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and calm dignity of rector, was able to suspect a lot of things, but to be sure of none of them; and suspicion, according to its usual manner, never came near the truth at all. Miss Upround therefore had no idea, that if she became Lady Yordas, which she very sincerely longed to be, she would, by that event, be made the stepmother of a widely celebrated smuggler. While her Indian hero, having no idea of her flattering regard as yet, was not bound to enlighten her upon that point.

At Anerley Farm the like ignorance prevailed; except that Mistress Anerley, having a quick turn for romance, and liking to get her predictions confirmed, recalled to her mind (and recited to her husband, in far stronger language) what she had said, in the cloverblossom time, to the bravest man that ever lived, the lamented Captain Carroway. Captain Carroway's dauntless end, so thoroughly befitting his extraordinary exploits, for which she even had his own authority, made it the clearest thing in all the world, that every word she said to him must turn out Bible-true. And she had begged him— and one might be certain that he had told it, as a good man must, to his poor dear widow-not to shoot at Robin Lyth; because he would get a thousand pounds, instead of a hundred for doing it. She never could have dreamed to find her words come true so suddenly; but here was an Indian Prince come home, who employed the most pleasant-spoken gentleman; and he might know who it was he had to thank, that even in the cave, the Captain did not like to shoot that long-lost heir; and from this time out, there was no excuse for Stephen, if he ever laughed at anything that his wife said. Only on no account must Mary ever hear of it; for a bird in the hand was worth fifty in the bush; and the other gone abroad, and under accusation, and very likely born of a Red Indian mother. Whereas Harry Tanfield's father, George, had been as fair as a foal, poor fellow; and perhaps if the Church-books had been as he desired, he might have kept out of the churchyard, to this day.

'And me in it!' the farmer answered with a laugh—' dead for love of my wife, Sophy; as wouldn't a' been my wife, nor drawn nigh upon fi' pound this very week for feathers, fur, and ribbon-stuff! Well, well! George would a' come again, to think of it. How many times have I seen him go with a sixpence in the palm of 's hand, and think better of the King upon it, and worser of the poor chap, as were worn out, like the tail of it! Then back go the sixpence into George's breeches; and out comes my shilling, to the starving chap, on the sly, and never mentioned. But for all that, I think, like enow, old George mought a' managed to get up to heaven.'

'Stephen, I wish to hear nothing of that. The question concerns his family, not ours; as Providence has seen fit to arrange. Now what is your desire to have done with Mary? William has made his great discovery at last; and if we should get the 10,000l., nobody need look down on us.'

'I should like to see anyone look down on me,' Master Anerley

said, with his back set straight; 'a' mought do so once, but a' would be sorry afterwards. Not that I would hinder him of 's own way; only that he better keep out of mine. Sometimes, when you go thinking of your own ideas, you never seem to bear in mind, what my considerations be.'

'Because you cannot follow out the quickness of the way I think. You always acknowledge that, my dear.'

'Well, well. Quick churn spoileth butter. Like Willie with his perpetual motion. What good to come of it, if he hath found out? And a' might, if ever a body did, from the way he goeth jumping about for ever, and never hold fast to anything. A nice thing 'twould be for the fools to say, perpetual motion come from Anerley Farm.' 'You never will think any good of him, Stephen, because his mind comes from my side. But wait till you see the 10,000l.' That I will; and thank the Lord to live so long. But, to come to common sense,-how was Mary, and Harry, a carrying on this afternoon?'

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'Not so very bad, father; and nothing good to speak of. He kept on very well from the corners of his eyes; but she never corresponded, so to speak-same as-you know.'

The same as you used to do, when you was young. Well, manners may be higher stylish now. Did he ask her about the hayrick?'

'That he did. Three or four times over; exactly as you said it to him. He knew that was how you got the upper hand of me, according to your memory, but not mine; and he tried to do it, the very same way; but the Lord makes a lot of change, in thirty years of time. Mary quite turned her nose up at any such riddle, and he pulled his spotted handkerchief out of that new hat of his; and the faggot never saw fit to heed even the colour of his poor red cheeks. Stephen, you would have marched off, for a week, if I had behaved to you so.'

And the right way too; I shall put him up to that. Long sighs only leads to turn-up noses. He plays too knuckle-down at it. You should go on with your sweetheart, very mild at first; just a feeling for her finger-tips; and emboldening of her to believe that you are frightened, and bringing her to peep at you, as if you was a blackbird, ready to pop out of sight. That makes 'em wonderful curious and eager, and sticks you into 'em, like prickly spinach. But you mustn't stop too long, like that. You must come out large, as a bull runs up to gate; and let them see that you could smash it, if you liked, but feel a goodness in your heart, that keeps you out of mischief. And then they comes up, and they says, "poor fellow!"' Stephen, I do not approve of such expressions, or any such low opinions. You may know how you went on. Such things may have answered once; because of your being-yourself, you know. But Mary, although she may not have my sense, must have her own opinions. And the more you talk of what we used to do-though I

never remember your trotting up, like a great bull roaring, to any kind of gate—the less I feel inclined to force her. And who is Harry Tanfield, after all?'

'We know all about him,' the farmer answered; and that is something, to begin with. His land is worth fifteen shillings an acre less than ours, and full of kid-bine. But for all that, he can keep a family, and is a good home-dweller. However, like the rest of us, in the way of women, he must bide his bolt, and bode it.' 'Father,' the mistress of the house replied, 'I shall never go one step out of my way to encourage a young man who makes you speak so lightly of those you owe so much to. Harry Tanfield may take his chance for me.'

'So a' may for me, mother; so a' may for me. If a' was to have our Mary, his father George would be coming up between us, out of his peace in churchyard, more than he doth a'ready; and a' comes too much a'ready. Why, poppet, we were talking of you-fie, fie, listening!'

'No, now, father,' Mary Anerley answered, with a smile at such a low idea; 'you never had that to find fault with me, I think. And if you are plotting against me, for my good-as mother loves to put it-it would be the best way to shut me out, before you begin to do it.'

'Why, bless my heart and soul,' exclaimed the farmer, with a most crafty laugh, for he meant to kill two birds with one stone-“ if the lass hathn't got her own dear mother's tongue, and the very same way of turning things! There never hath been such a time as this here. The childer tell us what to do; and their mothers tell us what not to do. Better take the business off my hands, and sell all they turnips as is rotting. Women is cheats, and would warrant 'em sound, with the best to the top of the bury. But mind you one thing-if I retires from business, like brother Popplewell, I shall expect to be supported; cheap, but very substantial.'

'Mary, you are wicked to say such things,' Mistress Anerley began, as he went out; when you know that your dear father is such a substantial silent man!'

(To be continued.)

The MIGRATION OF POPULAR STORIES.

HE preference for an explanation of facts which calls for little

effort of thought to another which makes large demands on it is natural and intelligible. If we find the same custom in many different countries, we infer more readily that it was carried from one of these countries into the rest, than that it has come down from the common ancestors of the inhabitants of these lands in some remote age. When we find popular stories, of a very complicated and remarkable character, in Scotland and Germany, in Scandinavia, Persia, and India, we are at once disposed to adopt the conclusion, that their presence in the West is the result of direct communication with the East in historical and, perhaps, during comparatively modern times. This attitude of mind is to a certain extent justifiable. Much wit and ingenuity may be wasted in attempting to prove the lateral transmission of two or more given stories from times preceding the migration of divided tribes from their common home, when conclusive evidence may be forthcoming to show that we are dealing with instances of direct borrowing. The ground over which such discussions lead us needs wary walking; but it may be well to have our eyes open to the danger of committing ourselves with undue haste to either conclusion. If we say of some Norse or Teutonic tale, that it found its way into Europe through some of those vast Oriental collections which are known to have been brought together in times later by many centuries than the Christian era, our mistake is not a trifling or a haruless one, if it can be shown that European Aryans were well acquainted with it at a time anterior to the date of the mythical founding of Rome, or the era of Nabonassar—in other words, at a time preceding the compilation of the Hitopadesa, and possibly even of the Panchatantra, by fourteen or fifteen hundred years. Our mistake would in this case be mischievous, not merely as committing us to a conclusion not borne out by evidence, but as putting out of sight one of the most astonishing facts in the history of the human race. If stories gathered, by Grimm or others, from the lips of peasants and their wives, almost in our own day, were told. by Greek nurses or mothers to their children two or three thousand years ago, it is absolutely certain that their introduction into Europe is not owing to the activity of mediæval Christendom and the contact with the East brought about by the Crusades or any other events of more modern history.

Our first duty, therefore, with regard to any story is to ascertain, so far as it may be possible to do so, the earliest time at which it is found in the written literature of the country to which it is traced, and then to determine, so far as the evidence may warrant our determining, how long it may have been known in that country before it was committed to writing. Of the many misconceptions which have hindered the settlement of such questions or diverted them to a false issue, not a few could never have sprung up if the ancient literature of the Hellenic tribes had been examined without prejudice or partiality. The truth is that Englishmen are still, or have been almost to the present time, brought up under the impression that the epic, lyric, and tragic poems which delighted Athenian hearers or readers had nothing in common with the poems and stories which have come to us in a distinctively Teutonic or English dress; and no attempt has been made to ascertain whether and how far the prose writings of Greek historians and mythographers bring before us stories which form part of the native popular tradition or folk-lore of northern Europe. On the contrary, if the subject was ever touched upon at all, boys were led to read the Iliad and Odyssey, and to work their way through the dramas of the Greek tragic poets under the firm belief that they contain nothing with which children in our nurseries are familiar in other shapes. Under the influence of this belief, which they never thought of calling in question, some have gone on to suppose that the stories told to English or German children were never told to children in Athens or Rome before the dawn of Christianity; and a few perhaps have tried to find reasons for the marvellous fact, that the Niad and the Odyssey, the odes of Pindar, and the plays of Æschylus and Sophokles should be made up of materials wholly different from those which have furnished our nursery tales, or even the Saga literature of the Teutonic nations. That these poems and dramas, the works of the highest human genius, should contain any matter such as that which has been moulded into the stories of Cinderella or Blue Beard, or Boots, or Beauty and the Beast, was a thought not to be entertained for a moment. The dignity of the Greek epic or tragic poets would not have stooped to the use of such materials, even if they had known them: but the common impression still is, that they did not know them. In so thinking and speaking we no wiser than the learned men who set to work to explain why a jar of water weighed no heavier with a fish in it than it weighed without the fish. The danger of neglecting or passing over the evidence which would correct these mistaken impressions, may best be shown by citing one or two examples as to which it may be safely said that no room is left for reasonable doubt.

Of the popular tales of northern Europe, one of the most familiar is that of the Master Thief. The question is whether this story was known in Germany or Scandinavia, or in any other part of Europe, before the middle ages of orir era, or whether it was not. In Professor Max Müller's belief it was first brought from Asia by means of the Arabic translation of the Hitopadesa, known as the Kalila and Dimna. This conclusion, he admits, could not be maintained if the tale were found in Herodotus, in whose time the translations of the Hitopadesa bad, of course, not yet reached Europe, and the compi

No. 607 (xo. cxxvii. x. s.)

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