particular properties as a medicine. The Shetlander who has a "stitch in
his side," cures himself by applying to the affected part, some dry mould
brought from a grave, and heated, care being taken to remove the mould and
to return it before the setting of the sun. In the neighbouring isles of
Orkney, magic is also resorted to as a remedy for disease. Perhaps the
least harmful of the rites is the washing of a cat in the water which had
previously served for an invalid's ablutions, the confident belief being
that the disease would by this means be transferred to the animal. This
custom of "substitution" is found in many races, and is one of the most
interesting subjects introduced to the student of folk-lore.
In Tibet, for example, when all ordinary remedies have failed, the Lamas
make a dummy to represent the sick person, and they adorn the image with
trinkets. By ceremonies and prayers the sickness of the patient is laid
upon the dummy, after which it is taken out and burned, the Lamas
appropriating the ornaments as a reward. Sir Walter Scott tells of a
similar case which occurred in Scotland. Lady Katharine Fowlis made a
model in clay of a person whom she wished to afflict, and shot at the
image in the hope that the wound would be transferred to the real person.
We have only to turn to Scott's "Demonology and Witchcraft" to find
hundreds of instances of the unshaken belief of the Highlanders in mystic
potions, pills, drugs, and drops; and not even wholesale burnings of the
dealers in white magic could induce the people to forsake their
superstitions. Bessie Dunlop told the Court, before which she was
arraigned, of the magic elixirs given to her by Thome Reid, who had been
killed in battle centuries before, but had appeared to her as an
apparition, and begged her to fly with him to Elf-land. By means of his
medicines she cured the most stubborn diseases, obtained the reputation of
a wise woman, and grew so rich that the eye of the law was drawn upon her,
and, after her confession was made, she was ordered to be burnt. As Scott
said, in one of his chapters, the Scottish law did not acquit those who
accomplished even praiseworthy actions, and "the proprietor of a patent
medicine who should in those days have attested his having wrought such
miracles as we see sometimes advertised might have forfeited his life."
The idea of sacrificing something, or someone, to appease the anger of the
powers who bring affliction upon mankind, is extremely common, and by no
means confined to savage nations or to very ancient times. At the time of
the Black Plague in the fourteenth century the fanaticism of the French
led them to sacrifice 12,000 Jews by torture and burning, these
Israelites being deemed the cause of the affliction. In the "Ingoldsby
Legends" may be read a ghastly account of a similar sacrifice in Spain, in
order to secure the good-will of the over-ruling powers on behalf of the
Queen. Even in comparatively modern times the practice of sacrificing in
order to cure or avert disease has not been unknown, and this in civilized
lands, too. The sacrifices in these cases have, of course, been of animals
only, but the germ of the old and worse ritual is found in the custom. In
1767, the people of Mull, in consequence of a disease among the cattle,
agreed to perform an incantation. They carried to the top of Carnmoor a
wheel and nine spindles of oakwood. Every fire in the houses was
extinguished; and the wheel was then turned from east to west over the
nine spindles long enough to produce fire by friction. They then
sacrificed a heifer, which they cut in pieces and burnt while yet alive.
Finally they lighted their own hearths from the pile, while an old man
repeated the words of incantation. This custom is prevalent in Ireland, in
various parts of Scotland, and even in England and Wales it has been
practised with variations and some modification. In Cornwall, in 1800, a
calf was burnt alive to arrest the murrain. Mr. Laurence Gomme has traced
the custom back to the sacrifice of animals for human sickness, for in
1678 four men were actually prosecuted for "sacrificing a bull in a
heathenish manner for the recovery of the health of Custane Mackenzie." In
Ireland a cure for small-pox consisted in sacrificing a sheep to a wooden
image, wrapping the skin about the sick person, and then eating the sheep.
In Scotland strange and weird customs linger, and Sir H. G. Reid in his
entertaining volume, "'Tween Gloamin' and the Mirk," has related how he
himself, during infancy, underwent a mysterious cure for the "falling
sickness." He was carried secretly away to a lonely hut on the distant
moor, and the party were admitted to a long, low-roofed apartment, dimly
lighted from two small windows. In one corner sat an old woman, wrinkled
and silent, busily knitting; a huge peat-fire blazed on the open hearth,
shooting heavy sparks up through the hole in the roof, and filling the
apartment with smoke. No word was spoken, and the scene must have been as
eerie as the lover of mystery or the believer in witchcraft could have
desired. "I was placed on a three-legged stool in the middle of the
floor" (the writer continues); "the old woman rose, and with the aid of
immense tongs, took deliberately from the fire seven large smooth round
stones, they were planted one by one in an irregular circle about me; with
her dull dark eyes closed, and open white palms outstretched, the
enchantress muttered some mystic words; it was over--the tremulous patient
was taken up as 'cured!'" In Scotland the belief in witches who have power
both to cure and to cause maladies is so deeply founded that it would be
rash to deny its continued existence. These creatures are credited with
opening graves for the purpose of taking out joints of the fingers and
toes of dead bodies, with some of the winding-sheet, in order to prepare
powders. In Kirkwall a small portion of the human skull was taken from the
graveyard and grated to a powder in order to be used in a mixture for the
cure of fits; while in Caithness the patient was made to drink from a
suicide's skull, and the beverage so taken was regarded as a sovereign
specific for epilepsy. In 1643 one John Drugh was indicted for this
despoiling of corpses for some such purpose. The Australian aborigines
had a belief not altogether dissimilar to this. They rubbed weak persons
with the fat of a corpse, and thought that the strength, courage, and
valour of the dead man was communicated to the body subjected to the
treatment. Analogies may be found among savage tribes all over the world,
and the culmination is found in the devouring of enemies, not out of
revenge, but because the widespread primitive idea prevails that by eating
the flesh and by drinking the blood of the slain, a man absorbs the nature
or the life of the deceased into his own body. In other words, cannibalism
has a medical origin which the most depraved superstition suggested and
fortified.
The Lhoosai, a savage hill-tribe in India, teach their young warriors to
eat a piece of the liver of the first man they kill in order to strengthen
their hearts, and here we see the development of the magic power of the
medicines which is not only efficacious for the body, but for the spirit.
When Coleridge was a little boy at the Blue Coat School, he relates in his
Table Talk, there was a "charm for one's foot when asleep," which he
believed had been in the school since its foundation in the time of King
Edward VI. Its potency lay in the words--
"Crosses three we make to ease us,
Two for the thieves, and one for Christ Jesus."
The same charm served for cramp in the leg, and Coleridge quaintly adds:
"Really, upon getting out of bed, where the cramp most frequently
occurred, pressing the sole of the foot on the cold floor, and then
repeating this charm, I can safely affirm that I do not remember an
instance in which the cramp did not go away in a few seconds." Charms like
this, by which a simple method of cure is invested with marvel, are common
enough among primitive races, and not infrequently provide the key to the
solution of the mystery of the magician's triumph. The cunning leaders,
priests, or medicine-men of ignorant nations maintain their ascendency by
ascribing to miracle the simplest feats they perform.
The superstitious red man is completely at the mercy of the medicine-man
who claims to possess supernatural powers, and who assumes the ability to
work marvellous cures by magic. Each North American Indian carries with
him a medicine bag obtained under very curious circumstances. When he is
approaching manhood he sets forth in search of the patent drug which is to
shield him from all danger, and act as an all-powerful talisman. He lies
down alone in the woods upon a litter of twigs, eats and drinks nothing
for several days, and at last falls asleep from sheer exhaustion. Then he
dreams--or should do so--and whatever bird, or beast, or reptile, forms
the subject of his dream, he must seek as his medicine. He goes forth upon
the quest directly his strength has returned, and when he has discovered
the animal of his vision, he turns its skin into a pouch, and wears it
ever afterwards round his neck. In peace or war he will never part with
this talisman; it is the treasure of his life, a sacred possession, a
charm against all maladies, and a protection from foes. It is scarcely
necessary to add, after this, that the medicine-man of the tribe is held
in highest honour, and regarded as a worker of veritable miracles. All
things are possible to him. By his prayers, his rites, and his
incantations he causes the sun to shine, the rain to descend, the rivers
to deepen, the plants to thrive. A traveller tells us that a drought had
withered the maize fields, and the medicine-man was sent for to compel
the rain to fall. On the first day one Wah-ku, or the Shield, came to the
front, but failed; so did Om-pah, or the Elk. On succeeding days another
was tried, but without success; but at last recourse was made to
Wak-a-dah-ha-Ku, or the White Buffalo Hair, who possessed a shield
coloured with red lightnings, and carried an arrow in his hand. Much was
expected of him, and the people were not disappointed. "Taking his station
by the medicine-lodge," we are told, "he harangued the people, protesting
that for the good of his tribe he was willing to sacrifice himself, and
that if he did not bring the much desired rain he was content to live for
the rest of his life with the old women and the dogs. He asserted that the
first medicine-man had failed because his shield warded off the rain
clouds; the second, who wore a head-dress made of a raven's skin, because
the raven was a bird that soared above the storm, and cared not whether
the rain came or stayed; and the third who wore a beaver skin, because the
beaver was always wet and required no rain. But as for him, the red
lightnings on his shield would attract the rain-clouds, and his arrow
would pierce them, and pour the water over the thirsty fields. It chanced
that as he ended his oration, a steamer fired a salute from a twelve
pounder gun. To the Indians the roar of the cannon was like the voice of
thunder, and their joy knew no bounds. The successful medicine-man was
loaded with valuable gifts; mothers hastened to offer their daughters to
him in marriage; and the elder medicine-men hastened from the lodge to
enrol him in their order.... Just before sunset his quick eyes discovered
a black cloud which, unobserved by the noisy multitude, swiftly came up
from the horizon. At once he assumed his station on the roof of the lodge,
strung his bow, and made ready his arrow; arrested the attention of his
fellows by his loud and exultant speech; and as the cloud impended over
the village, shot his arrow into the sky. Lo, the rain descended in
torrents, wetting the rain-maker to the skin, but establishing in
everybody's mind a firm and deep conviction of his power."
The influence of the medicine-man in time of sickness is illustrated in
the narrative of Mr. Kane, who wrote "The Wanderings of an Artist." He
heard a great noise in one of the villages, and found that a handsome
Indian girl was extremely ill. The medicine-man sat in the middle of the
room, crossed-legged and naked; a wooden dish filled with water was before
him, and he had guaranteed to rid the girl of her disease which afflicted
her side. He commenced by singing and gesticulating in a violent manner,
the others who surrounded him beating drums with sticks. This lasted
half-an-hour. Then the medicine-man determined on a radical cure of the
patient, for he darted suddenly upon the girl, dug his teeth into her side
(for she was undressed), and shook her for several minutes. This increased
her agony, but the medicine-man declared he had "got it," and held his
hands to his mouth. After this he plunged his hands into a bowl of water,
leaving the spectators to believe that he had torn out the disease with
his teeth, and was now destroying it by drowning. Eventually he withdrew
his hand from the bowl, and it was found that he held a piece of cartilage
between the finger and thumb. This was cut in two, and half cast into the
fire, half into the water. So ended the operation, and Mr. Kane records
that though the doctor was perfectly satisfied, the patient seemed, if
anything, to be worse for the treatment.
The belief in magic was ingrained in the Egyptians, who, notwithstanding
that the art of medicine was far advanced with them, preferred to trust in
the workers of miracles and enchantments. In his recent collection of
Egyptian Tales, Mr. Flinders-Petrie is able to supply a striking instance
of this credulity. A man named Dedi was said to have such powers over life
and death that he could restore the head that had been smitten from the
body. He was brought before the King, who desired to put this marvellous
power to the test, and the story thus proceeds:--"His Majesty said, 'Let
one bring me a prisoner who is in prison that his punishment may be
fulfilled.' And Dedi said, 'Let it not be a man, O King, my lord; behold
we do not even thus to our cattle.' And a duck was brought unto him, and
its head was cut off. And the duck was laid on the west side of the hall,
and its head on the east side of the hall. And Dedi spake his magic
speech. And the duck fluttered along the ground, and its head came
likewise; and when it had come part to part the duck stood and quacked.
And they brought likewise a goose before him, and he did even so unto it.
His Majesty caused an ox to be brought, and its head cast on the ground.
And Dedi spake his magic speech. And the ox stood upright behind him, and
followed him with his halter trailing on the ground." This story prepares
us in every way for the information that the Egyptians, despite their
great knowledge of the curative powers of herbs and drugs, preferred to
rely upon enchanters, soothsayers, and magicians in their time of illness
and peril.
Professor Douglas, in his "Society in China," devotes a very interesting
and entertaining chapter to medicine as regarded and practised by the
Celestials. From this we learn that while there are plenty of doctors in
the land, they are one and all the merest empirics, who prey on the folly,
the ignorance, and the dread of the uneducated people. The failure to cure
any disease brings no odium upon the quack, though when the late Emperor
"ascended on a dragon to be a guest on high," or, in other words, died of
small-pox, his physicians who could not save him from that distinction
were deprived of honours and rewards. The Chinese are centuries behind
other nations in medicine, and they have not yet learnt that the blood
circulates in the body, or that a limb may be removed with beneficial
effects in case of some diseases or accidents. They believe that arteries
and veins are one and the same, and that the pulses communicate with the
various organs of the body. The object of the physician is to "strengthen
the breath, stimulate the gate of life, restore harmony." "The heart is
the husband, and the hinges are the wife," and they must be brought into
agreement, or evil arises. Good results may be obtained, it is believed,
by such tonics as dog-flesh, dried red-spotted lizard-skins,
tortoise-shell, fresh tops of stag-horns, bones and teeth of dragons (when
obtainable), shavings of rhinoceros-horns, and such like. For dyspepsia
the doctor has no nostrum, but he thrusts a needle into the patient's
liver and expects him to be immediately cured. When cholera or any other
pestilence sweeps over the land, the Chinese feel the helplessness of
their physicians, so they resort to charms, and to the offering of gifts
to the gods by way of staying the plague. Hydrophobia is common among the
half-starved curs which infest the streets, and the cure for it--quite
unknown to Pasteur--is the curd of the black pea dried and pulverised,
mixed with hemp oil, and formed into a large ball; this is to be rolled
over the wound, then broken open, and kept on rolling until it has lost
its hair-like appearance. To complete the cure the patient must abstain
from eating "anything in a state of decomposition." He might just as well
be told not to poison himself. If, by the way, the prescription does not
work, but hydrophobia continues, the patient is strongly commended to try
the effect of "the skull, teeth, and toes of a tiger ground up, and given
in wine in doses of one-fifth of an ounce." While the tiger is being
caught, however, a fatal result may occur, but of course the Chinese
doctor is not to be blamed for that. He has done his best, and the fault
is obviously the tiger's. The Chinese believe in astrology, the
philosopher's stone, and the elixir of life. A plant known as ginseng is
said to greatly prolong and sweeten existence, and sometimes as much as a
thousand taels of silver are given for a pound's weight of the precious
root. It will be seen, therefore, from such facts as these that a Galen in
China would have a vast revolution to undertake, and that a thousand
Galens at least would be required to overcome the prejudices and uproot
the superstitions of the race. The great value which the Chinese attach to
the bones, horns, tusks, and eyes of animals may be judged from various
tonics and remedies which are in great request among all classes. A dose
of tigers' bones inspires courage; an elephant's eye burnt to powder and
mixed with human milk is a sovereign remedy for inflammation of the eye;
pulverised elephants' bones cure indigestion; a preparation of elephants'
ivory is the recognised cure for diabetes; and the same animal's teeth may
be used for epilepsy. But if the patient cannot eat rice his case is
abandoned as hopeless, and not even the physician who deals most
extensively in magic pills, ointments, and decoctions will attempt to save
the obstinate person's life.
The medicine-men of the Eskimos were called angekoks, and enjoyed the
unlimited confidence of the people. They were said to have equal power
over heaven and earth, this world and the next. This made them useful as
friends and dangerous as enemies. The Eskimo, therefore, set out upon no
enterprise without consulting the angekoks, who granted blessings,
exorcised demons, and gave charms against disease. These medicine-men have
a profound belief in themselves, and though they resort to jugglery and
ventriloquism to deceive their visitors, they appear to have no idea that
they are perpetrating an imposture. Their particular powers, they think,
are derived from more than human sources. Dr. Nansen, in his "Eskimo
Life," points out that it has always been to the interests of the
medicine-men and the priests to sustain and mature superstitions or
religious ideas. "They must therefore themselves appear to believe in
them; they may even discover new precepts of divinity to their own
advantage, and thereby increase both their power and their revenues." The
Greenlanders believe that the angekoks work with the help of ministering
spirits, called _tornat_, who are often none other than the souls of dead
persons, especially of grandfathers; but not infrequently the _tornat_ are
supposed to be the souls of departed animals, or of fairies. The angekok
is assumed to have several of these councillors always at hand. They
render help in the time of danger, and may even act as avengers or
destroyers. In the latter case they show themselves as ghosts, and so
frighten to death the persons against whom vengeance is directed.
Therefore, as Dr. Nansen reports, the angekoks are the wisest and also the
craftiest of all Eskimos. They assert that they have the power of
conversing with spirits, of travelling in the under-world, of conjuring
up powerful spirits, and of obtaining revelations. "They influence and
work upon their countrymen principally through their mystic exorcisms and
_seances_, which occur as a rule in the winter, when they are living in
houses. The lamps are extinguished, and skins hung before the windows. The
angekok himself sits upon the floor. By dint of making a horrible noise so
that the whole house shakes, changing his voice, bellowing and shrieking,
ventriloquising, groaning, moaning, and whining, beating on drums,
bursting forth into diabolical shrieks of laughter and all sorts of other
tricks, he persuades his companions that he is visited by the various
spirits he personates, and that it is they who make the disturbance." They
cure diseases by reciting charms, and "give men a new soul." He demands
large fees, not for himself, he explains, but for the spirits whose agent
he is. Apparently these spirits have similar ideas to the London
consulting physician.
Mr. Theodore Bent, in his "Ruined Cities of Mashonaland," gives a specimen
of the credulity excited by the medicine-men. The explorer desired to
interview a chief, Mtoko by name, but permission was refused. The reason,
he afterwards ascertained, was that the chief's father had died shortly
after another white man's visit, and the common belief was that he had
been bewitched. The chief thought that the "white lady" who ruled over the
nation to which Mr. Bent belonged had sent him purposely to cast a glamour
over him. It may be remembered that the ill-fated Lobengula refused to
have his portrait taken because he believed that by means of the image of
himself he could be magically infected with a dread disease. This idea of
substitution, which has already been referred to, is akin to that of the
belief in witchcraft during the middle ages--namely, that the witches
could, by sticking pins into the wax image of a person, bring upon that
person agonising maladies. The dreadful results of such beliefs among
savage tribes is told by the two hospital nurses who a year or so ago
produced a lively book, "Adventures in Mashonaland." One morning a native
entered their camp, bringing a tale of horror. A chief called Maronka,
whose kraal was about forty miles away, had boiled his family alive. He
had been convinced by the native doctors that after death the souls of the
chiefs passed into the bodies of lions. His medicine-men had "smelt out"
his own family as witches, and boiling alive was the requisite punishment.
Mr. Rider Haggard has told many such stories as this in his books on South
Africa. The Zulu doctors were in the habit, not only of "smelling out"
witches and evil spirits, but of sprinkling the soldiers with medicine, in
order to "put a great heart into them," and ensure their victory in
battle.