It is the contrast of spring, of newly awakened Nature and its

sprouting and growing crops, with winter and its dying vegetation,

that first finds expression in the deity myths which inspire the

vegetation festivals. The more permanent significance of these cults,

however, is due to the fact that the gods of vegetation gain an

increasing sphere of influence. The reason for this is obviously to

be found in the fact that subsidiary motives come to be incorporated

into the main cults of the earliest cultural peoples. _One_ factor

is of particular importance. Though inconspicuous in the earliest of

these cults, it becomes increasingly prominent as the cults become

more highly developed. I refer to _hopes of a beyond_. Of course, many

phases of the cult remain hidden to us. Due to the combinations already

mentioned and to the incorporation, in this case, of magical and

mystical elements, these cults acquired a secret nature in proportion

as they concerned themselves with the riddle of the beyond. The more

carefully the individual cult member guarded the secrets of the group,

the richer the blessings that he might hope to receive. Nevertheless,

the general psychological motives underlying this development enable

us to supplement the historical tradition. In this way it is possible

to gain a fairly positive knowledge of the process by which, with

an apparently almost universal uniformity, vegetation cults came to

combine with soul cults. The ideas of changing seasons, of summer

and winter, of the budding and the withering of grain, are naturally

associated with those of life and death. Winter and bleak nature

resemble death; and, just as lifeless nature is again resuscitated

in the spring, so also will the soul awaken to a bright and joyous

existence in the future. The connection is so obvious that poetry and

even myth itself everywhere refer to it. Hence also it could not have

been overlooked by the mythologists. Generally, however, this has

been regarded as an ingenious allegory by means of which man sought

to gain a vivid realization of the resurrection of the soul. In fact,

such allegorical reinterpretations occur in later cult legend itself.

Particularly characteristic of this is the legend of the Eleusinian

mysteries. Persephone, the daughter of Demeter, goddess of the crops,

is stolen by Pluto, ruler of the underworld, and the goddess-mother

wanders about on the earth seeking her child. Resentfully she withdraws

from the heavens and avoids the assemblages of the gods. During this

period of mourning, however, she devotes all of her care to mankind.

She protects not only the vegetation but also the germinating human

life, the child. Thus she becomes a benefactress upon earth. The gods,

however, mourn her absence, and Zeus makes a compact with the lord of

the underworld. Persephone is to remain in the underworld with her

husband, Pluto, during only one-half of the year; during the other

half she is to return to her mother. Appeased, Demeter herself returns

to the heavens. The allegorical significance of this legend cannot

fail to be recognized, nor the fact that it was probably only as a

result of a poetical elaboration of the mythological material that

this allegorical character was acquired. The same is true of all other

similar cult legends, from the descent into hell of the Babylonian

Ishtar down to the legends of Dionysos and Osiris, and other vegetation

legends of the Hellenistic period. In the form in which these have come

down to us, they are all products of priestly invention, replete with a

conscious symbolism such as cannot be ascribed to the original mythical

material upon which they were based. Nevertheless, it is customary not

only to regard all of this original content as allegorical, but also to

surpass even the traditional legend itself, if possible, in allegorical

interpretation. In the legend of Demeter, for example, Demeter is

supposed to be the mother earth, and Persephone the seed that is

thrown into the earth to grow up and blossom. Analogously, he who

participates in the cult hopes that, while his soul, similarly, is at

first buried in the earth with his body, it will later ascend to heaven

as did Demeter. Back of the myth, therefore, there is supposed to be a

symbolical allegory, and to this is attributed the original union of

the soul cult with the vegetation festival. When, then, the former lost

its influence, the symbolism it thought to have remained as the chief

content of the mystery. No original cult, however, shows the least sign

of connection with such subtle allegories. On the other hand, there

are many indications that the vegetation cults developed into these

higher forms of soul cults in an entirely different way. Soul cults

of a lower order had, of course, long been prevalent. But these were

absolutely distinct from any vegetation myths that may have existed.

They pictured souls as demons, against whom it was necessary to be on

one's guard, or, at a later stage, as beings whom one might conciliate

and win over as helpful spirits. Now, the cults of Demeter practised in

Eleusis had as their aim, not only an increased productiveness of the

soil, but also success in the interests and activities of this world.

Since they related to happiness in general, it was but natural that, as

soon as the ideas of a beyond reached a point of development at which

the yonder-world became the focus of desires and hopes, the cults also

should necessarily concern themselves with happiness in a life after

death. Thus, interest in the beyond came to be one of the further cult

motives that linked themselves to the dominant vegetation cults. The

latter, however, held the primacy, as is still clearly apparent by

reference to the vegetation festivals of the semi-cultural peoples of

America. It is only natural that this should have been the case. When

agriculture was in its beginnings, the most pressing need of life was

that of daily bread. For the tiller of the soil, moreover, the changes

of seasons marked by seedtime and harvest, represent sharply defined

periods, suitable above all others for the festivals to which tribal

associates assemble from near and far. The later allegories connected

with these cults had nothing to do with their transition into soul

cults, but, as their whole character indicates, were creations of the

priestly imagination. As a result of the reaction of cult activities

upon the emotions, however, concern for the future happiness of the

soul finally came more and more to overshadow the desires connected

with this world. Thus, the cults of Demeter eventually passed over,

in all essentials, into cults of the beyond. The same is true of the

Dionysos cults of the Greeks, of the Egyptian worship of Isis and

Osiris, of the Persian Mithra cult, and of many other mystery cults

of Oriental origin. All of these express the same passion for a

future bliss that shall begin at the close of earthly life and endure

endlessly.

The character of these cults is shaped, in a decisive measure, by other

influences, whose source is to be found in the hopes of a beyond. Even

in the vegetation festivals of the semi-cultural peoples of America,

with their elements of totemism and ancestor worship, an important

place is occupied by _ecstatic_ features--by the orgiastic dance, and

by the ecstasy that results from sexual excitement and from narcotic

poisons, such as tobacco. Conjurations, prayer, sacrifice, and other

cult ceremonies aid in stirring the emotions. Doubtless it was due to

these ecstatic elements that the cult of Dionysos gained supremacy over

the older cults of Demeter in the Greek mysteries, and that Dionysos

himself was eventually given a place in the Demeter cult. For is he

not the god of wine, the most potent of all the means for creating

a condition of bliss that elevates above all earthly cares? In the

mystery cults, however, the central feature of the cult activity was

the vision experienced in the ecstasy. The mysterious equipment of the

place, the preliminary ascetic practices, the liturgic conjurations

and sacrifices, the wine, which originally took the place of the

blood sacrifice, and, among the Hindoos, the soma, which was itself

deified--all of these served to transport consciousness to another

world, so that the cult became increasingly concerned with the world

beyond, and finally devoted itself exclusively to this interest. As a

result of this change, the hopes centring about the beyond forced their

way overpoweringly into cult, whereas the cult, in turn, reacted in an

important measure to enhance these hopes.

Over against the tendency toward unification inherent in vegetation

cults and in the other-world cults which sprang from them, the

increasing diversity of needs and interests now introduces influences

toward a progressive differentiation of cults. Separate deity cults

come to be fostered by the various social groups and classes, just as

had occurred in the case of the totem cults of the preceding age, which

differed according as they were practised by the tribe, the sex, or the

individual. The desire for protection against dangers and for security

in undertakings gives rise to guardian gods no less than it did to

guardian demons. Since, however, this more general desire branches

out into a considerable number of special desires, advancing culture

results in a progressive differentiation of cults. The foundation

of cities and the separation into classes and occupations lead to

special cults for each of these divisions of society. The personal

characteristics of the gods and the purposes of the cult come to be

affected, each by the other. Each specific cult chooses from among the

members of the pantheon that god who best suits its purpose, and it

then modifies his character according to its needs. The characteristics

of the gods thus undergo a change of significance analogous to that of

the forms of speech and custom. This change, however, is due mainly to

cult, and to the fact that the human beings who practise the cult have

need of protection and aid. The influence of saga and poetry is only

secondary, being, at best, mediated through cult.

In addition to the increasing diversity of human interests, and

interplaying with it in various ways, are two further factors that

tend toward the differentiation of cult. In the first place, divine

personality as such awakens man to the necessity of establishing

a cult. As a personal being who transcends human stature, the god

calls for adoration by his very nature, even apart from the special

motives which are involved in the specific deity cults and which, in

the further course of development, give to the latter their dominant

tone. Pure deity cults, thus, are the highest forms of cult, and give

best expression to ideal needs. Outstanding examples of this are the

Jahve cult of the Israelites, and the cults of Christ and Buddha. The

latter, in particular, show the great assimilative power of cults

that centre about an objective ideal, in contrast with those that are

subjective in nature, springing entirely from human desires and hopes,

and especially with that most subjective of all cults, the cult of the

beyond. Moreover, this idealizing impulse may also create new cults,

by deifying heroes who were originally conceived as human. Besides the

ancient hero cults, the most prominent examples of such cults are again

those of Christ and of Buddha. For there can be no doubt that Christ

and Buddha alike existed as human beings and that originally they were

also regarded as such. The fact that their heroic character consists

entirely in the spiritual qualities of their personalities does not

preclude them from consideration in this connection. These qualities

proved all the more effective in bringing about the exaltation of

the human into the divine. Thus, they enable us to understand how it

was possible for the cult of the original deities to be crowded into

the background by that of those who later came to be gods. This is

emphatically brought out in the Buddha legends, many of which represent

the ancient Hindoo gods of the Veda as the servants of the divine

Buddha.

In addition to the fact that divine personalities call forth homage

by their very nature, the multiplication of cults results also from

the fusion of the gods of various peoples. This is the most external

factor, and yet it is by no means the least potent one. It not

infrequently happens that cults gain their supreme importance only in

the territory into which they have been transplanted. Dionysos, for

example, was a god introduced from elsewhere into Greece. Through his

connection with the mystery cults, however, he later came to surpass

all other Greek gods in religious significance. The original cults

of the native Italian deities, with their numerous elements carried

over from the age of demoniacal and ancestral spirits, were but few

in number. Through the assimilation of Greek deities, however, and

later, at the time of the empire, of Oriental gods, differing widely

in character, Rome acquired a multiplicity of cults to which history

doubtless affords no parallel. Yet we must not overlook the fact that

in certain other cases--such, for example, as the Babylonian-Assyrian

and the Egyptian cults--the fusions may perhaps have become more

complete at an early period, and thus have precluded the juxtaposition

of the many separate cults that existed in the Rome of the Empire.

16. THE FORMS OF CULT PRACTICES.

This multiplicity of cults, increasing with the advance of civilization

both as regards the ends that are desired and the gods who are

worshipped, is by no means paralleled by the number of _cult agencies_.

The only possible exception might be in the case of the means which

the cults of the beyond employed for arousing ecstasy. Even here the

difference lies not so much in the means themselves as in the extent

to which they were used. Moreover, the secrecy surrounding these cults

is itself an external indication of the fact that they differed from

the cults concerned with the things of this world, for the latter

generally sought publicity. And yet there was no form of cult in which

ecstatic features were altogether lacking; such features are inherent,

to a certain extent, in cult practices as such and, in so far, are

absolutely universal. Differences in the specific purposes of the cults

and in the deities to whom the acts were dedicated did indeed cause

certain variations. These, however, we may here neglect, inasmuch

as they do not affect the essential nature of cult itself. From

early times on, there were certain activities that were universally

characteristic of deity cults, and their fundamental purposes remained

the same, namely, to gain the favour of the deity and thereby to

obtain the fulfilment of personal wishes. As regards this motive, the

_three_ cult agencies--_prayer, sacrifice_, and _sanctification_--are

absolutely at one. In this order of sequence, moreover, these agencies

represent a progressive intensification of the religious activity of

cult.

In the records of ancient civilized peoples we meet with a great number

of _prayers_, representing all the forms developed by this simplest

and most common of the means of cult. The most primitive form of

prayer is _conjuration_. Conjuration passed over from demon cult into

the beginnings of deity cult, and is intermediate between a means of

magic and a petition. This also indicates the direction of the further

development of the prayer. Conjuration is succeeded by the _prayer

of petition_, whose essential differentia consists in the fact that,

however earnestly the suppliant may strive for the fulfilment of his

desires, he nevertheless ultimately commits them to the will of the

deity. The development of the prayer of petition out of conjuration

becomes possible only because gods possess a characteristic which

demons lack--namely, personality. Once this personality attains to its

ideal sublimity, the exercise of magical power over the deity ceases

to be possible, or is so only under the presupposition that the will

of the deity is in itself favourably inclined toward the suppliant.

The idea underlying conjuration nevertheless continues for a time to

remain a supplementary factor in the prayer of petition; even where

no clearly conscious trace of it appears, it survives in the depth of

emotion that reinforces the petition. That conjuration blends with

petition is particularly evident in the case of _one_ characteristic,

whose origin must be traced to magical conjuration. I refer to the

fact that the _words of the petition_ are _repeated_ in the same or in

a slightly changed form, and that, at a later stage of development,

there is a constant recurrence of the same content, even though this

is variously expressed. This is a derivative characteristic of the

prayer of petition. Originally, it was thought that repetition brought

about an intensification of the magical effect, particularly in the

case of word-magic. We are already familiar with conjurations of

this sort as elements of totemic cults. With but few changes, they

recur in the older songs of the Avesta and Veda, as well as in some

of the Biblical Psalms. In these cases, however, the repetitions are

somewhat more extensive, for there is a more detailed statement of

that which is desired. And yet the Biblical Psalms, particularly, are

an illustration of the fact that, with submission to the will of the

deity, the petition becomes less urgent in tone. Even when the petition

is repeated the expression more and more assumes a somewhat altered

form. It is probably this enhancement through repetition--itself, in

turn, due to the dynamic character of the emotions of desire--that

accounts for the so-called 'parallelism of members,' characteristic

especially of Hebrew poetry. The view, once entertained, that this

is a sort of substitute for the rhythm arising from emphasis and

sentence arrangement is doubtless incorrect, for recent investigations

demonstrate the ingenious rhythm of Hebrew poetry. We would not, of

course, deny that the repetition of the thought in a changed form

intensifies the rhythmic expression. The real basis of the repetition,

however, lies not in this fact but in the motive underlying petition.

This is clear, above all, from the fact that repetition is most

pronounced particularly in those psalms and prophetic songs which are

of the nature of a prayer of petition and of the praises closely

connected with it. Later, repetition was also employed in other

forms of religious expression. In the case of the hymn of praise,

particularly, the tendency to repetition is augmented, by virtue of the

enthusiastic exaltation of the divine personality whom the hymn extols.

Besides the prayer of petition we find the _prayer of thanksgiving_.

Petition and thanksgiving are properly correlative, the one expressing

a wish to the deity and the other acknowledging its fulfilment. Not

infrequently, therefore, they are combined, particularly in the more

advanced forms of the prayer cult, into a single prayer of thanksgiving

and petition. He who prays returns thanks for the blessings which

he has received and adds a request for further divine aid. This

combination occurs very frequently in the Psalms, but it is to be

found also in other hymnodies. The extent to which the request for

further favours is subordinated to the thanksgiving for past aid, is

a measure of the humility involved, and represents a fair criterion

of the maturity of the religious feeling underlying the prayer.

Nevertheless, it may also be noticed that he who prays always aims

first to gain the divine favour through his thanksgiving, in the hope

that the gods may thereby be rendered more disposed to grant his

request. Typical examples of this are to be found, not only in the

Biblical Psalms, but also in the ancient Babylonian texts which recent

discoveries have brought to light. That the prayer of thanksgiving is

a higher form of prayer than is petition, is shown by the very fact

that it occurs in deity cult alone. More clearly even than petition

does thanksgiving presuppose a personal being, capable of appreciating

the feeling of gratitude. It is at most in the fact that the prayer

of thanksgiving still seeks to obligate the deity to future favours,

that demon-conjuration has left its traces upon it. And yet deity cult

is characterized precisely by the fact that the compulsion of magical

conjuration has entirely disappeared in favour of the free volition

of the deity. That prayer is regarded as imposing an obligation upon

the god no less than upon man, is extremely well brought out in the

conception that the relation of the two is that of a contract, or of

a covenant sealed in the cult. This idea, reinforced by the national

significance of the deity, is fundamental in the Jahve cult of the

Israelites.

_Praise_, or, as it is called in its poetic forms, the _hymn_, is

an even more pronounced feature of deity cult than is the prayer of

thanksgiving. The hymn is not usually classified as a form of prayer

because, when externally regarded, it may entirely lack the motive of

petition, and it is from the latter that the prayer has derived its

name. In view, however, of the continuity of the development of the

cult forms which find expression in speech, we cannot escape including

also the song of praise. Indeed, it generally adduces the blessings

conferred by the god as an evidence of his glory; not infrequently,

moreover, it concludes with a hope for the future favour of the deity.

Artistically perfect examples of such prayers are the compositions

known as the Homeric Hymns, which, of course, belong to a much later

age than the Homeric epics. They are pæans in praise of Demeter,

Apollo, Dionysos, and Hermes, in which the laudation of the beneficent

activity of these deities takes the form of a recital of some incident

in their lives, followed by a prospective glance at the favour which

they may be expected to bestow in the future.

In these cases, the song of praise clearly represents a development of

the prayer of thanksgiving. The final and most mature form of prayer,

however, the _penitential prayer_, or, as it is usually called, the

_penitential psalm_, may in a certain sense be called a subform of the

petitional prayer. In it, either external need or the consciousness

of personal guilt leads the individual to call upon the gods for

mercy and for forgiveness of the committed sin. Typical examples are

again available in the Hebraic and Babylonian psalms. These psalms

contain, in the first instance, prayers of cult, which were offered

on the occasion of national disasters and needs, such as crop failure

or drought, or, as in the case particularly of the Israelites, were

repeated at stated times in penitence for the sins of the community.

Such being the motives, the most universal form of prayer, that of

petition, may here also be discerned in the background. Not only is

the penitential psalm in and for itself a particular form of petition,

containing as it does a plea for the forgiveness of committed sins, but

it is frequently combined with a direct prayer for the favour of the

deity and for renewed manifestations of grace through a fortunate turn

of destiny. In spite of this egoistic strain, however, which, just as

in the case of the song of praise, is seldom absent, the penitential

prayer is, religiously speaking, the highest form of prayer, and may be

found only at an advanced stage of deity cult. Above all other forms

of prayer, its emphasis falls on the inner life; where it comes to

expression in its purity, it seeks not external goods, but only peace

of conscience. Moreover, more than anywhere else, we find in it a

resignation to the will of the deity. This resignation, in turn, draws

its strength from the belief that human destiny is in the absolute

control of the gods, everything experienced by the individual or by

the cult community being interpreted as a divine punishment or reward.

Thus, the penitential prayer is closely bound up, on the one hand,

with the idea of a divine providence and, on the other, with ideas of

retribution. Neither the idea of providence nor that of retribution is

to be found in early deity cult; both are products of the subsequent

religious development. Moreover, the issue is not changed by raising

the question whether the retribution is regarded as occurring here or

in the beyond. As a matter of fact, the retributive idea is far from

being implicated with other-world hopes. The conviction that punishment

will overtake the guilty man even in this world, because of the direct

connection between present fortune and misfortune and the worship of

the gods, is itself the immediate source of the idea of a divine power

ever controlling the destinies of mankind.

In addition to prayer, however, and usually bound up with it, there

is a second important form of cult practice, namely, _sacrifice_. The

usual conception of sacrifice is altogether too narrow--just as is

the case with prayer. Hence the origin and significance of sacrifice

have been misunderstood. In view of one of its prominent features in

the more highly developed cults, sacrifice is usually regarded as a

gift to the deity, and the various meanings that a gift may have are

then simply held to apply to sacrifice itself. Accordingly, the purpose

of sacrifice is limited either to disposing the god favourably toward

the sacrificing individual or community, or to obtaining forgiveness

for committed sins. In the Priests' Code of the Israelites, this

second form of sacrifice--the trespass or sin-offering--also served

the former purpose, thus acquiring the significance of an act of

reconciliation which at the same time blotted out any transgressions

of the past. The sin-offering, on the other hand, was concerned with

purification from a single, definite sin for which the forgiveness of

the deity had to be obtained. The peace-offering, therefore, was a

cult that was celebrated in common and on a specific day, whereas the

sin-offering was brought only on special occasions, when an individual

or a restricted group felt the burdens of conscience because of a

committed sin. Corresponding to the different purposes indicated by

the words 'reconciliation' and 'forgiveness' was the manner in which

the sacrifice was brought. The peace-offering was taken to definitely

established centres of cult, primarily to the temple at Jerusalem.

Those bringing the sacrifice shared its enjoyment with the deity in the

sacrificial meal, which was an expression of the covenant concluded

with the deity for the future. The sin-offering was made whenever

occasion demanded, and the sacrifice was designed for the deity alone.

After the removal of the portion reserved for the priesthood, the

remainder was burned--those making the sacrifice could enjoy none

of it. If we regard both kinds of sacrifice as forms of gift, the

peace-offering would correspond more closely to an actual gift with

a certain tinge of bribery, though this conception is rendered less

crude by the fact that the sacrifice represents also a covenant which

receives expression in the sacrificial meal. The sin-offering, on the

other hand, is more of the nature of a penalty, similar to that which a

judge imposes in satisfaction of a crime.

It must be granted that there is a stage in the development of

sacrificial cult in which the gift motive is dominant. Nevertheless,

even here there are concomitant phenomena which clearly indicate

that the sacrifice cannot originally have had the significance of a

gift. On the contrary, there has been, in part, a change in meaning

and, in part, an arbitrary reinterpretation of phenomena. The Jewish

peace-offering was not a true gift. This is evidenced by the fact

alone that one of its chief features was the sacrificial feast,

which involved the idea of the deity's participation in the meal. In

connection with this idea of communion with the deity, the offering of

parts of the consumed sacrifice was manifestly only a secondary motive.

Nor was the renunciation required of the sacrificer in connection with

the Jewish sin-offering a feature which had anything in common with a

gift. It was similar rather to punishment. Moreover, all resemblance

whatsoever to a gift disappears when we call to mind the earliest forms

of sacrifice, as well as the objects that were offered. One of the

oldest sacrifices, found even within totemic culture, was that offered

to the dead. In its broadest sense, this comprehends everything that

was given over to the deceased, or that was burned with him, in case

cremation was practised. Such objects originally included some of the

belongings of the deceased, particularly his weapons and personal

decorations. After despotic forms of government arose, the death of a

chief or of a person of influence demanded also the sacrifice of his

animals, slaves, and wives. We are already familiar with the change of

motives that here occurred. At first, the aim was to keep the deceased

from approaching the living; later, it was to equip him with whatever

might be of service in his future life. The sacrifice then became an

offering to the demon of the deceased, designed to win his aid for

the living. Finally, it was devoted to the gods, whose favour was

sought both for the deceased and for the survivors. A survey of the

development as a whole shows that the gift motive was at first entirely

lacking, and that even later it was of relatively little importance.

The idea of magic was predominant. The aim was to bring the power of

magic to bear upon the deceased and his demon, and finally upon the

gods. The demon was to be kept at a distance, just as in the case of

burial and of the binding of the corpse, and the gods were to be won

over to a friendly attitude. This appears even more clearly when we

consider the objects that were sacrificed. In this respect, there was

an important change, first mediated, probably, by the cult of the dead,

and thence carried over to sacrifice in general. The sacrificer offered

such parts of his own body as were held to be the specific vehicles

of the soul. Homer tells us that Achilles deposited the two locks of

hair, which he had once promised to his native river god, upon the

dead body of Patroclus. The use as a sacrifice to the dead of a gift

dedicated to a god, clearly indicates that the two forms of sacrifice

possessed an identical significance. The deceased takes with him into

the underworld part of the person of the sacrificer. Similarly, it

was believed that the psychical powers of the deity are, on the one

hand, strengthened through the soul which he receives in sacrifice,

and are, on the other hand, inclined toward the one who brings the

offering. In animal sacrifice, the blood was poured out beside the

sacrificial stone for the enjoyment of the god. Of the inner parts of

the bloody sacrifice, it was again those that were in ancient times

regarded as the chief vehicles of the soul, the kidneys with the

surrounding fat, that were particularly set aside for the god. Closely

connected with this is the sacrifice which, through self-mutilation,

the priests and temple servants offered in the case of ecstatic cults

(pp. 294 f.). In all of these instances the ideas of magic and of gift

intermingle. The soul-vehicles which are offered are also gifts to the

deity, intended for his enjoyment. In partaking of them, however, a

magical influence is released by means of which the will of the deity

is controlled, or, in the view of a more advanced age, is favourably

inclined toward the sacrificer. The same idea prevails when public

sacrifice demands a human being, instead of an animal, as a vicarious

offering for the sacrificing community. Indeed, human sacrifice also

has its prototype in the sacrifice to the dead, though the sacrificial

idea is in this case kept in the background, inasmuch as the dominant

purpose is to equip the deceased with that which he requires for

his further life. Human sacrifice proper, therefore, is at most

connected with faint survivals of this older practice. In contrast

with the latter custom, the individual sacrificed to the deity serves

as a _substitute_ for the community. In this form, however, human

sacrifice does not antedate animal sacrifice, as has been believed,

but follows upon it. Still later, of course, it was again displaced

by the latter, as is graphically portrayed in the Biblical legend of

Abraham and Isaac. The priority of animal sacrifice is attested, first

of all, by its incomparably wider distribution. Human sacrifice, and

traditions indicative of it, appear to be altogether restricted to

the great agricultural festivals and solstice-cults in which the one

who is sacrificed serves, on the one hand, as a substitute for the

sacrificing community which offers itself to the deity in his person,

and, on the other hand, as the representative of the god himself.

Convincing proof of this is furnished by the traditions regarding the

seasonal cults of the ancient Mexicans, as these have been reported by

K. Th. Preusz. Prior to the sacred festival at which an individual was

offered in sacrifice, he was himself reverenced as a god. The twofold

significance of the human sacrifice becomes perfectly intelligible in

the light of the above-mentioned fusion of the ideas of gift and of

magic. Dedication to the deity and union with him merge so completely

that they become a single conception. Even the blood poured out upon

the sacrificial altar was not merely an offering, but, as a vehicle of

the soul, was supposed to transfer to the deity who received it the

desires of the offerer. What was true of the blood was quite naturally

pre-eminently true when the object of sacrifice was the person

himself. In this case, all the organs were offered, and, therefore,

the entire soul. This is the most extreme form of the sacrificial idea,

and occurs only in the sacrificial cult of fairly large political and

religious communities. As is characteristic of legend, the 'Abraham

and Isaac' story individualizes the ancient tradition, construing

the latter as an account of a test of obedience to the god--an

interpretation very obviously to be regarded as an invention of later

priestly wisdom. On the other hand, the Roman Saturnalia, the Persian

festival of Sacæa, and other agricultural cults of the ancient world,

exhibit traces of the sacrifice of a human being who represents the

deity himself. Along with these we might probably mention also the

Babylonian festival of Tammuz and the Jewish feast of Purim. Finally,

the Christian conception of the sacrificial death of Jesus combines

the same ideas, though their religious significance is transformed and

reinforced by the thought of redemption, which has displaced the older

protective and fortune-bringing magic. The sacrificial community has

here become the whole of mankind, and the one who by his death brings

about a reconciliation with the deity is himself the god. For this

reason dogma insists--with a logic that is perhaps unconscious and

mystical in nature, yet all the more compelling--on the unity of the

divine personality with that of the redeemer who died the sacrificial

death. This fusion of sacrificial conceptions thus gave rise to the

most impressive and effective story that the human mind ever conceived.

Herewith we reach the culminating point in the development of the

idea of a gift offered to the deity, and here also the sacrificial

object attains its highest _worth_. That the sacrificer, however, is

little concerned with the value of the objects which he brings, is

obvious from the fact that these are frequently without any objective

value whatsoever. Such, for example, are the small pictures offered

in Chinese ancestor cult, and also the miniature representations of

desired objects which are placed on votive altars--instances in which,

of the two ideas combined in sacrifice, that of the gift again entirely

vanishes, leaving as the sole motive the more primitive idea of magic,

which never completely disappears. Wherever sacrifice is dominated

by the idea of a gift offered to the deity, the sacrificer, in turn,

seeks to gain certain ends in return for the value of his gifts. The

scale of values may be either quantitative or qualitative, or both

combined. Even in the case of the bloody sacrifice both criteria are,

as a rule, involved. At the great festivals of Athens and other Greek

cities, one hundred steers were sacrificed to the gods, the greater

part of the sacrifice, of course, serving as food for the people. In

Israel, the rich man sacrificed his bullock, the poor man, his young

goat. It was the conception of value that caused especially the fruits

of the field, as well as the products of the cattle industry, milk and

butter, to become objects of sacrifice. Later, sacrificial offerings

were also made in terms of jewels and money. These were brought to the

temple for the decoration of the house of the god and for the support

of the cult or the relief of the poor. This development was influenced

by another change, connected with the transition from the earlier

bloody sacrifice to the bloodless sacrifice. Prior to the influence of

the sacrificial customs, the bloody sacrifice involved the loss of the

sacrificial animals. These were either entirely burned and thus given

to the gods, or their flesh was consumed by the cult members at the

sacrificial feast, the god receiving only those parts that were prized

as the vehicles of the soul. Now, bloodless sacrifice belongs to a

higher stage both of culture and of cult. In general, it presupposes an

advanced agricultural and cattle industry, as well as the existence of

more extensive cult-needs whose satisfaction the sacrifice is designed

to secure. Thus, the two conditions mutually reinforce each other. The

products of agriculture cannot be directly offered to the deity as

can the burnt offering, which ascends to heaven in the smoke. On the

other hand, the cult cannot dispense with certain means, and these are

obtained by utilizing in its interests the economic foresight which

has been acquired by the agriculturist and the cattle-raiser in the

course of their work. In place of the direct products of husbandry,

the succeeding age more and more substitutes costly jewels and money.

Thus, the development which began with the burnt offering concludes

with the money offering. This later offering is no longer made directly

to the deity, or, at most, this occurs in the accompanying prayer; the

offerer bestows his gifts upon the temple, the priests, or the poor.

By so doing he hopes to win the divine favour indirectly, through the

merit which such gifts possess or through the cult activities which are

purchased by means of them.

The earliest forms of sacrifice are thus more and more displaced by

cult agencies which, to a certain extent, themselves approximate to

purification ceremonies. This transformation, however, cannot suppress

the original sacrificial purpose, which was solely that of exercising a

direct magical influence upon the deity. We now meet with phenomena in

which this purpose asserts itself all the more potently, because of the

above development--phenomena from which the idea of a gift possessing

objective value is entirely absent. We refer particularly to votive

and consecration gifts. These very names, indeed, are evidence of the

confusion which a one-sided emphasis of the gift-idea has introduced

into the interpretation of sacrifice. For votive and consecration gifts

generally consist of artificial objects which are ordinarily devoid of

any artistic or other value. They are deposited on the altars of the

gods, or, in the Catholic cult, on those of the saints, either to make

known a wish, as does the 'gift of consecration,' or, less frequently,

to render thanks for the fulfilment of a desire, as in the case of the

'votive offering.' Although these offerings, even in their beginnings,

are inseparable from a fairly developed deity cult--since they

presuppose altars upon which they are placed, and, therefore, temples

consecrated to the gods--it is practically the amulet alone that may

be said to rival them in extent of distribution. They occur in ancient

Egypt, as well as in Greece and Rome. They were known also to Germanic

antiquity, from whence they probably found their way into the Catholic

cults of Mary and the saints. The consecration gift corresponds to the

prayer of petition, the votive offering to the prayer of thanksgiving;

these prayers, accordingly, are spoken when the object is placed upon

the altar. The gift of consecration is the earlier and more common,

just as the prayer of petition precedes that of thanksgiving. The

peculiarity of this cult, however, consists in the fact that the

object offered as a sacrifice is an artificially fashioned image,

usually reduced in size, of the object in connection with which aid

is sought. This obviously gives it a certain relationship with the

fetish, on the one hand, and with the amulet, on the other. As a matter

of fact, the so-called 'consecration gifts' are not in the least

real gifts. The sick man presents a figure of the diseased part of

his body, fashioned of clay, bronze, or wax, and the peasant who has

suffered a loss of cattle brings a representation of the animal. In

themselves, these objects are valueless; nor can they be of service to

the deity to whom they are brought, as was doubtless believed by the

sacrificers to be true in the case of the animal that was slaughtered,

as well as of the blood, and doubtless also of the fruits which were

offered. The significance of such a gift of consecration lies solely

in its subjective value, just as does that of the primitive amulet,

which is likewise an article without any objective worth. To believe,

however, that this value consists in the fact that the consecration

gift symbolizes the submissive reverence of the offerer would be to

read back a later stage of religious thought into an age to which

such symbols are entirely foreign. Moreover, the purposes of this

sacrifice make such an interpretation impossible. The vast majority of

consecration sacrifices have another similarity to amulets, in addition

to that just mentioned; those who bring them seek healing from disease.

Hence, in ancient times, such offerings were brought chiefly to the

temple of Æsculapius. Just as the amulet, in its most common forms,

is designed as a protection against dreaded sicknesses, so also does

the consecration gift aim at relief from actual suffering. The amulet,

however, may be traced far back into the period of demon-cult, and its

characteristic types, therefore, are patterned on the more prevalent

expressions of demon-belief, such as cord magic. The consecration

gift, on the other hand, is associated with deity cult, and takes the

form of sacrifice. Moreover, it reverts to the most primitive kind of

sacrifice, to the purely magical offering. The leg of wax offered by

the lame is simply a means of magic. Since it possesses no objective

value, it is worthless as a gift, and, as a means of magic, it is

again of the most primitive sort. The sacrificial object is regarded

as having a soul, quite in the sense of early animism. Through its

immanent psychical power it is to exercise magical coercion over the

soul of the god or the saint. Its potency is precisely the same as that

which the soul of the sacrificial animal or human being is supposed to

possess. The only difference is that the external characteristics of

animistically conceived objects ordinarily force into the background

the idea that the sacrifice magically becomes identical with the deity

who receives it, whereas this conception comes out with especial

clearness when the offering consists of an animal or of a human being.

This is strikingly shown by the above-mentioned sacrificial festivals,

in which, prior to being offered as a sacrifice, the individual was

himself reverenced as the god to whom he was to be offered. True,

the fact that the human individual, as well as the animal, possesses

a value for those who bring the sacrifice, also introduces the idea

of a gift; added to this, moreover, in the case of human sacrifice,

is the further thought that the sacrifice is a substitution for the

sacrificial community.

Thus, the idea of a magical effect upon the deity is combined with

that of a gift designed to gain his favour. This appears also in

connection with the sacrifice of the _first-fruits of the harvest_ or,

with what is only a transference from the fruits of the field to the

animal used in its cultivation, that of the first-born of the cattle.

From the standpoint of the gift theory, such an offering is regarded

as a particularly valuable gift. But this greater value is again

exclusively of a subjective nature. Objectively speaking, the mere

fact that it is the first of the fruits or the first-born of the cattle

that is offered, does not give the sacrifice any additional value.

Very probably the decisive factor is the preference which man gives

the gods in the enjoyment of the fruits of the field. It certainly

cannot be denied that this motive is operative, particularly in later

development. That it was the original notion, however, is improbable.

Obviously, this offering is closely related to the custom, common

even to-day, of leaving the last sheaf in the harvest-field. This

custom, which W. Mannhardt was able to trace from ancient times down to

rural festivals that are still prevalent, is also of the nature of a

sacrifice. On such occasions, an egg, a piece of bread, or the picture

of a human being or of an animal, is sometimes tied to the first or to

the last sheaf of the harvest and left upon the field. Such acts are

obviously due to the need of attributing to the garnered grain life and

a soul, as well as the ability to influence by its soul the vegetation

demons of the field, and, in later times, the gods who protect the

cultivated soil. The custom could scarcely have originated except

for the presence, from the very outset, of the idea of a psychical

power resident in the sprouting seed. Later, the idea of a gift here

also forced the magical motive into the background. Indeed, it may

well be that this caused the sacrificial usages which originally, as

it appears, marked the end of the harvest, to be put forward to its

beginning.

It is only ideas of magic, furthermore, that can account for the

practice of _divination_. Connected with sacrifice are various

phenomena that are accidental in nature and unforeseeable on the part

of the sacrificer. These phenomena are such as to be sometimes regarded

as indications of the acceptance or the rejection of the sacrifice

on the part of the deity, while at other times they are interpreted

from a different point of view, as general prophetic signs. In the

case of the burnt offering, for example, the direct ascent of the

smoke to the heavens was regarded as a sign that the deity graciously

accepted the offering. Similarly, the examination of entrails, common

among Oriental as well as Occidental peoples, originally, doubtless,

had the purpose of discovering whether the animal possessed a nature

pleasing to the gods. Later, however, it became one of a large class

of general prophetic signs (_prodigia_), such as the flight of

birds, lightning, clouds, and other incalculable phenomena of nature

by which the future was predicted, particularly in respect to the

success or failure of enterprises about to be undertaken. Because of

the general relationship of magic and divination, the sacrificial

cult borders upon the _oracle_. In the oracle, man wishes to read the

future; in the sacrifice, he wishes to influence it by his action.

This of itself implies that sacrifice occupies the higher plane.

The belief in prophetic signs passed over from demon cult to deity

worship with relatively little change, except that it became connected

with particular gods or priesthoods and was therefore more strictly

regulated. The hopes of a beyond, which were involved in the ecstatic

practices of the orgiastic cults, opened up a new field to prophecy,

and supplied divination with additional methods--the dream and the

vision. Though connected in various ways with sacrificial cult, these

phenomena are far from containing the wealth of religious motives

involved in the former. Nor do they develop any common cult. This is

due particularly to the fact that ecstatic visions are dependent upon a

certain psychological predisposition, a fact which also enables us to

understand the influence exercised by the individual seer and prophet

upon religion and cult.

A third, and the highest, form of cult practice consists in

_sanctification ceremonies_. Just as sacrifice is bound up with

the various forms of prayer--conjuration, petition, thanksgiving,

and penitence--so, in turn, is the sanctification ceremony closely

connected with both sacrifice and prayer. On the one hand, it is

reinforced by accompanying prayers; on the other, it results directly

from sacrifice, particularly whenever the latter takes the form of a

cult practice that brings mankind into association with the deity.

In this event, the ceremony of sanctification represents an activity

supplementary to sacrifice. The impulse to sanctification gains the

dominance over the sacrificial idea as soon as the desires relating to

the personal worth of the sacrificer himself gain ascendancy over the

external motives which at first prevailed. This subjective interest,

of course, appears only after the religious life has become relatively

mature; at the outset, moreover, it is still everywhere combined with

sacrificial practices that centre about external possessions. Once it

has finally freed itself, and has become purely a sacrifice designed to

enhance personal worth, it becomes a _means of sanctification_. When

sacrifice has reached this highest stage, however, the idea of a gift

presented to the deity by the sacrificer completely disappears--in so

far, there is a resemblance to the very earliest sacrifices, which were

of a purely magical nature and were in no sense intended as gifts. If,

therefore, the sacrifice of self-sanctification retains any connection

at all with the conception of a gift, the sacrificer must not only

be said to offer himself to the deity but the deity must likewise be

regarded as giving himself to the sacrificer.

Nevertheless, the origins of sanctification ceremonies and of sacrifice

are essentially diverse. At the outset, moreover, these cult practices

adopt different paths, meeting only at the height of their development.

True, the sanctification ceremony is rooted in magic belief, just as

is sacrifice. In primitive sacrifice, however, the magic is directed

externally; in the case of sanctification, on the other hand, the

object of the magic is the human being himself who performs the cult

action or who permits it to be performed upon him. Even in the earliest

stages of these practices, therefore, the sanctification ceremony

occupies the higher level; hence, also, this ceremony is subsequent in

origin to sacrifice. And yet practices presaging sanctification may be

found in much more primitive cults, in the _purification ceremonies_,

whose beginnings may be traced far back into the totemic age. We have

already mentioned the fact that water and fire were used as means of

magical purification even in the period of demon-belief (pp. 201 ff).

So long as they retain this significance, they may both be classed

as agencies of counter-magic. Their function is to counteract the

evil spells that result from contact with a corpse or with some other

object that is regarded as taboo. Purification by fire has the same

significance. Because of the more elaborate preparations which it

requires, however, such purification tends, from the very beginning,

to take the form of a public cult celebration. As a result, it passes

over directly from the field of counter-magic into that of magic

proper--a reversal common in the field of magical usage. At this point,

purification becomes sanctification. For, the original purpose of the

means which the latter employs is always that of affording protection

against _future_ attacks on the part of the demoniacal powers that

threaten man from without, or, in a later and a religiously purified

interpretation, against personal transgressions resulting from man's

inner nature. Herewith the development reaches the stage of the

sanctification ceremony proper. The belief that sanctification is

necessary for the individual can arise only in connection with deity

beliefs, for it is bound up with ideas of retribution. The latter, in

turn, depend upon the feeling of the personal guilt of the individual

no less than upon the belief in the existence of personal gods who

avenge the sins that are committed. Precisely the same change that

takes place in the development of purification by fire transpires also

in the case of water, the second and more common means of lustration.

Here this transition is most clearly evident in connection with

_baptism_. True, even Christian baptism still partly retains the

idea of lustration. For, though the newborn child who is baptized is

not himself conscious of any wrongdoing, he is nevertheless tainted,

according to the doctrine of inherited guilt, by the original sin from

which he must be cleansed. Baptism thus incorporates the meaning both

of purification and of sanctification. The latter conception, however,

asserts its dominance. And yet the Anabaptists, though insisting that

man is unworthy of the sacred act unless he submits to it of his

own free will, have also wished to preserve, along with the idea of

sanctification, the idea of purification, which is both more original

and, for sense perception, more real. Moreover, baptism also occurs

with this twofold meaning outside the pale of Christianity, not only

among the Hebrews, to whom the Christian religion is indebted for

the cult, but even elsewhere, particularly among Semitic and African

peoples. Sometimes it occurs alongside of another very common custom,

that of _circumcision_; sometimes, as in Christendom, it is found

where the latter is lacking; in still other regions, circumcision is

practised, whereas there is no real baptism aside from the ordinary

rites of lustration. This diversity itself testifies to the essential

difference between the two cult practices--for that circumcision also

must be classed as such there cannot be any doubt. Circumcision,

however, is not a means either of purification or of sanctification,

but is of the nature of a _sacrifice_. Along with the offering of hair

in the cult of the dead and with the pouring out of blood in connection

with deity worship, it belongs to that form of sacrifice in which

the sacrificial object gains its unique value by virtue of its being

the vehicle of the soul. Thus, the object of sacrifice, in the case

of circumcision, may perhaps be interpreted as a substitute for such

internal organs as the kidneys or testicles, which are particularly

prized as vehicles of the soul but which can either not be offered at

all, on the part of the living, or whose sacrifice involves serious

difficulties.

Originally, sanctification and lustration not only employed the same

means but also followed identical methods. The need frequently came to

be felt, however, of an external distinction between these two cult

practices. Ablution thus came to be regarded as the proper method of

actual purification, whereas _sprinkling_ was adopted in connection

with sanctification. This also indicates the antithetical positions

which the two hold with respect to magic and counter-magic. Lustration

aims to remove moral, or, in the last analysis, demoniacal impurity;

sanctification furnishes him who seeks its blessings with water

possessed of magical powers. For this reason purification water fell

into disuse with the disappearance of belief in demoniacal impurity.

On the other hand, it was believed that sanctification water must

remain as available as possible to him who stands in need of its

virtues. Just as baptism is a cult agency whose purpose is intermediate

between purification and sanctification, so also does the priest

who conducts it lay emphasis, now on the one, and now on the other

of these phases. When sprinkling comes to be employed as a means of

sanctification, the magical significance of the act leads to a further

change. Ordinary water, such as is generally used in lustration,

no longer suffices--the water itself needs sanctification if it is

to serve the purpose for which it is designed. Even in the ancient

mystery cults, therefore, one of the chief elements in the ceremonies

of sanctification consisted in sprinkling the members with water from

sacred springs. The Jordan festival of the Greek Catholic Church still

employs water from the river after which it is named, or ordinary water

that has magically been converted into Jordan water. The relation of

the burning of incense to lustration by fire is the same as that of

sprinkling to lustration by water. And yet, in the case of incense,

the idea of sanctification has almost entirely suppressed the earlier

aim of purification. The purpose of sanctification finds its specific

expression in the belief that the smoke cannot have a sanctifying

effect without the addition of certain other elements. Balsamic

substances were therefore used. First and foremost among these, even

in ancient times, was incense resin, whose exciting and narcotic odour

enhances the magical effect. The herbs and resins that were thrown

into the flames, however, were also generally regarded as sacrificial

gifts to the gods, whose delight in the ascending odours would, it was

thought, render them favourably disposed toward the offerer.

Thus, sanctification ceremony and sacrifice become merged. The highest

form of sanctification, moreover, originates in sacrifice itself. It

appears as soon as the idea of intercourse with the deity becomes

elevated to that of communion with him. This occurs especially in

the _sacrificial feast_. When the sacrificial food is sanctified by

virtue of the fact that the deity partakes of it, this sanctification

is imparted to those human individuals who receive a share of the

sacrifice. In proportion as the worth of the sacrifice increases,

so does also the degree of sanctification. The latter reaches its

culmination in _human sacrifice_, where the person sacrificed is the

representative both of the sacrificial community and of the deity

himself. Sanctification here becomes deification for every participant

in the sacrifice. Following the disappearance of human sacrifice,

this idea was maintained in connection with the sacred animal that

was substituted for man, and finally, after bloody sacrifice was

entirely abandoned, in connection with the bread which constituted

the sacrificial food. In the most diverse cults of the Old and of

the New World, this bread was moulded into the form, sometimes of

a human being and sometimes of an animal. In this case again, the

sacrificial cult of Christianity unites the various elements. When

taken as a whole, the different interpretations that have been given

to sacrifice in the Christian world include conceptions representing

all the various stages of development. The bread and wine of the

sacrament perpetuate the memory of the most exalted human sacrifice

known to religious tradition, since, in this case, the idea of the

unity of the sacrificial person with the deity continues to survive in

the cult of the redeeming deity. In this sacrificial meal, moreover,

elements of related sacrificial cults survive--the idea of the paschal

lamb, borrowed from the Jewish Passover, and the substitution of wine,

as in the Dionysian mysteries, for the blood of the sacrificed god.

To the Christian, moreover, this sacrificial sanctification has had

_three_ distinct meanings, though these, of course, have frequently

been intermingled. There have been magical, mystical, and symbolical

interpretations--a series of stages through which all sanctification

ceremonies pass. To the uncritical mind, he who receives the bread of

the sacrament partakes of the actual body of Christ. Following upon

this stage of miracle and magic, is the idea that the cult act effects

a mystical union with the Redeemer, a union that is not corporeal

but spiritual. At the third stage, the cult action finally becomes

the symbol of a religious exaltation of spirit. This exaltation is

regarded as possible in itself without the external manifestation;

nevertheless, it is reinforced by the latter, in accordance with the

general relationship that obtains between inner needs and external

actions. Moreover, in each of these three cases, participation

in the common sacrificial meal is evidence of membership in the

religious society--a feature common to all firmly organized religious

associations. Such membership must be attested by participation in the

cult celebrations. Of the ceremonies in which expression is given to

one's religious affiliations, the sacrificial meal has been regarded,

from early times on, as the most important. The end of the development

thus returns to its beginning. The meal, enjoyed in common at fixed

times, differentiates cultural man from the man of nature. Among all

meals in which a relatively large community unites, however, the

sacrificial feast is probably the earliest, just as the cult festival

is the earliest festival celebration.

17. THE ART OF THE HEROIC AGE.

A survey of the various phases of human interest will show that they

are all present from the very beginning in the mental organization

of man. Moreover, they are throughout so interconnected that an

advance in one field of interest will lead to progress in general.

Nevertheless, we are unable to escape the further observation that,

in the life of the individual, certain capacities develop earlier

than others. Precisely the same is true of the life of humanity. The

phenomena in which the character of ages and peoples receives its chief

expression differ in each of the periods through which the development

of mankind passes. The secondary phenomena, in each case, either occur

only in their beginnings or, where we are dealing with later stages

of culture, are being perfected along lines already established. In

this relative sense, we may doubtless say of the three eras following

that of primitive man, that totemism is the age of the _satisfaction

of wants_, the heroic age, that of _art_, and the succeeding period

of the development to humanity, that of _science_. Of course, there

were many art productions, some of them admirable, even in the totemic

age--we need mention only the artistic cult dances, or the high

perfection to which the semi-cultural peoples of the period attained

in the decoration of the body and of weapons. It must be admitted

also that the heroic age already laid imperishable foundations for

science. Nevertheless, the main achievements of the totemic age relate

exclusively to the satisfaction of the external needs of life. The

modes of procuring and preparing food, and the forms of clothing,

adornment, implements, and weapons--all originated in the totemic

age, and, however great may have been the advances made by succeeding

eras along these several lines, the beginnings had nevertheless been

made. A manner of dress suitable to the climate had been developed.

The preparation of food by means of fire, the manufacture of the

fundamental and permanent implements and weapons--the hammer, the axe,

the saw, the chisel, the knife--and, finally, the differentiation

between weapons of close and of long range, had all been introduced.

Moreover--and this is perhaps most significant of all--art itself was

governed absolutely by the motive of satisfying needs. Articles of

adornment, tattooing, the dance, song, and music, were first of all

means of magic, and as such they served the most urgent needs, such

as man by himself was unable to satisfy. These needs were protection

against sickness and success in the chase and in war. Only gradually,

through a most remarkable heterogeny of ends, were many of these

agencies of magic transformed into _pure means of adornment_. Such

transformations, of course, occurred also in the heroic age. But by

this time the necessities of life had in part changed and, of the new

interests, those connected with cult and with political organization

gained an increasing importance. Æsthetic value came to be more and

more appreciated as an independent feature of objects. As a result,

articles were produced of a nature such as to minister both to the

needs of life and to æsthetic enjoyment. But, again, this occurs

pre-eminently within the field of spiritual needs, particularly in

connection with deity cult, on the one hand, and in the glorification

of human heroes, on the other. The construction of the temple, the

plastic reproduction of the human form and its idealization into

the divine image, and, finally, the forms of literature--the epic,

the hymn, and the beginnings of the religious drama, with their

accompanying music--all of these spring from the spiritual needs of

this age, among which needs cult is the foremost. With these various

activities, art begins an independent development, gaining a value

of its own, and conquering fields that had previously been untouched

by æsthetic influences. This conquest of new fields by the higher

forms of art is indicative also of an increasing appreciation of the

æsthetic, and, along with this, of a spiritualization of life as a

whole, such as results, in a particular measure, from art, and only

partly, and at a much later period, from science. The first subjects

of this art are heroes and gods--that is, those figures which the

imagination creates at the threshold of the heroic age, under the

influence of the new conditions of life. Gradually art then concerns

itself with the human personality and with the objects of man's

environment. In correspondence with a change which transpired in the

totemic age, in which means of magic were transformed into articles

of adornment, the objects of nature and culture are now more and

more stripped of their mythological significance and elevated into

pure objects of æsthetic appreciation. Thus, the heroic age includes

the two most important epochs in the entire history of art. These

are the origin of a true religious art, and the attainment of an

æsthetic independence which allows art to extend its influence to all

departments of human life. Religious art made its appearance with the

beginning of the heroic age; æsthetic independence represents a later

achievement. This explains why the totemic age seems to us a vanished

world, no less with regard to its art than in other respects. It can

arouse our æsthetic interest only if we attribute the final product

of this period--namely, decoration freed from its original magical

significance--to the motives that really underlie artistic activity.

The art with which we are still familiar and whose motives we can all

still appreciate, begins only with the heroic age. The tattooing of

the man of nature and the amulet about his neck are to us adornments

of low æsthetic value. A Greek temple, however, may even to-day

arouse the mood of worship, and the battles of the Homeric heroes and

the tragedy of a Prometheus overtaken by the wrath of the gods may

still impress us as real. However remote the age may be which these

products of art represent, the general spirit which animated it has not

vanished. The greatest turning-point in the spiritual history of man

consists in the stupendous achievement which inaugurates the heroic

age. I refer to the creation of the ideal man, the hero, and of the

god in whom heroic characteristics are magnified into the superhuman

and demoniacal. Here lies the beginning of a real history of art;

everything earlier is prehistoric, however important it may be for

a psychological understanding of art--an importance greater than is

generally supposed, since it is only these earliest phenomena that can

disclose the conditions underlying the first manifestations of the

artistic imagination. Since we may assume that the facts of the history

of art are generally familiar, it may here suffice to consider these

originating factors and their relation to the general character of the

heroic age.

The first and most striking characteristic of the new era is the

development of _architecture_. This is a new art, not to be found in

the preceding age, or at most only in very meagre beginnings. The

gabled and the conical hut, as well as the tent and the wind-break from

which they developed, are not artistic creations, but are products of

the most urgent needs of life. The impulse to erect a building for

any higher purpose than this, manifested itself first of all when,

here and there, the need of the living was attributed also to the

dead. For the shelter of the dead, soul and ancestor cults demanded

the erection of more permanent structures. Hence there appeared the

burial chamber, built of solid stone. Its walls, designed to afford

protection from without, were likewise constructed of stone, and

constantly became more massive. This stimulated a sense of the sublime

and eternal, which reacted on the construction of the monuments and

gave them a character far transcending the need that called them into

being. The development of the gigantic Egyptian pyramids out of the

simple walled tomb, the mastaba, tells us this significant story in

pictures that impress the imagination more vividly than words. But the

cult of the dead, which this history records, was itself intimately

connected with deity cult. The preservation of the mummy involved

every possible protection of the corpse from the destructive agencies

of time. This fact reveals a concern relating to incalculable ages,

and thus gives evidence of an idea of a beyond into which the deceased

is supposed to enter. Besides the house of the dead, therefore, there

is the house belonging to the deity, and this is even more directly

and universally characteristic of the age. This edifice, into which

man may enter and come into the presence of the deity, stimulates the

incomparably deeper impulse to build a structure worthy of the deity

for whom it is erected. Thus, then, we have the _temple_, designed

at the outset for the protection of the sacrificial altar, which had

originally been erected in the open, upon consecrated ground. Since it

is located at the seat of government, at the place where the citizens

assemble for the conduct of political affairs and for purposes of

trade, the temple is indicative also of the city and of the State.

Secular interests likewise begin to assert themselves. Hence there

appears a second mark of the city, the _castle_, which is the seat of

the ruler and of the governing power, and is generally also the final

defence, when hostile attacks threaten the city and State. Closely

connected with the castle, in all regions in which the ruler lays

claim to being a terrestrial deity--as he did, for example, in the

ancient realms of the Orient--is the _royal palace_. In harmony with

the twofold position of the ruler, his dwelling is architecturally

intermediate between the castle and the temple. Thus, it is the temple,

the castle, and the palace, whose development not only awakens the

æsthetic sense for architectural forms, but also gives impetus to the

other arts, especially to sculpture and to ornamentation. The latter

had previously found material for its expression in the utensils of

daily use. Enriched through its connection with architectural forms,

it now recurs to the miniature work of utensils and implements, where

it more and more serves a purely æsthetic need. Of the works of

architecture belonging to the early part of this period, it is the

temple which proves the greatest æsthetic stimulus. This is due not

only to its more exalted purpose, but also to the impetus derived from

the fact of the multiplicity of gods. The castle represents the unity

of the State. Hence the State contains but one such structure, erected,

whenever possible, upon a hill overlooking the city. The temple,

from early times on, is the exclusive possession of a single deity.

The idea of harbouring several deities in a single structure could

arise only later, as a result of special cult conditions and of the

increasing size of the sacred edifices. Even then, however, the need

for unity in the cult generally caused each temple to be dedicated to

a specific deity, the chief god of the temple. Hand in hand with this

went a striving for richness and diversity in architecture. The temple,

therefore, expresses in a pre-eminent degree not only the character of

the religious cult, but also the mental individuality of the people to

whom the gods and their cult owe their origin.

Closely connected with temple construction is _sculpture_, for, in it,

the importance which the human personality receives in this age finds

its most direct expression. Sculpture, moreover, clearly exhibits

the gradual advance from the generic to the individual, from a value

originally placed on man as such to absorption in the particular

characteristics of the individual. The early, 'generic' figure is

generally a representation of the divine personality who has inspired

the artist to create an image for the sacred shrine. Art does not aim

at the outset to copy man himself; it transfers his characteristics to

the deity, and only thus, and after laborious efforts, does it attain

its mastery over the human form. True, the gods are conceived as

human from the very beginning. So long, however, as the sacrificial

stone and the altar stand in the open field, this humanization leads

but to inartistic images, similar to fetishes. While these images

indicate the presence of the gods at the sacred places, they are not

intended as likenesses of the deities themselves. In their external

appearance, therefore, the fetishes of early deity cult still impress

one as survivals of the totemic age, even though the gods are no

longer represented after the fashion of demons, namely, as subhuman,

possessing animal or grotesque human forms. The conditions obtaining in

life generally were repeated in the realm of art. For the transference

of purely human characteristics to the image took place in the case

of the hero--or, what amounts to the same thing in the great Oriental

civilizations of antiquity, in that of the ruler--earlier than in

the case of the deity. The ruler is glorified by means of drawings

which represent processions of the hunt and of war, and which are

executed on the walls of his palaces. Similarly, the religious impulse

expresses itself in the erection of an anthropomorphic image of the

deity. This image is placed either in the temple, which is regarded

as the dwelling-place of the deity, or in some commanding part of the

city which reverences the god as its protector. Here, however, we come

upon a noteworthy proof of the fusion of the hero with the demon as

described above. From Babylonian and Egyptian monuments we learn that

the ruler and his retinue were already represented in human form at a

period when deity cult still retained hybrid forms of men and animals,

sometimes of the nature of animal demons with human faces, or again

as human figures with animal heads. Thus, art strikingly confirms

the view that the gods arose from a fusion of the hero personality

with the demon. When these external characteristics, due to the past

history of gods and their connection with demon beliefs, came to be

superseded, the divine image at first reproduced only the typical

features of man. In addition to overtowering size, external marks,

such as dress, weapons, and sacred animals, were the only evidences

of deity. The first step in the transition from the generic figure

to the gradual individualization of personality occurs in connection

with the facial expression. It is surprising to note the uniformity

with which, in all the civilizations of the Old World, the images

of the gods, as well as those of the heroes and rulers, acquire an

expression of kindliness and gentleness. This trait, however, is

again of a generic nature. The stiff, expressionless form has indeed

disappeared, but the expression that supervenes is uniform. Though we

have referred to this transition as universal, this is true at most

as regards the fact that, on the one hand, the expression of complete

indifference gives way to one manifesting emotion, and that, on the

other, this emotion, though pronounced, again exhibits uniformity.

In the quality of this feeling, differences in the character of

peoples may come to light, just as they do in myth and religion, with

which sculpture in its first stages is closely connected. In the two

great cultural regions of the New World, Mexico and Peru, there is a

similar transition. The cults of these peoples, however, emphasize

the fear-inspiring character of the gods. Hence, in their art, the

terrifying grimace of the earliest divine images becomes moderated

into an expression of gloomy, melancholy seriousness--a change such as

the art of the Old World approximates only in occasional productions

that fall rather within the province of the demoniacal, such as the

image of the Egyptian sphinx or the gorgon's head of the Greeks. Thus,

the transition from features that are entirely expressionless to such

as are generic, and then to those that characterize the individual

personality, occurs in connection with a change in the quality of the

emotions. To illustrate the relative uniformity of this development

we might likewise refer to the early Renaissance. Here again it was

necessary to seek a path to the concrete wealth of personality that

had been lost. Art reached this goal by way of the pathetic expression

of humble submission. As soon as plastic art departs from the typical

form, we find not only that a change occurs in the expressions of the

face, but also that the entire body becomes more lifelike. Along with

this, the themes of plastic art pass from the gods, rulers, and heroes

to the lower levels of everyday life. Even here art at first continues

to be fascinated by the great and conspicuous, though it later gains

more and more interest in the _significant_. This striving for reality

in its wealth of individual phenomena is characteristic not only of

sculpture, however, but also of painting. Disregarding the bodily

form in favour of the portrait, painting first acquires new means of

characterization in colour and shading; then, passing from man to his

natural environment, it wins from nature the secrets of perspective,

and thus gains a far greater mastery over the depths of space than was

possible to sculpture. _Landscape painting_, moreover, unlocks for art

that rich world of emotions and moods which man may create from the

impressions of nature, and which attain to purity of expression in

proportion as man himself disappears from the artistic reproduction of

his environment. Thus, the final product of pictorial art, together

with such paintings as those of still life and the interior, all of

which are psychologically related inasmuch as they express moods,

represent the most subjective stage of art, for they dispense with the

subject himself whose emotions they portray. All the more, therefore,

are these emotions read into nature, whose processes and activities now

constitute the content of personal experience. Once it attains to this

development, however, landscape art is already far beyond the borders

of the heroic age. Indeed, the Renaissance itself advanced no farther

than to the threshold of this most subjective form of pictorial art.

This art represents the hero--however broad a conception of him we may

form--as in all respects a human individual. Thus, art again returns to

the being whose ideal enhancement originally gave rise to the hero.

The changes which the forms of æsthetic expression undergo within the

field of formative art, are paralleled, on the whole, by those of the

_musical_ arts. By this term, as above remarked, we wish to designate

all those arts which depend from the outset upon the _external_

factors of tone and rhythm ultimately employed most freely in music

(cf. p. 262). In the preceding age, only _one_ of these arts, the

_dance_, really reached any considerable development. Of the two

elements of the musical arts, rhythm was as yet predominant. The dance

received but little melodic support from the voice; noise instruments

had the ascendancy over musical instruments. The further development

of these arts leads to continued progress, particularly with respect

to the melodic forms of expression. These begin with the language of

speech, and gradually pass on to the pure clang formations produced

solely by manufactured instruments. Corresponding with this external

change is an inner change of motives, influenced, of course, by the

varying materials which enter into the creations of the musical arts.

From the very beginning, the character of this material is involved in

constant change, as is also language, which is the basis of all these

arts, and whose rhythmical-melodic forms cannot be arrested at any

moment of its living development. The attempt to render permanent some

of the movements of this flowing process, by means of literary records

or definite symbols, is but an inadequate substitute for the enduring

power with which the mute creations of sculpture and of architecture

withstand the destructive influences of time. Just because of this

plasticity of their working material, however, the musical arts are

enabled all the more faithfully to portray the thoughts and feelings

that move the artist and his age. Particularly where these thoughts and

feelings are directly reproduced in language, the work, even though

coming down from a long-departed past, has an incomparably greater

power to transport us to its world than is ever possible to plastic

art. How much more vividly do we not experience the life of the Homeric

heroes while reading the Iliad than when viewing the Mycenian art of

that period!

Of all the products of the verbal arts, it is the epic that most

faithfully mirrors the character of the heroic age as a whole. The

human hero here stands in the forefront of action. His battles and

fortunes and a laudatory description of his qualities constitute the

main themes of the poem. In the background, appears the world of gods.

It receives no attention apart from its relation to the action. The

gods, it is true, take a hand in the destinies of the heroes--they

quarrel about them, or, when the need is greatest, descend to the earth

and, though unrecognized, assist them in battles. As for the rest,

however, their life lies outside the sphere of the epic narrative;

it appears to be an even and undisturbed course of existence into

which change enters only in so far as there is a participation in the

affairs of the terrestrial world. Such is the epic at the zenith of

its development and as it receives expression in the Homeric poems.

Though such poetry be traced back to its beginnings, the gods will not

be found to play any greater rôle, as we should be led to expect were

the theory of many mythologists true that the hero saga developed out

of the deity saga and, correspondingly, the heroic epic out of the

deity epic. In confirmation of our assertion, we might point to the

Russian and Servian romances, and also to the songs of the Kara-Kirghiz

and to the Finnish Kalewala, though the Kalewala has not come down

to us in quite its original form. The Norse Edda, which has been at

the basis of certain misconceptions regarding this question, should

not here be drawn into consideration, though, were it examined, it

would substantiate, if anything, the opposite of what is supposed. It

dates from a later period, which no longer believed, as we may assume

that the Homeric rhapsodists did, in the gods and heroes of which it

sang. The Norse skalds dealt, in their songs, with a departed world,

whose memory they endeavoured to renew; they drew their material from

märchen-myths and from folk-sagas. If, now, we turn to that poetry

of the Slavic and Turkish tribes which is really preparatory to epic

poetry, we find certain radical differences. Here also, of course,

there are imaginary beings who either take a hand in the battles and

destinies of the heroes or, through the magic over which the human hero

as yet still frequently disposes, come to identify themselves with

heroes. These beings, however, are not gods, but demons. They possess

no personal traits whatsoever. Such traits are lacking also to the

hero in proportion as he makes use of magical powers rather than of an

enhanced measure of human ability. Thus, it is the _world of demons_,

not that of gods, which forms the background of the early epic. As

regards the hero himself, it is apparent from his characteristics that

he is on the border-line between the hero of märchen and the epic hero.

This development of the epic again mirrors the development of the hero

saga described above. But, since epic poetry gives permanence to the

unstable characters of the folk-saga, and thus, in turn, reacts upon

the saga itself, its development is all the more capable of presenting

a clear picture of that fusion of demon with human hero which gave rise

to the god. It is by virtue of his human characteristics that the hero

of the early epic is distinguished from the demons whose world as yet

always forms his scene of action. These human characteristics are then

more and more transferred to the demons. Throughout all these changes

of environment, the hero remains the central figure of epic poetry, and

continues to develop purely human characteristics. Hence it is that, at

a later period, the gods again completely disappear from the action,

and the destinies of human heroes come to be the exclusive concern

of the epic. At this stage, it is no longer external factors that

determine the destiny of the hero, as they did when demons and, later,

gods were supreme; inner motives, whose source lies within the hero

himself, are of paramount importance. When this occurs, however, epic

poetry, has already passed beyond the boundaries of the heroic age.

At one time it was held that the Homeric epic, so far from marking the

climax of a development in which the world of heroes was brought into

relation with that of the gods, really inaugurated epic poetry. During

this period, the rhythmic-melodic form of Homer was regarded as the

beginning of all narrative. Indeed, at times it has been thought to

represent the beginning of language. Following the view of Jacob Grimm,

it was maintained that poetry was the earliest form of speech, and

that prose came through a process of deterioration analogous to that by

which prehistoric deity and hero sagas passed into the märchen. This

theory, of course, is just as untenable for the history of language and

poetry as it is for that of the saga. The original narrative is the

märchen-myth that passes artlessly from mouth to mouth. The transition

to a form which is at first loosely constructed and then more strictly

metrical, is clearly bound up with the transition from the hero of

the märchen to the hero of the saga. Coincident with this, gods also

gradually gain a place in epic poetry. This development is accompanied

by _two_ important external changes. The first of these involves the

transformation of the everyday prose, in which the märchen-myth had

been expressed, into rhythmic-melodic forms. These are reinforced by

a simple musical accompaniment that gives to the diction itself the

character of a recitative melody. The second change consists in the

fact that separate narratives are joined into a series, the basis of

connection being, in part, the heroes who participate in the action

and, in part, the content of the action itself. Thus, a romance-cycle

arises, which, when supplemented by connecting narratives, finally

develops into a great epic. As might be supposed, it is primarily

the first and the last stage of this development that are accessible

to direct observation--the romances of the early epic, preserved in

folk-poetry, and the perfected poems, such as the Homeric epics and

the _Niebelungenlied_. As regards the formation of these epics out of

their separate elements, we can do no more than to frame hypotheses on

the basis of somewhat uncertain inferences relating to differences in

style and composition. There can be no doubt, however, that the more

important step as regards the form of the epic, namely, the development

of rhythmic-melodic expression, was directly bound up with its very

first stage, namely, with the appearance of the earliest form of the

heroic narrative--a form resembling the romance.

But how may we account for this origin? Does the narrative of itself

rise to song because of the more exalted character of its content?

Or, is the rhythmic-melodic form imposed upon it from other previously

existing types of poetry? Such poetry exists. The simple songs of

primitive man we have already come to know; besides these, there

are the cult-song, whose conjurations and petitions were addressed

to demons prior to the advent of gods and heroes, and, finally, the

work-song. This at once indicates that we must postulate a transference

from the lyric type of song, taken in its broadest sense, to the

narrative. Nevertheless, the first of the above-mentioned factors must

not be disregarded. The heroic hero, of course, arouses far greater

admiration and enthusiasm than did the märchen-hero. Here, as in the

case of the song, the intensification of mental excitement causes its

verbal expression to assume rhythmic forms, precisely as the dominance

of festive and joyous emotion in the dance transforms the external

movements of the body into rhythmical pantomime. Doubtless, therefore,

it was primarily from the cult-song, and under the influence of a

related poetic ecstasy, that a sustained rhythmical form was carried

over to the portrayal of the hero personality and his deeds. And so, as

is clearly shown by the romance-like beginnings of epic composition,

the metrical form of the epic first follows current song-forms, and

then gradually adapts these to the specific needs of the narrative.

Now, the earliest characteristic of the song, and that which at a

primitive stage constitutes almost its only difference from ordinary

speech, is the refrain. In the epic, the rhythm becomes smoother. The

refrain disappears entirely, or occurs at most in the case of regularly

recurring connective phrases or of stereotyped expressions relating

to the attributes of the gods and heroes. These aid the rhapsodist

in maintaining an uninterrupted, rhythmic flow of speech, and also

continue to be used as means for intensifying the rhythmic impression.

Epic poetry thus develops out of the earlier forms of lyric

composition, through a process by which the exalted mood of the song

is transferred to the portrayal of the hero personality. Finally,

however, the epic itself reacts upon the lyric. Here again the

cult-song occupies the foreground. When it reaches the stage of the

hymn, its most effective content is found in narratives that centre

about divine deeds which far transcend human capacities, or about

the beneficent activity of the deity toward man. The tendency to

incorporate such narratives is particularly marked in the song of

praise and thanksgiving, which comes to occupy the dominant place in

religious cult for the very reason that the mood which it expresses is

at the basis of the common cult. At this point, cult acquires a further

feature, the preconditions of which, however, date back to the age of

demon cults. Even in the case of demons, aid was sought not merely by

means of conjurations but also by means of _actions_ that imitated,

in dances and solemn mask processions, the activities of demons. In

the great vegetation festivals of New Mexico and Arizona, which are

intermediate between demon and deity cults, there were imitative

magical rites connected with the subterranean demons of the sprouting

grain, with the rain-giving cloud demons above the earth, and also with

the bright celestial gods who dwell beyond the clouds. After having

originated in this sequence, these elements became united into a cult

dance whose combination of motives resulted in the mimetic play, the

imitative and pantomimic representation of a series of actions. Thus,

the mime itself is the original form of the _drama_, which now takes

its place beside the epic as a new form of poetry. What the epic

portrays, the drama sets forth in living action. This accounts for

the fact that, even in its later independent development, dramatic

literature draws its material principally from the epic, or from the

saga which circulates in folk-tradition as an epic narrative. Moreover,

as may be noticed particularly in the history of the Greek drama, the

transition was made but slowly from the individual rhapsodist, who

sufficed for the rendering of the epic song, to the additional players

necessary for setting forth the narrative in action.

How essentially uniform this transition is, in spite of widely

divergent conditions, is illustrated by the origin of the religious

plays which grew out of the Christian cult. In reading the gospel, the

priest assigned certain passages, originally spoken by participants

in the particular event, to sacristans or priests associated in

the ceremony, and the chorus of worshippers represented the people

present at the event. In spite of, or, we might better say, because of

their more recent origin, these Easter, Passion, and Christmas plays

represent an early stage of development. In them, we can still follow,

step by step, the growth of dramatic art out of church liturgy, and

the resultant secularization of the religious play. Heightened emotion

results in an impulse to translate the inner experience into action,

and thus dramatic expression is given to certain incidents of the

sacred narrative that are particularly suited for it. This tendency

grows, and finally the entire scene is acted out, the congregational

responses of the liturgy passing over into the chorus of the drama.

Common to the responses of the congregation and the chorus of the

dramatic play, is the fact of an active participation in that which

is transpiring. Though this participation is inner and subjective,

in the one case, and objective, in the other, the response of the

congregation to the priest in the liturgy is nevertheless preparatory

to the chorus of the drama. It is inevitable, however, that this change

should gradually lead to a break with liturgy. The portrayal of the

sacred action is transferred from the church to the street; the clergy

are supplanted by secular players from among the people. Even within

the sacred walls folk-humour had inserted burlesque episodes--such,

for example, as the mimic portrayal of Peter's violence to the servant

Malchus, or the running of the Apostles to the grave of Christ. These

now gained the upper hand, and finally formed independent mimetic

comedies. The serious plays, on their part, also drew material, even at

this time, from sources other than sacred history. The newly awakened

dramatic impulse received further stimulus from various directions.

The old travelling comedy, wandering from market to market with its

exhibitions, now of gruesomely serious, now of keenly humorous,

action, was a factor in the creation of the modern drama, no less than

were the amusing performances of the accompanying puppet-show. Added

to these, as a new factor, was the short novel, a prose narrative

cultivated with partiality particularly since the Renaissance; there

was also its elder sister, the imaginary märchen, as well as the epic

of chivalry in its popular prose versions, and, finally, that which

more clearly approximates to the religious starting-point, the saint

legend--all of these united in giving impetus to the modern drama.

Now, the similarity of this development to that of the ancient drama

is so marked that, even where details are lacking, we may regard the

nature of the transitions as identical so far as their general features

are concerned. Indeed, we should doubtless be justified in assuming

that in whatever other localities a dramatic art was perfected, as, for

example, in India, the course of development was essentially the same

as that which has been described. True, the development cannot proceed

to its termination apart from an advance in cult and poetry such as

was attained but rarely. Its sources, however, are always to be found

in universal human characteristics which were operative in the very

beginnings of art and cult. The two factors upon which the later drama

depends may be detected even in the corroboree of the Australians.

The corroboree is a cult dance whose central feature is a regulated

imitation of the actions of totem animals, accompanied by song and

noisy music. This imitation of animals also leads to the insertion of

humorous episodes. Indeed, even in the corroboree, these episodes are

frequently so numerous as to crowd out completely the cult purpose--an

early anticipation of the secularization which everywhere took place in

the art that originated in cult. In numerous other details as well, the

continuity of development is apparent. Suggestions of the animal dance

occur in the satyric plays of the Greeks. This same satyric drama took

over the phallus-bearing choral dancers from the vegetation festival.

In striking correspondence, as K. Th. Preusz has pointed out, and

indicative of analogous customs, are the phallephoric representations

found in ancient Mexican cult pictures. The puppet-show, which was

perhaps not the least among the factors leading to the secularization

of the drama, was not only universally to be found during the Middle

Ages, but in India it made its appearance at an early period. It occurs

even among peoples of nature, as, for example, among the Esquimos.

Among these peoples, the doll and its movements always represent

an imitation of man himself and of his pantomimes. But, though the

tendencies to dramatic representation and, in part, even the beginnings

of the drama, reach back to the early stages of art, the developed

drama was the product of a later period, and was dependent for its rise

upon almost all the other verbal and mimetic arts. The drama, however,

may always be traced back to deity cult. The religious hymn which

extols the deeds of the gods is a direct incentive to the translation

of these deeds into personal action. The motives for the dramatic

elaboration of liturgy were present particularly in those deity cults

which combined soul cults with ideas of a beyond, and which centred

about the life, the sufferings, and the final salvation of the gods,

and the transference of these experiences to the human soul. The

development of the mediæval Easter and Passion plays may be traced,

step by step, from their origin. It is this development, particularly,

that throws clear light upon early Greek and Indian drama, whose

beginnings in the mystery cults are rendered obscure by the secrecy

of the cults. These latter dramas, in turn, clearly indicate that the

original source of dramatic representations is to be found in the very

ancient vegetation ceremonies, which, in part, were transmitted to

the heroic age from a period as early as that of demon cults. After

the dramatic performance has been transferred from the temple to the

market-place and the drama has become secularized, the further course

of development naturally differs both with the conditions of the age

and with the character of the culture. Nevertheless, however, the epic

narrative, the mimetic representation, and the older forms of the song

may have co-operated in the development of the drama, the latter, like

the epic, steadily descends from the lofty realms of the heroes and

gods, down to the dwellings of men. In the portrayal of human strivings

and sufferings, moreover, the centre of interest shifts from the

mysterious course of external events to the secrets of the human soul.

But herewith again the drama transcends the boundaries of the heroic

age. Its beginnings grow out of early deity cult. In its final stages,

dramatic art, with its insight into human life as it is directly lived,

becomes the vehicle of the idea of humanity in the entire scope of its

meaning, comprehending both the heights and the depths of human life.

Closely bound up with the psychological motives underlying the

development of the drama is the last of the musical arts--namely,

_music_. We may refer to it as the last of these arts for the reason

that it attained to independence later than any of the others. As a

dependent art, however, accompanying the dance, the song, or the epic

recital, it dates back to the age of primitive man. Musical art, also,

received its first noteworthy stimulus from cult, as an accompaniment

of the cult dance and the cult song. The strong emotions aroused by

the cult activity caused a constantly increasing emphasis to be placed

on the musical part of the ceremony, leading particularly to the

development of melody. The polyphonic song of the many-voiced chorus

of the cult members, and the music of the accompanying instruments

which gradually assumed the same character, eventually developed

into harmonic modulation. This introduced musical effects of a novel

sort, such as were not possible for the accompaniment of the reciting

rhapsodist and were attained only imperfectly by the common song.

Thus, dramatic and musical art both sprang from the same religious

root, the liturgic ceremonial, thence to pursue different directions

of development. Later they again united in the case of certain

particularly emotional parts of the dramatic action, first of all in

the choral song, which is thus reminiscent of their common origin in

liturgy. With this exception, however, the emancipation of dramatic

and of musical art from their common cult origin was succeeded by a

long period in which they remained distinct. Hence it is certainly not

without significance that the creator of the modern art-synthesis,

the music drama, himself felt his achievement to be religious in

character. Whether or not this may be affirmed as regards the content

of the music drama, it is true so far as the fact of combining the two

arts is concerned. But it is no less noteworthy that in this case also

the separation of itself engenders the motives for the reunion. When

the drama was transferred from the temple to the public market-place

and then descended from the sphere of gods and heroes to the reality

of everyday life, it lost, first its musical-melodic form, and then

its elevated rhythm, thus giving way to prose. The liturgic song that

survived in the cult, however, entered into reciprocal relations with

the secular forms of the song, and a copious interchange of melodic

motives ensued. With the same justification, perhaps, as in the case

of the origin of the dramatic play in general, we may interpret the

older developments by reference to the interchange between sacred and

secular songs that took place in Christendom during the Middle Ages.

The endeavour to combine dramatic with lyric and musical enjoyment gave

rise to hybrid forms of art, to the musical play and the opera. This

prepared the way for the further attempt to transcend these composite

forms of art by creating a new unity of drama and music. Thus, the aim

was to restore the original synthesis on a higher plane, not limited

to particular religious cults but taking into account universal human

emotions. Yet the entire development of this later art, as well as that

of its component elements, the drama and the song, again carries us far

beyond the limits of the heroic age. It extends over into a period in

which, on the one hand, man supplants the hero and, on the other, the

religious advance to a superpersonal god displaces those deities who

suffer from the defects which they have inherited from their human

prototypes and their demon ancestors--namely, the personal gods.

Along with the above-mentioned development of musical art there is

also a second change, which appears on the surface to be antithetical

to the former, but which in reality supplements it. This change

consists in the separation of musical expression from the various

elements with which it was originally connected, and in its entrance

upon a free and independent development. In the recitative of the

rhapsodist, in the liturgy of the temple service, in dance and song,

the rhythmic-melodic elements are, to a certain extent, limited by

the rhythmic-melodic possibilities of language. In part, it is true,

they have freed themselves from this limitation--namely, in the

instrumental accompaniment--and yet they fail to attain to independence

so long as they are but means for intensifying the expression which

emotion receives in language and mimicry. From this double bondage to

the rhythmic-melodic powers of human expressive movements and to the

thought content of language, musical art finally frees itself. While

the musical instrument was at first a means designed to assist man in

his endeavour to give direct expression to his emotions, man's activity

in the case of 'absolute music' becomes limited to the mastery of

the instrument itself. This renders available a wealth of new tonal

possibilities, and adds an inexhaustible supply of new motifs for the

expression of feelings and emotions. Musical art thus becomes purely

a language of emotions. Free from connection with specific ideas, it

in no wise restricts the experiences which the hearer may enjoy. It

affects these experiences only in so far as the musical production is

itself a portrayal of pure emotions. Inasmuch as music is not bound by

concepts or ideas, its effect upon the hearer will be the purer and the

more intense according as he is the more receptive to the particular

emotions in question. In the form of the instrumental composition,

therefore, music is the most subjective of the musical arts, as are

landscape-painting and its related forms, though not in so pronounced

a degree, of the plastic arts. Like these arts, and even more so,

music is the expression of purely subjective feelings. Hence, it, as

well as they, far transcends the boundaries of the heroic age, whose

fundamental characteristic is attachment to the objective world. In

the heroic age, the individual may indeed transfuse the outer world

with his emotions, but he is never able to isolate his emotions from

objects. Consequently, though art places its media at his disposal, he

is unable to utilize them in giving expression, in its independence, to

the inner life of personality.