Like other primitive races the peoples of Chaldea scarcely
discriminated at all between religion and magic. One difference
between the priest and the sorcerer was that the one employed magic
for religious purposes whilst the other used it for his own ends. The
literature of Chaldea--especially its religious literature--teems
with references to magic, and in its spells and incantations we see
the prototypes of those employed by the magicians of mediæval Europe.
Indeed so closely do some of the Assyrian incantations and magical
practices resemble those of the European sorcerers of the Middle Ages
and of primitive peoples of the present day that it is difficult to
convince oneself that they are of independent origin.
In Chaldea as in ancient Egypt the crude and vague magical practices
of primeval times received form and developed into accepted ritual,
just as early religious ideas evolved into dogmas under the stress
of theological controversy and opinion. As there were men who would
dispute upon religious questions, so were there persons who would
discuss matters magical. This is not to say that the terms 'religion'
and 'magic' possessed any well-defined boundaries for them. Nor is
it at all clear that they do for us in this twentieth century. They
overlap; and it has long been the belief of the writer that their
relations are but represented by two circles which intersect one
another and the areas of which partially coincide.
The writer has outlined his opinions regarding the origin of magic
in an earlier volume of this series,[1] and has little to add to
what he then wrote, except that he desires to lay stress upon the
identification of early religion and magic. It is only when they begin
to evolve, to branch out, that the two systems present differences. If
there is any one circumstance which accentuates the difference more
than another it is that the ethical element does not enter into magic
in the same manner as it does into religion.
That Chaldean magic was the precursor of European mediæval magic as
apart from popular sorcery and witchcraft is instanced not only by the
similarity between the systems but by the introduction into mediæval
magic of the names of Babylonian and Assyrian gods and magicians. Again
and again is Babylon appealed to even more frequently than Egypt, and
we meet constantly with the names of Beelzebub, Ishtar (as Astarte),
Baal, and Moloch, whilst the names of demons, obviously of Babylonian
origin, are encountered in almost every work on the subject. Frequent
allusions are also made to the 'wise men' and necromancers of Babylon,
and to the 'star-gazers' of Chaldea. The conclusion is irresistible
that ceremonial magic, as practised in the Middle Ages, owed much to
that of Babylon.
Our information regarding Chaldean magic is much more complete than
that which we possess concerning the magic of ancient Egypt. Hundreds
of spells, incantations, and omen-inscriptions have been recovered,
and these not only enlighten us regarding the class of priests who
practised magic, but they tell us of the several varieties of demons,
ghosts, and evil spirits; they minutely describe the Babylonian witch
and wizard, and they picture for us many magical ceremonies, besides
informing us of the names of scores of plants and flowers possessing
magical properties, of magical substances, jewels, amulets, and the
like. Also they speak of sortilege or the divination of the future, of
the drawing of magical circles, of the exorcism of evil spirits, and
the casting out of demons.
The Roots of Science
In these Babylonian magical records we have by far the most complete
picture of the magic of the ancient world. It is a wondrous story
that is told by those bricks and cylinders of stamped clay--the story
of civilized man's first gropings for light. For in these venerable
writings we must recognize the first attempts at scientific elucidation
of the forces by which man is surrounded. Science, like religion, has
its roots deep in magic. The primitive man believes implicitly in the
efficacy of magical ritual. What it brings about once it can bring
about again if the proper conditions be present and recognized. Thus
it possesses for the barbarian as much of the element of certainty as
the scientific process does for the chemist or the electrician. Given
certain causes certain effects _must_ follow. Surely, then, in the
barbarous mind, magic is pseudo-scientific--of the nature of science.
There appears a deeper gloom, a more ominous spirit of the ancient and
the obscure in the magic of old Mesopotamia than in that of any other
land. Its mighty sanctuaries, its sky-aspiring towers, seem founded
upon this belief in the efficacy of the spoken spell, the reiterated
invocation. Thousands of spirits various and grotesque, the parents
of the ghosts and goblins of a later day, haunt the purlieus of the
temple, battening upon the remains of sacrifice (the leavings of the
gorged gods), flit through the night-bound streets, and disturb the
rest of the dwellers in houses. Demons with claw and talon, vampires,
ghouls--all are there. Spirits blest and unblest, jinn, witch-hags,
lemures, sorrowing unburied ghosts. No type of supernatural being
appears to have been unknown to the imaginative Semites of old
Chaldea. These must all be 'laid,' exorcised, or placated, and it is
not to be marvelled at that in such circumstances the trade of the
necromancer flourished exceedingly. The witch or wizard, however, the
unprofessional and detached practitioner with no priestly status, must
beware. He or she was regarded with suspicion, and if one fell sick of
a strange wasting or a disease to which he could not attach a name,
the nearest sorcerer, male or female, real or imaginary, was in all
probability brought to book.
Priestly Wizards
There were at least two classes of priests who dealt in the occult--the
_barû_, or seers, and the _asipû_, or wizards. The caste of the barû
was a very ancient one, dating at least from the time of Khammurabi.
The barû performed divination by consulting the livers of animals and
also by observation of the flight of birds. We find many of the kings
of Babylonia consulting this class of soothsayer. Sennacherib, for
example, sought from the barû the cause of his father's violent death.
The asipû, on the other hand, was the remover of taboo and bans of
all sorts; he chanted the rites described in the magical texts, and
performed the ceremony of atonement. It is
He that stilleth all to rest, that pacifieth all.
By whose incantations everything is at peace.
The gods are upon his right hand and his left, they are behind and
before him.
The wizard and the witch were known as _Kassapu_ or _Kassaptu_. These
were the sorcerers or magicians proper, and that they were considered
dangerous to the community is shown by the manner in which they are
treated by the code of Khammurabi, in which it is ordained that he who
charges a man with sorcery and can justify the charge shall obtain the
sorcerer's house, and the sorcerer shall plunge into the river. But if
the sorcerer be not drowned then he who accused him shall be put to
death and the wrongly accused man shall have his house.
A series of texts known as 'Maklu' provides us, among other things,
with a striking picture of the Babylonian witch. It tells how she
prowls the streets, searching for victims, snatching love from handsome
men, and withering beauteous women. At another time she is depicted
sitting in the shade of the wall making spells and fashioning images.
The suppliant prays that her magic may revert upon herself, that the
image of her which he has made, and doubtless rendered into the hands
of the priest, shall be burnt by the fire-god, that her words may be
forced back into her mouth. "May her mouth be fat, may her tongue be
salt," continues the prayer. The _haltappen-plant_ along with sesame is
sent against her. "O, witch, like the circlet of this seal may thy face
grow green and yellow!"
An Assyrian text says of a sorceress that her bounds are the whole
world, that she can pass over all mountains. The writer states that
near his door he has posted a servant, on the right and left of his
door has he set Lugalgirra and Allamu, that they might kill the witch.
The library of Assur-bani-pal contains many cuneiform tablets dealing
with magic, but there are also extant many magical tablets of the
later Babylonian Empire. These were known to the Babylonians by some
name or word, indicative perhaps of the special sphere of their
activities. Thus we have the Maklu ('burning'), Surpu ('consuming'),
Utukki limnûti ('evil spirits'), and Labartu ('witch-hag') series,
besides many other texts dealing with magical practices.
The Maklu series deals with spells against witches and wizards, images
of whom are to be consumed by fire to the accompaniment of suitable
spells and prayers. The Surpu series contains prayers and incantations
against taboo. That against evil spirits provides the haunted with
spells which will exorcise demons, ghosts, and the powers of the air
generally, and place devils under a ban. In other magical tablets the
diseases to which poor humanity is prone are guarded against, and
instructions are given on the manner in which they may be transferred
to the dead bodies of animals, usually swine or goats.
[Illustration: Exorcising Demons of Disease.--From _Religious Belief and
Practice in Babylonia and Assyria_, by Professor Morris Jastrow.--By
permission of Messrs G.P. Putnam's Sons.]
A Toothache Myth
The Assyrian physician had perforce to be something of a demonologist,
as possession by devils was held to be the cause of divers diseases,
and we find incantations sprinkled among prescriptions. Occasionally,
too, we come upon the fag-end of a folk-tale or dip momentarily into
myth, as in a prescription for the toothache, compounded of fermented
drink, the plant _sakilbir_, and oil--probably as efficacious in the
case of that malady as most modern ones are. The story attached to the
cure is as follows:
When Anu had created the heavens, the earth created the rivers, the
rivers the canals, and the canals the marshes, which in turn created
the worm. And the worm came weeping before Ea, saying, "What wilt thou
give me for my food, what wilt thou give me for my devouring?" "I will
give thee ripe figs," replied the god, "ripe figs and scented wood."
"Bah," replied the worm, "what are ripe figs to me, or what is scented
wood? Let me drink among the teeth and batten on the gums that I may
devour the blood of the teeth and the strength thereof." This tale
alludes to a Babylonian superstition that worms consume the teeth.
The Word of Power
As in Egypt, the word of power was held in great reverence by the
magicians of Chaldea, who believed that the name, preferably the
secret name, of a god possessed sufficient force in its mere syllables
to defeat and scatter the hordes of evil things that surrounded and
harassed mankind. The names of Ea and Merodach were, perhaps, most
frequently used to carry destruction into the ranks of the demon army.
It was also necessary to know the name of the devil or person against
whom his spells were directed. If to this could be added a piece of
hair, or the nail-parings in the case of a human being, then special
efficacy was given to the enchantment. But just as hair or nails were
part of a man so was his name, and hence the great virtue ascribed
to names in art-magic, ancient and modern. The name was, as it were,
the vehicle by means of which the magician established a link between
himself and his victim, and the Babylonians in exorcising sickness or
disease of any kind were wont to recite long catalogues of the names of
evil spirits and demons in the hope that by so doing they might chance
to light upon that especial individual who was the cause of the malady.
Even long lists of names of persons who had died premature deaths were
often recited in order to ensure that they would not return to torment
the living.
Babylonian Vampires
In all lands and epochs the grisly conception of the vampire has gained
a strong hold upon the imagination of the common people, and this was
no less the case in Babylonia and Assyria than elsewhere. There have
not been wanting those who believed that vampirism was confined to the
Slavonic race alone, and that the peoples of Russia, Bohemia, and the
Balkan Peninsula were the sole possessors of the vampire legend. Recent
research, however, has exposed the fallacy of this theory and has
shown that, far from being the property of the Slavs or even of Aryan
peoples, this horrible belief is or was the possession of practically
every race, savage or civilized, that is known to anthropology. The
seven evil spirits of Assyria are, among other things, vampires of no
uncertain type. An ancient poem which was chanted by them commences
thus:
Seven are they! Seven are they!
In the ocean deep, seven are they!
Battening in heaven, seven are they!
Bred in the depths of the ocean;
Not male nor female are they,
But are as the roaming wind-blast.
No wife have they, no son can they beget;
Knowing neither mercy nor pity,
They hearken not to prayer, to prayer.
They are as horses reared amid the hills,
The Evil Ones of Ea;
Throne-bearers to the gods are they,
They stand in the highway to befoul the path;
Evil are they, evil are they!
Seven are they, seven are they,
Twice seven are they!
Destructive storms (and) evil winds are they,
An evil blast that heraldeth the baneful storm,
An evil blast, forerunner of the baleful storm.
They are mighty children, mighty sons,
Heralds of the Pestilence.
Throne-bearers of Ereskigal,
They are the flood which rusheth through the land.
Seven gods of the broad earth,
Seven robber(?)-gods are they,
Seven gods of might,
Seven evil demons,
Seven evil demons of oppression,
Seven in heaven and seven on earth.
Spirits that minish heaven and earth,
That minish the land,
Spirits that minish the land,
Of giant strength,
Of giant strength and giant tread,
Demons (like) raging bulls, great ghosts,
Ghosts that break through all houses,
Demons that have no shame,
Seven are they!
Knowing no care, they grind the land like corn;
Knowing no mercy, they rage against mankind,
They spill their blood like rain,
Devouring their flesh (and) sucking their veins.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
They are demons full of violence, ceaselessly devouring
blood.[2]
This last line clearly indicates their character as vampires. They are
akin to the Rakshasas of India or the arch-demons of Zoroastrianism.
Such demons are also to be seen in the Polynesian _tii_, the Malayan
_hantu penyadin_, a dog-headed water-demon, and the _kephu_ of the
Karens, which under the form of a wizard's head and stomach devours
human souls. Tylor considers vampires to be "causes conceived in
spiritual form to account for specific facts of wasting disease."
Afanasief regards them as thunder-gods and spirits of the storm, who
during winter slumber in their cloud-coffins to rise again in spring
and draw moisture from the clouds. But this theory will scarcely
recommend itself to anyone with even a slight knowledge of mythological
science. The Abbé Calmet's difficulty in believing in vampires was
that he could not understand how a spirit could leave its grave and
return thence with ponderable matter in the form of blood, leaving no
traces showing that the surface of the earth above the grave had been
stirred. But this view might be solved by the occult theory of the
'precipitation of matter'!
The Bible and Magic
The earliest Biblical account of anything supposed to be connected with
magic, is to be found in the history of Rachel. When with her sister
Leah, and her husband Jacob, she had left the house of her father.
"Rachel had stolen the images that were her father's.... Then Laban
overtook Jacob ... and Laban said ... yet wherefore hast thou stolen my
gods?... and Jacob answered and said, With whomsoever thou findest thy
gods, let him not live: before our brethren discern thou what is thine
with me, and take it to thee. For Jacob knew not that Rachel had stolen
them. And Laban went into Jacob's tent, and into Leah's tent, and into
the two maid-servants' tent, but he found them not. Then went he out
of Leah's tent and entered into Rachel's tent. Now Rachel had taken
the images, and put them in the camel's furniture and sat upon them.
And Laban searched all the tent, but found them not. And she said to
her father, Let it not displease my lord that I cannot rise up before
thee.... And he searched, but found not the images." This passage has
given no little trouble to commentators; but most of them seem to
consider these teraphim or images as something of a magical nature.
The Speaking Head
The targum of Jonathan Ben Uzziel gives the following version: "And
Rachel stole the images of her father; for they had murdered a man,
who was a first-born son, and, having cut off his head, they embalmed
it with salt and spices, and they wrote divinations upon a plate of
gold, and put it under his tongue and placed it against the wall, and
it conversed with them, and Laban worshipped it. And Jacob stole the
science of Laban the Syrian, that he might not discover his departure."
The Persian translation gives us astrolabes instead of teraphim, and
implies that they were instruments used for judicial astrology, and
that Rachel stole them to prevent her father from discovering their
route. At all events the teraphim were means of divination among
believers and unbelievers; they were known among the Egyptians and
among Syrians. What makes it extremely probable that they were not
objects of religious worship is, that it does not appear from any other
passage of Scripture that Laban was an idolater; besides which Rachel,
who was certainly a worshipper of the true God, took them, it seems,
on account of their supposed supernatural powers. It must, however, be
observed that some have supposed these teraphim to have been talismans
for the cure of diseases; and others, that being really idols, Rachel
stole them to put a stop to her father's idolatry. There is a not very
dissimilar account related (Judges xviii) of Micah and his teraphim,
which seems sufficient to prove that the use of them was not considered
inconsistent with the profession of the true religion.
Gods once Demons
Many of the Babylonian gods retained traces of their primitive
demoniacal characteristics, and this applies to the great triad, Ea,
Anu, and En-lil, who probably evolved into godhead from an animistic
group of nature spirits. Each of these gods was accompanied by demon
groups. Thus the disease-demons were 'the beloved sons of Bel,' the
fates were the seven daughters of Anu, and the seven storm-demons the
children of Ea. In a magical incantation describing the primitive
monster form of Ea it is said that his head is like a serpent's, the
ears are those of a basilisk, his horns are twisted into curls, his
body is a sun-fish full of stars, his feet are armed with claws, and
the sole of his foot has no heel.
Ea was 'the great magician of the gods'; his sway over the forces
of nature was secured by the performance of magical rites, and his
services were obtained by human beings who performed requisite
ceremonies and repeated appropriate spells. Although he might be
worshipped and propitiated in his temple at Eridu, he could also be
conjured in mud huts. The latter, indeed, as in Mexico, appear to have
been the oldest holy places.
The Legend of Ura
It is told that Ura, the dread demon of disease, once made up his mind
to destroy mankind. But Ishnu, his counsellor, appeased him so that
he abandoned his intention, and he gave humanity a chance of escape.
Whoever should praise Ura and magnify his name would, he said, rule
the four quarters of the world, and should have none to oppose him.
He should not die in pestilence, and his speech should bring him into
favour with the great ones of the earth. Wherever a tablet with the
song of Ura was set up, in that house there should be immunity from the
pestilence.
As we read in the closing lines of the Gilgamesh epic, the dead were
often left unburied in Babylonia, and the ghosts of those who were
thus treated were, as in more modern times and climes, supposed to
haunt the living until given proper sepulture. They roamed the streets
and byways seeking for sustenance among the garbage in the gutters,
and looking for haunted houses in which to dwell, denied as they were
the shelter of the grave, which was regarded as the true 'home' of
the dead. They frequently terrified children into madness or death,
and bitterly mocked those in tribulation. They were, in fact, the
outcasts of mortality, spiteful and venomous because they had not been
properly treated. The modern race which most nearly approximates to
the Babylonian in its treatment of and attitude to the dead seems to
be the Burmese, who are extremely circumspect as to how they speak and
act towards the inhabitants of the spirit-world, as they believe that
disrespect or mockery will bring down upon them misfortune or disease.
An infinite number of guardian spirits is included in the Burman
demonological system. These dwell in their houses and are the tutelars
of village communities, and even of clans. These are duly propitiated,
at which ceremonies rice, beer, and tea-salad are offered to them.
Women are employed as exorcists for driving out the evil spirits.
Purification
Purification by water entered largely into Babylonian magic. The
ceremony known as the 'Incantation of Eridu,' so frequently alluded to
in Babylonian magical texts, was probably some form of purification
by water, relating as it does to the home of Ea, the sea-god. Another
ceremony prescribes the mingling of water from a pool 'that no hand
hath touched,' with tamarisk, _mastakal_, ginger, alkali, and mixed
wine. Therein must be placed a shining ring, and the mixture is then to
be poured upon the patient. A root of saffron is then to be taken and
pounded with pure salt and alkali and fat of the _matku_-bird brought
from the mountains, and with this strange mixture the body of the
patient is to be anointed.
The Chamber of the Priest-Magician
Let us attempt to describe the treatment of a case by a
priest-physician-magician of Babylonia. The proceeding is rather a
recondite one, but by the aid of imagination as well as the assistance
of Babylonian representation we may construct a tolerably clear
picture. The chamber of the sage is almost certain to be situated in
some nook in one of those vast and imposing fanes which more closely
resembled cities than mere temples. We draw the curtain and enter a
rather darksome room. The atmosphere is pungent with chemic odours,
and ranged on shelves disposed upon the tiled walls are numerous
jars, great and small, containing the fearsome compounds which the
practitioner applies to the sufferings of Babylonian humanity. The
asipu, shaven and austere, asks us what we desire of him, and in the
rôle of Babylonian citizens we acquaint him with the fact that our
lives are made miserable for us by a witch who sends upon us misfortune
after misfortune, now the blight or some equally intractable and
horrible disease, now an evil wind, now unspeakable enchantments which
torment us unceasingly. In his capacity of physician the asipu examines
our bodies, shrunken and exhausted with fever or rheumatism, and having
prescribed for us, compounds the mixture with his own hands and enjoins
us to its regular application. He mixes various ingredients in a stone
mortar, whispering his spells the while, with many a prayer to Ea the
beneficent and Merodach the all-powerful that we may be restored to
health. Then he promises to visit us at our dwelling and gravely bids
us adieu, after expressing the hope that we will graciously contribute
to the upkeep of the house of religion to which he is attached.
Leaving the darkened haunt of the asipu for the brilliant sunshine of
a Babylonian summer afternoon, we are at first inclined to forget our
fears, and to laugh away the horrible superstitions, the relics of
barbarian ancestors, which weigh us down. But as night approaches we
grow more fearful, we crouch with the children in the darkest corner
of our clay-brick dwelling, and tremble at every sound. The rushing of
the wind overhead is for us the noise of the Labartu, the hag-demon,
come hither to tear from us our little ones, or perhaps a rat rustling
in the straw may seem to us the Alu-demon. The ghosts of the dead
gibber at the threshold, and even pale Uru, lord of disease, himself
may glance in at the tiny window with ghastly countenance and eager,
red eyes. The pains of rheumatism assail us. Ha, the evil witch is at
work, thrusting thorns into the waxen images made in our shape that we
may suffer the torment brought about by sympathetic magic, to which we
would rather refer our aches than to the circumstance that we dwell
hard by the river-swamps.
A loud knocking resounds at the door. We tremble anew and the children
scream. At last the dread powers of evil have come to summon us to the
final ordeal, or perhaps the witch herself, grown bold by reason of
her immunity, has come to wreak fresh vengeance. The flimsy door of
boards is thrown open, and to our unspeakable relief the stern face of
the asipu appears beneath the flickering light of the taper. We shout
with joy, and the children cluster around the priest, clinging to his
garments and clasping his knees.
The Witch-Finding
The priest smiles at our fear, and motioning us to sit in a circle
produces several waxen figures of demons which he places on the floor.
It is noticeable that these figures all appear to be bound with
miniature ropes. Taking one of these in the shape of a Labartu or
hag-demon, the priest places before it twelve small cakes made from a
peculiar kind of meal. He then pours out a libation of water, places
the image of a small black dog beside that of the witch, lays a piece
of the heart of a young pig on the mouth of the figure and some white
bread and a box of ointment beside it. He then chants something like
the following: "May a guardian spirit be present at my side when I draw
near unto the sick man, when I examine his muscles, when I compose his
limbs, when I sprinkle the water of Ea upon him. Avoid thee whether
thou art an evil spirit or an evil demon, an evil ghost or an evil
devil, an evil god or an evil fiend, hag-demon, ghoul, sprite, phantom,
or wraith, or any disease, fever, headache, shivering, or any sorcery,
spell, or enchantment."
Having recited some such words of power the asipu then directs us to
keep the figure at the head of our bed for three nights, then to bury
it beneath the earthen floor. But alas! no cure results. The witch
still torments us by day and night, and once more we have recourse to
the priest-doctor; the ceremony is gone through again, but still the
family health does not improve. The little ones suffer from fever, and
bad luck consistently dogs us. After a stormy scene between husband and
wife, who differ regarding the qualifications of the asipu, another
practitioner is called in. He is younger and more enterprising than
the last, and he has not yet learned that half the business of the
physician is to 'nurse' his patients, in the financial sense of the
term. Whereas the elderly asipu had gone quietly home to bed after
prescribing for us, this young physician, who has his spurs to win,
after being consulted goes home to his clay surgery and hunts up a
likely exorcism.
Next day, armed with this wordy weapon, he arrives at our dwelling and,
placing a waxen image of the witch upon the floor, vents upon it the
full force of his rhetoric. As he is on the point of leaving, screams
resound from a neighbouring cabin. Bestowing upon us a look of the
deepest meaning our asipu darts to the hut opposite and hales forth
an ancient crone, whose appearance of age and illness give her a most
sinister look. At once we recognize in her a wretch who dared to menace
our children when in innocent play they cast hot ashes upon her thatch
and introduced hot swamp water into her cistern. In righteous wrath
we lay hands on the abandoned being who for so many months has cast a
blight upon our lives. She exclaims that the pains of death have seized
upon her, and we laugh in triumph, for we know that the superior magic
of our asipu has taken effect. On the way to the river we are joined by
neighbours, who rejoice with us that we have caught the witch. Great is
the satisfaction of the party when at last the devilish crone is cast
headlong into the stream.
But ere many seconds pass we begin to look incredulously upon each
other, for the wicked one refuses to sink. This means that she is
innocent! Then, awful moment, we find every eye directed upon us, we
who were so happy and light-hearted but a moment before. We tremble,
for we know how severe are the laws against the indiscriminate
accusation of those suspected of witchcraft. As the ancient crone
continues to float, a loud murmuring arises in the crowd, and with
quaking limbs and eyes full of terror we snatch up our children and
make a dash for freedom.
Luckily the asipu accompanies us so that the crowd dare not pursue,
and indeed, so absurdly changeable is human nature, most of them are
busied in rescuing the old woman. In a few minutes we have placed
all immediate danger of pursuit behind us. The asipu has departed
to his temple, richer in the experience by the lesson of a false
'prescription.'[3] After a hurried consultation we quit the town, skirt
the arable land which fringes it, and plunge into the desert. She who
was opposed to the employment of a young and inexperienced asipu does
not make matters any better by reiterating "I told you so." And he
who favoured a 'second opinion,' on paying a night visit to the city,
discovers that the 'witch' has succumbed to her harsh treatment; that
his house has been made over to her relatives by way of compensation,
and that a legal process has been taken out against him. Returning to
his wife he acquaints her with the sad news, and hand in hand with
their weeping offspring they turn and face the desert.
The Magic Circle
The magic circle, as in use among the Chaldean sorcerers, bears many
points of resemblance to that described in mediæval works on magic.
The Babylonian magician, when describing the circle, made seven little
winged figures, which he set before an image of the god Nergal. After
doing so he stated that he had covered them with a dark robe and bound
them with a coloured cord, setting beside them tamarisk and the heart
of the palm, that he had completed the magic circle and had surrounded
them with a sprinkling of lime and flour.
That the magic circle of mediæval times must have been evolved from
the Chaldean is plain from the strong resemblance between the two.
Directions for the making of a mediæval magic circle are as follows:--
In the first place the magician is supposed to fix upon a spot proper
for such a purpose, which must be either in a subterranean vault, hung
round with black, and lighted by a magical torch, or else in the centre
of some thick wood or desert, or upon some extensive unfrequented
plain, where several roads meet, or amidst the ruins of ancient
castles, abbeys, or monasteries, or amongst the rocks on the seashore,
in some private detached churchyard, or any other melancholy place
between the hours of twelve and one in the night, either when the moon
shines very bright, or else when the elements are disturbed with storms
of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain; for, in these places, times, and
seasons, it is contended that spirits can with less difficulty manifest
themselves to mortal eyes, and continue visible with the least pain.
When the proper time and place are fixed upon, a magic circle is to
be formed within which the master and his associates are carefully to
retire. The reason assigned by magicians and others for the institution
and use of the circles is, that so much ground being blessed and
consecrated by holy words and ceremonies has a secret force to expel
all evil spirits from the bounds thereof, and, being sprinkled with
sacred water, the ground is purified from all uncleanness; beside
the holy names of God being written over every part of it, its force
becomes proof against all evil spirits.
Babylonian Demons
Babylonian demons were legion and most of them exceedingly malevolent.
The Utukku was an evil spirit that lurked generally in the desert,
where it lay in wait for unsuspecting travellers, but it did not
confine its haunts to the more barren places, for it was also to be
found among the mountains, in graveyards, and even in the sea. An evil
fate befel the man upon whom it looked.
The Rabisu is another lurking demon that secretes itself in
unfrequented spots to leap upon passers-by. The Labartu, which has
already been alluded to, is, strangely enough, spoken of as the
daughter of Anu. She was supposed to dwell in the mountains or in
marshy places, and was particularly addicted to the destruction of
children. Babylonian mothers were wont to hang charms round their
children's necks to guard them against this horrible hag.
The Sedu appears to have been in some senses a guardian spirit and in
others a being of evil propensities. It is often appealed to at the
end of invocations along with the Lamassu, a spirit of a similar type.
These malign influences were probably the prototypes of the Arabian
jinn, to whom they have many points of resemblance.
Many Assyrian spirits were half-human and half-supernatural, and some
of them were supposed to contract unions with human beings, like
the Arabian jinn. The offspring of such unions was supposed to be a
spirit called Alu, which haunted ruins and deserted buildings and
indeed entered the houses of men like a ghost to steal their sleep.
Ghosts proper were also common enough, as has already been observed,
and those who had not been buried were almost certain to return to
harass mankind. It was dangerous even to look upon a corpse, lest the
spirit or edimmu of the dead man should seize upon the beholder. The
Assyrians seemed to be of the opinion that a ghost like a vampire
might drain away the strength of the living, and long formulæ were in
existence containing numerous names of haunting spirits, one of which
it was hoped would apply to the tormenting ghost, and these were used
for the purposes of exorcism. To lay a spirit the following articles
were necessary: seven small loaves of roast corn, the hoof of a
dark-coloured ox, flour of roast corn, and a little leaven. The ghosts
were then asked why they tormented the haunted man, after which the
flour and leaven were kneaded into a paste in the horn of an ox and a
small libation poured into a hole in the earth. The leaven dough was
then placed in the hoof of an ox, and another libation poured out with
an incantation to the god Shamash. In another case figures of the dead
man and the living person to whom the spirit has appeared are to be
made and libations poured out before both of them, then the figure of
the dead man is to be buried and that of the living man washed in pure
water, the whole ceremony being typical of sympathetic magic, which
thus supposed the burial of the body of the ghost and the purification
of the living man. In the morning incense was to be offered up before
the sun-god at his rising, when sweet woods were to be burned and a
libation of sesame wine poured out.
If a human being was troubled by a ghost, it was necessary that he
should be anointed with various substances in order that the result of
the ghostly contact might be nullified.
An old text says, "When a ghost appeareth in the house of a man there
will be a destruction of that house. When it speaketh and hearkeneth
for an answer the man will die, and there will be lamentation."
Taboo
The belief in taboo was universal in ancient Chaldea. Amongst the
Babylonians it was known as _mamit._ There were taboos on many things,
but especially upon corpses and uncleanness of all kinds. We find the
taboo generally alluded to in a text "as the barrier that none can
pass."
Among all barbarous peoples the taboo is usually intended to hedge in
the sacred thing from the profane person or the common people, but it
may also be employed for sanitary reasons. Thus the flesh of certain
animals, such as the pig, may not be eaten in hot countries. Food must
not be prepared by those who are in the slightest degree suspected of
uncleanness, and these laws are usually of the most rigorous character;
but should a man violate the taboo placed upon certain foods, then he
himself often became taboo. No one might have any intercourse with him.
He was left to his own devices, and, in short, became a sort of pariah.
In the Assyrian texts we find many instances of this kind of taboo,
and numerous were the supplications that these might be removed. If
one drank water from an unclean cup he had violated a taboo. Like the
Arab he might not "lick the platter clean." If he were taboo he might
not touch another man, he might not converse with him, he might not
pray to the gods, he might not even be interceded for by anyone else.
In fact he was excommunicate. If a man cast his eye upon water which
another person had washed his hands in, or if he came into contact with
a person who had not yet performed his ablutions, he became unclean. An
entire purification ritual was incumbent on any Assyrian who touched or
even looked upon a dead man.
It may be asked, wherefore was this elaborate cleanliness essential to
avoid taboo? The answer undoubtedly is--because of the belief in the
power of sympathetic magic. Did one come into contact with a person who
was in any way unclean, or with a corpse or other unpleasant object, he
was supposed to come within the radius of the evil which emanated from
it.
Popular Superstitions
The superstition that the evil-eye of a witch or a wizard might bring
blight upon an individual or community was as persistent in Chaldea as
elsewhere. Incantations frequently allude to it as among the causes of
sickness, and exorcisms were duly directed against it. Even to-day, on
the site of the ruins of Babylon children are protected against it by
fastening small blue objects to their head-gear.
Just as mould from a grave was supposed by the witches of the Middle
Ages to be particularly efficacious in magic, so was the dust of the
temple supposed to possess hidden virtue in Assyria. If one pared one's
nails or cut one's hair it was considered necessary to bury them lest
a sorcerer should discover them and use them against their late owner;
for a sorcery performed upon a part was by the law of sympathetic magic
thought to reflect upon the whole. A like superstition attached to the
discarded clothing of people, for among barbarian or uncultured folk
the apparel is regarded as part and parcel of the man. Even in our own
time simple and uneducated people tear a piece from their garments
and hang it as an offering on the bushes around any of the numerous
healing wells in the country that they may have journeyed to. This is a
survival of the custom of sacrificing the part for the whole.
If one desired to get rid of a headache one had to take the hair of a
young kid and give it to a wise woman, who would "spin it on the right
side and double it on the left," then it was to be bound into fourteen
knots and the incantation of Ea pronounced upon it, after which it
was to be bound round the head and neck of the sick man. For defects
in eyesight the Assyrians wove black and white threads or hairs
together, muttering incantations the while, and these were placed upon
the eyes. It was thought, too, that the tongues of evil spirits or
sorcerers could be 'bound,' and that a net because of its many knots
was efficacious in keeping evilly-disposed magicians away.
Omens
Divination as practised by means of augury was a rite of the first
importance among the Babylonians and Assyrians. This was absolutely
distinct from divination by astrology. The favourite method of augury
among the Chaldeans of old was that by examination of the liver of a
slaughtered animal. It was thought that when an animal was offered up
in sacrifice to a god that the deity identified himself for the time
being with that animal, and that the beast thus afforded a means of
indicating the wishes of the god. Now among people in a primitive state
of culture the soul is almost invariably supposed to reside in the
liver instead of in the heart or brain. More blood is secreted by the
liver than by any other organ in the body, and upon the opening of a
carcase it appears the most striking, the most central, and the most
sanguinary of the vital parts. The liver was, in fact, supposed by
early peoples to be the fountain of the blood supply and therefore of
life itself. Hepatoscopy or divination from the liver was undertaken
by the Chaldeans for the purpose of determining what the gods had in
mind. The soul of the animal became for the nonce the soul of the god,
therefore if the signs of the liver of the sacrificed animal could be
read the mind of the god became clear, and his intentions regarding the
future were known. The animal usually sacrificed was a sheep, the liver
of which animal is most complicated in appearance. The two lower lobes
are sharply divided from one another and are separated from the upper
by a narrow depression, and the whole surface is covered with markings
and fissures, lines and curves which give it much the appearance of
a map on which roads and valleys are outlined. This applies to the
freshly excised liver only, and these markings are never the same in
any two livers.
Certain priests were set apart for the practice of liver-reading, and
these were exceedingly expert, being able to decipher the hepatoscopic
signs with great skill. They first examined the gall-bladder, which
might be reduced or swollen. They inferred various circumstances from
the several ducts and the shapes and sizes of the lobes and their
appendices. Diseases of the liver, too, particularly common among sheep
in all countries, were even more frequent among these animals in the
marshy portions of the Euphrates Valley.
[Illustration: Clay Object resembling a Sheep's Liver. This is inscribed
with magical formulæ; it was probably used for purposes of divination,
and was employed by the priests of Babylon in their ceremonies.--Photo
W.A. Mansell and Co.]
The literature connected with this species of augury is very extensive,
and Assur-bani-pal's library contained thousands of fragments
describing the omens deduced from the practice. These enumerate the
chief appearances of the liver, as the shade of the colour of the gall,
the length of the ducts, and so forth. The lobes were divided into
sections, lower, medial, and higher, and the interpretation varied from
the phenomena therein observed. The markings on the liver possessed
various names, such as 'palaces,' 'weapons,' 'paths,' and 'feet,' which
terms remind us somewhat of the bizarre nomenclature of astrology.
Later in the progress of the art the various combinations of signs
came to be known so well, and there were so many cuneiform texts in
existence which afforded instruction in them, that a liver could be
quickly 'read' by the _barû_ or reader, a name which was afterward
applied to the astrologists as well and to those who divined through
various other natural phenomena.
One of the earliest instances on record of hepatoscopy is that
regarding Naram-Sin, who consulted a sheep's liver before declaring
war. The great Sargon did likewise, and we find Gudea applying to his
'liver inspectors' when attempting to discover a favourable time for
laying the foundations of the temple of Nin-girsu. Throughout the whole
history of the Babylonian monarchy in fact, from its early beginnings
to its end, we find this system in vogue. Whether it was in force
in Sumerian times we have no means of knowing, but there is every
likelihood that such was the case.
The Ritual of Hepatoscopy
Quite an elaborate ritual grew up around the readings of the omens by
the examination of the liver. The barû who officiated must first of
all purify himself and don special apparel for the ceremony. Prayers
were then offered up to Shamash and Hadad or Rammon, who were known as
the 'lords of divination.' Specific questions were usually put. The
sheep selected for sacrifice must be without blemish, and the manner of
slaughtering it and the examination of its liver must be made with the
most meticulous care. Sometimes the signs were doubtful, and upon such
occasions a second sheep was sacrificed.
Nabonidus, the last King of Babylon, on one occasion desired to restore
a temple to the moon-god at Harran. He wished to be certain that this
step commended itself to Merodach, the chief deity of Babylonia, so he
applied to the 'liver inspectors' of his day and found that the omen
was favourable. We find him also desirous of making a certain symbol of
the sun-god in accordance with an ancient pattern. He placed a model
of this before Shamash and consulted the liver of a sheep to ascertain
whether the god approved of the offering, but on three separate
occasions the signs were unfavourable. Nabonidus then concluded that
the model of the symbol could not have been correctly reproduced, and
on replacing it by another he found the signs propitious. In order,
however, that there should be no mistake he sought among the records of
the past for the result of a liver inspection on a similar occasion,
and by comparing the omens he became convinced that he was safe in
making a symbol.
Peculiar signs, when they were found connected with events of
importance, were specially noted in the literature of liver divination,
and were handed down from generation to generation of diviners. Thus a
number of omens are associated with Gilgamesh, the mythical hero of the
Babylonian epic, and a certain condition of the gall-bladder is said
to indicate "the omen of Urumush, the king, whom the men of his palace
killed."
Bad signs and good signs are enumerated in the literature of the
subject. Thus like most peoples the Babylonians considered the right
side as lucky and the left as unlucky. Any sign on the right side of
the gall-bladder, ducts or lobes, was supposed to refer to the king,
the country, or the army, while a similar sign on the sinister side
applied to the enemy. Thus a good sign on the right side applied to
Babylonia or Assyria in a favourable sense, a bad sign on the right
side in an unfavourable sense. A good sign on the left side was an omen
favourable to the enemy, whereas a bad sign on the left side was, of
course, to the native king or forces.
It would be out of place here to give a more extended description of
the liver-reading of the ancient Chaldeans. Suffice it to say that
the subject is a very complicated one in its deeper significance, and
has little interest for the general reader in its advanced stages.
Certain well-marked conditions of the liver could only indicate certain
political, religious, or personal events. It will be more interesting
if we attempt to visualise the act of divination by liver reading, as
it was practised in ancient Babylonia, and if our imaginations break
down in the process it is not the fault of the very large material they
have to work upon.
The Missing Caravan
The ages roll back as a scroll, and I see myself as one of the great
banker-merchants of Babylon, one of those princes of commerce whose
contracts and agreements are found stamped upon clay cylinders where
once the stately palaces of barter arose from the swarming streets of
the city of Merodach. I have that morning been carried in my litter by
sweating slaves, from my white house in a leafy suburb lying beneath
the shadow of the lofty temple-city of Borsippa. As I reach my place of
business I am aware of unrest, for the financial operations in which
I engage are so closely watched that I may say without self-praise
that I represent the pulse of Babylonian commerce. I enter the cool
chamber where I usually transact my business, and where a pair of
officious Persian slaves commence to fan me as soon as I take my seat.
My head clerk enters and makes obeisance with an expression on his
face eloquent of important news. It is as I expected--as I feared. The
caravan from the Persian Gulf due to arrive at Babylon more than a week
ago has not yet made its appearance, and although I had sent scouting
parties as far as Ninnur, these have returned without bringing me the
least intelligence regarding it.
I feel convinced that the caravan with my spices, woven fabrics, rare
woods, and precious stones will never come tinkling down the great
central street to deposit its wealth at the doors of my warehouses;
and the thought renders me so irritable that I sharply dismiss the
Persian fan-bearers, and curse again and again the black-browed sons
of Elam, who have doubtless looted my goods and cut the throats of my
guards and servants. I go home at an early hour full of my misfortune.
I cannot eat my evening meal. My wife gently asks me what ails me, but
with a growl I refuse to enlighten her upon the cause of my annoyance.
Still, however, she persists, and succeeds in breaking down my surly
opposition.
"Why trouble thy heart concerning this thing when thou mayest know what
has happened to thy goods and thy servants? Get thee to-morrow to the
Baru, and he will enlighten thee," she says.
I start. After all, women have sense. There can be no harm in seeing
the Baru and asking him to divine what has happened to my caravan. But
I bethink me that I am wealthy, and that the priests love to pluck a
well-feathered pigeon. I mention my suspicions of the priestly caste in
no measured terms, to the distress of my devout wife and the amusement
of my soldier-son.
Restlessly I toss upon my couch, and after a sleepless night feel that
I cannot resume my business with the fear of loss upon me. So without
breathing a word of my intention to my wife, I direct my litter-slaves
to carry me to the great temple at Borsippa.
Arrived there, I enquire for the chief Baru. He is one of the friends
of my youth, but for years our paths have diverged, and it is with
surprise that he now greets me. I acquaint him with the nature of my
dilemma, and nodding sympathetically he assures me that he will do his
utmost to assist me. Somewhat reassured, I follow him into a tiled
court near the far end of which stands a large altar. At a sign from
him two priests bring in a live sheep and cut its throat. They then
open the carcase and extract the liver. Immediately the chief Baru
bends his grey head over it. For a long time he stares at it with the
keenest attention. I begin to weary, and my old doubts regarding the
sacerdotal caste return. At last the grey head rises from the long
inspection, and the Baru turns to me with smiling face.
"The omen is good, my son," he says, with a cheerful intonation. "The
compass and the hepatic duct are short. Thy path will be protected by
thy Guardian Spirit, as will the path of thy servants. Go, and fear
not."
He speaks so definitely and his words are so reassuring that I seize
him by the hands, and, thanking him effusively, take my leave. I go
down to my warehouses in a new spirit of hopefulness and disregard the
disdainful or pitying looks cast in my direction. I sit unperturbed and
dictate contracts and letters of credit to my scribe.
Ha! what is that? By Merodach, it is--it is the sound of bells! Up
I leap, upsetting the wretched scribe who squats at my feet, and
trampling upon his still wet clay tablets, I rush to the door. Down the
street slowly advances a travel-worn caravan, and at the head of it
there rides my trusty brown-faced captain, Babbar. He tumbles out of
the saddle and kneels before me, but I raise him in a close embrace.
All my goods, he assures me, are intact, and the cause of delay was
a severe sickness which broke out among his followers. But all have
recovered and my credit is restored.
As I turn to re-enter my warehouse with Babbar, a detaining hand is
placed on my shoulder. It is a messenger from the chief Baru.
"My brother at the temple saw thy caravan coming from afar," he says
politely, "and his message to thee, my son, is that, since thou hast so
happily recovered thine own, thou shouldst devote a tithe of it to the
service of the gods."
[1] _The Myths of Ancient Egypt._
[2] From _Semitic Magic_, by R. Campbell Thompson, p. 47 _ff_. (By
permission of Messrs Luzac and Co., London.)
[3] He is exempt from the punishment provided by the code of Khammurabi
for the false accusation.