CHAPTER I.

SPEECH AND SPECULATION.

DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MAN AND BRUTES -- MIND LANGUAGE AND SOUL-LANGUAGE -- ORIGIN OF LANGUAGE: A GIFT OF THE CREATOR, A HUMAN INVENTION, OR AN EVOLUTION -- NATURE AND VALUE OF MYTH -- ORIGIN OF MYTH: THE DIVINE IDEA, A FICTION OF SORCERY, THE CREATION OF A DESIGNING PRIESTHOOD -- ORIGIN OF WORSHIP, OF PRAYER, OF SACRIFICE -- FETICHISM AND THE ORIGIN OF ANIMAL-WORSHIP -- RELIGION AND MYTHOLOGY.

Hitherto we have beheld Man only in his material organism; as a wild though intellectual animal. We have watched the intercourse of uncultured mind with its environment. We have seen how, to clothe himself, the savage robs the beast; how, like animals, primitive man constructs his habitation, provides food, rears a family, exercises authority, holds property, wages war, indulges in amusements, gratifies social instincts; and that in all this, the savage is but one remove from the brute. Ascending the scale, we have examined the first stages of human progress and analyzed an incipient civilization. We will now pass the frontier which separates mankind from animal-kind, and enter the domain of the immaterial and supernatural; phenomena which philosophy purely positive cannot explain.

The primary indication of an absolute superiority in man over other animals is the faculty of speech; not those mute or vocal symbols, expressive of passion and emotion, displayed alike in brutes and men; but the power to separate ideas, to generate in the mind and embody in words, sequences of thought. True, upon the threshold of this inquiry, as in whatever relates to primitive man, we find the brute creation hotly pursuing, and disputing for a share in this progressional power. In common with man, animals possess all the organs of sensation. They see, hear, feel, taste, and smell. They have even the organs of speech; but they have not speech. The source of this wonderful faculty lies further back, obscured by the mists which ever settle round the immaterial. Whether brutes have souls, according to the Aristotelean theory of soul, or whether brute-soul is immortal, or of quality and destiny unlike and inferior to that of man-soul, we see in them unmistakable evidence of mental faculties. The higher order of animals possess the lower order of intellectual perceptions. Thus pride is manifested by the caparisoned horse, shame by the beaten dog, will by the stubborn mule. Brutes have memory; they manifest love and hate, joy and sorrow, gratitude and revenge. They are courageous or cowardly, subtle or simple, not merely up to the measure of what we commonly term instinct, but with evident exercise of judgment; and, to a certain point, we might even claim for them foresight, as in laying in a store of food for winter. But with all this there seems to be a lack of true or connected thought, and of the faculty of abstraction, whereby conceptions are analyzed and impressions defined.

[Sidenote: THOUGHT AND EXPRESSION.]

They have also a language, such as it is; indeed, all the varieties of language common to man. What gesture-language can be more expressive than that employed by the horse with its ears and by the dog with its tail, wherein are manifestations of every shade of joy, sorrow, courage, fear, shame, and anger? In their brutish physiognomy, also, one may read the language of the emotions, which, if not so delicately pictured as in the face of man, is none the less distinctive. Nor are they without their vocal language. Every fowl and every quadruped possesses the power of communicating intelligence by means of the voice. They have their noise of gladness, their signal cry of danger, their notes of anger and of woe. Thus we see in brutes not only intelligence but the power of communicating intelligence. But intelligence is not thought, neither is expression speech. The language of brutes, like themselves, is soulless.

The next indication of man's superiority over brutes, is the faculty of worship. The wild beast, to escape the storm, flies howling to its den; the savage, awe-stricken, turns and prays. The lowest man perceives a hand behind the lightning, hears a voice abroad upon the storm, for which the highest brute has neither eye nor ear. This essential of humanity we see primordially displayed in mythic phenomena; in the first struggle of spiritual manhood to find expression. Language is symbol significant of thought, mythology is symbol significant of soul. The one is the first distinctive sound that separates the ideal from the material, the other the first respiration of the soul which distinguishes the immortal from the animal. Language is thought incarnate; mythology, soul incarnate. The one is the instrument of thought, as the other is the essence of thought. Neither is thought; both are closely akin to thought; separated from either, in some form, perfect intellectual manhood cannot develop. I do not mean to say with some, that thought without speech cannot exist; unless by speech is meant any form of expression symbolical, emotional, or vocal, or unless by thought is meant something more than mere self-consciousness without sequence and without abstraction. There can be no doubt that speech is the living breath of thought, and that the exercise of speech reacts upon the mental and emotional faculties. In brutes is found neither speech nor myth; in the deaf and dumb, thought and belief are shadowy and undefined; in infants, thought is but as a fleeting cloud passing over the brain. Yet for all this, deaf mutes and children who have no adequate form of expression cannot be placed in the category of brutes. The invention of the finger-alphabet opened a way to the understanding of the deaf and dumb; but long before this is learned, in every instance, these unfortunates invent a gesture-language of their own, in which they think as well as speak. And could we but see the strangely contorted imagery which takes possession of a gesture-thinker's brain, we should better appreciate the value of words. So, into the mouth of children words are put, round which thoughts coalesce; but evidences of ideas are discovered some time before they can be fully expressed by signs or sounds. Kant held the opinion that the mind of a deaf mute is incapable of development, but the wonderful success of our modern institutions has dissipated forever that idea.

The soul of man is a half-conscious inspiration from which perception and expression are inseparable. Nature speaks to it in that subtle sympathy by which the immaterial within holds converse with the immaterial without, in the soft whisperings of the breeze, in the fearful bellowings of the tempest. Between the soul and body there is the closest sympathy, an interaction in every relation. Therefore these voices of nature speaking to nature's offspring, are answered back in various ways according to the various organisms addressed. The animal, the intellectual, the spiritual, whatsoever the entity consists of, responds, and responding expands and unfolds. Once give an animal the power to speak and mental development ensues; for speech cannot continue without ideas, and ideas cannot spring up without intellectual evolution. A dim, half-conscious, brutish thought there may be; but the faculty of abstraction, sequences of thought, without words either spoken or unspoken, cannot exist.

[Sidenote: ORIGIN OF LANGUAGE.]

It is not at all probable that a system of gesture-language was ever employed by any primitive people, prior or in preference to vocal language. To communicate by signs requires no little skill and implies a degree of artifice and forethought far beyond that required in vocal or emotional language. Long before a child arrives at the point of intelligence necessary for conveying thought by signs, it is well advanced in a vocal language of its own.

In mythology, language assumes personality and independence. Often the significance of the word becomes the essential idea. Zeus, from meaning simply sky, becomes god of the sky; Eos, originally the dawn, is made the goddess of the opening day. Not the idea but the expression of the idea becomes the deity. And so, by these creations of fancy, the imagination expands; in the embodiment of the idea, the mind enlarges with its own creation. Then yet bolder metaphors are thrown off like soap-bubbles, which no sooner take form in words than they are also deified. Thus soul and thought and speech act and react on one another, all the evolutions of conception seeking vent in sound or speculation; and thus language, the expression of mind, and mythology, the expression of soul, become the exponents of divine humanity.

But what then is Language, what is Myth, and whence are they? Broadly, the term language may be applied to whatever social beings employ to communicate passion or sentiment, or to influence one another; whatever is made a vehicle of intelligence, ideographic or phonetic, is language. In this category may be placed, as we have seen, gestures, both instinctive and artificial; emotional expression, displayed in form or feature; vocal sounds, such as the cries of birds, the howling of beasts. Indeed, language is everywhere, in everything. While listening to the rippling brook, the roaring sea, the murmuring forest, as well as to the still small voice within, we are but reading from the vocabulary of nature.

Thus construed, the principle assumes a variety of shapes, and may be followed through successive stages of development. In fact, neither form nor feature can be set in motion, or even left in a state of repose, without conveying intelligence to the observer. The countenance of man, whether it will or not, perpetually speaks, and speaks in most exquisite shades of significance, and with expression far more delicate than that employed by tongue or pen. The face is the reflex of the soul; a transparency which glows with light, divine or devilish, thrown upon it from within. It is a portrait of individual intelligence, a photograph of the inner being, a measure of innate intelligence. And in all pertaining to the actions and passions of mankind, what can be more expressive than the language of the emotions? There are the soft, silent wooings of love, the frantic fury of hate, the dancing delirium of joy, the hungry cravings of desire, the settled melancholy of dead hopes. But more definitely, language is articulate human speech or symbolic expression of ideas.

How man first learned to speak, and whence the power of speech was originally derived, are questions concerning which tradition is uncommunicative. Even mythology, which attempts the solution of supernatural mysteries, the explanation of all phenomena not otherwise accounted for, has little to say as to the genesis of this most potential of all human powers.

Many theories have been advanced concerning the origin of language. Some of them are exploded; others in various stages of modification remain, no two philologists thinking exactly alike. The main hypotheses are three; the subordinate ones are legion. Obviously, speech must be either a direct, completed gift of the Creator, with one or more independent beginnings; or a human invention; or an evolution from a natural germ.

Schleicher conceives primordial language to be a simple organism of vocal gestures; Gould Brown believes language to be partly natural and partly artificial; Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart give to man the creation and development of speech by his own artificial invention. According to Herodotus, the Phrygians and the Egyptians disputed over the question of the antiquity of their languages. Psammetichus thereupon confided two babes to the care of goats, apart from every human sound. At the end of two years they were heard to pronounce the word _bekos_, the Phrygian for bread. The Phrygians therefore claimed for their language the seniority.

[Sidenote: SCIENCE OF PHILOLOGY.]

In ancient times it was thought that there was some one primeval tongue, a central language from which all the languages of the earth radiated. The Sythic, Ethiopic, Chinese, Greek, Latin, and other languages advanced claims for this seniority. Plato believed language to be an invention of the gods, and by them given to man. Orthodox religionists did not hesitate to affirm that Hebrew, the language of Paradise, was not only given in a perfected state to man, but was miraculously preserved in a state of purity for the chosen Israel. After the dispersion from Babel, such nations as relapsed into barbarism became barbaric in speech. And in the roots of every dialect of both the old world and the new, the Fathers were able to discern Hebrew analogies sufficient to confirm them in their dogma. Indeed other belief was heresy.

There were others who held that, when gesture-language and the language of the emotions were found insufficient for the growing necessities of man, by common consent, it was agreed that certain objects should be represented by certain sounds, and that so, when a word had been invented for every object, language was made.

Another doctrine, called by Mr. Wedgwood, its enthusiastic advocate, 'onomatopœia,' and by Professor Max Müller the 'bow-wow' theory, explains the origin of language in the effort of man to imitate the cries of nature. Thus, for dog the primitive languageless man would say bow-wow; to the rivulet, the wind, the birds and beasts, names were applied which as far as possible were but reproductions of the sounds made by these elements or animals.

Thus philology up to a comparatively late period was a speculation rather than a science. Philosophers sought to know whence language came rather than what language is. But when the great discovery concerning the Arian and Semitic families was made, comparative philologists went to work after the manner of practical investigators in other branches of study, by collecting, classifying and comparing vocabularies, and therefrom striking out a path backward to original trunks. Catalogues of languages were published, one in 1800 by Hervas, a Spanish Jesuit, containing three hundred dialects, followed by Adelung and Vater's Mithridates, from 1806-17. But not until Sanscrit was made a subject of European study did it become apparent that affinities of tongues are subject to the laws that govern affinities of blood. Then it was that a similarity was discovered, not only between the Sanscrit and the Greek and Latin tongues, but between these languages and the Teutonic, Celtic, Iranic, and Indic, all of which became united in the great Arian family. At the same time, the ancient language of the Jews, the Arabic, and the Aramaic--which constitute the Semitic family--were found to be totally different from the Arian in their radical structure. From these investigations, philologists were no less convinced that the Indo-European languages were all of the same stock, than that the Semitic idioms did not belong to it. The doctrine of the Fathers therefore would not stand; for it was found that all languages were not derivations from the Hebrew, nor from any other known central tongue.

Then too, the subordination of tongues to the laws of evolution became apparent. It was discovered that language was in a state of constant change; that, with all its variations, human speech could be grouped into families, and degrees of relationship ascertained; and that, by the comparison of vocabularies, a classification at once morphological and genealogical could be made. Varieties of tongues, as numberless as the phases of humanity, could be traced back towards their beginnings and resolved into earlier forms. It was discovered that in the first order of linguistic development, words are monosyllabic. In this rudimentary stage, to which the Chinese, Tibetan, and perhaps the Japanese belong, roots, or sounds expressive only of the material or substantial parts of things, are used. In the second stage, called the polysynthetic, aggregative, or agglutinate, a modifying termination, significant of the relations of ideas or things to each other, is affixed or glued to the root. To the agglutinate languages belong the American and Turanian families. In the third, called the inflectional stage, which comprises only the Arian and Semitic families, the two elements are more perfectly developed, and it is only in this stage that language can attain the highest degree of richness and refinement.

[Sidenote: VARIATIONS OF LANGUAGE.]

While these stages or conditions are recognized by all, it is claimed on one side that although settled languages retain their grammatical character, every agglutinate language must once have been monosyllabic, or radical, and every inflectional language once agglutinate; and on the other side it is averred that the assertion is incapable of proof, for no historical evidence exists of any one type ever having passed from one of these stages to another. Now if speech is a perfected gift of the Creator, how happens it that we find language in every stage of development or relapse, from the cluckings of Thlinkeets to the classic lines of Homer and of Shakspeare? In his physiological structure, so far as is known, Man is neither more nor less perfect now than in the days of Adam. How then if language is an organism, is it, unlike other organisms, subject to extreme and sudden change? In animated nature there are two principles; one fixed and finished as an organism, subject to perpetual birth and decay, but incapable of advancing or retrograding; the other, elemental life, the germ or centre of a future development. The one grows, the other unfolds. We have no evidence that instincts and organic functions were more or less perfect in the beginning than now. If therefore language is an instinct or an organism, a perfect gift of the Creator, how can it exist otherwise than in a concrete and perfect state like other instincts and organisms?

The absurdity that human speech is the invention of primitive man--that upon some grassy knoll a company of half-clad barbarians met, and without words invented words, without significant sounds produced sounds significant of every object, therein by mutual consent originating a language--may be set aside. Of all conjectures concerning the origin of language, the hypothesis that words are an artificial invention is the least tenable. And what is most surprising to us, at the present day, is that such men as Locke and Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart could for a moment have entertained the idea. Obviously, without language there could be no culture, and without culture, words never could have been invented. Words are the symbols of objects and ideas. Certain words may be arbitrarily selected, and, by the tacit agreement or general concurrence of society, may be made to signify certain things. And in this sense words may originate conventionally. But though words may have been conventionally selected, they were never selected by conventions. We then have the discoveries of modern philologists, not only to positively deny the infallibility of the common-origin theory, but to bring forward a number of other claimants for the greatest antiquity, as well entitled to a hearing as the Hebrew.

[Sidenote: UNIVERSALITY OF SPEECH.]

Diversity in the origin of speech does not of necessity imply diversity in the origin of race. Thus with a unity of race, circumstances may be conceived in which independent tongues may have arisen in different localities; whereas with a diversity of race, but one language hypothetically may have been given to all. A common origin is probable, a diversity of origin is possible; neither can be proved or disproved. The radical differences in the structure of the three great types, the monosyllabic, the agglutinate, and the inflectional; and the inherent heterogeneities of the several families of the same type, as of the Chinese and Siamese, of the American and Turanian, or even of the Arian and Semitic, would seem to present insurmountable obstacles to the theory of a common origin; while on the other hand the wonderful mutations of types and trunks, the known transformations of language, and the identifications by some philologists, of the same stock in each of the three progressional stages, render the theory of a unity of origin in language equally probable. Therefore the question of unity or diversity of tongues, as we speak of unity or diversity of race, can be of but little moment to us. Language shows the connection between nations widely separated, leads us back beyond tradition into the obscure past, follows the sinuosities of migrations, indicates epochs in human development, points towards the origin of peoples, serves as a guide in following the radiation of races from common centres. Yet a similarity in the sound, or even in the construction of two words, does not necessarily imply relationship. Two totally distinct languages may have borrowed the same word from a third language; which fact would never establish relationship between the borrowers. When like forms are found in different languages, in order to establish a relationship, historical evidence must be applied as a test, and the words followed up to their roots.

Stripped of technicalities, the question before us is reduced to a few simple propositions. All men speak; there never yet was found a nation without articulate language. Aside from individual and abnormal exceptions, no primitive tribe has ever been discovered, where part of the people spoke, and part were speechless. Language is as much a part of man, as any physical constituent; yet unlike physical organs, as the eye, the ear, the hand, language is not born with the individual. It is not in the blood. The Caucasian infant stolen by Apaches, cannot converse with its own mother when restored to her a few years after.

Therefore speech is not an independent, perfected gift of the Creator, but an incidental acquirement. Furthermore language is an attribute of society. It belongs to the people and not to the individual. The child before mentioned, if dropped by the Apaches among the bears and by them nurtured and reared, is doomed to mutism or bear-language. Man was made a social being; speech was made as a means of communicating intelligence between social beings; one individual alone never could originate, or even preserve a language.

But how then happens it, if man did not make it, and God did not give it him, that human speech is universal? With the organism of man the Creator implants the organs of speech. With the elemental and progressional life of man the Creator implants the germ of speech. In common with the element of progress and civilization, innate from the beginning, speech has developed by slow degrees through thousands of cycles and by various stages, marching steadily forward with the forward march of the intellect. Comparative philology, in common with all other sciences, accords to man a remote antiquity. Bunsen estimates that at least twenty thousand years are required for a language to pass from one rudimentary stage to another.

The mind receives impressions and the soul intuitions, and to throw them off in some form is an absolute necessity. Painful impressions tend to produce bodily contortions and dolorous sounds; pleasant impressions to illumine the features and to make musical the voice. And not only is this compressed emotion destined to find expression, but to impress itself upon others. Emotion is essentially sympathetic. Why certain objects are represented by certain sounds we can never know. Some think that between every word and the object or idea which it represents, there was in the first instance an intimate relationship. By degrees certain natural articulations became associated with certain ideas; then new names were suggested by some fancied analogy to objects already named. Everything else being equal, similar conditions and causations produce similar impressions and are expressed by similar sounds. Hence a certain uniformity between all human tongues; and a tendency in man to imitate the sounds in nature, the cries of animals, the melodies of winds and waters, accounts for the origin of many words.

From giving expression in some outward form to our inward emotion there is no escape. Let us now apply to the expression of feeling and emotion the same law of evolution which governs all social and intellectual phenomena, and from a language of exclamations, we have first the monosyllabic noun and verb, then auxilliaries--adverbs, adjectives, prepositions and pronouns--and finally inflections of parts of speech by which the finer shades of meaning may be expressed.

The spontaneous outbursts of feeling, or the metaphorical expressions of emotion, arising instinctively and acting almost simultaneously with the conception or impression made upon the mind, develop with time into settled forms of speech. Man speaks as birds fly or fishes swim. The Creator supplies the organs and implants the instinct. Speech, though intuitive, is more than intuition; for, as we have seen, speech is a social rather than an individual attribute. Darwin perceives in language not only a spontaneous generation, but a natural selection of grammatical forms; the best words, the clearest and shortest expressions, continually displacing the weaker. So words are made to fit occasions, and dropped as soon as better ones can be found.

Languages are not inherited, yet language is an inheritance. Language is not artificially invented, yet languages are but conventional agreements. Languages are not a concrete perfected gift of the Creator, yet the germ of language is ineradicably implanted in man, and was there implanted by none but man's Creator. This then is Language: it is an acquisition, but an acquisition from necessity; it is a gift, but, when given, an undeveloped germ; it is an artifice, in so far as it is developed by the application of individual agencies.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: MYTHOLOGY.]

Here, for a while, we will leave Language and turn to Mythology, the _mythos_ 'fable' and _logos_ 'speech' of the Grecians.

Under analysis mythology is open to broad yet significant interpretations. As made up of legendary accounts of places and personages, it is history; as relating to the genesis of the gods, the nature and adventures of divinities, it is religion; placed in the category of science, it is the science of fable; of philosophy, the philosophy of intuitive beliefs. A mass of fragmentary truth and fiction not open to rationalistic criticism; a system of tradition, genealogical and political, confounding the subjective with the objective; a partition wall of allegories, built of dead facts cemented with wild fancies--it looms ever between the immeasurable and the measurable past.

Thick black clouds, portentous of evil, hang threateningly over the savage during his entire life. Genii murmur in the flowing river, in the rustling branches are felt the breathings of the gods, goblins dance in vapory twilight, and demons howl in the darkness.

In the myths of wild, untutored man, is displayed that inherent desire to account for the origin of things, which, even at the present time, commands the profoundest attention of philosophy; and, as we look back upon the absurd conceptions of our savage ancestry with feelings akin to pity and disgust, so may the speculations of our own times appear to those who shall come after us. Those weird tales which to us are puerility or poetry, according as we please to regard them, were to their believers history, science, and religion. Yet this effort, which continues from the beginning to the end, is not valueless; in it is embodied the soul of human progress. Without mythology, the only door at once to the ideal and inner life of primitive peoples and to their heroic and historic past would be forever closed to us. Nothing so reflects their heart-secrets, exposes to our view their springs of action, shadows forth the sources of their hopes and fears, exhibits the models after which they moulded their lives.

Within crude poetic imagery are enrolled their religious beliefs, are laid the foundations of their systems of worship, are portrayed their thoughts concerning causations and the destinies of mankind. Under symbolic veils is shrouded their ancient national spirit, all that can be known of their early history and popular ideas. Thus are explained the fundamental laws of nature; thus we are told how earth sprang from chaos, how men and beasts and plants were made, how heaven was peopled, and earth, and what were the relative powers and successive dynasties of the gods. Heroes are made gods; gods are materialized and brought down to men.

[Sidenote: ALL MYTHS FOUNDED ON FACT.]

Of the value of mythology it is unnecessary here to speak. Never was there a time in the history of philosophy when the character, customs, and beliefs of aboriginal man, and everything appertaining to him, were held in such high esteem by scholars as at present. As the ultimate of human knowledge is approached, the inquirer is thrown back upon the past; and more and more the fact becomes apparent, that what is, is but a reproduction of what has been; that in the earlier stages of human development may be found the counterpart of every phase of modern social life. Higher and more heterogeneous as are our present systems of politics and philosophy, every principle, when tracked to its beginning, proves to have been evolved, not originated.

As there never yet was found a people without a language, so every nation has its mythology, some popular and attractive form for preserving historical tradition and presenting ethical maxims; and as by the range of their vocabularies we may follow men through all the stages of their progress in government, domestic affairs and mechanical arts, so, by beliefs expressed, we may determine at any given epoch in the history of a race their ideal and intellectual condition. Without the substance there can be no shadow, without the object there can be no name for it; therefore when we find a language without a word to denote property or chastity, we may be sure that the wealth and women of the tribe are held in common; and when in a system of mythology certain important metaphysical or æsthetic ideas and attributes are wanting, it is evident that the intellect of its composers has not yet reached beyond a certain low point of conception.

Moreover, as in things evil may be found a spirit of good, so in fable we find an element of truth. It is now a recognized principle of philosophy, that no religious belief, however crude, nor any historical tradition, however absurd, can be held by the majority of a people for any considerable time as true, without having in the beginning some foundation in fact. More especially is the truth of this principle apparent when we consider that in all the multitudinous beliefs of all ages, held by peoples savage and civilized, there exist a concurrence of ideas and a coincidence of opinion. Human conceptions of supernatural affairs spring from like intuitions. As human nature is essentially the same throughout the world and throughout time, so the religious instincts which form a part of that universal humanity generate and develop in like manner under like conditions. The desire to penetrate hidden surroundings and the method of attempting it are to a certain extent common to all. All wonder at the mysterious; all attempt the solution of mysteries; all primarily possess equal facilities for arriving at correct conclusions. The genesis of belief is uniform, and the results under like conditions analogous.

We may conclude that the purposes for which these fictitious narratives were so carefully preserved and handed down to posterity were two-fold--to keep alive certain facts and to inculcate certain doctrines.

[Sidenote: VALUE OF MYTHOLOGY.]

Something there must have been in every legend, in every tradition, in every belief, which has ever been entertained by the majority of a people, to recommend it to the minds of men in the first instance. Error absolute cannot exist; false doctrine without an amalgam of verity speedily crumbles, and the more monstrous the falsity the more rapid its decomposition. Myths were the oracles of our savage ancestors; their creed, the rule of their life, prized by them as men now prize their faith; and, by whatever savage philosophy these strange conceits were eliminated, their effect upon the popular mind was vital. Anaxagoras, Socrates, Protagoras, and Epicurus well knew and boldly proclaimed that the gods of the Grecians were disreputable characters, not the kind of deities to make or govern worlds; yet so deep rooted in the hearts of the people were the maxims of the past, that for these expressions one heretic was cast into prison, another expelled from Athens, and another forced to drink the hemlock. And the less a fable presents the appearance of probability, the more grotesque and extravagant it is, the less the likelihood of its having originated in pure invention; for no extravagantly absurd invention without a particle of truth could by any possibility have been palmed off upon a people, and by them accepted, revered, recited, preserved as veritable incident or solution of mystery, and handed down to those most dear to them, to be in like manner held as sacred.

Therefore we may be sure that there never was a myth without a meaning; that mythology is not a bundle of ridiculous fancies invented for vulgar amusement; that there is not one of these stories, no matter how silly or absurd, which was not founded in fact, which did not once hold a significance. "And though I have well weighed and considered all this," concluded Lord Bacon, nearly three hundred years ago, "and thoroughly seen into the levity which the mind indulges for allegories and illusions, yet I cannot but retain a high value for the ancient mythology." Indeed, to ancient myths has been attributed the preservation of shattered fragments of lost sciences, even as some have alleged that we are indebted to the writings of Democritus and Aristotle for modern geographical discoveries.

That these ductile narratives have suffered in their transmission to us, that through the magnifying and refracting influences of time, and the ignorance and fanaticism of those to whom they were first recited, we receive them mutilated and distorted, there can be no doubt. Not one in a thousand of those aboriginal beliefs which were held by the people of the Pacific Coast at the time of its first occupation by foreigners, has been preserved. And for the originality and purity of such as we have, in many instances, no one can vouch. Certain writers who saw in the native fable probable evidence of the presence of an apostle, or a miraculous interposition in the affairs of benighted heathendom, could but render the narrative in accordance with their prepossessions. The desire of some to prove a certain origin for the Indians, and the contempt of others for native character, also led to imperfect or colored narrations. But happily, enough has been preserved in authentic picture-writings, and by narrators whose integrity and intelligence are above suspicion, to give us a fair insight into the native psychological structure and belief; and if the knowledge we have is but infinitesimal in comparison with what has been lost, we may thereby learn to prize more highly such as we have.

Again we come to the ever-recurring question--Whence is it? Whence arise belief, worship, superstition? Whence the striking likeness in all supernatural conceptions between nations and ages the most diverse? Why is it that so many peoples, during the successive stages of their progress, have their creation myth, their origin myth, their flood myth, their animal, and plant, and planet myths? This coincidence of evolution can scarcely be the result of accident. Mythologies, then, being like languages common to mankind, uniform in substance yet varying in detail, what follows with regard to the essential system of their supernatural conceptions? Is it a perfected gift of the Creator, the invention of a designing priesthood, or a spontaneous generation and natural development? So broad a question, involving as it does the weightiest matters connected with man, may scarcely expect exactly the same answer from any two persons. Origin of life, origin of mind, origin of belief, are as much problems to the profoundest philosopher of to-day, as they were to the first wondering, bewildered savage who wandered through primeval forests.

[Sidenote: ORIGIN OF BELIEF.]

Life is defined by Herbert Spencer as "the coördination of actions, or their continuous adjustment;" by Lewes as "a series of definite and successive changes, both of structure and composition, which take place within an individual without destroying its identity;" by Schelling as "the tendency to individuation;" by Richeraud as "a collection of phenomena which succeed each other during a limited time in an organized body;" and by De Blainville as "the two-fold internal movement of composition and decomposition, at once general and continuous." According to Hume, Mind is but a bundle of ideas and impressions which are the sum of all knowledge, and consequently, "the only things known to exist." In the positive philosophy of Auguste Comte, intellectual development is divided into three phases; namely, the Supernatural, in which the mind seeks for supernatural causes; the Metaphysical, wherein abstract forces are set up in place of supernatural agencies; and the Positive, which inquires into the laws which engender phenomena. Martineau, commenting upon intuition and the mind's place in nature, charges the current doctrine of evolution with excluding the element of life from developing organisms. Until the origin of mind, and the relation of mind to its environment is determined, the origin of the supernatural must remain unaccounted for. Yet we may follow the principle of worship back to very near its source, if we are unable entirely to account for it.

We have seen how the inability of brutes to form in the mind long sequences of thought, prevents speech; so, in primitive societies, when successions of unrecorded events are forgotten before any conception of general laws can be formed therefrom, polytheism in its grossest form is sure to prevail. Not until the earlier stages of progress are passed, and, from a multitude of correlative and oft-repeated experiences, general deductions made, can there be any higher religious conceptions than that of an independent cause for every consequence.

By some it is alleged that the religious sentiment is a divine idea perfected by the Creator and implanted in man as part of his nature, before his divergence from a primitive centre. Singularly enough, the Fathers of the Church referred the origin of fable as well as the origin of fact to the Hebrew Scriptures. Supported by the soundest sophistry, they saw in every myth, Grecian or barbarian, a biblical character. Thus the Greek Hercules was none other than the Hebrew Sampson; Arion was Jonah, and Deucalion Noah. Other mythological characters were supposed by them to have been incarnated fiends, who disappeared after working for a time their evil upon men.

There have been those who held myths to be the fictions of sorcery, as there are now those who believe that forms of worship were invented by a designing priesthood, or that mythology is but a collection of tales, physical, ethical and historical, invented by the sages and ancient wise men of the nation, for the purpose of overawing the wicked and encouraging the good. Some declare that religion is a factitious or accidental social phenomenon; others that it is an aggregation of organized human experiences; others that it is a bundle of sentiments which were originally projected by the imagination, and ultimately adopted as entities; others that it is a feeling or emotion, the genesis of which is due to surrounding circumstances.

Many believe all mythological personages to have been once real human heroes, the foundations of whose histories were laid in truth, while the structure was reared by fancy. The Egyptians informed Herodotus that their deities--the last of whom was Orus son of Osiris, the Apollo of the Grecians--were originally their kings. Others affirm that myths are but symbolic ideas deified; that they are but the embodiment of a maxim in the form of an allegory, and that under these allegorical forms were taught history, religion, law and morality.

Intermingled with all these hypotheses are elements of truth, and yet none of them appear to be satisfying explanations. All imply that religion, in some form, is an essential constituent of humanity, and that whatever its origin and functions, it has exercised from the earliest ages and does yet exercise the most powerful influence upon man; working like leaven in the lump, keeping the world in a ferment, stirring up men to action, banding and disrupting nations, uniting and dividing communities, and forming the nucleus of numberless societies and institutions.

[Sidenote: RISE OF THE PRIMITIVE PRIESTHOOD.]

In every society, small and great, there are undoubtedly certain intellects of quicker than ordinary perception, which seize upon occasions, and by a skillful use of means obtain a mastery over inferior minds. It is thus that political and social, as well as ecclesiastical power arises. Not that the leader creates a want--he is but the mouth-piece or agent of pent-up human instincts. One of these instincts is dependence. That we are created subordinate, not absolute nor unrestrained, is a fact from which none can escape. Thraldom, constant and insurmountable, we feel we have inherited. Most naturally, therefore, the masses of mankind seek from among their fellows some embodiment of power, and ranging themselves under the banner of leaders, follow blindly whithersoever they are led. Perceiving the power thus placed in their hands, these born leaders of men are not slow to invent means for retaining and increasing it. To the inquiry of the child or unsophisticated savage, who, startled by a peal of distant thunder, cries, "What is that?" the explanation is given; "That is the storm-god speaking." "I am afraid, protect me!" implores the supplicant. "I will, only obey," is the reply. The answer is sufficient, curiosity is satisfied, and terror allayed; the barbarian teacher gains a devotee. In this manner, the superstructure of creeds, witchcrafts, priestcrafts, may have arisen; some gods may thus have been made, forms of worship invented, and intercourse opened with beings supernal and infernal. Then devotion advances and becomes an art; professors by practice become experts. Meanwhile, craft is economized; the wary Shamán rain-doctor--like the worthy clergyman of civilized orthodoxy, who refused to pray for rain "while the wind was in that quarter"--watches well the gathering ripeness of the cloud before he attempts to burst it with an arrow. And in the end, a more than ordinary skill in the exercise of this power, deifies or demonizes the possessor.

But whence arises the necessity for craft and whence the craft? The faculty of invention implies skill. Skill successfully to play upon the instincts of humanity can only be acquired through the medium of like instincts, and although the skill be empirical, the play must be natural. Craft alone will not suffice to satisfy the desire; the hook must be baited with some small element of truth before the most credulous will seize it. If religious beliefs are the fruits of invention, how shall we account for the strange coincidences of thought and worship which prevail throughout all myths and cults? Why is it that all men of every age, in conditions diverse, and in countries widely sundered, are found searching out the same essential facts? All worship; nearly all have their creation-myth, their flood-myth, their theory of origin, of distribution from primitive centres, and of a future state. In this regard as in many another, civilization is but an evolution of savagism; for almost every principle of modern philosophy there may be found in primitive times its parallel.

The nature and order of supernatural conceptions are essentially as follows: The first and rudest form of belief is Fetichism, which invests every phenomenon with an independent personality. In the sunshine, fire, and water, in the wind and rock and stream, in every animal, bird, and plant, there is a separate deity; for every effect there is a cause. Even Kepler, whose intellect could track the planets in their orbits, must needs assume a guiding spirit for every world. It is impossible for the mind to conceive of self-creative or self-existent forces.

In time the personalities of the fetich-worshiper become to some extent generalized. Homogeneous appearances are grouped into classes, and each class referred to a separate deity, and hence Polytheism. Pantheism then comes in and makes all created substance one with the creator; nature and the universe are God. From the impersonating of the forces of nature to the creation of imaginary deities there is but a step. Every virtue and vice, every good and evil becomes a personality, under the direct governance of which lie certain passions and events; and thus in place of one god for many individuals, each individual may have a multitude of his own personal gods. The theogony of Hesiod was but a system of materialized love and hate; while, on the other hand, the gods of Homer, although personating human passions, were likewise endowed with moral perceptions. In them the blind forces of nature are lighted up into a human-divine intelligence.

In Monotheism the distinct personalities, which to the savage underlie every appearance, become wholly generalized, and the origin of all phenomena is referred to one First Cause. The subtle and philosophic Greeks well knew that God to be God must be omnipotent, and omnipotency is indivisible. That the Aztecs could believe and practice the absurdities they did is less an object of wonder, than that the intellectual philosophers of Athens could have tolerated the gods of Homer. Indeed, the religion of the more cultivated Greeks appears to us monstrous, in proportion as they were superior to other men in poetry, art, and philosophy.

[Sidenote: THEORIES CONCERNING THE ORIGIN OF WORSHIP.]

Comparative mythologists explain the origin of worship by two apparently oppugnant theories. The first is that whatever is seen in nature strange and wonderful, is deemed by primitive man an object worthy of worship. The other is, that upon certain noted individuals are fastened metaphorical names, symbolic of some quality alike in them and in the natural object after which they are called; that this name, which at the first was but the surname of an individual, after its possessor is dead and forgotten, lives, reverts to the plant or animal whence it came, becomes impersonal, and is worshiped by a conservative posterity. In other words, one theory fastens upon natural phenomena, human attributes, and worships nature under covering of those attributes, while the other worships in the natural object only the memory of a dead and forgotten man. I have no doubt that in both of these hypotheses are elements of truth.

In the earlier acts of worship the tendency is to assimilate the object worshiped and the character of the worshiper, and also to assign habitations to deities, behind man's immediate environment. Every people has its heaven and hell; the former most generally located beyond the blue sky, and the latter in the dark interior caves of the earth. Man in nature reproduces himself; invests appearances with attributes analogous to his own. This likeness of the supernatural to the natural, of gods to man, is the first advance from fetichism, but as the intellect advances anthropomorphism declines. As one by one the nearest mysteries are solved by science, the emptiness of superstition becomes apparent, and the wonderless wonder is referred by the waking mind to general laws of causation; but still clinging to its first conceptions it places them on objects more remote. Man fixes his eyes upon the planets, discovers their movements, and fancies their controlling spirit also controls his destiny; and when released by reason from star-worship, as formerly from fetichism, again an advance is made, always nearing the doctrine of universal law.

In one tersely comprehensive sentence Clarke gives the old view of what were called natural religions: "They considered them, in their source, the work of fraud; in their essence, corrupt superstitions; in their doctrines, wholly false; in their moral tendency, absolutely injurious; and in their result, degenerating more and more into greater evil."

[Sidenote: PRIESTCRAFT AND PROPITIATION.]

And this view seems to him alike uncharitable and unreasonable: "To assume that they are wholly evil is disrespectful to human nature. It supposes man to be the easy and universal dupe of fraud. But these religions do not rest on such a sandy foundation, but on the feeling of dependence, the sense of accountability, the recognition of spiritual realities very near to this world of matter, and the need of looking up and worshiping some unseen power higher and better than ourselves. We shall find them always feeling after God, often finding him. We shall see that in their origin they are not the work of priestcraft, but of human nature; in their essence not superstitions, but religions; in their doctrines true more frequently than false; in their moral tendency good rather than evil. And instead of degenerating toward something worse, they come to prepare the way for something better."

The nearest case to deliberate invention of deities was, perhaps, the promulgation as objects of worship in primitive times of such abstractions as Hope (Spes), Fear (Pallor), Concord (Concordia), Courage (Virtus), etc. How far these gods were gods, however, in even the ordinary heathen sense of the word, is doubtful. In any case, they were but the extension of an old and existent principle--the personification of divine aspects or qualities; they added no more to what went before than a new Saint or Virgin of Loretto does to the Catholic Church.

"It was a favorite opinion with the Christian apologists, Eusebius and others," says Gladstone, "that the pagan deities represented deified men. Others consider them to signify the powers of external nature personified. For others they are, in many cases, impersonations of human passions and propensities, reflected back from the mind of man. A fourth mode of interpretation would treat them as copies, distorted and depraved, of a primitive system of religion given by God to man. The Apostle St. Paul speaks of them as devils; by which he may perhaps intend to convey that, under the names and in connection with the worship of those deities, the worst influences of the Evil One were at work. This would rather be a subjective than an objective description; and would rather convey an account of the practical working of a corrupted religion, than an explanation of its origin or its early course. As between the other four, it seems probable that they all, in various degrees and manners, entered into the composition of the later paganism, and also of the Homeric or Olympian system. That system, however, was profoundly adverse to mere Nature-worship; while the care of departments or provinces of external nature were assigned to its leading personages. Such worship of natural objects or elemental powers, as prevailed in connection with it, was in general local or secondary. And the deification of heroes in the age of Homer was rare and merely titular. We do not find that any cult or system of devotion was attached to it."

So humanly divine, so impotently great are the gods of Homer; so thoroughly invested with the passions of men, clothed in distinctive shades of human character; such mingled virtue and vice, love and hate, courage and cowardice; animal passions uniting with noble sentiments; base and vulgar thoughts with lofty and sublime ideas; and all so wrought up by his inimitable fancy into divine and supernatural beings, as to work most powerfully upon the nature of the people.

These concrete conceptions of his deities have ever been a source of consolation to the savage; for, by thus bringing down the gods to a nearer level with himself, they could be more materially propitiated, and their protection purchased with gifts and sacrifices. Thus the Greeks could obtain advice through oracles, the Hindoo could pass at once into eternal joys by throwing himself under the car of Juggernaut, while the latter-day offender seeks in the assistance of the departed to buy forgiveness with charities, and to compound crime by building churches.

[Sidenote: UNRECORDED FACTS SOON BECOME MYTHOLOGICAL.]

The difficulty is, that in attempting to establish any theory concerning the origin of things, the soundest logic is little else than wild speculation. Mankind progress unconsciously. We know not what problems we ourselves are working out for those who come after us; we know not by what process we arrive at many of our conclusions; much of that which is clear to ourselves is never understood by our neighbor, and never will be even known by our posterity. Events the most material are soon forgotten, or else are made spiritual and preserved as myths. Blot out the process by which science arrived at results, and in every achievement of science, in the steam engine, the electric telegraph, we should soon have a heaven-descended agency, a god for every machine. Where mythology ceases and history begins, is in the annals of every nation a matter of dispute. What at first appears to be wholly fabulous may contain some truth, whereas much of what is held to be true is mere fable, and herein excessive skepticism is as unwise as excessive credulity.

Historical facts, if unrecorded, are soon lost. Thus when Juan de Oñate penetrated New Mexico in 1596, Fray Marco de Niza, and the expedition of Coronado in 1540, appear to have been entirely forgotten by the Cibolans. Fathers Crespi and Junípero Serra, in their overland explorations of 1769, preparatory to the establishment of a line of Missions along the Californian seaboard, could find no traces, in the minds of the natives, of Cabrillo's voyage in 1542, or of the landing of Sir Francis Drake in 1579; although, so impressed were the savages in the latter instance, that, according to the worthy chaplain of the expedition, they desired "with submission and fear to worship us as gods." Nor can we think civilized memories--which ascribe the plays of Shakespeare to Bacon, and parcel out the Iliad of Homer among numberless unrecorded verse-makers--more tenacious. Frederick Augustus Wolf denies that a Homer ever existed; or, if he did, that he ever wrote his poem, as writing was at that time not generally known; but he claims that snatches of history, descending orally from one generation to another, in the end coalesced into the matchless Iliad and Odyssey. The event which so strongly impressed the father, becomes vague in the mind of the son, and in the third generation is either lost or becomes legendary. Incidents of recent occurrence, contemporary perhaps with the narration, are sometimes so misinterpreted by ignorance or distorted by prejudice, as to place the fact strangely at variance with the recital. Yet no incident nor action falls purposeless to the ground. Unrecorded it may be, unwitnessed, unheard by beings material; a thought-wave even, lost in space invisible, acting, for aught we know, only upon the author; yet so acting, it casts an influence, stamps on fleeting time its record, thereby fulfilling its destiny. Thus linger vapory conceits long after the action which created them has sunk into oblivion; undefined shadows of substance departed; none the less impressive because mingled with immortal imagery.

Turn now from outward events to inner life; from events grown shadowy with time, to life ever dim and mysterious alike to savage and sage. Everywhere man beholds much that is incomprehensible; within, around, the past, the future. Invisible forces are at work, invisible agencies play upon his destiny. And in the creations of fancy, which of necessity grow out of the influence of nature upon the imagination, it is not strange that mysteries darken, facts and fancies blend; the past and the future uniting in a supernatural present.

We are never content with positive knowledge. From the earliest workings of the mind, creations of fancy play as important a part in ethical economy as positive perceptions. Nor does culture in any wise lessen these fanciful creations of the intellect. In the political arena of civilized nations, wars and revolutions for the enforcement of opinion concerning matters beyond the reach of positive knowledge, have equaled if they have not exceeded wars for empire or ascendancy. In the social and individual affairs of life we are governed more by the ideal than by the real. On reaching the limits of positive knowledge, reason pauses, but fancy overleaps the boundary, and wanders forward in an endless waste of speculation.

[Sidenote: RELIGIOUS AND SCIENTIFIC ULTIMATES.]

The tendency of intellectual progress, according to the philosophy of Herbert Spencer, is from the concrete to the abstract, from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, from the knowable to the unknowable. Primordially nothing was known; as superstitions and priestcraft grew rank, everything became known; there was not a problem in the natural or in the supernatural world unsolvable by religion. Now, when some elements of absolute knowledge are beginning to appear, we discover, not only that little is positively known, but that much of what has been hitherto deemed past controverting, is, under the present régime of thought, absolutely unknowable. Formerly ultimate religious knowledge was attained by the very novices of religion, and ultimate scientific knowledge was explained through their fanatical conceptions. Not only were all the mysteries of the material universe easily solved by the Fathers, but heaven was measured and the phenomena of hell minutely described. Now we are just beginning to comprehend that ultimate facts will probably ever remain unknowable facts, for when the present ultimate is attained, an eternity of undiscovered truth will still lay stretched out before the searcher. Until the finite becomes infinite, and time lapses into eternity, the realm of thought will remain unfilled. At present, and until the scope of the intellect is materially enlarged, such theories as the origin of the universe--held by atheists to be self-existent, by pantheists to have been self-created, and by theists to have been originated by an external agency--must remain, as they are now admitted to be, questions beyond even the comprehension of the intellect. Likewise scientific ultimates--such as the qualities of time and space, the divisibility of matter, the co-ordination of motion and rest, the correlation of forces, the mysteries of gravitation, light and heat--are found to be not only not solvable, but not conceivable. And, as with the external, so with the inward life; we cannot conceive the nature, nor explain the origin and duration, of consciousness. The endless speculations of biology and psychology only leave impressions at once of the strength and weakness of the mind of man; strong in empirical knowledge, impotent in every attempt rationally to penetrate the unfathomable. Nowhere in mythology do we find the world self-created or self-existent. Some external agency is ever brought in to perform the work, and in the end the structure of the universe is resolved into its original elements.

Primordial man finds himself surrounded by natural phenomena, the operations of which his intelligence is capable of grasping but partially. Certain appetites sharpen, at once, certain instincts. Hunger makes him acquainted with the fruits of the earth; cold with the skins of beasts. Accident supplies him with rude implements, and imparts to him a knowledge of his power over animals. But as instinct merges into intellect, strange powers in nature are felt; invisible agents wielding invisible weapons; realities which exist unheard and move unseen; outward manifestations of hidden strength. Humanity, divine, but wild and wondering, half-fed, half-clad, ranges woods primeval, hears the roar of battling elements, sees the ancient forest-tree shivered into fragments by heaven's artillery, feels the solid earth rise up in rumbling waves beneath his feet. He receives, as it were, a blow from within the darkness, and flinging himself upon the ground he begs protection; from what he knows not, of whom he knows not. "Bury me not, O tumultuous heavens," he cries, "under the clouds of your displeasure!" "Strike me not down in wrath, O fierce flaming fire!" "Earth, be firm!" Here, then, is the origin of prayer. And to render more effectual his entreaties, a gift is offered. Seizing upon whatever he prizes most, his food, his raiment, he rushes forth and hurls his propitiatory offering heavenward, earthward, whithersoever his frenzied fancy dictates. Or, if this is not enough, the still more dearly valued gift of human blood or human life is offered. His own flesh he freely lacerates; to save his own life he gives that of his enemy, his slave, or even his child. Hence arises sacrifice.

[Sidenote: ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF PRIESTCRAFT.]

And here also conjurings commence. The necessity is felt of opening up some intercourse with these mysterious powers; relations commercial and social; calamities and casualties, personal and public, must be traced to causes, and the tormenting demon bought off. But it is clearly evident that these elemental forces are not all of them inimical to the happiness of mankind. Sunshine, air and water, the benign influences in nature, are as powerful to create, as the adverse elements are to destroy. And as these forces appear conflicting, part productive of life and enjoyment, and part of destruction, decay, and death, a separation is made. Hence principles of good and evil are discovered; and to all these unaccountable forces in nature, names and properties are given, and causations invented. For every act there is an actor--for every deed a doer; for every power and passion there is made a god.

Thus we see that worship in some form is a human necessity, or, at least, a constant accompaniment of humanity. Until perfect wisdom and limitless power are the attributes of humanity, adoration will continue; for men will never cease to reverence what they do not understand, nor will they cease to fear such elements of strength as are beyond their control. The form of this conciliatory homage appears to arise from common human instincts; for, throughout the world and in all ages, a similarity in primitive religious forms has existed. It is a giving of something; the barter of a valuable something for a something more valuable. As in his civil polity all crimes may be compounded or avenged, so in his worship, the savage gives his pride, his property, or his blood.

At first, this spirit power is seen in everything; in the storm and in the soft evening air; in clouds and cataracts, in mountains, rocks, and rivers; in trees, in reptiles, beasts, and fishes. But when progressive man obtains a more perfect mastery over the brute creation, brute worship ceases; as he becomes familiar with the causes of some of the forces in nature, and is better able to protect himself from them, the fear of natural objects is lessened. Leaving the level of the brute creation he mounts upward, and selecting from his own species some living or dead hero, he endows a king or comrade with superhuman attributes, and worships his dead fellow as a divine being. Still he tunes his thoughts to subtler creations, and carves with skillful fingers material images of supernatural forms. Then comes idolatry. The great principles of causation being determined and embodied in perceptible forms, adorations ensue. Cravings, however, increase. As the intellect expands, one idol after another is thrown down. Mind assumes the mastery over matter. From gods of wood and stone, made by men's fingers, and from suns and planets, carved by the fingers of omnipotence, the creature now turns to the Creator. A form of ideal worship supplants the material form; gods known and tangible are thrown aside for the unknown God. And well were it for the intellect could it stop here. But, as the actions of countless material gods were clear to the primitive priest, and by him satisfactorily explained to the savage masses; so, in this more advanced state men are not wanting who receive from their ideal god revelations of his actions and motives. To its new, unknown, ideal god, the partially awakened human mind attaches the positive attributes of the old, material deities, or invents new ones, and starts anew to tread the endless mythologic circle; until in yet a higher state it discovers that both god and attributes are wholly beyond its grasp, and that with all its progress, it has advanced but slightly beyond the first savage conception;--a power altogether mysterious, inexplicable to science, controlling phenomena of mind and matter.

Barbarians are the most religious of mortals. While the busy, overworked brain of the scholar or man of business is occupied with more practical affairs, the listless mind of the savage, thrown as he is upon the very bosom of nature, is filled with innumerable conjectures and interrogatories. His curiosity, like that of a child, is proverbial, and as superstition is ever the resource of ignorance, queer fancies and fantasms concerning life and death, and gods and devils float continually through his unenlightened imagination.

Ill-protected from the elements, his comfort and his uncertain food-supply depending upon them, primitive man regards nature with eager interest. Like the beasts, his forest companions, he places himself as far as possible in harmony with his environment. He migrates with the seasons; feasts when food is plenty, fasts in famine-time; basks and gambols in the sunshine, cowers beneath the fury of the storm, crawls from the cold into his den, and there quasi-torpidly remains until nature releases him. Is it therefore strange that savage intellect peoples the elements with supernatural powers; that God is everywhere, in everything; in the most trifling accident and incident, as well as in the sun, the sea, the grove; that when evil comes God is angry, when fortune smiles God is favorable; and that he speaks to his wild, untutored people in signs and dreams, in the tempest and in the sunshine. Nor does he withhold the still, small voice, which breathes upon minds most darkened, and into breasts the most savage, a spirit of progress, which, if a people be left to the free fulfillment of their destiny, is sure, sooner or later, to ripen into full development.

[Sidenote: ORIGIN OF FETICHISM.]

We will now glance at the origin of fetichism, which indeed may be called the origin of ideal religion, from the other standpoint; that which arises from the respect men feel for the memory of their departed ancestors.

The first conception of a dualty in man's nature has been attributed to various causes; it may be the result of a combination of causes. There is the shadow upon the ground, separate, yet inseparable; the reflection of the form upon the water; the echo of the voice, the adventures of fancy portrayed by dreams. Self is divisible from and inseparably connected with this other self. Herefrom arise innumerable superstitions; it was portentous of misfortune for one's clothes to be stepped on; no food must be left uneaten; nail clippings and locks of hair must not fall into the hands of an enemy. Catlin, in sketching his portraits, often narrowly escaped with his life, the Indians believing that in their likenesses he carried away their other self. And when death comes, and this other self departs, whither has it gone? The lifeless body remains, but where is the life? The mind cannot conceive of the total extinguishment of an entity, and so the imagination rears a local habitation for every departed spirit. Every phenomenon and every event is analyzed under this hypothesis. For every event there is not only a cause, but a personal cause, an independent agent behind every consequence. Every animal, every fish and bird, every rock and stream and plant, the ripening fruit, the falling rain, the uncertain wind, the sun and stars, are all personified. There is no disease without its god or devil, no fish entangled in the net, no beast or bird that falls before the hunter, without its special sender.

Savages are more afraid of a dead man than a live one. They are overwhelmed with terror at the thought of this unseen power over them. The spirit of the departed is omnipotent and omnipresent. At any cost or hazard it must be propitiated. So food is placed in the grave; wives and slaves, and horses and dogs, are slain, and in spirit sent to serve the ghost of the departed; phantom messengers are sent to the region of shadows from time to time; the messengers sometimes even volunteering to go. So boats and weapons and all the property of the deceased are burned or deposited with him. In the hand of the dead child is placed a toy; in that of the departed warrior, the symbolic pipe of peace, which is to open a tranquil entrance into his new abode; clothes, and ornaments, and paint, are conveniently placed, and thus a proper personal appearance guaranteed. Not that the things themselves are to be used, but the souls of things. The body of the chief rots, as does the material substance of the articles buried with it; but the soul of every article follows the soul of its owner, to serve its own peculiar end in the land of phantoms.

[Sidenote: THE WORSHIP OF DEAD ANCESTORS.]

The Chinese, grown cunning with the great antiquity of their burial customs, which require money and food to be deposited for the benefit of the deceased, spiritualize the money, by making an imitation coin of pasteboard, while the food, untouched by the dead, is finally eaten by themselves.

But whence arises the strange propensity of all primitive nations to worship animals, and plants, and stones, things animate and inanimate, natural and supernatural? Why is it that all nations or tribes select from nature some object which they hold to be sacred, and which they venerate as deity? It is the opinion of Herbert Spencer that "the rudimentary form of all religion is the propitiation of dead ancestors, who are supposed to be still existing, and to be capable of working good or evil to their descendants." It is the universal custom with savage tribes, as the character of their members becomes developed, to drop the real name of individuals and to fix upon them the attribute of some external object, by whose name only they are afterwards known. Thus a swift runner is called the 'antelope,' the slow of foot, the 'tortoise,' a merciless warrior, the 'wolf,' a dark-eyed maid may be likened to the 'raven,' a majestic matron to the 'cypress.' And so the rivulet, the rock, the dawn, the sun, and even elements invisible, are seized upon as metaphors and fastened upon individuals, according to a real or fancied resemblance between the qualities of nature and the character of the men. Inferiority and baseness, alike with nobleness and wise conduct, perpetuate a name. Even in civilized societies, a nickname often takes the place of the real name. Schoolboys are quick to distinguish peculiarities in their fellows, and fasten upon them significant names. A dull scholar is called 'cabbage-head,' the girl with red ringlets, 'carrots.' In the family there is the greedy 'pig,' the darling 'duck,' the little 'lamb.' In new countries, and abnormal communities, where strangers from all parts are promiscuously thrown together, not unfrequently men live on terms of intimacy for years without ever knowing each other's real name. Among miners, such appellations as 'Muley Bill,' 'Sandy,' 'Shorty,' 'Sassafras Jack,' often serve all the purposes of a name. In more refined circles, there is the hypocritical 'crocodile,' the sly 'fox,' the gruff 'bear.' We say of the horse, 'he is as fleet as the wind,' of a rapid accountant, 'he is as quick as lightning.' These names, which are used by us but for the moment, or to fit occasions, are among rude nations permanent--in many instances the only name a person ever receives.

Sometimes the nickname of the individual becomes first a family name and then a tribal name; as when the chief, 'Coyote,' becomes renowned, his children love to call themselves 'Coyotes.' The chieftainship descending to the son and grandson of Coyote, the name becomes famous, the Coyote family the dominant family of the tribe; members of the tribe, in their intercourse with other tribes, call themselves 'coyotes,' to distinguish themselves from other tribes; the head, or tail, or claws, or skin, of the coyote ornaments the dress or adorns the body; the name becomes tribal, and the animal the symbol or totem of the tribe. After a few generations have passed, the great chieftain, Coyote, and his immediate progeny are forgotten; meanwhile the beast becomes a favorite with the people; he begins to be regarded as privileged; is not hunted down like other beasts; the virtues and exploits of the whole Coyote clan become identified with the brute; the affections of the people are centered in the animal, and finally, all else being lost and forgotten, the descendants of the chieftain, Coyote, are the offspring of the veritable beast, coyote.

[Sidenote: ABSTRACT CONCEPTIONS, MONSTERS, AND METAPHORS.]

Concerning image-worship and the material representation of ideal beings, Mr. Tylor believes that "when man has got some way in developing the religious element in him, he begins to catch at the device of setting up a puppet, or a stone, as the symbol and representative of the notions of a higher being which are floating in his mind."

Primitive languages cannot express abstract qualities. For every kind of animal or bird or plant there may be a name, but for animals, plants, and birds in general, they have no name or conception. Therefore, the abstract quality becomes the concrete idea of a god, and the descendants of a man whose symbolic name was 'dog,' from being the children of the man become the children of the dog.

Hence also arise monsters, beings compounded of beast, bird, and fish, sphinxes, mermaids, human-headed brutes, winged animals; as when the descendant of the 'hawk' carries off a wife from the 'salmon' tribe, a totem representing a fish with a hawk's head for a time keeps alive the occurrence and finally becomes the deity.

Thus realities become metaphors and metaphors realities; the fact dwindles into shadowy nothingness and the fancy springs into actual being. The historical incident becomes first indistinct and then is forgotten; the metaphorical name of the dead ancestor is first respected in the animal or plant, then worshiped in the animal or plant, and finally the nickname and the ancestor both are forgotten and the idea becomes the entity, and the veritable object of worship. From forgetfulness of primogenitor and metaphor, conceiving the animal to be the very ancestor, words are put into the animal's mouth, the sayings of the ancestor become the sayings of the brute; hence mythological legends of talking beasts, and birds, and wise fishes. To one animal is attributed a miraculous cure, to another, assistance in time of trouble; one animal is a deceiver, another a betrayer; and thus through their myths and metaphors we may look back into the soul of savagism and into their soul of nature.

That this is the origin of some phases of fetichism there can be no doubt; that it is the origin of all religions, or even the only method by which animal and plant worship originates, I do not believe. While there are undoubtedly general principles underlying all religious conceptions, it does not necessarily follow, that in every instance the methods of arriving at those fundamental principles must be identical. As with us a child weeps over a dead mother's picture, regarding it with fond devotion, so the dutiful barbarian son, in order the better to propitiate the favor of his dead ancestor, sometimes carves his image in wood or stone, which sentiment with time lapses into idolatry. Any object which strikes the rude fancy as analogous to the character of an individual may become an object of worship.

The interpretation of myth can never be absolute and positive; yet we may in almost every instance discover the general purport. Thus a superior god, we may be almost sure, refers to some potent hero, some primitive ruler, whom tradition has made superhuman in origin and in power; demigods, subordinate or inferior beings in power, must be regarded as legendary, referring to certain influential persons, identified with some element or incident in which the deified personage played a conspicuous part.

Although in mythology religion is the dominant element, yet mythology is not wholly made up of religion, nor are all primitive religions mythical. "There are few mistakes" says Professor Max Müller "so widely spread and so firmly established as that which makes us confound the religion and the mythology of the ancient nations of the world. How mythology arises, necessarily and naturally, I tried to explain in my former lectures, and we saw that, as an affection or disorder of language, mythology may infect every part of the intellectual life of man. True it is that no ideas are more liable to mythological disease than religious ideas, because they transcend those regions of our experience within which language has its natural origin, and must therefore, according to their very nature, be satisfied with metaphorical expressions. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man. Yet even the religions of the ancient nations are by no means inevitably and altogether mythological. On the contrary, as a diseased frame pre-supposes a healthy frame, so a mythological religion pre-supposes, I believe, a healthy religion."

[Sidenote: FUNDAMENTAL IDEAS OF RELIGION.]

The universal secrets of supernatural beings are wrapped up in probable or possible fable; the elements of physical nature are impersonated in allegories, and arrayed in forms perceptible to the imagination; deities are sometimes introduced into the machinery of the supernatural in order to gratify that love for the marvelous which every attempt to explain the mysterious forces of nature creates in the ignorant mind. Yet it cannot truly be said that any form of religion, much less any religion was wholly invented. Fanatics sometimes originate doctrines, and the Church sets forth its dogmas, but there must be a foundation of truth or the edifice cannot stand. Inventions there undoubtedly have been and are, but inventions, sooner or later fall to the ground, while the essential principles underlying religion and mythology, though momentarily overcome or swept away, are sure to remain.

Every one of the fundamental ideas of religion is of indigenous origin, generating spontaneously in the human heart. It is a characteristic of mythology that the present inhabitants of the world descended from some nobler race. From the nobler impulses of fancy the savage derives his origin. His higher instincts teach him that his dim distant past, and his impenetrable future, are alike of a lighter, more ethereal nature; that his earthly nature is base, that that which binds him to earth is the lowest, vilest part of himself.

The tendency of positive knowledge is to overthrow superstition. Hence as science develops, many tenets of established religions, palpably erroneous, are dropped, and the more knowledge becomes real, the more real knowledge is denied. Superstition is not the effect of an active imagination, but shows rather a lack of imagination, for we see that the lower the stage of intelligence, and the feebler the imagination, the greater the superstition. A keen, vivid imagination, although capable of broader and more complicated conceptions, is able to explain the cruder marvels, and consequently to dispel the coarser phases of superstition, while the dull intellect accepts everything which is put upon it as true. Ultimate religious conceptions are symbolic rather than actual. Ultimate ideas of the universe are even beyond the grasp of the profoundest intellect. We can form but an approximate idea of the sphere on which we live. To form conceptions of the relative and actual distances and magnitudes of heavenly bodies, of systems of worlds, and eternities of space, the human mind is totally inadequate. If, therefore, the mind is unable to grasp material visible objects, how much less are we able to measure the invisible and eternal.

When therefore the savage attempts to solve the problem of natural phenomena, he first reduces broad conceptions to symbolic ideas. He moulds his deity according to the measure of his mind; and in forming a skeleton upon which to elaborate his religious instincts, proximate theories are accepted, and almost any explanation appears to him plausible. The potential creations of his fancy are brought within the compass of his comprehension; symbolic gods are moulded from mud, or carved from wood or stone; and thus by segregating an infinitesimal part of the vast idea of deity, the worshiper meets the material requirements of his religious conceptions. And although the lower forms of worship are abandoned as the intellect unfolds, the same principle is continued. We set up in the mind symbols of the ultimate idea which is too great for our grasp, and imagining ourselves in possession of the actual idea, we fall into numberless errors concerning what we believe or think. The atheistic hypothesis of self-existence, the pantheistic hypothesis of self-creation, and the theistic hypothesis of creation by an external agency are equally unthinkable, and therefore as postulates equally untenable. Yet underlying all, however gross or superstitious the dogma, is one fundamental truth, namely, that there is a problem to be solved, an existent mysterious universe to be accounted for.

Deep down in every human breast is implanted a religiosity as a fundamental attribute of man's nature; a consciousness that behind visible appearances is an invisible power; underlying all conception is an instinct or intuition from which there is no escape, that beyond material actualities potential agencies are at work; and throughout all belief, from the stupidest fetichism to the most exalted monotheism, as part of these instinctive convictions, it is held that the beings, or being, who rule man's destiny may be propitiated.

The first cry of nature is hushed. From time immemorial nations and peoples have come and gone, whence and whither no one knows; entering existence unannounced they disappear and leave no trace, save perhaps their impress on the language or the mythology of the world. Thus from historic fact blended with the religious sentiments springs the Mythic Idea.

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[Sidenote: CLASSIFICATION OF PACIFIC STATES' MYTHS.]

In the following chapters, I have attempted, as far as practicable, to classify the Myths of the Pacific States under appropriate heads. In making such a classification there is no difficulty, except where in one myth occur two or more divisions of the subject, in which case it becomes necessary, either to break the narrative, or make exceptions in the general rule of classifying. I have invariably adopted the latter alternative. The divisions which I make of Mythology are as follows: I. Origin and End of Things; II. Physical Myths; III. Animal Myths; IV. Gods, Supernatural Beings, and Worship; V. The Future State.