our mortal life is compassed about on every hand, and finally to bring his immortal spirit, freed from the burden of the body, to
some happier world, beyond the reach of pain and sorrow, where he might rest with them and with the spirits of good men in joy
and felicity for ever.
In this, or some such way as this, the deeper minds may be conceived to have made the great transition from magic to religion. But even in them the change can hardly ever have been sudden; probably it proceeded very slowly, and required long ages for its more
or less perfect accomplishment. For the recognition of man's powerlessness to influence the course of nature on a grand scale must have been gradual; he cannot have been shorn of the whole of his fancied dominion at a blow. Step by step he must have been driv-en back from his proud position; foot by foot he must have yielded, with a sigh, the ground which he had once viewed as his own. Now it would be the wind, now the rain, now the sunshine, now the thunder, that he confessed himself unable to wield at will; and
as province after province of nature thus fell from his grasp, till what had once seemed a kingdom threatened to shrink into a prison, man must have been more and more profoundly impressed with a sense of his own helplessness and the might of the invisible
beings by whom he believed himself to be surrounded. Thus religion, beginning as a slight and partial acknowledgment of powers superior to man, tends with the growth of knowledge to deepen into a confession of man's entire and absolute dependence on the divine; his old free bearing is exchanged for an attitude of lowliest prostration before the mysterious powers of the unseen, and his highest virtue is to submit his will to theirs: In la sua volontade e nostra pace. But this deepening sense of religion, this more perfect
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submission to the divine will in all things, affects only those higher intelligences who have breadth of view enough to comprehend the vastness of the universe and the littleness of man. Small minds cannot grasp great ideas; to their narrow comprehension, their
purblind vision, nothing seems really great and important but themselves. Such minds hardly rise into religion at all. They are, indeed,
drilled by their betters into an outward conformity with its precepts and a verbal profession of its tenets; but at heart they cling to
their old magical superstitions, which may be discountenanced and forbidden, but cannot be eradicated by religion, so long as they
have their roots deep down in the mental framework and constitution of the great majority of mankind.
The reader may well be tempted to ask, How was it that intelligent men did not sooner detect the fallacy of magic? How could
they continue to cherish expectations that were invariably doomed to disappointment? With what heart persist in playing venerable
antics that led to nothing, and mumbling solemn balderdash that remained without effect? Why cling to beliefs which were so flatly
contradicted by experience? How dare to repeat experiments that had failed so often? The answer seems to be that the fallacy was
far from easy to detect, the failure by no means obvious, since in many, perhaps in most cases, the desired event did actually follow,
at a longer or shorter interval, the performance of the rite which was designed to bring it about; and a mind of more than common
acuteness was needed to perceive that, even in these cases, the rite was not necessarily the cause of the event. A ceremony intended
to make the wind blow or the rain fall, or to work the death of an enemy, will always be followed, sooner or later, by the occurrence
it is meant to bring to pass; and primitive man may be excused for regarding the occurrence as a direct result of the ceremony, and
the best possible proof of its efficacy. Similarly, rites observed in the morning to help the sun to rise, and in spring to wake the
dreaming earth from her winter sleep, will invariably appear to be crowned with success, at least within the temperate zones; for in
these regions the sun lights his golden lamp in the east every morning, and year by year the vernal earth decks herself afresh with a
rich mantle of green. Hence the practical savage, with his conservative instincts, might well turn a deaf ear to the subtleties of the
theoretical doubter, the philosophic radical, who presumed to hint that sunrise and spring might not, after all, be direct consequences
of the punctual performance of certain daily or yearly ceremonies, and that the sun might perhaps continue to rise and trees to blos-
som though the ceremonies were occasionally intermitted, or even discontinued altogether. These sceptical doubts would naturally
be repelled by the other with scorn and indignation as airy reveries subversive of the faith and manifestly contradicted by experience.
"Can anything be plainer," he might say, "than that I light my twopenny candle on earth and that the sun then kindles his great fire
in heaven? I should be glad to know whether, when I have put on my green robe in spring, the trees do not afterwards do the same?
These are facts patent to everybody, and on them I take my stand. I am a plain practical man, not one of your theorists and splitters
of hairs and choppers of logic. Theories and speculation and all that may be very well in their way, and I have not the least objec-
tion to your indulging in them, provided, of course, you do not put them in practice. But give me leave to stick to facts; then I know
where I am." The fallacy of this reasoning is obvious to us, because it happens to deal with facts about which we have long made up
our minds. But let an argument of precisely the same calibre be applied to matters which are still under debate, and it may be ques-
tioned whether a British audience would not applaud it as sound, and esteem the speaker who used it a safe man--not brilliant or
showy, perhaps, but thoroughly sensible and hard-headed. If such reasonings could pass muster among ourselves, need we wonder
that they long escaped detection by the savage?
V. The Magical Control of the Weather
1. The Public Magician
THE READER may remember that we were led to plunge into the labyrinth of magic by a consideration of two different types of man-god. This is the clue which has guided our devious steps through the maze, and brought us out at last on higher ground, whence, resting a little by the way, we can look back over the path we have already traversed and forward to the longer and steeper road we have still to climb.
As a result of the foregoing discussion, the two types of human gods may conveniently be distinguished as the religious and the
magical man-god respectively. In the former, a being of an order different from and superior to man is supposed to become incar-
nate, for a longer or a shorter time, in a human body, manifesting his superhuman power and knowledge by miracles wrought and
prophecies uttered through the medium of the fleshly tabernacle in which he has deigned to take up his abode. This may also appro-
priately be called the inspired or incarnate type of man-god. In it the human body is merely a frail earthly vessel filled with a divine
and immortal spirit. On the other hand, a man-god of the magical sort is nothing but a man who possesses in an unusually high
degree powers which most of his fellows arrogate to themselves on a smaller scale; for in rude society there is hardly a person who
does not dabble in magic. Thus, whereas a man-god of the former or inspired type derives his divinity from a deity who has stooped
to hide his heavenly radiance behind a dull mask of earthly mould, a man-god of the latter type draws his extraordinary