Pointing and graphic gestures thus represent the two means which

gesture-language employs. Within the second of these classes of

gestures, however, we may distinguish a small sub-group that may be

called _significant_; in this case, the object is not represented by

means of a direct picture, but by incidental characteristics--man, for

example, is expressed by lifting the hat. The signs are all directly

perceptible. The most important characteristic of gesture-language, as

well as the most distinctive feature of an original language, is the

fact that there is no trace of abstract concepts, there being merely

perceptual representations. And yet some of these representations--and

this is a proof of how insistently human thought, even in its

beginnings, presses on to the formation of concepts--have acquired a

symbolical meaning by virtue of which they become sensuous means, in

a certain sense, of expressing concepts which in themselves are not

of a perceptual nature. We may here mention only _one_ such gesture,

noteworthy because it occurs independently in the language of the

European deaf and dumb and in that of the Dakota Indians. 'Truth' is

represented by moving the index finger directly forward from the lips,

while 'lie' is indicated by a movement towards the right or left. The

former is thus held to be a straight speech and the latter a crooked

speech, transcriptions which also occur, as poetical expressions,

in spoken language. On the whole, however, such symbolical signs

are rare if the natural gesture-language has not been artificially

reconstructed; moreover, they always remain perceptual in character.

Corresponding to this feature is also another characteristic which all

natural gesture-languages will be found to possess. In vain we search

them for the grammatical categories either of our own or of other

spoken languages--none may be found. No distinction is made between

noun, adjective, or verb; none between nominative, dative, accusative,

etc. Every representation retains its representative character,

and that to which it refers may exemplify any of the grammatical

categories known to us. For example, the gesture for walking may

denote either the act of walking or the course or path; that for

striking, either the verb 'to strike' or the noun 'blow.' Thus, in

this respect also, gesture-language is restricted to perceptual signs

expressing ideas capable of perceptual representation. The same is

true, finally, of the sequence in which the ideas of the speaker

are arranged, or, briefly, of the syntax of gesture-language. In

various ways, depending on fixed usages of language, our syntax, as

is well known, permits us to separate words that, as regards meaning,

belong together, or, conversely, to bring together words that have

no immediate relation. Gesture-language obeys but _one_ law. Every

single sign must be intelligible either in itself or through the one

preceding it. It follows from this that if, for example, an object

and one of its qualities are both to be designated, the quality must

not be expressed first, since, apart from the object, it would be

unmeaning; its designation, therefore, regularly occurs after that

of the object to which it belongs. Whereas, for example, we say 'a

good man,' gesture-language says 'man good.' Similarly, in the case

of verb and object, the object generally precedes. When, however, the

action expressed by the verb is thought of as more closely related to

the subject, the converse order may occur and the verb may directly

follow the subject. How, then, does gesture-language reproduce the

sentence 'The angry teacher struck the child'? The signs for teacher

and for striking have already been described; 'angry' is expressed

mimetically by wrinkling the forehead; 'child' by rocking the left

forearm supported by the right. Thus, the above sentence is translated

into gesture-language in the following manner: First, there are the

two signs for teacher, lifting the hat and raising the finger; then

follows the mimetic gesture for anger, succeeded by a rocking of the

arm to signify child, and, finally, by the motion of striking. If we

indicate the subject of the sentence by S, the attribute by A, the

object by O, and the verb by V, the sequence in our language is ASVO;

in gesture-language it is SAOV, 'teacher angry child strikes,' or, in

exceptional cases, SAVO. Gesture-language thus reverses the order of

sequence in the two pairs of words. A construction such as '_es schlug

das Kind der Lehrer_ (VOS), always possible in spoken language and

occurring not infrequently (for example, in Latin), would be absolutely

impossible in gesture-language.

If, then, gesture-language affords us certain psychological conclusions

regarding the nature of a primitive language, it is of particular

interest, from this point of view, to compare its characteristics

with the corresponding traits of the most primitive spoken languages.

As already stated, the so-called Soudan languages typify those that

bear all the marks of relatively primitive thought. These languages

of Central Africa obviously represent a much more primitive stage

of development than do those of the Bantu peoples of the south or

even those of the Hamitic peoples of the north. The language of the

Hottentots is related to that of these Hamitic peoples. It is, in fact,

because of this relationship, and also because of characteristics

divergent from the negro type, that the Hottentots are regarded as a

race that immigrated from the north and underwent changes by mixture

with native peoples. If, now, we compare one of the Soudan languages,

the Ewe, for example, with gesture-language, one difference will

at once be apparent. The words of this relatively primitive spoken

language do not possess the qualities of perceptibility and immediate

intelligibility that characterize each particular gesture-sign. This

is readily explicable as a result of processes of phonetic change,

which are never absent, as well as of the assimilation of foreign

elements and of the replacement of words by conceptual symbols that

are accidental and independent of the sound. These changes occur in

the history of every language. Every spoken language is the outcome of

recondite processes whose beginnings are no longer traceable. And yet

the Soudan languages, particularly, have preserved characteristics that

show much more intimate connections between sound and meaning than our

cultural languages possess. The very fact is noteworthy that certain

gradations or even antitheses of thought are regularly expressed

by gradations or antitheses of sound whose feeling tone plainly

corresponds to the relation of the ideas. While our words 'large'

and 'small,' 'here' and 'there,' show no correspondence between the

character of the sound and the meaning, the case is entirely different

with the equivalent expressions in the Ewe language. In this language

large and small objects are designated by the same word. In the one

case, however, the word is uttered in a deep tone, while in the other a

high tone is used. Or, in the case of indicative signs, the deep tone

signifies greater remoteness, the high tone, proximity. Indeed, in

some Sudan languages three degrees of remoteness or of size are thus

distinguished. 'Yonder in the distance' is expressed by a very deep

tone; 'yonder in the middle distance,' by a medium tone; and 'here,' by

the highest tone. Occasionally, differences of quality are similarly

distinguished by differences of tone, as, for example, 'sweet' by a

high tone, 'bitter' by a deep tone, 'to be acted upon' (that is, our

passive) by a deep tone, and activity (or our active) by a high tone.

This accounts for a phenomenon prevalent in other languages remote from

those of the Soudan. In Semitic and Hamitic languages, the letter 'U,'

particularly, has the force of a passive when occurring either as a

suffix to the root of a word or in the middle of the word itself. For

example, in the Hebrew forms of the so-called 'Pual' and 'Piel,' as

well as 'Hophal' and 'Hiphil,' the first of each pair is passive, and

the second, active in meaning. It was frequently supposed that this

was accidental, or was due to linguistic causes of phonetic change

other than the above. But when we meet the same variations of sound

and meaning in other radically different languages, we must stop

to ask ourselves whether this is not the result of a psychological

relationship which, though generally lost in the later development

of language, here still survives in occasional traces. In fact, when

we recall the way in which we relate stories to children, we at once

notice that precisely the same phenomenon recurs in child-language--a

language, of course, first created, as a rule, by adults. This

connection of sound and meaning is clearly due to the unconscious

desire that the sound shall impart to the child not merely the meaning

of the idea, but also its feeling-tone. In describing giants and

monsters, she who relates fairy-tales to the child deepens her tone;

when fairies, elves, and dwarfs appear in the narrative, she raises

her voice. If sorrow and pain enter, the tone is deepened; with joyous

emotions, high tones are employed. In view of these facts, we might say

that this direct correlation of expression and meaning, observed in

that most primitive of all languages, gesture-language, has disappeared

even from the relatively primitive spoken languages; nevertheless,

the latter have retained traces of it in greater abundance than have

the cultural languages. In the cultural languages they recur, if at

all, only in the onomatopoetic word-formations of later origin. We

may recall such words as _sausen_ (soughing), _brummen_ (growling),

_knistern_ (crackling), etc.

The question still remains how the other characteristics of

gesture-language, particularly the absence of grammatical categories

and a syntax which follows the principle of immediate and perceptual

intelligibility, compare with the corresponding characteristics of the

relatively primitive spoken languages. These characteristics, indeed,

are of incomparably greater importance than the relations of sound and

meaning. The latter are more strongly exposed to external, transforming

influences. Word-formations, however, and the position of the words

within the sentence, mirror the forms of thought itself; whenever the

thought undergoes vital changes, the latter inevitably find expression

in the grammatical categories of the language, and in the laws of

syntax which it follows.

6. THE THINKING OF PRIMITIVE MAN.

From the point of view just developed, the investigation of the

grammatical forms of primitive language is of particular importance for

the psychology of primitive man. True, as has already been remarked,

the languages of the most primitive tribes have not been preserved

to us in their original form. And yet it is in this very realm of

grammatical forms, far more even than in that of sound pictures and

onomatopoetic words, that the Soudan languages possess characteristics

which mark them as the expression of processes of thought that

have remained on a relatively primitive level. This is indicated

primarily by the fact that these languages lack what we would call

grammatical categories. As regards this point, Westermann's grammar

of the Ewe language is in entire agreement with the much earlier

results which Steinthal reached in his investigation of the Manda

language, which is also of the Soudan region. These languages consist

of monosyllabic words which follow one another in direct succession

without any intermediate inflectional elements to modify their meaning.

Philologists usually call such languages 'root-languages,' because a

sound complex that carries the essential meaning of a word, apart from

all modifying elements, is called by their science a verbal root. In

the Latin word _fero, fer_, meaning 'to bear,' is the root from which

all modifications of the verb _ferre_ (to carry) are formed by means

of suffixal elements. If, therefore, a language consists of sound

complexes having the nature of roots, it is called a root-language.

As a matter of fact, however, the languages under discussion consist

purely of detached, monosyllabic _words_; the conception 'root,'

which itself represents the product of a grammatical analysis of our

flectional languages, may only improperly be applied to them. Such a

language is composed of detached monosyllabic words, each of which has

a meaning, yet none of which falls under any particular grammatical

category. One and the same monosyllabic word may denote an object,

an act, or a quality, just as in gesture-language the gesture of

striking may denote the verb 'to strike' and also the noun 'blow.'

From this it is evident to what extent the expressions 'root' and

'root-language' carry over into this primitive language a grammatical

abstraction which is entirely inappropriate in case they suggest the

image of a root. This image originated among grammarians at a time

when the view was current that, just as the stem and branches of a

plant grow out of its root, so also in the development of a language

does a word always arise out of a group of either simple or composite

sounds that embody the main idea. But the component parts of a language

are certainly not roots in this sense; every simple monosyllabic word

combines with others, and from this combination there result, in

part, modifications in meaning, and, in part, sentences. Language,

thus, does not develop by sprouting and growing, but by agglomeration

and agglutination. Now, the Soudan languages are characterized by

the fact that they possess very few such fixed combinations in which

the individual component parts have lost their independence. In this

respect, accordingly, they resemble gesture-language. The latter also

is unfamiliar with grammatical categories in so far as these apply to

the words themselves; the very same signs denote objects, actions, and

qualities--indeed, generally even that for which in our language we

employ particles. This agreement with gesture-language is brought home

to us most strikingly if we consider the words which the primitive

spoken languages employ for newly formed ideas--such, for instance,

as refer to previously unknown objects of culture. Here it appears

that the speaker always forms the new conception by combining into a

series those ideas with which he is more familiar. When schools were

introduced into Togo, for example, and a word for 'slate-pencil' became

necessary, the Togo negroes called it 'stone scratch something'--that

is, a stone with which we scratch something. Similarly 'kitchen,' an

arrangement unknown to these tribes, was referred to as 'place cook

something'; 'nail,' as 'iron head broad.' The single word always

stands for a sensibly perceptual object, and the new conception is

formed, not, as epistemologists commonly suppose, by means of a

comparison of various objects, but by arranging in sequence those

perceptual ideas whose combined characteristics constitute the

conception. The same is true with regard to the expressions for such

thought relations as are variously indicated in our language by the

inflections of substantive, adjective, and verb. The Soudan languages

make no unambiguous distinction between noun and verb. Much less are

the cases of the substantive, or the moods and tenses of the verb,

distinguished; to express these distinctions, separate words are always

used. Thus, 'the house of the king' is rendered as 'house belong king.'

The conception of case is here represented by an independent perception

that crowds in between the two ideas which it couples together. The

other cases are, as a rule, not expressed at all, but are implied in

the connection. Similarly, verbs possess no future tense to denote

future time. Here also a separate word is introduced, one that may be

rendered by 'come.' 'I go come' means 'I shall go'; or, to mention

the preterit, 'I go earlier' means 'I went.' Past time, however, may

also be expressed by the immediate repetition of the word, a sensibly

perceptual sign, as it were, that the action is completed. When the

Togo negro says 'I eat,' this means 'I am on the point of eating'; when

he says 'I eat eat,' it means 'I have eaten.'

But ideas of such acts and conditions as are in themselves of a

perceptual nature are also occasionally expressed by combining several

elements which are obtained by discriminating the separate parts of

a perceptual image. The idea to bring, for example, is expressed by

the Togo negro as 'take, go, give.' In bringing something to some

one, one must first take it, then go to him and give it to him. It

therefore happens that the word 'go,' in particular, is frequently

added even where we find no necessity for especially emphasizing the

act of going. Thus, the Togo negro would very probably express the

sentence, 'The angry teacher strikes the child,' in the following

way: 'Man-school-angry-go-strike-child.' This is the succession

that directly presents itself to one who thinks in pictures, and it

therefore finds expression in language. Whenever conceptions require

a considerable number of images in order to be made picturable,

combinations that are equivalent to entire sentences may result in a

similar manner. Thus, the Togo negro expresses the concept 'west' by

the words 'sun-sit-place'--that is, the place where the sun sits down.

He thinks of the sun as a personal being who, after completing his

journey, here takes a seat.

These illustrations may suffice to indicate the simplicity and at the

same time the complexity of such a language. It is simple, in that it

lacks almost all grammatical distinctions; it is complicated, because,

in its constant reliance on sensibly perceptual images, it analyses our

concepts into numerous elements. This is true not merely of abstract

concepts, which these languages, as a rule, do not possess, but even

of concrete empirical concepts. We need only refer to the verb 'to

bring,' reduced to the form of three verbs, or the concept 'west,' for

whose expression there is required not only the sun and the location

which we must give it but also its act of seating itself. In all of

these traits, then, primitive language is absolutely at one with

gesture-language.

The same is true of the syntax of the two kinds of language. This also

is no more irregular and accidental in the Soudan language than it is

in gesture-language. As a rule, indeed, it is stricter than the syntax

of our languages, for in the latter inflection makes possible a certain

variation in the arrangement of words within a sentence according

to the particular shade of meaning desired. In primitive language,

the arrangement is much more uniform, being governed absolutely and

alone by the same law as prevails in gesture-language--namely, the

arrangement of words in their perceptual order. Without exception,

therefore, object precedes attribute, and substantive, adjective.

Less constant, however, is the relation of verb and object, in the

Ewe language; the verb generally precedes, but the object may come

first; the verb, however, always follows the subject whose action it

expresses. This perceptual character of primitive language appears most

strikingly when we translate any thought that is at all complicated

from a primitive language into our own, first in its general meaning,

and then word for word. Take an illustration from the language of the

Bushmen. The meaning would be substantially this: 'The Bushman was

at first received kindly by the white man in order that he might be

brought to herd his sheep; then the white man maltreated the Bushman;

the latter ran away, whereupon the white man took another Bushman, who

suffered the same experience,' The language of the Bushmen expresses

this in the following way: 'Bushman-there-go, here-run-to-white man,

white man-give-tobacco, Bushman-go-smoke, go-fill-tobacco-pouch,

white man-give-meat-Bushman, Bushman-go-eat-meat, stand-up-go-home,

go happily, go-sit-down, herd-sheep-white man, white man-go-strike

Bushman, Bushman-cry-loud-pain, Bushman-go-run-away-white man, white

man-run-after-Bushman, Bushman-then-another, this one-herd-sheep,

Bushman-all-gone.' In this complaint of the man of nature against his

oppressor, everything is concrete, perceptual. He does not say, The

Bushman was at first kindly taken up by the white man, but, The white

man gives him tobacco, he fills his pouch and smokes; the white man

gives him meat, he eats this and is happy, etc. He does not say, The

white man maltreats the Bushman, but, He strikes him, the Bushman

cries with pain, etc. What we express in relatively abstract concepts

is entirely reduced by him to separate perceptual images. His thought

always attaches to individual objects. Moreover, just as primitive

language has no specific means for expressing a verb, so also are

change and action overshadowed in primitive thought by the concrete

image. The thinking itself, therefore, may be called _concrete_.

Primitive man sees the image with its separate parts; and, as he sees

it, so he reproduces it in his language. It is for this very reason

that he is unfamiliar with differences of grammatical categories and

with abstract concepts. Sequence is still governed entirely by the

pure association of ideas, whose order is determined by perception

and by the recollection of that which has been experienced. The above

narrative of the Bushman expresses no unitary thought, but image

follows upon image in the order in which these appear to consciousness.

Thus, the thinking of primitive man is almost exclusively associative.

Of the more perfect form of combining concepts, the apperceptive, which

unites the thoughts into a systematic whole, there are as yet only

traces, such as occur in the combination of the separate memory images.

Many analogues to the formal characteristics of primitive thought

revealed in these linguistic phenomena may be met in child-language.

There is a wide divergence, however, with respect to the very

element which has already disappeared, with the exception of slight

traces, from the language of primitive peoples. I refer to the

close correlation of sound and meaning. As regards this feature,

child-language is much more similar to gesture-language than is

possible in the case of forms of speech that have undergone a long

historical development. For, child-language, like gesture-language, is,

in a certain sense, continually being created anew. Of course, it is

not created, as is sometimes supposed, by the children themselves. It

is a conventionalized language of the mothers and nurses who converse

with the child, supplemented, in part, by the child's associates along

the lines of these traditional models. The sound-complexes signifying

animals, 'bow-wow' for the dog, 'hott-hott' for the horse, 'tuk-tuk'

for the chicken, etc., as also 'papa' and 'mamma' for father and

mother, are sounds that are in some way fitted to the meaning and at

the same time resemble so far as possible the babbling sounds of the

child. But this entire process is instituted by the child's associates,

and is at most supplemented by the child himself to the extent of a few

incidental elements. For this reason, child-language has relatively

little to teach us concerning the development of speaking and

thinking; those psychologists and teachers who believe that it affords

an important source of information concerning the origin of thought

are in error. Such information can be gained only from those modes of

expressing thought which, like gesture-language, are originated anew

by the speaker and are not externally derived, or from those which,

like the spoken languages of primitive peoples, have retained, in their

essential characteristics, primitive modes of thinking. Even in these

cases it is only the _forms_ of thought that are thus discoverable. The

content, as is implied by the formal characteristics themselves, is, of

course, also of a sense-perceptual, not of a conceptual, nature. And

yet the particular character or quality of this content is not inherent

in the forms of the language as such. To gain a knowledge of its nature

we must examine the specific ideas themselves and the associated

feelings and emotions.

Thus, then, the further question arises: Wherein consists the content

of primitive thought? _Two_ sorts of ideas may be distinguished. The

one comprises that stock of ideas which is supplied to consciousness

by the direct perceptions of daily life--ideas such as go, stand, lie,

rest, etc., together with animal, tree (particularly in the form of

individual animals and trees), man, woman, child, I, thou, you, and

many others. These are objects of everyday perception that are familiar

to all, even to the primitive mind. But there is also a _second_ class

of ideas. These do not represent things of immediate perception;

briefly expressed, they originate in feeling, in emotional processes

which are projected outward into the environment. This is an important

and particularly characteristic group of primitive ideas. Included

within it are all references to that which is not directly amenable

to perception but, transcending this, is really _supersensuous_,

even though appearing in the form of sensible ideas. This world of

imagination, projected from man's own emotional life into external

phenomena, is what we mean by _mythological_ thinking. The things and

processes given to perception are supplemented by other realities that

are of a non-perceptible nature and therefore belong to an invisible

realm back of the visible world. These are the elements, furthermore,

which very early find expression in the _art_ of primitive man.

7. EARLIEST BELIEFS IN MAGIC AND DEMONS.

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 point _two_ views 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 the same 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 in _one_ God--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-called _Pygmies_ in 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 far greater 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 of _one_

tribe 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 terms of 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,' the _fact that_ the Biblical tradition at

some time did come to the Andamanese is proven by the legend itself.

This conclusion is just as incontestable as is the inference, 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 only _one_ belief 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 a _belief 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 are _death_ and _sickness_.

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 of _fear_ is 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 the danger 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 a _demon_, 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 a _corporeal 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

other case 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 by

_sickness_, 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

of these 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 accomplish what 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 of _protective 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 the _loin-cord_, which

is occasionally girt about the hips without any further attempt at

dress. Obviously this was not a means of protection against 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 clothing is 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, gradually leading 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

associatively on 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 another person. 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 enormous complexity 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 a naïve 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

alleged _a priori_ principle 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 interconnection of 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 was the 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.

8. THE BEGINNINGS OF ART.

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 of _art_. 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 but _one_

art to a high degree of perfection, the _art 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 developed

into 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 accompaniment of the dance is furnished by

the human voice in the _dance-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 word _kra_. 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, are _stringed 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 that which 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. The _one_ string, 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 resembles the 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, the _bull-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 resemblance to 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, the _rattle_, whose

status is the same as that of the bull-roarer.

It was in connection with ideas of magic and of demons that _formative

art_ or, 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 more complicated; 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 simple ornamentations. 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 most primitive 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. Now it 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 of _magic_ and _adornment_. These are the _two_ motives 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 of _imitative_

art. 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. Even where 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.

9. THE INTELLECTUAL AND MORAL CHARACTERISTICS OF PRIMITIVE MAN.

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 the _individual_. 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 ourselves

to the two most important and typical aspects) with an _intellectual_

or a _moral_ estimate. 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 the _limited nature of the wants_ of 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 desires

in 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 turn

against the Bushmen, or the Monbuttus against the Negritos of Central

Africa.

It is characteristic of primitive culture that it has failed to advance

since immemorial times, and this accounts for the uniformity prevalent

in widely separated regions of the earth. This, however, does not at

all imply that, within the narrow sphere that constitutes his world,

the intelligence of primitive man is inferior to that of cultural man.

If we call to mind the means which the former employs to seek out, to

overtake, and to entrap his game, we have testimony both of reflection

and, equally so, of powers of observation. In order to capture the

larger game, for example, the Bushman digs large holes in the ground,

in the middle of which he constructs partitions which he covers with

brush. An animal that falls into such a hole cannot possibly work its

way out, since two of its legs will be on one side of the partitional

division and two on the other. Smaller animals are captured by traps

and snares similar to those familiar to us. The Negritos of the

Philippines, furthermore, employ a very clever method for securing

wild honey from trees without exposing themselves to injury from the

bees. They kindle a fire at the foot of the tree, causing a dense

smoke. Enveloped by this, an individual climbs the tree and removes the

object of his desire, the smoke rendering the robber invisible to the

scattering swarm. It is thus that the Negritos secure honey, their most

precious article of food. How great, moreover, is the inventive ability

required by the bow and arrow, undoubtedly fashioned even by primitive

men! We have seen, of course, that these inventions were not snatched

from the blue, but that they were influenced by all sorts of empirical

elements and probably also by magical ideas, as in the case of the

feathering of the arrow. Nevertheless, the assembling and combining

of these elements in the production of a weapon best suited to the

conditions of primitive life is a marvellous achievement, scarcely

inferior, from an intellectual point of view, to the invention of

modern firearms. Supplementing this, we have the testimony of observers

concerning the general ability of these races. A missionary teacher in

Malacca, whose school included Chinese, Senoi, and Malays, gave first

rank to the Chinese as regards capacity, and second place to the Senoi,

while the Malays were graded last, though they, as we know, are held

to be a relatively talented race. Now, this grading, of course, may

have been more or less accidental, yet it allows us to conclude that

the intellectual endowment of primitive man is in itself approximately

equal to that of civilized man. Primitive man merely exercises his

ability in a more restricted field; his horizon is essentially narrower

because of his contentment under these limitations. This, of course,

does not deny that there may have been a time, and, indeed, doubtless

was one, when man occupied a lower intellectual plane and approximated

more nearly to the animal state which preceded that of human beings.

This earliest and lowest level of human development, however, is not

accessible to us.

But what, now, may be said concerning the moral characteristics of

primitive man? It is clear that we must here distinguish sharply

between those tribes that have hitherto remained essentially

unaffected by external influences and those that have for some time

past eked out a meagre existence in their struggle with surrounding

peoples of a higher culture. The primitive man who still lives

uninfluenced by surrounding peoples--typical examples are, in general,

the natural Veddahs of Ceylon and the inland tribes of the Malay

Peninsula--presents an entirely different picture from that of the

man who seeks in the face of difficulties to protect himself against

his environment. In the case of the tribes of Ceylon and Malacca,

the somewhat civilized mixed peoples constitute a sort of protective

zone, in the former case against the Singhalese and Tamils, in the

latter, against the Malays. These mixed peoples are despised, and

therefore they themselves hesitate to enter into intercourse with the

primitive tribes. Thus they offer an outer buttress against inpressing

culture. The result is that these primitive peoples continue to

live their old life essentially undisturbed. Now, the testimony of

unprejudiced observers is unanimous in maintaining that primitive man

is frank and honest, that lying is unknown to him, and that theft

does not exist. He may, of course, be strongly moved by emotion, so

that the man who disturbs the Veddah's marriage relation may be sure

of a poisoned arrow, as may also the strange huntsman who encroaches

unbidden upon his hunting-grounds. This reprisal is not based upon

legal enactments--of such there are none; it is custom that allows

this summary procedure. Many investigators have believed that these

various characteristics exhibited by unmixed primitive culture indicate

a high state of morality. In this they agree with Wilhelm Schmidt, for

whom primitive men are the infant peoples of the world, in that they

possess the innocence of childhood. It is not only man's moral outlook,

however, but also his moral character, as this very illustration

shows, that depends upon the environment in which he lives. Since the

primitive man who lives undisturbed by external conditions has no

occasion to conceal anything, his honesty and frankness ought scarcely

to be counted to his particular credit; so far as theft is concerned,

how can there be a thief where there is no property? It may, of course,

happen that an individual takes the weapon of his companion for a short

time and uses it. This action, however, is all the more permissible

since each man makes his own bow and arrow. The same is true of

clothing and articles of adornment. Thus, the rather negative morality

of primitive man also has its origin in his limited wants, in the

lack of any incentives to such action as we would call immoral. Such

a positive situation, however, is, no doubt, afforded by the strict

monogamy, which probably originated in the prehuman natural state and

was thenceforth maintained.

Quite different is the moral picture of primitive man wherever he is

at strife with surrounding peoples. Here, as was noted particularly by

Emin Pasha and Stuhlmann in the case of the Negritos of the Upper Nile,

the outstanding characteristics are, in the first place, fear, and then

deception and malice. But can we wonder at this when we learn that

the flesh of the Pygmies is especially prized by the anthropophagic

Monbuttus of that region, and that the pursuit of this human game on

the part of the latter is absolutely unrestrained, except by the fear

of the arrows which the Pygmies shoot from behind ambush? Here, of

course, innocence, frankness, and honesty are not to be expected; under

these circumstances, theft also comes to be a justifiable act. Wherever

the Negrito finds something to take, he takes it. The same is true of

the South African Bushmen, who occupy a similarly precarious position

with respect to the Bantus and Hottentots. The Bushmen are the most

notorious thieves of South Africa. Of this we have striking evidence in

the above-mentioned picture of the Bushman who glorifies and preserves

to memory the theft of cattle. The Bushman is crafty and treacherous,

and steals whenever there is opportunity. But what else could be

expected, when we consider that, by killing off the game with their

firearms, the Hottentots and Bantus deprive the Bushman of that which

was once his source of food, and that they shoot the Bushman himself if

he resists?

To summarize: The intelligence of primitive man is indeed restricted

to a narrow sphere of activity. Within this sphere, however, his

intelligence is not noticeably inferior to that of civilized man. His

morality is dependent upon the environment in which he lives. Where

he lives his life of freedom, one might almost call his state ideal,

there being few motives to immoral conduct in our sense of the word.

On the other hand, whenever primitive man is hunted down and hard

pressed, he possesses no moral principles whatsoever. These traits are

worth noting, if only because they show the tremendous influence which

external life exerts, even under the simplest conditions, upon the

development of the moral nature.