It is obvious that in all these cases there is a connection established between the child and the tree by means of the placenta. The reasons for planting a tree are probably twofold. Not only is it difficult to preserve the after-birth itself; it is also desired to bring to bear upon the child all the gracious influences of Nature, to aid in his growth and development. This is done by the intervention of the young tree, which thus becomes more than a mere index of his fortunes. The placenta is, in fact, a portion of the child incorporated in the tree. A caul, which is as much a portion of the child as the placenta, and which, unlike the latter, is easy of preservation, was formerly regarded in this country as an index of the health of the person who was so lucky as to be born with it. While he remained alive and well, it was firm and crisp; if he sickened or died, it became flaccid and relaxed.[33.1] Any fragment of a human being may, indeed, become his life-token. A pathetic instance is on record of a boy in Grafton County, New Hampshire, who, early in the present century, was badly scalded, so that a piece of his skin, fully one inch in diameter, sloughed off, and was carefully treasured by his mother. When the boy came of age he left home, and was never heard of after; but his mother used from time to time to examine the skin, persuaded that so long as it was sound her son was alive and well, and that it would not begin to decay until his death. She died about 1843; and thenceforth her daughters kept the skin for their brother’s sake as she had done, and with the same notions about its preservation and decay.[33.2] In these examples we do not find the idea of the External Soul. The object, whether caul or skin, is kept merely to obtain tidings of the absent. It is not united for his benefit to any living organism like a tree; nor does it seem to be necessary to his life to preserve it from harm.
Sometimes, however, the belief connected with the rite of planting at a birth is more obscure, whether from the fault of those who have recorded it, or because it has faded out of the memory of those who perform it. The Fiji islanders bury the navel-string with a cocoa-nut, which is intended to germinate and grow. The tree produced is considered the property of the child.[34.1] Among the tribes of Guatemala, and also of Virginia, the cord was cut upon an ear of maize, and the grains thus besprent with blood were sown in the infant’s name.[34.2] The umbilical cord of an Aztec boy was buried with mimic weapons in a place where a battle might be expected to take place on a future day. A girl’s cord, with domestic implements proper to her sex, was buried under a metate, or stone whereon the maize was crushed.[34.3] The interpretation of none of these presents any difficulty, save that of the Aztec boy. But if we regard the cord as his external soul, we may suppose that it was either put into a safe place, or was expected to strengthen and encourage its owner on the day of battle. The Badouj husband, in Java, buries the placenta in the forest. We are told nothing as to the situation in which it is buried; if not at the foot of a tree, it is probably intended to be hidden securely away.[35.1]
In other cases there appears no physical contact with the infant, or with the accompaniments of its birth, though the intention is plain. On the island of Bali, in the East Indies, a cocoa-palm is simply planted. It is called the child’s “Life-plant,” and is believed to grow up equally with him. When twins are born, in some Zulu tribes, the father plants two euphorbia-trees near the door of the hut. Among the Mbengas of Western Africa, when two babes are born on the same day, two trees of the same kind are planted, and the people dance round them. “The life of each of the children is believed to be bound up with the life of one of the trees; and if the tree dies, or is thrown down, they are sure that the child will die soon.” The life of a newborn child is united by some of the Papuans with that of the tree by driving a pebble into the bark. “This is supposed to give them complete mastery over the child’s life; if the tree is cut down, the child will die.”[35.2] Among the Sakalava of Madagascar, a tree called Hàzomànitra (Fragrant Wood) is planted at the birth of a first child. This is said to be a witness that the father acknowledges it as his own.[35.3] But had he not acknowledged it, the child must presumably have been put to death, so that this can hardly be the real reason. According to the Babylonian Talmud it was a Hebrew practice to plant a cedar at the birth of a boy, and a pine at the birth of a girl.[36.1] On the New Marquesas Islands a breadfruit-tree is set apart for the use of every infant at its birth; or, if the parents be too poor to do this, a sapling is immediately planted. The fruit of the tree is taboo to every one save the child; even the parents dare not touch it.[36.2] Among several European nations it is, or has been up to recent times, the custom to plant a tree at the birth of a child. When the poet Vergil was born, his parents are said to have planted a poplar, in the hope that, as that tree overtopped all the rest, their son’s greatness would outstrip all others’. Poplars are still set in the neighbourhood of Turin when a girl is born; and they become in after-years the maiden’s dower. In Switzerland an apple-tree is set for a boy, a pear or a nut for a girl; and it is believed that as the young tree flourishes, so will the child. In Aargau, in particular, it was the custom, not many years back, to plant a fruit-tree on the land of the commune for every infant that was born; and if a father were enraged with a son who was at a distance, and therefore out of his reach, he would go to the field and cut down the tree planted at his son’s birth.[36.3] In England we still hear sometimes of trees being planted at a birth. Count de Gubernatis, I know not on what authority, asserts that there are families in Russia, Germany, England, France, and Italy, whose practice it is to plant at the birth of a child a fruit-tree, which is loved and tended with special care as the symbol of the child and of the child’s fate.[37.1] Only thirty years ago it was the custom of the good folk of Liége to plant a tree in the garden when a child was born: a custom which, it seems, is still continued in some parts of Belgium.[37.2] In the province of Canton, in China, although we are not informed that trees are planted on the like occasions, we seem to have a relic of some such practice in the superstition requiring a child’s fortune to be told, in order to ascertain the particular idol or tree to which he belongs. It is thought that a tree is planted in the spirit-world to represent the life in this world, “and that the child is as much the fruit of the tree as it is that of the womb.”[37.3] It is difficult to see how such a thought could have originated, unless it were connected with the planting of a tree in this world when the babe was born.
Nor is it only at a birth that the life-token is planted. Among the English-speaking population on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake, when one of a family leaves home, a bit of live-for-ever is stuck in the ground to indicate the fortune of the absent one. It will flourish if he prosper; otherwise it will wither or die.[37.4] An Italian work falsely attributed to Cornelius Agrippa gives the following prescription for divining the health of a person far distant: Gather onions on the Eve of Christmas, and put them on an altar, and under every onion write the name of one of the persons as to whom information is desired. When planted, the onion that sprouts the first will clearly announce that the person whose name it bears is well.[38.1] In the north-east of Scotland, when potatoes were dug for the first time in the season a stem was put for each member of the family, the father first, the mother next, and the rest in order of age. Omens of the prosperity of the year were drawn from the number and size of the potatoes growing from each stem.[38.2] Every Roman emperor solemnly planted on the Capitol a laurel, which was said to wither when he was about to die. It was the custom, too, of a successful general at his triumph to plant in a shrubbery set by Livia a laurel which was believed to fade after his death.[38.3] Marco Polo records that the Great Khan planted the highways through his realm with rows of trees, for the purpose of marking the roads; and that he did it all the more readily because his astrologers and diviners told him that he who planted trees lived long.[38.4] Why, unless his life were bound up with the trees he planted? In British Guiana, when young children are betrothed, as is the custom among the aborigines, trees are planted by the respective parties in witness of the contract. If either tree happen to fade, the child it belongs to will die.[39.1] The custom exists also in Germany. At Hochheim, Einzingen, and other places in the neighbourhood of Gotha, a bridal pair plants at the wedding, or shortly after, two young trees on the land of the commune. If either of the trees perish, the spouse who planted it will shortly die.[39.2] “On certain occasions the Dyaks of Borneo,” says Mr. Frazer, quoting Professor Wilken, “plant a palm-tree, which is believed to be a complete index of their fate. If it flourishes they reckon on good fortune, but if it withers or dies they expect misfortune.”[39.3] What else than this can be the true meaning of the ceremony practised by some of the Australian blacks when a boy attains puberty? His two upper front teeth are knocked out, and his mother carefully inserts them in the fork of the topmost branches of a young gum-tree, which thereupon becomes taboo.[39.4] The tree is not, indeed, newly planted, but, as in the Papuan practice cited just now, the boy’s fate is united with it. If a gipsy babe do not thrive in Transylvania, the mother drops a little of her own blood in its mouth, and rubs its saliva in the hole of a tree, repeating a rhyming formula adjuring the child to grow like that tree.[40.1] When a child has been passed, for hernia or some other disease, through a young tree split for the purpose, the tree is forthwith bound up and plastered with mud or clay so that it may grow together again; and according as this treatment is successful on the tree, the child is expected to recover. This, I need hardly remind the reader, is a superstition very widely spread in Europe. In Mecklenburg, and most likely elsewhere, it is believed that if the tree be felled the child will die.[40.2] So, too, among the Buryats of Siberia, a shaman on the eve of his first dedication cuts a magical stick from a growing birch. It must be of some size, since a horse’s head is required to be carved at the top, and a horse’s knee and hoof at the lower end. It must be so cut that the birch will not wither from the excision, for that would be an ill omen for the shaman.[40.3] His life, or at least his professional success, is thus bound up with the life of the tree.
Of other species of life-tokens we may note the following. A tradition of the Mojave Indians of Arizona relates that two twin brothers, in starting to hunt, hung a quiver up by the lodge fire, and each tied a long hair (no doubt one of his own) across the doorway. “If you see that quiver fall,” they said to their wives, “that is a sign we are dead; and if the hairs break, we die.” The brothers are treacherously murdered; the quiver falls and the hairs are broken.[41.1] In this case we have the hairs originally part of the heroes’ bodies, and the quiver was their property. Thus the reason why these objects could be made life-tokens was the sympathy they retained from their erewhile close connection with the brothers. This is, however, by no means a necessity: the mere superscription of the name is sufficient, as in the onion-charm cited a page or two back, to establish the requisite sympathy. Tiglath-Uras, an Assyrian king, caused a seal of crystal to be engraven with his name and title, and with the words: “Whosoever buries my writing and my name, may Assur and Rimmon destroy his name and his land! Whoever makes the seal legible ensures the preservation of my life.”[41.2] Here the seal, with its inscription, bears the aspect of the king’s external soul; and it must be remembered in this connection that archaic belief regards the name as a part of its owner. A similar character attaches, in the opinion of many savages, to a portrait. This is the foundation of the belief in witchcraft by means of a puppet or picture.[41.3] But if the writing of a name or the accuracy of a likeness were important, it is clear that the superstition could not be traced far back into the lower culture, and witchcraft could only be practised by accomplished artists. Accordingly, it is enough to attribute the name of the man to the object whereby it is proposed to represent him. In Thuringia, if it be desired to know whether absent children or other kinsmen be still living, all that is necessary is to stick a loaf of bread with ears of corn before putting it into the oven to bake. Each of the ears is designated by the name of one of the absent concerning whom inquiry is made. If any of the ears be scorched in the process of baking, the person symbolised is assuredly dead; if not, he is living.[42.1] Either some such divination, or that lively presentation which is but a step short of it, was recorded by Mr. Backhouse, who, in visiting Tasmania, noticed one day a native woman arranging some flat oval stones, about two inches wide and marked with black and red lines. He learned that these represented absent friends, and one larger than the rest stood for a fat native woman on Flinders Island, known by the name of Mother Brown.[42.2]
As in the märchen we have reviewed, so in sagas and in practical superstition, mere ownership or the wearing of an object sets up a connection with it, which remains even after parting with its possession, and will render it an efficient life-token. This has been already illustrated in the quiver of the Mojave saga. In a legendary history of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, Duke Lewis, her husband, when setting out for the Crusade, sent her a ring, the stone of which would break when misfortune happened to him. It is curious that in fact, if the Count de Montalembert’s investigations may be trusted, the duke told his wife that if he sent her his ring it would be a token that some misfortune had occurred.[43.1] In Italy it is believed that if a woman take off her wedding-ring, her husband will run some serious risk.[43.2] A Hungarian superstition declares that a garnet remains of a beautiful red colour when its wearer is well, but turns pale if he be sick or ailing.[43.3] But here the line between the Life-token, or the External Soul, and the Fetish becomes very narrow. So a Shawnee prophet tried to persuade Tanner that the fire in his lodge was intimately connected with his life. At all seasons and in all weathers it was to remain alight; for if he suffered it to be extinguished, his life would be at an end.[43.4] Of a similar character is the Negro luck-ball, so graphically described, with the making thereof, by Miss Owen, and of which a specimen was obtained by her for Mr. Leland. We will not here inquire into the composition of this nasty but magical article; we will rest satisfied with knowing that it receives the name of the person for whom it is intended, and contains his soul. It is usually carried about by its owner; and the agonies of a Negress who thought she had lost her ball are set forth in Miss Owen’s book with humour. “No ball could be found. Then Aunt Mymee went wild. Her morning duties were forgotten, she ran hither and thither looking in all possible and impossible places of concealment, and obstinately refusing to state what she had lost. Finally, with a groan of despair, she flung herself down on her cabin floor in a cowering heap and quavered out that she would be better off in her grave, for an enemy had stolen her luck-ball, and her soul as well as her luck was in it.”[44.1] The North American Indians and many other savages carry such objects; and of the same kind would appear to have been that wonderful stone in the Chinese story, which contained ninety-two grottoes representing the allotted years of its owner’s life.[44.2]
Mr. Frazer, in the remarkable work to which I have been indebted for numerous illustrations in the course of this chapter, refers to the belief on the part of many peoples in the lower culture that the lives of individual men and women are bound up with those of various animals. In Rome the animals in question were snakes; and the superstition was so widely spread that, according to Pliny, they multiplied to an extent which would have rendered it impossible to make head against their fecundity, if their numbers had not been kept down by occasional conflagrations. The snake was, in fact, the genius of a man—his external soul, and therefore was carefully guarded from all harm.[44.3] The Zulus also believe in an ihlozi, or mysterious serpent, belonging to every man. It is usually invisible, underground; but it may be killed, and then the man must die. In other parts of the world there is no such monopoly: all sorts of animals are looked upon by different members of the same clan as their second selves. Mr. Frazer frames from this a theory of totemism which it is foreign to my present purpose to examine. Whatever may be thought of the theory, it is clear that some aspects of the Totem, the External Soul, and the Fetish approach one another very nearly, and require a closer study than they have yet received from any scientific anthropologist, with the exception of the distinguished author of The Golden Bough.
Coming back to the Life-token proper, it would seem that it is sometimes connected, not with the individual concerned, but with the relative or friend left behind. When a Zulu warrior goes on a hostile expedition his wife hangs up her own sleeping-mat against the door or wall of the hut. If the shadow be cast sharp and clear, her husband is well; if otherwise, “he will never look upon the sun again.”[45.1] The Coptic Christian legends contain the same plentiful supply of miracles which the accounts of other saints furnish. The life of the Coptic saint Shnudi, by his disciple Visa, relates that another saint, Mar Thomas, foretold to Shnudi that the latter should be informed of Mar Thomas’s death by the breaking in two of the stone whereon Shnudi used to sit and meditate.[45.2] In this case Mar Thomas appoints the life-token; and he displays a lofty recklessness about the condition of furniture which does not belong to him. But the appointment by the person whose life is the subject of inquiry is not usual, where the token is in no way connected with him. The friend left behind can generally manage a life-token without his assistance. Frequently, however, the aid of a sorcerer is called in. Among the western islanders of Torres Straits the sorcerer on these occasions goes through some jugglery with a crocodile’s tooth, which he pretends to swallow and bring out again through his hand. After this he sends it on a journey in the direction where the man is supposed to be, and divines his life or death by the condition of the tooth when it returns.[46.1] In Brittany a sailor’s wife who has been long without tidings of her husband makes a pilgrimage to one of the shrines innumerable in that country, and lights before the saints a taper wherewith she has provided herself. If her husband be yet alive and well, it burns with a clear, steady flame; otherwise the flame will be poor and intermittent, and will go out.[46.2] John Banks, a dramatist of the Restoration, refers to one form of the superstition still, or very lately, living in Scotland, as well as in other parts of Europe. The passage runs as follows:—
“Douglas.
Last night, no sooner was I laid to rest,
But just three drops of blood fell from my nose
And stain’d my pillow, which I found this morning,
And wondered at.
Queen Mary.
That rather does betoken
Some mischief to thyself.
Douglas.
Perhaps to cowards,
Who prize their own base lives; but to the brave,
’Tis always fatal to the friend they love.”[47.1]
Strictly speaking, this only announces the deaths of near relations: it would be too dreadful if a man’s whole acquaintance made known their deaths by bleeding him, or, as it is believed in Denmark, by pinching him and thereby causing blue spots on his body.[47.2] Second sight, however, also well known in Scotland, was not confined to kindred; but it is of a ghostly nature, not dependent on material objects.