Myth in Primitive Psychology

By the examination of a typical Melanesian 
culture and by a survey of the opinions, tradi- 
tions, and behaviour of these natives, I propose 
to show how deeply the sacred tradition, the 
myth, enters into their pursuits, and how 
strongly it controls their moral and social be- 
haviour. In other words, the thesis of the 
present work is that an intimate connection 
exists between the word, the mythos, the sacred 
tales of a tribe on the one hand, and their ritual 
acts, their moral deeds, their social organization, 
and even their practical activities on the other. 

In order to gain a background for our de- 
scription of the Melanesian facts, I shall briefly 
summarize the present state of the science of 
mythology. Even a superficial survey of the 
literature would reveal that there is no monotony 
to complain of as regards the variety of opinions 
or the acrimony of polemics. ‘To take only the 
recent up-to-date-theories advanced in explana- 
tion of the nature of myth, legend, and fairy- 
tale, we should have to head the list, at least as 

regards output and self-assertion, by the so-called 
school of Nature-mythology which flourishes 
mainly in Germany. The writers of the school 
maintain that primitive man is highly interested 
in natural phenomena, and that his interest is pre- 

_, dominantly of a theoretical, contemplative, and 

poetical character. In trying to express and in- 
terpret the phases of the moon, or the regular and 
yet changing path of the sun across the skies, 
primitive man constructs symbolic personified 
rhapsodies. To writers of this school every myth 
possesses as its kernel or ultimate reality some 
natural phenomenon or other, elaborately woven 
into a tale to an extent which sometimes almost 
masks and obliterates it. There is not much 
agreement among these students as to what type 
of natural phenomenon lies at the bottom of most 
mythological productions. There are extreme 
lunar mythologists so completely moonstruck with 
their idea that they will not admit that any other 
phenomenon could lend itself to a savage rhap- 
sodic interpretation except that of earth’s noctur- 
nal satellite. “The Society for the Comparative 
Study of Myth, founded in Berlin in 1906, and 
counting among its supporters such famous schol- 
ars as Ehrenreich, Siecke, Winckler, and many 
others, carried on their business under the sign 
of the moon. Others, like Frobenius for instance, 

». vegard the sun as the only subject around which 

primitive man has spun his symbolic tales. Then 

there is the school of meteorological interpreters 
who regard wind, weather, and colours of the 

=< 

skies as the essence of myth. To this belonged ~ 

such well-known writers of the older generation 
as Max Miiller and Kuhn. Some of these de- 
partmental mythologists fight fiercely for their 
heavenly body or principle; others have a more 

catholic taste, and prepare to agree that primeval *~ 

man has made his mythological brew from all the 
heavenly bodies taken together. 

I have tried to state fairly and plausibly this 
naturalistic interpretation of myths, but as a mat- 
ter of fact this theory seems to me to be one of 
the most extravagant views ever advanced by an 
anthropologist or humanist—and that means a 
great deal. It has received an absolutely de- 
structive criticism from the great psychologist  
‘Wundt, and appears absolutely untenable in the 
light of any of Sir James Frazer’s writings. 
From my own study of living myths among sav- 
ages, I should say that primitive man has to a 
very limited extent the purely artistic or scien- 
tific interest in nature; there is but little room 
for symbolism in his ideas and tales; and myth, 
in fact, is not an idle rhapsody, not an aimless 
outpouring of vain imaginings, but a hard- 
working, extremely i important cultural force. Be- 
sides ignoring the cultural function of myth, this 
theory imputes to primitive man a number of 
imaginary interests, and it confuses several clearly 

3 
ie 

distinguishable types of story, the fairy tale,the 
legend,’ the saga, andthe sacred tale or myth. 

In strong contrast to this theory which makes 
myth naturalistic, symbolic, and imaginary, 
stands the theory which regards a sacred tale as 
a true historical record of the past. “This view, 
recently supported by the so-called Historical 
School in Germany and America, and represented 
in England by Dr. Rivers, covers but part of 
the truth. There is no denying that history, as 
well as natural environment, must have left a 
profound imprint on all cultural achievements, 
hence also on myths. But to take all mythology 
as mere chronicle is as incorrect as to regard 
it as the primitive naturalist’s musings. It also 
endows primitive man with a sort of scientific 
impulse and desire for knowledge. Although the 
savage has something of the antiquarian as well 
as of the naturalist in his composition, he is, 
above all, actively engaged-in a number of prac- 
tical pursuits, and has to struggle with various 
difficulties; all his interests are tuned up to this 

’ general pragmatic outlook. Mythology, the 

sacred lore of the tribe, is, as we shall see, a 
powerful means of assisting primitive man, of 
allowing him to make the two ends of his cul- 
tural patrimony meet. We shall see, moreover, 
that the immense services to primitive culture 
performed by myth are done in connection with 
religious ritual, moral influence, and sociological 

eeTLind A\,IN 

principle. Now religion and morals draw only 
to a very limited extent upon an interest in 
science or in past history, and myth is thus 
based upon an entirely different mental attitude. 

The close connection between religion and 
myth which has been overlooked by many stu- 
dents has been recognized by others. Psycholo- 
gists like Durkheim, Hubert, and Mauss, an- 
thropologists like Crawley, classical scholars like 
Miss Jane Harrison have all understood the in-) 
timate association between myth and ritual, be- 
tween sacred tradition and the norms of social | 
structure. All of these writers have been to a 
greater or lesser extent influenced by the work of 
Sir James Frazer. In spite of the fact that the 
great British anthropologist, as well as most of his 
followers, have a clear vision of the sociological 
and ritual importance of myth, the facts which I 
shall present will allow us to clarify and formu- 
late more precisely the main principles of a socio- 
logical theory of myth. Tie eae 

I might present an even more extensive survey 
of the opinions, divisions, and controversies of 
learned mythologists. ‘The science of mythology 
has been the meeting-point of various scholar- 
ships: the classical humanist must decide for 
himself whether Zeus is the moon, or the sun, 
or a strictly historical personality; and whether 
his ox-eyed spouse is the morning star, or a cow, 
or a personification of the wind—the loquacity 

of wives being proverbial. ‘Then all these ques-. 
tions have to be re-discussed upon the stage of: 
mythology by the various tribes of archeologists, 
Chaldean and Egyptian, Indian and Chinese, 
Peruvian and Mayan. ‘The historian and the 
sociologist, the student of literature, the gram- 
marian, the Germanist and the Romanist, the 
Celtic scholar and the Slavist discuss, each little 
crowd among themselves. Nor is mythology 
quite safe from logicians and psychologists, from 
the metaphysician and the epistemologist—to say 
nothing of such visitors as the theosophist, the 
modern astrologist, and the Christian Scientist. 
Finally, we have the psycho-analyst who has 
come at last to teach us that the myth is a day- 
dream of the race, and that we can only explain 
it by turning our back upon nature, history, and 
culture, and diving deep into the dark pools of 
the sub-conscious, where at the bottom there lie 
the usual paraphernalia and symbols of psycho- 
analytic exegesis. So that when at last the poor 
anthropologist and student of folk-lore come to 
the feast, there are hardly any crumbs left for 
them ! 

If I have conveyed an impression of chaos and 
confusion, if I have inspired a sinking feeling 
towards the incredible mythological controversy 
with all the dust and din which it raises, I have 
achieved exactly what I wanted. For I shall 
invite my readers to step outside the closed study 

of the theorist into the open air of the anthropo- 
logical field, and to follow me in my mental flight 
back to the years which I spent among a Mela- 
nesian tribe of New Guinea. ‘There, paddling 
on the lagoon, watching the natives under the 
blazing sun at their garden-work, following 
them through the patches of jungle, and on the 
winding beaches and reefs, we shall learn about 
their life. And again, observing their ceremonies 
in the cool of the afternoon or in the shadows 
of the evening, sharing their meals round their 
fires, we shall be able to listen to their stories. 
For the anthropologist—one and only among 
the many participants in the mythological con- 
test—has the unique advantage of being able to 
step back behind the savage whenever he feels 
that his theories become involved and the flow of 
his argumentative eloquence runs dry. ‘The 
anthropologist is not bound to the scanty rem- 
nants of culture, broken tablets, tarnished texts, 
or fragmentary inscriptions. He need not fill 
out immense gaps with voluminous, but conjec- 
tural, comments. The anthropologist has the 
myth-maker at his elbow. Not only can he take 
down as full a text as exists, with all its varia- 
tions, and control it over and over; he has also 
a host of authentic commentators to draw upon; 
still more he has the fulness of life itself from 
which the myth has been born. And as we shall 
see, in this live context there is as much to be 

bur 

learned about the myth as in the narrative itself. 

Myth as it exists in a savage community, that 
is, in its living primitive form, is not merely a 
story told but a reality lived. It is not of the 
nature of fiction, such as we read to-day in a 
novel, but it is a living reality, believed to have 
once happened in primeval times, and continuing 
_ ever since to influence the world and human des- 
tinies. This myth is to the savage what, to a 
fully believing Christian, is the Biblical story 
of Creation, of the Fall, of the Redemption by 
Christ’s Sacrifice on the Cross. As our sacred 
story lives in our ritual, in our morality, as it 
governs our faith and controls our conduct, even 

so does his myth for the savage. 
~~ The limitation of the study of myth to the 
mere examination of texts has been fatal to a 
proper understanding of its nature. ‘The forms 
of myth which come to us from classical antiquity 
and from the ancient sacred books of the East 
and other similar sources have come down to us 
without the context of living faith, without the 
possibility of obtaining comments from true be- 
lievers, without the concomitant knowledge of 
their social organization, their practised morals, 
and their popular customs—at least without the 
full information which the modern field-worker 
can easily obtain. Moreover, there is no doubt 
that in their present literary form these tales 
have suffered a very considerable transformation 

at the hands of scribes, commentators, learned 
priests, and theologians. It is necessary to go 
back to primitive mythology in order to learn the 
secret of its life in the study of a myth which is 
still alive—before, mummified in priestly wisdom, 
it has been enshrined in the indestructible but 
lifeless repository of dead religions. 

Studied alive, myth, as we shall see, is not 
symbolic, but a direct expression of its subject- 
matter; it is not an explanation in satisfaction 
of a scientific interest, but a narrative resurrec- 
tion of a primeval reality, told in satisfaction of 
deep religious wants, moral cravings, social sub- 
missions, assertions, even practical requirements. 
Myth fulfils in primitive culture an indispensable 
function: it expresses, enhances, and codifies be- 

lief; it safeguards and enforces morality; it 

aathes for the efficiency of ritual and contains 
practical rules for the guidance of man. Myth « 
is thus a vital ingredient of human civilization ; 
it is not an idle tale, but a hard-worked active 
force; it is not an intellectual explanation or an 
artistic imagery, but a pragmatic charter of 
primitive faith and moral wisdom. 

I shall try to prove all these contentions by 
the study of various myths; but to make our 
analysis conclusive it will first be necessary to 
give an account not merely of myth, but also of 
fairy tale, legend, and historical record. 

Let us then float over in spirit to the shores 

of a Trobriand? lagoon, and penetrate into the 
life of the natives—see them at work, see them 
at play, and listen to their stories. Late in 
November the wet weather is setting in. “There 
is little to do in the gardens, the fishing season 
is not in full swing as yet, overseas sailing looms 
ahead in the future, while the festive mood still 
lingers after the harvest dancing and feasting. 
Sociability is in the air, time lies on their hands, 
while bad weather keeps them often at home. 
Let us step through the twilight of the ap- 
proaching evening into one of their villages and 
sit at the fireside, where the flickering light draws 
more and more people as the evening falls and the 
conversation brightens. Sooner or later a man 
will be asked to tell a story, for this is the season 
of fairy tales. If he is a good reciter, he will 

1The Trobriand Islands are a coral archipelago 
lying to the northeast of New Guinea. The natives 
belong to the Papuo-Melanesian race, and in their 
physical appearance, mental equipment, and _ social 
organization they show a combinaton of the Oceanic 
characteristics mixed with some features of the more 
backward Papuan culture from the mainland of 
New Guinea. 

For a full account of the Northern Massim, of 
which the Trobrianders form a section, see the classi- 
cal treatise of Professor C. G. Seligman, Melanesians 
of British New Guinea, (Cambridge, 1910). This 
book shows also the relation of the Trobrianders to 
the other races and cultures on and around New 
Guinea. A short account will also be found in Argo- 
nauts of the Western Pacific, by the present author, 
(London, 1922). 

soon provoke laughter, rejoinders, and interrup- 
tions, and his tale will develop into a regular 
performance. 

At this time of the year folk-tales of a special 
type called kukwanebu are habitually recited in 
the villages. “There is a vague belief, not very 
seriously taken, that their recital has a beneficial 
influence on the new crops recently planted in 
the gardens. In order to produce this effect, a 
short ditty in which an allusion is made to some 
very fertile wild plants, the kasiyena, must always 
be recited at the end. 

Every story is ‘owned’ by a member of the 
community. Each story, though known by many, 
may be recited only by the ‘owner’; he may, 
however, present it to someone else by teaching 
that person and authorizing him to retell it. 
But not all the ‘owners’ know how to thrill and 
to raise a hearty laugh, which is one of the main 
ends of such stories. A good raconteur has to 
change his voice in the dialogue, chant the ditties 
with due temperament, gesticulate, and in general 
play to the gallery. Some of these tales are cer- 
tainly ‘smoking-room’ stories, of others I will give 
one or two examples. 

Thus there is the maiden in distress and the 
heroic rescue. “wo women go out in search of 
birds’ eggs. One discovers a nest under a tree, 
the other warns her: “These are eggs of a 
snake, don’t touch them.” “Oh, no! ‘They are 

# 

eggs of a bird,” she replies and carries them away. 
The mother snake comes back, and finding the 
nest empty starts in search of the eggs. She 
enters the nearest village and sings a ditty :— 

“T wend my way as I wriggle along, 
The eggs of a bird it is licit to eat; 
The eggs of a friend are forbidden to touch.” 

This journey lasts long, for the snake is traced 
from one village to the other and everywhere has 
to sing her ditty. Finally, entering the village 
of the two women, she sees the culprit roasting 
the eggs, coils around her, and enters her body. 
The victim is laid down helpless and ailing. But 
the hero is nigh; a man from a neighbouring 
village dreams of the dramatic situation, arrives 
on the spot, pulls out the snake, cuts it to pieces, 
and marries both women, thus carrying off a 
double prize for his prowess. 

In another story we learn of a happy family, 
a father and two daughters, who sail from their 
home in the northern coral archipelagoes, and run 
to the southwest till they come to the wild steep 
slopes of the rock island Gumasila. The father 
lies down on a platform and falls asleep. An 
ogre comes out of the jungle, eats the father, 
captures and ravishes one of the daughters, while 
the other succeeds in escaping. ‘The sister from 
the woods supplies the captive one with a piece 

of lawyer-cane, and when the ogre lies down and 
falls asleep they cut him in half and escape. 

A woman lives in the village of Okopukopu 
at the head of a creek with her five children. A ~ 
monstrously big stingaree paddles up the creek, 
flops across the village, enters the hut, and to the 
tune of a ditty cuts off the woman’s finger. One 
son tries to kill the monster and fails. Every 
day the same performance is repeated till on the 
fifth day the youngest son succeeds in killing the 
giant fish. 

A louse and a butterfly embark on a bit of avia- 
tion, the louse as a passenger, the butterfly as 
aeroplane and pilot. In the middle of the per- 
formance, while flying overseas just between the 
beach of Wawela and the island of Kitava, the 
louse emits a loud shriek, the butterfly is shaken, 
and the louse falls off and is drowned. 

A man whose mother-in-law is a cannibal is 
sufficiently careless to go away and leave her in 
charge of his three children. Naturally she tries 
to eat them; they escape in time, however, climb 
a palm, and keep her (through a somewhat 
lengthy story) at bay, until the father arrives and 
kills her. ‘There is another story about a visit 
to the Sun, another about an ogre devastating 
gardens, another about a woman who was so 
greedy that she stole all food at funeral distri- 
butions, and many similar ones. 

In this place, however, we are not so much 

concentrating our attention on the text of narra- 
tives, as on their sociological reference. The text, 
of course, is extremely important, but without 
the context it remains lifeless. As we have 
seen, the interest of the story is vastly enhanced 
and it is given its proper character by the manner 
in which it is told. The whole nature of the 
performance, the voice and the mimicry, the 
stimulus and the response of the audience mean 
as much to the natives as the text; and the 
sociologist should take his cue from the natives. 
The performance, again, has to be placed in its 
proper time-setting—the hour of the day, and the 
season, with the background of the sprouting gar- 
dens awaiting future work, and slightly influ- 
enced by the magic of the fairy tales. We must 
also bear in mind the sociological context of pri- 
vate ownership, the sociable function and the 
cultural réle of amusing fiction. All these ele- 
ments are equally relevant; all must be studied 
as well as the text. ‘The stories live in native 
life and not on paper, and when a scholar jots 
them down without being able to evoke the at- 
mosphere in which they flourish he has given us 
but a mutilated bit of reality. 

I pass now to another class of stories. These 
have no special season, there is no stereotyped 
way of telling them, and the recital has not the 
character of a performance, nor has it any magical 
effect. And yet these tales are more important 

than the foregoing class; for they are believed to 
be true, and the information which they contain 
is both more valuable and more relevant than 
that of the kukwanebu. When a party goes on 
a distant visit or sails on an expedition, the 
younger members, keenly interested in the land- 
scape, in new communities, in new people, and 
perhaps even new customs, will express their 
wonder and make enquiries. The older and 
more experienced will supply them with infor- 
mation and comment, and this always takes the 
form of a concrete narrative. An old man will 
perhaps tell his own experiences about fights and 
expeditions, about famous magic and extraor- 
dinary economic achievements. With this he 
may mix the reminiscences of his father, hearsay 
tales and legends, which have passed through 
many generations. Thus memories of great 
droughts and devastating famines are conserved 
for many years, together with the descriptions 
of the hardships, struggles, and crimes of the 
exasperated population. 

A number of stories about sailors driven out 
of their course and landing among cannibals and 
hostile tribes are remembered, some of them set 
to song, others formed into historic legends. 
A famous subject for song and story is the charm, 
skill, and performance of famous dancers. ‘There 
are tales about distant volcanic islands; about 
hot springs in which once a party of unwary 

bathers were boiled to death; about mysterious 
countries inhabited by entirely different men or 
women; about strange adventures which have 
happened to sailors in distant seas; monstrous 
fish and octopi, jumping rocks and disguised sor- 
cerers. Stories again are told, some recent, some 
ancient, about seers and visitors to the land of the 
dead, enumerating their most famous and sig- 
nificant exploits. There are also stories asso- 
ciated with natural phenomena; a petrified canoe, 
a man changed into a rock, and a red patch on 
the coral rock left by a party who ate too much 
betel nut. 

We have here a variety of tales which might 
be subdivided into historical accounts directly 
witnessed by the narrator, or at least vouched for 
by someone within living memory; legends, in 
which the continuity of testimony is broken, but 
which fall within the range of things ordinarily 
experienced by the tribesmen; and hearsay tales 
about distant countries and ancient happenings 
of a time which falls outside the range of present- 
day culture. To the natives, however, all these 
classes imperceptibly shade into each other; they 
are designated by the same name, libwogwo; they 
are all regarded as true; they are not recited as 
a performance, nor told for amusement at a 
special season. ‘Their subject-matter also shows 
a substantial unity. They all refer to subjects 
intensely stimulating to the natives; they all are 

connected with activities such as economic pur- 
suits, warfare, adventure, success in dancing and 
in ceremonial exchange. Moreover, since they 
record singularly great achievements in all such 
pursuits, they redound to the credit of some indi- 
vidual and his descendants or of a whole com- 
munity; and hence they are kept alive by the 
ambition of those whose ancestry they glorify. 
The stories told in explanation of peculiarities 
of features of the landscape frequently have a 
sociological context, that is, they enumerate 
whose clan or family performed the deed. When 
this is not the casé, they are isolated fragmentary 
comments upon some natural feature, clinging to 
it as an obvious survival. 

In all this it is once more clear that we can 
neither fully grasp the meaning of the text, nor 
the sociological nature of the story, nor the 
natives’ attitude towards it and interest in it, if 
we study the narrative on paper. ‘These tales 
live in the memory of man, in the way in which 
they are told, and even more in the complex inter- 
est which keeps them alive, which makes the nar- 
rator recite with pride or regret, which makes 
the listener follow eagerly, wistfully, with hopes 
and ambitions roused. ‘Thus the essence of a 
legend, even more than that of a fairy tale, is not 
to be found in a mere perusal of the story, but 
in the combined study of the narrative and its 

~ 

context in the social and cultural life of the 
natives. 

But it is only when we pass to the third and 
most important class of tales, the sacred tales or 
myths, and contrast them with the legends, that 
the nature of all three classes comes into relief. 
This third class is called by the natives liliu, and 
I want to emphasize that I am reproducing prima 
facie the natives’ own classification and nomen- 
clature, and limiting myself to a few comments 
on its accuracy. ‘The third class of stories stands 
very much apart from the other two. If the 
first are told for amusement, the second to make 
a serious statement and satisfy social ambition, 
the third are regarded, not merely as true, but 
as venerable and sacred, and they play a highly 
important cultural part. The folk-tale, as we 
know, is a seasonal performance and an act of 
sociability. The legend, provoked by contact 
with unusual reality, opens up past historical 
vistas. “The myth comes into play when rite, 
ceremony, or a social or moral rule demands 
justification, warrant of antiquity, reality, and 
sanctity. 

In the subsequent chapters of this book we will 
examine a number of myths in detail, but for the 
moment let us glance at the subjects of some 
typical myths. Take, for instance, the annual 
feast of the return of the dead. Elaborate ar- 
rangements are made for it, especially an enor- 

mous display of food. When this feast 
approaches, tales are told of how death began 
to chastise man, and how the_power of eternal 
rejuvenation was lost. It is told why the spirits 
have to leave the village and do not remain at 
the fireside, finally why they return once in a 
year. Again, at certain seasons in preparation 
for an overseas expedition, canoes are overhauled 
and new ones built to the accompaniment of 
a special magic. In this there are mythological 
allusions in the spells, and even the sacred acts 
contain elements which are only comprehensible 
when the story of the flying canoe, its ritual and 
its magic are told. In connection with ceremonial 
trading, the rules, the magic, even the geographi- 
cal routes are associated with corresponding 
mythology. There is no important Magic, ne no 
geremony, no “Titual without belief ; and the 
belief is spun out into accounts oA concrete 
precedent. ‘The union is very intimate, for myth 
is not only looked upon as a commentary of 
additional information, but it is a warrant, a 
charter, and often even a practical guide to the 
activities with which it is connected. On the 
- other hand the rituals, ceremonies, customs, and 
social organizations contain at times direct refer- 
ences to myth, and they are regarded as the re- 
sults_of sults of mythical ¢ event. The cultural fact is a 
monument in which the myth is embodied; while 
the myth is believed to be the real cause which 

wl 

a. 

G 
ot 

has brought about the moral rule, the social 
grouping, the rite, or the custom. ‘Thus these 
stories form an integral part of culture. Their 
existence and influence not merely transcend the 
act of telling the narrative, not only do they 
draw their substance from life and its interests— 
they govern and control many cultural features, 

they form the dogmatic backbone of primitive 

civilization. 
This is perhaps the most important point of 

the thesis which I am urging: I maintain that 

there exists a special class of stories,/regarded as 

sacred,& embodied in ritual,¥ morals, “and_ social 

organization, and which form an integral and 
active part of primitive culture. ‘These stories 

ive not by idle interest, not as fictitious or even 
as true narratives; but are to the natives a state- 
ment of a primeval, greater, and _more relevant 

eee ag PSN eg 
reality, by which the present life, fates, and actiyi- 
ties of mankind are determined, the knowledge 
of which supplies man with the motive for ritual 
pI SU NRG ee cre RNR RENE din al 
and. moral actions, as well as with indications as 
“ Paap aa eaten keer mie nf aeem tenn ea tr cn phen aR 
to how to perform them. 

In order to make the point at issue quite clear, 
let us once more compare our conclusions with 
the current views of modern anthropology, not 
in order idly to criticize other opinions, but so 
that we may link our results to the present state 
of knowledge, give due acknowledgment for what 

— 

we have received, and state where we have to 
differ clearly and precisely. 

It will be best to quote a condensed and 
authoritative statement, and I shall choose for 
this purpose the definition and analysis given in 
Notes and Queries on Anthropology, by the late 
Miss C. S. Burne and Professor J. L. Myres. 
we are informed that “this section includes many 
intellectual efforts of peoples. ...” which “‘repre- 
sent the earliest attempts to exercise reason, 
imagination, and memory.” With some ‘appre- 
hension we ask where is left the emotion, the 
interest, and ambition, the social réle of all the 
stories, and the deep connection with cultural 
values of the more serious ones? After a brief 
classification of stories in the usual manner we 
read about the sacred tales: “Myths are stories 
which, however marvellous and improbable to 
us, are nevertheless related in all good faith, 
because they are intended, or believed by the 
teller, to explain by means of something concrete 
and intelligible an abstract idea or such vague 
and difficult conceptions as Creation, Death, dis- 
tinctions of race or animal species, the different 
occupations of men and women; the origins of 
rites and customs, or striking natural objects or | 
prehistoric monuments; the meaning of the names | 
of persons or places. Such stories are sometimes | 

| described as etiological, because their purpose is 
| to explain why something exists or happens. ie 
Here we have in a nutshell all that modern 

science at its best has to say upon the subject. ~*~ 

Would our Melanesians agree, however, with 
this opinion? Certainly not. They do not want 
to ‘explain’, to make ‘intelligible’ anything which 
happens in their myths—above all not an abstract 
idea. Of that there can be found to my knowl- 
edge no instance either in Melanesia or in any 
other savage community. The few abstract ideas 
which the natives possess carry their concrete 
commentary in the very word which expresses 
them. When being is described by verbs to lie, 
to sit, to stand, when cause and effect are ex- 
pressed by words signifying foundation and the 
past standing upon it, when various concrete 
nouns tend towards the meaning of space, the 
word and the relation to concrete reality make 
the abstract idea sufficiently ‘intelligible’. Nor 
would a Trobriander or any other native agree 
with the view that “Creation, Death, distinctions 
of race or animal species, the different occupations 
of men and women” are “vague and difficult 
conceptions”. Nothing is more familiar to the 
native than the different occupations of the male 
and female sex; there is nothing to be explained 
about it. But though familiar, such differences 

1 Quoted from Notes and Queries on Anthropology, 
pp. 210 and arr. 

fe 

are at times irksome, unpleasant, or at least lim- 
iting, and there is the need to justify them, to 
vouch for their antiquity and reality, in short to 
buttress their validity. Death, alas, is not vague, 
or abstract, or difficult to grasp for any human 
being. It is only too hauntingly real, too con- 
crete, too easy to comprehend for anyone who 
has had an experience affecting his near relatives 
or a personal foreboding. If it were vague or 
unreal, man Raed have no desire so much as 
with with horror, with a “desire to to remove i its threat, 
plained, but ae explained _ away, Cue: ‘un- 
real, and actually denied. Myth, warranting the 
belief in immortality, in eternal youth, in a life 
beyond the grave, is not an intellectual reaction 
upon a puzzle, but an explicit act of faith born 
from the innermost instinctive and emotional 
reaction to the most formidable and haunting 
idea. Nor are the stories about “the origins of 
rites and customs” told in mere explanation of 
them. They never explain in any sense of the 
word; they always state a precedent which con- 
stitutes an ideal and a warrant for its continu- 
ance, and sometimes practical directions for the 
procedure. 

We have, therefore, to disagree on every point 
with this excellent though concise statement of 
present-day mythological opinion. This defini- 

tion would create an imaginary, non-existent 
class of narrative, the ztiological myth, corre- 
sponding to a non-existent desire to explain, 
leading a futile existence as an ‘intellectual 
effort’, and remaining outside native culture and 
social organization with their pragmatic inter- 
ests. "The whole treatment appears to us faulty, 
because myths are treated as mere stories, because 
they are regarded as a primitive intellectual arm- 
chair occupation, because they are torn out of their 
ife-context, and studied from what they look 
like on paper, and not from what they do in life. 
Such a definition would make it impossible either 
to see clearly the nature of myth or to reach a 
satisfactory classification of folk-tales. In fact 
we would also have to disagree with the definition 
of legend and of fairy tale given subsequently by 
the writers in Notes and Queries on Anthro- 
pology. 

But above all, this point of view would be 
fatal to efficient field-work, for it would make the 
observer satisfied with the mere writing down 
of narratives. ‘The intellectual nature of a story 
is exhausted with its text, but the functional, cul- 
tural, and pragmatic aspect of any native tale is 
manifested as much in its enactment, embodiment, 
and contextual relations as in the text. It is 
easier to write down the story than to observe 
the diffuse, complex ways in which it enters into 
life, or to study its function by the observation 

of the vast social and cultural realities into which 
it enters. And this is the reason why we have so 
many texts and why we know so little about the 
very nature of myth. 

We may, therefore, learn an important lesson 
from the Trobrianders, and to them let us now 
return. We will survey some of their myths in 
detail, so that we can confirm our conclusions 
inductively, yet precisely.

We may best start with the beginning of 
things, and examine some of the myths of origin. 
The world, say the natives, was originally peo- 
pled from underground. Humanity had there 
led an existence similar in all respects to the 
present life on earth. Underground, men were 
organized in villages, clans, districts; they had 
distinctions of rank, they knew privileges and 
had claims, they owned property, and were versed 
in magic lore. Endowed with all this, they 
emerged, establishing by this very act certain 
rights in land and citizenship, in economic pre- 
rogative and magical pursuit. ‘They brought 
with them all their culture to continue it upon 
this earth. 

There are a number of special spots—grottoes, 
clumps of trees, stone heaps, coral outcrops, 
springs, heads of creeks—called ‘holes’ or 
‘houses’ by the natives. From such ‘holes’ the 
first couples (a sister as the head of the family 
and the brother as her guardian) came and took 

possession of the lands, and gave the totemic, 
industrial, magical, and sociological character 
to the communities thus begun. 

The problem of rank which plays a great réle 
in their sociology was settled by the emergence 
from one special hole, called Obukula, near the 
village of Laba’i. This event was notable in that 
contrary to the usual course (which is: one 
original ‘hole’, one lineage), from this hole of 
Laba’i there emerged representatives of the four 
main clans one after the other. Their arrival, 
moreover, was followed by an apparently trivial, 
but in mythical reality, a most important event. 
First there came the Kaylavasi (iguana), the ani- 
mal of the Lukulabuta clan, which scratched its 
way through the earth as iguanas do, then climbed 
a tree, and remained there as a mere onlooker, 
following subsequent events. Soon there came 
out the Dog, totem of the Lukuba clan, who 
originally had the highest rank. As a third came 
the Pig, representative of the Malasi clan, which 
now holds the highest rank. Last came the 
Lukwasisiga totem, represented in some versions 
by the Crocodile, in others by the Snake, in others 
by the Opossum, and sometimes completely ig- 
nored. ‘The Dog and Pig ran round, and the 
Dog, seeing the fruit of the nokw plant, nosed it, 
and then ate it. Said the Pig: ‘Thou eatest 
noku, thou eatest dirt; thou art a low-bred, a 
commoner ; the chief, the guya’u, shall be I.” And 

ever since, the highest sub-clan of the Malasi clan, 
the Tabalu, have been the real chiefs. 

In order to understand this myth, it is not 
enough to follow the dialogue between the Dog 
and the Pig which might appear pointless or even 
trivial. Once you know the native sociology, the 
extreme importance of rank, the fact that food 
and its limitations (the taboos of rank and clan) 
are the main index of man’s social nature, and 
finally the psychology of totemic identification— 
you begin to understand. how this incident, hap- 
pening as it did when humanity was in statu 
nascendi, settled once for all the relation between 
the two rival clans. To understand this myth 
you must have a good knowledge of their 
sociology, religion, customs, and outlook. ‘Then, 
and only then, can you appreciate what this story 
means to the natives and how it can live in their 
life. If you stayed among them and learned the 
language you would constantly find it active in 
discussion and squabbles in reference to the rela- 
tive superiority of the various clans, and in the 
discussions about the various food taboos which 
frequently raise fine questions of casuistry. 
Above all, if you were brought into contact with 
communities where the historical process of the 
spread of influence of the Malasi clan is still in 
evolution, you would be brought face to face with 
this myth as an active force. 

Remarkably enough the first and last animals 

to come out, the iguana and the Lukwasisiga 
totem, have been from the beginning left in the 
cold: thus the numerical principle and the logic 
of events is not very strictly observed in the 
reasoning of the myth. 

If the main myth of Laba’i about the relative 
superiority of the four clans is very often alluded 
to throughout the tribe, the minor local myths 
are not less alive and active, each in its own com- 
munity. When a party arrives at some distant 
village they will be told not only the legendary 
historical tales, but above all the mythological 
charter of that community, its magical profi- 
ciencies, its occupational character, its rank and 
place in totemic organization. Should there 
arise land-quarrels, encroachment in magical 
matters, fishing rights, or other privileges the 
testimony of myth would be referred to. 

Let me show concretely the way in which a 
typical myth of local origins would be retailed in 
the normal run of native life. Let us watch a 
party of visitors arriving in one or the other of 
the Trobriand villages. They would seat them- 
selves in front of the headman’s house, in the 
central place of the locality. As likely as not 
the spot of origins is near by, marked by a coral 
outcrop or a heap of stones. ‘This spot would 
be pointed out, the names of the brother and 
sister ancestors mentioned, and perhaps it would 
be said that the man built his house on the spot 

of the present headman’s dwelling. ‘The native 
listeners would know, of course, that the sister 
lived in a different house near by, for she could 
never reside within the same walls as her brother. 

As additional information, the visitors might 
be told that the ancestors had brought with them 
the substances and paraphernalia and methods of 
local industry. In the village of Yalaka, for 
instance, it would be the processes for burning 
lime from shells. In Okobobo, Obweria, and 
Obowada the ancestors brought the knowledge 
and the implements for polishing hard stone. In 
Bwoytalu the carver’s tool, the hafted shark 
tooth, and the knowledge of the art came out 
from underground with the original ancestors. 
In most places the economic monopolies are thus 
traced to the autochthonous emergence. In vil- 
lages of higher rank the insignia of hereditary 
dignity were brought; in others some animal asso- 
ciated with the local sub-clan came out. Some 
communities started on their political career of 
standing hostility to one another from the very 
beginning. The most important gift to this 
world carried from the one below is always 
magic; but this will have to be treated later on 
and more fully. 

If a European bystander were there and heard 
nothing but the information given from one 
native to the other, it would mean very little 
to him. In fact, it might lead him into serious 

misunderstandings. Thus the simultaneous 
emergence of brother and sister might make him 
suspicious either of a mythological allusion to 
incest, or else would make him look for the 
original matrimonial pair and enquire about the 
sister's husband. ‘The first suspicion would be 
entirely erroneous, and would shed a false light 
over the specific relation between brother and 
sister, in which the former is the indispensable 
guardian, and the second, equally indispensable, 
is responsible for the transmission of the line. 
Only a full knowledge of matrilineal ideas and 
institutions gives body and meaning to the bare 
mention of the two ancestral names, so signifi- 
cant to a native listener. If the European were 
to enquire who was the sister’s husband and 
how she came to have children, he would soon 
find himself once more confronted by an entirely 
foreign set of ideas—the sociological irrelevance 
of the father, the absence of any ideas about 
physiological procreation, and the strange and 
complicated system of marriage, matrilineal and 
patrilocal at the same time.* 

1For a full statement of the psychology and 
sociology of kinship and descent see articles on “the 
Psychology of Sex and the Foundations of Kinship in 
Primitive Societies”, ‘“Psycho-analysis and Anthro- 
pology”, “Complex and Myth in Mother Right”, all 
three in the psychological journal, Psyche, Oct. 1923, 
April, 1924, and Jan. 1925. The first article is in- 
cluded in The Father in Primitive Psychology (Psyche 
Miniature), 1926. 

The sociological relevance of these accounts 
of origins would become clear only to a Euro- 
pean inquirer who had grasped the native legal 
ideas about local citizenship and the hereditary 
rights to territory, fishing grounds, and local 
pursuits. For according to the legal principles 
of the tribe all such rights are the monopolies of 
the local community, and only people descendent 
in the female line from the original ancestress 
are entitled to them. If the European were 
told further that, besides the first place of emer- 
gence, there are several other ‘holes’ in the same 
village, he would become still more baffled until, 
by a careful study of concrete details and the 
principles of native sociology, he became ac- 
quainted with the idea of compound village com- 
munities, i.e., Communities in which several sub- 
clans have merged. 

It is clear, then, that the myth conveys much 
more to the native than is contained in the mere 
story; that the story gives only the really rele- 
vant concrete local differences; that the real 
meaning, in fact the full account, is contained in 
the traditional foundations of social organization; 
and that this the native learns, not by listening 
to the fragmentary mythical stories, but by living 
within the social texture of his tribe. In other 
words, it is the context of social life, it is the 
gradual realization by the native of how every- 

thing which he is told to do has its precedent 
and pattern in bygone times, which brings home 
to him the full account and the full meaning of 
his myths of origin. 

For an observer, therefore, it is necessary to 
become fully acquainted with the social organiza- 
tion of the natives if he wants really to grasp 
its traditional aspect. ‘The short accounts, such 
as those which are given about local origins, will 
then become perfectly plain to him. He will 
also clearly see that each of them is only a part, 
and a rather insignificant one, of a much bigger 
story, which cannot be read except from native 
life. What really matters about such a story 
is its social function. It conveys, expresses, and 
strengthens the fundamental fact of the local 
unity and of the kinship unity of the group of 
people descendent from a common ancestress. 
Combined with the conviction that only common 
descent and emergence from the soil give full 
rights to it, the story of origin literally contains 
the legal charter of the community. ‘Thus, even 
when the people of a vanquished community were 
driven from their grounds by a hostile neigh- 
bour their territory always remained intact for 
them ; and they were always, after a lapse of time 
and when their peace ceremony had been con- 
cluded, allowed to return to the original site, 
rebuild their village, and cultivate their gardens 

once more. The traditional feeling of a real 
and intimate connection with the land; the con- 
crete reality of seeing the actual spot of emer- 
gence in the middle of the scenes of daily life; 
the historical continuity of privileges, occupa- 
tions, and distinctive characters running back into 
the mythological first beginnings—all this ob- 
viously makes for cohesion, for local patriotism, 
for a feeling of union and kinship in the com- 
munity. But although the narrative of original 
emergence integrates and welds together the his- 
torical tradition, the legal principles, and the 
various customs, it must also be clearly kept in 
mind that the original myth is but a small part 
of the whole complex of traditional ideas. ‘Thus 
on the one hand the reality of myth lies in its 
social function; on the other hand, once we be- 
gin to study the social function of myth, and so 
to reconstruct its full meaning, we are gradually 
led to build up the full theory of native social 
organization. 

One of the most interesting phenomena con- 
nected with traditional precedent and character 
is the adjustment of myth and mythological 
principle to cases in which the very foundation 
of such mythology is flagrantly violated. This 

1Cf. the account given of these facts in the article 
on “War and Weapons among the ‘Trobriand 
Islanders”, Man, Jan. 1918; and in Professor Selig- 
man’s Melanesians, pp. 663-668. 

violation always takes place when the local claims 
of an autochthonous clan, ie., a clan which has 
emerged on the spot, are over-ridden by an immi- 
grant clan. Then a conflict of principles is 
created, for obviously the principle that land 
and authority belong to those who are literally 
born out of it does not leave room for any new- 
comers. On the other hand, members of a sub- 
clan of high rank who choose to settle down in a 
new locality cannot very well be resisted by the 
autochthons—using this word again in the literal 
native mythological sense. ‘The result is that 
there come into existence a special class of myth- 
ological stories which justify and account for the 
anomalous state of affairs. The strength of the 
various mythological and legal principles is 
manifested in that the myths of justification still 
contain the antagonistic and logically irrecon- 
cilable facts and points of view, and only try to 
cover them by facile reconciliatory incident, ob- 
viously manufactured ad hoc. ‘The study of such 
stories is extremely interesting, both because it 
gives us a deep insight into the native psychology 
of tradition, and because it tempts us to recon- 
struct the past history of the tribe, though we 
must yield to the temptation with due caution 
and scepticisin. 

In the Trobriands we find that the higher the 
rank of a totemic sub-clan, the greater its power 
of expansion. Let us first state the facts and 

then proceed to their interpretation. ‘The sub- 
clan of the highest rank, the Tabalu sub-clan of 
the Malasi clan, are found now ruling over a 
number of villages: Omarakana, their main 
capital; Kasanayi, the twin village of the capital ; 
and Olivilevi, a village founded some three 
‘reigns’ ago after a defeat of the capital. Two 
villages, Omlamwaluwa, now extinct, and Day- 
agila, no longer ruled by the Tabalu, also once 
belonged to them. The same sub-clan, bearing 
the same name and claiming the same descent, 
but not keeping all the taboos of distinction and 
not entitled to all the insignia, is found ruling 
in the villages of Oyweyowa, Gumilababa, 
Kavataria, and Kadawaga, all in the western part 
of the archipelago, the last mentioned on the 
small island of Kayleula. The village of 
Tukwa’ukwa was but recently taken over by the 
Tabalu some five ‘reigns’ ago. Finally, a sub- 
clan of the same name and claiming affinity rules 
over the two big and powerful communities of 
the South, Sinaketa and Vakuta. 

The second fact of importance referring to 
these villages and their rulers is that the ruling 
clan does not pretend to have emerged locally in 
any of those communities in which its members 
own territory, carry on local magic, and wield 
power. They all claim to have emerged, accom- 
panied by the original pig, from the historical 
hole of Obukula on the north-western shore of 

the island near the village of Laba’i. From there 
they have, according to their traditions, spread 
all over the district.t 

In the traditions of this clan there are certain 
definitely historical facts which must be clearly 
disentangled and registered: the foundation of 
the village of Olivilevi three ‘reigns’ ago, the 
settlement of the Tabalu in Tukwa’ukwa five 
‘reigns’ ago, the taking over of Vakuta some 
seven or eight ‘reigns’ ago. By ‘reign’ I mean 
the life-rule of one individual chief. Since in the 
Trobriands, as no doubt in most matrilineal 
tribes, a man is succeeded by his younger brother, 
the average ‘reign’ is obviously much shorter than 
the span of a generation and also much less 
reliable as a measure of time, since in many 
cases it need not be shorter. “These particular 
historical tales, giving a full account of how, 
when, by whom, and in what manner the settle- 
ment was effected, are sober matter-of-fact state- 
ments. ‘Thus it is possible to obtain from inde- 
pendent informants the detailed account of how, 
in the time of their fathers or grandfathers re- 
spectively, the chief Bugwabwaga of Omara- 
kana, after an unsuccessful war, had to flee with 
all his community far south, to the usual spot 

1The reader who wants to grasp these historical 
and geographical details should consult the map fac- 
ing p. 51 of the writer’s Argonauts of the Western 

Pacific. 

where a temporary village was erected. After 
a couple of years he returned to perform the 
peace-making ceremony and to rebuild Omara- 
kana. His younger brother, however, did not 
return with him, but erected a permanent village, 
Olivilevi, and remained there. ‘The account, 
which can be confirmed in the minutest detail 
from any intelligent adult native in the district, 
is obviously as reliable an historical statement as 
one can obtain in any savage community. The 
data about Tukwa’ukwa, Vakuta, and so on are 
of similar nature. 

What lifts the trustworthiness of such accounts 
above any suspicion is their sociological founda- 
tion. The flight after defeat is a general rule of 
tribal usage; and the manner in which the other 
villages become the seat of the highest rank peo- 
ple, i.e., intermarriage between Tabalu women 
and head men of other villages, is also character- 
istic of their social life. The technique of this 
proceeding is of considerable importance and 
must be described in detail. Marriage is patri- 
local in the Trobriands, so that the woman always 
moves to her husband’s community. Economi- 
cally, marriage entails the standing exchange of 
food given by the wife’s family for valuables 
supplied by the husband. Food is especially 
plentiful in the central plains of Kiriwina, ruled 
over by the chiefs of the highest rank from 
Omarakana. The valuable shell ornaments, cov- 

eted by the chiefs, are produced in the coastal 
districts to the west and south. Economically, 
therefore, the tendency always has been, and still 
is, for women of high rank to marry influential 
headmen in such villages as Gumilababa, Kava- 
tarai, Tukwa’ukwa, Sinaketa, and Vakuta. 

So far everything happens according to the 
strict letter of tribal law. But once a Tabalu 
woman has settled in her husband’s village, she 
overshadows him by rank and very often by 
influence. If she has a son or sons these are, 
until puberty, legal members of their father’s 
community. They are the most important males 
in it. The father, as things are in the Tro- 
briands, always wishes to keep them even after 
puberty for reasons of personal affection; the 
community feels that their whole status is being 
raised thereby. The majority desire it; and the 
minority, the rightful heirs to the headmen, his 
brothers and his sisters’ sons, do not dare to 
oppose. If, therefore, the sons of high rank have 
no special reasons for returning to their rightful 
village, that of their mother, they remain in the 
father’s community and rule it. If they have 
sisters these may also remain, marry within the 
village, and thus start a new dynasty. Grad- 
ually, though perhaps not at once, they succeed 
to all the privileges, dignities, and functions 
vested till then in the local headman. ‘They are 
styled ‘masters’ of the village and of its lands, 

they preside over the formal councils, they decide 
upon all communal matters where a decision is 
needed, and above all they take over the control 
of local monopolies and local magic. 

All the facts I have just reviewed are strictly 
empirical observations; let us now look at the 
legends adduced to cover them. According to 
one story two sisters, Botabalu and Bonumakala, 
came out of the original hole near Laba’i. They 
went at once to the central district of Kiriwina, 
and both settled in Omarakana. Here they 

were welcomed by the local lady in charge of 

magic and all the rights, and thus the mytholog- 
ical sanction of their claims to the capital was 
established. (To this point we shall have to 
return again.) After a time they had a quarrel 
about some banana leaves pertaining to the beau- 
tiful fibre petticoats used for dress. ‘The elder 
sister then ordered the younger to go, which 
among the natives is a great insult. She said: 
“T shall remain here and keep all the strict ta- 
boos. You go and eat bush-pig, katakayluva fish.” 
This is the reason why the chiefs in the coastal 
districts, though in reality they have the same 
rank, do not keep the same taboos. ‘The same 
story is told by natives of the coastal villages with 
the difference, however, that it is the younger 
sister who orders her senior to remain in Omara- 
kana and keep all the taboos, while she herself 
goes to the west. 

ore a 

According to a Sinaketan version, there were 
three original women of the Tabalu sub-clan, 
the eldest remained in Kiriwina, the second set- 
tled in Kuboma, the youngest came to Sinaketa 
and brought with her the Kaloma shell discs, 
which started the local industry. 

All these observations refer only to one sub- 
clan of the Malasi clan. The other sub-clans of 
this clan, of which I have some dozen on record, 
are all of low rank; are all local, that is, have not 
immigrated into their present territory; and some 
of them, those of Bwoytalu, belong to what might 
be called the pariah or specially despised category 
of people. Although they all bear the same 
generic name, have the same common totem, and 
on ceremonial occasions would range themselves 
side by side with the people of the highest rank, 
they are regarded by the natives as belonging to 
an entirely different class. 

Before I pass to the re-interpretation or his- 
torical reconstruction of these facts, I shall pre- 
sent the facts referring to the other clans. ‘The 
Lukuba clan is perhaps the next in importance. 
They count among their sub-clans two or three 
which immediately follow in rank the Tabalu of 
Omarakana. ‘The ancestors of the sub-clans are 
called Mwauri, Mulobwaima, and Tudava; and 
they all three came out from the same main hole 
near Laba’i, out of which the four totemic ani- 
mals emerged. “They moved afterwards to cer- 

tain important centres in Kiriwina and in the 
neighbouring islands of Kitava and Vakuta. As 
we have seen, according to the main myth of 
emergence, the Lukuba clan had the highest rank 
at first, before the dog and pig incident reversed 
the order. Moreover, most mythological person- 
alities or animals belong to the Lukuba clan. 
The great mythological culture hero Tudava, 
reckoned also as ancestor by the sub-clan of that 
name, is a Lukuba. The majority of the mythi- 
cal heroes in connection with the inter-tribal 
relations and the ceremonial forms of trading 
belong also to the same clan.t_ Most of the 
economic magic of the tribe also belongs to 
people of this clan. In Vakuta, where they have 
been recently overshadowed, if not displaced, by 
the Tabalu, they are still able to assert them- 
selves; they have still retained the monopoly 
in magic; and, taking their stand upon mytholog- 
ical tradition, the Lukuba still affirm their real 
superiority to the usurpers. ‘There are far fewer 
sub-clans of low rank among them than among 
the Malasi. 

About the third large totemic division, the 
Lukwasisiga, there is much less to be said as re- 
gards mythology and cultural or historic rdle. 
In the main emergence myth they are either com- 
pletely left out, or else their ancestral animal 
or person is made to play an entirely insignificant 

1Cf. Argonauts of the Western Pacific, p. 321. 

part. They do not own any specially important 
forms of magic and are conspicuously absent 
from any mythological reference. The only 
important part which they play is in the great 
Tudava cycle in which the ogre Dokonikan is 
made to belong to the Lukwasisiga totem. To 
*this clan belongs the headman of the village 
Kabwaku, who is also the chief of the district of 
Tilataula. This district was always in a rela- 
tion of potential hostility to the district of Kiri- 
wina proper, and the chiefs of Tilataula were the 
political rivals of the Tabalu, the people of the 
highest rank. From time to time the two would 
wage war. No matter which side was defeated 
and had to fly, peace was always restored by a 
ceremonial reconciliation, and the same relative 
status once more obtained between the two 
provinces. The chiefs of Omarakana always 
retained superiority of rank and a sort of general 
control over the hostile district, even after this 
had been victorious. The chiefs of Kabwaku 
were to a certain extent bound to execute their 
orders; and more especially if a direct capital 
punishment had to be meted out in olden days 
the chief of Omarakana would delegate his po- 
tential foe to carry it out. The real superiority 
of the chiefs of Omarakana was due to their rank. 
But to a great extent their power and the fear 
with which they inspired all the other natives 
was derived from the important sun and rain 

magic which they wielded. Thus members of 
a sub-clan of the Lukwasisiga were the po- 
tential foes and the executive vassals, but in 
war the equals, of the highest chiefs. For, as in 
peace times the supremacy of the Tabalu would 
remain unchallenged, so in war the Toliwaga of 
Kabwaku were considered generally the more 
efficient and redoubtable. The Lukwasisiga clan 
were also on the whole regarded as land-lubbers 
(kulita’ odila). One or two other sub-clans of 
this clan were of rather high rank and inter- 
married rather frequently with the Tabalu of 
Omarakana. 

The fourth clan, the Lukulabuta, includes 
only sub-clans of low rank among its numbers. 
They are the least numerous clan, and the only 
magic with which they are associated is sorcery. 

When we come to the historical interpretation 
of these myths a fundamental question meets us 
at the outset: must we regard the sub-clans which 
figure in legend and myth as representing merely 
the local branches of a homogeneous culture, or 
can we ascribe to them a more ambitious signifi- 
cance and regard them as standing for repre- 
sentatives of various cultures, that is as units of 
different migration waves? If the first alter- 
native is accepted then all the myths, historical 
data, and sociological facts refer simply to small 
internal movements and changes, and there is 

nothing to be added to them except what we 
have said. 

In support of the more ambitious hypothesis, 
however, it might be urged that the main legend 
of emergence places the origins of the four clans 
in a very suggestive spot. Laba’i lies on the 
northwestern beach, the only place open to sailors 
who would have come from the direction of the 
prevailing monsoon winds. Moreover, in all 
the myths the drift of a migration, the trend of 
cultural influence, the travels of culture heroes, 
take place from north to south and generally, 
though less uniformly, from west to east. This 
is the direction which obtains in the great cycle 
of Tudava stories; this is the direction which we 
have found in the migration myths; this is the 
direction which obtains in the majority of the 
Kula legends. Thus the assumption is plausible 
that a cultural influence has been spreading from 
the northwestern shores of the archipelago, an 
influence which can be traced as far east as 
Woodlark Island, and as far south as the 
D’Entrecasteaux Archipelago. This hypothesis 
is suggested by the conflict element in some of the 
myths, such as that between the dog and the pig, 
between Tudava and Dokonikan, and between 
the cannibal and non-cannibal brother. If we 
then accept this hypothesis for what it is worth, 
the following scheme emerges. “The oldest layer 
would be represented by the Lukwasisiga and 

Lukulabuta clans. The latter is the first to 
emerge mythologically; while both are relatively 
autochthonous in that they are not sailors, their 
communities usually lie inland, and their occu- 
pation is mainly agriculture. The generally hos- 
tile attitude of the main Lukwasisiga sub-clan, 
the Toliwaga, to what would be obviously the 
latest immigrants, the Tabalu, might also be 
made to fit into this hypothesis. It is again 
plausible that the cannibal monster who is fought 
by the innovator and cultural hero, Tudava, 
belongs to the Lukwasisiga clan. 

I have expressly stated that the sub-clans and 
not the clans must be regarded as migration units. 
For it is an incontrovertible fact that the big 
clan, which comprises a number of sub-clans, is 
but a loose social unit, split by important cultural 
rifts. The Malasi clan, for instance, includes 
the highest sub-clan, the Tabalu, as well as the 
most despised sub-clans, Wabu’a and Gumsosopa 
of Bwoytalu. The historical hypothesis of mi- 
gratory units would still have to explain the 
relation between sub-clans and clan. It seems 
to me that the minor sub-clans must also have 
been of a previous arrival, and that their totemic 
assimilation is a by-product of a general process 
of sociological reorganization which took place 
after the strong and influential immigrants of the 
Tudava and Tabalu type had arrived. 

The historical reconstruction requires, there- 

fore, a number of auxiliary hypotheses, each of 
which must be regarded as plausible, but must 
remain arbitrary; while each assumption adds a 
considerable element of uncertainty. The whole 
reconstruction is a mental game, attractive and 
absorbing, often spontaneously obtruding itself 
upon a field-worker, but always remaining outside 
the field of observation and sound conclusion— 
that is, if the field-worker keeps his powers of 
observation and his sense of reality under control. 
The scheme which I have here developed is the 
one into which the facts of Trobriand sociology, 
myth, and custom naturally arrange themselves. 
Nevertheless, I do not attach any serious impor- 
tance to it, and I do not believe that even a very 
exhaustive knowledge of a district entitles the 
ethnographer to anything but tentative and cau- 
tious reconstructions. Perhaps a much wider 
collation of such schemes might show their value, 
or else prove their utter futility. It is only per- 
haps as working hypotheses, stimulating to more 
careful and minute collection of legend, of all 
tradition, and of sociological difference, that such 
schemes possess any importance whatever. 

As far as the sociological theory of these 
legends goes the historical reconstruction is irrele- 
vant. Whatever the hidden reality of their un- 
recorded past may be, myths serve to cover 
certain inconsistencies created by historical events, 
rather than to record these events exactly. ‘The 

myths associated with the spread of the powerful 
sub-clans show on certain points a fidelity to life 
in that they record facts inconsistent with one 
another. ‘The incidents by which this inconsis- 
tency is obliterated, if not hidden, are most likely 
fictitious; we have seen certain myths vary ac- 
cording to the locality in which they are told. 
In other cases the incidents bolster up non- 
existent claims and rights. 

The historical consideration of myth is inter- 
esting, therefore, in that it shows that myth, 
taken as a whole, cannot be sober dispassionate 
history, since it is always made ad hoc to fulfil 
a certain sociological function, to glorify a cer- 
tain group, or to justify an anomalous status. 
These considerations show us also that to the 
native mind immediate history, semi-historic 
legend, and unmixed myth flow into one another, 
form a continuous sequence, and fulfil really the 
same sociological function. 

And this brings us once more to our original 
contention that the really important thing about 
the myth is its character of a retrospective, ever- 
present, live actuality. It is to a native neither 
a fictitious story, nor an account of a dead past; 
it is a statement of a bigger reality still partially 
alive. It is alive in that its precedent, its law, 
its moral, still rule the social life of the natives. 
It is clear that myth functions especially where 
there is a sociological strain, such as in matters 

of great difference in rank and power, matters 
of precedence and subordination, and unquestion- 
ably where profound historical changes have 
taken place. So much can be asserted as a fact, 
though it must always remain doubtful how far 
We can carry out historical reconstruction from 
the myth. 

We can certainly discard all explanatory as 
“well as all symbolic interpretations of these 
myths of origin. The personages and beings 
which we find in them are what they appear to 
be on the surface, and not symbols of hidden 
realities. As to any explanatory function of these 
myths, there is no problem which they cover, no 
curiosity which they satisfy, no theory which 
they contain.

In certain versions of origin myths the exist- 
ence of humanity underground is compared to the 
existence of human spirits after death in the 
present-day spirit-world. Thus a mythological 
rapprochement is made between the primeval 
past and the immediate destiny of each man, 
another of those links with life which we find so 
important in the understanding of the psychology 
and the cultural value of myth. 

The parallel between primeval and spiritual 
existence can be drawn even further. The ghosts 
of the deceased move after death to the island of 
Tuma. There they enter the earth through a 
special hole—a sort of reversed proceeding to the 
original emergence. Even more important is 
the fact that after a span of spiritual existence 
in Tuma, the nether world, an individual grows 
old, grey, and wrinkled; and that then he has to 
rejuvenate by sloughing his skin. Even so did 
human beings in the old primeval times, when 
they lived underground. When they first came 

out on the surface they had not yet lost this 
ability; men and women could live eternally 
young. 

They lost the faculty, however, by an appar- 
ently trivial, yet important and fateful event. 
Once upon a time there lived in the village of 
Bwadela an old woman who dwelt with her 
daughter and grand-daughter; three generations 
of genuine matrilineal descent. The grand- 
mother and grand-daughter went out one day to 
bathe in the tidal creek. The girl remained on 
the shore, while the old woman went away some 
distance out of sight. She took off her skin, 
which, carried by the tidal current, floated along 
the creek until it stuck on a bush. ‘Transformed 
into a young girl, she came back to her grand- 
daughter. The latter did not recognize her; she 
was afraid of her, and bade her begone. ‘The 
old woman, mortified and angry, went back to 
her bathing place, searched for her old skin, 
put it on again, and returned to her grand- 
daughter. ‘This time she was recognized and 
thus greeted: ‘“‘A young girl came here: I was 
afraid; I chased her away.” Said the grand- 
mother: ‘‘No, you didn’t want to recognize me. 
Well, you will become old—I shall die.” ‘They 
went home to where the daughter was preparing 
the meal. The old woman spoke to her daugh- 
ter: ‘I went to bathe; the tide carried my skin 
away; your daughter did not recognise me; she 

chased me away. I shall not slough my skin. 
We shall all become old. We shall all die.” 

After that men lost the power of changing 
their skin and of remaining youthful. The only 
animals who have retained the power of chang- 
ing the skin are the ‘animals of the below— 
snakes, crabs, iguanas, and lizards: this is be- 
cause men also once lived under the ground. 
These animals come out of the ground and they 
still can change their skin. Had men lived 
above, the ‘animals of the above’—birds, flying- 
foxes, and insects—would also be able to change 
their skins and renew their youth. 

Here ends the myth as it is usually told. 
Sometimes the natives will add other comments 
drawing parallels between spirits and primitive 
humanity; sometimes they will emphasize the 
regeneration motive of the reptiles; sometimes 
tell only the bare incident of the lost skin. The 
story is, in itself, trivial and unimportant; and 
it would appear so to any one who did not study 
it against the background of the various ideas, 
customs, and rites associated with death and 
future life. The myth is obviously but a de- 
veloped and dramatized belief in the previous 
human power of rejuvenation and in its subse- 
quent loss. 

Thus, through the conflict between grand- 
daughter and grandmother, human beings, one 
and all, had to submit to the process of decay and 

debility brought on by old age. This, however, 
did not yet involve the full incidence of the in- 
exorable fate which is the present lot of man; 
for old age, bodily decay, and debility do not spell 
death to the natives. In order to understand 
the full cycle of their beliefs it is necessary to 
study the factors of illness, decay, and death. 
‘The native of the Trobriands is definitely an 
optimist in his attitude to health and illness. 
Strength, vigour, and bodily perfection are to 
him the natural status which can only be affected 
or upset by an accident or by a supernatural 
cause. Small accidents such as excessive fatigue, 
sunstroke, over-eating, or exposure may cause 
minor and temporary ailments. By a spear in 
battle, by poison, by a fall from a rock or a tree 
a man may be maimed or killed. Whether these 
accidents and others, such as drowning and the 
attack of a crocodile or a shark, are entirely free 
from sorcery is ever a debatable question to a 
native. But there is no doubt whatever to him 
that all serious and especially all fatal illnesses 
are due to various forms and agencies of witch- 
craft. The most prevalent of these is the ordi- 
nary sorcery practised by wizards, who can pro- 
duce by their spells and rites a number of ail- 
ments covering well nigh the whole domain of 
ordinary pathology, with the exception of very 
rapid fulminating diseases and epidemics. 

The source of witchcraft is always sought in 

some influence coming from the south. ‘There 
are two points in the Trobriand Archipelago at 
which sorcery is said to have originated, or 
rather to have been brought over from the 
D’Entrecasteaux Archipelago. One of these is 
the grove of Lawaywo between the villages of 
Ba’u and Bwoytalu, and the other is the southern 
island of Vakuta. Both these districts are still 
considered the most redoubtable centres of witch- 
craft. 

The district of Bwoytalu occupies a specially 
low social position in the island, inhabited as it 
is by the best-wood carvers, the most expert fibre- 
plaiters, and the eaters of such abominations as 
stingaree and bush-pig. ‘These natives have been 
endogamous for a long time, and they probably 
represent the oldest layer of indigenous culture in 
the island. To them sorcery was brought from 
the southern archipelago by a crab. This ani- 
mal is either depicted as emerging out of a hole 
in the Lawaywo grove, or else as travelling by 
the air and dropping from above at the same 
place. About the time of its arrival a man and 
a dog went out. ‘The crab was red, for it had 
the sorcery within it. The dog saw it and tried 
to bite it. Then the crab killed the dog, and 
having done this, proceeded to kill the man. But 
looking at him the crab became sorry, ‘its belly 
was moved,’ and it brought him back to life. 
The man then offered his murderer and saviour 

a large payment, a pokala, and asked the crusta- 
cean to give him the magic. This was done. 
The man immediately made use of his sorcery to 
kill his benefactor, the crab. He then proceeded 
to kill, according to a rule observed or believed to 
be observed until now, a near maternal relative. 
After that he was in full possession of witch- 
craft. The crabs at present are black, for sor- 
cery has left them; they are, however, slow to 
die, for once they were the masters of life and 
of death. 

A similar type of myth is told in the southern 
island of Vakuta. They tell how a malicious 
being of human shape, but not of human nature, 
went into a piece of bamboo somewhere on the 
northern shore of Normanby Island. ‘The piece 
of bamboo drifted northwards till it was washed 
ashore near the promontory of Yayvau or Vakuta. 
A man from a neighbouring village of Kwadagila 
heard a voice in the bamboo and he opened it. 
The demon came out and taught him sorcery. 
This, according to the informants in the south, 
is the real starting point of black magic. It 
went to the district of Ba’u in Bwoytalu from 
Vakuta and not directly from the southern archi- 
pelagoes. Another version of the Vakuta tradi- 
tion maintains that the tauva’u came to Vakuta 
not in a bamboo but by a grander arrangement. 
At Sewatupa on the northern shore of Nor- 
manby Island there stood a big tree in which 

many of the malignant beings used to reside. 
It was felled, and it tumbled right across the sea, 
so that while its base remained on Normanby 
Island the trunk and the branches came across 
the sea and the top touched Vakuta. Hence 
sorcery is most rampant in the southern archi- 
pelago; the intervening sea is full of fish who 
live in the branches and boughs of the tree; and 
the place whence sorcery came to the Trobriands 
is the southern beach of Vakuta. For in the 
top of the tree there were three malignant beings, 
two males and a female, and they gave some 
magic to the inhabitants of the island. 

In these mythical stories we have but one link 
in the chain of beliefs which surround the final 
destiny of human beings. ‘The mythical inci- 
dents can be understood and their importance 
realized only in connection with the full beliefs 
in the power and nature of witchcraft, and with 
the feelings and apprehensions regarding it. The 
explicit stories about the advent of sorcery do not 
quite exhaust or account for all the supernatural 
dangers. Rapid and sudden disease and death 
are, in native belief, brought about, not by the 
male sorcerers, but by flying witches who act 
differently and possess altogether a more super- 
natural character. I was unable to find any 
initial myth about the origin of this type of witch- 
craft. On the other hand, the nature and the 
whole proceedings of these witches are surrounded 

by a cycle of beliefs which form what might be 
called a standing or current myth. I shall not 
repeat them in detail, for I have given a full 
account in my book, the Argonauts of the West- 
ern Pacific.* But it is important to realize that 
the halo of supernatural powers surrounding 
‘individuals who are believed to be witches gives 
rise to a continuous flow of stories. Such stories 
can be regarded as minor myths generated by the 
strong belief in the supernatural powers. Similar 
stories are also told about the male sorcerers, the 
bwaga u. 

Epidemics, finally, are ascribed to the direct 
action of the malignant spirits, the tauva’u, who, 
as we saw, are mythologically often regarded as 
the source of all witchcraft. ‘These malignant 
beings have a permanent abode in the south. 
Occasionally they will move to the Trobriand 
Archipelago, and, invisible to ordinary human 
beings, they walk at night through the villages 
rattling their ‘lime-gourds and clanking their 
wooden sword clubs. Wherever this is heard 
fear falls upon the inhabitants, for those whom 
the tauva'u strike with their wooden weapons die, 
and such an invasion is always associated with 
death in masses. Leria, epidemic disease, obtains 
then in the villages. The malignant spirits can 
sometimes change into reptiles and then become 

1Chap. X, passim: especially pp. 236-248, also 
PP- 320, 321, 393. 

visible to human eyes. It is not easy to distin- 
guish such a reptile from an ordinary one, but it 
is very important to do so, for a tauva’u, injured 
or ill-treated, revenges himself by death. 

Here, again, around this standing myth, around 
this domestic tale of a happening which is not 
placed in the past but still occurs, there cluster 
innumerable concrete stories. Some of them even 
occurred while I was in the Trobriands; there 
was a severe dysentery once, and the first out- 
break of what probably was Spanish influenza 
in 1918. Many natives reported having heard 
the tauva’u. A giant lizard was seen in Wawela; 
the man who killed it died soon after, and the 
epidemic broke out in the village. While I was 
in Oburaku, and sickness was rife in the village, 
a real tauva’u was seen by the crew of the boat 
in which I was being paddled; a large multi- 
coloured snake appeared on a mangrove, but van- 
ished mysteriously as we came near. It was only 
through my short-sightedness, and perhaps also 
my ignorance of how to look for a tauva’u, that 
I failed to observe this miracle myself. Such 
and similar stories can be obtained by the score 
from natives in all localities. A reptile of this 
type should be put on a high platform and valu- 
ables placed in front of it; and I have been 
assured by natives who have actually witnessed 
it that this is not infrequently done, though I 
never have seen this myself. Again, a number of 

women witches are said to have had intercourse 
with tauva’u, and of one living at present this is 
positively affirmed. 

In the case of this belief we see how minor 
myths are constantly generated by the big 
schematic story. Thus with regard to all the 
agencies of disease and death the belief, and the 
explicit narratives which cover part of it, the 
small concrete supernatural events constantly 
registered by the natives, form one organic whole. 
These beliefs are obviously not a theory or ex- 
planation. On the one hand, they are the whole 
complex of cultural practices, for sorcery is not 
only believed to be practised, but actually is 
practised, at least in its male form. On the other 
hand, the complex under discussion covers the 
whole pragmatic reaction of man towards dis- 
ease and death; it expresses his emotions, his fore- 
bodings; it influences his behaviour. The nature 
of myth again appears to us as something very 
far removed from the mere intellectual explana- 
tion. 

We are now in full possession of the native 
ideas about the factors which in the past cut 
short man’s power of rejuvenation, and which at 
present cut short his very existence. “The connec- 
tion, by the way, between the two losses is only 
indirect. “The natives believe that although any 
form of sorcery can reach the child, the youth, 
or the man in the prime of life, as well as the 

aged, yet old people are more easily stricken. 
Thus the loss of rejuvenation at least prepared 
the ground for sorcery. 

But although there was a time when people 
grew old and died, and thus became spirits, they 
yet remained in the villages with the survivors— 
even as now they stay around the dwellings 
when they return to their village during the 
annual feast of the milamala. But one day an 
old woman-spirit who was living with her people 
in the house crouched on the floor under one of 
the bedstead platforms. Her daughter, who was 
distributing food to the members of the family, 
spilled some broth out of the coconut cup and 
burnt the spirit, who expostulated and _ repri- 
manded her daughter. ‘The latter replied: “I 
thought you had gone away; I thought you were 
only coming back at one time in the year during 
the milamala.” ‘The spirit’s feelings were hurt. 
She replied: “I shall go to Tuma and live 
underneath.” She then took up a coconut, cut 
it in half, kept the half with the three eyes, and 
gave her daughter the other. “I am giving you 
the half which is blind, and therefore you will 
not see me. I am taking the half with the eyes, 
and I shall see you when I come back with other 
spirits.” This is the reason why the spirits are 
invisible, though they themselves can see human 
beings. 

This myth contains a reference to the seasonal 

feast of milamala, the period at which the spirits 
return to their villages while festive celebrations 
take place. A more explicit myth gives an ac- 
count of how the milamala was instituted. A 
woman of Kitava died leaving a pregnant daugh- 
ter behind her. A son was born, but his mother 
_ had not enough milk to feed him. As a man of 
a neighbouring island was dying, she asked him 
to take a message to her own mother in the land 
of spirits, to the effect that the departed one 
should bring food to her grandson. ‘The spirit- 
woman filled her basket with spirit-food and 
came back wailing as follows: “Whose food am 
I carrying? That of my grandson to whom I 
am going to give it; I am going to give him his 
food.” She arrived on Bomagema beach in the 
island of Kitava and put down the food. She 
spoke to her daughter: “I bring the food; the 
man told me I should bring it. But I am weak; 
I fear that people may take me for a witch.” She 
then roasted one of the yams and gave it to her 
grandson. She went into the bush and made a 
garden for her daughter. When she came back, 
however, her daughter received a fright for the 
spirit looked like a sorceress. She ordered her to 
go away saying: “Return to Tuma, to the 
spirit-land ; people will say that you are a witch.” 
The spirit-mother complained: “Why do you 
chase me away? I thought I would stay with 
you and make gardens for my grandchild.” ‘The 

daughter only replied: “Go away, return to 
Tuma!” The old woman then took up a coco- 
nut, split it in half, gave the blind half to her 
daughter, and kept the half with eyes. She told 
her that once a year, she and other spirits would 
come back during the milamala and look at the 
people in the villages, but remain invisible to 
them. And this is how the annual feast came to 
be what it is. 

In order to understand these mythological 
stories, it is indispensable to collate them with 
native beliefs about the spirit-world, with the 
practices during the milamala season, and with 
the relations between the world of the living and 
the world of the dead, such as exist in native 
forms of spiritism.t After death every spirit 
goes to the nether world in Tuma. He has to 
pass at the entrance Topileta, the guardian of the 
spirit world. ‘The new-comer offers some valu- 
able gift, the spiritual part of the valuables with 
which he had been bedecked at the time of dying. 
When he arrives among the spirits he is received 
by his friends and relatives who have previously 
died, and he brings the news from the upper 
world. He then settles down to spirit-life, which 
is similar to earthly existence, though sometimes 

1 An account of these facts has been already given 
in an article on “Baloma Spirits of the Dead in the 
Trobriand Islands” in the Journal of the Royal An- 
thropological Institute, 1916. 

its description is coloured by hopes and desires 
and made into a sort of real Paradise. But even 
those natives who describe it thus never show 
any eagerness to reach it. 

Communication between spirits and the living 
is carried out in several ways. Many people 
have seen spirits of their deceased relatives or 
friends, especially in or near the island of Tuma. 
Again, there are now, and seem to have been 
from time immemorial, men and women who in 
trances, or sometimes in sleep, go on long expedi- 
tions to the nether world. ‘They take part in the 
life of the spirits, and carry back and forth news, 
items of information, and important messages. 
Above all they are always ready to convey gifts 
of food and valuables from the living to the 
spirits. These people bring home to other men 
and women the reality of the spirit world. They 
also give a great deal of comfort to the survivors 
who are ever eager to receive news from their 
dear departed. 

During the annual feast of the milamala, the 
spirits return from Tuma to their villages. A 
special high platform is erected for them to sit 
upon, from which they can look down upon the 
doings and amusements of their brethren. Food 
is displayed in big quantities to gladden their 
hearts, as well as those of the living citizens of 
the community. During the day valuables are 
placed on mats in front of the headman’s hut 

and the huts of important wealthy people. A 
number of taboos are observed in the village to 
safeguard the inivisible spirits from injury. Hot 
fluids must not be spilled, as the spirits might be 
burned like the old woman in the myth. No 
native may sit, cut wood within the village, play 
about with spears or sticks, or throw missiles, 
for fear of injuring a Baloma, a spirit. The 
spirits, moreover, manifest their presence by 
pleasant and unpleasant signs, and express their 
satisfaction or the reverse. Slight annoyance is 
sometimes shown by unpleasant smells, more 
serious ill-humour is displayed in bad weather, 
accidents, and damage to property. On such 
occasions—as well as when an important medium 
goes into a trance, or someone is near to death— 
the spirit-world seems very near and real to the 
natives. It is clear that myth fits into these 
beliefs as an integral part of them. ‘There is a 
close and direct parallel between, on the one 
hand, the relations of man to spirit, as expressed 
in present-day religious beliefs and experiences, 
and, on the other hand, the various incidents of 
the myth. Here again the myth can be regarded 
as constituting the furthest background of a 
continuous perspective which ranges from an 
individual’s personal concerns, fears, and sorrows 
at the one end, through the customary setting of 
belief, through the many concrete cases told from 
personal experience and memory of past genera- 

tions, right back into the epoch where a similar 
fact is imagined to have occurred for the first 
time. 

I have presented the facts and told the myths 
in a manner which implies the existence of an 
extensive and coherent scheme of beliefs. This 
scheme does not exist, of course, in any explicit 
form in the native folk-lore. But it does corre- 
spond to a definite cultural reality, for all the 
concrete manifestations of the natives’ beliefs, 
feelings, and forebodings with reference to death 
and after-life hang together and form a great 
organic unit. The various stories and ideas just 
summarized shade into one another, and the 
natives spontaneously point out the parallels 
and bring out the connections between them. 
Myths, religious beliefs, and experiences in con- 
nection with spirits and the supernatural are 
really all parts of the same subject; the corre- 
sponding pragmatic attitude is expressed in con- 
duct by the attempts to commune with the nether 
world. ‘The myths are but a part of the organic 
whole; they are an explicit development into 
narrative of certain crucial points in native belief. 
When we examine the subjects which are thus 
spun into stories we find that they all refer to 
what might be called the specially unpleasant or 
negative truths: the loss of rejuvenation, the 
onset of disease, the loss of life by sorcery, the 
withdrawal of the spirits from permanent con- 

tact with men, and finally the partial communi- 
cation re-established with them. We see also 
that the myths of this cycle are more dramatic, 
they also form a more consecutive, yet complex, 
account than was the case with the myths of 
origins. Without labouring the point, I think 
that this is due to a deeper metaphysical refer- 
ence, in other words, to a stronger emotional 
appeal in stories which deal with human destiny, 
as compared with sociological statements or 
charters. 

In any case we see that the point where myth 
enters in these subjects is not to be explained by 
any greater amount of curiosity or any more 
problematic character, but rather by emotional 
colouring and pragmatic importance. We have 
found that the ideas elaborated by myth and spun 
out into narrative are especially painful. In one 
of the stories, that of the institution of the 
milamala and the periodical return of the spirits, 
it is the ceremonial behaviour of man, and the 
taboos observed with regard to the spirits, which 
are in question. ‘The subjects developed in these 
myths are clear enough in themselves; there is no 
need to ‘explain’ them, and the myth does not 
even partially perform this function. What it 
actually does is to transform an emotionally over- 
whelming foreboding, behind which, even for a 
native, there lurks the idea of an inevitable and 
ruthless fatality. Myth presents, first of all, a 

clear realization of this idea. In the second 
place, it brings down a vague but great appre- 
hension to the compass of a trivial, domestic 
reality. The longed-for power of eternal youth 
and the faculty of rejuvenation which gives im- 
munity from decay and age, have been lost by a 
small accident which it would have been in the 
power of a child and a woman to prevent. The 
separation from the beloved ones after death is 
conceived as due to the careless handling of a 
coconut cup and to a small altercation. Disease, 
again, is conceived as something which came out 
of a small animal, and originated through an 
accidental meeting of a man, a dog, and a crab. 
Elements of human error, of guilt, and of mis- 
chance assume great proportions. Elements of 
fate, of destiny, and of the inevitable are, on the 
other hand, brought down to the dimension of 
human mistakes. 

In order to understand this, it is perhaps well 
to realize that in his actual emotional attitude 
towards death, whether his own or that of his 
loved ones, the native is not completely guided 
by his belief and his mythological ideas. His in- 
tense fear of death, his strong desire to postpone 
it, and his deep sorrow at the departure of be- 
loved relatives belie the optimistic creed and the 
easy reach of the beyond which is inherent in 
native customs, ideas, and ritual. After death 
has occurred, or at a time when death is threat- 

ening, there is no mistaking the dim division of 
shaking faith. In long conversations with sev- 
eral seriously ill natives, and especially with my 
consumptive friend Bagido’u, I felt, half- 
expressed and roughly formulated, but still 
unmistakable in them all, the same melancholy 
sorrow at the transcience of life and all its good 
things, the same dread of the inevitable end, and 
the same questioning as to whether it could be 
staved off indefinitely or at least postponed for 
some little time. But again, the same people 
would clutch at the hope given to them by their 
beliefs. They would screen, with the vivid tex- 
ture of their myths, stories, and beliefs about the 
spirit world, the vast emotional void gaping be- 
yond them.

Let me discuss in more detail another class of 
mythical stories, those connected with magic. 
Magic, from many points of view, is the most 
important and the most mysterious aspect of 
primitive man’s pragmatic attitude towards real- 
ity. It is one of the problems which are engaging 
at present the most vivid and most controversial 
interests of anthropologists. “The foundations of 
this study have been laid by Sir James Frazer 
who has also erected a magnificent edifice thereon 
in his famous theory of magic. 

Magic plays such a great part in northwest 
Melanesia that even a superficial observer must 
soon realize its enormous sway. Its incidence, 
however, is not very clear at first sight. Al- 
though it seems to crop up everywhere, there are 
certain highly important and vital activities from 
which magic is conspicuously absent. 

No native would ever make a yam or taro 
garden without magic. Yet certain important 
types of planting, such as the raising of the coco- 
nut, the cultivation of the banana, of the mango, 

and of the bread-fruit, are devoid of magic. Fish- 
ing, the economic activity only second in impor- 
tance to agriculture, has in some of its forms a 
highly developed magic. Thus the dangerous 
fishing of the shark, the pursuit of the uncertain 
kalala or of the to’ulam are smothered in magic. 
The equally vital, but easy and reliable method 
of fishing by poison has no magic whatever. In 
the construction of the canoe—an enterprise sur- 
rounded with technical difficulties, requiring 
organized labour, and leading to an ever-danger- 
ous pursuit—the ritual is complex, deeply asso- 
ciated with the work, and regarded as absolutely 
indispensable. In the construction of houses, 
technically quite as difficult a pursuit, but involv- 
ing neither danger, nor chance, nor yet such 
complex forms of co-operation as the canoe, there 
is no magic whatever associated with the work. 
Wood-carving, an industrial activity of the 
greatest importance, is carried on in certain com- 
munities as a universal trade, learnt in childhood, 
and practised by everyone. In these communi- 
ties there is no magic of carving at all. A differ- 
ent type of artistic sculpture in ebony and hard- 
wood, practised only by people of special technical 
and artistic ability all over the district, has, on 
the other hand, its magic, which is considered as 
the main source of skill and inspiration. In trade, 
a ceremonial form of exchange known as the Kula 
is surrounded by important magical ritual; while 

w 

on the other hand, certain minor forms of barter 
of a purely commercial nature are without any 
magic at all. Pursuits such as war and love, as 
well as certain forces of destiny and nature such 
as disease, wind, and weather are in native be- 
lief almost completely governed by magical forces. 

Even this rapid survey leads us to an important 
generalization which will serve as a convenient 

starting-point. We find magic wherever the ele-» 

ments of chance and accident, and the emotional 
play between hope and fear have a wide and 
extensive range. We do not find magic wherever 
the pursuit is certain, reliable, and well under 
the control of rational methods and technological 

processes. Further, we find magic where the ele- ° 

ment of danger is conspicuous. We do not find 
it wherever absolute safety eliminates any ele- 
ments of foreboding. ‘This is the psychological 
factor. But magic also fulfils another and highly 
important sociological function. As I have tried 
to show elsewhere, magic is an active element in 
the organization of labour and in its systematic 
arrangement. It also provides the main con- 
trolling power in the pursuit of game. ‘The 
integral cultural function of magic, therefore, 
consists in the bridging-over of gaps and inade- 
quacies in highly important activities not yet 
completely mastered by man. In order to achieve 
this end, magic supplies primitive man with a 
firm belief in his power of succeeding; it provides 

\ 

him also with a definite mental and pragmatic 
technique wherever his ordinary means fail him. 

/ It thus enables man to carry out with confidence 

his most vital tasks, and to maintain his poise and 
his mental integrity under circumstances which, 
without the help of magic, would demoralize him 
by despair and anxiety, by fear and hatred, by 
unrequited love and impotent hate. 

Magic is thus akin to science in that it always 
has a definite aim intimately associated with hu- 
man instincts, needs, and pursuits. The magic 
art is directed towards the attainment of practical 
ends; like any other art or craft it is also governed 
by theory, and by a system of principles which 
dictate the manner in which the act has to be 
performed in order to be effective. Thus magic 
and science show a number of similarities, and, 
with Sir James Frazer, we can appropriately call 

| magic a pseudo-science. 

Let us look more closely at the nature of the 
magic art. Magic, in all its forms, is composed 
of three essential ingredients. In its performance 
there always enter certain words, spoken or 
chanted; certain ceremonial actions are always 
carried out; and there is always an officiating 
minister of the ceremony. In analyzing, there- 
fore, the nature of magic, we have to distinguish 
the formula,”the rite, and the condition of the 

» performer. It may be said at once that in the 

part of Melanesia with which we are concerned, 

_the spell is by far the most important constituent 
of magic. To the natives, knowledge of magic 
means the knowledge of the spell; and in any act 
of witchcraft the ritual centres round the utter- 
ance of the spell. The rite and the competence 
of the performer are merely conditioning factors 
which serve for the proper preservation and 
launching of the spell. This is very important 
from the point of view of our present discussion, 
for the magical spell stands in close relation to 
traditional lore and more especially to mythology. 

In the case of almost all types of magic we find 
some story accounting for its existence. Such a 
story tells when and where that particular magi- 
cal formula entered the possession of man, how 
it became the property of a local group, how it 
passed from one to another. But such a story is 
not the story of magical origins. Magic never 
‘originated’; it never was created or invented. 
All magic simply was from the beginning, as an 
essential adjunct to all those things and processes 
which vitally interest man and yet elude his nor- 
mal rational efforts. “The spell, the rite, and the 
object which they govern are coeval. 

Thus the essence of all magic is its traditional 
integrity. Magic can only be efficient if it has 

1See Argonauts of the Western Pacific pp. 329, 
4or, et seq., and pp. 69-78 of “Magic, Science and 
Religion” in Science, Religion and Reality, Essays by 
Varicus Authors (1925). 

been transmitted without loss and without flaw 
from one generation to the other, till it has come 
down from primeval times to the present per- 
former. Magic, therefore, requires a pedigree, 
a sort of traditional passport in its travel across 
time. This is supplied by the myth of magic. 
The manner in which myth endows the perform- 
ance of magic with worth and validity, in which 
myth blends with the belief in magical efficiency, 
will be best illustrated by a concrete example. 

As we know, love and the attractions of the 
other sex play an important réle in the life of 
these Melanesians. Like many races of the South 
Seas they are very free and easy in their con- 
duct, especially before marriage. Adultery, how- 
ever, is a punishable offence, and relations within 
the same totemic clan are strictly forbidden. But 
the greatest crime in the eyes of the natives is 
any form of incest. Even the bare idea of such a 
trespass between brother and sister fills them with 
violent horror. Brother and sister, united by the 
nearest bond of kinship in this matriarchal so- 
ciety, may not even converse freely, must never 
joke or smile at one another, and any allusion to 
one of them in the presence of the other is con- 
sidered extremely bad taste. Outside the clan, 
however, freedom is great, and the pursuit of love 
assumes a variety of interesting and even attrac- 
tive forms. 

All sexual attraction and all power of seduc- 

tion are believed to reside in the magic of love. 
This magic the natives regard as founded in a 
dramatic occurrence of the past, told in a strange, 
tragic myth of brother and sister incest, to which 
I can only refer briefly here.t The two young 
people lived in a village with their mother, and 
by an accident the girl inhaled a strong love de- 
coction, prepared by her brother for someone 
else. Mad with passion, she chased him and 
seduced him on a lonely beach. Overcome by 
shame and remorse, they forsook food and drink, 
and died together in a grotto. An aromatic herb 
grew through their inlaced skeletons, and this 
herb forms the most powerful ingredient in the 
substances compounded together and used in love 
magic. 

It can be said that the myth of magic, even 
more than the other types of savage myth, justi- 
fies the sociological claims of the wielder, shapes 
the ritual, and vouches for the truth of the belief 
in supplying the pattern of the subsequent mirac- 
ulous confirmation. 

Our discovery of this cultural function of 
magical myth fully endorses the brilliant theory 
of the origins of power and kingship developed by 
Sir James Frazer in the early parts of his Golden 

1For the complete account of this myth see the 
author’s Sex and Repression in Primitive Society 
(1926), where its full sociological bearings are dis- 

cussed. 

Bough. According to Sir James, the beginnings 
of social supremacy are due primarily to magic. 
By showing how the efficacy of magic is associated 
with local claims, sociological affiliation, and 
direct descent, we have been able to forge another 
link in the chain of causes which connect tradi- 
tion, magic, and social power.

Throughout this book I have attempted to 
prove that myth is above all a cultural force; 
but it is not only that. It is obviously also a 
narrative, and thus it has its literary aspect—an 
aspect which has been unduly emphasized by most 
scholars, but which, nevertheless, should not be 
completely neglected. Myth contains germs of 
the future epic, romance, and tragedy; and it 
has been used in them by the creative genius of 
peoples and by the conscious art of civilization. 
We have seen that some myths are but dry and 
succinct statements with scarcely any nexus and 
no dramatic incident; others, like the myth of 
love or the myth of canoe magic and of overseas 
sailing, are eminently dramatic stories. Did 
space permit, I could repeat a long and elaborate 
saga of the culture hero Tudava, who slays an 
ogre, avenges his mother, and carries out a num- 
ber of cultural tasks. Comparing such stories, it 

1For one of the main episodes of the myth of 
Tudava, see pp. 209-210 of the author’s “Complex and 
Myth in Mother Right” in Psyche, Vol. V., Jan., 1925. 

might be possible to show why myth lends itself 
in certain of its forms to subsequent literary elabo- 
ration, and why certain other of its forms remain 
artistically sterile. Mere sociological precedence, 
legal title, and vindication of lineage and local 
claims do not lead far into the realm of human 
emotions, and therefore lack the elements of lit- 
erary value. Belief, on the other hand, whether 
in magic or in religion, is closely associated with 
the deepest desires of man, with his fears and 
hopes, with his passions and sentiments. Myths 
of love and of death, stories of the loss of immor- 
tality, of the passing of the Golden Age, and of 
the banishment from Paradise, myths of incest 
and of sorcery play with the very elements which 
enter into the artistic forms of tragedy, of lyric, 
and of romantic narrative. Our theory, the 
theory of the cultural function of myth, account- 
ing as it does for its intimate relation to belief 
and showing the close connection between ritual 
‘and tradition, could help us to deepen our under- 
standing of the literary possibilities of savage 
story. But this subject, however fascinating, 
cannot be further elaborated here. 

In our opening remarks two current theories 
of myth were discredited and discarded: the 
view that myth is a rhapsodic rendering of nat- 
ural phenomena, and Andrew Lang’s doctrine 
that myth is essentially an explanation, a sort of 
primitive science. Our treatment has shown that 

neither of these mental attitudes is dominant in 
primitive culture; that neither can explain the 
form of primitive sacred stories, their sociological 
context, or their cultural function. But once we 
have realized that myth serves principally to 
establish a sociological charter, or a retrospective 
moral pattern of behaviour, or the primeval su- 
preme miracle of magic—it becomes clear that 
elements both of explanation and of interest in 
nature must be found in sacred legends. For a 
precedent accounts for subsequent cases, though 
it does so through an order of ideas entirely dif- 
ferent from the scientific relation of cause and 
effect, of motive and consequence. ‘The interest 
in nature, again, is obvious if we realize how 
important is the mythology of magic, and how 
definitely magic clings to the economic concerns 
of man. In this, however, mythology is very 
far from a disinterested and contemplative rhap- 
sody about natural phenomena. Between myth 
and nature two links must be interpolated: man’s 
pragmatic interest in certain aspects of the outer 
world, and his need of supplementing rational 
and empirical control of certain phenomena by 
magic. 

Let me state once more that I have dealt in 
this book with savage myth, and not with the 
myth of culture. I believe that the study of 
mythology as it functions and works in primitive 
societies should anticipate the conclusions drawn 

from the material of higher civilizations. Some 
of this material has come down to us only in 
isolated literary texts, without its setting in ac- 
tual life, without its social context. Such is the 
mythology of the ancient classical peoples and of 
the dead civilizations of the Orient. In the 
study of myth the classical scholar must learn 
from the anthropologist. 

The science of myth in living higher cultures, 
such as the present civilizations of India, Japan, 
China, and last but not least, our own, might 
well be inspired by the comparative study of 
primitive folk-lore; and in its turn civilized cul- 
ture could furnish important additions and ex- 
planations to savage mythology. This subject is 
very much beyond the scope of the present study. 
I do, however, want to emphasize the fact that 
anthropology should be not only the study of 
savage custom in the light of our mentality and 
our culture, but also the study of our own men- 
tality in the distant perspective borrowed from 
Stone Age man. By dwelling mentally for some 
time among people of a much simpler culture 
than our own, we may be able to see ourselves 
from a distance, we may be able to gain a new 
sense of proportion with regard to our own insti- 
tutions, beliefs, and customs. If anthropology 
could thus inspire us with some sense of propor- 
tion, and supply us with a finer sense of humour, 
it might justly claim to be a very great science. 

I have now completed the survey of facts and 
the range of conclusions; it only remains to sum- 
marize them briefly. I have tried to show that 
folk-lore, the stories handed on in a native com- 
munity, live in the cultural context of tribal life 
and not merely in narrative. By this I mean that 
the ideas, emotions, and desires associated with a 
Ziven story are experienced not only when the 
story is told, but also when in certain customs, 
moral rules, or ritual proceedings, the counterpart 
of the story is enacted. And here a considerable 
difference is discovered between the several types 
of story. While in the mere fireside tale the 
sociological context is narrow, the legend enters 
much more deeply into the tribal life of the com- 
munity, and the myth plays a most important 
function. Myth, as a statement. of primeval 
reality which still lives in present-day life and as 
a justification by precedent, supplies a retrospec- 
tive pattern of moral values, sociological order, 
and magical belief. It is, therefore, neither a 
mere narrative, nor a form of science, nor a 
branch of art or history, nor an explanatory tale. 
It fulfils a function sui generis closely connected 
with the nature of tradition, with the continuity 
of culture, with the relation between age and 
youth, and with the human attitude towards the 
past. The function of myth, briefly, is to 
strengthen tradition and endow it with a greater 
value and prestige by tracing it back to a higher, 

ge 

better, more supernatural reality of initial events. 

Myth is, therefore, an indispensable ingredient 
of all culture. It is, as we have seen, constantly 
regenerated; every historical change creates its 
mythology, which is, however, but indirectly re- 
lated to historical fact. / Myth is a constant_by- 
product of living faith, which is inneed of 
miracles; of sociological status, which demands 
precedent; of moral rule, which requires sanction. 

We have made, perhaps, a too ambitious at- 
tempt to give a new definition of myth. Our 
conclusions imply a new method of treating the 
science of folk-lore, for we have shown that it 
cannot be independent of ritual, of sociology, or 
even of material culture. Folk-tales, legends, and 
myths must be lifted from their flat existence on 
paper, and placed in the three-dimensional reality 
of full life. As regards anthropological field- 
work, we are obviously demanding a new method 
of collecting evidence. The anthropologist must 
relinquish his comfortable position in the long 
chair on the verandah of the missionary com- 
pound, Government station, or planter’s bunga- 
low, where, armed with pencil and notebook and 
at times with a whisky and soda, he has been 
accustomed to collect statements from informants, 
write down stories, and fill out sheets of paper 
with savage texts. He must go out into the vil- 
lages, and see the natives at work in gardens, on 
the beach, in the jungle; he must sail with them 

to distant sandbanks and to foreign tribes, and 
observe them in fishing, trading, and ceremonial 
overseas expeditions. Information must come to 
him full-flavoured from his own observations of 
native life, and not be squeezed out of reluctant 
informants as a trickle of talk. Field-work can 
be done first, or second-hand even among savages, 
in the middle of pile-dwellings, not far from 
actual cannibalism and head-hunting. Open-air 
anthropology, as opposed to hearsay note-taking, 
is hard work, but it is also great fun. Only such 
anthropology can give us the all-round vision of 
primitive man and of primitive culture. Such 
anthropology shows us, as regards myth, that far 
from being an idle mental pursuit, it is a vital 
ingredient of practical relation to the environ- 
ment. 

The claims and the merits, however, are not 
mine, but are due once more to Sir James Frazer. 
The Golden Bough contains the theory of the 
ritual and sociological function of myth, to which 
I have been able to make but a small contribution, 
in that I could test, prove, and document it in 
my field-work. ‘This theory is implied in Fra- 
zer’s treatment of magic; in his masterly expo- 
sition of the great importance of agricultural 
rites; in the central place which the cults of 
vegetation and fertility occupy in the volumes of 
Adonis, Attis, Osiris, and in those on the Spirits 
of the Corn and of the Wild. In these works, 

as in so many of his other writings, Sir James 
Frazer has established the intimate relation be- 
tween the word and the deed in primitive faith; 
he has shown that the words of the story and of 
the spell, and the acts of ritual and of ceremony 
are the two aspects of primitive belief. The deep 
philosophic query propounded by Faust, as to 
the primacy of the word or of the deed, ap- 
pears to us fallacious. ‘The beginning of man is 
the beginning of articulate thought and of thought 
put into action. Without words, whether framed 
in sober rational conversation, or launched in 
magical spells, or used to entreat superior divini- 
ties, man would not have been able to embark 
upon his great Odyssey of cultural adventure and 
achievement.