In entering upon a consideration of the development of primitive myths, we are at once confronted by the old question disputed by mythologists, ethnologists, and students of religion, Where and when did religion originate? For is not religion always concerned with the supernatural? Now, in certain cases, even primitive man supplements the sensuous world in which he lives and whose impressions he has not so much as elaborated into abstract concepts, with supersensuous elements, though he himself, of course, is unaware of their supersensuous character. The question, therefore, lies near at hand: Is religion already present at this stage, or is there at most a potentiality of religion, the germ of its future development? If the latter should be true, where, then, does religion begin? Now, our interest in the history of myth-formation derives largely from the very fact that the problem is intimately bound up with that of the origin of religion. Merely in itself the origin of the myth might have relatively little interest for us. The question, however, as to how religion arose acquires its great importance through its connection with the two further questions as to whether or not religion is a necessary constituent of human consciousness and whether it is an original possession or is the result of certain preconditions of mythological thought.
It is interesting to follow this ancient dispute, particularly its course during the last few decades. In 1880, Roskoff wrote a book entitled "The Religion of the Most Primitive Nature-Peoples." In this work he assembled all the available facts, and came to the conclusion that no peoples exist who have not some form of religion. About ten years ago, however, the two Sarasins, students of Ceylon and of the primitive Veddah tribes, summed up their conclusions in the proposition: The Veddahs have no religion.If, however, we compare Roskoff's facts concerning primitive peoples with those reported by the Sarasins concerning the belief of the Veddahs in demons and magic, it appears that the facts mentioned by these investigators are essentially the same. What the former calls religion, the latter call belief in magic; but in neither case is there a statement as to what is really meant by religion. Now, we cannot, of course, come to an understanding with reference to the presence or absence of anything until we are agreed as to what the thing itself really is. Hence, the question under dispute is raised prematurely at the present stage of our discussion; it can be answered only after we have examined more of the steps in the development of myth and of the preconditions of the religion of later times. We shall therefore recur to this point in our third chapter, after we have become acquainted with such religions as may indubitably lay claim to the name. Postponing the question for the present, we will designate the various phenomena that must be discussed at this point by the specific names attaching to them on the basis of their peculiar characteristics. In this sense, there is no doubt that we may speak of ideas of magic and of demons even in the case of primitive peoples; it is generally conceded that such ideas are universally entertained at this stage of culture. But the further question at once arises as to the source of this belief in magic and in demons, and as to the influences by which it is sustained. Now, in respect to this pointtwoviews prevail, even among the ethnologists who have made an intensive study of primitive peoples. The one view may briefly be called that of nature-mythology. It assumes that even far back under early conditions the phenomena of the heavens were the objects that peculiarly fascinated the thought of man and elevated it above its immediate sensible environment. All mythology, therefore, is supposed originally to have been mythology of nature, particularly of the heavens. Doubtless this would already involve a religious element, or, at least, a religious tendency. The second view carries us even farther in thesame direction. It holds that the ideas of primitive man, so far as they deal with the supersensuous, are simpler than those of the more highly developed peoples. Just for this reason, however, it regards these ideas as more perfect and as approaching more nearly the beliefs of the higher religions. As a matter of fact, if we compare, let us say, the Semangs and the Senoi, or the Veddahs, with the natives of Australia, we find a very great difference as regards this point. Even the mythology of the Australians is undoubtedly much more complex than that of these peoples of nature, and the farther we trace this myth development the greater the complexity becomes. That which is simple, however, is supposed to be also the higher and the more exalted, just as it is the more primitive. The beginning is supposed to anticipate the end, as a revelation not yet distorted by human error. For, the highest form of religion is not a mythology including a multitude of gods, but the belief inoneGod—that is, monotheism. It was believed, therefore, that the very discovery of primitive man offered new support for this view. This theory, however, is bound up with an important anthropological consideration—the question concerning the place of the so-calledPygmiesin the history of human development. It was on the basis of their physical characteristics that these dwarf peoples of Africa and Asia, of whom it is only in comparatively recent times that we have gained any considerable knowledge, were first declared by Julius Kollman to be the childhood peoples of humanity, who everywhere preceded the races of larger stature. Such childhood characteristics, indeed, are revealed not only in their small stature but in other traits as well. Schweinfurth observed that the entire skin of the Pygmies of Central Africa is covered with fine, downy hair, much as is that of the newly born child. It is by means of these downy hairs that the Monbuttu negro of that region distinguishes the Pygmy from a youth of his own tribe. The Negrito is primitive also in that his dermal glands are abnormally active, causing a bodily odour which is fargreater than that of the negro, and which, just as in the case of some animals, increases noticeably under the stress of emotion. If, in addition to these physical characteristics, we consider the low cultural level of all these dwarf peoples, the hypothesis that the Pygmies are a primitive people does not, indeed, seem altogether strange. Starting with this hypothesis, therefore, William Schmidt, in his work, "The Place of the Pygmies in the Development of Mankind" (1910), attempted to prove the proposition that the Pygmies are the childhood peoples of humanity in their mental culture no less than in their physical development. This being their nature, they are, of course, limited intellectually; morally, however, they are in a state of innocence, as is demonstrated among other things by the pure monogamy prevailing among them, as well as by their highest possession, their monotheistic belief.
Now, the supposition of moral innocence rests essentially on the twofold assumption of the identity of primitive man with the Pygmy and of the legitimacy of holding that what has been observed ofonetribe of Pygmies is true of the primitive condition generally. But this identity of primitive man with the Pygmy cannot be maintained. The most typical traits of primitive mental culture are doubtless to be found among the Veddahs of Ceylon. The Veddahs, however, are not really Pygmies, but are of large stature. Moreover, there are primitive people who are so far from being Pygmies that they belong rather to the tall races. We might cite the extinct Tasmanians, whose culture was probably a stage lower than that of the modern Australians. In most respects, many of the tribes of Central Australia exhibit traits of primitive culture, even though their social organization is of a far more complicated nature. Finally, all the peoples whose remains have been found in the oldest diluvial deposits of Europe belong to the tall races. On the other hand, there are peoples of small stature, the Chinese and the Japanese, who must be counted in the first ranks of cultured peoples. Thus, mental culture certainly cannot be measured in termsof physical size but only in terms of itself. Mental values can never be determined except by mental characteristics. It is true that W. Schmidt has sought to support his theory regarding the Pygmies by reference to the reports of E.H. Man, a reliable English observer. According to these reports, the Andamanese, one of these dwarf peoples, possess some remarkable legends that are doubtless indicative of monotheistic ideas. Since the Andamans are a group of islands in the Sea of Bengal and the inhabitants are therefore separated from other peoples by an expanse of sea, Schmidt regarded as justifiable the assumption that these legends were autochthonous; since, moreover, the legends centre about the belief in a supreme god, he contended that we here finally had proof of the theory of an original monotheism. The main outlines of the Andamanese legends as given by E.H. Man are as follows: The supreme god, Puluga, first created man and subsequently (though with regard to this there are various versions) he created woman. She was either created directly, as was man, or man himself created her out of a piece of wood, possibly a reminiscence of Adam's rib. Then God gave man laws forbidding theft, murder, adultery, etc., forbidding him, furthermore, to eat of the fruits of the first rainy season. But man did not keep the Divine commandments. The Lord therefore sent a universal flood, in which perished all living things with the exception of two men and two women who happened to be in a boat. In this story, much is naturally distorted, confused, and adapted to the medium into which the legend is transplanted. But that it points to the Biblical accounts of the Creation, Paradise, and the Flood, there cannot, in my opinion, be the slightest doubt. If it is objected that the Andamans are altogether too far separated from the rest of the world by the sea, and also that no missionaries have ever been seen on these islands, our answer would be: Whatever may be the 'when' and the 'how,' thefact thatthe Biblical tradition at some time did come to the Andamanese is proven by the legend itself. This conclusion is just as incontestable as is theinference, for example, that the correspondence of certain South American and Asiatic myths is proof of a transmission. Indeed, the two latter regions are separated by an incomparably wider expanse of sea than that which divides the Andamans from Indo-China and its neighbouring islands. It should also be added that the inhabitants of the Andaman Islands have obviously progressed far beyond the condition in which we find the inland tribes of Malacca, the Veddahs of Ceylon, or the Negritos of the Philippines. They practise the art of making pottery—an art never found among peoples who are properly called primitive; they have a social organization, with chiefs. These phenomena all characterize a fairly advanced culture. When, therefore, we are concerned with the beliefs of peoples who are really primitive, the Andamanese must be left out of consideration. According to the available proofs, however, these people possess a belief neither in one god nor in many gods. Moreover, even far beyond the most primitive stage, no coherent celestial mythology may be found, such as could possibly be regarded as an incipient polytheism. No doubt, there are ideas concerning single heavenly phenomena, but these always betray an association with terrestrial objects, particularly with human beings or animals. And, to all appearances, these ideas change with great rapidity. Nowhere have they led to the actual formation of myths. Among the Indians of the Brazilian forests, for example, the sun and moon are called leaves or feather-balls; by several of the Soudan tribes they are conceived as balls that have been thrown to the sky by human beings and have stuck there. Such ideas alternate with others in which the sun and moon are regarded as brothers or as brother and sister, or the sun is said to be chasing the moon—images influenced particularly by the phenomena of the moon's phases. As a matter of fact, this whole field of ideas reveals onlyonebelief that is practically universal, appearing among peoples of nature and recurring even among civilized peoples. Because of the rare occurrence of the phenomenon,however, it has never led to a real mythology. I refer to the belief that in an eclipse of the sun, the sun is swallowed by a dark demon. This belief, obviously, is very readily suggested to the primitive imagination; it occurs in Central Africa, in Australia, and in America, and is found even in Indian mythology. Taken by itself, however, the notion is incapable of engendering a myth. It is to be regarded merely as an isolated case to be classed with a more richly developed set of demon-ideas that dominate the daily life of primitive man. At this stage, these ideas are the only elements of an incipient mythology that are clearly discernible and that at the same time exercise an important influence upon life. In so far as the mythology of primitive man gains a permanent foothold and influence, it consists of abelief in magic and demons. There are, however, two motives which engender this belief and give form and colour to the ideas and emotions springing from them. These aredeathandsickness.
Death! There are doubtless few impressions that have so powerful an effect upon the man of nature; indeed, civilized man as well is still very greatly stirred by the phenomenon of death. Let his companion meet with death, and even the outward actions of a primitive man are significant. The moment a person dies, the immediate impulse of primitive man is to leave him lying where he is and to flee. The dead person is abandoned, and the place where he died continues to be avoided for a long time—if possible, until animals have devoured the corpse. Obviously the emotion offearis regnant. Its immediate cause is apparently the unusual and fear-inspiring changes which death makes in the appearance of a man. The suspension of movements, the pallor of death, the sudden cessation of breathing—these are phenomena sufficient to cause the most extreme terror. But what is the nature of the ideas that associate themselves with this fearsome impression? The flight from the corpse is evidence that man's fears are primarily for himself. To tarry in the presence of a dead person exposes the living man to thedanger of being himself overtaken by death. The source of this danger is evidently identical with that which has brought death to the recently deceased person himself. Primitive man cannot think of death except as the sudden departure from the dying person of that which originally brought life. Nevertheless, there is evidently bound up with this conception the further idea that powers of life are still resident in the body; the latter remains firmly associated in the mind of primitive man with the impression of life. Here, then, we have the original source of the contradictory idea of a something that generates life and is therefore independent of the body, while nevertheless being connected with it. So far as we can gain knowledge of the impression which death makes on the mind of primitive man, two disparate motives are indissolubly united. He regards life as something that, in part, continues in some mysterious manner to dwell within the corpse, and, in part, hovers about, invisible, in its vicinity. For this reason, the dead person becomes to him ademon, an invisible being capable of seizing upon man, of overpowering or killing him, or of bringing sickness upon him. In addition to this primitive idea of demons, we also find the conception of acorporeal soul, meaning by this the belief that the body is the vehicle of life, and that, so long as it has not itself disappeared, it continues to harbour the life within itself. The corporeal soul is here still regarded as a unit which may, by separating itself from the body, become a demon and pass over into another person. No certain traces are as yet to be found of belief in a breath or shadow-like soul. As will appear later, this is a characteristic feature of the transition from primitive to totemic culture. When some investigators report that the soul is occasionally referred to by the Semangs of Malacca as a small bird that soars into the air at the death of a person, it is not improbable that we here have to do either with the Semangs of culture, who have undergone marked changes under Malayan influence, or with the presence of an isolated idea that belongs to a different cultural circle. For in no othercase are ideas similar to that of the psyche to be found on the level of primitive culture. On the other hand, the burial customs of the Malays and of the mixed races living in the immediate vicinity of the primitive peoples of the Malay Peninsula, already exhibit a striking contrast to the flight of primitive man from the corpse.
The next group of ideas, those arising from the impression made bysickness, particularly by such sicknesses as attack man suddenly, are also restricted to the conception of a corporeal soul. For, one of the most characteristic marks of this conception is that magical, demoniacal powers are believed to issue from the body of the dead person. These powers, however, are not, as occurs in the above case, regarded as embodied in any visible thing—such as the exhalations of the breath or an escaping animal—that separates itself from the person. On the contrary, the demon that leaves the corpse and attacks another person in the form of a fatal sickness, is invisible. He is purely the result of an association between the fear aroused by the occurrence of death and the fright caused by an unexpected attack of sickness. The dead person, therefore, continues to remain the seat of demoniacal powers; these he can repeatedly direct against the living persons who approach him. Primitive man believes that the demon may assume any form whatsoever within the body, and deceitful medicine-men take advantage of this in ostensibly removing the sickness in the form of a piece of wood or of a stone. But it is precisely these ideas that are totally unrelated to that of a psyche and its embodiments. Though the corpse is perhaps the earliest object that suggests sickness-demons, it is in no wise the only one. Indeed, the attack of sickness is in itself sufficient to arouse fear of a demon. Thus, the Semangs and Senoi distinguish a vast number of different sickness-demons. Such ideas of demons, however, as we find among the Malays and the Singhalese, where demons are regarded as counter-agents to sickness-magic and usually take the form of fantastical animal monsters, never occur except at a later cultural stage. Any resemblance ofthese demons to 'soul animals,' which, as we shall find in our next chapter, are always actual animals, is confined to the fact that they have some similarity to animals. Obviously they are creations of the imagination, due to fear and terror. Their only difference from the monsters of similar origin that are projected into the outward world is that they are reduced to proportions which fit the dimensions of the human body.
Closely connected with the magic of sickness is counter-magic, an agency by which disease is removed or the attack of sickness-demons warded off. Even primitive man seeks for such modes of relief. Hence, probably, the original formation of a special group of men, which, though not, of course, at the very first a fixed professional class, was nevertheless the precursor of the latter. Among the American Indians, these were the 'medicine-men'; the peoples of northern Asia called them 'shamans'—more generally expressed, they were magicians. The name 'medicine-man,' indeed, is not inappropriate. The medicine-man of the savages is, in truth, the predecessor of the modern physician, and also, in a certain sense, of the modern priest. He not only ministers to the individual whom he restores to health by means of his counter-magic, but he can himself directly practise magic. Since he has power over demons, he can exorcise them from the body; but he can also magically cause them to enter it. Thus, the medicine-man has a twofold calling. He is feared, but he is also valued as a helper in need. His position differs according as the one or the other emotion predominates. He was the first to investigate the effect of herbs on man. He probably discovered the poisons, and, by rendering the arrow poisonous, gained a still higher authority in the eyes of the savage. For the arrow, too, is a means of magic. But he also discovered methods of removing poisons, and thereby transformed poisonous plants into articles of food. His calling, then, is a supremely important one, though also at all times dangerous for the one who practises it. He is not only exposed to persecution if he fails to accomplishwhat is expected of him, or if he is suspected of evil magic, but the magician, when pressed by need, also becomes a deceiver. The deception of the medicine-man, indeed, apparently dates back to the very earliest times. Koch-Grünberg tells us that among the Central Brazilians the medicine-men expel disease by carrying about with them a piece of wood, which they bring forth, after various manipulations, as the alleged seat of the demon. If the suggestion thus given is effective, the patient may, of course, feel himself improved. At any rate, we must not think that the mass of the people is led to lose belief in magic; in most cases, perhaps, the medicine-man himself remains a deceived deceiver.
Nevertheless, on the primitive stage, death and sickness are the main sources of belief in magic and in demons. From this as a centre, the belief radiates far out into all departments of life. The belief in magic, for example, assumes the form ofprotective magic, of magical defence against demoniacal influences. In this form, it probably determines the original modes of dress, and, more obviously and permanently still, the adornment of the body. In fact, in its beginnings, this adornment was really designed less for decoration than for purposes of magic.
In connection with the external culture of primitive man we have already noted his meagre dress, which frequently consisted merely of a cord of bast about the loins, with leaves suspended from it. What was the origin of this dress? In the tropical regions, where primitive man lives, it was surely not the result of need for protection; nor can we truthfully ascribe it to modesty, as is generally done on the ground that it is the genital parts that are most frequently covered. In estimating the causes, the questions of primary importance are rather those as to where the very first traces of dress appear and of what its most permanent parts consist. The answer to the latter question, however, is to be found not in the apron but in theloin-cord, which is occasionally girt about the hips without any further attempt at dress. Obviously this was not a means of protectionagainst storm and cold; nor can modesty be said to have factored in the development of this article, which serves the purposes both of dress and of adornment. But what was its real meaning? An incident from the life of the Veddahs may perhaps furnish the answer to this question. When the Veddah enters into marriage, he binds a cord about the loins of his prospective wife. Obviously this is nothing else than a form of the widely current 'cord-magic,' which plays a not inconsiderable rôle even in present-day superstition. Cord-magic aims to bring about certain results by means of a firmly fastened cord. This cord is not a symbol, but is, as all symbols originally were, a means of magic. When a cord is fastened about a diseased part of the body and then transferred to a tree, it is commonly believed that the sickness is magically transplanted into the tree. If the tree is regarded as representing an enemy, moreover, this act, by a further association, is believed to transfer sickness or death to the enemy through the agency of the tree. The cord-magic of the Veddah is obviously of a simpler nature than this. By means of the cord which he has himself fastened, the Veddah endeavours to secure the faithfulness of his wife. The further parts of primitive dress were developments of the loin-cord, and were worn suspended from it. Coincidentally with this, the original means of adornment make their appearance. Necklaces and bracelets, which have remained favourite articles of feminine adornment even within our present culture, and fillets about the head which, among some of the peoples of nature, are likewise worn chiefly by the women, are further developments of the loin-cord, transferred, as it were, to other parts of the body. And, as the first clothing was attached to the loin-cord, so also were the bracelet and fillet, and particularly the necklace, employed to carry other early means of protective magic, namely, amulets. Gradually the latter also developed into articles of adornment, preferably worn, even to-day, about the neck.
The assumption that the present purpose of clothingis also the end that it originally served led naturally to the theory that when the loin-cord alone is worn—as a mere indication, seemingly, of the absence of clothing—this is to be regarded not as an original custom but as the remnant of an earlier dress now serving solely as an adornment. But this supposition is contradicted, in the first place, by the fact that the loin-cord occasionally occurs by itself precisely amidst the most primitive conditions, and, in the second place, by the general development not only of clothing as such but also of certain means of adorning the surface of the body, particularly painting and tattooing. Now, there is a general rule that development proceeds not from the composite to the simple, but, conversely, from the simple to the complex. Moreover, indications of the influence of magical ideas are generally the more marked according as the stages on which the phenomenal occur are the earlier. The loin-cord, particularly, is occasionally put to certain magical uses which are scarcely intelligible without reference to the widely prevalent cord-magic. If the binding of a cord of bast of his own weaving about the hips of his prospective wife signifies a sort of marriage ceremony for the Veddah, as it undoubtedly does, this must imply that the cord is a means of magic that binds her for life. Instances have been found of another remarkable and complex custom that substantiates this 'magical' interpretation. A man binds a loin-cord of his own weaving about the woman and she does the same to him—an exchange of magic-working fetters which is a striking anticipation of the exchange of rings still customary with us upon betrothal or marriage. For the exchange of rings, to a certain extent, represents in miniature the exchange of cords practised by primitive man, though there is, of course, this enormous difference that, in the primitive ceremony the binding has a purely magical significance, whereas the later act is merely symbolical. All these phenomena indicate that even the beginnings of clothing involve ideas of magic. Later, of course, a number of other motives also enter in, graduallyleading to a change in meaning and to a wide departure from the idea originally entertained. Owing to the influence of climatic changes, there arises, in the first place, the need of protection; and the greater this becomes, the more does magic recede. And so, even among primitive tribes, the loin-cord is gradually replaced by the apron proper, which no longer requires a special cord for its support. In the course of this transition into a means of protection, the feeling of modesty more and more enters into the development as a contributing factor. According to a law operative everywhere, even under very different conditions, modesty is always connected with such parts of the body as are required by custom to be kept covered. To do what custom forbids arouses the feeling of shame, particularly in such cases as this, where the violation is so direct and apparent. It is for this reason that the feeling of shame may be aroused by the exposure of very different parts of the body. Thus, the Hottentot woman wears an apron in front and also one behind. The latter covers a cushion of fat over the seat, which is greatly developed in the case of the Hottentot woman and is regarded by these tribes as a particular mark of beauty. To a Hottentot woman it is no worse to have the front apron removed than for some one to take away the rear apron. In the latter case, she seats herself on the ground and cannot be made to get up until the apron has been restored to her. When Leonard Schultze was travelling in the Hottentot country of Namaqua Land, he noticed a certain Hottentot custom which strictly prescribes that the legs must be stretched out when one sits down upon the ground—they are not to be bent at the knees. When one of his companions, unfamiliar with the custom, sat differently, a Hottentot struck him on the knees so that they straightened out; when the reason was asked, the answer was that "this manner of sitting brings misfortune." The reply is significant, particularly because it shows how the feeling of shame, which arises at a later period in the development of the original idea of magic and is due to the influence of custom, itself, in turn, reacts associativelyon the older magical ideas. The violation of custom is regarded as dangerous, and as a matter requiring, wherever possible, the employment of protective magic. The reasons for guarding against a violation of custom are not merely subjective, but also objective, for guilt is followed by punishment. Thus, there is here an intertwining of motives.
The necklace, bracelet, finger-ring, and sometimes the head-fillet, occur as specific means of magic, in addition to, and in substitution for, the loin-cord. In more restricted localities we find also earrings and nose-rings, the boring through of the lips, and combs to which twigs and leaves are attached. Of these, the necklace has maintained itself far down into later culture, for it is the necklace that gives support to the amulet. The latter is supposed to afford protective magic against all possible dangers; the finger-ring, on the other hand, is the favourite vehicle of an active magic, changing things in accordance with the wishes of the owner—that is to say, it is a talisman. Similar in its powers to the necklace, furthermore, is the bracelet—found even in primitive culture—and also the head-fillet, which encircles the forehead and the back part of the head. The Semangs and Senoi of the Malaccan forests are invested with the head-fillet by the medicine-man, who exchanges it for another at particularly important turning-points of life, such, for example, as the entrance of the youth into manhood, or of the woman upon marriage. The head-fillets that have been removed are preserved in the house of the medicine-man. If the woman is widowed, her former fillet is placed on her head. This signifies the annulment of the magical union that existed throughout the period of marriage. Evidently this magic custom is closely connected with the strict observance of monogamy. These ceremonial changes in dress are accompanied by a similar change in name. On entering the married state a woman changes her name, as does also the youth who passes into manhood. Moreover, this change is not in the least a mere symbol, but represents a magical act. With the change in name, the individual himself becomes anotherperson. The name is so closely connected with the person that even the speaking of it may exercise a magical influence upon him.
But the magical ideas radiating from death and sickness come to be associated also with other external objects—objects not attached to the individual's person, as are clothing and adornment. Examples of this are implements, and, in particular, the weapon of primitive man, namely, the bow and arrow. The magical significance has, of course, frequently disappeared from the memory of the natives. The Sarasins saw the Veddahs execute dances about an arrow that had been set upright. On inquiring, the reason, they were told: 'This was done even by our fathers and grandfathers; why should we not also do it?' A similar answer could be given in the case of many, indeed, of most of these magical ceremonies. Those ceremonies particularly that are in any way complicated are passed down from generation to generation, being scrupulously guarded and occasionally augmented by additional magical elements. It is for this reason that, in the presence of the extraordinarily complicated dances and magical ceremonies of primitive peoples, we sometimes ask in amazement: How could such a wealth of connected ideas possibly arise and become expressed in action? To this it might briefly be replied that they did not arise at all as creations of a single moment. The meaning of the ceremonies has for the most part long been lost to the participants themselves, and was probably unknown even to their ancestors. The general reason for the various acts that are executed according to ancient usage is that they serve a magical purpose. The performers firmly believe that the acts will secure that which is desired, whether it be good fortune or protection from evil, and that the greater the care and exactitude with which the act is performed, the more certainly will the magical purpose be attained. The conditions here are really not essentially different from those that still prevail everywhere in the cult ceremonies of civilized peoples. It is the very fact that the motives are forgotten that leads to the enormouscomplexity of the phenomena. Even in the case of the above-mentioned dance about the arrow, there may have entered a considerable number of motives that were later forgotten. Of them all, nothing was eventually remembered except that, to insure the welfare of the individual and that of the group, the act prescribed by custom must be performed at stated times or under particular conditions.
Quite secondary to these numerous irradiations of magical ideas among primitive peoples are the general notions connected with natural phenomena. A cloud may, no doubt, occasionally be regarded as a demon. And, as already stated, an unusual natural phenomenon, such as an eclipse of the sun, is likewise almost everywhere regarded as a demoniacal event. But, on the whole, celestial phenomena play a passing and an exceedingly variable rôle in the beliefs of primitive man. Moreover, while the ideas and the resultant acts engendered by death and sickness are, on the whole, of a uniform character, the fragments of celestial mythology vary in an irregular and self-contradictory manner. For this reason the latter cannot be regarded as having any important significance on the earliest plane of culture. This flatly contradicts a theory, still prevalent in the scientific world, to the effect that all mythological thinking is due to the influence of celestial phenomena, whether it be the moon in its changing phases, or the sun, the thunderstorm, or the clouds. This theory is certainly not valid as regards primitive man. It can be maintained only if we distinguish—as has, indeed, sometimes been done—between two completely disparate realms, a 'higher' mythology, exemplified by the above, and a 'lower' mythology. We shall return to this point later. We are here concerned with the standpoint of nature-mythology only in so far as it has exercised a decisive influence on the interpretation of the earliest manifestations of the 'lower' mythology. With respect to the ultimate psychological motives of mythology as a whole, including that of primitive man, the idea is even to-day widely current that mythological thought was from the very beginning anaïve attempt at an interpretation of the phenomena which man encounters in nature or in his own life. That is to say, all mythology is regarded as a sort of primitive science, or, at any rate, as a precursor of philosophy. This innate need for explanation is then usually associated with an allegeda prioriprinciple of causality inherent in the mind. The mythological view of nature, therefore, is supposed to be nothing but an application—imperfect as yet, to be sure—of the causal law to the nexus of phenomena. But if we call to mind the condition of natural man as revealed in his actions, no trace can be found of any need for explanation such as requires the initial employment of the concept of causality. Indeed, as regards the phenomena of daily life and those that surround him on all hands and constantly recur in a uniform manner, primitive man experiences no need at all for explanation. For him everything is as it is just because it has always been so. Just as he dances about an arrow because his father and his grandfather practised this custom in the past, so also does he hold that the sun rises to-day because it rose yesterday. The regularity with which a phenomenon recurs is for him sufficient testimony and explanation of its existence. Only that which arouses his emotion and calls forth particularly fear and terror comes to be an object of magical and demoniacal belief. The primitive level of mythological thought differs from the more developed stage in also another respect. In the former case, the phenomena that are most apt to arouse ideas of magic and of demons are those that concern man himself and that arouse fear and terror. But here again death and sickness are of greatest importance. True, a thunderstorm may occasionally find a place in the nexus of magical ideas, or an eclipse of the sun, or some other natural phenomenon—and this occurs the more readily according as the phenomenon is the more unusual and striking. The regularly recurring features of the primitive myth, however, have their source in the immediate environment and in the facts of personal experience, in fear and terror. Thus, it is not intelligence nor reflection as to the origin and interconnectionof phenomena that gives rise to mythological thinking, but emotion; ideas are only the material which the latter elaborates. The idea of a corporeal soul, present in the corpse yet also capable of abandoning it and of becoming a dangerous demon, is a creation of the emotion of fear. The demons who possess the sick man and cause his death, or who depart from him in convalescence, are products of emotion. They are supersensible, as is the soul, because they are born purely of emotion. Nevertheless, they always tend to assume a sensible nature, being imaged either as men, or as external things, such as animals, plants, weapons, and implements. Only in the course of later development are the demons themselves equipped with relatively permanent qualities that differ from the characteristics of the vehicles in which they are regarded as embodied.
Thus, then, we utterly confuse primitive thinking with our own scientific standpoint when we explain it by the need for the interpretation of phenomena. Causality, in our sense of the word, does not exist for primitive man. If we would speak of causality at all on his level of experience, we may say only that he is governed by the causality of magic. This, however, receives its stamp, not from the laws that regulate the connection of ideas, but from the forces of emotion. The mythological causality of emotional magic is no less spasmodic and irregular than the logical causality arising out of the orderly sequence of perceptions and ideas is constant. That the former preceded the latter is, nevertheless, of great importance. For the causality of natural law, as we know it, would hardly have been possible had not magical causality prepared the way for it. Yet the later arose from the earlier just at that moment in which the attention of men ceased to be held by the unusual, the startling, and the fearful, and occupied itself with the orderly, the regular, and commonplace. For this reason the very greatest advance in the investigation of natural laws was made by Galileo, when he took as the object of his research that which wasthe most commonplace, the falling of a body to the earth. Primitive man did not reflect about this phenomenon nor, until a long time afterwards, did civilized man. That a body should fall to the earth when thrown upwards 'is self-evident' because it is thus that bodies have always acted. An echo of this primitive view remains even in the older physics, which, following Aristotle, tells us that a body falls because the centre of the earth is its natural point of rest—that is, to put it otherwise, it must behave as it does because it has always done so.
Though mythological thinking, particularly on the level of belief in demons and magic, has but slight connection with later science, it stands in close relation to the beginnings ofart. This relation appears, among other things, in the fact that the simplest forms of the one are connected with the simplest forms of the other. This connection is twofold. Ideas of magic are, in a certain sense, projected into the products of art; art, on the other hand, being the means whereby mythological thinking finds expression, reacts upon magical ideas and brings about an enhancement of their motives. This is particularly apparent, in the beginnings of art, in the fact that, as viewed by civilized man, primitive peoples have brought butoneart to a high degree of perfection, theart of dancing. For no other form of artistic expression is early man better endowed. His body is incomparably more supple than that of civilized races. The life of the forest, the climbing of trees, and the capturing of game qualify him for performances that would prove difficult to a modern art-dancer. All who have witnessed the dancing of men of nature have marvelled at their great skill and dexterity, and especially at their wonderful ability in respect to postures, movements, and mimetic expression. Originally, the dance was a means for the attainment of magical ends, as we may conjecture from the fact that even at a very early stage it developedinto the cult dance. Nevertheless, from the very beginning it obviously also gave rise to pleasure, and this caused it to be re-enacted in playful form. Thus, even the earliest art ministered not only to external needs but also to the subjective life of pleasure. The direct source of the latter is one's own movements and their accompanying sensations. The dance of the group enhances both the emotion and the ability of the individual. This appears clearly in the dances executed by the inland tribes of Malacca. These peoples do not seem to have any round dances. The individual dancer remains at a fixed spot, though he is able, without leaving his place, to execute marvellous contortions and movements of the limbs. These movements, moreover, combine with those of his companions to form an harmonious whole. They are controlled, however, by still another factor, the attempt to imitate animals. It is true that, on the primitive level proper, the animal does not play so dominant a rôle as in later times. Nevertheless, the imitation of animals in the dance already foreshadows the totemic period. Some individuals are able, while remaining at a fixed spot, to imitate with striking life-likeness the movements of even small animals, and this is regarded as art of the highest order. Yet the animal-mask, which is later commonly used in cult and magic, is here as yet entirely lacking. These very mimic and pantomimic dances, however, unquestionably bear the traces of magic. When the Veddah imitates game-animals while executing his dance about the arrow, the arrow is without doubt regarded as a means of magic, and we may conjecture that the game-animals that are struck by an arrow are supposed actually to succumb as a result of this mimetic performance.
Among primitive peoples, the dance is not, as a rule, accompanied by music. At most, means of producing noise are introduced, their purpose being to indicate the rhythm. The simplest of these noise-instruments consists of two wooden sticks that are beaten together. The drum is also common at a very early time; yet it was probably introduced from without. The real musical accompanimentof the dance is furnished by the human voice in thedance-song. It would, of course, be wrong to suppose that because the dance originally served purposes of magic, the dance-song was a sort of primitive cult-song. Of such songs as the latter no traces occur until later. The contents of the early songs are derived from the most commonplace experiences of life. The songs really consist of detached fragments of purely descriptive or narrative prose, and have no inner connection with the motives of the dance. That which characterizes them as songs is the refrain. One might say without qualification that this poetic form of speech begins with the refrain. The song has grown up out of selected natural sounds. Anything that has been done or observed may serve as content of the song. After such material has once been employed, it is continually repeated. Thus it becomes a folk-song that is sung particularly during the dance. The melody is of a very monotonous character; could it be translated into our notes, we would find that in the songs of the Veddahs or of the inland tribes of Malacca, the melody moves at most within the range of a sixth. Moreover, there is an absence of harmonic intervals, so that, not having been phonographically recorded, the songs cannot be reproduced in our notes except with great uncertainty. Of their content, the following illustrations may give us some idea. One, of the songs of the Veddahs runs as follows:—
The doves of Taravelzita say kuturung.Where the talagoya is roasted and eaten, there blew a wind,Where the memmina is roasted and eaten, there blew a wind,Where the deer is roasted and eaten, there blew a wind.
On a somewhat higher level stands the following song of the Semangs. It refers to the ring-tailed lemur (macaco), a monkey species very common in the forests of Malacca; by the Semangs it is called 'kra':—
He runs along the branches, the kra,He carries the fruit with him, the kra,He runs to and fro, the kra;Over the living bamboo, the kra,Over the dead bamboo, the kra;He runs along the branches, the kra,He leaps about and screams, the kra,He permits glimpses of himself, the kra,He shows his grinning teeth, the kra.
As is clear, we have here simply observations, descriptions of that which the Semang has seen when watching the lemur in the forest. This description, of course, serves only as the material for the music of speech; that which is really musical is the refrain, which in this case consists simply of the wordkra. This music of speech exalts and supplements the dance; when all parts of the body are in motion the articulatory organs also tend to participate. It is only the modern art-dance which has substituted an instrumental accompaniment for the voice and has thus been able to suppress the natural expression of emotions. But, even in our culture, the emotions receive active, vocal expression in the folk-dances of our villages.
Musical instruments, in the strict sense of the word, are almost unknown to primitive man. Where somewhat complex forms occur, they appear to have been imported. Such, for example, is the bamboo nose-flute, occasionally found among the inland tribes of the Malay Peninsula. The nose-flute is similar to our flutes, except that it is blown from above instead of from the side, and is not played by means of the mouth, but is placed against one of the nostrils, so that the side of the nose serves as the tone-producing membrane. It has from three to five holes that may be covered with the fingers. This instrument is a genuine product of Melanesia, and was doubtless acquired from this region by the Malayan tribes. Of earlier origin, no doubt, arestringed instruments. These are to be found even among primitive peoples. The forms that occur in Malacca have, in this case also, obviously come from Oceania. But, on the other hand, an instrument has been found among the Bushmen and the neighbouring peoples which may be regarded as the most primitive of its kind and which throws important light on the origin of musical instruments of this sort. A bow, essentially similar to thatwhich he employs in the chase, affords the Bushman a simple stringed instrument. The string of the bow now becomes the string of a musical instrument. Its tones, however, cannot be heard distinctly by any one except the player himself. He takes one end of the bow between his teeth and sets the string into vibration with his finger. The resonance of the bones of his head then causes a tone, whose pitch he may vary by holding the string at the middle or at some other point, and thus setting only a part of the string into vibration. Of this tone, however, practically no sound reaches the external world. On the other hand, the tone produces a very strong effect on the player himself, being powerfully transmitted through the teeth to the firm parts of the skull and reaching the auditory nerves through a direct bone-conduction. Thus, then, it is a remarkable fact that music, the most subjective of the arts, begins with the very stringed instruments which are the most effective in arousing subjective moods, and with a form in which the pleasure secured by the player from his playing remains purely subjective. But, from this point on, the further development to tone-effects that are objective and are richer in gradations is reached by simple transitions effected by association. Theonestring, taken over from the bow used in the chase, is no longer sufficient. Hence the bridge appears, which consists of a piece of wood whose upper side is fastened at the middle of the bow and whose lower side is toothed for the reception of several strings. The strings also are perfected, by being made of threads detached from the bamboo of which the bow is constructed. Then follows a second important advance. Instead of taking the end of the bow in his mouth and using his own head as a resonator, the player makes use of a hollow gourd and thus renders the tone objectively audible. The best and most direct point of connection between the gourd and the bow proves to be the end of the stick that carries the bridge. It is now no longer the head of the player that furnishes the resonance, but the substituted calabash. In its external appearance the calabash resemblesthe head—indeed, upon other occasions also, it is sometimes regarded as a likeness of the head, and eyes, mouth, and nose are cut into its rind. Thus, the association of the gourd with the head may possibly have exerted an influence upon this step in the development of the musical instrument. Perhaps the inventor himself did not realize until after the artificial head came into use that he had made a great advance in the perfection of his instrument. His music was now audible to others as well as to himself.
Another instrument also, thebull-roarer, dates back to the beginnings of music, though its development, of course, differed from that of the zither. The bull-roarer, indeed, is an instrument of tone and noise that is to be found only among relatively primitive peoples. True, it does not reach its highest development among those peoples who, from a sociological point of view, occupy the lowest plane of culture; it becomes an instrument of magic, as we shall see, only within the totemic culture of Australia. Nevertheless, there has been discovered, again among the Bushmen, a form of bull-roarer of an especially primitive character. Doubtless that which led primitive man to the invention of the zither was the tone which he heard in his everyday experience in war or in the hunt when he applied an arrow to his bow. No doubt, also, it was the whirring noise of the arrow, or that, perhaps, of the flying bird which the arrow imitates, that led him to reproduce this noise in a similar manner. Indeed, in South Africa, the bull-roarer, though, of course, used only as a plaything, occurs in a form that at once reminds one of a flying bird or arrow. The feather of a bird is fastened at right angles to a stick of wood. When the stick is vigorously swung about in a circle, a whistling noise is produced, accompanied, particularly when swung with great rapidity, by a high tone. This tone, however, is not capable of further perfection, so that no other musical instrument developed from the bull-roarer. The contrary, rather, is true. In other forms of the bull-roarer in which the feathers were displaced by a flat wooden board—whose only resemblanceto a bird was a slight similarity in form—the noise was more intense but the tone less clear. For this reason the bull-roarer soon lost its place in the ranks of musical instruments and became purely an instrument of magic, in which function also it was used only temporarily. In many parts of the world, moreover, there is a similar primitive implement, therattle, whose status is the same as that of the bull-roarer.
It was in connection with ideas of magic and of demons thatformative artor, as it would perhaps be truer to say, the elements from which this art proceeded, was developed. Such art was not unknown even to the primitive peoples of the pretotemic age. If anywhere, it is doubtless among the primitive tribes of Malacca and Ceylon that we can, in some measure and with some certainty, trace formative art to its earliest beginnings and to the causes back of these. The Bushman must here be excluded from consideration, since, as we shall see, he was clearly affected by external influences. The Veddahs, as well as the Senoi and Semangs, are familiar with only the simplest forms of linear decoration. Yet this makes it evident that simple lines, such as can be produced by cutting or by scratching, form the starting-point of almost all later development. Here again it is the bamboo that is utilized, its wood being a material suitable for these simple artistic attempts. Its connection with art is due also to the fact that it is used in the manufacture of implements and weapons, such as the bow and the digging-stick, and, later, the blow-pipe and the flute. As important objects of adornment, we find the combs of the women, which, among the Malaccan tribes, are extremely rich in linear decorations. At first, the dominant motive is the triangle. Just as the triangle is the simplest rectilinear figure of geometry, so also is it the simplest closed ornamental pattern. The weapons not infrequently have a series of triangles included within two parallel straight lines. This illustrates in its simplest form the universal characteristic of primitive ornaments, namely, uniform repetition. The pattern later becomes morecomplicated; the triangles are crossed by lines between which there are spaces that are also triangular in form. Such figures are then further combined into double triangles having a common base, etc. These are followed by other forms, in which simple arcs take the place of straight lines. For example, an arc is substituted for the base of each triangle, again with absolute uniformity. Finally, the arc, in the form of the segment of a circle, is utilized independently, either in simple repetition or in alternation. These simple designs then become increasingly complex by the combination either of the forms as a whole or of some of their parts. This multiplication of motives reaches its most artistic development in the women's combs found among the tribes of the Malay Peninsula. The comb, in some form or other, is a very common article of adornment among peoples of nature. But it is just in the form in which it occurs among the Senoi and Semangs that the comb gives evidence of having originally been, at most, only incidentally an article of adornment and of having only gradually come to be exclusively a decoration. In shape, it is like the women's combs of to-day. The teeth are pointed downwards, and serve the purpose of fastening the hair. The upper part forms a broad crest. But among these peoples the crest is the main part of the comb, the function of the teeth being merely to hold it to the head. For the crest is decorated in rich profusion with the above-mentioned ornamentations, and, if we ask the Semangs and the Senoi what these mean, we are told that they guard against diseases. In the Malay Peninsula, the men do not wear combs, evidently for the practical reason that, because of their life in the forest and their journeys through the underbrush, they cut their hair short. In other regions which have also evolved the comb, as in Polynesia, such conditions do not prevail; the comb, therefore, is worn by both men and women. In this, its earliest, use, however, the comb as such is clearly less an object of adornment than a means of magic. It serves particularly as a sort of amulet, to protect against sickness-demons.For this reason the ornamental lines in their various combinations are regarded as referring to particular diseases. The marks which a Semang woman carries about with her on her comb are really magical signs indicating the diseases from which she wishes to be spared. The head would appear to be a particularly appropriate place for wearing these magical signs. It is to magical ideas, therefore, that we must probably look for the origin of this very common means of adornment. In Malacca, indeed, the combs are carefully preserved; the drawings made upon them render them, as it were, sacred objects. But it is impossible to learn directly from the statements of the natives just how primitive articles of adornment came to acquire the significance of ornaments. Our only clue is the fact that the decorations on the bows and blow-pipes are supposed to be magical aids to a successful hunt; for, among the representations, there are occasionally those of animals. This fact we may bring into connection with observations made by Karl von den Steinen among the Bakairi of Central Brazil. This investigator here found remarkable ornamentations on wood. All of these were of a simple geometrical design, just as in the case of other primitive peoples, yet they were interpreted by the natives not as means of magic but as representations of objects. A consecutive series of triangles whose angles were somewhat rounded off, was interpreted as a snake, and a series of squares whose angles touched, as a swarm of bees. But the representations included also other things besides animals. For example, a vertical series of triangles in which the apexes pointed downwards and touched the bases of the next lower triangles, was regarded as a number of women's aprons—the upper part was the girdle, and, attached to this, the apron. In a word, primitive man is inclined to read concrete objects of this kind into his simple ornamental lines. That we also can still voluntarily put ourselves into such an attitude, is testified to by Karl von den Steinen himself, when he tells us that he succeeded without particular effort in discovering similar objects in certain simpleornamentations. We here have a case of the psychical process of assimilation. This is characteristic of all consciousness, but, as might be supposed, from the fact that primitive peoples live continuously in the open, it is more strongly in evidence among them than among civilized races.
But the question now arises, Which came first? Did the Bakairi really wish to represent snakes, bees, women's aprons, etc., and reduce these to geometrical schematizations? Or did he, without such intention, first make simple linear decorations, and later read into them, through imaginative association, the memory images of objects? The latter is doubtless the case. For it is much easier first to draw simple lines and then to read complicated objects into them than it is, conversely, to reduce these pictures at the outset to abstract geometrical schemata. Indeed, when the Bakairi wishes to draw real objects, he proceeds just as our children do: he copies them as well as he can. For example, the Bakairi occasionally draws fishes in the sand for the purpose of marking out a path, or he attempts to reproduce men and animals in a way strikingly similar to our children's drawings. Evidently, therefore, it was not inability to draw the objects themselves that gave rise to these primitive geometrical decorations. The decorations came first, and the memory images of the objects of daily perception were then read into them. The answer, however, to the question as to why primitive man produces decorations at all, is easily found by calling to mind the motives discernible in such uniform and simple series of figures as the triangles and arcs which the Senoi and the Semangs cut into bamboo. Because of the character of his locomotor organs, primitive man repeats the movements of the dance at regular intervals, and this rhythm gives him pleasure. Similarly, he derives pleasure even from the regularly repeated movements involved in making the straight lines of his drawings, and this pleasure is enhanced when he sees the symmetrical figures that arise under his hand as a result of his movements. The earliest æsthetic stimuli are symmetry and rhythm. We learn this even from the mostprimitive of all arts, the dance. Just as one's own movements in the dance are an æsthetic expression of symmetry and rhythm, so also are these same characteristics embodied in the earliest productions of pictorial art—in the beginning indeed, they alone are to be found. The primitive song comes to be a song only as a result of the regular repetition of a refrain that in itself is unimportant. As soon as primitive man produces lines on wood, his pleasure in rhythmic repetition at once leads him to make these symmetrical. It is for this reason that we never find decorations that consist merely of a single figure—a single triangle, for instance—but always find a considerable number of figures together, either above one another, or side by side, or both combined, though the last arrangement occurs only at a somewhat more advanced stage. If, now, these decorations are more and more multiplied by reason of the increasing pleasure in their production, we naturally have figures that actually resemble certain objects. This resemblance is strengthened particularly by the repetition of the figures. A single square with its angles placed vertically and horizontally would scarcely be interpreted as a bee, even by a Bakairi; but in a series of such squares we ourselves could doubtless imagine a swarm of bees. Thus there arise representations resembling animals, plants, and flowers. Because of their symmetrical form, the latter particularly are apt to become associated with geometrical designs. Yet on the whole the animal possesses a greater attraction. The animal that forms the object of the hunt is carved upon the bow or the blow-pipe. This is a means of magic that brings the animal within range of the weapon. It is magic, likewise, that affords the explanation of the statement of the Senoi and the Semangs that the drawings on the combs of their women are a means of protection against diseases. These two sorts of purposes illustrate the two forms of magic that are still exemplified on higher cultural levels by the amulet, on the one hand, and the talisman, on the other—protection from danger, and assistance in one's personal undertakings. Nowit is easy to understand how especially the complicated decorations on the combs of the Malaccan tribes may, through the familiar processes of psychical assimilation, come to be regarded as living beings, in the form either of animals or of plants, and how these forms in turn may come to be interpreted as sickness-demons. For, these demons are beings that have never been seen; hence the terrified imagination may all the more readily give them the most fantastic shapes. Indeed, we still find examples of this in the more elaborate pictures of the art of some semi-cultural peoples. Thus also are explained many of the masks used among the most diverse peoples. It is almost always grotesque animal or human masks that are employed to represent fear-demons. The freer the sway of the imagination, the easier it is to see the figure of a demon in any decoration whatsoever. The multiplicity of the ornamental drawings, moreover, meets the need for distinguishing a great number of such demons, so that a woman of the Senoi or the Semangs carries about on her head the demoniacal representation of all known diseases. For, according to an ancient law of magic, the demon himself has a twofold rôle—he both causes the sickness and protects against it. Just as a picture is identified with its object, so also is the drawing that represents or portrays the sickness-demon regarded as the demon itself. Whoever carries it about is secure against its attack. Both magic and counter-magic spring from a common source. The medicine-man who exercises counter-magic must also be familiar with magic. The two are but divergent forms of the same magical potency that has its birth in the emotions of fear and terror.
In summary of what we have thus far learned with regard to the art of drawing among primitive men, it may be said that this art is throughout one ofmagicandadornment. These are thetwomotives from which it springs, and which, apparently, co-operate from the outset. The mere drawing of lines in regular and symmetrical repetition is due to that regularity of movement which also finds expression in the dance and, even prior to this,in ordinary walking and running. But the artist himself then attributes a hidden meaning to that which he has created. Astonishment at his creation fuses with his pleasure in it, and his wonder at the picture that he has produced makes of it, when animated and retransformed by the imagination, a magical object. The pictures carried about on the person, or wrought on an object of daily use, assist in guarding against diseases and other injuries, or they assure the success of the weapon and the implement.
In view of these characteristics of a purely magical and decorative art, it may perhaps at first glance cause surprise that there should be a people which, although primitive in other essential respects, has far transcended this stage in artistic attainment, and has, apparently, followed an entirely different direction in its pathway to art. Such are the Bushmen. The primitive tribes mentioned above show no traces of an art of drawing; beyond suggestions of a single object, it is absolutely impossible to find representations of objects and their groupings such as are common in the pictures of the Bushmen, which portray particularly animals and, to a less extent, men. This is all the more significant in view of the fact that, while the Bushmen also decorate their weapons and utensils with magical and ornamental designs, these are of far less importance than in the case of the primitive tribes referred to above. The painting of the Bushmen, however, is obviously neither magical nor decorative in character. Originally these pictures seem to have been drawn in caves; at any rate, it is here that many of them have been found. We have already indicated the importance of this primitive dwelling for the beginnings of a memorial art. When external impressions are absent, as in the cave, the imagination is all the more impelled to preserve memories in self-created pictures. The simpler of these resemble, in their characteristics, the drawings and paintings of present-day children. But we can plainly distinguish the more primitive work from that which is more advanced; the latter frequently reproduces its objects with accuracy, particularly animals,such, for example, as the elk and also the giraffe, which is a favourite object, probably because of its long neck. Occasionally, indeed, a quadruped is still represented in profile with only two legs, but most of the pictures are certainly far beyond this childish mode of drawing. In general, mineral pigments were used from the very outset, particularly red iron ore, blue vitriol, etc. We also find mixtures of pigments, so that almost all colours occur. Now it might, of course, be supposed that such a picture of an animal has the same significance as attaches to the drawing occasionally executed on the bow of a primitive man for the purpose of magically insuring the weapon of its mark. But the very places where these paintings occur, far removed as they are from chase and battle, militate against such a supposition. An even greater objection is the fact that the more perfect pictures represent scenes from life. One of them, for example, portrays the meeting of Bushmen with white men, as is evident partly from the colour and partly from the difference in the size of the figures. Another well-known picture represents the way in which the Bushmen steal cattle from a Bantu tribe. The Bantus are represented by large figures, the Bushmen by small ones; in a lively scene, the latter drive the animals away, while the far-striding Bantus remain far in the rear. The picture reveals the joy of the primitive artist over the successful escapade. This is not magical art, but plainly exemplifies the first products of a memorial art. The one who painted these pictures desired first of all to bring before his memory that which he had experienced, and he doubtless also wished to preserve these scenes to the memory of his kinsmen. This is memorial art in a twofold sense. Memory renews the experiences of the past, and it is for memory that the past is to be retained. But this art also must still be classed as primitive, for it has not as yet attained to the level ofimitativeart. It is not an art that reproduces an object by a direct comparison of picture with copy. This is the sense in which the present-day portrait or landscape painter practises imitation. Evenwhere the primitive era transcended a merely magical or decorative art, it did not advance beyond memorial art. The Bushman did not have the objects themselves before him, but created his pictures in accordance with his memory of them. Moreover, suited as the cave is to the development of a memorial art, it of itself makes imitative art impossible. But how can we account for the fact that the primitive tribe of Bushmen attained to a level of art whose exclusion of magical motives ranks it as relatively advanced, and which must be estimated all the more highly because it is not shared by the neighbouring African tribes? The Hottentots, for example, no less than the Bechuanas and the Bantus, are inferior in artistic accomplishments to the Bushmen, although the culture of the latter is in other respects far below the level of that of the former. May we say of this memorial art what seems probable as regards the magical and decorative art of the inland tribes of Malacca and of Ceylon, namely, that it arose independently from the same original motives as the dance? The answer to this question depends primarily upon the antiquity of these art productions. Do they date back to an immemorial past, as we may suppose to be the case with the decorations of the Veddahs and the Malaccan tribes? There are two considerations, principally, that prove the contrary, namely, that they are relatively recent creations. In the first place, the paintings present the pictures of animals, in particular of the horse and the sheep, with which the Bushman has been acquainted at farthest since the latter part of the eighteenth century. True, these animals were brought into Cape Colony as early as the seventeenth century; it was clearly not until later, however, that the Bushmen became familiar with them. A second consideration is the remarkable circumstance that these primitive painters employ essentially the same tools as the Europeans. This art has now, indeed, almost disappeared, the race having been crowded back and depleted. But the remains show that the painters possessed a stone plate on which they mixed their paints and also a stone pounder with which the mixing was done—that is, a palette and a pestle. Indeed,for applying the colours they occasionally utilized a paint-brush made of fine splinters of bone, though some, no doubt, were content to do this with the fingers.
These are all signs which certainly suggest a not very distant past. Moreover, art products cannot resemble each other in so many respects without having some connection in origin. Added to this is the fact that the very character of such pictures as are still in existence scarcely allows us to regard them as more than sixty to seventy years old. From all of this we must conclude that this art is not primitive at all, but was imported, resembling in this many other things that gain entrance into the life of a primitive tribe. If the essential elements of the Biblical account of the Creation reached the Andamanese, who in other respects are primitive, why may we not also suppose that a wandering European artist at one time came to the Bushmen, even before any other elements of European culture had become accessible to them? Nevertheless, the fact that this painting exists indicates the presence of a remarkable talent. This brings us to our last problem in the psychology of primitive man, to the question concerning his mental equipment in general.
For a general estimate of the mental characteristics of a race or a tribe, the observation of a single individual or of several individuals is not adequate. Judgment can be based only on the totality of the various mental phases of culture—language, custom, myth, and art. But, if we would also obtain a conception of the mental capacities of a people or a tribe, we must take into further consideration the mental endowment of theindividual. For, in the case of mental capacity, we must consider not merely that which has actually been achieved but also everything within the possibility of attainment. Here, again, the standpoint differs according as we are concerned (to limit ourselvesto the two most important and typical aspects) with anintellectualor amoralestimate. These two aspects, the intellectual, taken in its widest sense, and the moral, are not only of supreme importance, but, as experience shows, they in no wise run parallel courses. For an understanding of mental development in general, therefore, and of the relation of these its aspects, the early conditions of human culture are particularly significant.
If, now, we consider the general cultural conditions of primitive man, and recall the very meagre character of his external cultural possessions as well as his lack of any impulse to perfect these, we may readily be led to suppose that his intellectual capacities also have remained on a very low plane of development. How, some have asked, could the Bushman have dispensed for decades with firearms—just as accessible to him as to the surrounding tribes—unless he possessed a low degree of intelligence? Even more true is this of the Negritos of the Philippines or the Veddahs of Ceylon. How, unless their mental capacities were essentially more limited than those of their neighbours, could they have lived in the midst of highly cultivated tribes and have remained for decades on an unchanged mental level? But we need to bear in mind two considerations that are here decisive. The first of these is thelimited nature of the wantsof primitive man, a condition fostered, no doubt, by his relatively small intercourse with neighbouring peoples. Added to this is the fact that up to very recent times—for here also many changes have arisen—the primitive man of the tropics has found plenty of game and plant food in his forests, as well as an abundance of material for the clothing and adornment to which he is accustomed. Hence he lacks the incentive to strive for anything beyond these simple means of satisfying his wants. It is agreed, particularly by the investigators who have studied those tribes of Malacca and Ceylon that have remained primitive, that the most outstanding characteristic of primitive man is contentment. He seeks for nothing further, since he either finds all that he desiresin his environment, or, by methods handed down from the ancient past, knows how he may produce it out of the material available to him. For this reason the Semangs and Senoi, no less than the Veddahs, despise as renegades those mixed tribes that have arisen through union, in the one case, with the Malays, and, in the other, with the Singhalese and Tamils. All the more firmly, therefore, do they hold to that which was transmitted to them by their fathers. Together with this limited character of their wants, we find a fixity of conditions, due to their long isolation. The longer a set of customs and habits has prevailed among a people, the more difficult it is to overturn. Prior to any change we must, in such cases, first have mighty upheavals, battles, and migrations. To what extent all deeper-going changes of culture are due to racial fusions, migrations, and battles we shall presently see. The tribes that have remained relatively primitive to this day have led a peaceful existence since immemorial times. Of course, the individual occasionally slays the man who disturbs his marriage relations or trespasses upon his hunting-grounds. Otherwise, however, so long as he is not obliged to protect himself against peoples that crowd in upon him, primitive man is familiar with the weapon only as an implement of the chase. The old picture of a war of all with all, as Thomas Hobbes once sketched the natural state of man, is the very reverse of what obtained. The natural condition is one of peace, unless this is disturbed by external circumstances, one of the most important of which is contact with a higher culture. The man of nature, however, suffers less from an advanced culture than he does from the barbarism of semi-culture. But whenever a struggle arises for the possession of the soil and of the means of subsistence which it furnishes, semi-culture may come to include more peoples than are usually counted as belonging to it. The war of extermination against the red race was carried on by the pious New England Puritans with somewhat different, though with scarcely better, weapons than the Hottentots and Herero to-day turnagainst the Bushmen, or the Monbuttus against the Negritos of Central Africa.