much as of the total result. Tradition loves to be pictorial, dramatic. While its presentations are usually wide of the actual series of occurrences, they often embody in imaginative shape some genuine memory; and it is the task of the historian or the scientific student to bid them render up the secrets they enclose.

The traces of human sacrifice among the Egyptians are faint and uncertain. Classical writers, indeed, alleged it; but they brought forward hardly any tangible evidence, beyond the statement of Plutarch—and that at second-hand—that the engraving on the seals of the Sphragistai, whose business it was to seal the beasts intended for the offerings, was a man bound and kneeling, with a knife at his throat.^69.1 Nor is there reason to suppose that in any case men or women were given during historical times to their sacred animals. We must turn to a lower range of culture for such a custom. At Bonny, on the West Coast of Africa, a virgin was bound to a stake on the sea-shore at the first {70} low water of every spring-tide, and left there as a sacrifice to the shark-god.^70.1 In the East Indies we find many traditions of such practices. “It has been somewhere related that the Rájá of Kupang, on the island of Timor, formerly sacrificed a young virgin of royal descent to the Alligator, by throwing her into the sea in order to be swallowed by that monster.”^70.2 Dr. Pleyte, the friend and pupil of the late Professor Wilken, relates “how in Boeroe at sunset, after the day’s work, the notables of the island would gather round him [Professor Wilken] and go down to the cool sea-shore, where he would sit on a rock in the midst of an improvised assembly, and the old men would tell traditions of past glories in the days when every year a maiden, chosen for her beauty, was led down to the sea as a sacrifice to the crocodile-god for the prosperity of the people.”^70.3 In the seventeenth century, Gautier Schouten, a medical man in the service of the Dutch East India Company, heard a story on the same island, which discloses a somewhat different motive for the sacrifice. A holy crocodile, it runs, having fallen in love with one of the daughters of the king of the island, who was very beautiful, ravaged the coast every day, carrying off and devouring men, women, and children. The inhabitants assembled in arms to surprise the brute and to kill it. The crocodile was prepared for this, and cried out to them in their own tongue that they should beware of insulting him, for he was mighty enough to destroy them and all their island; and that he would do so unless they delivered up to him the {71} king’s daughter; but, on the other hand, if they did this he would become the protector of the island and would load it with benefits. The islanders could not resist these promises and threats. They led the princess to the beach, and bound her to a pillar, whence the crocodile carried her off in due course, and by her became the parent of all crocodiles; on which account they are honoured as gods.^71.1 If Archdeacon Gray’s information is to be trusted, the Shurii-Kia-Miau, one of the aboriginal tribes of China, still offer human sacrifices to their canine deity, though not exactly to a living dog. They possess a large temple in which is an idol in the form of a dog. There they hold an annual religious festival, when the wealthy members of the tribe “entertain their poorer brethren at a banquet given in honour of one who has agreed, for a sum of money paid to his family, to allow himself to be offered as a sacrifice on the altar of the dog idol. At the end of the banquet, the victim, having drunk wine freely, is put to death before the idol.” And the people “believe that, were they to neglect this rite, they would be visited with pestilence, famine, or the sword.”^71.2 Among the South Sea Islanders, themselves cannibals, human offerings were frequent. Their idols, it is true, were roughly human in form; yet the divinities often took the shape of other animals. Ellis relates that “birds resorting to the temple were said to feed upon the bodies of the human sacrifices, and it was imagined that {72} the god approached the temple in the birds, and thus devoured the victims placed upon the altar. In some of the islands ‘man-eater’ was an epithet of the principal deities.” To the king, who was a sacred being descended from the gods, and who often personated the god, the eye, as the most precious part of the victim, the organ or emblem of power, was presented. He feigned to eat it; the simulation being, there can be little doubt, a relic of a former period when he actually did eat the eye and probably other parts of the body. Portions of some of the victims were also eaten by the priests, who of course were also representatives of the gods.^72.1 The legends of the Greeks and Romans afford us glimpses of a belief like that of the Polynesians. How else may we interpret the stories, reported by Plutarch, of Helena, a noble virgin of Lacedæmon, who, in obedience to an oracle, was prepared for sacrifice, but was saved by an eagle carrying away the sword and laying it upon a heifer; and of Valeria Luperca, a maiden of Falerii to whom a similar adventure happened—an adventure commemorated still by a yearly ceremony in the days of Plutarch, or at least of Aristides, the author whom he cites?^72.2 The tradition of Lycaon points in the same direction. He, having offered an infant to Zeus, was changed into a wolf; and it was believed that any one who imitated his example would share his fate, though with the chance of regaining his own form if for ten years he abstained from human flesh.^72.3

Several of the foregoing examples exhibit the being to whom the sacrifice is offered as a crocodile, or some analogous inhabitant of the waters. Nor will it pass unnoticed that many of the tales of the Rescue of Andromeda represent the dragon as inhabiting a spring or lake, or keeping the waters and giving them only in exchange for the victim. A shark- or crocodile-god has, it would seem, a natural tendency to pass into a purely mythical being. Such is Ju-ju, an object of worship in the delta of the Niger, to which a young girl is commonly sacrificed in the way already described as customary at Bonny in sacrificing to the shark-god.^73.1 To this origin we may probably ascribe the numerous Eastern tales of dragons and evil spirits taking possession of rivers, lakes and tanks, and demanding sacrifices to induce them to release the water. The Chinese annals of Khotan, a city in Cashgar, have preserved a legend concerning a river that dried up, to the injury of the inhabitants of the city. The king, having consulted his ecclesiastical advisers, was informed that the river-dragon had interrupted the current, and advised to mollify him by a sacrifice. No sooner was the sacrifice offered than a lady came (so we are told, if the translation be accurate) out of the waters, though it is hard to know how she could do this when the river-bed was dry. But whencesoever she may have come, she declared that her husband had prematurely died, and that his demise had stopped the flow. And she required of the monarch one of his grandees as a new husband, so that the stream might resume its course. One of the nobles, named Mieou, offered himself to supply the place of the late lamented he-dragon. Mounted on a white steed, he rode into the river-bottom, {74} and boldly advanced till he met the returning waters. Nor then did he hesitate, but opening a passage amid them with his whip, he entered and was seen no more. The horse in a short time reappeared, on his back a drum of sandalwood and a letter assuring the king that Mieou had been elevated to the rank of a god, and would thenceforth watch over the prosperity of the realm. Meanwhile, the new deity begged his majesty’s acceptance of the accompanying magical drum, which, if suspended at the south-eastern gate of the city, would give warning in case of any hostile attack. Since that time the people of the city have had no cause to complain of deficiency in their water-supply.^74.1 A somewhat different cause for the human sacrifice is alleged in the following Hindu story. The Talao Lake was made by a Bargújar rajah named Menh or Mehan. When it was finished the water all became blood-red. The pandits, consulted by the rajah, declared that the water had become impure, because the work had been done by low-caste labourers; and the only way of purifying it was by sacrificing the rajah’s son, Chattar-bhuj, with his wife, his horse, and his servants, in the lake. With the consent of the principal victim the foul water was drained off, and a room was built in the floor of the lake for the reception of Chattar-bhuj and his household. They accordingly entered it, provided with six months’ food. The room was then closed, and a temple built over it. The result was satisfactory, for when the pool was filled at the next rainy season the water remained pure. “It is the universal belief that whenever the lake overflows,” the rajah’s son “is seen by night riding down the hill from the {75} highest point on a blue horse. Some say that two torches are carried before him, and that his servants follow behind, until all disappear into the lake. Others say that his appearance on the blue horse precedes the fall of rain.”^75.1 Both these cases look like legends which have grown up, in consequence of a change of population or religion, to account for an ancient worship, and for a divinity still believed to haunt the spot, and still regarded with awe, though no longer the object of the special honours at one time rendered to him.^75.2 In the latter story, as it reaches us, there is no mention of a dragon or other supernatural being. It would seem, however, to be implied in the sacrifice, as well as in the temple erected by the rajah.

But, though this may be a true explanation of the story of the Talao Lake, it will generally be agreed that the legend could not have assumed its present form had not human sacrifices to water and water-gods been familiar to the natives of India. The sacred books of the Aryans prescribe human sacrifices on divers occasions to various deities; and it is doubtful whether even yet British rule has entirely extinguished them. Among the aboriginal tribes they have been put down with extreme difficulty. All over India the folktales are full of them; and many are the sagas relating to the consecration of tanks in this way. I need only add two instances. “At Ahmadábád, by the advice of a Brahman, a childless Ványa was induced to dig a tank to appease the goddess Sítalá. The water refused to enter it without the sacrifice of a man. As soon as the victim’s blood fell on the ground the tank filled, and the {76} goddess came down from heaven to rescue the victim. The Vadála lake in Bombay likewise refused to hold water till the local spirit was appeased by the sacrifice of the daughter of the village headman.”^76.1 Among the records of actual sacrifices to water, the author of the treatise on the names of rivers and mountains attributed to Plutarch cites Archelaus (a philosopher of the fifth century before Christ, whose works have perished) for the statement that virgins were nailed to wooden crosses and flung into the Hydaspes, one of the five great rivers (tributaries of the Indus) from which the Panjáb takes its name. These offerings were accompanied by hymns addressed to a goddess called by the writer Aphrodite—probably Párvatí, to whom in her character of Kálí there is reason to suspect that human victims are still presented in remote places.^76.2 As Párvatí, however, she is still, with her husband Siva, the joint object of an instructive rite in the Kánagrá district during some part of March and April. The girls of the village procure two clay images, the one of Siva and the other of Párvatí, which they marry together with full ceremonial. A feast follows; and on the Sankránt of Baisákh (in April) “they all go together to the riverside, throw the images into a deep pool, and weep over the place, as though they were performing funeral obsequies. The boys of the neighbourhood often annoy them by diving after the images, bringing them up, and waving them about while the girls are crying over them.” The custom is called Ralí Ka melá or the Fair of Ralí, “the Ralí being a small painted earthen image of Siva or Párvatí”; and its object is said to be to {77} secure good husbands.^77.1 “Until the beginning of the present century,” says Mr. Crooke, “the custom of offering a first-born child to the Ganges was common”; and he goes on to suggest that “akin to this is the Gangá Játra, or murder of sick relatives on the bank of the sacred river, of which a case occurred quite recently at Calcutta.” However this may be, the natives are still suspicious when a bridge is built. “The Narbadá, it was believed, would never allow herself to be bridged until she carried away part of the superstructure and caused the loss of lives as a sacrifice.” And the rumours that a victim was required when the Hooghly Bridge at Calcutta was built, and when the waterworks of Benares were constructed, point to a wide prevalence of the superstition that these and other great public works demand a human sacrifice.^77.2

On the western continent there lingers among the Zuñi, one of the four stocks of Pueblo Indians in Arizona and New Mexico, a tradition pointing to the prevalence at one time of human sacrifices to water. Zuñi is built upon a knoll in a broad valley walled by picturesque mesas or tablelands, of red and white sandstone. The waters of the valley once rose in a flood and compelled the inhabitants to flee to a mesa several hundred feet high for safety. And {78} still the waters rose, threatening to submerge the mesa itself, until the priests determined to sacrifice a youth and a maiden to propitiate them. The two were dressed in their most beautiful clothes, adorned with many necklaces of turquoise and other precious beads, and cast into the flood. The offering stayed the calamity; and the victims, turned to stone, are yet to be seen in a columnar rock broken near the top into two parts, which are capped with head-like forms and called by the people the father and mother rocks.^78.1

Europe furnishes numerous remains of human sacrifice to water. At Rome, during historical times, the Vestal Virgins threw from the Sublician bridge into the Tiber, every year on the Ides of May, thirty human effigies formed of rushes. We cannot doubt that at an earlier period living men were hurled into the flood. This was the opinion entertained by the Romans themselves, who held that it was Hercules who first substituted images of straw.^78.2 A similar substitution is practised in India by the Gonds in their offerings to Burha deo; and, we are told, they find it answers the purpose;^78.3 as did the Romans.

Human sacrifices to water were certainly not unknown among the ancient Greeks. I need not cite more than two examples. Athenæus quotes Anticlides, an Athenian writer, as recording that certain colonists of Lesbos were directed {79} by an oracle to throw a virgin into the sea as an offering to Poseidon. This was accordingly done; but Enalos, one of the chiefs of the expedition, being in love with the maiden, leaped after her to save her, and disappeared with her in the depths. The colonists founded Methymna; and in later years when the town had grown populous he was said to have shown himself to them again, swimming to land on a great wave with a wondrous cup of gold in his hand, and to have related that the lady was dwelling beneath the sea with the Nereids, while he himself had become Master of the Horse to Poseidon.^79.1 Such a legend as this could only have arisen where sacrifices of the kind had been practised. In historical times the Greeks performed the rites of Adonis, originally, it would seem, a Semitic cult. Adonis, the beloved of Aphrodite, according to his story, was slain by a boar. “His death was annually lamented with bitter wailing, chiefly by women; images of him, dressed to resemble corpses, were carried out as to burial, and then thrown into the sea or into springs; and in some places his revival was celebrated on the following day.”^79.2 If not in Greece, at all events in Syria, whence perhaps it was borrowed, the ceremony here described was doubtless performed with a human being. Mr. Frazer, from whom I take the foregoing description, has made a large collection of cases in which an effigy is prepared and, after the performance of certain rites, is slain and buried, or thrown into the water. We may put aside the instances of burial, only noting them as evidence that the intention is to put some living victim, represented by the effigy, to death. At Altdorf and Weingarten, {80} villages of Swabia, a straw man is made on Ash Wednesday and called the “Carnival Fool.” He is carried round and then thrown with mournful music into the water.^80.1 At Balwe, in Westphalia, on the contrary, the straw-man is thrown into the river Hönne with shouts of joy on Shrove Tuesday. In both instances the ceremony is called “burying the Carnival.”^80.2 In the Thuringian villages of Oberhain and Maukenbach the children used to “carry out Death” in the shape of a puppet of birchen twigs, on Mid-Lent Sunday, and throw it into a pool.^80.3 “At Tabor, in Bohemia, the figure of Death is carried out of the town and flung from a high rock into the water, while” the following song is sung:

Passing over a number of similar observances in German and Slavonic lands, I need only mention the “Funeral of Kostroma” as celebrated in Russia on Saint Peter’s day, the 29th June. “In the Murom district, Kostroma was represented by a straw figure dressed in woman’s clothes and flowers. This was laid in a trough and carried with songs to the bank of a lake or river. Here the crowd divided into two sides, of which the one attacked and the other defended the figure. At last the assailants gained the day, stripped the figure of its dress and ornaments, trod the straw of which it was made under foot, and flung it into {81} the stream, while the defenders of the figure hid their faces in their hands, and pretended to bewail the death of Kostroma.” Elsewhere a maiden plays the part of Kostroma. She is treated with reverence, carried to the brink of a stream and there bathed.^81.1 In some Swabian villages, where the Carnival Fool is represented by a living man, he is treated less gently, being at last thrown into the water.^81.2

All these customs are perfectly unambiguous. Whatever their agricultural significance (and I see no reason to doubt that the sense attached to them by Mannhardt and Frazer is accurate) they are unquestionably relics of human sacrifice to water. The victim may have been identified with the spirit of vegetation or with some more concrete expression of the same idea, and the ceremonies themselves may have been dramatic in character; but that is in no way inconsistent with their being also sacrificial. Moreover, we have other traces of the same kind of oblation, in the superstition so widely prevalent in this island, as well as in Germany, of the periodical victim demanded by a river or lake. On the banks of the Saal in Thuringia, especially among the fisher-folk of Jena, it is even yet believed that the Saal-nixe requires a sacrifice every year; and the lake at Salzungen boils with rage unless it obtain its yearly offering.^81.3 On the island of Rügen there is a vague tradition of a lake which would rise and overwhelm the entire {82} country, unless a maiden were offered to it every year. At Trampke in Pomerania a peasant was once ploughing near the Lake of Madüe, when he heard a voice out of the pool cry: “Now, come! Now is the time!” He looked around him puzzled, and again the voice exclaimed in more imperious tones: “Now, come! Now is the time!” Thereupon, mastered by an uncontrollable impulse, he left the plough, rushed to the mere and flung himself in. His farm-servant, who was spreading manure, ran to his assistance and drew him out of the water; but an instant later he plunged in again and was dragged by the water-maiden down to the bottom.^82.1 Always before anybody is drowned in the Lahn near Giessen there is heard—the millers and bleachers engaged on the river are ready to vouch for it—between eleven and twelve o’clock in the day a loud cry: “The time is here, the hour is here; where is the man?” It is said that two lads were one evening by the Mümmling, not far from Michelstadt, when a voice called from under the bridge: “The hour is here, but not the man!” At that moment a man hurried down the hill and was about to jump into the river. The lads caught him, held him back, and spoke to him; but he answered never a word. They took him to the inn and pressed some wine upon him. His head, however, sank forward on the table; and he was dead. Among other German rivers which demand an annual human victim are the Fulda and the Neckar.^82.2 The Lorelei is a nixe of the Rhine, famous for the number of her slain. Nor is she alone in her misdeeds; but the legends of sirens haunting German rivers are too numerous and too well known to require illustration. {83} An old spring at Friedberg used every year to require an offering, and if it happened that no one fell in during the year, it cried out: “Come down, come down!” and anybody who was in the neighbourhood and heard the voice would be irresistibly drawn into the fountain.^83.1 The Drome in Normandy, according to a local proverb, has every year horse or man.^83.2 Peg Powler, Nanny Powler, Peg o’ Nell, and Jenny Greenteeth, are spirits that haunt various rivers and pools in the north of England; and they are not less bloodthirsty;^83.3 while in Scotland, the kelpie and his congeners are familiar.

Among Europeans the superstition seems in this form to belong especially to Teutonic peoples. In other parts of the world, however, not a few examples are to be gleaned. The Indians of Guiana “firmly believe in the reality of” certain “mermaids, or ‘water māmās,’ as they are called in Dutch-creole; and where they are supposed to have their caves or nests, there great danger awaits the traveller. Some are related to be extremely beautiful and possessing long golden hair, like the Lorelei, and whoever casts his eye on them is seized with madness, jumps into the deep water, and never returns. Others are hideous, snakes being twined about them, and with their long white talons they drag boats under the surface and devour their occupants. On the Orinoco and Amazon similar creatures are supposed to exist; but these are capable of drawing their prey into their mouths at a distance of a hundred yards. In order to avoid such a calamity, the natives always blow a horn before entering a creek or lagoon in {84} which one of these monsters may be living; if it happens to be there, it will immediately answer the horn, and thus give warning to the intruder.”^84.1 The people of Guiana having come under the influence of the Dutch, may be supposed to have learned the superstition from them; but this can hardly be thought of the natives of the banks of the Orinoco and the Amazons. In like manner the belief in South Africa that rivers call their victims, who cannot resist the fascination, may be attributed to the Dutch colonists. Here again the ascription of such an origin must be very doubtful, though it is perhaps right to take note of the same intrusive Teutons. The Rev. James Macdonald, who laboured for twelve years among various Bantu tribes, says that “to the Bathlapin the crocodile is sacred, and by all it is revered, but rather under the form of fear than affection”; and he regards the superstition (which reigns even where there are no crocodiles) as “the survival of an ancient recollection of the time when the ancestors of the present Kaffirs dwelt on the margin of rivers infested by these murderous brutes, and where they often saw their women drawn underneath when going to the river to fetch water.”^84.2 There may be some reason for this conjecture. It probably expresses, however, only half the truth, since if the crocodile were revered, offerings would naturally be made to it, as in fact we have seen to be the case in other parts of Africa. In Senegal the water-spirits {85} appear in crocodile form. A legend is told of a girl to whom the spirit presented himself as a fair youth; but when she listened to his overtures he turned into a horrible cayman.^85.1 The Bantu tribes are believers also in a mysterious being called an “incanti” which often inhabits rivers, and whose glance is fatal. “While we were living at Duff,” says the writer just cited, “a man was found dead one morning close by the river’s bank, not far from the mission. It was clearly a case of suicide by poisoning, but our native neighbours regarded it as a case of having seen an incanti, and no one would approach the spot for months. The pools were bewitched, haunted, bedevilled.”^85.2 The Zulus tell of a bloated, squatting, bearded monster dwelling in rivers. It steals the clothing and ornaments of girls who come to bathe, and is capable of swallowing men and beasts. Happily, however, it is amenable to prayers.^85.3 Another “imaginary amphibious creature, mostly abiding in the deep portions of the rivers,” is the subject of Zulu superstition. It is universally believed that “aided by some mysterious and evil influence, the nature of which no one can define or explain, bad persons may enter into a league with” it, as they can also with {86} wolves, baboons, and jackals.^86.1 On the whole it is impossible in the present state of our knowledge to lay much emphasis on the superstitions mentioned in the present paragraph, since we lack the independent evidence which we have concerning the Teutons and Slavs, of customs pointing to human sacrifices to water.

The ancient Mexicans, however, were innocent of Dutch influence. Yet, if we may believe Sahagun, they had their water-monsters as malignant as those of the Bantus. Among these monsters, and by no means the only one, was the Ahuizotl, pictorially represented as a smooth, rat-like animal with a long prehensile tail, accompanied by the sign for water. The tail was believed to be furnished at its extremity with a hand, wherewith it dragged down into the depths of the pool where it abode any person who approached the banks. A few days afterwards, the body was cast up again, and then found to be deprived of eyes, teeth, and nails. No one dared to touch it, but the priests, who, when informed of its presence, would fetch it “on a litter with great reverence and bury it in one of the oratories called Ayauhcalco—literally house in, or surrounded by, water. For it was said that the Tlalocs (or rain-gods) had sent his soul to the terrestrial paradise. They adorned the litter with mace-reeds, and it was preceded by musicians playing on flutes.” The reasons assigned for such a death were that “either the deceased had been very good, and therefore the rain-gods desired his company in the terrestrial paradise; or he had perchance certain precious stones in his possession. This would give offence to the rain-gods, who do not wish that persons should {87} possess precious stones, and for this reason they may have killed him in anger, but nevertheless taken him to the terrestrial paradise.” His relatives found consolation, not merely in the belief that he was with the gods in paradise, but also that through him they themselves would become rich and prosperous.^87.1 Here the sacred character of the corpse, its place and manner of burial, and the superstitions concerning the departed point with tolerable certainty to a religious offering; and the conclusion is altogether in harmony with what we know of the bloodthirsty Aztec rites.

Passing with these illustrations away from sacrifices to water, and from legends of water-monsters, we may note that another object with which the sagas of dragons are connected is a hill, often shown as the creature’s resting-place. He lies curled upon it, or around it, or dwells in a cave or den. Thus the Lambton Worm lay coiled thrice about the base of an oval hill on the northern bank of the Wear. I am not aware what this oval hill may be; but some of the hills mentioned in these stories are prehistoric barrows. Mr. Andrew Lang published some years ago a story from Galloway of a snake that used to lie twined round the tumulus at Dalry. “In colour it was snow-white, and the thickest part of its body was as thick as three bags of meal. This creature was a terror to all the neighbourhood, as it not only destroyed cattle and men, but had an ugly habit of going at night to the neighbouring churchyard, digging up coffins with its claws, and devouring the newly dead.” The Lord of Galloway offered a reward for its destruction. But one of his knights was swallowed up by the serpent, horse and armour and all; and another was {88} deterred by evil omens. The adventure was then undertaken, as at Deerhurst, by a smith, who devised a suit of armour for himself covered with long sharp spikes which could be drawn in or thrust out at the wearer’s will. Scarcely was his armour completed when the smith’s young and beautiful wife died, and was buried in the churchyard. The night after the funeral the smith came upon the brute scraping the earth from the newly-made grave, and attacked it vigorously. The snake swallowed him whole; but as he slipped down its throat he suddenly shot out his spikes, rolling about violently inside. This was more than the creature had bargained for; and in a short time the smith by strenuous efforts tore his way through his enemy’s carcase. There lay the serpent quite dead, and for three days following the river Ken ran red with its blood. “Here,” says Mr. Andrew Lang, “the story should properly end; but a later and more romantic fancy has added that at the very moment of victory the second knight arrived on the spot, and, in a fury of disappointed ambition, attacked the smith, who of course was as victorious in the second fight as he had been in the first.”^88.1 With all deference to Mr. Lang’s great authority, I venture to think that the second knight’s attack was part of the original story, embodying as it seems to do the germ of the Impostor incident so common in Rescue tales. Be this, however, as it may, the point whereto I desire to direct attention is that the connection of the snake with a prehistoric tumulus, and that of other dragons with hills or mounds, both in this country and on the Continent, is probably not without its significance. {89} There, if anywhere, sacrifices would have been offered in early times; and their memory, transformed by the popular imagination into the form of a dragon with a propensity for human flesh, may have lingered for many a century after their abolition. But to raise this beyond the value of a conjecture careful inquiry and comparison of instances, for which I have no opportunity at present, would be required. I may point out, however, that the conjecture is countenanced by analogous legends of dragons haunting other sacred spots. At Aarhuus in Denmark, for instance, bodies placed overnight for the funeral solemnities in the cathedral frequently disappeared by the morning. A dragon whose lair was near the cathedral had eaten them. At length a strolling glazier devised a coffin of mirrors, pierced by one hole just large enough to thrust a sword through; and he caused himself to be laid within it in the cathedral. Around the coffin stood four tapers, which he lighted at midnight. When the prowling dragon beheld its reflection in the mirrors it drew nigh, deeming the image to be its mate. The glazier instantly thrust his sword through the hole of the coffin into his enemy’s throat; but he himself perished in the floods of blood and venom that spouted from the body of the dying monster. An ancient image in the church is said to preserve the memory of the heroic act, as at Mansfeld, Deerhurst, and elsewhere.^89.1

It is hardly necessary for the completion of the argument to enumerate any stories of rescue of human sacrifices to beings confessedly worshipped as divine, or at least superhuman. Yet one or two specimens may not be without interest. They cannot be numerous, because the rescue {90} itself implies an insult to, and almost a denial of, the divinity. Wherefore we must look for them only, or chiefly, among races who practise a tolerant religion like the Buddhist, which whithersoever its conquests extended, permitted the continuance of offerings to the overshadowed and indigenous gods. We will begin with Japan, where we have already found legends corresponding to that of Andromeda. A young warrior wandering in the northern province one evening lost his way in the mountains; and reaching at length a small secluded shrine, where there was only just room for him to lie down, he took shelter within it and soon fell fast asleep. About midnight he was awakened by a noise. Peeping through the interstices of the timber walls of his refuge, he espied a troop of cats engaged in a wild, unnatural dance by the light of the moon, and yelling in fiendish tones. As he kept perfectly still in his hiding-place and listened, he could distinguish, incessantly repeated amid their shrieks, the words: “Don’t tell Shippei Taro! Keep it secret! Don’t tell Shippei Taro!” The midnight hour passed away, and with it the mysterious cats, leaving him in peace for the rest of the night. In the morning he found a path leading to a village. As he drew near he heard a sound of weeping, and entering the nearest hut, he inquired what was the matter. He was told that the mountain-spirit required the sacrifice of a maiden every year, and the very next night was the appointed time. On further inquiry he learnt that the shrine he had just left was the scene of the offering, and that it was customary to place the victim in a cage in the immediate neighbourhood. Recalling the incidents of the past night he next inquired who Shippei Taro was, and was told that Shippei Taro was the name of the great dog belonging {91} to the chief officer of the prince who lived not very far away. To this personage accordingly he went, and asked for the loan of the dog for the following night. After hearing his story the dog’s master consented and handed over Shippei Taro to the stranger. To arrange with the girl’s parents to keep her safely at home, and to put Shippei Taro into the cage in her stead was the next business. Having accomplished these things the youth betook himself to the shrine and awaited what would happen. At midnight when the moon had risen over the mountains the cats returned in full cry led by a gigantic black tom-cat, in whom our adventurer without difficulty recognised the dreaded mountain-spirit. The tom-cat approached the cage with hideous shrieks of delight and danced around it. At length he opened it and peered in, searching for his victim. In an instant Shippei Taro leaped upon him and held him with his teeth, while the warrior with one well-aimed blow put an end to the brute. Turning then on the other cats, hound and man speedily put them to flight and destroyed not a few. The rout was complete; and from that time no more human sacrifices have been offered to the mountain-spirit.^91.1

One of the aboriginal tribes of India, now Buddhist, has preserved a somewhat similar instance of the abolition of these offerings. “The early religion of Láhaul is still known under the name of Lung pe Chhoi, that is, the religion of the valley. When it was flourishing many bloody, and even human, sacrifices seem to have been regularly offered up to certain Chá, that is, gods or evil spirits residing in or near old pencil cedar-trees, rocks, caves, etc. This cruel custom disappeared gradually after the doctrine of the Buddhists had influenced for a time the minds of the people. There is a story which I shall relate, as it seems to show that this was the case. Near the village of Kailang a large dry pencil cedar-tree was standing till last year, when we felled it for firewood: the story goes that before this tree in ancient times a child of eight years old was annually sacrificed to make the spirit who resided in it well disposed towards the inhabitants of Kailang. The children seem to have been supplied in turn by the different families of the village. It happened one year to be a widow who had to give up an only child of the required age of eight years. The day before her only one was to be taken from her, she was crying loudly, when a travelling Láma from Tibet met her, and asked the cause of her distress. Having heard her story, the Láma said: ‘Well, I will go instead of your child.’ He did so, but did not allow himself to be killed. ‘The spirit must kill me himself if he wants human flesh,’ said he: so saying, he sat down before the tree and waited for a long time, but as the demon made no attack on him he became angry, took down from the tree the signs and effigies, and threw them into the Bhága river, telling the people not to sacrifice any more human beings, which advice was followed from that {93} time forward. The demon fled and settled on the top of the Koko Pass, where it still dwells under the name of Kailang Chá, or god of Kailang, getting now only the annual sacrifice of a sheep supplied by the shepherds.” The writer from whom I quote goes on to state that (contrary to the principles of Buddhism) sheep and goats are yearly killed near not a few villages in Láhaul, and offered up to the Chá, and he hazards the opinion these animals have taken the place of men.^93.1 I am not aware what evidence there may be for this substitution beyond the foregoing tradition. At Manáli in Kúlú, also in Northern India, is a temple of some antiquity to Manú Rikhi. In front of it stands an altar of stone, supporting a pile of spruce logs, which are replaced, three at a time, every three years. An annual fair is held on the spot, at which a keprá (literally, evil form) or mask of Tundi is carried about. Tundi Bhút was a local dait or demon who conquered the deotas or gods, and demanded one of their sisters in marriage. Manú in turn vanquished him at Khoksar in Lahul and compelled him to marry instead “the daughter of a Tháwi or mason, named Túnar Sháchká, who appears in other stories as a Rakhsháin.” The temple was erected to commemorate Manú’s success; but the tale does not account for the spruce logs. To explain these it is popularly said that Tundi devoured men and that Manú, having conquered him, put the logs into his mouth and killed him.^93.2 Whatever the real significance of the logs may be, it is probable that we have here a legend of the suppression of human sacrifice. Other stories of substitution have been mentioned in the {94} course of the foregoing pages. And the legend of Abraham, which will occur to every reader, points back to a period when the fathers of the Hebrew nation, in common with the surrounding peoples, practised human sacrifices. But with substitution, as distinguished from rescue, we are hardly concerned.

Still less need we discuss the revolting subject of human sacrifice in general. The stories I have cited (and they could easily be multiplied) are intended to confirm the hypothesis that we have in the incident of the Rescue of Andromeda a reminiscence of the abolition of human sacrifices to deities in the shape of the lower animals. I have shown that in certain stages of civilisation sacrifices of the kind are practised, and that they are frequently offered to water-spirits conceived in animal form. In offerings to water, and in traditions of water-spirits, we have the product of savage animism. And it may, of course, be that the monster sent to devour Andromeda, and that which appears so often in the legend of Saint George, are to be regarded simply as the personification of water, or of specific rivers and pools, in their sinister aspect. Strictly speaking, however, personification belongs to a higher plane of thought than that which finds the spirit embodied as an actual living creature. Moreover, the dragon is by no means invariably connected with water; and in estimating the probability of this explanation we must not overlook the tales which represent it as having its abode on a hill or mound, or in a cave.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN MÄRCHEN.

The stories analysed in the first three chapters are abundant evidence that the form assumed by the Quest of the Gorgon’s Head in modern märchen is that of a sojourn in a witch’s dwelling, resulting in death or petrifaction by enchantment, followed by rescue and the annihilation of the witch. This incident is not confined, any more than the others with which we have dealt, to tales of the Perseus cycle—that is, to tales wherein one or more of the other three principal incidents of the Perseus märchen occur. In company with the incident of the Life-token it is frequently found in stories belonging to the type of The Two Sisters who envied their Cadette.^95.1 From many of such stories, however, the Life-token appears to have dropped. The Greek märchen of The Tzitzinæna is an example. There, as in the Arabian Nights, a king overhears three maidens boasting what they could do if they could only marry the royal confectioner, the royal cook, and the king himself respectively. The boast of the youngest sister is that she would bear her lord three children—Sun, Moon, and Star. The king gratifies their desires, to the annoyance of his mother, who plays the part of the envious sisters in {96} Galland’s tale. She so arranges matters that when the children (two fair boys and a girl) are born they are thrown into the sea; and after the third abortion, as the king is led to believe, the unfortunate queen is shut up in a foul and noisome prison. The children are found by a solitary monk, and brought up until they are old enough to shift for themselves. He then gives them money and sends them into the world. They settle in the town; and there the eldest buys from a Jew a mysterious casket which contains a green, winged horse. The midwife who had been charged with the destruction of the children now discovers them still living; and in order to put an end to them, she excites in the maiden a desire to possess the golden apple watched in a certain garden by forty dragons. With his enchanted horse the eldest brother obtains for her not only the golden apple, but also, on a second journey, a golden bough on which all the birds of the world gather to sing. He is then sent for the Tzitzinæna to explain what the birds say. On arriving at the Tzitzinæna’s house the horse directs him to call it. The creature replies, “Marble”; and the youth is petrified to the knees. The calls are exchanged until he becomes marble to the girdle. He then remembers that on bidding himself and his brother and sister farewell the monk had given him some hairs from his beard, with directions to burn one of them when in need. He burns one accordingly; and the monk appears, and calls the Tzitzinæna, compelling it to bring a bottle of water of immortality and sprinkle the youth and his steed. By the power of this water they are loosed from the spell. But they have not been the Tzitzinæna’s only victims. In obedience to the monk it delivers them all, and among them the hero’s brother, who had been lost. {97} The Tzitzinæna, thus captured, like the Talking Bird, is the means of revealing the truth to the king and restoring to him his wife and children.^97.1 The story is obviously imperfect, whole episodes, like the loss of one of the brothers, being referred to but not detailed. Hence there can be little doubt that it once contained the Life-token. It is doubtless a waif from the coffee-houses of the Levant stranded on Hellenic shores. In a variant from Epirus the errands are to obtain the Flying Horse of the Plain and the Beauty of the Land. The latter had turned many men into stone; but she goes with the hero, becomes his wife, and contrives the solution of the plot, as in the typical tale.^97.2

In the former of these two cases the transformation is effected by the witch’s word; in the latter we are left in doubt. A German tale from the Odenwald brings us nearer to Galland’s version in this respect. There, as in the Greek stories, a king, to his mother’s disgust, marries beneath him, with the usual catastrophe. The children are two girls and a boy. A branch of the Tree with Golden Fruits is the object of desire. The hero takes it; but on his way back he hears some one calling him, and turning to reply he is changed into a pillar of salt. This fate also befalls the elder sister on seeking the Talking Bird in the same garden where the Tree grew. The younger, fetching the Leaping Water, resists the temptation, and by sprinkling the water on the two pillars recovers her brother and sister.^97.3 A Swabian tale belonging to the same cycle presents the task as the disenchantment of a castle in the {98} forest by fetching thence a certain blackbird in a cage. This could only be done between eleven and twelve at noon. The first of the princes having entered the castle allows the precious hour to pass while he is listening to the lovely music that resounds through the ensorcelled chambers. Noon strikes, the doors close, and he is caught fast in the trap. The second prince fares no better; but their sister finds the bird and hastens out before the fatal hour, thus undoing the spell and restoring to their proper human form a lion, a bear, and a number of apes which inhabited the building.^98.1

The villain of a Catalonian variant is no less a personage than the Devil himself, to whom the heroine had been given by her father. A king found her in the Devil’s den, and stole her away, to marry her. It is the Devil who arranges the catastrophe by means of forged letters to and from her husband when she gives birth to twins, a boy and a girl. The secondary villain is a witch bribed by “the ladies of the people” to excite the maiden’s longing, first, for a tree bearing leaves of all colours, next, for water of all colours, and lastly, for a bird with plumes of all colours, which sings all songs. These are to be found in the garden of the Castle of Go-and-not-return. The maiden’s brother, by the help of the wise Solomon, who dwells in a castle on the way, succeeds in the quest of the first two; but disregarding the counsels which have been given him, he takes the wrong bird on his third journey and remains enchanted at the gate, until rescued by his sister. The bird, here also, once captured, becomes the means of retrieving the happiness of the family.^98.2

The Kabyle tale of The Children and the Bat makes the {99} villain out of the heroine’s barren fellow-wife. The children are seven sons and a daughter. They are carried by the envious woman into the forest one after another as they are born. An old woman induces the maiden to ask her brothers to get a bat; and an old man directs the brothers one after another to a certain date-palm on the sea-shore. “What wild beast comes here?” asks the bat from the top of the tree. “Go to sleep, old head,” answers the lad. The bat changes the adventurer’s gun into a bit of wood, and renders the adventurer himself “microscopic.” When she has thus lost all her brothers the maiden goes to seek the bat. She does not answer the creature, but waits until it is asleep. Then she climbs the tree, seizes the bat, and compels it to restore her brothers, promising in return to clothe it in silver and gold. The bat conducts the band of children back to their father, saves them from partaking of the poison offered to them by their stepmother, and reunites them to their parents. The stepmother is bound to a horse’s tail and dragged to death, while the bat is returned to its tree and clad in silver and gold.^99.1 A version from Mirzapur comprises the Supernatural Birth. The children are three in number, two lovely boys and a girl, born of the king’s favourite wife, in consequence of eating three fruits given by a fakir. Their mother’s fellow-wives play the usual treacherous part at their birth. When, years after, the wicked queens find out that the children are still alive and dwelling in a miraculous palace, the gift of the friendly fakir, they send to persuade the maiden (it is always the woman) to ask for a nightingale that dwelt in a certain jungle, could sing a thousand notes, and could talk like a man. The fakir warns the elder brother not to {100} answer when the bird cries out to him, else he will be turned into stone. The youth succeeds; and as in the other variants, the evil devised by the wicked queens recoils on their own heads, for it is by means of the bird that the truth is brought to light and punishment inflicted.^100.1

A Lesbian tale looks like an ill-remembered variant of the Perseus group. A king, we are told, who had thirty-nine sons, longed for a daughter. A son, however, was born, and at the same time his favourite mare foaled, and the colt was allotted to the boy. When he was sixteen the brothers all set out together to seek their fortune. The youth, while his brothers slept, conquered forty dragons which had come to draw water at a spring where they were reposing. The next night he slays a seven-headed beast at another fountain, and cuts out its tongues. The following day the band of brethren separated, and the youngest pursued his way alone. A sorceress advises him how to pass a monster whom he will meet in the way, and warns him that he will reach the castle of another witch, who will offer him all sorts of fruits, of which he may partake with safety, but he must beware of drinking the wine she will present, otherwise she will petrify him. Instead, he is to give it to his dog, and he will see it instantly changed to marble. The witch, however, will have power to recall the animal to life. The youth follows her directions, and finds his brothers already turned to statues in the witch’s palace. He compels her to restore them as well as his dog, and having put her to death leads his brothers back to their father.^100.2

We may reasonably suspect that the Life-token has originally been part of all these variants, as in Galland’s {101} tale. It is needless to follow the instances where it still remains an integral portion of the narrative. Another point is worthy of notice. In most cases the object of search is a bird. So in a tale told by the Armenian immigrants of the Land beyond the Forest a king’s three sons set out to obtain a wonderful nightingale, the only thing wanting to complete the beauty of a church that he has built. The eldest son, however, settles down comfortably as the husband of a king’s daughter, and shirks the quest. The second is found by a gigantic Moor stretched at rest in a grassy glade of the forest, and asked: “What do you want here?” On his replying, “Nothing,” the Moor spits upon him and turns him to stone. The youngest son, returning successful with the nightingale, comes to the same spot, and is confronted by the Moor with the same question. He asks in turn, What are all these many stones he sees around him? The Moor answers that they were men whom his spittle had turned into stone, and threatens him with the same fate. Thereupon the nightingale began to sing, and the Moor fell down upon the ground, a heap of ashes. The stones promptly became men once more, the king’s second son among them. It is sad to relate that in the sequel, in spite of this deliverance, the second son joined his elder brother in betraying the youngest, and leaving him to perish in the depths of a fountain, while they hurried home with the prize. Fortunately the youth found his way out, vindicated his claims, married the fairy to whom the nightingale belonged, forgave his brothers, and they all lived happy ever after.^101.1

In the romance of Hatim Taï the enchantment is caused by failing to kill the bird, and dissolved by its death. The {102} renowned Kaiumarath, when hunting, found a diamond weighing three hundred miskals. To preserve it in safety he founded the bath of Bagdad, where he placed the stone in the body of a caged parrot. On the chair within the hall was laid a bow with arrows. Every visitor was allowed to shoot three arrows at the parrot, and if he hit it right through the head he would break the enchantment; otherwise he would become a marble statue. The mysterious mansion was uninhabited save by those statues; and the foregoing information was conveyed by an inscription over the door. Hatim failed twice, and became stone to his middle. Persevering, however, he put his trust in God, took aim, and shutting his eyes let fly the third arrow. It pierced the parrot’s brain, when the whole enchantment disappeared amid thunder, lightning, and whirlwinds. All the marble statues started into life, and falling at Hatim’s feet, vowed to serve him. He took the diamond, which was the object of his search, and thus accomplished the last of his seven adventures.^102.1

The search is not always for a bird. The hero of a Gipsy tale from Transylvania undertakes to deliver the daughter of a good urme from a wicked urme who has carried her off. In the wicked urme’s service he has to perform a number of tasks: among them to find a ring which has been dropped into a fountain and hang it up below a round mirror in the large hall. The water in the fountain is boiling hot; but he plunges without harm, having previously bathed in the milk of the urme’s cow. The real danger was a voice that sounded in his ear as he hung up the ring: “Thou art a handsome youth, a handsome youth. Only look in the glass!” Had he complied {103} with this flattering suggestion he would have been turned into stone. He resisted it, however, to encounter the still more flattering offer from the urme to wed him. It was necessary before doing this that he should cut her up and throw the pieces into a Medean kettle, whence she would issue the most beautiful woman on earth, and they would then live happy and contented together. But he had already seen too much of this lady to trust himself with her; so having obeyed her instructions to cut her up, he threw the pieces into the boiling fountain instead of the kettle, thus destroying her and the enchanted castle with her. The maiden whom he came to free drew from her head some hairs, and letting them fly in the wind, she sang:

At once all the stones which had been men and beasts, but had had the misfortune to look in the magical mirror, returned to their proper forms and danced around the maiden for joy. It remained to obviate the only other danger. The urme had left a son, a dragon who was to have wedded the maiden. He was luckily absent; but before he went away his mother had cut his hair and thrown the pieces among the stones. These they gathered up and burnt. The maiden then prevailed on her deliverer to come home with her and be her husband. They therefore all returned to the good urme in the speediest manner by swallowing the ashes of the dragon’s hair and wishing themselves at their destination.^103.1

This of course is the ordinary bride-quest of fairy tales. {104} The destined lady is in the power of a magician, who may be her father or merely her master. The hero, usually by her help, performs various tasks, which end in his winning her and destroying, or foiling, the magician. The transformation by the magician of his captives is not, perhaps, a very common incident in the plot. More frequently they are slain and their heads adorn in truly savage fashion the palisades of his dwelling. In a story from the neighbourhood of Bologna, they are turned into statues of salt.^104.1 Elsewhere, as in a Breton tale, they are changed into trees.^104.2

The incident of the Medusa-witch in the foregoing stories, while in some cases it approaches more closely to the classical saga, lacks the special development gained in the modern Perseus-märchen. Tales, however, are not wanting in European tradition where the incident in that form appears divorced from the other incidents of the complete märchen. The Portuguese tale of The Tower of Ill Luck is an example. A boy sets forth on adventures accompanied by a horse and a lion, and arrives at the Tower of Ill Luck whence no one ever returns. An old woman within tells him to put his animals in the stable, and gives him a fine hair to tie them up with by rolling it round their necks. When he has done this she challenges him to wrestle. Finding himself overpowered he calls his beasts. But the hag cries out: “Be thickened, thin hair, into a strong coil, binding your horse and lion!” Immediately the hair becomes a thick iron chain which effectually prevents the animals from rescuing their master; and he is at length killed. The same result attends the second brother’s venture. The third is too clever. He cuts up the hair {105} into little bits and throws them into the sea. Hence, when he calls, his animals are free to help him. He compels the witch to give him a salve to anoint his brothers’ bodies and a scent for them to smell. The salve and the scent revive them; and they feel no compunction in burying the hag alive.^105.1 A story obtained in the Orkney Islands gives the three animals as a hound, a hawk, and a horse. The lad finds a castle, blows the horn, and the door opens. He walks in, but meeting with no one, he sits down by the fire and eats a good supper, which is already prepared. At midnight in comes the Dräglin’ Hogney. “He sat down over against the young man and glowered at him. Then said the Dräglin’ Hogney: ‘Does yer horse kick ony?’ ‘Ou ay,’ said the young man. ‘There’s a hair to fling ower him.’ The young man flung it over his horse. ‘Does yer hound bite ony?’ ‘Ou ay,’ said the young man. ‘There’s a hair to fling ower him.’ Again, ‘Does yer hawk pick ony?’ ‘Ay, ay,’ said the young man. ‘There’s a hair to fling ower him.’ With that the Dräglin’ Hogney whiecked (whisked) frae the tae side to the tither, till he fell upon the young man and killed him.” His next brother fares no better. But the third brother throws the hairs on the fire. “What’s that crackin’?” asks the Dräglin’ Hogney each time as he hears the hair in the fire. “It’s the craps o’ the green wud come yer waysay,” replies the lad. When by the help of his animals he has slain the Dräglin’ Hogney he “ransacks the castle, finds the enchanter’s wand, disenchants his two brothers, their horses, hawks and hounds, divides the spoil, sends for their father, and, in the old wind-up of a Scotch fairy tale, they live happy, and dee happy, and never drink {106} out of a dry cappy.”^106.1 A Slavonic story in which the two elder brothers, serving at a certain castle and warned against entering the forest, successively persist in doing so, seems to belong to this type. Both youths are petrified, with their dogs, but are rescued by their youngest brother.^106.2

In Buddhist literature the story takes a much more civilised shape. The Bodisat is the eldest of three brothers, sons of Brahmadatta, king of Benares. The mother of the two elder was dead; and the mother of the youngest having plotted to secure the succession for her son, the two elder, by their father’s counsel, withdrew from the city. Their brother, however, joined them, being unwilling to be left behind. In the course of their wanderings they came into the Himalayas. While resting one day the Bodisat sent the youngest down to a pool near at hand for water. “Now that pool had been delivered over to a certain water-sprite by Vessavana, who said to him: ‘With the exception of such as know what is truly godlike, all that go down into this pool are yours to devour. Over those that do not enter the waters, you have no power granted to you.’ And thenceforth the water-sprite used to ask all who went down into the water what was truly godlike, devouring every one who did not know.” He put the question to Prince Sun, the Bodisat’s younger brother, who replied: “The sun and moon.” “You don’t know,” said the monster, and pulled him down into the depths of the water. Prince Moon, the Bodisat’s elder brother, being sent after the first, makes the equally foolish answer: “The four quarters of heaven,” and {107} is likewise imprisoned in the water-sprite’s abode. The Bodisat himself then suspecting the truth, girt with his sword and armed with his bow, tracked his brothers’ footsteps to the water and waited beside the pool. Finding that he did not enter it the demon appeared in the shape of a forester to the Bodisat and inquired why he did not bathe. But the Bodisat recognised him and charged him with seizing his brothers. The demon explained that he had done so because they did not know what was godlike. Subsequently the Bodisat declares that they only are godlike “who shrink from sin, the white-souled, tranquil votaries of Good.” The demon, pleased with this, offers to give up one of his brothers; and the Bodisat chooses the younger. When taken to task for this choice by the ogre, he justifies it on the ground that it was on this boy’s account that they had sought refuge in the forest, and that not a soul would believe him if he were to give out that the child had been devoured by a demon. The water-sprite admits his wisdom; and “in token of his pleasure and approval he brought forth the two brothers and gave them both to the” Bodisat. Then the latter undertook the demon’s conversion, which happily effected, he continued to dwell at that spot under the reformed monster’s protection, until one day he read in the stars (a primitive but accurate kind of court journal) that his father was dead. “Then taking the water-sprite with him, he returned to Benares and took possession of the kingdom, making Prince Moon his viceroy, and Prince Sun his generalissimo. For the water-sprite he made a home in a pleasant spot and took measures to ensure his being provided with the choicest garlands, flowers and food,” so that he was under no temptation to return to his evil courses. The Bodisat {108} “himself ruled in righteousness until he passed away to fare according to his deeds.”^108.1

It is abundantly clear that the European tales I have cited cannot have been derived from this highly moral Játaka, in which nobody is punished, but on the contrary things are made comfortable all round—even for the demon. The story must have been found in a more savage form, and fashioned by the early teachers—perhaps by Gautama himself—into an apologue that would have done no dishonour to a Christian apostle.

To examine every kind of enchantment current in märchen would be an endless task. In the classical story, as well as in a large number of modern märchen, petrification is the result of the evil spell. This is softened in the Játaka, and in some other tales, to mere imprisonment; while metamorphosis into trees or into brute forms is the result in other cases. Petrifaction, or change into stones or rocks, is a fate whereto not merely human beings are liable at the hands of supernatural powers: with the hero his horse and other animals undergo this misfortune. In a totally different cycle of stories—that of The Magical Steed—petrifaction is occasionally practised on the horse only. It is then done as a means of preservation for use when wanted. In the intervals between the hero’s tasks his enchanted pony vanishes, sometimes of its own accord, sometimes also by the hero’s appointment. “Now,” said the pony in an Irish tale cited in a previous chapter, “strike a blow with your rod of druidism upon me, and make of me a rock of stone, and whatever time at all you are in need of me, you have nothing to do but strike another {109} blow on me, and I am up as I was before.”^109.1 Everything in the world is according to savage belief subject to the mysterious energies of the wizard. In the remains of prehistoric superstition imbedded in the Irish folktales we get a truer view of Druidism than that conveyed to us by classical writers, who interpreted the religion of the Celts by their own more advanced polytheism. The Druids were in fact shamans, innocent, as I have already pointed out, of any systematic philosophy.

Lastly, we may notice one of the most interesting “properties” possessed by the Medusa-witch, namely, the hair she gives the hero to bind his dogs withal. It appears in many of the tales, though it is not always used in the same way. A Russian story, whether strictly belonging to the Perseus cycle I am not able to say, relates that “Ivan Dévich (Ivan the servant-maid’s son) meets a Baba Yaga, who plucks one of her hairs, gives it to him, and says: ‘Tie three knots and then blow.’ He does so, and both he and his horse turn into stone. The Baba Yaga places them in her mortar, pounds them to bits, and buries their remains under a stone. A little later comes Ivan Dévich’s comrade, Prince Ivan. Him also the Yaga attempts to destroy, but he feigns ignorance, and persuades her to show him how to tie knots and to blow. The result is that she becomes petrified herself. Prince Ivan puts her in her own mortar, and proceeds to pound her therein, until she tells him where the fragments of his comrade are, and what he must do to restore them to life.”^109.2

In the glorious mabinogi of Kulhwch and Olwen the hair {110} is put to its more ordinary use. Among the tasks laid upon Kulhwch as a condition precedent to his marriage with Olwen, the fair daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr, is that of procuring a leash made from the beard of Dillus Varvawc, the son of Eurei, for Drudwyn, the cub of Greid, the son of Eri. No other leash in the world would hold the cub; and for this purpose it was to be plucked with wooden tweezers while Dillus Varvawc was yet alive, otherwise it would be brittle. The episode of the quest of this leash furnishes an explanation of a snatch of song, probably an old popular rhyme, imbedded in the tale and attributed to King Arthur.^110.1 Here it is the supernatural strength of the hair which constitutes its value, as in the stories already passed in review in this and earlier chapters. So too Kerza, in a Slavonic tale, takes a hair from the long white beard of a dwarf magician and therewith binds the magician’s wicked wife, who has taken the form of a wooden pillar the better to carry out her evil ends, and binds her so effectually that she is thenceforth unable to resume her proper shape, or to use her magical powers.^110.2

A different example of the power of a hair is found in the Arabian Nights, where the king’s daughter in defence of the Second Calendar draws a hair from her head, and waving it in the air mutters over it for a while, until it becomes a trenchant sword-blade, with which to cut in twain the Ifrit.^110.3 The Princess Labám in a Hindu tale pulls out a hair from her head and gives it to the hero. Her father has imposed on him the task of dividing a thick tree-trunk with a waxen hatchet. “To-morrow,” she said, {111} “when no one is near you, you must say to the tree-trunk, ‘The Princess Labám commands you to let yourself be cut in two by this hair.’ Then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax hatchet’s blade.” And we are told that “the minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet blade touched the tree-trunk, it split into two pieces.”^111.1 A similar quality is that of the hair of the Giant of the Mountain, as related on the island of Zante. By its means, on touching the mountain it opens and admits the Giant into his own kingdom.^111.2

The hair, of course, in all these tales, though severed from the person of the magician, is still in invisible union with him, and is the depositary of his undivided might. Its relation to its original owner is made clear in another story from Zante where the king’s son finds two hairs from the three-headed snake he is destined to subdue. At the proper moment he binds them on his hands, and they draw him direct to the sea-shore over-against an island on which the monster has made his lair. The youth crosses the water, slays and flays the dragon, and brings its hide and horns to the Lady of Earth and Sea, thus completing his tasks and winning her as his bride: an unhappy match, for the masterful dame ends by calling the waters upon the land and drowning every human creature, while she hovers aloft in the air looking on. She then, by sowing stones, creates a new race of men, whom she rules, mistress of the whole world, from her hereditary throne.^111.3

CHAPTER XX.
THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN SAGA AND SUPERSTITION.

Belief of a more or less serious character in the power of the witch’s hair is one for which readers who have followed the arguments and illustrations of previous chapters will not have been wholly unprepared. If a belief not very often exhibited in sagas, it is yet, as we might anticipate, not wholly absent. The Goodwife of Laggan, a Highland witch, one day showed herself in the form of a shivering, weather-beaten cat to a hunter, who was warming himself during a storm in his hunting-hut, in the forest of Gaick in Badenoch. His hounds were stretched by his side, his only company. As the cat entered they bristled up and rose to attack her. There is no record that the hunter was astonished when the terror-stricken cat addressed him with a human voice and the rhetoric of a century ago: “Great hunter of the hills, I claim your protection. I know your hatred to my craft, and perhaps it is just. Still spare, oh spare a poor jaded wretch, who thus flies to you for protection from the cruelty and oppression of her sisterhood!” On the contrary, he pacified his dogs, and invited her to come forward to the fire and warm herself. “Nay,” she replied, if we are to believe the grandiloquent reporter of the interview, “in the first place you will please bind with {113} this long hair those two furious hounds of yours, for I am afraid they will tear my poor hams to pieces. I pray you, therefore, my dear sir, that you would have the goodness to bind them together by the necks with this long hair.” Here the hunter smelt mischief; so, instead of binding his dogs, he threw the hair across a beam of wood which connected the couple of the bothy. Supposing the dogs bound, the cat then drew near to the fire and sat down to dry herself. In a few minutes she began to grow. “A bad death to you, you nasty beast,” exclaimed the hunter jocosely, “you are getting very large.” “Ay, ay,” answered the cat, “as my hairs imbibe the heat they naturally expand.” But she grew bigger and bigger, until in the twinkling of an eye, she transformed herself into her proper likeness of the Goodwife of Laggan, and thus addressed the man: “Hunter of the hills, your hour of reckoning is arrived. Behold me before you, the avowed champion of my devoted sisterhood, of whom Macgillichallum of Razay and you were always the most relentless of enemies. But Razay is no more. His last breath is fled. He lies a lifeless corpse on the bottom of the main; and now, Hunter of the hills, it is your turn.” With these words the witch made a terrific spring at the hunter; and the dogs in their turn leaped up at her. A tremendous conflict ensued. “Fasten, hair, fasten,” she cried repeatedly, thinking the dogs were bound by it. The hair, obediently coiling round the beam, fastened so effectually that at last it snapt the timber in twain. Finding herself overmatched, she tried to flee. But the hounds had fixed themselves in her breasts; nor did they loose their hold as she trailed them after her, until she had all-to broken every tooth in their heads. Then changing herself into a raven she flew {114} away over the mountains, while the bleeding dogs crept back to their master’s feet to die. When the hunter returned to his home, the Goodwife of Laggan was found sick unto death. I spare my readers the edifying scene wherein she most properly acknowledged her crimes in the presence of the hunter and all her neighbours, before breathing her last. It is written by Mr. Stewart in the purest Johnsonese he could command, together with the further narrative of the apparition which announced that the Evil One had finally seized her soul before it had time to reach the protection of the sacred precincts of the churchyard of Dalarossie.^114.1

The Eskimo have a tradition pertinent to our present point. Off the southernmost part of Greenland was an island to which many of the inhabitants of the mainland objected, because it cut them off from the open sea. Two of them accordingly went in their kayaks and, fastening a hair from the head of a little child to the far side of the island, pulled away to the north, chanting a magic lay. Another old man, however, desired to retain the island; and he from the main shore held it by a thong of sealskin. The contest lasted for a while; but at length the hair and the magical song prevailed. The island was floated off and planted in front of Ilulissat, where it is now known as Disco Island.^114.2 Similarly, the people of the Lewis aver that their island once formed part of France. The Wickings having conquered a province of that country determined to carry it to Norway. They, therefore, made a cable of four strands, one of heather, one of hemp, another of wool, and another of woman’s hair, and fixed it to the cliffs. For a time their enterprise promised success. But a large piece, {115} now called Ireland, broke off and sank. A storm came on; and one portion after another broke away to form the Hebrides. By-and-bye their cable itself snapped, and they were forced to leave the Lewis and adjacent islands in the situation they at present occupy. On the western side of the Butt of Lewis is a fine natural arch, called the Suil an Rodh, “the eye of the butt.” This was the hole drilled through the cliff in days of yore by the Wickings to hold their cable; and it is the best proof of the truth of the tradition.^115.1

Allied to the enchanted hair of these tales is the fetter that binds Fenri the wolf. It is spun from the sound of a cat’s footsteps, a woman’s beard, the roots of a stone, a bear’s sinews, a fish’s breath, and a bird’s spittle; and it is as soft and smooth as a silken string.^115.2 So likewise when Finn MacCumhail hunted in high Keshcorran, Conaran, son of Imidel, a chief of the Tuatha De Danann, bade his three daughters, that were full of sorcery, take vengeance upon the hero. Accordingly the beldams went and sat in the entrance of a cave. “Upon three crooked and wry sticks of holly they hung as many heathenish bewitched hasps of yarn, which they began to reel off lefthandwise in front of the cave.” The attention of Finn and his companion, Conan Mael MacMorna, was attracted; they approached to view the women, and passed through the hasps; “whereupon a deadly tremor occupied them, and presently they lost their strength, so that by those valiant hags they were fast bound indissolubly. Another pair of the Fianna came, and with them the sons of Nemhuann: through the yarn they passed to where Finn and Conan {116} were; they too lost their power, and by the same hags were lashed down in rigid bonds. These warriors then they carried away into the cave.” Oscar and MacLugach, and in short “the children of Smól and the Fianna all” were drawn to the spot, and when they saw the yarns their pith and valour departed: “there was not in any one man of them all so much as a newly delivered woman’s strength.” Both gentle and simple, they were bound, “so that as helplessly pinioned and tightly tethered culprit-prisoners the hags transported them into black, mysterious holes, into dark, perplexing labyrinths.” When the witches could find no further straggler of the Fianna, they were about to hew their prisoners to pieces. The great-souled Goll MacMorna, however, was yet at large. He attacked and destroyed two of the hags; the third he spared in consideration of her setting the prisoners free. But when another sister appeared to avenge those who were slain, he fought her also, and drove his sword through her heart.^116.1

The story of the Enchanted Cave of Keshcorran is perhaps dangerously near the border line of sagas and märchen. But it is difficult to say that the Irish had entirely abandoned their belief in the real truth of the adventures attributed to the Fianna. Nations, especially nations involved in a struggle for national existence, do not easily part with a literal interpretation of traditions which are their birthright. The Iroquois likewise held to the actual existence of the supernatural personages of the following tale; but how far they credited the adventures of the human beings may admit of a difference of opinion. Ten brothers whose parents were dead resided with their uncle. One by one the elder ones, going out to hunt, failed to {117} return, until at last only the youngest was left. He and his uncle found in the woods and befriended a strange man, who turned out to be a brother of the Great Head, a creature consisting simply of a head, made terrific with huge eyes and long hair. The Great Head had his home upon a rock over which his hair streamed in shaggy fierceness; and when the hurricane swept across the land it was his voice that was heard howling through it. One day the Great Head came to the lodge. Aided by his brother, the uncle and nephew succeeded in conciliating him, and induced him to take the youth to the witch who had fordone his elders, and revenge their deaths. They heard the witch crooning her magical song. When she uttered the word Schis-t-ki-añ, the objects of her spells turned to dry bones. The Great Head said to the youth: “I will ask the question, ‘How long have you been here?’ and the hair will fall from my head and you must replace it, and it will grow fast; and then I will bite her flesh and pull it from her, and as it comes off you must take it from my mouth and throw it off, saying, ‘Be a fox, a bird, or anything else,’ and it will then run off never to return.” The young man obeyed these instructions; and the witch was soon brought to sue for mercy. But the Great Head replied: “You had no mercy; see the dry bones; you must die.” In this way they slew her; her flesh was turned into beasts and birds and fish; her bones they burnt to ashes. Then they sought for the bones of her victims, and placed together in rows the bones of the nine elder brothers. The Great Head flew over them on a tempest, and called out of the wind to the nine brothers to awake. They heard his voice, and arose to life, shouting for joy at seeing each other and their youngest brother again.^117.1

The instrument of enchantment in this Iroquoian tradition is not the magical fetter, but the magical word; whereof we seem to find a reminiscence (perhaps of the fetter also) in the sequel of Thorkill’s second voyage as recounted in the veracious pages of Saxo. Gorm Haraldson, king of Denmark, having grown old, was tormented with the question that still troubles mankind of the immortality and fate of the soul. Wherefore he sent Thorkill, who had in former days led him and three hundred of his warriors through mysterious regions, for certain information to Utgard-Loki, his god. On the hero’s return it was prophesied to Gorm that he would suddenly die if he learnt the tidings Thorkill had brought. Men were accordingly hired by the king’s command to put the adventurer to death. But he foiled the design and reproached his master for the ingratitude he displayed. The king, then, overcome by curiosity, bade Thorkill relate in order what had happened to him. Thorkill had such unfavourable revelations to make of Utgard-Loki that Gorm Haraldson could not endure to hear them. “His very life could not brook such words, and he yielded it up in the midst of Thorkill’s narrative. Thus,” piously adds the chronicler, “whilst he was so zealous in the worship of a false god, he came to find where the true prison of sorrows really was. Moreover, the reek of the hair, which Thorkill plucked from the locks of the giant,” and brought back with him, “to testify to the greatness of his own deeds, was exhaled upon the bystanders, so that many perished of it.”^118.1

The truth is that in the lower stages of culture supernatural power is ascribed, not merely to special words, but {119} to any curses. Illustrations of this attitude of mind are needless; for in the horror with which even the least superstitious of us listen when we are by some accident compelled to hear an outburst of imprecation, we may trace more than mere revulsion from the spirit of vulgar hatred and anger dictating it: our revulsion bears at least a tinge of fear and ghastly anticipation of doom upon him who dares to call down evil, if not upon the object of his wrath. Properly performed, however, by the priest on the first day of Lent, and uttered in merely general terms “gathered out of the seven-and-twentieth chapter of Deuteronomy and other places of Scripture,” we devoutly repeat Amen to every clause, and make believe that we desire to escape “the dreadful judgment hanging over our heads and always ready to fall upon us,” by thus transferring the weight of condemnation to sinners worse than ourselves. Originally special virtue was doubtless attached, as it still is by savages, to the proper sequence of words and the suitable accompaniment of rites. In a Chaldean conjuration the effect is thus described:

Nor is it altogether improbable that certain of the Psalms which are such a stumblingblock to Christians may have been held, when correctly chanted, to have a direct influence over the objects of the psalmist’s holy ire? When a {120} native of Borneo has planted fruit-trees, and they are bearing, he places some round stones in cleft sticks near the trees, and then proceeds to curse anybody who may venture to steal the fruit, calling on the stones to witness the anathema. The curse is to this effect: “May whoever steals my fruit suffer from stones in the stomach as large as these stones, and, if necessary, become a figure of stone!” And woe betide the man who in defiance of this curse dares to pluck the fruit!^120.1

But neither the form of the malediction nor the accurate performance of a ceremony is an invariable requirement. A few illustrations of the petrifying potency of curses, oftentimes the more awful because uttered in mere carelessness or wantonness, may be given from peoples on different levels of civilisation. An Altaic tale relates that Sartaktai was building a stone bridge over the Katunya; and in order to complete it by the following day it was necessary that his son should preserve continence. The young man, however, disregarded his father’s taboo, and frustrated the work. Wherefore the old man cursed his daughter-in-law, so that she stands, a white rock on one side of the river, and cursed and spat upon his son, so that he remained on the other side, the mountain called to-day Täldäkpän.^120.2 A local legend concerning the fort of Jangada, in India, attributes its erection to Râjâ Kesari, who built it of lac, or sealing-wax, in order that missiles discharged against it should be held by its natural tenacity. The secret was betrayed to a besieging army by an old woman; and the walls began to melt under the power of the fire and bellows she advised the soldiers to use. The râjâ, as he died in the trench with sword in hand, cursed the traitress to be turned into stone. {121} The curse was immediately fulfilled, as witness the satti pillar outside the fort, regarded as her image to this day.^121.1 At a certain farmhouse in Iceland it befell that several years successively the inmates who were left to take care of the house while their fellows went to church on Christmas Eve were found the next morning either stark mad or dead. Naturally nobody cared to stay in the place; but at last a young girl was found brave enough to do so. During the night something came to the window, and began to praise her hands. She was ready at once with a spirited retort. Her eyes and her feet were then made the subject of eulogy by the mysterious visitor, who got from the maiden each time a proper answer. By-and-bye the creature mentioned the dawn standing ready to appear. “Stand thou, too, and become stone, and hurt no one!” exclaimed the girl. And when the people returned from church in the morning they were astounded to see a big stone standing before the window; and there it remains ever since.^121.2 There is a hill on the boundary of the manor of Bagdad near Wirsitz, in the province of Posen, surmounted by a great stone of a reddish colour, somewhat in the form of a gravestone. This was formerly a girl who went out with her mother to gather wild strawberries in the pine-wood which then covered the height. The mother wandered off in another direction, and lost her daughter. Not being able to find her, she angrily shouted: “As you are not coming, turn to stone!” Her prayer was instantly answered, as in a similar case at Strelno, in the same province, where a lazy slut going with her pitcher to the spring, and being unconscionably long on the errand, was cursed by a fellow-servant, {122} under whose orders she was, and transformed into stone. The block is shown at the village of Mlyny, near the town; and at a distance it is said to bear some resemblance to a girl with a pitcher. Nor is this the only tale of the kind current in Posen. A great stone, whose top was not unlike a roof, lay several years ago on the boundary between Czempin and Piechanin, and was held to be the roof of a castle, enchanted by a wizard who had begged a night’s lodging there in vain. His curses buried the castle in the earth, and turned its inhabitants and dependants into a number of smaller stones which lay around the large one.^122.1 Near Gbel, in Bohemia, is a stone called The Enchanted Huntsman. A luckless hunter, we learn, pursued and shot at a roe, which thereupon changed into an old hag, and cried out: “How dare you shoot at me? I am the witch Nera! But you with your pack shall be turned into stone and guarded for ever with invisible flames!” Since that hour none dares to go near the stone at midnight, lest he be consumed by the flames.^122.2 A witch is likewise the agent of evil in the Rollright legends. The King-stone at Rollright was once a king indeed, who was bent on the conquest of all England. He had got as far as the hill on which Rollright stands when the witch appeared. From the crest of the hill the village of Long Compton is visible in the combe below. The king was approaching the top when the witch addressed him: “Seven long strides shalt thou take, and—

But as he took the seven strides forward there rose before him the long mound of earth which crowns the hill, and prevented him from seeing Long Compton. The witch then cried:

Forthwith “the king and his army were turned into stones where they stood, the king on the side of the mound and his army in a circle behind him, while the witch herself became an elder-tree. But some day, they do say, the spell will be broken. The stones will turn into flesh and blood once more, and the king will start as an armed warrior at the head of his army to overcome his enemies and rule over all the land.”^123.1

In the last tradition the witch’s words fell upon her own head, as well as upon her foes. Incautious or wicked words often have this effect in European folklore; and I strongly suspect they owe their origin to Christian teaching. Tales of imprecations fulfilled upon the perjurer pervade English history from the great, and probably innocent, Earl Godwin downwards. Joan Flower, not more guilty, mentioned in an earlier chapter, is another example. The case of Dorothy Mately of Ashover, related with all circumstance {124} by the master-pen of John Bunyan, is more famous. In fact, the tales are endless; but I must limit my illustrations to two or three of such as account for stones and rocks.

On the island of Sardinia, near the village of Tresnuraghes, in the district of Oristano, are two stones, once a peasant and his ox. This unhappy man was ploughing on the vigil of Saint Mark, and neglected to doff his cap when the saint’s colossal statue was carried by in procession. Being remonstrated with by one of the confraternity, he answered that he did not worship a piece of wood. What could be expected after such profanity, but that he and his ox should be turned to stone? A similar judgment is recorded as the origin of a monolith standing near the church of Saint Constantine, on the side of a hill in the district of Sedilo, on the same island. It is the custom there to perform a ceremony called S’ardia, or the Guard, which consists in a cavalcade of about a hundred persons running at full speed thrice around the church, and then flinging themselves down the valley upon a sacred enclosure containing a cross. This enclosure they encompass in the same manner. The spectacle, considered as a religious rite, is doubtless grotesque enough; and a woman who once witnessed it was profane enough to burst out laughing. She stands there still, never to laugh again.^124.1 A bridal train on the Frisian island of Sylt once met an old woman who recognised the bride as a witch, and called out to warn the party. The leader replied: “If our bride be a witch, I would that we might all sink down here and rise up again grey stones.” No sooner said than done; and the identical stones were on view up to the early years of {125} this century.^125.1 So it is related of an unwilling bride from the village of Bonese, in Altmark, that when she arrived with her cavalcade on the boundary of the district of Markau, where she was to wed the son of a rich magistrate, she sprang from her seat after an altercation with her kinsmen and exclaimed: “Rather will I be turned to stone than overstep the boundary of Markau!” and she alighted on the ground a stone. Round that stone at midnight, when the full moon sheds her rays, the many-coloured bridal ribbons gleam even yet.^125.2 Sometimes the catastrophe is occasioned by the mere breach of a taboo. Such is the case in a story told by the Lapps concerning the origin of the Aniov Islands. Three giants who were shamans determined to cut a piece of land off Norway and bring it away with all its reindeer and other wealth in order to increase their own stores. They succeeded in doing so, and were conveying it round to its destination, when their mother dreamed she saw them returning. She ran out of the hut and, hearing a noise, cried: “See! my children are coming, they bring goods, oxen, reindeer; they spoke truth.” But she thus violated the rule of strict silence during the performance of magical rites, and was punished by being turned, together with the whole parish, into stone, while her sons and the reindeer they had stolen were drowned, and the land they had cut off became two islands.^125.3 Another woman underwent the like transformation in the island of Coll, off the western coast of Scotland. She was gathering shellfish when the tide rose, and “finding no other means of escape made a last effort by climbing {126} the rocks. When at the top, and almost out of danger, she said: ‘I am safe now, in spite of God and men!’ ” Her blasphemy was immediately avenged by her conversion into a stone, which now forms part of the rock whence the headland of Cailleach Point (the Old Wife’s Headland) takes its name.^126.1

Often, however, the Deity himself, or some holy man endowed with a portion of divine power, by curses or prayers effects the metamorphosis. Thus, it is believed in Bombay that the moon once became enamoured of Ahalyá, the wife of the Rishi Gautama, and visited her in her husband’s absence. Unluckily the Rishi returned and found the guilty pair together. His wife was turned into stone as the effect of his curses; and the moon bears, and will bear for ever, the black mark of the blow he received from the Rishi’s well-aimed shoe.^126.2 So, too, when Ino fleeing from Juno’s wrath flung herself into the sea, and was made immortal by Neptune at the prayer of Venus, her attendants, as Ovid tells us, reproaching the vengeful goddess, were metamorphosed. Juno exclaimed: “I will make you terrible monuments of my displeasure.” As she uttered the words, some of the women, attempting to follow their mistress into the water, were stiffened in the various attitudes of the moment into rocks on the shore, while others were transformed into seabirds that now stretch their wings over every wave of the Ionian sea.^126.3 The kind of superstition here portrayed has of course survived into Christianity. It is partly the superhuman might of the priest as such, and partly the strength of his incantations, which nobody but he knows so well how to perform that {127} gives effect to his words when, like the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims, and other priests before and since, he calls for his candle, his bell, and his book. It was the superhuman might of the shaman that was acknowledged by Balak in the Hebrew saga, when he sent for Balaam to come and curse Israel; “for I know that he whom thou blessest is blessed, and he whom thou cursest is cursed.” Balaam, indeed, performed his function with due solemnity and order; yet the ceremonies, however valuable in themselves, would hardly have been effectual if performed by a lesser man. This belief has constantly tended, in all religions alike, to invest the lightest word of a saint with efficacy graduated according to his sanctity. Take the following Christian examples out of many. Saint Constant, pursued by a party of heathen up a hill in the neighbourhood of Deonero, in the Italian province of Cuneo, launched his maledictions upon them with such effect that they were changed into stones, many of which are still to be seen on the spot. His potency must have been exhausted by the effort; for he had scarcely reached the top when another band of persecutors seized and put him to death. But the night fell murky and wet; and a labourer, going home after an evening’s enjoyment, beheld the saint toiling up the steep laden with stones. In the morning the Church of Villar San Costanzo stood on the place of the martyrdom, built by the saint’s own hands out of some of the very men whom he had conveniently petrified; and there it is to be seen at the present day. Strangely enough, his holiness did not avail to procure him mortar. Nor was it needful, for the stones, whether naturally or supernaturally fitted together, stand perfectly well without it. When his work was done, his body, which had been left by his murderers {128} where it fell, disappeared. Some say that it was transported by angels into heaven; and there can be no more difficulty in crediting this than the rest of the story.^128.1 In the Isle of Man Saint Patrick cursed a sea-monster, which was following to devour him, and turned it into a solid rock at the foot of Peel Hill.^128.2 According to Sardinian belief a greater than Saint Constant, or even Saint Patrick, inflicted the same vengeance for a smaller crime. One day Our Lord and Saint Peter presented themselves at a threshing-floor near Mores, and prayed for alms, but were denied. Thereupon Jesus Christ uttered an imprecation; and in a moment the corn became sand, while the guilty farmer and his innocent workmen were alike transformed into stones.^128.3 Judging doubtless by their own unhappy experience, the greater the personage the more trifling is the occasion to which the peasants ascribe his wrath. On the right-hand side of the road from Flatow to Lobsens, in the province of Posen, about half a German mile from the latter place, is a great stone, formerly a landed proprietor, who, being out hunting, put his horse to jump a ditch at that spot. The horse refused, perhaps for some similar reason to that which animated Balaam’s talking donkey, since we are told that the Lord flew into a passion and cried, “Become stone!” Forthwith horse and rider were turned into a stone which is alive at this day to testify to the truth of the story, though many have been the attempts to destroy it.^128.4

So far the power of words. Another magical power {129} which appears in the märchen is that of a blow. Nor is it absent from sagas told to explain the origin of rocks whose form has appealed to the imagination of uncultured peoples. The story of the discovery of Inishbofin, an island off the coast of Galway, relates that two fishermen lost in a fog landed on an unknown shore. When the fog lifted they found themselves on what is now called the north Beach of Inishbofin.

and close at hand they beheld an old woman driving a white cow down to the lake. She drove the cow right into the water, and struck her with a stick, whereupon the cow was metamorphosed into a rock. One of the fishermen got so angry at the sight that he struck the woman; and both he and she were turned into stones. The rock and stones are still to be seen. “The cow used to rise up out of the lake and walk about the island when any great event was about to happen; but it is now more than thirty years since she was last seen.” From this cow the island takes its name (Inis-bo-finne, the Island of the White Cow).^129.1 In the south-west of Ireland is a cliff called Fail Mahisht, once the daughter of the king of the White Nation and wife of Finn MacCumhail, whom she won by playing at chess with him for a wager. The condition was that he was to be her husband until he had seven shovelfuls of earth put on his head. After various adventures Diarmaid fulfilled the condition, and with a blow of his fist sent the lady spinning through the air until she fell at the water’s edge, where she now stands, and from that day to this gives {130} food to the people of Erin from the limpets and periwinkles that cluster upon her beyond any other cliff in Ireland.^130.1 The heroic cycle of Ireland as now found in the mouths of the people is full of tales of petrifaction from a blow;^130.2 but how far they are now believed as records of fact must be regarded as more than doubtful, whatever might have been the case at the time the legend of the Enchanted Cave, already mentioned, was written. No such uncertainty seems to rest on the Sardinian tale concerning a stone on the side of the Montesanto of Mores. It is called Saint Elisha’s Stone, and was once a man whom the saint threw from the top of the mountain and, when he saw him fast below, called out: “Dost thou stand well?” “Yes, sir,” replied the stone; and there it remains immovable.^130.3

The mixed population of Missouri tell a story, probably of Indian origin, about a beautiful but mysterious witch, who seduced the young braves, and with a touch from her right hand turned their hearts into stone. The people, fearful of attacking her, waited long for vengeance from on high to repay her iniquities. She used to feed on fish that came out of the river in response to her call. One day she went down to the water and summoned the fish in vain. At last, after she had uttered in her rage and impatience words that would dismay devils, there came up a little fish like silver. She essayed to swallow it; but it swelled and {131} stuck in her throat, and at length stiffened into stone. In her agony she clutched her throat and beat her breast with the fatal hand. So now she stands upon, and part of, the rocky bluff on the banks of the Missouri.^131.1

At Jaunpur, in India, is the shrine of Kerárbír, where a great stone is the object of worship. The stone in question is part of the body of the giant-demon Kerar, slain by Rámchandra for his wickedness.^131.2 Two rocks observed in descending the pass of Markundi into the valley of the Son, in Mirzapur, are worshipped and connected with the flight of two lovers from a barbarian king who ruled at the fort of Agori. One of these rocks was cloven by a blow of the fugitives’ sword; the other is the pursuer’s elephant, decapitated by the same means.^131.3

Divine vengeance, without any visible or audible intervention, has often been invoked in various parts of the world to account for the existence of rocks and stones. Niobe, weeping for her children slain by Apollo, was turned to stone, as anybody, says Pausanias, may reasonably be persuaded. She stood, a rock, on Mount Sipylos in Bœotia, and in summer-time was reported to weep.^131.4 Such, too, was the fate which overtook Lot’s wife. Her legend doubtless grew up to account for some prominent pile on the cliffs overlooking the Dead Sea; and perhaps the archæologists who are now striving to rehabilitate the writings of Moses will point out the crag and prove the truth of the story. Of course they will be equally ready and willing to prove a thousand other tales. Let me mention a few equally authentic.

I pass over instances like those of the Stone-woman near the village of Moras in the department of Isère, France, manifestly a mere transplantation of the Biblical tradition.^132.1 There are cases, however, in which the crime of looking back in disobedience to an express taboo has been punished by petrifaction, and where the connection with Lot’s wife is by no means so easily proved. Once upon a time the Hindu saint, Sri Dharamnathji, was doing penance in the jungle near Pattan. His disciple Gharibnáthji used to beg alms in the city, but as the people were not charitable he was obliged to maintain himself by carrying bundles of firewood and selling them in the town. From the proceeds he purchased flour, which a shepherd’s wife baked for him, adding a loaf from herself. The sage, “observing the bald patch on his disciple’s head caused by the loads he carried, cursed the city to be swallowed up. He had previously warned the shepherd’s wife to leave the place and not look back. The city was swallowed up; and the woman, disobeying the saint’s command, was turned into a stone.”^132.2

Here the destruction of the city was caused by niggardliness towards a personage of supernatural power. Another Indian saga shows us this crime punished by petrifaction. Near the village of Dudhi, in South Mirzapur, are two stones, once a bride and bridegroom who were thus transformed by an angry bhút, or malevolent spirit. His proper offerings had been forgotten, and he wrought his vengeance in this way.^132.3 Sometimes the fault is breach of tribal custom or social convention. When a rajah’s daughter made a rash vow only to wed him who could count the palm-trees {133} within view of her father’s palace, and a low-born wizard fulfilled the condition, the earth herself interfered and, rather than allow so shameful a marriage to be accomplished, she turned the princess into a stone, which now lies within the ruined fort of Rájá Sahay, protected from human touch by a number of enormous snakes.^133.1 Among the Gonds of Central India, the bride goes in procession to the bridegroom, instead of his coming to her, as is usual among the Hindus. It is intended in this way to prevent the repetition of the catastrophe which overtook a luckless pair who were about to be married in the ordinary way. The youth, borne on his uncle’s shoulders in the procession, came within sight of his bride, and unable to restrain his impatience he leaped to the ground and looked with all his might to the place where he expected to see her. She felt no less eager, and their eyes met. In a moment not only the young couple but also the bridegroom’s uncle were turned into sandstone spires yet visible on the road in descending into the valley of the Narbada over the Vindhyan range from Bhopál.^133.2 The same cause may perhaps be understood in an Enganese tale accounting for a block of coral and a rock bearing some resemblance to human form off the coast of the island, near the anchorages of Baraháu and Kai-Kokoh. The one represents a husband who was deserting his wife because he found she had a disgusting malady, and the other the deserted wife.^133.3 It is more obvious in the case of two stones in the tanks near the temples at Arang, in the Ráepur district of India, and at Deobáluda. The erection of the pinnacle of a temple is {134} the act of completion; and it seems that it is necessary to be performed naked. These two temples were built simultaneously. When they were ready to receive their pinnacles the mason and his sister agreed to put them on at the same auspicious moment. Stripping themselves according to custom, they climbed to the top. As they reached it, each could see the other, and each through shame jumped down into the tank beneath and was changed into stone. Both stones are visible in seasons of drought, when the water in the tanks is low.^134.1

Petrifaction in the traditions of Christian Europe, when directly inflicted by divine intervention, is usually the punishment of a serious infraction of the divine law, often amounting to lèse-majesté. Various stone circles in Cornwall, such as the Hurlers, the Nine Maids and the Merry Maidens, were once human beings transformed for Sabbath-breaking by hurling or dancing.^134.2 Stories of this kind are commonplace all over Europe. We will be satisfied with the following samples taken from Germany and Bohemia. The legend of the two stone Jews at Ottorowo on the crossroad to Krzeszkowice, in the province of Posen, relates that these culprits suffered metamorphosis for profaning a crucifix.^134.3 In the neighbourhood of the town of Gabel in Bohemia stand three blocks of stone surmounted by crosses. They were girls who went to work in the fields on Easter Sunday. They carried their disregard of holy things so far as to mock when the sanctus bell sounded at the completion of the sacred rite; and each time it rang they threw up to heaven the sickles they were using to cut the grass. The third time the sickles fell not down again, {135} and the girls were turned into stone. Near Commotau, in the same country, lie seven great stones, once girls who led an evil life, and were therefore transformed.^135.1 In Styria the same penalty fell on a maiden who would spin on Sundays. A violent storm destroyed the hut wherein she dwelt and transported her to the top of a neighbouring rock, where she stands for ever, a warning against blasphemy and greed.^135.2 On some pasture lands not far from Jevenstedt stands a stone circle with two larger stones in the midst. These were a bridal party who danced on Sunday during divine service.^135.3 Bridal parties in the West as in the East seem specially obnoxious to the displeasure of the higher powers. In Altmark, near Dahrendorf, not far from the Hanoverian border, is a large piece of granite surrounded by smaller stones, formerly a bride, named Lene, from the state of Hanover, who with her attendants was changed, no one knows why, into stone. We have already met with several other instances. A circle of stones near Wirchow, in Neumark, was a party of persons who added to their scorn of Whitsunday the shameless eccentricity of dancing naked, and are now called the Adam’s Dance. It has ever been held by the folk a grave misdemeanour to treat with wanton disrespect the necessaries of life; and singular judgments have, both in this country and elsewhere in Europe, fallen on such as have dealt improperly with bread and other common kinds of food. Seven boys were thus turned into stone, and are still to be seen near the little town of Morin in Neumark.^135.4 Let us hope that the children of the district are duly impressed by their awful doom.

Similar to the fate of the Styrian maiden was that of a pair of lovers in Sardinia, who in consequence of the opposition of their families to their union entered, the one a monastery, and the other a nunnery. But love triumphs over even the vows of celibacy. The young monk escaped from his convent, carried off his sweetheart and lived with her in the wilds. The infraction of their vows could not, however, be passed over. God raised one day an impetuous wind, which transported the lovers to the top of Monte Ruju, where they rest changed into stone.^136.1

On the western continent are to be found many legends accounting for rocks of peculiar form as human victims of supernatural caprice. The Zuñi tradition mentioned in a previous chapter is but one example of many. Mrs. Stevenson, who reports this tale, also records the tradition of an allied people, the Sia, concerning two brothers of ancient days, the culture-heroes of their tribe, renowned for giant-slaying and other feats. On two occasions they went disguised as poor, dirty, beggar-boys to villages of the Oraibi and the Katsuna where feasts were being held. They were refused food save by one family at each place; and the people were in consequence turned into stone.^136.2 {137} More frequently, perhaps, in aboriginal folklore the metamorphosis is suffered by a fugitive. In such cases it seems a little doubtful whether the pursuers are thus foiled or satiated of their revenge. The story of the Peruvian goddess, Cavillaca, will be remembered in this connection.^137.1 “There is a Winnebago tradition that a woman carrying her child was running from her enemies, so she jumped down a steep place and was turned into a rock. And now when they [the Winnebagoes] pass that place they make offerings to her.”^137.2 A similar saga of the Nasqually Indians of British Columbia is told to account for an isolated rock on the coast.^137.3 Many other instances are to be found.

Among savages, however, it hardly seems necessary for their fore-elders to render themselves obnoxious to superior beings as a cause of this transformation. The natives of North Australia have tales of persons, some good and others bad, who were turned on death into stones or trees.^137.4 A Chinese legend, descending doubtless from a more barbarous period, explains the existence of three rocks in the Yang-tsze river and the Poyang lake, through which it runs. A boat containing a man, his wife and their two children was capsized on the river during a storm. The man and woman perished at once; but the lads were assisted by a compassionate frog, which took them on its back and made for their home on the banks of the lake. The younger boy, grieving at his parents’ death, threw himself off and was drowned, reappearing shortly after in the {138} form of a bold limestone rock, now known as the Little Orphan, situate in the middle of the river about twenty miles below the egress of the lake. The surviving orphan held on until the frog had entered the lake, when he fell broken-hearted into the water and became the large rock, surmounted in later ages by a Buddhist monastery and pagoda, and called the Great Orphan. The frog, in the bitterness of grief at his unsuccessful efforts, also yielded up his life, and in due course emerged from the waves as the Frog Rock.^138.1 In Japan the peasants discern high up on the weatherworn cliffs of Matsura, “the figure of a lady in long trailing court-dress with face and figure eagerly bent over the western waves.” It is Satyohimé, the wife of Saté-hiko, petrified while gazing to catch the last glimpse of the sails that bore her husband away to Corea, as one of the Mikado’s body-guard, sent to assist the Japanese allies at Hiaksai, in the year 536 A.D. Her sad fate has rendered her name the symbol in Japanese literature of devoted love.^138.2

I have left to the last the Gorgonian power of petrifying with a look. The fatal head was regarded, we know, as the most powerful of Athene’s weapons. As a single illustration we may take a curious case mentioned by Pausanias. Describing the temple of Athene near Coronea, in Bœotia, where the Panbœotian festival was held, he says that a priestess named Iodamia coming into the temple once at night was confronted by the goddess herself armed with Medusa’s head, and was turned into stone. An altar called by the unfortunate priestess’ name seems to have stood in the temple when Pausanias wrote; and a woman daily put fire thereon, saying in the language of the country that {139} Iodamia was living and demanded fire.^139.1 The memory of Medusa yet lingers, as we have seen, in Seriphos, where her head on the coinage of the island seems to have preserved it. If we may trust mediæval writers like Walter Map, Gervase of Tilbury and Roger of Hoveden, a more definite recollection, though still confused and distorted, formerly remained in the Levant. Gervase tells us that between Rhodes and Cyprus are the Syrtes, commonly called the Gulf of Satalia, where the Gorgon’s head was said to have been thrown into the sea. They are opposite the town of Satalia, claimed by the Sultan of Iconium. The Gorgon was held to have been a prostitute whose beauty drove men out of their wits, until Perseus threw her head into the deep. This of course was a piece of euhemerism on the part of the Marshal of Arles or his informants, whoever they may have been. He goes on, however, to say that the natives report that a soldier fell in love with a certain queen, and not being able to obtain her during her life, he secretly violated her sepulchre. From his posthumous embraces the corpse bore a monstrous head, which, the soldier was warned by a voice in the air at the moment of his crime, would by its mere look destroy all things that it beheld. Accordingly at the proper time he opened the tomb and found the head, carefully averting himself from its gaze. Whenever he exhibited it to his foes they and their cities were destroyed. Afterwards he found another love; and one day, while sailing the sea he was sleeping peacefully in her lap, when she took the opportunity to steal the key and open the casket wherein the head was kept. Her curiosity proved her bane. Her lover awoke and, plunged in grief at the catastrophe, he took out the {140} fatal head, stuck it up and perished with his ship from its glance. Every seven years, it was believed, the head rose to the surface of the sea and imperilled the safety of all who navigated those waters.^140.1 Map’s account is that the hero was a cordwainer of exceeding great skill, who flourished at Constantinople in the time of Gerbert, that is to say, about a hundred and fifty years before his own time. Falling in love with a noble maiden whose naked foot he had been called upon to clothe in the course of business, he sold everything and took service in the army, in order to rise in the world and become worthy of her. She, however, died in his absence. The violation of her tomb follows. The Gorgonian head is expressly declared to have stiffened the wretches upon whom its gaze was brought to bear. The soldier at length weds the daughter and heiress of the Emperor. She gives him no peace until he tells her the contents of his casket; and having learnt the secret she tries the effect of the head upon her husband as he wakes from sleep. Having thus fordone him by her wiles, she orders his body and the instrument of his enormities to be cast together into the Grecian Sea. A terrific storm arose when her command was fulfilled; and on its subsiding a vast and destructive whirlpool remained ever thereafter, called Satalia, or more commonly, the Gulf of Satalia, from the maiden’s name.^140.2

More nearly akin to the classical myth is a Danish tradition that in former days a troll who dwelt in the Issefiord was accustomed to stop every passing vessel and take a man by way of toll. At last it became known that the troll’s power would endure until the head of Pope Lucius, {141} who had suffered decapitation in Rome ages before, should be shown him. Some monks were accordingly despatched to Rome for the head. “When the ship returned and was about to run into the fiord the troll made his appearance; but as soon as they held forth the head and the troll got a sight of it, he with a horrid howl transformed himself into a rock.” Representations in Roeskilde Cathedral commemorate the event.^141.1 One of the commonest of Scandinavian sagas is that which attributes the power of transforming trolls and giants to the sun. The earliest mention of it is in the Helgi poems, which are only known to us in a single manuscript, the Codex Regius at Copenhagen, but which probably date from the tenth century. In one of these poems, Rimegerd, the giantess, whose father Helgi has slain, appears by night and calls on the hero to recompense her for her father’s slaughter. Helgi and Atli his warder detain her in a war of words until the sun rises, when Atli exclaims: “Look eastward now, Rimegerd! Helgi hath stricken thee with the wand of Death.… It is day, Rimegerd! Atli has lured thee to deadly delay. It will be a laughter-moving harbour-mark, methinks, that thou wilt make now thou art turned to stone!” The same catastrophe is implied in the Alvíssmal, also found only in the Codex Regius, but at least as old as the Helgi poems. Allwise the dwarf has come to fetch Freya, whom he has entrapped the Anses into a promise to give him as wife. He comes by night; and one of the Anses detains him with questions calculated to bring out his extensive cosmological knowledge, until the day breaks and the hall is full of sunshine. We are then to understand, from the triumphant expressions of his interlocutor, that the power {142} of the sun effects his petrifaction.^142.1 In a Norwegian ballad of Hermod the Young the hero rescues a beautiful maiden from a giantess, riding off with her on Christmas Day. The giantess pursues all night, and is on the point of catching the fugitives, when the sun arises and she is changed to a stone.^142.2 Two tall isolated cliffs lift themselves out of the sound between Eysturoy and Streymoy, two of the Færoe Islands. They were a giant and his wife who had been sent from Iceland to drag the Færoe Islands nearer to that island. It was at night. The giant stood in the sea while the giantess took the other end of the rope, and after an ineffectual attempt made it fast to the top of one of the hills. She saw the glimmering of dawn and hastened down; but too late. Before she and her husband could wade back to Iceland with their charge the sun came up out of the sea and they were instantly turned to stone, to stand there for ever looking northward but unable to move from the spot.^142.3 These are sufficient as samples of the Scandinavian belief in the transforming influence exercised by the gaze of the sun upon the evil powers of darkness. The incident has passed into a Lapp märchen from Tanen, where a king’s son, by the help of a friendly fox, has stolen a maiden called Evening-glow, the sun’s sister, from some giants who held her captive. The fox leads the pursuing giants astray until the dawn, when he exclaims: “See, there comes the sun’s sister!” They raise their eyes to the morning glow, and are forthwith changed into stone pillars.^142.4 The incident here probably owes its origin to the adjacent Norsemen; the Quiché {143} saga of the three tribal gods, Tohil, Avilix, and Hacavitz is, however, quite independent. Originally, we learn, there was neither sun, moon, nor star. When for the first time the sun rose, it petrified these and other ferocious deities, but without taking away from them the power of changing their forms and resuming mobility when they pleased.^143.1 According to the story of the inhabitants of Hispaniola, men came out of two caves. A giant, Machakael, was set to guard these caves and prevent mankind from looking upon the light of the sun. One night he wandered from his post, and could not return before sunrise. The sun rose out of the sea and looked with anger upon the giant, who was forthwith turned into a rock called Kauta.^143.2

The power of petrification is, however, usually regarded as equivalent to that of striking dead with a glance. This is expressed, as we have already seen,^143.3 in the case of Balor of Tory Island. A long list of stories wherein a glance is credited with this terrible might could be culled from every nation, beginning with that of Isis punishing at Byblos an unlucky boy who disturbed her in her grief.^143.4 In some cases, as in a variant of the tale of Balor, the baleful eye not only slays but reduces its victim to ashes.^143.5 The elephant head of the Hindu god, Ganesa, is a substitute for his original head burned to cinders by the gaze of Sani. Nor is the murderous property confined to supernatural beings. Witches, who of course partake of more than {144} ordinary human qualities, are credited with it. Men of special holiness have sometimes the fatal gift, like Rabbi Juda in rabbinical tradition, who thus killed four-and-twenty of his scholars in a single day;^144.1 or a Samoan high-priest of the heavenly gods, whose very look was poison; “if he looked at a cocoa-nut tree it died, and if he glanced at a bread-fruit tree it also withered away.”^144.2 Various writers, classic and mediæval, have told us of the women of a certain Scythian tribe, of the Sardinians, or of a remote island in the ocean, whose glance is death.^144.3 To such writers we owe the fable of the Catoblepas, or Downlooker, an animal “so wicked and so venomous that no man may behold it right in the face, but he die anon without remedy.” Some of the soldiers of Marius in his expedition against Jugurtha, not knowing the creature and attacking it incautiously, were slain by the eye of this terrible beast.^144.4 In various parts of Asia and Africa serpents also have naturally been reputed to possess the same horrible gift; while countries like Spain have not yet parted with the belief in the basilisk.^144.5 Among American tribes the superstition and the stories of the deadly glance are found in similar terms to those of the Old World. I have already mentioned the Quiché gods petrified by the sun. The Cegihas have a tale of a mysterious being called Two Faces that slew every one {145} who looked at it.^145.1 The Ts’ets’āut of British Columbia account for the prohibition to a man to look at his adult sister by a legend of one of their fore-elders who married his sister. Their brothers were ashamed, tied them together by way of punishment, and deserted them. But the man broke the ropes; and having killed a ram, an ewe and a kid of the mountain-goats, he clad himself, his wife and their child in the skins, and they assumed the shape of goats. “He had acquired the power of killing everything by a glance of his eyes. One day his tribe came up the river for the purpose of hunting, and he killed them. Then he travelled all over the world, leaving signs of his presence everywhere, such as remarkable rocks.”^145.2 Iroquois traditions tell of an Onondaga chief, named Tododäho, whose head was covered with tangled serpents, and whose angry look sufficed to strike the beholders dead. He submitted, however, to be tamed, and to have the serpents combed out of his locks.^145.3 But the saga which presents the closest parallel to the incident of the Slaughter of the Gorgon comes to us from Brazil, and comes with every mark of indigenous growth. Some of the Brazilian tribes tell of a bird which kills with a look. The story goes that a hunter succeeded in slaying one, and cut off its head, without the dreadful eye being turned upon him. Like Perseus, he killed his game thenceforward by turning the eye upon it. “His wife, not dreaming of its destructive power, however, once turned it toward her husband and {146} killed him, and then accidentally turned it toward herself and died.”^146.1

The truth is that we are here in presence of the worldwide belief in the Evil Eye: one more demonstration of the inseparable connection between tale, superstition, and custom. The awful weapon of the mythical Brazilian bird was Medusa’s power, the same as is to-day the terror of the Italian peasant, and is not yet regarded with indifference even in lands, like our own, which boast of being in the van of civilisation. From all parts of the world we read of the superstition that certain persons wield, intentionally or unintentionally—as often the latter as the former—the power of blasting others by their look. This power was dreaded in Palestine from time immemorial. The maxim, “Eat thou not the bread of him that hath an Evil Eye” is found among the Hebrew proverbs; and Jesus Christ alludes to the superstition, though only to warn the Pharisees against “an Evil Eye” as a moral quality proceeding out of the heart.^146.2 The superstition has left its traces in language. To the ancient Roman “Envy, eldest born of Hell,” was really Invidia, the Evil Eye; and the English rustic still speaks of being “overlooked.” Wizards and witches are thus gifted, of course: the Evil Eye is amongst their mightiest weapons. But it is by no means theirs alone. Innocent women, according to many nations, are periodically cursed with it. In fact, anybody may have an Evil Eye, even without knowing it; the most sacred personages are not exempt. The Samoan high priest and the Rabbi Juda are examples from the opposite ends of the {147} earth. Pius the Ninth, infallible head of the church as he was, vicar of Christ and what not, was afflicted with the Evil Eye. There was nothing so fatal as his blessing; and the flock he tended cowered and quailed before their shepherd’s sight.^147.1

So much has been written of late on the Evil Eye that it is enough to mention in these general terms a superstition at once much less complex and much more fully known to anthropological students than some of those investigated in other chapters of these volumes. Its origin is doubtless to be sought in the evil passions of which the human countenance is so admirable and so terrible an exponent, striking inevitably with horror and awe even beholders who are not the object of the resentment or the jealousy expressed—much more, fascinating and paralysing with fear the unhappy victims, as a bird is said to be fascinated by a snake.^147.2

CHAPTER XXI.
THE STORY AS A WHOLE. THE PROBLEM OF ITS PLACE OF ORIGIN. CONCLUSION.

My task draws towards its close. We have now examined the four leading trains of incident as developed in modern folktales belonging to the Perseus cycle. We have found the Supernatural Birth, the Life-token, and the Medusa-witch founded on superstitions common to all mankind and arising in the depths of savagery. The Rescue of Andromeda, on the other hand, appears to be restricted to nations which have attained a certain grade of civilisation, and to spring out of the suppression of human sacrifices to divinities in bestial form.

We have now to return to the story as an artistic whole, and to inquire where and when it originated.

In seeking the origin of the story as a whole it is well to begin with a caution, to which I have alluded in a note to an earlier chapter, namely, that it is dangerous in these matters to assert that a story or a custom is not found outside a given area. Anthropological research is so modern that much material is certain to have already perished unrecorded, and much that still exists as yet is unrecorded, either because {149} it has been overlooked, or because scientific observers have not yet reached it. All assertions or assumptions, therefore, of a negative character must be taken with the limitations imposed by this condition of things. They can only be provisional, for they may, any of them, be upset by further research. Moreover, the mass of anthropological data is already so great, and is growing with such rapidity, that nothing is easier than for a single inquirer, how diligent soever he may be, to overlook facts duly recorded which may be in conflict with his conclusions. To assert, for example, and to base any portion of an argument upon the assertion, that tales of the group under consideration are not found in Hindustan in anything like the shape wherein we find them in Europe, would be to run the risk of having to revise the argument in the face of new discoveries, or of old records which have not been brought to the writer’s knowledge.

Thus much premised, let us turn to the facts so far as we know them. The geographical boundaries within which the story, as a whole, may be found, are the geographical and ethnical boundaries of that stage of culture which forms the seed-plot of the incident of most restricted range. We can only look for it among nations who have approached and passed the level of barbarism where human sacrifices are offered to brutes; for it is only among such that the Rescue of Andromeda can have been conceived. This excludes races like the Australians, who seem never to have practised sacrifices of the kind referred to, even if their country were infested with beasts or reptiles addicted to such food. It does not exclude peoples like the ancient Quiché, who assuredly offered human sacrifices, and whose legend, partly cited in the last chapter, looks back to a {150} time when such offerings were made to wild animals. Among the ferocious gods petrified by the sun when it rose upon the primeval darkness, we are told, were those “connected with the lion, the tiger, the viper, and other fierce and dangerous animals. Perhaps we should not be alive at this moment,” continues the chronicler, “because of the voracity of these fierce animals, had not the sun caused this petrifaction.” But this did not end the mischief; for these gods could recover life and mobility when they pleased. And the four Quiché patriarchs were impelled, apparently by a supernatural vision, to wet their altars with the blood of human victims. Wherefore they watched in their mountain stronghold for lonely travellers belonging to the neighbouring tribes, and, having seized and overpowered them, slew them for a sacrifice; and wherever the blood of a victim was found, there also were always found the tracks of many tigers. This was the craft—so the tale says—of the priests; but at last the tribes that suffered thus found out that the loss of their friends was due not to attacks of wild animals but to the desire of the Quiché patriarchs to provide offerings for their gods; and they made war upon the aggressors. They were beaten by the aid of a miraculous horde of wasps and hornets; but their lives were spared and they became tributaries to the Quiché for ever.^150.1 The legend records, in traditional form, the change from the worship of living creatures to that of gods of stone. But it does not record the abandonment of human sacrifices, for that never took place; and being told from the point of view of the conquerors it contains no rescue-incident. What the subject-nations may have had to say upon the matter we do not know. Inasmuch, {151} however, as they probably continued to furnish the victims from time to time, we may assume that no rescue-incident was included in their folklore. At all events the incident has not been recorded among any people on the Western Continent, save in circumstances pointing to importation since the days of Columbus.^151.1

In the eastern world it is found from Ireland to Japan, from Scandinavia to Quilimane. If we set aside the story from Quilimane^151.2 as sporadic, and introduced by the Portuguese, the southern limit of the extension of the Perseus group may perhaps be fixed on the shores of the Red Sea, where, Ælian tells us, in ancient times Perseus, the son of Zeus, was honoured, and where we may be allowed to indulge the hope that our archæological explorers will sooner or later recover some trace of the tale. Eastward, a variant embodying the incidents of the Life-token, the Rescue of Andromeda, and the Medusa-witch, has been found in Cambodia; and the Rescue of Andromeda has been found alone in Japan. The area, therefore, within which the place of origin is to be sought may roughly be said to include the whole of Europe and Asia, and the parts of Africa which lie to the north and east of the Great Desert.

Comparing the classical version of the legend, as it has come down to us in the writings chiefly of Ovid and Lucian, with what may be regarded as the typical shape of the {152} modern märchen, we are struck by a number of differences, among which we may reckon the difference in the mode of the supernatural conception; the absence from the ancient tale of the Life-token and of the impostor who pretends to have slain the dragon; the displacement of the incident of the Medusa-witch and its elevation in the classical story to a more prominent position than it usually occupies elsewhere; the substitution in modern tales of the Helpful Beasts for the divine gift of weapons; and lastly the enthralling power of Fate, supplying the artistic motive for the romance of Perseus, but absent from most of the folktales gathered in later times. Some of these differences of detail, however, are more apparent than real. In Phineus, who, according to Ovid, invades the wedding banquet, we have an analogue of the impostor. Too cowardly to fight the monster and save his betrothed, he comes forward with a posse of friends to take her by force from the victor, and is only vanquished when Perseus exhibits the Gorgon’s head. It is tempting to suggest that in the prototype of the story Perseus attacked and slew the monster on his outward journey, that he passed on to the slaughter of Medusa before celebrating his union with Andromeda, and that meanwhile Phineus laid claim to the victory and its guerdon, and was confounded on the hero’s return, either by production of the Gorgon’s head, as in Ovid’s text, or by proof in the shape of the dragon’s head or tongue, as in the more modern tales. This conjecture might be supported by the fact that Perseus is represented by Ovid^152.1 as using only his sword in the combat with the {153} monster, as well as by the consideration that it supplies a motive for the inexplicable desertion by the victor of the lady whom he has saved from the dragon’s maw, which occurs in so large a number of variants. The order in question does occur, though rarely, in modern stories;^153.1 but, as we shall see hereafter, there is a decisive reason against supposing it ever to have formed part of the classical legend.

The versions preserved by the author of the Metamorphoses and in a more fragmentary way by Lucian are substantially similar. That other versions were current in antiquity we know from many sources. I have already in the opening chapter given several instances of inconsistent statements pointing unmistakably to this conclusion. The most important of them for this inquiry are derived from Ælian. Writing in the third century after Christ, he tells us of a fish found in the Red Sea and called after Perseus, who was honoured by the Arabs dwelling on the shore. If the modern märchen did not refer to a fish as the source of life of the twin-heroes this would be puzzling, since no reference is made in the classical saga to a fish. But in face of the facts it seems to show, not merely that the literary form of the saga is only one of two or more current in antiquity, but that one at least of the popular and unrecorded variants included a version of the Supernatural Birth which was allied to that in the Breton tale of The King of the Fishes. The same writer in a later passage associates a marine crustacean with Perseus. Many persons abstained from eating it, because they deemed it sacred. This I understand to be an assertion of a practice not {154} confined to the island of Seriphos; whose inhabitants, Ælian goes on to say, if they found it dead would bury it, if they caught it alive would not keep it in their nets, but returned it to the sea. They would even weep over dead specimens, for they held these creatures to be dear to Perseus, the son of Zeus.^154.1 The custom of solemnly burying, and mourning for, dead animals is very widespread, and is connected with totemism.^154.2 We are probably right in believing that in the first instance the crustacean referred to was the totem of some of the inhabitants of Seriphos, that the national hero was either identified with it or held to be its offspring, and that in process of time this hero was either accepted and glorified as Perseus, the son of Zeus, by the more polished Greeks of the mainland, or from the similarity of his birth and exploits became merged in the hero of Argos and Mykene. Doubtless in the ruder ages tales common in their origin but independent in their development were told both at Seriphos and on the mainland. As intercourse increased, the tales of Argos and Mykene would become known to the people of Seriphos, and vice versâ, their similarity would be recognised and their heroes identified. If the Seriphiote saga connected its hero with the rock-lobster, which was regarded as a totem, as the triplet boys are connected in the Breton märchen with the King of the Fishes, all the conditions would be fulfilled to account for the Seriphiote practices. We seem here, therefore, to have a third version of the story. The two versions which did not reach literary immortality both brought the hero into close relations with a marine animal. We can hardly doubt that in both {155} cases those relations were such as described in so many of the modern variants.

The next question to consider is that of the relation between the ancient and modern variants of the story. If it were confined to that between the ancient variants and the variants current to-day in Italy and Greece, it would be comparatively simple. The problem is, in fact, much larger; for we have to take into account variants found all over the area, already described, within which the place of origin is to be sought. We cannot conclude, I need hardly say, that the first-recorded version of a tale is the parent of all the rest, or of any of them. Our scepticism must go much further. It often happens that the first-recorded version is one current in a higher grade of civilisation, and therefore more refined and artistic, than a version subsequently gathered from oral tradition. Emphatically is this the case with classical stories and Buddhist parables, as writers on folklore have often observed. But what has not been equally insisted on is, that the reason why these classic stories and Buddhist parables have found their way into literature is because they are the more refined and artistic versions. It is quite certain that if Ovid had had to choose between the picturesque narrative of the shower of gold, with the parentage of the highest god of Olympus, on the one hand, and a totemistic tale about a fish or a rock-lobster on the other hand, he could not have hesitated to which of these sources he should, for literary purposes, assign the begetting of Perseus. So, to take an instance outside the range of the present study, if the compilers of the Jātaka could have chosen between the Tar-baby of Negro story-tellers and the Demon with the matted hair, they would have preserved in their collection the story in {156} the form which actually appears.^156.1 Probably neither alternative was actually offered, the causes which would have operated in the mind of the poet or the parable-writer having already wrought, less consciously indeed, but not less effectively, in the popular mind, so as to render, by a process, analogous with that of natural selection, which we may call traditional selection, the version that has reached us predominant over all others. For æsthetic and ethical development speedily outstripped that of abstract thought and criticism. Savages often attain a high degree of taste and skill in the production and ornamentation of their utensils and weapons. The beauty of mediæval architecture has rarely been approached and never been surpassed, though the generations which built the great cathedrals of Europe were under bondage to one of the most cruel and extravagant systems of superstition that the wit of man has elaborated. At the same time in many directions, and at all events theoretically, they had attained a comparatively advanced moral elevation. The arts of poetry and story-telling come to maturity later than the material arts, because they are dependent upon the critical sense; but even they are quite compatible with very gross credulity. No people has displayed a finer critical sense than the ancient Greeks; yet no people has told more absurd stories about its divinities or practised sillier customs; and that, even in the age which produced their most finished sculptures and their most exquisite poems. The unbelief of the philosophers was confined to a small class; and the populace that applauded the verses and appreciated the art of Euripides pinned its faith to omens, {157} found presages in the flight of birds, and gave implicit credence to the magical effect of incantations, to say nothing of the ridiculous and impossible tales about the gods which were part of its religious faith, and as such were literally and devoutly accepted. Yet even among these a process of selection was going forward, tending to eliminate the ruder and coarser, preserving and refining, not necessarily the more credible, but the more artistic. From the more cultured cities of Greece a literary and æsthetic influence was diffused throughout all Greek-speaking communities. To this aggressive influence local beliefs and local customs gradually yielded. They were either identified and amalgamated with the beliefs and customs to which it gave a continually wider and wider currency, gaining in the process a less barbarous exterior; or, if too stubborn for identification and amalgamation, they were thrust aside bit by bit and left to rustics and to slaves. The same process, repeated in the modern world, has caused the powers and distinguishing marks of the ancient superseded deities to be attributed to the Madonna and the saints, and many of the heathen shrines and superstitions to be baptized into the Christian Church. The rest have been relegated to the peasantry, and driven into more and more remote districts by the continual pressure, direct and indirect, of the triumphant religion and the increasing civilisation. So it has been everywhere, not only in Europe, but wherever in the whole world a higher has been carried, either by arms, commerce or persuasion, across the frontiers of a lower culture. We may conclude, therefore, that the story of Danae made its way throughout the Eastern Mediterranean, to the disadvantage of the stories told in various places of the birth of a hero similar {158} in the rest of his life to Perseus, because of its own æsthetic qualities, and because it was accepted by the most intellectual peoples of Greece. These two causes, it will be seen, are at bottom one. For it was precisely the intellectual characteristics of the polished peninsular Greeks which had given the tale its artistic form, and thus fitted it for prevailing over its competitors. Traditional selection, first in the inhabitants of Argos and the neighbourhood, and afterwards in all those with whom they and their allies and fellow-countrymen came into contact, determined its shape and secured its victory.

But though Ovid may have been ignorant of other versions of the story, it is manifest that others existed. And here it is material to observe that the incident of the Rescue of Andromeda stands in the poet’s account on a very different footing from that of the remaining incidents. Though it is now (perhaps by virtue of the Christian symbolism read into it from early days of Christianity) the incident which first springs into the mind on mention of the name of Perseus, in the Metamorphoses it is a mere episode, not organically connected with the hero’s story. The encounter with Andromeda is represented as fortuitous. It is not led up to by the previous narrative. It affects the after-incidents in no way. The dragon is not even petrified by the Gorgon’s head. On the other hand, the fatal prophecy is the foundation of all the rest of the saga, from which nothing could be omitted (save, it may be, the visit to Atlas) without impairing the natural, the inevitable, development of the legend as an artistic whole. We must infer that the Rescue is an intrusive episode, and that, as in many modern variants, the tale comprised at first only the other two trains of incident, already characterised as {159} the Birth and the Quest of the Gorgon’s Head. The remaining versions current in antiquity, or some of them, probably omitted Andromeda with all her picturesque possibilities; and it may be permitted to conjecture that the story we regard as classical may have been formed by the imperfect fusion of a legend consisting of the Birth and the Quest of the Gorgon’s Head, with one recognised for some reason as kindred, and consisting only of the Birth and the Rescue of Andromeda. The Albanian märchen, related in our opening chapter, may represent the latter by direct transmission, while the sagas involved in Ælian’s allusions—perchance also as known to Herodotus—may have been guiltless of the fight with the Dragon.

We cannot pursue the conjecture into the region of probabilities, because of the obvious confusion of the Albanian tale, and of the imperfect state of our knowledge with regard to local legends not taken up into Greek and Roman literature, and with regard to Egyptian and Babylonian cults. The Tuscan tale from Pratovecchio^159.1 seems, however, to have descended in right line from the familiar version of Ovid and Lucian—not, that is to say, from their writings, but from the oral sources whence they drew—though on its way to us it has not passed wholly uncontaminated by other streams. But can we venture to assert the same either of the Irish, German, Swedish, and Russian tales which I have assigned to the Danae type; or of the various modern Italian and Greek stories wherein the hero’s birth is ascribed to entirely different causes? Of the latter, some are perhaps derived from local variants current in antiquity. Yet even to assume this will carry us but a little way towards the solution of the problem {160} of origin of a märchen told as far afield as Ireland and Cambodia.

The legend in classical literature is the product of a comparatively high stage of civilisation. In proof of this, it is only necessary to refer to the divine gift of weapons. The helmet, the shield of metal, brightly polished as a mirror, the sword, are not the weapons of the unsophisticated savage. They are replaced in a large number of modern variants by the gift of Helpful Animals. Now, everywhere in the lowest planes of culture we find stories of birds, beasts, reptiles, and even insects, talking and acting in human fashion, sometimes hostile, more usually perhaps helpful to man. It would seem as though man, at variance with his fellow-man, and therefore having unintermittent reason to suspect him, beset, too, by the awful supernatural powers of his imagination, turned for sympathy, perforce, and consolation to his fellow-creatures of a different shape, whom he credited with ability to aid him in his need. No line was drawn between nature and that which was beyond or above nature. But while he imagined in his own form the powers whose enmity he dreaded, he sought, of necessity, his allies among those of other forms. He observed their characteristics; he experienced their usefulness in supplying his wants; he felt himself akin to them; out of them he framed totems, and ultimately gods. The modern incident, therefore, of the Helpful Animals cannot be derived from the classical gift of weapons; for not only is it utterly different in character, but it comes up from a deeper depth of barbarism. Thus it constitutes a strong presumption that the stories wherein it occurs, however they may have been modified in the course of ages, are not to be traced back to the classic literary saga. Still less can {161} we venture to assert that they are derived from the local variants of antiquity. They would be likely to owe their origin rather to a tale already common property, than to one merely local. And of the local variants we only know that Perseus was connected in one of them with a fish; whereas the corresponding heroes of modern variants are frequently so connected, while they are never connected with a crustacean, but often with other artificial means of generation, not noticed in any of the hints that have reached us from ancient times.

To elucidate the matter, I have compiled and placed in an Appendix tables of the variants accessible to me. I do not, of course, pretend that they are complete. Statistics of the kind never are; and they must not be taken for more than they are worth. Still, I have no reason to think that they would be seriously modified by the addition of other variants. If we glance at Table A we shall see that out of 110 examples (comprising stories properly belonging to the cycle, and also stories wherein the Rescue of Andromeda is the only incident belonging to the Legend of Perseus) forty-four represent the Helpful Beasts as congenital with the heroes, while four others represent some of the Beasts as congenital, the rest of them being obtained in another way. By congenital I mean born of the same material which causes the birth of the heroes, as in the case of the fish, where one part given to the woman originates the children, and another given to a mare or a bitch originates the foals or the puppies. This, the most savage conceit of the manner in which the Helpful Beasts were obtained, is thus found in more than forty-one per cent. of the stories. They are told throughout the whole of Europe, from Donegal to Georgia, from Sweden to Greece. One {162} of them, indeed, has been carried, as we may assume, from Portugal to Quilimane, where the origin of the Helpful Beasts is reproduced by the natives in the most intensely savage form of all; for the woman gives birth not only to the heroes but to their dogs, and even their spears and their guns. In ten cases in the table the Beasts are given by their parent animals, while in ten others (or eleven, if we add, as we probably may, the Servian case^162.1) they attach themselves to the heroes out of gratitude.^162.2 The total percentage of stories in which the Beasts attach themselves, or are given by the parent animals out of gratitude, to the heroes is thus nearly twenty. In sixteen cases, less than fifteen per cent., they are obtained by exchange of some other animals, or of arms or corn. In nine cases, or little more than eight per cent., they are acquired from conquered foes; while in only eight cases, a still smaller percentage, they are obtained in the classical way from a mysterious personage. If we add the two classes of exchange and gift by a mysterious personage together, we obtain twenty-four cases, or a little under twenty-two per cent., of which three alone properly belong to the Perseus group: that is, contain more than one of the four chief trains of incident which compose it. One of these three is the Tuscan story I have already indicated as probably a direct descendant of the classical tale. The rest of the twenty-four come from different parts of European Russia, Transylvania, Bohemia, {163} Germany, Italy, the Celtiberian Peninsula, Brittany, and Achill Island, two variants having been carried to North America, possibly by the French.

If we turn to Table B, relating to the Gift of Weapons, we find results not very different. Out of a total number of seventy-two stories, twenty-two (or thirty per cent.) represent the Weapons as congenital. These are all from Central Europe, Sweden, Denmark, Italy, Sicily, Spain and Portugal, including the story from Quilimane; and they all belong to the Perseus group. Then we have twelve, or, if we add the Lithuanian tale in which the Weapons are taken from an uninhabited house, thirteen variants, or eighteen per cent., in which the Weapons are obtained from conquered foes. None of these thirteen stories contain any other of the four chief trains of incident than the Rescue of Andromeda. They are more widely spread than the former, ranging from the west of Ireland to Lithuania and the Levant. There are next seven instances (just under ten per cent.) in which the Weapon is forged to order or bought by the hero. Of these, three come from Scotland, one from Brittany, one is Basque, one is found in the island of Syra, and one in Georgia. Lastly, we have ten cases in which the Weapons are given by a mysterious person without any consideration, two in which they are given to redeem stolen eyes, five in which they are given out of gratitude, two in payment for services rendered or in exchange, and one in which they are given by a fish: in all, twenty cases, or not quite twenty-eight per cent.

This class of stories, embracing nearly one-third of those represented in Table B, is much the most interesting, not only as scattered over a far wider area than the others, but also, made up as it is partly of stories within the true Perseus {164} cycle, and partly of stories beyond it, because several of the stories present problems of difficulty and importance. The direct derivation of the Tuscan tale already referred to from the classical legend may be assumed. In it the mirror, replacing the classical shield, is given by two old women, who are the degraded representatives of the Graiai. The same incident is found in another form in a Norwegian tale given by Asbjörnsen, where the hero steals the single eye of each of three one-eyed hags successively, and thus succeeds in wresting from them a magical sword, a magical ship, and the art, equally magical, of brewing one hundred lasts of malt in one brew. It is curious that this highly barbarous incident has not been recovered elsewhere. We cannot suppose the direct descent of the Norwegian tale from the classical, since the remaining incidents are so different. But it is, of course, possible that during the numerous Norse raids in the Middle Ages the incident may have been picked up by Wicking adventurers, and carried home from the Mediterranean shores with other spoils to Scandinavia, where it became imbedded in a native tale recognised in other respects as similar, and there replaced some equivalent incident. The conjecture cannot be rated very highly; and alternative modes of transmission will naturally present themselves to the reader. On the whole, however, transmission of the incident, not of the entire story, seems best to account for the facts.^164.1

The only two variants of the Perseus group recovered from the East belong to this class. Somadeva’s tale of Indívarasena has already been abstracted at length.^165.1 Its divergencies from the type to which it belongs are striking—so striking that we cannot postulate transmission from Europe without conceding such alterations on the way as almost to disguise it out of all recognition. On the other hand, it is even harder to suppose that any European version can derive its origin from either the Kathá-sarit-Ságara or from the oral narrative worked up into Somadeva’s rhetorical periods. Let us examine the other Eastern variant. It is found in Cambodia, and has been published since the first volume of this inquiry was issued. Its heroes are not described as twins, though children of the same parents, and nearly of the same age. From their childhood they were, like the heroes of many Western märchen, incurably idle. To avoid being put to work, they left home together. A magician gives them two enchanted sabres, either of which will vanquish a whole army. Moreover, if one of the youths die, the sabre of the other will rust; and by means of it the dead youth can be brought back to life. These gifts they accept, though almost too lazy to carry them. They reach a city in mourning on account of the depredations of two yaks, winged monsters which have devoured already more than twenty of the king’s children, and have now demanded the last of them, {166} his beautiful daughter, Neang (Miss) Pou. In vain the king had kindly offered them the daughter of one of his subjects in her place. They insisted on having Pou, and threatened terrible misfortunes on both the people and the king if he refused. Compelled by the prayers of his subjects, he had therefore caused poor Pou to be conducted to the house where the ogres were wont to hold their banquets of royal flesh. The brothers, passing through the city, arrived at the yaks’ house, and lay down to sleep away the heat of the day, in spite of the princess’ warnings. While they were talking to her the yaks drew nigh, and the whirr of their enormous wings resounded above the house. The princess fainted from terror, while the brothers addressed themselves to the fight, and with their enchanted weapons speedily laid the monsters low. After the fight they took the trouble to restore the princess to consciousness, but, too lazy to take her home, rambled forth again. The king, meanwhile, sent two officers to gather up her bones for burial. These men, finding the yaks dead, dipped their staves in the blood, reported to their master that they had slain the monsters, and demanded a reward. Two other mandarins were then sent to find the lady’s bones and tresses; and after some search they found her alive, and hidden in the brushwood beside the road. She refused to return to a father who had so cruelly given her up to be eaten, until he went himself mounted on the royal elephant, and forced her into the palanquin he had brought for the purpose. The king then proposed to give her in marriage to one of the mandarins who pretended to have killed the yaks; but when she told her father the facts, he sent to find the brothers, who were her true deliverers. They refused to go back with the messengers; they were too lazy; {167} and, armed as they were, they repudiated allegiance to the king, and laughed at the threat of compulsion. However, the bodies of the yaks were unburied; they poisoned the air; and even a thousand men were unable to remove them. Nay, all the inhabitants were requisitioned, and an attempt with ten thousand proved unsuccessful in stirring one of the corpses. The brothers had not left the country, and they were incommoded by the terrible odour. Wherefore at last they offered their services, which were gladly accepted. A single touch of their sabres made a great hole in the earth, into which they pushed the yaks, and with another touch threw back the soil and covered them over. The elder brother then weds the princess, while the other sets forth on his travels again, taking the precaution, at his brother’s request, to sow along his path the seeds of a certain rare tree, to show the way he has gone. The adventurer arrives at a depopulated city, where he is attacked by a troop of gigantic birds, and overcomes them only after a fearful fight. Then he sat down to rest on a gong which he found lying in an inner court of the palace, and from a hole in which an agreeable perfume arose. He had not sat there more than an instant, when he was pricked from beneath. He jumped up and examined his seat, but could find nothing but the small hole he had noticed before. So he sat down again. Again he was pricked. He jumped up once more, and taking his sabre he clove the gong in two, when to his astonishment a lovely girl emerged, magnificently clad, and shedding around her a delicious perfume. This leads to explanations. She is called the Maiden of the Scented Locks, and is the king’s daughter. The dreadful birds he had slain had devastated the kingdom, and her father had shut her up in the gong to carry {168} her away to a place of safety. She excused herself for pricking her deliverer because he had sat down on the hole which gave her air, and she was being stifled. The people, who had fled away, by-and-by returned—all save the maiden’s father. He had deserved the misfortunes and desolation of the country, and he returned no more. The younger brother accordingly married the Maiden of the Scented Locks, and they became king and queen. One day the queen’s favourite waiting-woman was carried away by the current of the river while bathing. She was not, however, drowned; and ultimately she was made attendant on the leprous king of a neighbouring country. From her the leper learns about her mistress of the Scented Locks. Here we have, in a rationalistic form, the incident familiar to us in the Egyptian tale of The Two Brothers. The leprous king offers to make his attendant (woman though she was) viceroy if she will only get him the Lady of the Scented Locks. The temptation was too great for her. She returned to her former mistress; and, received by her with joy, she watched her opportunity to murder the king by touching him with his own enchanted sabre. To divert the widow from her grief, she induces her to walk along the river-bank, and to board a trading junk for the purpose of looking at the silks and other merchandise it contains. But the trade was a sham; and before she knew it, the hapless queen was far away down the river, in the hands of the servants of the leprous king. All this time the elder brother was often wondering what had become of his cadet since he departed. One day he found the blade of his sabre rusted, and knew that his brother was dead. Setting out in search of him, he soon found his realm and his tomb. With his magical sabre he opened {169} the tomb, and brought his brother back to life. Then both, disguising themselves with long beards and old garments, set out for the capital of the leprous king. Announcing themselves as able to cure leprosy, they are conducted to the monarch. The treacherous favourite has extorted a promise from the widowed Lady of the Scented Locks to yield to the desires of the king if his leprosy be cured; for leprosy is well known to be an incurable disease. By directions of the pretended physicians a house is built right in the middle of the river; and there they induce the king to put himself under a shower-bath, with which they are to mingle some drops from a bottle containing an infallible remedy. Instead of curing him, they scald him to death. They fling off their disguise, deliver the younger brother’s queen, and conquer the kingdom by means of their sabres. The treacherous favourite is not put to death, but simply banished; and the others live happy ever after.^169.1

This tale presents more than one point of interest. Save that the brothers are two (instead of three, as in so large a number of European variants), and that the magical weapon is a sword, it bears hardly any material resemblance to Somadeva’s tale. It comprises three out of the four cardinal incidents of the cycle (though the Medusa-witch appears much modified), as well as the secondary incidents of the Gift of Weapons and the Impostor; yet without attaining any very close similarity in the manner of its telling to the European tales. To its most striking peculiarity I have already referred, namely, the incorporation of an incident found in the tale of The Two Brothers. The form of the incident in the Cambodian is obviously much later than in {170} the Egyptian story. The comic scene of the Lady in the gong is a tolerably good guarantee that, by whatever route the incident arrived in Cambodia and became annexed to the tale, it was conveyed not by literary means, but by oral tradition. Other parts of the story betray Indian influence;^170.1 but so far as I know, the Lady of the Scented Locks has never yet been discovered in Hindustan. A near kinsman, however, appears in a märchen told by the Santals, where the hero has hair twelve cubits long. He sat down one day to dress it on the river-bank. “In combing his tangled tresses a quantity was wrenched out; this he wrapped up in a leaf and threw into the stream. It was carried by the current a great distance down to where a raja’s daughter and her companions were bathing. The raja’s daughter saw the leaf floating towards her, and ordered one of her attendants to bring it to her. When the leaf was opened it was found to contain hair twelve cubits in length. Immediately after measuring the hair the raja’s daughter complained of fever, and hasted home to her couch.” The long and short of the matter, of course, was that she had fallen in love with the unseen owner of the hair; and her father was compelled to search all over the world for him that she might marry him.^170.2 Upon this it is to be observed that the story, {171} of which I have given only a single incident, is, as we should expect, much more savage than the Cambodian tale, and that it could not have influenced the latter. But it points to some such incident as that of the lost lock being, like the lost slipper, part of the story-plasm out of which the folk-tales of the eastern world have been evolved. The special form of the incident in M. Leclère’s tale renders probable its transmission somehow from Egypt—in the absence, that is, of any evidence of a more archaic shape from which alike the Egyptian and the Cambodian incidents with their peculiarities could have been derived. This does not necessarily involve the transmission of the entire story from Egypt, where neither in ancient nor in modern times have we found any variant from which it could have been descended. But it does smooth the way for us to accept the probability that the entire tale was transmitted from the West; and so far as it goes it is evidence against its oriental origin.

Hitherto we have not reached any very definite results in our quest. In Tables A and B I have exhibited the distribution of the stories containing either the Helpful Animals or the Magical Weapons. If these tables establish anything, it is that the greater number of the modern members of the Perseus group are independent of the classical legend. In an overwhelmingly large proportion of cases the Helpful Animals and the Magical Weapons are obtained in some other than the classical way, and usually they are congenital. In the tables account is taken not only of stories including two or more of the chief incidents, and therefore reckoned as properly members of the cycle, but also of those which only contain the incident of the Rescue of Andromeda. If we reckon the former alone, {172} the proportion is greatly increased. The total number of cases in Tables A and B respectively will then be reduced to 65 and 39; while of these, the cases in which the Helpful Animals and the Weapons are respectively congenital will be 42 and 22, or 65 and 56 per cent. Both the Helpful Animals and the Weapons are indeed subordinate incidents in the story; but they are incidents, especially when congenital, which are important enough to influence its entire development. The stories in which horses, dogs, and lances are congenital with the heroes cannot be derived from the classical legend; and although some of the ancient variants are known to connect a fish with the demi-god, Perseus, we have no means of ascertaining whether anything corresponding to these animals and weapons was included in any of them.

The independence of the classical legend and most of the modern variants is confirmed by another test. There is no feature more marked in the modern stories than that of the Impostor and the Tokens. Of the Impostor we find a trace in antiquity, but none of the Tokens. It is true that another classical story, located at Megara, mentions both. It is preserved by the scholiast upon Apollonius Rhodius, who attributes it to Derichidas, the historian of Megara. Alkathoos, the son of Pelops, we are told, having been exiled for the murder of Chrysippe, encountered on the territory of Megara a lion which desolated the country, and which the king had commissioned some of his subjects to destroy. Alkathoos after a fight succeeded in killing the animal. Thereupon he cut out its tongue, which he placed in his wallet, and proceeded to Megara. But the men whom the king had sent against the brute claimed the honour of the victory; nor were they convicted of the imposture {173} until Alkathoos in the king’s presence drew forth the tongue. The king offered the tongue in sacrifice to the gods, and gave his daughter Euaichme in marriage to Alkathoos, who ultimately succeeded him upon the throne.^173.1 Now it is fairly certain that this striking incident could never have been part of the ancient legend of Perseus, otherwise it would have come down to us in one or other of the classical writers. But not only is it absent from the versions of Ovid and Lucian; another account, mentioned by the mythographer Hyginus, points in a diametrically opposite direction. He calls the betrothed of Andromeda, Agenor, and declares that when Perseus wished to take Andromeda away, her father, Cepheus, and Agenor, attempted secretly to murder him, and were turned with their followers to stone by the exhibition of the Gorgon’s head.^173.2 This is more inconsistent with the modern variants than Ovid’s narrative.

So far, then, our results are the same; and it can only be claimed that the modern stories are at most (with the exception of a few variants) derived from a common stock with the classical legend. But it may be suggested that the former have been contaminated by the local tradition of Megara. The possibility of such contamination cannot be denied. An examination, however, of Table C fails to disclose any sure ground for believing it probable. For it will be observed that of the stories properly belonging to the cycle, upwards of fifty-two per cent. give the tongues alone {174} as the tokens of identity; while, if we reckon the tales wherein the tongues are found, either alone or in combination with other tokens, we reach more than seventy per cent. And they are by no means confined to countries and nationalities which have come directly under classical influence, but seem to be scattered impartially over the whole of Europe. A less certain mark of contamination, but not without some value, is the character of the impostors. In the Megaran tradition they were the men whom the king had commissioned to slay the lion; therefore of the class of warriors or nobles. In stories properly belonging to the cycle less than thirty-two per cent. of the impostors come under this description, including all cases where vague description may mean any servant of the king other than menial, whereas fifty per cent. are charcoal-burners, coachmen, gipsies, and members of other despised classes. What is most remarkable is that an overwhelming proportion of the cases in which the impostors may be considered as of the class indicated in the Megaran tradition are found in lands beyond the direct classical influence. In the Balkan peninsula and the Greek islands, in Italy, Spain, and France, the all but invariable impulse of the story-teller is to degrade the impostor in rank and to render him physically, as well as morally, repellent. If all the stories, both within the Perseus group and beyond it, be taken into the calculation, the results will not be found very different. It would seem, therefore, that, to whatever cause we must ascribe the remarkable uniformity of the incident in the folk-tales of Europe, the evidence hardly warrants us in attributing it to contamination by the one local legend of Megara.^174.1

Turning for a moment to the saga forms assumed by the Rescue incident, there is one instance wherein contamination by a local legend may have taken place, though to an altogether smaller extent. All our information points to an eastern origin for the legend of Saint George. I have already discussed the cause of the appropriation of the Rescue incident to the Christian martyr; and I need not repeat what was then said. Mr. Baring-Gould’s theory ascribes the tale to a misunderstanding of the words of a definite hagiologist. Whether we accept that theory or not, the only difference will be one of date at which the legend became current; it will not alter the geographical direction in which we must look for its origin. As preserved in some of the songs and legends of the Balkan peoples, it shows traces of being affected by the story, handed down to us by Diodorus Siculus and by Tzetzes the scholiast, of the Rescue of Hesione by Herakles. “Troyan, the white city” of the Bosnian ballad, inevitably recalls to us the Troy of Laomedon. Diodorus knew nothing of the version preserved by Tzetzes, which represents the slaughter of the monster as effected from the inside; or, if he did, he suppressed it, either as less probable or less artistic. It is clear from the story of Kleostratos recorded by Pausanias, and from the ancient vase referred to in a note on an earlier page,^175.1 that the incident of a dragon-slaughter was current {176} in antiquity in both forms. It may be suggested that, with growth in civilisation, the fight face to face gradually superseded the ruder notion of the hero being swallowed and fighting his way forth from the serpent’s belly. Probably, therefore, the feat ascribed to Saint George in Bosnian song and Bulgarian legend is that of Herakles, rather than that of Perseus contaminated by that of Herakles. The tale of Troy was, like the story of Perseus, much more than a local legend. It was the common property of the classical world, and may well have formed part of the inheritance of all the Balkan nations. The intrusive barbarians who settled from time to time during the decadence of the empire about the Danube and the Balkans, must also have had their legends of dragon-slaying, whose essential identity with those of the original population would be recognised. The confusion thus caused would render it all the easier to substitute a new hero consecrated by religion, and consequently having claims upon belief which the older heroes had ceased to wield. Yet the previous details would not be all effaced; and in such as were preserved we should find evidence of the double procession. Thus the interference of “the thundering Elijah” bears witness to Slavonic influences, for Elijah as a saint is but a Christian disguise of the pagan Slavonic thunder-god. In the same way the name of Troyan enables us to say which of the classical Rescue legends it is that has been worked up, with the Slavonic tradition, into the ballad of Saint George. The names and special details connected with the feat of Perseus are conspicuously absent.

We need not, however, conclude that everywhere the legends and songs concerning Saint George embodied the saga of Hermione rather than that of Andromeda. The {177} generally accepted ecclesiastical version laid the scene of the conflict at a town of Libya, which would assuredly point to the latter; while the local traditions whereof the martial saint is hero indicate anything but descent from a story told of so famous a city as Troy. Nor must we leave out of view the probability that in antiquity, as in modern times, beside the sagas fitted with names of heroes and of places, there was current a variety of märchen, similar in plot, and to some extent in detail, ready to be adapted to any names which might happen to lay hold of the popular fancy. Such might easily infect the legend of Saint George while it was taking shape among the folk, and as yet no version had acquired preponderant authority, and thus form variants either of local, or, if fortune smiled upon them, of more than local, acceptance.

But this christianised saga was not quite the only form of the Rescue story known during the Middle Ages. Cuchulainn’s fight with the Fomori was told as early as the legend of Saint George, if not indeed earlier. I have already noted its remarkable resemblance to the corresponding incident in märchen of the Herdsman type—a highly specialised type, differing considerably from any form of the classical story, and peculiar to the west of Europe. We have no direct evidence as to the date when the stories of the Herdsman type arose; but it will be recollected that there is reason to think the type belongs to the Celto-Iberian race, and therefore is of prehistoric age. Nor will the reader fail to note that the Rescue of Devorgoil from the Fomori appears to be an offshoot of the same type, that it is found among one of the branches of the same Celto-Iberian race, and that it is one of the oldest—nay, perhaps, the oldest—post-classical variant in Europe of the Perseus {178} group. All these considerations make for its independence of the classical tale; and their cumulative weight may fairly be called decisive.

It has been contended, and it may be thought, that we should look for evidence of transmission rather to the general identity and sequence of the main incidents than to the recurrence of trivial details. An able and well-known writer, criticising M. Bédier’s use of special accessories as a test of transmission, has lately traversed its validity as applied to folklore. “It is obviously derived,” he says, “from considerations current in literary criticism, as might be expected from M. Bédier’s training. His method is exactly the process by which literary critics prove the derivation of one species of mss. from an archetype, or affiliate a translation in one language to its original in another. Minute and unimportant accessories, e.g. the form of a proper name, are just the tests in such cases. But with oral tradition, with transmission in folklore, I would exactly reverse the process and adopt M. Bédier’s test”—namely, similarity in the general idea—“as a proof of such transmission.”^178.1

If Mr. Jacobs be a disciple of M. Cosquin, he here diverges widely from his master, who has rightly insisted on the value of trivial details in proving the connection between two folktales belonging to the same cycle. His opinions on this point are gathered up in a small compass in a paper contributed to the International Folklore Congress of 1891, where he examines a number of stories of the rescue of a maiden from the monster, with a view to showing the repetition of minute details.^178.2 One of the most {179} curious and important of these details is the lousing of the hero by the maiden.^179.1 In Table D I have brought together as many of such tales as I could find. Under the lady’s gentle fingers the hero usually falls asleep; and M. Cosquin points particularly to the fact that when the dragon comes on the scene the deliverer is in many variants aroused by the damsel’s tears. The table shows that this is, in fact, the usual method of awakening him; for it occurs in no fewer than fifty per cent. of the stories. But what will strike the reader is, that with the exception of a Portuguese tale from Brazil, all the stories in which it occurs are found within an area whose salient angles may be placed in Georgia, Nubia, and Bosnia. In only one of the variants from that part of the world can the mode of awakening be definitely said not to be by a tear, while in one other it is left uncertain. Now, it is not expressly said in every instance that the maiden performed the delicate office of lousing the hero; but I think that where this realistic trait has disappeared it has probably dropped out, in M. Cosquin’s phrase, “by an excess of delicacy on the part of the collector.” The trait is unquestionably a savage one. It is also one well known both in real life and in other stories to the peasantry, at all events of southern and eastern Europe, if not elsewhere. Outside the sphere centring in the Levant it is, however, found attached to the Rescue of Andromeda only in the Iberian peninsula, in Scotland, Ireland, and Sweden, the most numerous instances having been recovered in the west of Scotland. There, in four cases out of five, the lady awakens the hero by inflicting personal mutilation or bestowing personal adornments which afterwards serve to identify him, while in the fifth case the mode of awakening is not {180} recorded. The phenomena both in the Levant and in Scotland are thus entirely in favour of the value of similar details as proving transmission. For, as M. Cosquin says, it is evidently impossible to believe that these details have been separately developed. The form under which the savage idea is presented must have been imported already specialised.

We are not, however, left to seek all over the world for the place of origin of either of these two modes of awakening the sleeping deliverer. We are shut up in each case to a fairly defined area within which the detail is found, and within which, therefore, it probably originated. Something of the sort meets us in the case of the Impostor and the Tokens. If we extend our view to include stories which comprise the Rescue of Andromeda alone of the four cardinal incidents of the Perseus group, we appear to find some geographical connection in the tokens. Teeth, for example, are the tokens in Hungary and Oldenburg, ears in the Caucasus and Armenia, mutilations of the hero’s person in the Western Highlands. But we have no such guide where tongues are the tokens; for their distribution, in Europe at all events, is as wide as the story itself. In like manner, if we glance over the other tables, or turn to the distribution of the various types of the story as distinguished in the earlier chapters of this work, we can undoubtedly find geographical limits for many, both of types and of details. To discuss them individually after the examples already given would be tedious; nor would it lead to any more assured result. There are a few cases, like that of the Scented Locks, where we think we can with tolerable certainty trace an accessory back to its source. Even in such cases, however, we have no decisive evidence, as in {181} literary questions, to fix the exact provenience. The peculiarities of a manuscript are not quite parallel with those of a tale. We cannot be positive that the incident in the Cambodian story is derived from the Egyptian. We can only say that its form is later in civilisation, and therefore perhaps in time. For aught we know the incident in the Egyptian märchen may in its turn be derived from an earlier one, which may be the common parent of the incident in the tale of The Two Brothers and in the Cambodian variant of the Perseus group. There is no record which will enable us to pronounce with entire confidence an opinion on the point. Much more then in examples, like those of the Deliverer’s Sleep, where the form discloses no difference in civilisation or in manners, we are at a loss to say whence the detail has come. We can put boundaries within which it has probably arisen; but we have no means of tracing it from Syra to Nubia, or from Nubia to Syra, from Bosnia to Georgia, or from Armenia to Bulgaria. The form of the savage idea may have been imported, as M. Cosquin says, already specialised; but imported whence, imported whither? Those are questions too hard for us with our present means of knowledge. And what is true of the detail is true of the type. We cannot say, in more than a few isolated cases, whether a type has been evolved from another type, either by development or decay. The modern types of the story, we can indeed say, have not been derived from the classical type. It is possible that they may have been derived from some local variant of ancient Greece or the Red Sea shores, of which we have no more than hints in classical writers. It is, at least, equally possible that they and the local variants and the classic legend all alike owe their origin to a common ancestor. Nor can we {182} assign to the modern types any order of precedence among themselves.

Our difficulty in solving these problems arises not merely, or chiefly, from the want of records; still more does it issue from the conditions of oral transmission. Narrative tradition is fluid and changeable. It may be run into any mould, and from one mould to another with equal ease. To change the figure, its constituents are, like chemical elements, found in combinations which are sometimes comparatively stable, at other times tending to change and the formation of new combinations. The permanence of the new combinations depends upon the stability and isolation of the culture-conditions, upon the ability of the storytellers and the customs which bind them, now encouraging invention, and anon imprisoning them with the chains of verbal, if not literal, accuracy. This is not the place to consider the conditions of conservation and of variation. Enough here to draw attention to the reason of the difficulty which lies in the path of him who would trace a folktale to its source.

The truth is that when we speak of a märchen as an artistic whole, we must be careful to guard ourselves against conveying a false impression. Like every human work, there is, of course, a sense in which it is true so to speak of it. Every tale-teller is more or less of an artist, and every tale he tells is a work of art. It is formed of his recollections of other tales told by other tellers, joined and cemented together as best he can by the aid of his own invention. A plot is composed of incidents cohering sometimes more firmly, sometimes less. Often the tale-teller forgets one, patches the story with another from his stock, or inserts an additional incident at pleasure. The new element {183} thus introduced may or may not unite with the old. The character of the tale will be modified, and may be entirely changed, by the substitution or addition. As with the incidents, so with the accessories. Every time the tale is passed through the memory it is exposed to the risk of variation, not only in its main lines, but also, and still more, in its details. Hence we can speak of the story embodied in the Perseus cycle as an abstract ideal whole with even less propriety than we can, by eliminating individual peculiarities from the entire series of pictures of the Annunciation, or the Marriage of the Virgin, from the earliest to the latest, speak of the scene they present with so many variations as one abstract ideal whole. The mediæval painters and the painters of the Renascence developed and modified the traditional scene as they would, or as their skill and circumstances dictated. But the limitations of the limner’s art preserved a certain unity amid all changes. The art of the story-teller is not thus circumscribed. He can run on from one subject to another, as his memory or his imagination may prompt, for the purpose of giving pleasure. He unites the incidents of the Life-token, the Rescue of Andromeda, and the Slaughter of the Gorgon, with that of the Fatal Bird whose flesh gives wealth or exalts its eater to kingship; or he unwinds from the Supernatural Birth the tangled skein of a Bluebeard story. But, save in rare examples, it is impossible to predicate the order of succession, or to say why this line of development has been followed rather than that.

Such may seem an impotent conclusion of the inquiry. Disappointing it must be admitted to be; and, so far as the results of research as to one story may enable us to forecast {184} the results of research as to others, it favours the view of those students who declare that the hope of tracking a folktale to its pristine home is illusory, and the attempt a waste of time. If a story which must have taken up its crucial incident so late in civilisation cannot be assigned to its primitive tellers, how can we hope to find the birth-places of other tales, all whose elements are rooted in a distant and dateless savagery? Henceforth, if it be true, as Mr. Jacobs alleges, that “the problem of diffusion is of prior urgency to that of origin”^184.1—that is to say, if we cannot employ the tales as evidence of belief until we know whence they come—it seems likely that we shall have to deny ourselves the use of this evidence, and rely wholly upon evidence of a more direct character. But is the contention true? I have elsewhere tried to give some grounds for thinking that we need not wait to know where a tale was first conceived ere we use it as evidence of the belief of the peoples who tell it.^184.2 And I would fain hope that fresh and more cogent reasons to the same effect may be gathered from the foregoing pages. In this connection I should like to insist on the fact that these evidences of belief are to be found, not in the tale as a whole, but in the separate incidents of which it is composed. To such, and even lesser details, our attention must be directed, if we would avail ourselves of the full advantage which the study of folktales gives us in investigating the early ideas of mankind.

The story of Perseus opens a thousand vistas to the student. In these pages we have been content to follow only a few of them, though there is not one but would have led us upon enchanted ground. It remains to gather {185} up in a few words the results of our inquiry. After reviewing and illustrating the principal types of the story, we took its four leading incidents and sought for their distribution in other combinations, or alone, and for their sources and meaning. The Supernatural Birth we found related in various forms, not merely for amusement, but as sober fact, over so large an area of the world as to justify the belief that it was universal. Every nation has its heroes; and in the popular mind the mightier the hero, the greater the need for providing him with a worthy entrance upon his mortal existence. Nay more. We found that the abnormal means of impregnation, to which the heroes of the stories we examined owed their birth, were, and still are, actually held capable of causing a similar result; therefore were, and are, prescribed for, and used by, women who desire children and are unable to obtain them in the natural way.

The Life-token presented other problems. Both in tale and in custom it is not less generally known than the former incident. Its virtue is derived from the belief that it is part of the substance of the personage whose welfare it indicates. It is the converse and essential correlative of the External Soul. At this point it became necessary, for the elucidation of the idea at the root of both the External Soul and the Life-token, to enter upon a discussion whose length I trust the reader will hold fully excused by the importance of the subject; for it involved nothing less than the savage conception of life in its relation to personality: a conception that permeates savage society; a conception without which it is impossible to understand savage institutions or savage customs; indeed, a conception that underlies much of our modern civilisation, {186} and from which the most sacred act of Christian worship derives its meaning and its virtue.

Like the Supernatural Birth and the Life-token, the Medusa-witch is widely famous, and the superstition out of which the incident of her slaughter—at all events in its classical form—springs is universal. It is that of the Evil Eye. Recent works by other writers rendered it needless to examine this superstition at length.

The incident of the Rescue of Andromeda, though celebrated throughout a large part of the Old World, is more limited in its range than the others. It is based on the change of a horrible custom which has not everywhere been practised, and where it has been practised has not everywhere passed away in such circumstances as to leave behind it the possibility of a Rescue myth. It is therefore the youngest of the four chief incidents of the tale. This limitation of range of the Rescue incident restricts the area within which to seek for the birthplace of the tale as a whole. The search has been interesting; but while it has produced some substantial results, it has failed in its main object. On the causes of failure I have already sufficiently dwelt.

Yet the inquiry has not been wholly in vain, even in regard to storyology pure and simple. We have seen that the classical form of a tale distributed throughout a large part of the Old World owed its peculiar features to the fact of its entrance into the higher literature of the race at a period of relatively advanced civilisation: a traditional selection had been established against the ruder forms of the saga. That ruder forms existed is evident from the hints and allusions preserved by classical writers. The classical form, in spite of its acceptance and {187} of its literary handling by some of the authors of antiquity most widely read, affected to a very slight extent the versions current in tradition. The latter go back in very few instances to the classical form; they frequently contain important incidents—not mere episodes, but incidents of the fibre of the narrative—such as that of the Helpful Beasts, far more barbarous than the classical story; while they are further distinguished by the remarkable peculiarity that they have preserved the cardinal incident of the Life-token, which in the classical saga is entirely wanting. We are bound, therefore, to postulate the existence in Greece, in an earlier and more barbarous age than that which was familiar with the legend in its classical shape, of a folktale substantially similar to that recovered in the last hundred years from all parts of the area I have described. For if the modern form of the tale be not derived from the legend as found in classical literature, neither can it be ascribed to derivation in post-classical days from the special story-store of India. On the contrary, so far as derivation on either side is considered necessary, we are compelled to treat the variants from India and Further India as derivatives, and not as sources. To establish, if not with mathematical, at least with reasonable certainty, the prehistoric age of a famous märchen, as well as the fact that the lower and ruder forms are not killed out by the higher literary forms, but survive them, and to circumscribe the native region of the tale by the limits of Europe, south-western Asia, and northern Africa, may be considered worth the pains spent in the investigation.

I have written of the Legend of Perseus with no polemical object. Yet, valuing the science of folklore, as I do, chiefly for the light it throws on the mental constitution {188} of mankind and the genesis of ideas and of institutions, I cannot hide from myself the important bearing that some of the subjects dealt with in these pages may have upon matters of Christian controversy. Our illustrations of the Supernatural Birth have been drawn entirely from certain forms of the story, to the exclusion of other forms which, interesting as they are in themselves, were for our purpose irrelevant. But sufficient has been said to raise questions which may be summarily stated thus:—If these legends be universal, if they must be rejected in every case but one as the product of an inevitable tendency of human imagination, then why not in that one case also? Assuredly that one case can be regarded as exceptional, only if it stand upon historical evidence totally different in kind from the others, and of inevitable cogency. But can any one who sits down (as it is the duty at least of every educated man to do) calmly and, so far as he can, with scrupulous impartiality to weigh the evidence, say that the testimony of ecclesiastical tradition, or even of our Gospels, is different in kind from, or of greater cogency than, that which we reject, without hesitation, in the case of Sákyamuni, or of Alexander the Great? About ecclesiastical tradition I need say nothing. The records in the two Gospels which bear the names of Saint Matthew and Saint Luke are, carefully considered, irreconcilable. Both Gospels are now admitted to be secondary documents. It is hardly claimed for either of them that it was written less than sixty years after the event. It is by no means certain that they were in existence, as we now have them, when Justin Martyr wrote in the middle of the second century. Outside them there is no record, no unambiguous allusion even, that can be dated within one hundred and ten years {189} of the Birth, and then only if we admit the genuineness of the questionable Epistles of Saint Ignatius, and the earliest possible date for his very doubtful journey. Is this the testimony on which belief in so amazing an event can be safely built?

Our researches into sacramental beliefs and practices, and the ideas underlying them, must have suggested once and again the central rite of Christianity. The institution of the Eucharist is not an event of the same supernatural character as the Birth is alleged to be. Yet if the difficulties of testimony be smaller, those of interpretation are even greater. That sacramental superstitions were rife as well in Judæa as elsewhere in the time of Jesus Christ is certain, though our information concerning them is still lamentably deficient. The influence of the Mysteries upon Christianity has been hitherto little studied. But it is manifest that we cannot appreciate the intention of the rite, or understand the course of its history, without a more extended knowledge of these things.

Doubt is often a more imperative duty than belief. Nor is it the less a duty because it is painful. To the priest, everywhere and in all time, it is the gravest of sins; for the corporate interest of a priesthood adds strength to the sincere belief of the individual, a belief usually founded upon complete ignorance of all but his own side of the question. Priests, therefore, always favour the growth of beliefs of which they are the centre, so leading men deeper and deeper into the slough of superstition. Pleading that it is safer to believe too much than too little, they are not content with a ready-made creed, imperfectly verified, if verified at all. Their inclination and interest alike tend to its enlargement by continual additions, whose only test is {190} consonance with the emotions awakened by something previously accepted. They cannot away with reason, with patient inquiry, and the judicial temper. They seek to prejudice the question before it be tried. Hence they conspire with reactionary statesmen to obtain, or to keep, the control of education. This treachery against civilisation, against the public weal, against truth itself, may succeed for a moment; but only to evoke a retribution which will be strictly measured by its success. It is no light thing to divorce the intellect of a nation from its religion; it is disastrous to attempt to coop the intellect within the bounds of a religion which have become too strait for it.

But abhorrent as doubt and inquiry may be to the priest, they are the means whereby we have gradually reached a more correct and adequate view of the universe, and of human history, than was formerly imposed in the name of divine revelation. He who seeks truth by such means bears a more devoted allegiance to himself and to humanity than he who, for the sake of safety or of ease, flings himself into the lap of a priesthood, which professes to assure to him in the next world eternal salvation, and can certainly bestow upon him, in this, comfort and social consideration and freedom from petty parochial persecution. He will recognise it as a duty to withhold his assent from dogmas, even though the most solemn articles of the Christian faith, until in the open court of reason his objections have been answered and his difficulties solved by sounder arguments and a deeper historical and scientific knowledge than have yet been applied by apologists to the issues.

APPENDIX

TABLE A.
HELPFUL ANIMALS.

* Stories thus marked do not belong to the Perseus cycle though containing the incident of the Slaughter of the Dragon.

Authority.	Country.	Animals.	How obtained.
i. Campbell, 71	Argyllshire	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Luzel, _Contes Bretons_, 63	Brittany	Horses and dogs	Congenital
i. Cosquin, 60	Lorraine	Horses and dogs	Congenital
i. Cosquin, 64	Lorraine	Horses and dogs	Congenital
ii. Cosquin, 56	Lorraine	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Zéliqzon, 63	Lorraine	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Bladé, _Agenais_, 9	Gascony	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Webster, 87	Basque Provinces	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Caballero, 27	Spain	Horses and dogs	Congenital
i. Gonzenbach, 269	Sicily	Horses and dogs	Congenital
xviii. Pitrè, 45	Sicily	Horses and dogs	Congenital
vii. Pitrè, 296	Sicily (Albanian)	Horses and dogs	Congenital
i. Finamore, pt. i., 105	Abruzzi	Horses and dogs	Congenital
iii. De Nino, 321	Abruzzi	Horse and dog	Congenital
Nerucci, 61; and Imbriani, 375	Tuscany	Horses and dogs	Congenital
De Gubernatis, 40	Tuscany	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Visentini, 104	Mantua	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Schneller, 186	Tirol	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Schneller, 79	Tirol	Horses and dogs	Congenital

Authority.	Country.	Animals.	How obtained.
Zingerle, _K. und Hausm._, 122	Tirol	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Wolf, _Deutsche M._, 134	Germany	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Cavallius, 348	Sweden	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Leskien, 385	Lithuania	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Von Wlislocki, _Volksdicht._, 316	Transylvania (Gipsy)	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Vernaleken, 193	Lower Austria	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Leskien, 543 (from Jukié)	Bosnia	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Leskien, 544 (from Valjavec)	Croatia	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Leskien, 544 (from Mikuliĕié)	Croatia	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Karajich, 174	Servia	Horses and dogs	Congenital
i. Von Hahn, 166; and Geldart, 74	Epirus	Horses and dogs	Congenital
Legrand, 161	Greece	Horses and dogs	Congenital
*Leskien, 546 (from Afanasief)	Russia	Horses and dogs	Congenital
*Leskien, 546 (from Valjavec)	Croatia	Horses and dogs	Congenital
ix. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 174	Brittany	Horses and dogs	?
Coelho, 120	Portugal	Horses	Congenital
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 331	Hesse	Horses	Congenital
*Leskien, 546 (from Erlenvein)	Great Russia	Horses	Congenital
De Gubernatis, 41	Tuscany	Dogs	Congenital
ii. Von Hahn, 214	Greece	Dogs	Congenital
ii. Macdonald, 341	Quilimane (probably from Portugal)	Dogs	Congenital

Authority.	Country.	Animals.	How obtained.
Wardrop, 25	Georgia	Eight Dogs	Congenital
Leskien, 546 (from Vrána)	Moravia	Dogs	?
v. _Folklore_, 156	Donegal	Horses, dogs, and hawks	Congenital
i. Grundtvig, 277	Denmark	Horses, dogs, and sparrowhawks	Congenital
Pedroso, 100	Portugal	Horses and lions	Congenital
Braga, i. _Contos_, 117	Portugal	Horses and lions	Congenital
i. Campbell, 93	South Uist	Horses and dogs Lion, wolf, and falcon	Congenital Gratitude for dividing carcase justly
Cavallius, 354	Sweden	Horses and dogs Bears, wolves, and foxes	Congenital Given by parent animals
Kuhn und Schwartz, 337	North Germany	Horses and dogs Bears, wolves, and lions	Congenital Given by parent animals
i. Comparetti, 126; and Crane, 30	Pisa	Horses and dogs Lion, eagle, and ant Dog-fish	Congenital Gratitude for dividing carcase Gratitude for saving life
Cavallius, 95	Sweden	Dogs Bears, wolves, and foxes	Given by mother Given by parent animals
*Cox, _Cinderella_, 450 (from iii. _Journ. Gipsy Lore Soc._, 208)	England (Gipsy)	Bull-calf	Given by father
*Zingerle, _K. und Hausm._, 35; and Busk, _Hofer_, 207	Tirol	Three dogs	Left to hero by his father
*Dennys, 110	China	Dog	Supplied by heroine’s father
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 244	Hesse	Hares, foxes, wolves, bears, and lions	Given by parent animals
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 419	Hesse	Bears, lions, and wolves	Given by parent animals
Stier, i.; and Jones and Kropf, 110	Hungary	Wolves, bears, and lions	Given by parent animals

Authority.	Country.	Animals.	How obtained.
Leskien, 544 (from Radostova)	Bohemia	Wolves, bears, and lions	Given by parent animals
Leskien, 389	Lithuania	Wolves, boars, foxes, lions, hares, and bears	Given by parent animals
Leskien, 544 (from Nowosielski)	Little Russia	Hares, foxes, wolves, bears, and lions	Given by parent animals
*Schott, 135	Wallachia	Fox, wolf, and bear	Given by parent animals
*i. _Mélusine_, 57	Brittany	Hare, fox, and bear	Gratitude for sparing lives
Meier, _Märchen_, 204	Swabia	Bear, wolf, and lion	Gratitude for sparing their lives
Zingerle, _K. und Hausm. aus Süddeutsch._, 260	Tirol	Fox, wolf, and bear	Gratitude for sparing lives
*Schleicher, 54	Lithuania	Hare, she-wolf and lioness	Gratitude for sparing lives
i. Campbell, 98	Berneray	Fox, wolf, and hoodie	Gratitude for dividing carcase justly
*Dasent, _Fjeld_, 237 (from Asbjörnsen)	Norway	Lion, falcon, and ant	Gratitude for dividing carcase justly
Carnoy, _Contes F._, 135	Normandy	Dogs	Given by fish to father in gratitude for sparing life
i. Gonzenbach, 272	Sicily	Horses	Given by fish in gratitude for sparing life
Denton, 256	Servia	Bears, wolves, dogs, and cats Winged horse	Bought from persons about to kill, or who were torturing them Conquered
Pitrè, _Toscane_, 1	Tuscany	Flying horse	Given by an old man
Leskien, 542 (from Afanasief)	Russia	Horses	Given by an old man
*Larminie, 196	Achill Island	Pony	Given by Druid by means of magical bridle

Authority.	Country.	Animals.	How obtained.
*Webster, 22	Basque Provinces	Horses and dog	Given by Tartaro in gratitude for release
Auning, 87	Lithuania	Horses and hounds	Given by an old man
*Bernoni, _Fiabe._ 50	Venice	Three dogs	Given by priest
*ii. Kirby, 6 (from Kreutzwald)	Esthonia	Three dogs	Sold by one-eyed old man
*Schleicher, 4	Lithuania	Three dogs	Given by man in exchange for calves
*Waldau, 468	Bohemia	Three dogs	Given by butcher in exchange for sheep
*Haltrich, 101	Transylvania (Saxon)	Three dogs	Given by butcher in exchange for goat and cock
*ii. Strackerjan, 330	Oldenburg	Three dogs	Given by man in exchange for sheep left by hero’s father
*ii. Strackerjan, 333	Oldenburg	Three dogs	Given by man in exchange for cow left by hero’s parents
*Pitrè, _Toscane_, 9	Tuscany	Three dogs	Given by a fair gentleman in exchange for cattle
*ii. _Rivista_, 28	Maremma	Three dogs	Given by man in exchange for cattle
*Visentini, 85	Mantua	Three dogs	Given by man in exchange for corn
*De Gubernatis, ii. _Zool. Myth._, 36 note	Piedmont	Three dogs	Given by hunter in exchange for sheep
*Coelho, 114 (English version, 61)	Portugal	Three dogs	Given by Our Lord disguised as beggar in exchange for sheep
*x. _Bibl. Trad. Pop. Españ._, 258	Extremadura	Three dogs	Given by old man in exchange for cows
*x. _Bibl. Trad. Pop. Españ._, 249	Extremadura	Three dogs	?
*Dorsey, _Cegiha_, 114	Omaha (N. A. Ind. Probably from France)	Two white dogs	Given by man in exchange for bow that never missed

Authority.	Country.	Animals.	How obtained.
*Dorsey, _Cegiha_, 127	Omaha (N. A. Ind. Probably from France)	Two dogs	Given by man in exchange for gun that never missed
*_F. L. Andaluz_, 357	Andalucia	Five dogs, Horse	Given by man in exchange for goats Came out of dung heap
*ix. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 173	Brittany	Three dogs White horse	Obtained in exchange for cow Found in castle of witch slain by hero
*Grimm, i. _Tales_, 420	Germany	Dogs Hare, deer, and bear	Given by forester in exchange for goats ?
i. _F. L. Journ._, 54	Tralee, Ireland	Horse	From castle of giant conquered by hero
*Curtin, _Ireland_, 157	West of Ireland	Three horses	Acquired by conquest of three giants
*vi. _Folklore_, 309 (from O’Faherty, _Siamsa an gheimhridh_, 60)	Connaught	Horse	Taken from giants killed by hero
*i. Campbell, 97	Argyllshire	Horses	Acquired from conquered giants
*ix. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 280	Brittany	Three horses	Taken from castle of foes slain by hero. [In the abstract of the tale given by M. Sébillot it is not explicitly said that hero made use of horses]
*Romero, 129	Brazil (Portuguese)	Three horses	Taken from palace of ogre
*Vinson, 56	Basque Provinces	Three olanos (dogs)	Taken from castle of ogre conquered by hero
*Wolf, _Deutsche Hausm._, 369	Odenwald	Three horses	Taken from uninhabited castle
*Luzel, ii. _Contes Pop._, 296	Brittany	Horse	Transformation of Murlu, a mythical creature (enchanted form of hero’s father’s first wife), released by hero from captivity

Authority.	Country.	Animals.	How obtained.
*Vasconcellos, 274	Portugal	Two dogs	Come out of eyes of witch destroyed by help of St. Antony
*Romero, 83	Brazil (Portuguese)	Three dogs	Issue from head of old woman slain by hero
*Von Wlislocki, _Volksdicht._, 323	Transylvania (Gipsy)	Horse	Transformation of horse’s head found by hero under a tree
*_Roumanian F. T._, 48	Roumania	Bull	Found in hole made in earth by hero’s arrow
*Von Wlislocki, _Volksdicht._, 260	Transylvania (Gipsy)	Horse	Sent by dead river-nymph
*Leskien, 396	Lithuania	Lion, bear, boar, fox, and hare	Caught
Zingerle, _K. und Hausm. aus Süddeutsch._, 124	Tirol	Dancing bears	Caught

TABLE B.
WEAPONS.

* Stories thus marked do not belong to the Perseus cycle, though containing the incident of the Slaughter of the Dragon.

Authority.	Country.	Weapons.	How acquired.
i. Cosquin, 60	Lorraine	Lances	Congenital
i. Cosquin, 64	Lorraine	Lances	Congenital
Pedroso, 100	Portugal	Lances	Congenital
Braga, i. _Contos_, 117	Portugal	Lances	Congenital
Coelho, 120	Portugal	Lances	Congenital
i. Finamore, pt. i. 105	Abruzzi	Lances	Congenital
Nerucci, 61; and Imbriani, 375	Tuscany	Lances	Congenital
Schneller, 186	Tirol	Lances	Congenital
Leskien, 543 (from Jukié)	Bosnia	Lances	Congenital
Caballero, 27	Spain	Lances and shields	Congenital
Zéliqzon, 63	Lorraine	Sabres	Congenital
Cavallius, 348	Sweden	Swords	Congenital
i. Grundtvig, 277	Denmark	Swords	Congenital
Wolf, _Deutsche M._, 134	Germany	Swords	Congenital
Karajich, 174	Servia	Swords	Congenital
Visentini, 104	Mantua	Swords	Congenital
De Gubernatis, 41	Tuscany	Swords	Congenital
iii. De Nino, 321	Abruzzi	Sword	Congenital
i. Gonzenbach, 269	Sicily	Swords	Congenital
xviii. Pitrè, 45	Sicily	Cutlass	Congenital
Kuhn und Schwartz, 337	North Germany	Sabres, pistols, and guns	Congenital
ii. Macdonald, 341	Quilimane (probably from Portugal)	Spears and guns	Congenital

Authority.	Country.	Weapons.	How acquired.
Chambers, 89	Scotland	Magical wand	Given by old woman
Webster, 33	Basque Provinces	Stick	Given by old woman
Leskien, 542 (from Afanasief)	Russia	Sabres	Given by old man
i. _Zeits. f. Volksk._, 230	Lithuania	Bow and arrows	Given by angel
i. _Kathá_, 381	India	Sword	Given by goddess Durgá
Leclère, 112	Cambodia	Sabres	Given by magician
*Leskien, 404	Lithuania	Sword	Given by old man
*Von Wlislocki, _Volksdicht._, 260	Transylvania (Gipsy)	Silver sickle	Given by river-nymph
Cavallius, 78	Sweden	Knife	Given by mother
Cavallius, 95	Sweden	Spear	Given by father
Cavallius, 356	Sweden	Sword	Given by a sister, who is married to a dragon
*Dennys, 110	China	Sword	Supplied by heroine’s father
Thorpe, _Yuletide Stories_, 300; and Dasent, 131 (from Asbjörnsen)	Norway	Sword, ship, and art of brewing 100 lasts of malt	Given by one-eyed hags whose eyes hero has stolen (Graiai)
Pitrè, _Toscane_, 1	Tuscany	Mirror	Given by two old women with one eye between them (Graiai)
i. Gonzenbach, 272	Sicily	Defensive armour and swords	Given by fish in gratitude
Meier, _Märchen_, 101	Swabia	Magical pipe	Given by princess whom hero has freed from giants
*Luzel, ii. _Contes Pop._, 296	Brittany	Sword	Given by Murlu, a mythical creature (enchanted form of hero’s father’s first wife), released by hero from captivity
*Sébillot, i. _Contes Pop._, 172	Brittany	Consecrated stole	Given by priest as reward for restoring treasures of chapel stolen by robbers

Authority.	Country.	Weapons.	How acquired.
*Webster, 22	Basque Provinces	Sword and bottle of scented water	Given by Tartaro, a mythical creature released by hero
*ii. _Rivista_, 109	Sardinia	Consecrated stole	Given by priest as reward for restoring treasures of chapel stolen by robbers
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 420	Germany	Gun, powder-horn, and bag	Given by huntsman who has already given dogs in exchange for goats
*Dorsey, _Cegiha_, 114	Omaha (N. A. Indian. Probably from France)	Sword	Given by a man in exchange for a bow that never misses
*Grimm, ii. _Tales_, 102	Hesse	Air-gun that never misses	Given by huntsman in payment for services during apprenticeship
i. Campbell, 71	Argyllshire	Sword	Forged by smith to order
i. Campbell, 93	South Uist	Iron staff	Forged by smith to order
*MacInnes, 279	Argyllshire	Club	Forged by smith to order
*ix. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 172	Brittany	Club weighing 500 lbs.	Forged by smith to order
*ii. Von Hahn, 259	Island of Syra	Iron staff	Forged by smith to order
*Wardrop, 68	Georgia	Pair of shoes and bow and arrow	Made by smith to order
*Vinson, 56	Basque Provinces	Mace	Bought by hero
*Cox, _Cinderella_, 450 (iii. _Journ. Gipsy Lore Soc._, 208)	England (Gipsy)	Gut of bull-calf	Bull-calf given by father
*Von Wlislocki, _Armenier_, 3	Transylvania (Armenian)	Iron staff	Made by hero out of golden bird which is the life of a giant destroyed by him

Authority.	Country.	Weapons.	How acquired.
*vi. _Folklore_, 309 (from O’Faherty, _Siamsa angheimhridh_, 60)	Connaught	Sword of light	Taken from giants killed by hero
*Curtin, _Ireland_, 157	West of Ireland	Three swords Brown apple	Acquired by conquest of three giants Given by third giant’s housekeeper
*i. Campbell, 97	Argyllshire	Sword?	Acquired from conquered giants
*ii. Strackerjan, 333	Oldenburg	Ointment	Taken from dwelling of robbers killed by hero
*Haltrich, 101	Transylvania (Saxon)	Sword	Taken from house of robbers conquered by hero
*Schleicher, 54	Lithuania	Stick Gun and sword	Taken by hero from his father Taken from dwelling of conquered robbers
*iii. _Archivio_, 537	Abruzzi	Sword	Taken from slaughtered giant
*i. Gonzenbach, 299	Sicily	Sword	Acquired by conquest of giant who held hero’s sister in thrall
*ii. Von Hahn, 49	Island of Syra	Sword	Taken from castle of ogre conquered by hero
*Burton, vi. _Suppl. Nights_, 363 (from _Galland_ MSS.)	Levant	Sword	Belonging to ogre killed by hero
*Romero, 129	Brazil (Portuguese)	Arms not specified	Taken from palace of ogre
*Schleicher, 4	Lithuania	Gun, sabre, and bottle of oil	Taken from uninhabited house
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 244	Hesse	Sword	Found buried before threshold of church on the dragon’s hill

Authority.	Country.	Weapons.	How acquired.
*Wolf, _Deutsche Hausm._, 369	Odenwald	Sword and whistle	Dug up by direction of a little grey dwarf at a crossway
*_Roumanian F. T._, 48	Roumania	Sword which petrifies	Found in hole in the earth made by hero’s arrow
*Temple, i. _Leg. Panj._, 17	Panjáb	Sword, heel-ropes, and arrow	Magical by inherent power of their owner, the hero
*i. Cosquin, 18, 74 (from Schiefner)	Avares of Caucasus	Diamond sword	?
*ii. Grässe, 29 (from Müller, _Siegburg und der Siegkreis_)	Rhine Prov.	Crucifix	?

TABLE C.
THE IMPOSTOR AND THE TOKENS.

* Stories thus marked do not belong to the Perseus cycle, though containing the incident of the Slaughter of the Dragon.

Authority.	Country.	Token of identity.	Impostor.
i. Cosquin, 60	Lorraine	Tongues	Three charcoal-burners
i. Cosquin, 64	Lorraine	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
Zéliqzon, 63	Lorraine	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*Luzel, ii. _Contes Pop._, 296	Brittany	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*i. _Mélusine_, 57	Brittany	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*ix. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 172	Brittany	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*ix. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 173	Brittany	Tongues	Thatcher
*Sébillot, i. _Contes Pop._, 72	Brittany	Tongues	A passing man
*MacInnes, 478, citing the Tristan-saga	France (12th century)	Tongue	Cook
Bladé, _Agenais_, 9	Gascony	Tongues
*Henderson, 285	Co. Durham	Tongue	The lord of Mitford Castle. [He brings head and is successful]
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 419	Germany	Tongues	King’s marshal
Kuhn und Schwartz, 337	North Germany	Tongues	Coachman
Meier, _Märchen_, 204	Swabia	Tongues	Coachman
Meier, _Märchen_, 306	Swabia	Tongues	Cupbearer
*Zingerle, _K. und Hausm._, 35; and Busk, _Hofer_, 207	Tirol	Tongue

Authority.	Country.	Token of identity.	Impostor.
Zingerle, _K. und Hausm. aus Süddeutsch._, 260	Tirol	Tongues	King’s servant
i. Grundtvig, 277	Denmark	Tongues	The Red Knight
*_F. L. Andaluz_, 357	Andalucia	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*x. _Bibl. Trad. Pop. Españ._, 249	Extremadura	Tongues	Negro
*i. Braga, 125	Portugal	Points of tongues	Not specified
ii. Macdonald, 341	Quilimane (probably from Portugal)	Tongue	Captain of soldiers
*Romero, 83	Brazil (Portuguese)	Points of tongues	Negro
*Romero, 129	Brazil (Portuguese)	Points of tongues	A prince
*ii. _Rivista_, 109	Sardinia	Tongues	A passing man
*De Gubernatis, ii. _Zool. Myth._, 36 note	Piedmont	Tongues	Chimney-sweeper
*Andrews, 230	Riviera	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*Bernoni, _Fiabe_, 50	Venice	Tongues	Chimney-sweeper. [Detected by not knowing the names of hero’s dogs]
Pitrè, _Nov. Pop. Tosc._, 1	Tuscany	Tongues	Cobbler
De Gubernatis, 40	Tuscany	Tongues	Woodcutter
De Gubernatis, 41	Tuscany	Tongue	Charcoal-burner
Nerucci, 61; and Imbriani, 375	Tuscany	Tongues	Cobbler
*Pitrè, _Nov. Pop. Tosc._, 9	Tuscany	Tongues	An ugly Moor
*Leland, _Etr. Rom._, 109	Tuscany	Tongues	A poor youth. [He is successful]
*_Tuscan F. T._, 21	Tuscany	Tongues
iii. De Nino, 321	Abruzzi	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*iii. _Archivio_, 537	Abruzzi	Tongues	Hero’s two comrades (soldiers)

Authority.	Country.	Token of identity.	Impostor.
i. Finamore, pt. i., 105	Abruzzi	Tongues cut out and thrown away
i. _Pentamerone_, 90; and i. Basile, 87	South Italy	Tongues	Peasant
*i. Gonzenbach, 299	Sicily	Tongues	Slave
Legrand, 161	Greece	Tongues	Charcoal-burner
*Maury, _Croy. et Lég._, 196, quoting a scholion on Apollonius Rhodius	Megara, Ancient Greece	Tongue	King’s men
*Carnoy et Nicolaides, 75; and Garnett, i. _Wom._, 165	Lesbos	Tongues	Charcoal-burners
*Georgeakis, 84	Lesbos	Tongues
*Schott, 135	Wallachia	Tongues	Gipsy
*iii. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 628	Roumania	Tongues	Gipsy, the emperor’s cook
Leskien, 385	Lithuania	Tongues	Coachman
*Leskien, 396	Lithuania	Tongues	Coachman
*Leskien, 404	Lithuania	Tongues	Coachman
*Schleicher, 54	Lithuania	Tongues	King’s servant
Auning, 79	Lettish	Tongues	Coachman
Auning, 87	Lettish	Tongues	Coachman
Auning, 92	Lettish	Tongues	Soldier
*Waldau, 468	Bohemia	Tongues	Coachman
*Dorsey, _Cegiha_, 114, and 127 (variant)	Omaha (N. Am. Indian. Probably from France)	Tongues	Black man
Thorpe, _Yuletide Stories_, 300; and Dasent, 131 (from Asbjörnsen)	Norway	Tongues and lungs	The Red Knight. [He takes the tokens: hero recognised by bringing contents of the slain trolls’ ships]
Meier, _Märchen_, 101	Swabia	Tongues and eyes	Nobleman
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 244	Hesse	Tongues; and handkerchief given by princess	King’s marshal
*x. _Archivio_, 316	Dalmatia	Tongues wrapt in lady’s handkerchief	An old hunchbacked porter

Authority.	Country.	Token of identity.	Impostor.
i. Gonzenbach, 272	Sicily	Tongues wrapt in lady’s handkerchief	Slave
*Haltrich, 101	Transylvania	Tongues; and lady’s handkerchief and silken band bound by her round each of hero’s dogs’ necks	Coachman
Zingerle, _K. und Hausm._, 122	Tirol	Tongues; and lady’s veil	Lamplighter
Webster, 87	Basque Provinces	Tongues; and seven pieces cut by hero from lady’s robes	Charcoal-burner
*Webster, 22	Basque Provinces	Tongues; and 42 pieces cut by hero from lady’s robes	Charcoal-burner
*Webster, 33	Basque Provinces	Tongues; and seven pieces of silk cut by hero from lady’s robes	Charcoal-burner
*Vinson, 56	Basque Provinces	Tongues wrapt in seven pieces of silk cut by hero from lady’s robes	Charcoal-burner
*Vasconcellos, 274	Portugal	Tongues wrapt in lady’s robe	“Um curioso”
*Leskien, 407	Lithuania	Tongues; and lady’s clothes	Three generals
*Grimm, ii. _Tales_, 102	Hesse	Tongues; corner of lady’s handkerchief, her slipper, and piece cut from her nightdress	One-eyed captain
Pröhle, _K. und Volksm._, 20	Germany	Tongues; ring, and handkerchief given by lady	Servant
Zingerle, _K. und Hausm. aus Süddeutsch._, 217	Tirol	Tongues; ring, chain, and handkerchief given by lady	King’s servant

Authority.	Country.	Token of identity.	Impostor.
*Cox, _Cinderella_, 450 (from iii. _Journ. Gipsy Soc._, 208)	England (Gipsy)	Tongue; and lady’s ring, and hero’s first finger bitten off by dragon	Gentlemen from all over England
*x. _Bibl. Trad. Pop. Españ._, 258	Extremadura	Tongues; and lady’s ring	Negro
*Coelho, 114 (Eng. version, 61)	Portugal	Tongues; and lady’s ring	Negro
*ii. Von Hahn, 49	Island of Syra	Tongues; and lady’s ring	Moor
*vi. _Folklore_, 309 (from O’Faherty, _Siamsa an gheimhridh_, 60)	Connaught	Tongue; and hair cut by lady from hero’s head	Courtiers
ii. Cosquin, 56	Lorraine	Heads	Hero’s brothers
Auning, 91	Lettish	Heads
*Steel and Temple, 143	Panjáb	Ogre’s head	Scavenger. [He produces the head, and is successful; but the hero is subsequently recognised]
*Day, 64	Bengal	Rakshasi’s head	Woodcutters
Cavallius, 78	Sweden	Troll’s eyes	Courtier
Stier, 1 (from Erdelyi); and Jones and Kropf, 110	Hungary	Tooth from each head of dragon	The Red Knight
*ii. Strackerjan, 330	Oldenburg	Some of dragon’s teeth	Coachman
*Kirby, ii. _Hero of Esthonia_, 6 (from Kreutzwald)	Esthonia	Horns and tusks (or claw)	Coachman
*i. Cosquin, 18, 74	Avares of the Caucasus	Ears
*x. _Rev. Trad. Pop._, 193	Armenia	Ears	[A feminin deliverer]
*i. Cosquin, 76 (from xxiv. _Asiatic Journ._, N.S., 196)	Hala Canara (India)	Lion’s tail	King’s washerman

Authority.	Country.	Token of identity.	Impostor.
Cavallius, 95	Sweden	Ring fastened by lady in hero’s hair	Coachman
Cavallius, 348	Sweden	Ring fastened by lady in hero’s hair	Coachman
*Dasent, _Fjeld_, 261 (from Asbjörnsen)	Norway	Ring fastened by lady in hero’s hair	A man named Glibtongue
Leskien, 389	Lithuania	Lady’s ring and half her handkerchief	Coachman and lackey
*_Roumanian F. T._, 48	Roumania	Lady’s ring and handkerchief	Gipsy
i. Campbell, 71	Argyllshire	Lady’s rings; only hero can take the beast’s heads off the withy on which he has bound them	General
*i. _Archæol. Rev._, 303	Ireland	Strip from lady’s garment bound on hero’s wounded wrist	Many
*Schleicher, 4	Lithuania	Lady’s handkerchief	Coachman
i. Campbell, 93	South Uist	Scratch on hero’s forehead made by lady; only he can untie the beast’s heads off the withy
*i. Campbell, 97	Argyllshire	Joint bitten off hero’s little finger by damsel, patch cut by her from top of his head, and notch from his ear; only he can untie heads from withy	A red-headed lad
i. Campbell, 98	Berneray	Joint bitten off hero’s little finger by lady, patch cut by her from top of his head, and notch from his ear	Many who counterfeited the marks

Authority.	Country.	Token of identity.	Impostor.
*MacInnes, 279	Argyllshire	Point of hero’s little finger cut off by lady	Cook
*Larminie, 139	West of Ireland	Piece of hero’s coat and lock of his hair, both cut by lady; and his shoe	Son of King of Prussia
*Curtin, _Ireland_, 157; Larminie, 196; and i. _F. L. Journ._, 54. [_Cf._ Curtin, _Ireland_, 114, where hero conquers giants and proves his victory by their tongues, while the son of the King of Tisean has brought their heads]	Ireland	Blue glass boot of hero	Many
*Wolf, _D. Hausm._, 369	Odenwald	Hero wounded in leg at subsequent tournament
*De Rochemonteix, 25	Nubia	Lady’s thigh marked by hero with his hand dipped in monster’s blood
*Edwards, 90	Bahama (Negro)	Only hero can take out red stain he has made on lady’s handkerchief	All the high people of the place [Relic of Coachman]
*Bérenger-Féraud, _Sénég._, 39	Senegambia	Only hero can untie a dog, brandish a lance and put on a sandal	Warriors
*Auning, 96	Lettish	Hero’s beasts	King’s servant
*ii. Strackerjan, 333	Oldenburg		Charioteer
Leclère, 112	Cambodia		Two Mandarins

Authority.	Country.	Impostor.
Ovid, _Metam._, iv.	Greece (ancient)	Lady’s betrothed attacks wedding party, claiming bride
Grimm, i. _Tales_, 420	Germany	Lady’s betrothed tries to kill hero
*ii. _Rivista_, 28	Maremma	King endeavours to wed lady to a rich baron instead of hero

TABLE D.
THE DELIVERER’S SLEEP.

* Stories thus marked do not belong to the Perseus cycle, though containing the incident of the Slaughter of the Dragon.

SUPPLEMENTARY LIST OF WORKS REFERRED TO

Authority.	Country.	How hero awakened.
*De Rochemonteix, 25	Nubia	Lady drops tear into hero’s face
*ii. Von Hahn, 49	Island of Syra	Lady drops tear on hero’s cheek
*ix. _Archivio_, 484	Bosnia	Lady’s tears fall on hero’s face
*Ralston, _Russian F. T._, 347	Bulgaria	Lady’s tears fall on hero’s face
*Schott, 135	Wallachia	Lady drops tears on hero’s face
*Burton, vi. _Suppl. Nights_, 363 (from _Galland MSS._)	Levant	[No lousing.] Lady drops tear on hero’s face
*Wardrop, 68	Georgia	[No lousing.] Lady drops tear on hero’s cheek
*_Roumanian F. T._, 48	Roumania	[No lousing.] Lady drops tears on hero’s face
*Romero, 83	Brazil (Portuguese)	[No lousing.] Lady drops tear into hero’s face
*Georgeakis, 256	Lesbos	Lady calls hero
*_F. L. Andaluz_, 357	Andalucia	[No lousing.] Lady calls hero
*Curtin, _Ireland_, 157	W. of Ireland	[No lousing.] Roused by lady
*MacInnes, 279	Argyllshire	Lady cuts off joint of little finger of hero’s right hand
i. Campbell, 97	Argyllshire	Lady cuts (1) joint from hero’s little finger, (2) patch from top of his head, (3) notch from his ear

Authority.	Country.	How hero awakened.
i. Campbell, 98	Berneray	[No lousing.] Lady cuts (1) joint from hero’s little finger, (2) patch from top of his head, (3) notch from his ear
i. Campbell, 71	Argyllshire	[No lousing.] Lady puts (1) ring from her finger on hero’s finger, (2) her earring in his ear, (3) her other earring in his other ear
i. Campbell, 93	South Uist	?
*Denton, 309	Servia	?
Cavallius, 95	Sweden
Cosquin, in _Congress Report_ (1891), 70, citing Chalatiauz	Armenia	[No lousing.] Lady drops tear (?)

Addy. Household Tales with other Traditional Remains. Collected in the Counties of York, Lincoln, Derby, and Nottingham, by Sidney Oldall Addy, M.A. London, 1895.

Ainsworth. A Personal Narrative of the Euphrates Expedition. By William Ainsworth. 2 vols. London, 1888.

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Andree, Anthropophagie. Die Anthropophagie. Eine ethnographische Studie von Richard Andree. Leipzig, 1887.

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Andrews. Contes Ligures. Traditions de la Rivière recueillies entre Menton et Gênes, par James Bruyn Andrews. Paris, 1892.

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Darwin, Journ. Journal of Researches into the Natural History and Geology of the Countries visited during the voyage of H.M.S. Beagle [etc.]. By Charles Darwin, M.A., F.R.S. London, 1876.

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Du Chaillu, Ashangoland. A Journey to Ashangoland: and further Penetration into Equatorial Africa. By Paul B. Du Chaillu. London, 1867.

——Equat. Afr. Explorations and Adventures in Equatorial Africa. By Paul B. Du Chaillu. London, 1861.

——Midnight Sun. Land of the Midnight Sun; Summer and Winter Journeys through Sweden, Norway, Lapland, and Northern Finland. By Paul B. Du Chaillu. London, 1881.

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Early Ideas. Early Ideas. A Group of Hindu Stories. Collected and collated by Anaryan [F. F. Arbuthnot]. London, 1881.

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F. L. Andaluz. El Folklore Andaluz. Organo de la Sociedad de este Nombre. 1882 á 1883. Sevilla.

Forsyth. The Highlands of Central India. Notes on their Forests and Wild Tribes, Natural History and Sports. By Captain J. Forsyth. London, 1889.

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Garcilasso. First Part of the Royal Commentaries of the Yncas, by the Ynca Garcilasso de la Vega. Translated by Clements R. Markham. 2 vols. London, 1869. [Hakluyt Soc.].

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Heimskringla. The Stories of the Kings of Norway, called the Round World (Heimskringla). By Snorri Sturluson. Done into English out of the Icelandic by William Morris and Eiríkr Magnússon. [3 vols. only issued yet.] London, 1893-95.

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Hillner. Volksthümlicher Brauch und Glaube bei Geburt und Taufe in Siebenbürger Sachsenlande. Ein Beitrag zur Culturgeschichte von Johann Hillner. Program des Evang. Gymnasium in Schässburg. 1877.

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Hunt. Popular Romances of the West of England; or, the Drolls, Traditions, and Superstitions of Old Cornwall, collected and edited by Robert Hunt, F.R.S. London, 1881.

Hunter, Captivity. Memoirs of a Captivity among the Indians of North America, from Childhood to the Age of Nineteen [etc.]. By John D. Hunter. London, 1823.

Jahn, Volkssagen. Volkssagen aus Pommern und Rügen. Gesammelt und herausgegeben von Dr. Ulrich Jahn. Stettin, 1886.

Jātaka. The Jātaka; or Stories of the Buddha’s Former Births. Translated from the Pāli by various hands, under the editorship of Professor E. B. Cowell. Vol. I. translated by Robert Chalmers, B.A.; Vol. II. translated by W. H. D. Rouse, M.A. Cambridge, 1895. [Still proceeding.]

Jeremias, Höllenfahrt. Die Höllenfahrt der Istar. Eine altbabylonische Beschwörungslegende. Von Alfred Jeremias. München, 1886.

Jones and Kropf. The Folk-Tales of the Magyars. Collected by Kriza, Erdélyi, Pap, and others. Translated and edited by the Rev. W. Henry Jones and Lewis L. Kropf. London, 1889.

Journ. Ethn. Soc. The Journal of the Ethnological Society of London. 9 vols. London, 1848-56.

Journ. Ind. Arch. The Journal of the Indian Archipelago. 18 vols. Singapore, 1847-59.

Journ. Kilk. Arch. Soc. The Journal of the Kilkenny and South-East of Ireland Archæological Society. New Series. 6 vols., 1856-71. Dublin.

Kane. Wanderings of an Artist among the Indians of North America. By Paul Kane. London, 1859.

Karajich. Volksmärchen der Serben. Gesammelt und herausgegeben von Wuk Stephanowitsch Karadschitsch. Ins Deutsche übersetzt von dessen Tochter Wilhelmine. Berlin, 1854.

Kerr. The Far Interior: a Narrative of Travel and Adventure from the Cape of Good Hope across the Zambesi to the Lake Regions of Central Africa. By Walter Montagu Kerr, C.E., F.R.G.S. 2 vols. London, 1887.

Kirby. The Hero of Esthonia, and other Studies in the Romantic Literature of that Country. Compiled from Esthonian and German sources by W. F. Kirby, F.L.S., F.E.S. 2 vols. London, 1895.

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ENDNOTES

CHAPTER XVI NOTES

^6.1 Curtin, Ireland, 157; Larminie, 196; i. F.L. Journ., 54; vi. Folklore, 309. In Larminie’s version, however, a new series of adventures follows the marriage.

^7.2 Webster, 22. The story belongs to the Outcast Child group (see iv. F.L. Journ., 308); and the hero’s reconciliation with his father takes place at the wedding.

^16.1 Von Wlislocki, Volksdicht., 323 (Story No. 55). In savage tales the attack on a monster from the inside is not very uncommon. See, for example, Riggs, Dakota Grammar, 91, 141; Edwards, Bahama, 72. The Quères Pueblos relate that the Coyote swallowed the Horned Toad. After being swallowed, the latter erected its spines, and so killed the Coyote. Lummis, 86. Cf. the story of the Lambton Worm (Henderson, 288), the tale from Galloway given by Mr. Andrew Lang in the Academy, October 1885, the classic Saga of Kleostratos (infra, p. 37), and others.

^18.1 Schleicher, 54. Compare a tale from Oldenburg, ii. Strackerjan, 333 (variant of Story No. 630).

^18.2 Pitrè, Toscane, 9 (Story No. 2); F.L. Andaluz, 357; Romero, 83 (Story No. 23).

^20.1 Bernoni, Fiabe, 50 (Story No. 10). We hear no more of the ring; and the lady plays no part in the final scene.

^24.1 Carnoy et Nicolaides, 75; Garnett, i. Wom., 165. A shorter version in Georgeakis, 35. Substantially the same story is found in the island of Syra, in the Cyclades. ii. Von Hahn, 49 (Story No. 70).

^25.2 Schott, 135 (Story No. 10). In a Lithuanian variant the maiden sacrificed to the dragon is confounded with one of the princesses carried captive by a dragon into the well. Leskien, 407.

^26.1 Sébillot, i. Contes Pop., 72 (Story No. 11); ii. Rivista, 109. Two Breton variants, also collected by M. Sébillot, ix. Rev. Trad. Pop., 172, 173.

^28.1 Von Wlislocki, Volksdicht., 198 (Story No. 13). As to the Keshalyi’s hairs, see suprà, vol. i., pp. 124, 155.

^29.1 Von Wlislocki, Volksdicht., 260 (Story No. 34). Compare the classical legend of Tiresias. In the Hindu mythology, the daughter of Manu changed her sex several times. So did Loki in the Scandinavian mythology. Change of sex is also, as I need hardly remind the reader, found in several classical stories.

^31.1 Siddhi-Kür, 60 (Story No. 2). Miss Busk gives a free rendering, Sagas, 18.

^32.1 V. Bettei, in xiii. Archivio, 543, translating the story. The incident of binding the dragon, whether by an oath or a more substantial bond, is of extreme rarity in märchen, but is by no means uncommon in sagas, as we shall find in the next chapter. See, however, the Greek märchen cited suprà, p. 3; and a Russian tale, viii. Rev. Trad. Pop., 69.

CHAPTER XVII NOTES

^37.1 Pausanias, ix. 26. Nor are the cases of Herakles and Kleostratos the only cases in antiquity of what I may call combat with a dragon from the inside. In the Vatican Museum is a beautiful Attic vase found at Caere, and probably imported into Etruria in the fifth century before Christ, which contains a representation of Jason vomited forth from the dragon’s maw. The hero is identified by name; and the Golden Fleece hangs on a tree in the background; while Athene, with owl and spear and Gorgon’s head, superintends the operation. The scene is reproduced by Roscher, Lexikon, s.v. Jason. This version of the story does not seem to have found its way into literature: a sample of the endless number of variants of the classical stories which have perished, or only lived on in tradition to give us at the end of the nineteenth century the chance of recovering them as märchen from the mouths of the peasantry, ere they be finally swept away by the deluge of modern civilisation.

^38.1 Budge, Saint George, xxxii. Yet the very arm that slew the dragon is preserved at Venice (Graf, ii. Roma, 30 note), and the cave which was the dragon’s lair is shown at Beyrout! Bérenger-Féraud, Superstitions, 216, citing Thévenot.

^41.1 Rudder, 461 note, prints the notice from a MS. of the time of Henry VI. I have reproduced it verbatim et literatim in County F.L., Gloucestershire, 48.

^43.1 Dr. Krauss, in ix. Archivio, 484, translating a Bosnian ballad obtained by him from the mouth of an orthodox peasant at Vukasovci.

^45.1 Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, 301. The whole essay on Saint George ought to be read as an important contribution to the subject; though the sun-myth, by which the author explains the legend, is now as thoroughly exploded as Dr. Heylin’s identification, which he combats, of the saint with the Arian bishop of Alexandria. Mr. Budge, however, says: “The Coptic text shows us clearly that the dragon which George fought and overcame was none other than the impious Dadianus, and it proves, if further proof is needed, that George the martyr and George, the opponent of Athanasius, Bishop of Alexandria, were two distinct persons; the fact being that Athanasius the Bishop has been confused with Athanasius the sorcerer, whom George the martyr overcame.” Budge, Saint George, xxxi. Mr. Baring-Gould, moreover, is certainly wrong in saying: “Hospinian, relating the sufferings of the martyr, affirms distinctly that his constancy was the occasion of the creation of the legend by Voragine.” Any affirmation by Hospinian on the subject would, of course, be of very little value; but all he says is that the saint’s fortitude and unshaken constancy gave occasion to the story, as it is to be read in Jacob à Voragine and Peter de Natalibus. His own interpretation is that the tale is a form under which the ancients figured the redemption of the human race. Thus, George is Christ, the Dragon is the Devil, the citizens of Silea (sic) are an image of the whole human race, a prey to the Devil, from whom the only power that can deliver them is Christ, for which we owe Him everlasting thanks and worship, etc., etc. De Festis Christianorum, sub die 23rd April. Some countenance is given to the theory of misunderstanding by a Russian song which enumerates the conquests of a fiery dragon among the saint’s trials during his prolonged martyrdom. Ralston, Songs, 232. I do not know whether this occurs elsewhere.

^46.2 i. Grässe, 460 (Story No. 502). There is a similar statue and tradition, but wanting the maiden, at Helmstedt. Voges, 194 (Story No. 165). A monument in the church at Brent Pelham is thus described by Weever in his Funerall Monuments: “In the wall of this church lieth a most ancient monument: a stone whereon is figured a man, and about him an Eagle, a Lion, and a Bull, all having wings, and a fourth of the shape of an Angell, as if they should represent the four Evangelists: under the feet of the man is a crosse fleurie, and under the crosse a serpent. He is thought to have been some time the lord of an ancient decaied house, well moated, not farre from this place, called O Piers Shoonkes. He flourished Ann. à conquestu vicesimo primo.” In effect there seems to have been a family named Shonke resident at Pelham during the Middle Ages; and there is said to be a traditional tale current concerning the person buried beneath the stone, “which represents him as having so offended the devil by killing a serpent, that his Highness threatened to secure him, whether buried within or without the walls of a church; to avoid which he was deposited in the wall itself.” Gent. Mag. Lib., v. Topography, 223, quoting Weever, Brayley, and others.

^47.1 i. Rivista, 748. Lilies of the valley which spring from the blood of Saint Leonard, another dragon-slayer, still reveal the scenes of the saint’s combats with the dragon of Saint Leonard’s Forest in Sussex. Henderson, 300.

^49.1 Henderson, 285, citing a communication from “Col. Johnson, whose family have long been owners of a portion of the Pollard lands.” A similar legend accounts for the armorial bearings of the town of Bradford. ii. Parkinson, 165. Compare, too, the tenure of the manor of Sockburn, also in the bishopric of Durham. Henderson, 284.

^50.1 Kuno Meyer, in i. Arch. Rev., 303, translating the saga; MacInnes, 477. See also Rhys, Hibbert Lectures, 595.

^53.1 Brauns, 112. This should be compared with Campbell’s version, which is more directly from oral tradition, though probably affected by literary influences; and with Mr. Pfoundes’ version referred to further on (p. 91, note).

^54.1 The Ancient and Present State of Gloucestershire, by Sir Robert Atkyns, knight, 2nd edition, London, 1768 (the original edition bears date 1712), 202; A New History of Gloucestershire, Cirencester: printed by Samuel Rudder (1779), 402. I quote Rudder. Atkyns, who neither describes the ancient nor any other state of Gloucestershire, omits the detail of the milk.

^55.1 Readers who are unacquainted with this interesting church will pardon my mentioning that, among other curious relics of the past, it preserves the arrangement of seats around the Communion Table in the chancel, which was introduced after the Reformation, but which the reaction under Laud and at the Restoration in most cases destroyed. The Rev. George Butterworth, who was incumbent until three or four years ago, and who has written an excellent little book upon Deerhurst, kept with reverent care in its ancient situation the carved oaken Communion Table. But his successor has removed it as lumber to the north aisle, and replaced it by a brand-new deal altar and super-altar, with all the gewgaws of the present ecclesiastical fashion, to the disgust of his parishioners and of every one who values historical remains. It will hardly be believed that this gentleman bears the name and claims the blood of the antiquary Lysons. Is it not time that the nation took over every church with any pretensions to the character of an historical monument, and forbade under heavy penalties the injuries lately, and still, wrought all over England by fussy parsons and over-zealous architects? Or are we to wait until every genuine record of the past has been effaced?

^57.1 Plowden, 84. The story of Menelek is interesting but irrelevant here. The name of the king’s daughter in the Bosnian ballad cited above (p. 41) is a curious coincidence, if it be nothing more.

^58.1 Mage, 672. A similar story is told in Senegambia. Bérenger-Féraud, Sénég., 185.

^59.1 Leg. Aur., xciii. Such tales are told of several female saints. M. Maury mentions Saint Martha, Saint Veneranda and Saint Radegund. Saint Veneranda or Venera (Venus?) is a saint held in high honour in Sicily and Southern Italy. Her legend is given by Wirth, 24.

^62.1 Dennys, 110, quoting translation by W. F. Mayers in i. N. and Q. on China and Japan, 148.

^63.1 i. Leg. Panjâb, 17; Steel, 258. Compare the märchen related, ante, p. 30. The legend seems to be localised at Poo in the Sutlej valley. Mrs. Murray-Aynsley, in iii. Rev. Trad. Pop., 431.

^64.1 Liebrecht, 66, referring to the Saga and some other sources given by Uhland.

^64.2 Some of these omissions, but not all, are indicated by Prof. York Powell, Elton’s version, xcii.

^65.1 i. Blätt. f. Pomm. Volksk., 4, citing Dr. Zechlin, who gives it from the narration of a fisherman.

^65.2 Science of Fairy Tales, 235. M. Teirlinck refers to several dragon-stories current in Flanders, whereof some at least belong to the Enchanted Princess group. The others would seem to be Rescue tales. But he gives no details. i. Teirlinck, 147.

CHAPTER XVIII NOTES

^70.2 ii. Journ. Ind. Arch., 174, translating Tijds. v. Neerl. Ind., 9th Jaarg., 10th Afl.

^71.1 i. Schouten, 115. The islanders were grievously offended when the travellers caught any crocodiles, and attempted to prevent them from doing so. Compare a Tupi custom which, if accurately reported, looks like human sacrifice. Featherman, Chiapo-Mar., 346. I do not feel at liberty to do more than call attention to it here.

^72.3 Pausanias, viii. 2. See Mr. Lang’s comments, ii. Myth, R. and R., 177. Another Greek vestige of human sacrifice to a bestial god seems to be the ceremony in the temple of Artemis Tauropolos at Halæ, in which blood was drawn from a man’s throat by the edge of a sword. See Lang, ii. Myth, R. and R., 216.

^74.1 ix. Rev. Trad. Pop., 76, quoting Abel Rémusat, Histoire de la ville de Khotan.

^75.2 Such legends are common in certain parts of Europe. See Science of F. T., ch. ix., where I have examined a number of them.

^76.1 Crooke, 297. Compare the legend of the canal of Chamba, iv. Ind. N. and Q., 12; Science of F. T., 82.

^77.1 Frazer, i. Golden Bough, 276, citing Major Temple in xi. Ind. Ant., 297.

^77.2 Crooke, 295, 297. This belief, Mr. Crooke points out, is among the difficulties constantly recurring at the census. Eusebius tells a curious tale of a victim thrown into a certain spring at Cæsarea Philippi, on the occasion of a festival, and disappearing by the power of the demon, until one day Astyrius, a Roman senator who had been converted to Christianity, was present at the rite and put an end to the pagan miracle by his prayers. But it does not appear that the victim was human. Eusebius, vii. 17.

^78.2 Ovid, Fasti, v. 621; Dion. Halicarn. i. 38; Lactantius, Inst., i. 12. See Mannhardt, ii. Wald- und Feld-kulte, 265; and Jevons, Plut. R. Q., lxxxi. With the Vestal Virgins were joined in the performance of the rite the Pontifices, the Prætors, and certain other of the citizens; but probably they only assisted in the sense of being present and performing some of the subordinate ceremonies.

^79.2 Frazer, i. Golden Bough, 279; and see the authorities there referred to.

^81.1 Mannhardt, ii. Wald- und Feld-kulte, 414; Ralston, 244. I quote from Frazer, i. Golden Bough, 273, who follows Mannhardt. The authority both of Mannhardt and Ralston appears to be Afanasief.

^81.3 ii. Witzschel, 287, 293. I was not aware, or rather I had forgotten, when I wrote the above that Grimm had already pointed out that the common phrase: “The river-sprite demands his yearly victim,” pointed to actual human sacrifices in heathen times. Grimm, ii. Myth., 494.

^83.3 ii. Denham Tracts, 42, 78; Henderson, 265; ii. Parkinson, 106; Burne, 79.

^84.1 Boddam-Whetham, 210. Lander reports a similar custom on the part of the river-tribes of the Niger.

^84.2 Rev. J. Macdonald, in iii. Folklore, 342. Among the Bechuana the water-snake, often found in fountains, is sacred; and it is believed that if one of them be killed the fountain will be dried up. Callaway, Tales, 290 note, quoting Philip, Researches in S. Africa.

^85.1 Bérenger-Féraud, ii. Superstitions, 19. According to the Senephos of Kenedugu the aboriginal spirits of the country retired, on the Bambara conquest, to the depths of certain pools, where they drown any one whom they hear speaking a word of Bambara in the neighbourhood of their watery dwellings. But we are told nothing about the shape of these spirits. vii. Rev. Trad. Pop., 761, quoting the report of Dr. Crozat on his mission to Mossi (French Soudan).

^85.2 Rev. J. Macdonald in iii. Folklore, 342, 356. A story told at the last reference looks like the germ of a Rescue legend.

^88.1 Academy, October 1885, apparently from oral tradition at Balmaclenan. Compare the curious legend of the Senecas concerning a dragon which fed on corpses. ii. Rep. Bur. Ethn., 54.

^91.1 Brauns, 50; C. Pfoundes, in i. F. L. Record, 120. The latter relates that the rescued maiden married her deliverer, and contains some other unimportant variations. Both versions have been subjected to literary manipulation. The version of the tale of Susa No (ante, p. 51) given by Mr. Pfoundes (i. F. L. Record, 122) describes the maiden eaten by the serpent as “the yearly offering of a human sacrifice” to propitiate “the deity of the mountain.” But I hesitate to put this into the text, because Mr. Pfoundes does not give his authority, though I do not suggest it is not perfectly trustworthy. I am only anxious not to grasp too readily at evidence so exactly to my purpose.

^93.1 i. N. Ind. N. and Q., 147, extracting a passage from the Settlement Report.

CHAPTER XIX NOTES

^106.1 i. Folklore, 310. Compare with this type of story those belonging to the Fearless Johnny cycle.

^109.1 Larminie, 201. The power of a second blow to restore to life, or heal a mortal wound inflicted with the same instrument, is well known in folktales.

^111.1 Stokes, 163 (Story No. 22). Other illustrations of the power of a hair are given, ibid. 269.

CHAPTER XX NOTES

^129.1 Browne, Ethnog. Inishbofin, in iii. Proc. Roy. Ir. Ac., 3rd ser., 360.

^130.3 G. Calvia-Secchi, in i. Rivista, 427. The saint’s question is, of course, an equivocation. “Stai bene?” may be an ironical inquiry after the victim’s health. In Slavonic sagas it is occasionally the devil who is thus petrified. See Grohmann, 278, and ix. Rev. Trad. Pop., 505. But they cannot be true, as it is well known that he is still very much alive.

^135.4 Temme, Altmark, 38, 99, 100. In Upper Styria a grassy alp was covered with stones because some cowherds played at skittles with butter; but I do not understand that the cowherds themselves underwent transformation. i. Zeits. des Vereins, 215.

^136.1 G. C. Secchi, in i. Rivista, 514. Bérenger-Féraud, ii. Superstitions, 286, 309, 322, 371, et seq., gives a number of instances analogous to those mentioned in the preceding paragraphs, too often without mentioning his authorities. As an example in the legends of the Church, take the unhappy shepherd who betrayed Saint Barbara to her father. Wirth, 13.

^136.2 Antè, p. 77; xi. Rep. Bur. Ethn., 54. The similarity of this incident to those of European tradition where the mendicants are Christ and the Apostle Peter need hardly be pointed out.

^137.2 Dorsey, in xi. Rep. Bur. Ethn., 425, quoting information supplied by a missionary, the Rev. W. Hamilton.

^140.2 Map, De Nug. Cur., iv. 12. Roger of Hoveden gives the name of the girl as Yse. Liebrecht, in Gerv. Tilb., 92, quotes the passage.

^142.3 ii. Zeits. des Vereins, 15. Cf. Maurer, 51, 52, and many other stories.

^143.3 Suprà, vol. i. p. 15. Other modern versions of the tale have been more recently published by Curtin, Hero-tales, 283, 296.

^143.5 Curtin, Hero-tales, 293, 309. If I do not misinterpret the scholiast a Pacceka-Buddha destroyed an insolent prince in this manner. See ii. Jātaka, 137 note.

^144.3 Hertz, 19. Compare the Bushman stories of men changed into stone by the glance of a maiden, “probably,” as Dr. Bleek remarks, “at a time when she would be usually kept in strict retirement.” Bleek, 2nd Report, 14; Lloyd, Report, 10.

^144.4 Pliny, Nat. Hist., viii. 32; Athenæus, v. 64; Barthol. Angl., Steele, 76.

^144.5 Instances are collected by Hertz, 21; Mestres, 226; Bérenger-Féraud, i. Superstitions, 253; Forsyth, 425.

^146.2 Prov. xxiii. 6; Mark vii. 22. See also Ecclesiasticus xiv. 8-10. Socrates alludes to the superstition, Phaedo, xlv.

^147.1 A curious example of the prevalence of the superstition is to be seen in the Lateran museum. A painting by Crivelli, dated in 1482, of the Madonna surrounded by several saints, represents the Bambino as wearing a necklace of pearls, from which, inlaid into the picture, depends a common phallic amulet of coral. Even the Holy Babe, it seems, needed a magical protection against the Evil Eye.

^147.2 Students desirous of pursuing the subject of the Evil Eye are referred to the elaborate compilation of M. Tuchmann on La Fascination in Mélusine; Mr. F. T. Elworthy’s valuable work; Hertz, op. cit.; Grimm, iii. Teut. Myth., 1099; and Andree, i. Ethnog. Par., 35.

CHAPTER XXI NOTES

^151.1 A curious tale is told by the Iroquois concerning the slaughter by their Thunder-God of a serpent which dwelt underground and fed upon human flesh. To increase its supply of food it poisoned the springs. But, whatever the story may mean, there is no exposure of victims, and consequently no rescue. ii. Rep. Bur. Ethn., 54.

^152.1 Lucian, however (Dial. Mar., 14, and De Œco, 22), says expressly that Perseus used the sword in one hand and the Gorgon’s head in the other, at once killing the monster and turning it to stone.

^162.2 In some cases they bestow the power of transformation, instead of accompanying the hero. In other cases they only come at call. I have treated these as equivalent; and I have included two cases of dogs and horses given by fish. Some of those taken from the castles of conquered giants ought perhaps to be added.

^164.1 A similar incident is found elsewhere in Norway in quite a different connection. Dasent, Fjeld, 222, from Asbjörnsen. Æschylus, in a tragedy now lost, seems to have referred to the Graiai as the warders of the Gorgons. Hyginus, quoting this, goes on to say that Perseus, having possessed himself of their one eye, threw it into the Tritonian marsh, and the warders being thus deprived of sight, he easily slew Medusa while stupefied with sleep. Poet. Astron. ii. 12 (Mythog. Lat. 445). Æschylus also, in the Prometheus, represents the Graiai as in the form of swans, dwelling in perpetual darkness on the Gorgonian plains. These are versions, so far as I remember, not found in any modern märchen.

^170.1 The heroes’ names, for example, are Chan-Prea-Khat, and Son-Prea-Khat. Here Chan, the name of the elder, is that of the moon; Son, that of the sun. Khat is the Sanskrit Kshatriya, derived through the Pali Khattam. The names appear to mean Holy Warrior Moon and Holy Warrior Sun. The word yak appears also to come from the Sanskrit; and there are other indications. They may, however, be all no more than signs of general Indian influence on the civilisation of Cambodia, without involving any evidence of the provenience of the tale.

^173.2 Hyginus, Fab. lxiv., in Mythog. Lat. 131. Euripides appears to have represented both Cepheus and Cassiopeia, his wife, as endeavouring to dissuade Andromeda from wedding Perseus. But this may be merely a poet’s licence. Hyginus, Poet. Astron. ii. 11 (Mythog. Lat. 444).

^174.1 In fact, the cutting out of the tongues as proof of victory extends far beyond stories containing the Rescue incident. (See, among others, Denton, 150; i. Rev. Celt., 260; i. Rivista, 531.) Mr. Frazer, ii. Golden Bough, 129, note, has some observations upon it and the custom which it records, and which is found in both hemispheres. I gather, however, that he feels a little uncertain as to the true interpretation. It demands further inquiry, for which I have no room here. I only want to point out that the fact of the widespread custom makes decidedly against the theory of contamination by a merely local legend.

APPENDIX: TABLE A NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Plain text version only: endnote markers are given in [square] brackets; table rows are separated by “===” with each cell on its own line.

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. by-and-bye/by and bye, folktales/folk-tales, panjâb/panjáb, etc.) have been preserved.

Some instances of “Siddhi-Kür” in the source text have a circumflex over the ü. As this character doesn’t appear to be available in the utf-8 codeset, it has been left with just the diaeresis.

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Convert footnotes to endnotes. Relabel note markers: append the original note number to the page number.

Change “dealing with Folklore Mytholologique, only yet published” to Mythologique.

“abnormal kind briefly to mention A märchen of the” add period after mention.

(p. 151, note 1) “a serpent which dwelt under ground and fed upon” to underground.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The legend of Perseus, Volume 3 (of 3)

The
Legend of Perseus

[IMPRINT]

[DEDICATION]

NOTE

CONTENTS

THE LEGEND OF PERSEUS

CHAPTER XVI.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN MÄRCHEN.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN SAGAS.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA: ITS RELATION TO HUMAN SACRIFICES.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN MÄRCHEN.

CHAPTER XX.
THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN SAGA AND SUPERSTITION.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE STORY AS A WHOLE. THE PROBLEM OF ITS PLACE OF ORIGIN. CONCLUSION.

APPENDIX

TABLE A.
HELPFUL ANIMALS.

TABLE B.
WEAPONS.

TABLE C.
THE IMPOSTOR AND THE TOKENS.

TABLE D.
THE DELIVERER’S SLEEP.

SUPPLEMENTARY LIST OF WORKS REFERRED TO

ENDNOTES

CHAPTER XVI NOTES

CHAPTER XVII NOTES

CHAPTER XVIII NOTES

CHAPTER XIX NOTES

CHAPTER XX NOTES

CHAPTER XXI NOTES

APPENDIX: TABLE A NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The legend of Perseus, Volume 3 (of 3)

The Legend of Perseus

[IMPRINT]

[DEDICATION]

NOTE

CONTENTS

THE LEGEND OF PERSEUS

CHAPTER XVI. THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN MÄRCHEN.

CHAPTER XVII. THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN SAGAS.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA: ITS RELATION TO HUMAN SACRIFICES.

CHAPTER XIX. THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN MÄRCHEN.

CHAPTER XX. THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN SAGA AND SUPERSTITION.

CHAPTER XXI. THE STORY AS A WHOLE. THE PROBLEM OF ITS PLACE OF ORIGIN. CONCLUSION.

APPENDIX

TABLE A. HELPFUL ANIMALS.

TABLE B. WEAPONS.

TABLE C. THE IMPOSTOR AND THE TOKENS.

TABLE D. THE DELIVERER’S SLEEP.

SUPPLEMENTARY LIST OF WORKS REFERRED TO

ENDNOTES

CHAPTER XVI NOTES

CHAPTER XVII NOTES

CHAPTER XVIII NOTES

CHAPTER XIX NOTES

CHAPTER XX NOTES

CHAPTER XXI NOTES

APPENDIX: TABLE A NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The
Legend of Perseus

CHAPTER XVI.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN MÄRCHEN.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA IN SAGAS.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RESCUE OF ANDROMEDA: ITS RELATION TO HUMAN SACRIFICES.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN MÄRCHEN.

CHAPTER XX.
THE MEDUSA-WITCH IN SAGA AND SUPERSTITION.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE STORY AS A WHOLE. THE PROBLEM OF ITS PLACE OF ORIGIN. CONCLUSION.

TABLE A.
HELPFUL ANIMALS.

TABLE B.
WEAPONS.

TABLE C.
THE IMPOSTOR AND THE TOKENS.

TABLE D.
THE DELIVERER’S SLEEP.