To write a literary art legend, an author selects in history some period that he likes very much or some hero or heroine he has always admired, and notes down a number of facts that are connected with one another and with his subject; then he lets his imagination loose upon them. He uses terms and expressions of the age of which he is writing; phrases that now appear quaint add a flavor of reality to the tale. But he is careful, however, not to misuse words and thus commit what the critics call anachronism, by putting the idioms peculiar to one age or one people into the mouth of another. An occasional special touch is good, but too much straining for effect spoils a story. He gets rather into the mood of simple faith in greatness and goodness, and tells of brave deeds and generous actions that might well have happened. Dramatic truth there must be; literal truth, not necessarily. A working definition runs somewhat like this:
Legend is a narrative partly true and partly imaginary, about a particular person, event, place or natural feature; a story that has the semblance of history, but is in reality almost altogether fanciful, since the basic fact is amplified, abridged, or wholly changed at the will of the narrator.
As the holy season of Lent drew nigh the Abbot Kenach felt a longing such as a bird of passage feels in the south when the first little silvery buds on the willow begin here to break their ruddy sheaths, and the bird thinks tomorrow it will be time to fly over seas to the land where it builds its nest in pleasant croft or under the shelter of homely eaves. And Kenach said, "Levabo oculos—I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help," for every year it was his custom to leave his abbey and fare through the woods to the hermitage on the mountainside, so that he might spend the forty days in fasting and prayer in the heart of solitude.
Now on the day which is called the Wednesday of Ashes he set out, but first he heard the mass of remembrance and led his monks to the altar steps, and knelt there in great humility to let the priest sign his forehead with a cross of ashes. And on the forehead of each of the monks the ashes were smeared in the form of a cross, and each time the priest made the sign he repeated the words, "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return."
So with the ashes still in his brow and with the remembrance of the end of earthly days in his soul, he bent his steps towards the hermitage; and as he was now an aged man and nowise strong, Diarmait, one of the younger brethren, accompanied him in case any mischance should befall.
They passed through the cold forest, where green there was none, unless it were the patches of moss and the lichens on the rugged tree trunks and tufts of last year's grass, but here and there the white blossoms of the snowdrops peered out. The dead gray leaves and dry twigs crackled and snapped under their feet with such a noise as a wood fire makes when it is newly lighted; and that was all the warmth they had on their wayfaring.
The short February day was closing in as they climbed among the boulders and withered bracken on the mountainside, and at last reached the entrance of a cavern hollowed in the rock and fringed with ivy. This was the hermitage. The Abbot hung his bell on a thick ivy bough in the mouth of the caves; and they knelt and recited vespers and compline; and thrice the Abbot struck the bell to scare away the evil spirits of the night; and they entered and lay down to rest.
Hard was the way of their sleeping; for they lay not on wool or on down, neither on heather or bracken, nor yet on dry leaves, but their sides came against the cold stone, and under the head of each there was a stone for pillow. But being weary with the long journey, they slept sound and felt nothing of the icy mouth of the wind blowing down the mountainside.
Within an hour of daybreak, when the moon was setting, they were awakened by the wonderful singing of a bird, and they rose for matins and strove not to listen, but so strangely sweet was the sound in the keen moonlight morning that they could not forbear. The moon set, and still in the dark sang the bird, and the gray light came, and the bird ceased; and when was white day they saw that all the ground and every stalk of bracken was hoary with frost, and every ivy leaf was crusted white round the edge, but within the edge it was all glossy green.
"What bird is this that sings so sweet before day in the bitter cold?" said the Abbot. "Surely no bird at all, but an Angel from heaven waking us from the death of sleep."
"It is the blackbird, Domine Abbas," said the young monk; "often they sing thus in February, however cold it may be."
"O soul, O Diarmait, is it not wonderful that the senseless small creatures should praise God so sweetly in the dark, and in the light before the dark, while we are fain to lie warm and forget His praise?" And afterwards he said, "Gladly could I have listened to that singing, even till tomorrow was a day; and yet it was but the singing of a little earth wrapped in a handful of feathers. O soul, tell me what it must be to listen to the singing of an Angel, a portion of heaven wrapped in the glory of God's love!"
Of the forty days thirty went by, and oftentimes now, when no wind blew, it was bright and delightsome among the rocks, for the sun was gaining strength, and the days were growing longer, and the brown trees were being speckled with numberless tiny buds of white and pale green, and wild flowers were springing between the boulders and through the mountain turf.
Hard by the cave there was a wall of rock covered with ivy, and as Diarmait chanced to walk near it, a brown bird darted out from among the leaves. The young monk looked at the place from which it had flown, and behold! among the leaves and the hairy sinews of the ivy there was a nest lined with grass, and in the nest there were three eggs—pale green with reddish spots. And Diarmait knew the bird and knew the eggs, and he told the Abbot, who came noiselessly, and looked with a great love at the open house and the three eggs of the mother blackbird.
"Let us not walk too near, my son," he said, "lest we scare the mother from her brood, and so silence beforehand some of the music of the cold hours before the day." And he lifted his hand and blessed the nest and the bird, saying, "And He shall bless thy bread and thy water." After that it was very seldom they went near the ivy.
Now after days of clear and benign weather a shrill wind broke out from beneath the North Star, and brought with it snow and sleet and piercing cold. And the woods howled for distress of the storm, and the gray stones of the mountain chattered with discomfort. Harsh cold and sleeplessness were their lot in the cave, and as he shivered, the Abbot bethought him of the blackbird in her nest, and of the wet flakes driving in between the leaves of the ivy and stinging her brown wings and patient bosom. And lifting his head from his pillow of stone he prayed the Lord of the elements to have the bird in His gentle care, saying,
"How excellent is Thy loving kindness, O God! therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of Thy wings."
Then after a little while he said, "Look out into the night, O son, and tell me if yet the storm be abated."
And Diarmait, shuddering, went to the mouth of the cavern, and stood there gazing and calling in a low voice, "Domine Abbas! My Lord Abbot! My Lord Abbot!"
Kenach rose quickly and went to him, and as they looked out the sleet beat on their faces, but in the midst of the storm there was a space of light, as though it were moonshine, and the light streamed from an Angel, who stood near the wall of rock with outspread wings, and sheltered the blackbird's nest from the wintry blast.
And the monks gazed at the shining loveliness of the Angel, till the wind fell and the snow ceased and the light faded away and the sharp stars came out and the night was still.
Now at sundown of the day that followed, when the Abbot was in the cave, the young monk, standing among the rocks, saw approaching a woman who carried a child in her arms; and crossing himself, he cried aloud to her, "Come not any nearer; turn thy face to the forest, and go down."
"Nay," replied the woman, "for we seek shelter for the night, and food and the solace of fire for the little one."
"Go down, go down," cried Diarmait; "no woman may come to this hermitage."
"How canst thou say that, O monk?" said the woman. "Was the Lord Christ any worse than thou? Christ came to redeem woman no less than to redeem man. Not less did He suffer for the sake of woman than for the sake of man. Women gave service and tendance to Him and His Apostles. A woman it was who bore Him, else had men been left forlorn. It was a man who betrayed Him with a kiss; and woman it was who washed His feet with tears. It was a man who smote Him with a reed, but a woman who broke the alabaster box of precious ointment. It was a man who thrice denied Him; a woman stood by His cross. It was a woman to whom He first spoke on Easter morn, but a man thrust his hand into His side and put his finger in the prints of the nails before he would believe. And not less than men do women enter the heavenly kingdom. Why, then, shouldst thou drive my little child and me from thy hermitage and thy hospitality?"
Then Kenach, who had heard all that was said, came forth from the cave, and blessed the woman. "Well hast thou spoken, O daughter; come, and bring the small child with thee." And turning to the young monk, he said, "O soul, O son, O Diarmait, did not God send His Angel out of high heaven to shelter the mother bird? And was not that, too, a little woman in feathers? But now hasten, and gather wood and leaves, and strike fire from the flint, and make a hearth before the cave, that the woman may rest and the boy have the comfort of the bright flame."
This was soon done, and by the fire sat the woman eating a little barley bread; but the child, who had no will to eat, came round to the old man, and held out two soft hands to him. And the Abbot caught him up from the ground to his breast, and kissed his golden head, saying, "God bless thee, sweet little son, and give thee a good life and a happy, and strength of thy small body, and if it be His holy will, length of glad days; and ever mayest thou be a gladness and deep joy to thy mother."
Then, seeing that the woman was strangely clad in an outland garb of red and blue and that she was tall, with a golden-hued skin and olive eyes, arched, very black eyebrows, aquiline nose, and a rosy mouth, he said, "Surely O daughter, thou art not of this land of Erinn in the sea, but art come out of the great world beyond?"
"Indeed, then, we have traveled far," replied the woman; "as thou sayest, out of the great world beyond. And now the twilight deepens upon us, and we would sleep."
"Thou shalt sleep safe in the cave, O daughter, but we will rest here by the embers. My cloak of goat's hair shalt thou have, and such dry bracken and soft bushes as may be found."
"There is no need," said the woman, "mere shelter is enough," and she added in a low voice, "Often has my little son had no bed wherein he might lie."
Then she stretched out her arms to the boy, and once more the little one kissed the Abbot, and as he passed by Diarmait he put the palms of his hands against the face of the young monk, and said laughingly, "I do not think thou hadst any ill-will to us, though thou wert rough and didst threaten to drive us away into the woods."
And the woman lifted the boy on her arm, and rose and went towards the cavern; and when she was in the shadow of the rocks she turned towards the monks beside the fire and said, "My son bids me thank you."
They looked up, and what was their astonishment to see a heavenly glory shining about the woman and her child in the gloom of the cave. And in his left hand the child carried a little golden image of the world, and round his head was a starry radiance, and his right hand was raised in blessing.
For such a while as it takes the shadow of a cloud to run across a rippling field of corn, for so long the vision remained; and then it melted into the darkness, even as a rainbow melts away into the rain.
On his face fell the Abbot, weeping for joy beyond words; but Diarmait was seized with fear and trembling till he remembered the way in which the child had pressed warm palms against his face and forgiven him.
The story of these things was whispered abroad, and ever since, in that part of Erinn in the sea, the mother blackbird is called Kenach's Little Woman.
And as for the stone on which the fire was lighted in front of the cave, rain rises quickly from it in mist, and leaves it dry, and snow may not lie upon it, and even in the dead of winter it is warm to touch. And to this day it is called the Stone of Holy Companionship.
—William Canton.
"W. V.'s Golden Legend" (Dodd, Mead & Co.).
In the early part of December, in the year 1889, a poor man named Carlos left the town where he lived to go to Gapan, about twenty miles distant.
Day was beginning to break as Carlos reached the foot of a hill, which he was just about to climb, when he heard the sound of music. Looking upward to find whence the sound came, he saw a bright white cloud. From the center of this cloud shone a ray of light, forming a circle in which were all the colors of the rainbow.
Carlos could scarcely believe his eyes, till he heard a sweet voice call his name. He hastened to climb the hill, and at the top found a very beautiful woman, around whom shone a light that made the stones and bushes sparkle like gems.
When the man had drawn near, our Blessed Lady—for it was she—told him that she wished a church to be built on that spot, and bade him go to Gapan and tell this fact to the priest. On reaching the town, Carlos went straight to the priest, and related what the Blessed Virgin had confided to him.
"I believe you," said the priest, "but to be still more certain, ask her who sends you for some sign by which we may know that she is really the Mother of God."
Afterwards Carlos went to the spot where the Blessed Mother was waiting for him. As soon as he saw her, he immediately threw himself at her feet, and told her what the priest had said. With great tenderness our Lady bade him come to her the next day, saying she would give him the sign for which the priest had asked.
Carlos came the next day. "Go now," said the Blessed Virgin, "to the top of the hill, and gather the roses that are blooming there. Put them in your handkerchief, and bring them to me; I will tell you what to do with them."
Though Carlos believed that there were no roses there, he obeyed without a word. How great, then, was his surprise to find a garden rich with flowers! Filling his handkerchief with roses, he hurried back to the Blessed Virgin.
Our Lady took the roses in her pure hands, and letting them drop back into the handkerchief, said to Carlos, "Present these roses to the priest, and say that they are the proof of the command I give you. Do not show any one what you carry, and open your handkerchief only in the presence of the priest."
Thanking the Blessed Virgin, Carlos started once more for the town. When he reached the convent and was brought before the priest, he opened his handkerchief to show the sign that was to prove his words, and fresh, sweet-smelling roses, wet with dew, fell to the floor, while on the handkerchief itself appeared a beautiful picture of the Mother of God.
"The Blessed Virgin is here," said the father, and then he knelt before the picture and gave praise to God. The miraculous handkerchief was placed in the church of Gapan, where it remained until a suitable chapel was built on the very top of the hill, as our Lady desired.
—Teofilo P. Corpus.
"We will rest here for a time, Uira." The hollow-eyed, tired-looking youth dismounted from his burro. His companion Uira, a short, swarthy-skinned Peruvian, turned and gazed down the mountainside whence they had come, upon the flat roofs of Quito, which seemed like a dream city, so lovely did the distance make it. "It is beautiful, is it not, Juan? My home, the home of the Incas, the most ancient city in all the land?"
"Yes, indeed, it is beautiful, and, Uira, while we rest, you shall tell me a tale of your people; some pretty legend of the Incas. I think nothing else would so thoroughly refresh me." Now Juan could by no exercise of ingenuity have touched a more responsive chord in the nature of his friend.
"Well, what shall it be, Juan? You have never heard the story of Manca, have you? It may not be what you would call a pretty legend; yet I think you would like it," said Uira, readily complying.
"Very well, I know I cannot help but enjoy it," said Juan, as he settled himself comfortably, with dried leaves for a couch and a tree stump for a pillow.
"Well," began Uira, his gaze still on the town below them.
"Uira, you're not beginning right; you should say many, many, years ago." The fine-featured Spanish boy looked mischievously at the stolid descendant of the Incas.
"You perhaps have heard," went on Uira, discouraging flippancy by disregarding it, "of the story of Attahualpa; at least you have known something of it from the histories you have studied; how, before he died, the mighty Huayan Capar divided his kingdom between his two sons, Attahualpa and Huascar, half-brothers, giving to Attahualpa the northern region, Quito, which your geography calls Ecuador; how Huascar, arrogant in his newly-acquired greatness, demanded tribute from Quito. You know how Attahualpa angrily refused; how he came at the head of a great army to the seat of his brother's power, defeated Huascar, and taking from the conquered man kingdom and freedom, left him only his life. Then the Spaniards, curses on them all——"
"You forget that I am proud of my Spanish blood, Uira," the lad interrupted, his cheeks flushing with resentment.
"Ah, yes, Juan, I forgot. Forgive my hasty speech and unintended insult. But to go on, the Spaniards, mad with lust for gold, marched with armies legion in number. If you do not know, boy, how many legion is, look at the tree tops above you; the leaves are countless; they are legion. The invaders, with the Pizarro at their head, burned our homes, desecrated our temples, and captured Attahualpa, who, elated with his conquest, was returning to Quito. The Attahualpa, the records say, collected in one room and gave the Pizarro the wealth of the Incas; and your traditions tell you that in fear of his own life, Pizarro put his captive to death. This is the story of Attahualpa as you have been taught it.
But I will now tell you what it is given only the few in whose veins still flows the blood of the Incas to know. Huayan had a daughter Manca, whose name is not written in the annals. She was sister to Attahualpa, and in her heart was all the mighty pride of the Incas. Oh, how she loved the name of her race! How she rejoiced in their conquests, their prowess! How she delighted to look upon the gold in the temples, and think that it was all part of the prosperity of her people! There was a woman, Juan, perhaps not beautiful, I cannot say, well worthy to bear the name of an Incan.
How she wept when Pizarro, with his Spanish followers, seized Attahualpa! But do not think that it was for fear that she wept, Juan. It was for injured pride; for sorrow that she was to lose her dearest friend, her brother.
But when the loyal girl found that Attahualpa, a ruler, a conqueror of men, and most of all, an Incan, was bargaining for his life with a roomful of gold as the price, she prayed to the gods she worshiped, to take her brother to the spirit world, before he should place this blot upon the nation. She—heroine that she was—would rather a thousand times have lost her companion than have had him coward enough to buy his life thus. Day and night she pondered and prayed, and planned ways by which she might ward off so awful an outrage against Incan pride. After a week of despair and vain thought, while Attahualpa was robbing the shrines of their ornaments to fill the great chamber chosen by the Spanish general, Manca determined that since she could not by pleading with Attahualpa or by playing upon his love for his sister or his country or even for his gods, move him from his purpose, she would at least save him from himself.
This was Manca's purpose. Perhaps, Juan, I failed to tell you that Manca bore a very strong resemblance to her brother," and for the first time Uira looked away from Quito, and glanced questioningly at Juan. The boy nodded. "Go on," he said, his gaze, too, traveling to the city of antiquity, where, centuries ago, Manca made her hitherto unrecorded sacrifice.
"The spirited girl," went on Uira, "realized that when Pizarro had his booty, his cowardly fear for himself would outweigh his honor, and cause him to kill his prisoner; and so, when the day came on which Attahualpa was to open the doors of the treasure-filled chamber, Attahualpa lay at his home, guarded by servants, who were not to liberate him till sundown; and Manca, garbed in her brother's clothes, gave to Pizarro the store of wealth. As she walked home, along a lonely forest path, she received the poisoned arrow intended for Attahualpa. He, when he discovered his sister's bravery, slunk off to the mountains, with never a thought of the rumors which would forever darken his name. Thus Manca's life, by the sacrifice of which she had hoped that she might keep bright the fame of her brother, was given up for the sake of a coward's reputation. By crediting herself with the surrender of the wealth, she had intended that Attahualpa, though he had been defeated in battle, should still remain the hero of the Incas."
There was a pause. The man and the boy both were now staring down at Ecuador's capital city, whose pillars seemed to be floating in the mist just rising from Pinchincha's side.
"As you said, it is not a pretty legend. But don't you think, Uira, that Manca must have been very beautiful?"
—Dorothea Knoblock.
Long before the Spaniards discovered the Philippines, there was war in Luzon among the Pangasinan and Ilocano tribes. Each tribe had powerful chiefs of remarkable courage and bravery. It was believed that they were sons of gods, and possessed magical power. Among them was Palaris, the distinguished chief of the Pangasinanes, and Lumtuad, the skillful chief of the Ilocanos. These rulers were neighbors and the army of the one plundered the towns of the other. On account of this reason and also of the ambition of each to enlarge his dominion, a war broke out. Lumtuad collected three hundred ships in Laoag, Ilocos Norte. These ships were loaded with his chosen men armed with bolos, spears, and bows and arrows. These ships sailed toward the south, and entered the Gulf of Lingayen, Pangasinan. Palaris and his army went to meet them.
At first, the battle took place on the water. Lumtuad showed his skill to his enemy. He fought jumping from one ship to another. Unfortunately he was shot by an arrow and fell into the water. After his death, his soldiers fought furiously, and drove back the enemy into the town.
When the invading army had landed all its forces, it pursued Palaris's army as far as Mangaldan, a town fifteen miles from Lingayen. When Palaris foresaw the future defeat of his army, he escaped into a sugar field. There by Lumtuad's scouts he was found sleeping. They thrust a lance through the middle of his body. But Palaris whirled himself free from the lance, killed some of these soldiers, and pursued the rest until his last breath was gone. He was then succeeded by his lieutenant Afilado, and the battle was renewed. Afilado's forces were entirely defeated and those who survived were killed outright. A river of blood flowed from the spot where the battle took place, and the grass that grows there today is red. The place where Palaris was struck was named after him.
After the war the victorious Ilocanos settled in the province of Pangasinan; so that now they constitute a greater number in population than the Pangasinanes themselves.
—Sixto Guico.
"From Ghoulies and Ghoosties, long-leggetty Beasties, and Things that go Bump in the Night, Good Lord, deliver us!" the quaint old litany pleads, and is probably better representative of the attitude of primitive peoples toward the extraordinary personages of the sub-world than is our more modern and debonair view. We have come to look upon a fairy story as a mental holiday, to enjoy which the narrator and the listener are off on a picnic. But not so do the unsophisticated folk think of the events. The grown-up primitive man believes more seriously in the tricks of goblins and sprites than do our most credulous modern children. To him, the good or malicious influence of the nunu or ticbalan is not a fiction, but a reality that must be reckoned with. Luckily he can reckon with it; for even in the earlier folk tales the fairies are not generally immortal, and they do not have unlimited power.
One chief characteristic that distinguishes these extra-natural beings from the gods is that the extra-natural are for the most part small and belong to the under-world. They are not so much superhuman as other than human. They may be checked or outwitted or even finally overcome. They have power to tease a man, though not the power utterly to destroy him. A pixy may cast a spell, but not forever. Jack-o-lantern, or Will-o-the-wisp, may lead astray into a bog and may hope that his victim be not a good wader, but the trick and the malicious wish are the extent of the evil. The victim usually in the end escapes. If he perishes, he has forgotten his charms or neglects to say his prayers.
There is a somewhat well-fixed literary atmosphere for English fairy stories and allusions. As we have said, they must have about them the air of holiday. The English elfin people are a merry folk from the dainty queen to the clumsiest boggart, and enjoy a bit of fun even at their own expense,—though, to tell the truth, the joke is usually the other way.
If you wish to write an original narrative about these charming creatures, the best way to prepare is to get acquainted with them. No doubt you know where some of them live. Perhaps only this morning you chanced upon a forgotten hammock left swinging between two stout little sprigs of grass where a fairy had slept, or maybe last night you clearly heard the tinkle of pranckling feet and were too lazy or indifferent to go to the window to catch a glimpse of a wondrous sight. I pray you, if you have the chance again, join the masquerade, remembering only that if Oberon asks you why you are there, you must speak out frankly. His promise is
Oh, yes, one more thing to remember! Leave before cock-crow if you expect to bring your wits with you.
If you are afraid to try the experiment of original sightseeing and fear Sir Topas's fate, do the next best thing. Seek out somebody who has witnessed a fairy revel, or been at a brownies' banquet, has outtricked a bogie, or propitiated an angry gnome, or, best of all, likely, has made a little green cloak and hood for the lubber-fiend of the kitchen hearth, and has seen him fling himself out-of-doors in high glee to return no more except with good luck. Watchers who have seen these things, I dare say, will have much to tell you. Get their narratives.
The Filipino fairies are not so winsome as the English, but they are far more actual. The English fairies are "but mortals beautifully masquerading," says Mr. W. B. Yeats. He could find no fault with the Filipino fairies; for they are potent forces. Like the Irish deenee shee, the Filipino supernatural beings are thoroughly believed in by the peasants, and, like the Irish creatures, the Malayan are not always small, but may be small or large at will. Some of their manifestations are indeed gruesome; a few are harmless or even helpful; all are very interesting.
The educated young people of the Philippines have a mission to perform for the native fairies. It has become the fashion in some places to frown upon the unseen folk and to attempt to drive them out. The endeavor is commendable so far as it discriminates. The bad fairies should go. The wholesome ones should stay. They should stay for the sake of future native poetry and for the sake of all the little brown children who love stories.
A bare list of the names of fairies and subhuman beings is inspiring. In the Norse countries there are dwarfs, known also as trolls, kobalds, goblins, brownies, pucks, or elle-folk. It is said that 'they are less powerful than gods, but far more intelligent than men; that their knowledge is boundless and extends even to the future. They can transport themselves with celerity from one place to another, and love to hide behind rocks and repeat the last words of every conversation they overhear. Echoes are known as dwarfs' talk. A Tarnkappe each one owns, a tiny red cap which makes the wearer invisible. Dwarfs are ruled by a king spoken of in various northern countries as Andvari, Alberich, Elbegast, Gondemar, Laurin, or Oberon. He dwells in a magnificent subterranean palace and owns a magic ring, an invisible sword, and a belt of strength. His subjects often fashion marvelous weapons and girdles. In general, dwarfs are kindly and helpful: sometimes they knead bread, grind flour, brew beer, and perform countless other household tasks; sometimes they harvest and thresh grain for the farmers. If ill-treated or turned to ridicule, these little creatures forsake the house never to come back to it again. Sometimes they take vengeance by means of changelings. Changelings are the weazened and puny offspring of the dwarfs which they substitute for unbaptized children that they steal from people who have offended them. The dwarfs, envious of the taller stature of the human race, desire to improve their own, and so consider it good morals thus to make their enemies their benefactors.'
Fairies, elves, and ariels include all the small creatures who are fair, good, and useful. They have their dwelling-place, it is said, 'in the airy realm of Alf-heim (home of the light-elves), situated between heaven and earth, whence they can flit downwards whenever they please, to attend to the plants and flowers, sport with the birds and butterflies, or dance in the silvery moonlight on the green.' They have golden hair, sweet musical voices, and magic harps. These gentle aerial beings, scholars say, were introduced into Europe by the Crusaders and the Moors of Spain. Before that time the creatures of the North had been cold and ungenial, like their heath-clad mountains, chilly lakes, and piny solitudes; but after the advent of the Peri of the East, who live in the sun or the rainbow and subsist on the odor of flowers, the Northern elves took on more winning attributes and finally became beneficent and beautiful.
Many of the stories in the so-called fairy books are technically not fairy stories but nursery sagas, as we use the term today; for instance, most of those in Miss Mulock's "Fairy Book" and the larger part in the "Blue and the Green Fairy Books." They are English, French, German, and other Märchen retold. Jean Ingelow's "Mopsa the Fairy" has a good-sounding title for a typical fairy book, though the material seems to be literary rather than traditional. Brentano's creatures in translation surely bear literary names, whatever they have in the original. Dream-my-Soul and Sir Skip-and-a-Jump are suggestive of the pen. But Puck of Pook's Hill comes near to being of the solid traditional Northern type—at least in declaration. He says he is the oldest Old Thing in England—very much at your service if you care to have anything to do with him; but, by Oak and Ash and Thorn, he hates the painty-winged, wand-waving, sugar-and-shake-your-head set of imposters! He is for Wayland-Smith and magic and the old days before the Conquest. Charles Kingsley's Madam How and Lady Why are noble fairies without dispute—really goddesses; yet, strange to say, they have revealed themselves to a pedagogue and have permitted their work to be the subject of lectures. Still, they are companionable and wholesome and none the less marvelous than their more common sisters. This is an interesting contamination of genres—the pedagogical narrative combined with the fairy tale. Usually the combination is not so happily made.
If a writer cares to attempt a new "old" fairy tale of the real sort, he might observe the following more specific suggestions, which were written out before "Puck of Pook's Hill" came into the hands of the author of this book, but which happen to express fairly well what might be deduced as Kipling's procedure. (1) Decide on the country in which the events are to take place. (2) If you are not already familiar with that country through the medium of traveling or residence, make yourself familiar with it by reading. The more you know about the common people and their superstitions, the better your story will be. (3) Make lists of names of the good and bad spirits of that country together with their occupations and powers. (4) From these lists pick out the being you are going to treat as your chief personage and clearly define to yourself its relation to the other spirits. (5) Then weave about this personality a series of events for which it is directly or indirectly responsible. (6) Be sure to make the fairies or spirits of the other world the chief actors. If living man comes in, he must be simply the object to whom they offer their favors or on whom they play their pranks or wreak their vengeance. It is the doings of the fairies or of the beings of the extra-natural world that you must make your reader interested in. (7) If you care to write a weird fairy tale, select the unpleasant spirits and proceed; but be sure not to make your story revolting instead of weird. A good weird tale is the work of a master and pleases because of its art. A horrible story any bungler can tell. (8) Finally, remember the working definition: Summary definition A fairy tale is a narrative of imaginary events wherein the chief actors are beings other than man and the gods—beings who have power to help man or to tease and molest him, but not the power utterly to destroy him.
Duergar, or Dwerger—Gotho-German dwarfs, dwelling in rocks and hills; noted for their strength, subtlety, magical powers, and skill in metallurgy. They are personifications of the subterranean powers of nature.
Kobold—a house-spirit in German superstition; same as English Robin Goodfellow, or Puck.
Nick—a water-wraith or Kelpie. There are nicks in sea, lake, river, or waterfall. Sometimes represented as half-child, half-horse, the hoofs being reversed.
Nis, or Nisse—a Scandinavian fairy friendly to farm-houses.
Trolls—similar to Duergar; dwarfs of Northern mythology living in hills and mounds. They are represented as stumpy, misshapen, humpbacked, inclined to thieving and fond of carrying off children or substituting one of their own offspring for that of a human mother. They are said to dislike noise very much.
Stromkarl—a Norwegian musical spirit, like Neck.
Banshee—domestic Spirit of certain Irish or Highland Scotch families; supposed to take an interest in their welfare.
Boggart (Scotch)—a local hobgoblin or spirit.
Bogie (Scotch, Welsh, and Irish)—a scarecrow, a goblin.
Brownie—the house spirit in Scottish superstition. Called in England Robin Goodfellow. Farms are his favorite abode.
Jack-a-lantern—a bog or marsh spirit who delights to mislead.
Lepracaun, or Leprechaun (Irish)—a fairy shoemaker.
The list that follows is necessarily very brief, for every tribe of the Philippine Islands has its host of mischievous creatures, whose chief delight is to annoy or frighten men. Others are of a more malignant nature, however; some cause sickness; some insanity; and occasionally some cause death, for the Filipinos as well as the Hungarians have their vampires.
The name of the tribe in which the belief in the spirit is most common is given in parentheses after the description:
Salut—the spirits of pestilence in general and cholera in particular. They are described as tall, thin persons dressed in flowing black robes, who walk the streets at night and knock at the doors of the houses to which they wish to carry death. (Tagalog, Pampango, Bicol.)
Matanda sa punso—a little old man who lives in a mound of earth. He loves children, and is willing to help those who respect him and his house. (Tagalog.)
Lampong—a tall harmless creature with a horse's head and feet but a man's body. He lives in the woods, can travel very rapidly, and is deathly afraid of a rosary. He possesses some magic power. (Pangasinan.)
Camana—an evil spirit that lives in gloomy places. It can assume the form of any small animal, or can make itself invisible. If a person who comes across the camana does not propitiate it with food or something entertaining, he will become sick; and he can be cured only by an old woman who is a manganito. (Parts of Zambales.)
Patianak—Accounts about patianak are very contradictory. It is most commonly believed, however, to be a mischievous fairy that assumes the form of a small child and misleads travelers at night. It has a mirthful laugh that is very attractive. The only way for the victim to drive the fairy away and to find the right road is for him to take off his coat and wear it inside out. (Tagalog and Bicol.)
Mamamarang—a sorceress who fights with travelers in lonely places and tries to kill them that she may eat them. (Visayan.)
Managbatu—a spirit in the form of a man, which lives in trees and at midnight throws stones and clods at the houses near his dwelling. He can cause sickness to those that try to injure him. (Cagayan.)
Cafre—an enormous black man that smokes long cigars. He does very little harm, but delights in frightening people. Some say he can transform himself into almost anything from a pig to a ball of fire. He appears only at night, of course. (Pampango, Tagalog, Bicol.)
Tigbalang—a demon who lives in trees, especially the baliti tree. His body is covered with long hair and one of his feet is a horse's hoof. His chief delight is to lead people astray and make them crazy, or to ravage banana plantations, to empty water jars, shake houses, and disturb people generally. (Tagalog.)
Tigabulak—a demon who in the form of an old man entices children with candy and cakes. After he has led them far from home, he puts them in a sack and carries them to his dwelling. Then he kills them and makes money out of their blood. (Tagalog.)
Caibaan—little mischievous field spirits who play tiny guitars. They steal dishes and hide them, and indulge in other pranks. (Pangasinan and Ilocano.)
Domovoy—the Russian brownie that lives behind the stove. If he is neglected, he waxes wroth and knocks the tables and benches around at night.
Baba-yaga—an ogress who lives on the edge of the forest, in a hut built so as to turn with the wind like a weathercock.
Rusalki—water sprites.
Vodianoi—river genii.
Lieshii and the Liesnik—forest demons.
Vampires—ghosts who steal by night from their tombs, and suck the blood of the living during their sleep.
Jinn—a sort of fairies of Arabian mythology—the offspring of fire. (The singular of jinn is jinnee.)
Afreet—a sort of Arabian ghoul or demon—the epitome of what is terrible and monstrous in Arabian superstition.
Peri (plural of Peris)—Peri are delicate, gentle, fairy-like beings of Eastern mythology, begotten by fallen spirits. With a wand they direct the pure in mind the way to heaven.
Esprit Follet—the house-spirit of France.
Familiar spirit—a spirit or demon supposed to be summoned by a necromancer or a soothsayer from the unseen world to attend upon him as a servant.
Fay—the French word for fairy, anglicised.
Gnome—one of a fabulous race of dwarfed and misshapen earth-spirits or goblins, reputed to be special guardians of mines and miners. (<French gnome, from the Greek.)
Hag—a forbidding or malicious old woman; a witch. (<A. S. haegtes, a fury.)
Hamadryad—a wood-nymph fabled to live and die with the tree she inhabited, the oak being considered as the tree preferred. (Greek mythology.)
Hornie, or Horny—the devil; so called because commonly represented with horns.
Imp—an evil spirit of low rank; a small, puny, or contemptible devil. (Russian folk tales often make use of this spirit.)
Undine—a female water-spirit without a soul, with which she might be endowed only by marrying a mortal and bearing a child. (<Latin unda, wave.)
Werwolf—a person who, according to mediæval superstition, became voluntarily or involuntarily a wolf and in that form practiced cannibalism. (<A. S. wer, man + wulf, wolf.)
Wraith—a fantom of a living person, supposed to be ominous of that person's death.
Lamia—a female demon or vampire that enticed youths and fed upon their flesh and blood. (Classical mythology.)
Merrow—a mermaid. (Irish mythology.)
Monaciello—the house-spirit of Naples.
Nightmare—an evil spirit once supposed to oppress people during sleep. Called also Incubus. (<A. S. niht, night + maere, a nightmare.)
Ogre—a demon or monster that was supposed to devour human beings. (<French ogre. The derivation is uncertain.)
Ouphe—an elf or fairy. (<the Scandinavian. A variation of oaf = elf.)
Pigwidgeon—a very small fairy.
Sprite—a spirit of the earth or air.
Sylph—originally, a being, male or female, living in and on the air and intermediate between material and immaterial beings. (Used by Paracelsus. The word is undoubtedly of Greek origin.)
In the house of an honest farmer in Yorkshire, named George Gilbertson, a Boggart had taken up his abode. He here caused a good deal of annoyance, especially by tormenting the children in various ways. Sometimes their bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers of milk be capsized by an invisible hand; for the Boggart never let himself be seen; at other times the curtains of their beds would be shaken backwards and forwards, or a heavy weight would press on them and nearly suffocate them. The parents had often, on hearing their cries, to fly to their aid. There was a kind of closet, formed by a wooden partition on the kitchen stairs, and a large knot having been driven out of one of the deal boards of which it was made, there remained a hole. Into this one day the farmer's youngest boy stuck the shoe horn with which he was amusing himself, when immediately it was thrown out again, and hit the boy on the head. The agent was, of course, the Boggart, and it soon became the children's sport (called laking with Boggart) to put the shoe horn into the hole and have it shot back at them.
The Boggart at length proved such a torment that the farmer and his wife resolved to quit the house and let him have it all to himself. This decision was put into execution, and the farmer and his family were following the last loads of furniture, when a neighbor named John Marshall came up: "Well, Georgey," said he, "and soa you're leaving t'ould hoose at last?" "Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm forced tull it; for that villain Boggart torments us soa, we can neither rest neet nor day for't. It seems loike to have such a malice again t'poor bairns, it ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on't, and soa, ye see, we're forced to flitt loike." He scarce had uttered the words when a voice from a deep upright churn cried out: "Aye, aye, Johnny, we 're flitting, ye see." "Od hang thee," cried the poor farmer, "if I'd known thou'd been there, I wadn't ha' stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it's no use, Mally," said he to his wife, "we may as weel turn back to t'ould hoose as be tormented in another that's not so convenient."