We think that these folk-stories have, indeed, a common origin, but that it is in the human heart. We do not look for a Sigurd or Siegfried on every page. Imagine a nation springing from an ignorant couple on a sea-girt isle, in a few generations they would have evolved their Sleeping Beauty and their Prince Charming, their enchanted castles, and their Djinns and fairies. These are as indigenous to the human heart as the cradle-song or the battle-cry. We do not find ourselves siding with those who would trace everything to a first exemplar. Children have played, and men have loved, and poets have sung from the beginning, and we need not run to Asia for the source of everything. Universal human nature has a certain spontaneity.
He raised her in his arms and took her home.
Four waiting-maids and nurses two he gave
The pretty child. The palace rooms were all
Adorned anew, with rugs and curtains soft,
And tapestries of orange hue were hung.
The princess rested on a couch inlaid with gold,
A splendid couch, with lanterns softly bright
And tapers burning with a gentle ray.
The merchant and his wife with all their hearts
Adored the child, as if it were their own.
She looked like Mindoudari, and received
The name of Bidasari. Then they took
A little fish and changing vital spirits
They put it in a golden box, then placed
The box within a casket rich and rare.
The merchant made a garden, with all sorts
Of vases filled with flowers, and bowers of green
And trellised vines. A little pond made glad
The eyes, with the precious stones and topaz set
Alternately, in fashion of the land
Of Pellanggam, a charm for all. The sand
Was purest gold, with alabaster fine