A man’s wives are the first to be suspected of having caused his death, as they are usually supposed to have a latent desire for it. As a matter of fact they are very skillful in the use of the deadly poisons which abound in Africa, and which they often administer in food. Much of the witchcraft in Africa is straight poison. A native offering you drink or food always tastes it first himself in your presence to show that it is not poisoned. It is an unsavoury custom, but it is wise to observe it strictly. The use of poison is a peculiarly unpleasant habit on the part of a wife since she has a constant opportunity. Slaves also, and sometimes white men’s servants, contract this same habit. Truly, life in Africa, in its every aspect, is a fight with death. It is possible, as some say, that the practice of killing wives at the death of their husbands has this origin; in any case it serves to restrict the use of poison and to induce wives to try to keep their husbands alive.

Wives accused of having caused the death of a husband by witchcraft, are often buried alive with his dead body. A Bulu chief near Efulen died leaving seven wives. They were charged with having bewitched him and were about to be buried alive with him when Dr. Good reached the town and saved their lives. A very large grave was already dug in the street and the body was laid in the middle. The women lay naked and trembling upon the ground. But the people would not perform the atrocious deed in the presence of the white man. Dr. Good stayed in the town even against their protest, and would not leave it until they had filled the grave, and he knew that the women were safe. In one of the Bulu towns, ten women, wives of one husband, were buried alive with the body of the husband. In another town twenty women were buried thus with the body of the husband. A large grave was dug and the body placed in the middle; the women’s legs were broken with clubs and then they were flung into the grave.

The belief in witchcraft has been more prolific of cruelty than any other in the history of the world. It dehumanizes men with fear. The story of the power which a remnant belief in witchcraft has exercised in civilized and even Christian communities is the darkest page in their history, and we will need to remember that in Africa there is no restraint of civilization and no light of Christianity. I am always afraid that the depiction of the diabolical cruelty incident to the belief in witchcraft may cause the civilized to recoil from the African as if he were less than human, and hopelessly brutal. It is therefore well that we should insistently remember the facts of history and the slow emancipation of civilization from this same belief with its horror of cruelty. Between the promulgation of the bull of Pope Innocent VIII against sorcery, in 1484, and the last judicial execution for witchcraft, in 1782, it is estimated that 300,000 women perished in Europe on this charge. The last execution in England was that of Mrs. Hickes and her nine-year-old daughter, in 1716.

Since a particular incident makes a more adequate impression than a general statement, I quote entire a brief story told by Froude in one of his historical essays, The Influence of the Reformation on the Scottish Character, which he takes from the official report of the proceedings in the case:

“Towards the end of 1593 there was trouble in the family of the Earl of Orkney. His brother laid a plot to murder him, and was said to have sought the help of a ‘notorious witch,’ Alison Balfour. When Alison Balfour’s life was looked into, no evidence could be found connecting her either with the particular offense or with witchcraft in general; but it was enough in these matters to be accused. She swore she was innocent; but her guilt was only held to be aggravated by perjury. She was tortured again and again. Her legs were put in caschilaws—an iron frame which was gradually heated till it burned into the flesh—but no confession could be wrung from her. The caschilaws failed utterly, and something else had to be tried. She had a husband, a son, and a daughter, a child seven years old. As her own sufferings did not work upon her, she might be touched, perhaps, by the sufferings of those who were dear to her. They were brought into court and placed at her side; and the husband first was placed in the ‘lang irons’—some accursed, I know not what. Still the devil did not yield. She bore this; and her son was next operated on. The boy’s legs were set in ‘the boot’—the iron boot you may have heard of. The wedges were driven in, which, when forced home, crushed the very bone and marrow. Fifty-seven mallet strokes were delivered upon the wedges. Yet this, too, failed. There was no confession yet. So, last of all, the little daughter was taken. There was a machine called the piniwinkies,—a kind of thumb-screw, which brought blood from under the finger-nails, with a pain successfully terrible. These things were applied to the poor child’s hands, and the mother’s constancy broke down, and she said she would admit anything they wished. She confessed her witchcraft—so tried, she would have confessed to the seven deadly sins—and then she was burned, recalling her confession, and with her last breath protesting her innocence.”

We civilized folk have a way of forgetting our own history, and the pit from which we have been digged.

XIII
A BOAT CREW

The following is the beginning of a letter written to a circle of friends in America while I was in Africa.

“Seated within the open door of my study I look down the hillside, through a vista of gorgeous oleander and orange trees, of graceful, waving palms and the soft cascade foliage of the bamboo tossing and tumbling in the breeze, to the blue expanse where the Gaboon rolls out to the boundless ocean. The early afternoon is quiet, and the hazy atmosphere, peculiar to Africa, blends together in gentle harmony things most diverse in form and colour. But there is one object to which the mind and eye turn back yet again, and which by associations variously tender, pathetic, or amusing, lead memory off for a while to wander in the dreamy mazes of the past. It is the mission boat Evangeline, which lies at anchor on the bay, rising and falling with the successive waves. The Evangeline came to Africa many years ago. Some of those who commanded her are now infirm with age, and the voices of some are heard on earth no more. Her special work has always been that of itinerating,—carrying the Gospel of light and peace to those who sit in darkness and sorrow, by many waters. Like her namesake, the lonely maiden of Acadia, she has followed the rivers of a strange land and streams unknown that wind and wander through ‘forests primeval.’