types, very limited in number, the essentials
of which must never be departed from. If,
for instance, the tale-teller wishes to make
the services rendered by certain grateful
animals, in return for the preservation of
their lives, the subject of his fiction, he may
indeed vary the description of animal, and
make use of a cat where another prose bard
has preferred a salmon; but throughout all
tales on this subject, the preservation must
be effected in the same way, and in the same
way must the grateful service be rendered.
The uniformity, indeed, seems too prevalent
to be accounted for by tradition; for the
same story, repeated without essential
modification, will frequently be found among
peoples of whom there is no proof that they
ever intercommunicated with each other.
Hence a theory has been maintained, to the
effect that, by some inherent law of the
human mind, the same combination of
incidents is framed by independent nations,
without any borrowing at all.

Whatever was the origin of the staple
fairy-tales—whether they were invented by
some one nation, and then diffused by
appointed missionaries over the rest of the
habitable world, or whether they sprang up
spontaneously and simultaneously in various
localities, as so many fungi of the human
brain — certain it is, that he who has mastered
about a score of these fictions will find the
fairy-reading for the rest of his life, however
serviceable for antiquarian purposes, the most
decided failure, as a source of amusement,
that the imagination could conceive. Whether
the personages have been clad in the rude
attire of German peasants, by some
forgotten author of Märchen, or whether they
have been handsomely provided with court-
dresses by the Countess d'Anois (we beg
pardon—" D'Aulnoy," Mr. Planché"), they
remain, for the most part, the same personages
still, and they do the same things. Occasionally,
indeed, comes some one particular
story, that stands out from the rest, as, for
instance, the renowned Countess's Rameau
d'Or; and this is the choice bit of citron
that the searcher for fanciful delights must
accept as an equivalent for huge mouthfuls
of exceedingly insipid cake.

Now, such a bit of citron, we flatter
ourselves, we discovered the other day, while
turning over a heap of Sclavonic tales, and
finding ourselves bored to death by the
constant reappearance of Northern, Arabian,
French, and German friends, who, because
they gave Bohemian names to their articles
of clothing, would fain pass themselves upon
us as something new and surprising. The
morceau in question is entitled The Sun-
horse. It makes its appearance as a product
of the Slovacks, and we are indebted for its
preservation to the learned J. Rimavski,
with whose name all our readers are, of
course, perfectly familiar.

It appears, on the authority of this Slovack
story, that there was once a country so
peculiarly situated that the sun never shone upon
it at all. " What was the cause of this effect,
or rather say the cause of this defect," is not
explained; but we are consoled by the
information that the absence of the sun was,
in some measure, compensated by the king's
possession of a certain horse, with a bright
star in his forehead, that sparkled in every
direction with a light equal to that of day.
That the people might enjoy the benefit of
this inestimable treasure, the time of the
horse was occupied with a perpetual tour
from one end of the land to the other.
Whatever nook or corner he approached was
immediately illumined, but it grew dark as
soon as he had left it, so that the good folks
had but a spasmodic sort of day-light after
all. Let us hope that the national pursuits
were in accordance with this singular order
of things; that the people did not read very
bulky volumes, or cast up very long sums, or
visit very large crystal palaces; but that they
had the wisdom to catch opportunity by the
forelock with all rapidity as often as it
presented itself, and as speedily to let it go
again.

Let us resume. Once upon a time the
horse was missing, and great was the terror
spread over the land. The spasmodic system
of labour was brought to a stand-still, and no
work was done by anybody. Revolutionary
meetings were held, but they led to no
immediate result, for as nobody could see anything,
there could be no show of hands. However,
they served to alarm the king, who at last
adopted the only course that seemed
conducive to practical utility. Accompanied by
a picked body of retainers, he set out to
search for the horse.

After he had reached the boundary of his
kingdom, riding through pitchy darkness all
the way, he came to the sunlit part of the
globe, which was at first rather foggy, but
brightened as he proceeded. Nothing,
however, was to be seen but a thick wood that
extended in all directions. For miles did the
king travel, but still there was the wood,
and only the wood. So tired did he get of
looking at trunks and leaves, that he almost
regretted his own country where he could
see nothing whatever.

At last, in the thick of this wearisome
wood, he found a miserable cottage, and,
opening the door, perceived a middle-aged
man absorbed in the perusal of a huge volume
that lay open before him; but not so utterly
absorbed as to prevent him thus volubly
addressing the king, as soon as the latter had
saluted him with a bow:

"I'm reading about you. You are looking
for the Sun-horse. It's no use; you'll never
find him; but trust to me, and I will. Go
home as fast as you can, and take your
followers with you, with the exception of one
man, whom you will leave with me."

"Oh, wisest of the human race,"