has spoken, the earth opens, and the maiden and the puppets descend into the lower world." Some vague remembrance of this descent of the heroine into the lower regions appears to have given rise to the strange opening of one of the Sicilian variants cited by Pitré (No. 42). The heroine goes down into a well in order to find her elder sister's ring. At the bottom she perceives an opening, and passes through it into a garden, where she is seen by "the Prince of Portugal," to whom, after the usual adventures, she is wedded. As a general rule the heroine makes her escape disguised in a coarse mantle or dress made of the skin of some animal. In another of the Sicilian variants (Pitré, No. 43) it is a horse's hide in which she is wrapped, and the people who meet her when she leaves home are surprised to see what they take to be a horse walking along on its hind-legs. But sometimes this disguise assumes a different aspect, being represented as something made of a less pliant material, a disguise akin to the "wooden cloak, all made of strips of lath," which was "so black and ugly," and which "made such a clatter" when the heroine, who was called after it "Katie Woodencloak," went up stairs. The Norse story in which she figures commences with the step-mother opening, and it does not close with a slipper-test, but still it belongs properly to the second division of the Cinderella group. In some of the other variants this wooden cloak becomes intensified into an utterly rigid covering or receptacle of wood. Thus in the Sicilian tale of "Fidi e Cridi" (Pitré, i., 388), the two daughters of the Emperor of Austria, one of whom, Fidi, has been destined by a fatal ring to a hated marriage, make their escape from home in a coffer of gilded wood. They have previously stored it with provisions and made arrangements for its being thrown into the sea. The waves waft them to Portugal, where Fidi becomes the wife of the king. Her wedded happiness is for a time interrupted by the arrival of the Emperor of Austria, who inflicts upon his fugitive daughter a parental curse so powerful that it turns her into a lizard for a year, a month, and a day. But eventually all goes well. As early as 1550, Straparola printed in his "Tredici Piacevoli Notti” (i., 4) a romantic version of this story, telling how Doralice, the daughter of Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, in order to elude her unnatural parent, hid herself in a large coffer of beautiful workmanship. This coffer Tebaldo, under the influence of depression produced by his daughter's disappearance, sold to a merchant, from whose hands it passed into those of Genese, King of Britain. Doralice used sometimes to issue from her wooden covering, and one day the king saw her, fell in love with her at once, and made her his queen.

In almost all the tales belonging to the second or "hated marriage" branch of the Cinderella story, the heroine accepts a very humble post in the palace of the prince whom she eventually weds. Just as her counterpart, the goldenlocked prince of so many tales, becomes a scullion at court, so she acts in the capacity of scullery-maid or other despised domestic. But from time to time she quits the scullery and appears in all the splendor of her mysterious dresses among the noble guests assembled in the princely banqueting or ballroom. In order to show the close connection between the stories of Goldenlocks and Rashie-Coat, a few specimens of their popular histories may be given. In the already quoted Russian story (Afanasief, vi., 28) of the princess who is advised by her dead mother to deceive her detested suitor by disguising herself in a swine's bristly hide, her subsequent fortunes are narrated as follows: After she had fled from home she made her way on foot into a foreign land, always wearing her swinish covering. As she wandered through a forest one day, a terrible storm arose. To shelter herself from the torrents of rain which were falling, she climbed a huge oak, and took refuge amid its dense foliage. Presently a prince came that way, and his dogs began to bark at the strange animal they saw among the leaves. The prince gazed with surprise at the singular being thus revealed to him, evidently “no wild beast, but a wondrous wonder, a marvelous marvel." "What sort of oddity are you?" said he; can you speak or not?" "I am Swine's Hide," said she. Then he took her down from the tree, and set her up on a cart. "Take this wondrous wonder, this marvelous marvel, to my father and to my mother," said he. And when the king and queen saw her they were greatly astonished, and gave her a room to herself to live in. Some time afterward there was a ball at the palace. Swine's Hide asked the servants if she might stand at the ballroom-door and look on. "Get along with you, Swine's Hide!" said they. Out she went a-field, donned her brilliant dress with the many stars of heaven upon it, whistled till a chariot came, and drove off in it to the ball. All who were there wondered whence this beauteous visitor had come.

"She danced and danced then disappeared." Putting on again her swinish covering, she went back to her own room. Again a ball took place. Again did Swine's Hide appear in radiant beauty, dressed in a dazzling robe, "on the back of which shone the bright moon, on the front the red sun." Great was the sorrow of the prince when she suddenly left the dance and disappeared. "Whatever are we to do," thought he, "to find out who this beauty is?" He thought and thought. "At last he

went and smeared the first step of the staircase with pitch, that her shoe might stick in it." And so, as she fled from the ball on the third occasion, she left her shoe behind her. Vainly did all the fair maidens in the kingdom attempt to get it on. At last the unsightly Swine's Hide was told to try her chance. And when the Prince saw that it fitted her exactly, “he ripped up the swinish hide, and tore it off the princess. Then he took her by her white hand, led her to his father and mother, and sought and gained their permission to marry her."

In this story, as in the Norse tale of "Katie Woodencloak," the recognition is due to a Cinderella's slipper. But more often the discovery is made in a different way. Thus in a modern Greek version the despised goose-girl, who was nicknamed “ Hairy" on account of the nature of the hide in which she was always wrapped, though she lost a shoe in flying the third time from a ball at the palace, was not discovered by means of it. But when the maids were about to take a basin of water to the king before dinner one day, she obtained leave to carry it. Before she entered the king's chamber, “she slit the hide a little at the knee, in order that her golden dress might become visible." And so it came to pass that "" when she knelt down, the golden robe gleamed through the slit," and the recognition was soon accomplished. Another method of recognition is employed in the class of variants to which the Sicilian "Betta Pilusa" belongs. When "Hairy Betty" for the third time won the king's heart, at a ball in which she appeared in the dress on which all the beasts and the flowers of the earth were to be seen, he presented her with a costly ring. One morning she came into the kitchen while the cook was making the bread for the royal table, and she obtained leave to make a loaf herself. Into it she slipped the ring. When the bread was drawn out of the oven, only her loaf proved eatable, so it was served up to the king himself, who, on cutting it, discovered the ring. The cook was examined, and "Hairy Betty was produced in her catskin dress. This she flung aside, and appeared "young and lovely, as she really was, and in her beautiful gleaming robe." The recognition by means of a ring is, as every one knows, one of the commonest contrivances for bringing a story of adventure to a close.

Now with this tale of a radiant princess who adopts a degrading disguise, appears at times in her natural glory, but conceals it again without any apparent reason, till her own caprice, or an accident which she had not foreseen, leads to her final recognition, let us compare one of the numerous stories about a radiant prince who disguises himself in a like manner, reveals himself

at intervals in his true form, returns to his place of concealment with an equal want of apparent reason, and is at last fortuitously recognized. The well-known German tale of "The Iron Man"* gives a very interesting version of the story, as also does the Norse tale of "The Widow's Son." As these are accessible to every English reader, it may be as well to quote here one of the less generally available variants of this widely-spread narrative. The Russian tale of "Neznaiko," in Afanasief's collection (vii., No. 10), relates how the young Ivan was persecuted by his step-mother, who tried several methods of killing him, but was always foiled by the wise advice given to him by a mysterious colt to which he was tenderly attached. At length she persuaded her husband to promise that the colt should be killed. Hearing of this, Ivan ran to the stable, mounted the colt in haste, and fled with it from his father's house. After a time they came to a place where cattle were grazing. There the colt left Ivan, promising to return when summoned by the burning of one of the hairs from its tail, which it left with him for that purpose. But before parting with its master it told him to kill one of the oxen, flay it, and don its hide; also to conceal his fair locks under a covering of bladder, and never to make any other reply to whatsoever questions might be asked him than "I don't know." Ivan did as he was told, and presently, to the surprise of all who met him, there was seen walking along ever such a wonder; a beast not a beast, a man not a man, hide-bound, head bladder-covered," answering all questions with an "I don't know." "Well, then," said they, "as you can only say Ne Znayu, let your name be 'Neznaiko,' or Don't know.'" Even the king, to whom he was brought as an acceptable monster, could get nothing but his usual answer. So orders were given that he should be stationed in the garden, to act as a scarecrow in order to keep the birds away from the fruit, but he was to get his meals in the royal kitchen. Now it happened about this time that an Arab prince proposed for the hand of the king's daughter, and when his suit was rejected, raised an immense army and invaded the king's realm. Ruin stared that monarch in the face. But Neznaiko doffed his bladder cap, flung off his ox-hide, went out into the open field, and burned one of the magic horsehairs. Immediately there appeared by his side a wondrous steed. On to its back vaulted Neznaiko, and rode against the infidel foe. To tear from a slain enemy his golden armor, and to don it himself, was the work of a moment. Then he dashed, irresistible, among the Arab ranks.

* "Der Eisenhans," Grimm, No. 136.

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"Whichever way he turned, there heads flew before him. It was exactly like mowing hay." With rapture did the king and his fair daughter view his exploits from the walls of the beleaguered city. But when they came down to greet the victor, there was no such hero to be found. In quite unheroic garb Ivan had returned to his task of scaring the crows from the palace-garden. A second time did the Arab prince renew his suit and his invasion, and again did Ivan, as a warrior in golden armor, slaughter his troops and put him to flight. On this occasion he was slightly wounded in the arm, and was also brought before the king. But he would not stay at the palace: he must needs ride away for a time into the open field. Before he rode off, however, the king's daughter took a scarf from her fair neck and with it bound up his wounded

arm.

Soon after this a great feast was given at the palace. As the guests strolled through the garden they saw Ivan, and wondered at his strange aspect. "What sort of monster is this?" they asked. "That is Neznaiko," replied the king; "acts for me in place of a scarecrow; keeps the birds away from the apple-trees." But his daughter saw that Neznaiko's arm was bound up, and recognized the scarf she had given to the heroic winner of the fight. "She blushed, but said nothing at the time." Only thenceforth "she took to walking in the garden and gazing at Neznaiko, and she quite forgot even so much as to think about feasts and other amusements." At length she asked her father to let her marry his scarecrow. Naturally surprised, he expostulated. But when she cried, "If you don't make him my husband, I'll never marry any one; I'll live and die an old maid," he reluctantly gave his consent. The marriage had just taken place when the Arab prince for the third time demanded the hand of the princess. "My daughter is married," replied the king. "If you like, come and see for yourself." The Arab came, saw that the fair princess was married to "ever such a monster," and challenged him to mortal combat. Then Ivan flung off his bladder cap and his garb of hide, mounted his good steed, and rode away to the fight, manifesting himself to all eyes under his heroic aspect. The Arab suitor was soon knocked on the head. And when Ivan rode back triumphant, the king perceived that his son-inlaw was "no monster, but a hero strong and fair."

In this variant of the story, nothing definite is said as to the golden nature of the hero's hair. But in many others, as in the German and Norse tales already referred to, as well as in numerous variants found in many lands, not only is great stress laid upon the fact that his locks are of

gold, but an account and explanation of the gilding process are given. Into this, however, it is at present unnecessary to enter. It is sufficient for our purposes to show how closely the story of the radiant hero-who is persecuted by a stepmother and aided by a supernatural horse, and whose brightness is temporarily concealed under a covering of skin or hide, but who finally emerges from it to remain permanently resplendent—corresponds with the story of the radiant heroine who is ill used by a step-mother and assisted by a supernatural cow, and whose radiance is likewise concealed, but only for a time, under some sort of unseemly exterior, frequently formed out of some beast's hard or furry skin. The tales of "Goldenlocks" and of "Cinderella-Catskin" are evidently twin forms of the same narrative, brother and sister developments of the same historical or mythological germ. In one instance the two forms have been combined into one narrative, ending with a double recognition. The Lithuanian story of "The King's Fair Daughter" (Schleicher, No. 7) tells how a princess was urged to accept a hateful suitor after the death of her mother, who had been a remarkable beauty, having "around her head the stars, on its front the sun, and on its back the moon." An old woman's friendly counsels enabled her to obtain "a silver robe, a diamond ring, and gold shoes," as well as a disguising cloak lined with skins of an unattractive kind. With these she fled from court. After a time she came to a piece of water, and was obliged to go on board a vessel. The sziporius or skipper wanted her to marry him, and, when she would not consent, he threw her overboard. But "she jumped ashore," and pursued her journey. Coming one day to a place where stood great stones, she prayed that a dwelling might be opened for her. And her prayer was at once granted. In her dwelling within the rock, which always opened to let her in or out, she left her fine raiment, and went forth to live in a grand house, performing the duties of a pelendruse or cinder-wench. In that house she found her brother, who had also fled from home, and was acting as a clerk. But he did not recognize in the grimy servant-maid his princely sister. From time to time she used to go to her stone dwelling, don her fair raiment, and drive to church in a carriage which always appeared for the purpose, her beautiful visage and costume making a great impression on the mind of the astonished clerk. One day she left the church rather later than usual, so she had not time enough to change her dress, and merely "put her every-day clothes over those fine ones." That day she was summoned by the clerk to "dress his hair." And while she dressed his hair, his head resting on her knees, "he took to

Let us turn now to other systems of interpretation. One school of critics utterly refuses to accept any mythological solution of fairy-tale riddles, another is at least inclined to reduce the mythological element in popular tales to a minimum, a third admits mythology into the field, but objects to its assuming what is popularly known as the "solar" form, to which a fourth school is devoted with intense zeal. At least four different explanations of the Cinderella-Rashie-Coat story may therefore be offered to the consideration of an earnest inquirer into its significance. It may be a nature-myth symbolizing the renewed brightness of the earth after its nocturnal or wintry eclipse. The rough skin or hide which "Hairy Betty" wears, not to speak of Katie Woodencloak's still tougher covering, greatly resembles the "husk" which hides the brilliance of the beast to whom the Beauty of so many tales is married, and is therefore suggestive of an origin connected with Indian mythology.* The "step-mother" opening of the story is too simple to require an explanation, and the appearance in fine clothes, at church or palace, of a usually illdressed damsel may be considered not incredible. As to the "slipper" termination, the opinion has already been expressed that it is merely a convenient recognition makeshift.

The "unlawful-marriage" opening of the Rashie-Coat story offers a difficulty, but it is accounted for to their own satisfaction by critics both of the mythological and of the historical school. Mythologists say that all stories about such marriages mean nothing more than does the dialogue in the Veda between Yama and his twin-sister Yamí, in which “she (the night) implores her brother (the day) to make her his wife, and he declines her offer because, as he says, 'they have thought it sin that a brother should marry his sister.'"+ But by many eyes these narratives are regarded as ancient traditions which preserve the memory of customs long obsolete and all but forgotten. It is because such stories refer to savage times that they are so valuable, it is said, and therefore it is well to compare them with such tales and traditions as are now current among existing savages. This opinion is one that is well worthy of discussion, but at present little more can be done than to point out that the popular tales which are best known to us possess but few counterparts in genuine savage folk-lore. Some of their incidents, it is true, find their par

For the mythological meaning of "Beauty and the Beast," see the "Nineteenth Century," December, 1878. + Max Müller, "Lectures on the Science of Language," sixth edition, ii., 557.

to boast of a drop of Aryan blood. But the dramatic narratives known to us as the stories of Cinderella, "Puss in Boots," and the like, in which a regular sequence of acts or scenes is maintained unaltered in various climes and centuries, seem unknown to savage countries, unless they have been introduced from more cultured lands. A few of the incidents related in the stories cited in the present article closely resemble parts of savage tales. We may take as an example the Russian account of the sister who, when pursued by her brother, sinks into the earth and so escapes. In a Zulu tale,* a sister whose brother is pursuing her with murderous intent, exclaims, "Open, earth, that I may enter, for I am about to die this day," whereupon "the earth opened and Untombi-yapansi entered." In vain did her brother Usilwane seek for her when he arrived. Her subsequent adventures, also, are akin to those of Cinderella. Originally "her body glistened, for she was like brass," but "she took some black earth and smeared her body with it," and so eclipsed her natural radiance. Eventually, however, she was watched by "the chief," who saw her, "dirty and very black," enter a pool, and emerge from it "with her body glistening like brass," put on garments and ornaments which arose out of the ground, and behave altogether like the brilliant heroine she really was. There seems to be good reason for looking upon Untombi-yapansi as a Zulu Cinderella. But how far a foreign influence has been exercised upon the Zulu tale, it would be difficult to decide.

How far, also, the story of Rashie-Coat's proposed marriage refers to ancient ideas about the lawfulness of unions now disallowed, is a question not easily to be answered. There is no doubt that the memory of obsolete customs may be long preserved in folk-lore. We may take as an instance the Russian story of the Lubok or Birch Bark, in which it would seem unreasonable to look for a mythological kernel. There exist in many countries a number of stories showing how a man's unfilial conduct toward his father was brought to a close by a chance remark made by his infant son. In the forms it assumes there is considerable variety, but the moral is always the same. In a well-known German tale in the Grimm collection, an old man is obliged by his son and his son's wife to eat apart, out of a wooden bowl, on account of the slobbering habits due to his great age. His son's little boy is observed one day to be fashioning a small wooden bowl. When asked for what it is intended, he says: "It's for father to eat out of when he's as old as

* Bishop Callaway's "Nursery Tales, etc., of the Zulus," i., 300, note.