the goldsmith, dresses it in clothes similar to what he usually wore, and procures a couple of bear's cubs, which he teaches to take their food from the skirts and sleeves of the effigy. Thus the cubs conceived a great affection for the figure of the goldsmith. He then contrives to steal the goldsmith's two sons, and, when the father comes to seek them at his house, he pretends they have been changed into young bears. The goldsmith brings his case before the kází; the cubs are brought into court, and no sooner do they discover the goldsmith than they run up and fondle him. Upon this the judge decides in favour of the carpenter, to whom the goldsmith confesses his guilt, and offers to give up all the gold if he restore his children, which he does accordingly.1

1 Many Asiatic stories relate to the concealing of treasure-generally at the foot of a tree, to mark the spot-by two or more companions, and its being secretly stolen by one of them. The device of the carpenter in the foregoing tale of abducting the rascally goldsmith's two sons, and so on, finds an analogue in the Panchatantra, the celebrated Sanskrit collection of fables (Book I, Fab. 21, of Benfey's German translation), where we read that a young man, who had spent the wealth left to him by his father, had only a heavy iron balance remaining of all his possessions, and depositing it with a merchant went to another country. When he returned, after some time, he went to the merchant and demanded back his balance. The merchant told him it had been eaten by rats; adding: “The iron of which it was composed was particularly sweet, and so the rats ate it." The young man, knowing that the merchant spoke falsely, formed a plan for the recovery of his balance. One day he took the merchant's young son, unknown to his father, to bathe, and left him in the care of a friend. When the merchant missed his son he accused the young man of having stolen him, and summoned him to appear in the king's judgmenthall. In answer to the merchant's accusation, the young man asserted that a kite had carried away the boy; and when the

K

The Sixth Tale of the Parrot, according to the India Office MS., relates to

The Woman Carved out of Wood.

Four men a goldsmith, a carpenter, a tailor, and a dervish-travelling together, one night halted in a desert place, and it was agreed they should watch turn about until daybreak. The carpenter takes the first watch, and to amuse himself he carves the figure of a woman out of a log of wood. When it came to the goldsmith's turn to watch, finding the beautiful female figure, he resolved also to exhibit his art, and accordingly made a set of ornaments of gold and silver, which he placed on the neck, arms, and ankles. During the third watch the tailor made a suit of clothes becoming a bride, and put them on the figure. Lastly, the dervish, when it came to his turn to watch, beholding the captivating female form, prayed that it might be endowed with life, and immediately the effigy became animated. In the morning all four fell in love with the charming damsel, each claiming her for himself; the carpenter, because he had carved her with his own hands; the goldsmith, because he had adorned her with gems; the tailor, because he had suitably clothed her; and the dervish, because he had, by his inter

officers of the court declared this to be impossible, he said: "In a country where an iron balance was eaten by rats, a kite might well carry off an elephant, much more a boy." The merchant, having lost his cause, returned the balance to the young man and received back his boy.

cession, endowed her with life. While they were thus disputing, a man came to the spot, to whom they referred the case. On seeing the woman, he exclaimed: "This is my own wife, whom you have stolen from me," and compelled them to come before the kutwal, who, on viewing her beauty, in his turn claimed her as the wife of his brother, who had been waylaid and murdered in the desert. The kutwal took them all, with the woman, before the kází, who declared that she was his slave, who had absconded from his house with a large sum of money. An old man who was present suggested that they should all seven appeal to the Tree of Decision, and thither they went accordingly; but no sooner had they stated their several claims than the trunk of the tree split open, the woman ran into the cleft, and on its reuniting she was no more to be seen. A voice proceeded from the tree, saying: "Everything returns to its first principles"; and the seven suitors of the woman were overwhelmed with shame.1

1 So, too, Boethius, in his De Consolatione Philosophiæ, says, according to Chaucer's translation: "All thynges seken ayen to. hir [i.e. their] propre course, and all thynges rejoysen on hir retournynge agayne to hir nature."-A tale current in Oude, and given in Indian Notes and Queries for Sept. 1887, is an illustration of the maxim that`“everything returns to its first principles": A certain prince chose his friends out of the lowest class, and naturally imbibed their principles and habits. When the death of his father placed him on the throne, he soon made his former associates his courtiers, and exacted the most servile homage from the nobles. The old vazir, however, despised the young king and would render none. This so exasperated him that he called his counsellors together to advise the most excruciating of tortures for the old man. Said one: “Let him be flayed alive and let shoes be made of his

I am strongly of opinion that the foregoing story is of Buddhistic extraction; but however this may be, it is not a bad specimen of Eastern humour, nor is the following, which the eloquent bird tells the lady another night:

Of the Man whose Mare was kicked by a

Merchant's Horse.

A merchant had a vicious horse that kicked a mare, which he had warned the owner not to tie near his animal. The man carried the merchant before the kází, and stated his complaint. The kázi inquired of the merchant what he had to say in his own defence; but he pretended to be dumb, answerskin." The vazír ejaculated on this but one word, "Origin." Said the next: "Let him be hacked into pieces and his limbs cast to the dogs." The vazír said, "Origin." Another advised: "Let him be forthwith executed, and his house be levelled to the ground." Once more the vazír simply said, "Origin." Then the king turned to the rest, who declared each according to his opinion, the vazír noticing each with the same word. At last a young man, who had not spoken hitherto, was asked. "May it please your Majesty," said he, "if you ask my opinion, it is this: Here is an aged man, and honourable from his years, family, and position; moreover, he served in the king your father's court, and nursed you as a boy. It were well, considering all these matters, to pay him respect, and render his old age comfortable." Again the vazír uttered the word "Origin." The king now demanded what he meant by it. "Simply this, your Majesty," responded the vazír: "You have here the sons of shoemakers, butchers, executioners, and so forth, and each has expressed himself according to his father's trade. There is but one noble-born among them, and he has made himself conspicuous by speaking according to the manner of his race." The king was ashamed, and released the vazír.-A parallel to this is found in the Turkish Qirq Vezír Tarikhí, or History of the Forty Vezírs (Lady's 4th Story): according to Mr. Gibb's translation, "All things return to their origin."

ing not a word to the judge's interrogatives. Upon this the kází remarked to the plaintiff that since the merchant was dumb he could not be to blame for the accident. "How do you know he is dumb?" said the owner of the mare. "At the time I wished to fasten my mare near his horse he said, 'Don't!' yet now he feigns himself dumb." The kází observed that if he was duly warned against the accident he had himself to blame, and so dismissed the case.

II

THE EMPEROR'S DREAM-THE GOLDEN APPARITION-THE FOUR

TREASURE-SEEKERS.

WE are not without instances in European popular fictions of two young persons dreaming of each other and falling in love, although they had never met or known of each other's existence. A notable example is the story of the Two Dreams in the famous History of the Seven Wise Masters. Incidents of this kind are very common in Oriental stories: the romance of Kámarupa (of Indian origin, but now chiefly known through the Persian version) is based upon a dream which the hero has of a certain beautiful princess, with whom he falls in love, and he sets forth with his companions to find her, should it be at the uttermost ends of the earth. It so happens that the damsel also dreams of him, and, when they do meet, they need no introduction to each other. The Indian romance of Vasayadatta has