CHAPTER VI

THE INTERPRETATION OF ANDAMANESE CUSTOMS AND BELIEFS: MYTHS AND LEGENDS

In the last chapter I tried to explain, by reference to psychological principles, the more important ritual and ceremonial observances of the Andamanese; in the present chapter I shall deal in a similar manner with the legends recorded in Chapter IV. That is to say, I propose to explain, not how the legends arose, but what they mean, what part they play at the present time in the mental life of the Andaman Islander. Customs that seem at first sight meaningless or ridiculous have been shown to fulfil most important functions in the social economy, and similarly I hope to prove that the tales that might seem merely the products of a somewhat childish fancy are very far indeed from being merely fanciful and are the means by which the Andamanese express and systematise their fundamental notions of life and nature and the sentiments attaching to those notions.

I propose to analyse a few of the more important legends, and will begin with the Akar-Bale story of the origin of night and day [184]. The explanation of this story depends on the connection of day and night with the cicada. This species of cicada, of which I do not know the scientific name, always makes a noise (“sings” as the natives say) during the short interval of twilight between sunset and darkness and between dawn and sunrise. It is possible that individual insects of the species make a noise at other times of the day and night, but I do not remember to have heard them, and it is only at the beginning and end of the day that they are all to be heard singing together. The song of the cicada, as day gives place to night and as night changes to day is one of the most familiar of all natural phenomena to the Andamanese. Another fact that is made use of in the legend is that if one of these insects be crushed as was the cicada of the story, or even if it be taken up in the hand, it will utter its shrill and plaintive note, not unlike the cry of a human being in pain. Finally, fully to understand the tale, it is necessary to remember that in all the tribes of the Great Andaman Division there is a prohibition against killing the cicada. The meaning of this prohibition will have to be discussed in connection with the legend.

The facts stated above enable us to understand what may be called the skeleton of the legend. One of the ancestors killed a cicada (a forbidden act), the cicada uttered its cry (as it does when hurt), and as a result, darkness covered the world (as it always does when the cicada sings in the evening). Leaving aside, for the present, the rest of the story, we may try to make clear to ourselves just what this part of it expresses. The explanation that I propose is to the effect that the legend is simply an expression or a statement of the “social value” of the phenomenon of the alternation of day and night. By the social value of anything I mean, as explained in the last chapter, the way in which that thing affects the life of the society (either beneficially or adversely) and therefore the way in which it affects the social sentiments of the individuals who compose the society. There is no need to discuss at length and in all its bearings, the way in which the alternation of day and night affects the social life of the Andamanese. The one outstanding feature of first importance is that the day is the time of social activity whereas the night is a period when the society is, as a rule, not active. It was shown in the last chapter that one of the most important elements in the mental complex revealed by a study of the ceremonial is the recognition of the fact that it is on the activity of the society that the individual depends for his security and well-being. So long as he can feel that he is an active member of an active community the individual feels that he has for his support (morally and physically) a great force on which he can rely. If, for any reason, he is temporarily cut off from the society and from participation in its life, he is in a position of insecurity, and believes himself to be in danger from the powers of the world of spirits. It is an inevitable result of this that the daytime, when the society is active, should be felt to be a period of comparative security, while the night, when all social activity ceases, should be felt to be a period of comparative insecurity. That the day and night are so regarded is shown in the belief of the natives that the spirits are more to be dreaded during the night than during the day.

The Andaman Islander, like many other savages, is afraid of the dark. It might perhaps be thought that this fear is immediate and instinctive, a result of the physiology of the human nervous system, but that, I think, would be a false assumption. Many infants would seem not to be at first afraid of darkness, but to learn to fear it, as they learn to fear many other things. It is not possible here to enter into a discussion of the matter, but I would hold that in the Andaman Islanders and probably in other savages, the fear of darkness, of night, is a secondary or induced feeling, not by any means instinctive, and is in large part due to the social sentiments, to the fact that at night the social life ceases. The savage feels, and rightly so, that for everything he has and is, for the safety and well-being of his body and the comfort of his soul, he depends on the communal life in which his own life is merged. When, at the close of day, the social life ceases, he feels, should anything occur to direct his attention to his own condition, less secure than when the social life is proceeding actively around him [185].

The interpretation that I would offer of the Akar-Bale legend is that it is an expression of these sentiments relating to the night, an expression that takes advantage of the connection between the song of the cicada and the alternation of night and day. One feature of the manner of expression will be explained later in the chapter, namely that it takes the form of a story relating to a mythical period of the past. For the present the necessity of this particular form must be accepted as a postulate. Granting this it remains only to show that the legend does express the social value of night as defined above.

The fear of night, or rather, since that fear is rarely more than potential, the feeling that night is a time of insecurity, is part of the general attitude of fear or respect towards the forces of nature that are believed to be possible sources of danger to the society. Now it has been shown that this particular attitude to nature finds expression in ritual prohibitions of various kinds. For instance, the Andaman Islander translates his feeling of the social value of food substances into the belief that such things must be treated with ritual precautions. Applying this to the case before us, we must first recognize that to the Andaman Islander the alternation of day and night and the singing of the cicada are not separate phenomena but are two parts or aspects of one and the same recurring event. Now, the night and the day are things that cannot be handled, i.e., cannot be immediately subject to the actions of human beings, while the cicada can be handled. Hence it is to the cicada that the need of precaution is referred. Any interference with the cicada is forbidden, and this prohibition serves as a mark or expression of the social value of that alternation of night and day with which the cicada is so intimately associated [186].

The legend of the Akar-Bale tribe is simply an elaboration of this theme. In the beginning there was no night, no darkness. Social life was continuous and was not subject to periods of diminished intensity. Then one of the ancestors (apparently in a fit of temper owing to his lack of success in fishing) crushed a cicada, and the cry of the insect brought darkness upon the world. The darkness, with its inhibition of activity, is clearly regarded as an evil, i.e., as a manifestation of force hostile to the society, and this accords with the definition of the social value of night given above, where it was shown that this value is negative, that night is a source of social dysphoria.

This interpretation is confirmed by the statements about the night made in the North Andaman (where this legend does not seem to exist), such as that the night is made by the spirits (Lau) who draw a mat or cloth across the sky. When we remember that the spirits are the embodiment of the forces hostile to the society we see how this statement expresses the feeling that night is the time when such hostile forces are in the ascendant.

The Akar-Bale story, besides giving an account of the origin of night, relates the invention of singing and dancing. There is no specific reference to dancing in the story as recorded from my Akar-Bale informant. The reference is found, however, in the version recorded by Mr Man [187] and it is implicit even in the Akar-Bale version. Dancing is always accompanied by a song, and every song is composed with the express intention of being sung at a dance. Thus, for the Andamanese, singing and dancing are merely two aspects of one and the same activity.

Dancing, except on a few special ceremonial occasions, always takes place at night. Night, as we have seen, is a source of social dysphoria. It prevents the pursuit of the common social activities, such as hunting or making canoes or weapons. The condition produced by darkness can be neutralised by means of singing and dancing, the dance being a condition of intense social euphoria, in which social activity is at its maximum, and all the social sentiments are pleasurably and intensely excited.

This belief that dancing and singing are means by which the evil influence of darkness can be overcome is shown in the custom observed when a corpse remains in a camp all night, of sitting round it and singing, in order (so the natives say) to keep away the spirits that have caused the death. They do not dance, because the pleasurable excitement of the more intense activity would be incompatible with the condition naturally resulting from a death. This custom affords clear evidence that singing, and in a yet higher degree the combined activity of singing and dancing, possess magical efficacy against the dangers prevalent at night.

This relation between the (negative) social value of night and the (positive) social value of dancing and singing is simply and clearly expressed in the legend. It was the “singing” of the cicada that produced the darkness. The ancestors, finding themselves overwhelmed with darkness, set to work to remedy this evil by singing (and, it is to be presumed, by dancing to the song). One after another they sang a song, just as at a dance one man after another sings until he is tired. Finally, after the dance had gone on for a number of hours, Ko̱ŋoro took his turn at singing and the night came to an end and day appeared. So effectual was the means adopted of neutralising the evils of darkness that it finally resulted in the return of the daylight in which ordinary social life is possible.

The reference to resin in the legend can be easily understood. The Andamanese use resin to provide the light by which they dance, as well as for torches for fishing on dark nights. It is their only artificial light, and without resin a dance would be a very poor affair. Thus the social value of resin is that it affords a means of neutralising to a certain extent the effects of darkness.

These are, I think, all the essential elements of the story. One of the ancestors, under the influence of an anti-social passion, killed a cicada, which uttered its cry, and thereupon the world was covered with darkness. The ancestors then made torches of resin which enabled them to neutralise the darkness to some extent. They then invented dancing and singing and after they had continued for a number of hours the light came back. Since that time day and night regularly alternate with one another, and the cicada sings at each period of change. Men have learnt how to use resin for artificial light, and how to remedy the effects of darkness by dancing and singing.

The legend is thus simply the expression in a particular form of the relation between the society and a certain natural phenomenon in terms of what have been called social values. We find expressed the social values of night and of resin and dancing. It may be noted that the legend also gives a special social value to the ancestors, different from and greater than that of men or women at the present day. The ancestors of the Andamanese were able to do many things that men cannot do now; they were able to affect the processes of nature in a way that is no longer possible. This notion of the social value of the ancestors, of the past, will be shown to be one of the most important elements in the legends, it being this that is responsible for the general form of the stories. The consideration of this subject, however, must be postponed.

There are still a number of points of the legend that have not been considered. It is not easy to account for the inclusion in this story of the discovery of the yam. It is possible that there is some ground of association between the yam and the cicada, but I do not certainly know of any such. There is a legend recorded by Mr Man from the Aka-Bea tribe, and given above [188], in which an account is given of the lucky discovery of the first yam by the chance shooting of an arrow. It is therefore quite likely that the yam story first existed quite independently, and that it has become incorporated in the legend of the origin of night on account of the fact that the incident of the shooting of an arrow was found in both of them.

There is one reason for the inclusion of the yam incident that it is worth while to note. By its means it is told how Da Teŋat discovered a new object of each of the three kinds—animal, vegetable, and mineral. The new animal was the cicada, the new vegetable was the yam, and the new mineral was the resin, which, as the story shows, the natives classify as a “stone,” although they know its vegetable origin. The story is thus rounded off and given an air of completeness and symmetry.

The incident of the shooting of the three arrows is of some interest as giving us an idea of how the Andamanese think of chance or luck. Arrows, it must be remembered, are regarded as being possessed of magical power. Further, the ancestors themselves possessed powers that do not belong to living men, as is shown repeatedly in the legends. The ancestor shoots an arrow, and, by reason of his power and that of the arrow, it strikes an important object and leads him to a discovery. The mere striking of the object by the arrow seems to give him a certain degree of power over the object, whereby he forces it to reveal its name. (We have already seen, by a reference to this very story, that there is an important connection between the name of an object and its social value [189].) Thus, in common with other primitive peoples, the Andaman Islanders regard what we call luck or chance as due to the action of the magical powers possessed by objects and by human beings.

There is one point that is not very plain in the Akar-Bale version, but I think we must take it that Da Teŋat was disgusted at his lack of success in fishing. His irritation was not diminished but rather increased by the fact that he did succeed in procuring one small and worthless fish. His shooting of the arrows must be regarded, I think, as the result of his anger. He might be supposed to address his arrows as follows: “You have not succeeded in hitting any fish at which I aimed you; let me see if you can hit anything on your own account, when I take no aim.” In this way he was led to the discovery of the yam, the resin and the cicada, for though it is not explicit, it is evident that it was the third arrow that led him to the cicada. His irritation was not yet appeased however, and he crushed the cicada, thus bringing darkness over the world. We must infer that he was aware of what he was doing, for as soon as he had discovered the yam and the resin he learnt their names and thereby learnt all there was to know about them and their properties, and we must suppose that he similarly learnt the name of the cicada, and that to injure it would cause darkness. In the Aka-Bea legend recorded by Mr Man it is expressly stated that the ancestors who performed the actions that led to the first darkness did so because they were annoyed by the continuous heat of the sun [190].

Now we have here a very important feature of the legend which it will not do to overlook. We shall find that it is a principle of the Andaman legends that evil results follow from evil actions. Night, which, by reason of its negative social value, is regarded as an evil, is shown to be the result of the misbehaviour of one of the ancestors in giving way to anti-social feelings of anger or annoyance. It is a case of like producing like. When an individual gives way to such feelings as anger he becomes a source of danger to the society, or at any rate a source of social dysphoria by disturbing the harmony of the community. Thus, in the legend, it was the wickedness of the ancestor in giving way to his feeling of irritation that led to the social disaster. Inversely, it was through the combined effort of the ancestors joining in a harmonious action (singing and dancing) that the day was brought back.

The events of the legend are supposed to have taken place at a spot named Golugma. I only visited this spot once and did not take particular note of it, nor have I information about the position it occupied in the social life of that part of the island in former times. We do know, however, from the name Golugma Bud, that at one time it was the site of a communal hut and was therefore an important camping place. It may have been a place at which dance-meetings were frequently held, and this would be a sufficient reason for its selection as the legendary site of the first dance.

One of the minor motives of the Akar-Bale version of this story is the identity of the ancestor who appears as the chief actor. I regret to say that I have never found the exact meaning of the word teŋat. Though I asked the natives to bring me a specimen they did not do so. It is probably either a species of spider or of ant. However, even if I had succeeded in identifying the teŋat, it is possible that I should not have discovered the reason why this particular creature was selected as the hero of the story. This can be shown by considering another of the incidents of the story. All the ancestors who sang and tried to bring back the day failed except the ko̱ŋoro. This is a species of small red ant. Whenever I heard this story told or referred to, this particular incident (the successful singing of ko̱ŋoro) caused great amusement amongst the listeners. It was obvious that it was a good joke. Yet in spite of my endeavours on more than one occasion I was unable to see what the joke was.

In the A-Pučikwar version of the same legend [191] it was Pe̱tie, the monitor lizard, who crushed the cicada and brought darkness. This is to be explained not on the basis of any particular characteristic of the lizard, but as being due to the position that this animal occupies in the A-Pučikwar mythology in general as the first ancestor of the Andamanese. As the first progenitor he is made responsible for the origin of all sorts of things. The story of the origin of night must have a chief actor, and in the absence of any important ground for selecting any other of the ancestors the A-Pučikwar story-teller falls back on the monitor lizard.

In the above analysis I have drawn a distinction between what may be called major and minor motives of the story. The validity of the interpretation of the legends offered in this chapter depends on the validity of this distinction, and it is therefore important to provide a method by which we can separate major from minor motives. This can only be done when there are several versions of the same legend. Major motives may be defined as those which appear in all the versions of one legend, while minor motives are those which may vary from one version to another without producing any fundamental change in the legend itself. Thus, by a comparison of the Akar-Bale and the A-Pučikwar versions it can be shown that the identity of the chief actor is a minor and not a major motive.

If we compare the Akar-Bale legend with the Aka-Bea version recorded by Mr Man we see that they have in common (1) the explanation of the origin of night as due to the breaking of a rule, (2) the tracing back of the trouble to the anti-social passion of anger on the part of the actor or actors, (3) the account of the origin of dancing and singing as a means of neutralising the effects of darkness. All the other elements of the story are different in the two versions. In the Aka-Bea story it is the killing of a grub (gurug) that brings on the night, which is itself called gurug. What the meaning of this may be I cannot say. I did not hear this version of the story, and was not able to make any enquiries concerning it. All that it is necessary to note is that both the legends express the social value of night, and they both express it in very much the same way, the difference being that the Akar-Bale version makes use of the connection between night and day and the cicada, while the Aka-Bea story makes a similar use of some connection (not yet explained) between the night and a grub.

Thus the comparison of different versions confirms the interpretation here given. The legend expresses the negative social value of night as a period when social activity is diminished and the power of protection of the society therefore lessened. It does so by telling how the night first arose as the result of disobedience to a ritual prohibition, i.e., of meddling with the forces of nature. It traces the original cause yet further back to the anger of one of the ancestors, anger being itself a source of social disturbance. It passes on to express the social value of the dance, with its accompanying song, and exhibits the relation, within the system of social values, of dancing and darkness. Thus, although the manner of expression may differ, yet what is expressed is the same in both versions, and we are therefore justified in regarding this as the essential content of them.

An exactly parallel explanation can be given of the Andaman notions relating to the moon. The social value of moonlight is due to the fact that it enables the natives to fish and catch turtle and dugong by night. A clear moonlight night affords the best opportunity for harpooning dugong. During the second quarter the light of the moon steadily increases, and the period of moonlight falls in the first part of the night. After the change to the third quarter the light steadily diminishes, and moreover there is a gradually increasing period of complete darkness at the beginning of the night. The natives do not care to get up in the middle of the night to go fishing or hunting turtle. Therefore the second quarter is the time when they undertake such expeditions, and after the change to the third quarter they abandon them largely or entirely, and if they do go out they have to depend on torches. Therefore we may say that during the second quarter the moon gives valuable help to the natives, but during the third quarter withdraws that help.

At the beginning of the third quarter the moon rises in the evening with a ruddy hue. The natives explain this red and swollen appearance by saying that the moon is angry. When a man does something that hurts or damages another it is generally (in Andamanese life) because he is angry. So to say that the moon is angry is equivalent to saying that he is damaging or hurting someone, as he is indeed damaging the society by withdrawing the light by which for the past week or so they have been able to capture fish and turtle. The phenomena of the change of the moon in so far as they affect the social life are represented as if they were the actions of a human being. We may describe this briefly by saying that the moon is personified, using that term in a special sense to be defined more exactly later. Amongst the Andamanese, as amongst ourselves, anger is associated with heat, and this explains why the red glow of the moon when he rises during the first few nights of the third quarter is regarded as the visible sign of his anger.

Even the moon, however, is not to be expected to be angry without a cause. The natives say that the anger is due to some bright light having been visible at the time the moon rises. The personification is thus further elaborated. The moon gives the light by which fishing and turtle hunting at night are possible. This light has a positive social value, and its withdrawal is an evil. They therefore regard the moon as jealous, so jealous that if anyone makes use of an artificial light, as of a fire or torch or burning resin, the moon immediately is consumed with anger and withdraws the light that has been of so much use and has not been sufficiently appreciated. This belief is a means by which the value of the moonlight is recognized. Thus the beliefs about the moon can be interpreted in exactly the same way as the legend about night; both express, in accordance with the same psychological laws, the social values of natural phenomena.

I will next consider not a single legend but a number of different stories, running through all of which we can find a single major motive. I have recorded [192] three legends which relate, with some differences of detail, how in the beginning the ancestors had no fire, how fire was introduced by one of them, and how many of them, being burnt or frightened, were turned into animals of different kinds. In one version [193] the sea-eagle came into the camp of the ancestors and threw fire amongst them; whereby many of them being frightened were turned into animals. Another version is very similar, the chief actor, however, being the prawn [194]. In an Akar-Bale version Dim-do̱ri, now a fish, obtained the fire and burnt some of the ancestors with it so that they became fishes [195].

This legend is a widespread one, being found both in the north and in the south of the islands. The fact that the actor is different in the three recorded versions proves that the identity of the hero of the tale is a minor motive, i.e., one that may be varied without affecting the essential meaning of the myth.

The story serves as an explanation of the markings on birds and fishes, these being where the ancestor who became the species was burnt by the fire. Thus the legend is of the kind that is often called etiological. The common method of explaining such legends is to say that they are crude attempts on the part of primitive man to explain the natural phenomena with which they deal, in this case the bright colours of birds and fishes. Such an interpretation cannot be regarded as adequate. Why should the Andaman Islanders want to explain the markings of animals? Why should they explain them in the form of a legend, and why should the legend take this peculiar form?

The clue to the true interpretation of the three stories mentioned must be sought in the social value of fire. It was shown in the last chapter that fire is regarded as the symbol of social life and social activity, the centre around which the social life revolves, the source from which it draws its force. We may say, in a word, that it is the possession of fire that makes social life (as the Andamanese know it) possible. It was shown that it is on account of this relation of the society to fire that the latter is believed to be a source of security, of protection against the spirits. Now amongst all the creatures that inhabit the world, man is the only one that possesses and makes use of fire. Here, then, is the fundamental notion that is expressed in these legends. At first, so the story runs, animals and human beings were one, were not distinguished. Then came the discovery of fire. Some of the (undifferentiated) ancestors fled from the fire, because they were afraid of it, or because it burnt them. They became birds and beasts and fishes, retaining their fear of the fire, and being cut off for ever from the human society which, from that moment, constitutes itself around the fire. It is the possession of the fire that makes human beings what they are, that makes life as they live it possible. It is equally (according to the legend) the lack of fire, or the lack of ability to make use of fire, that makes the animals what they are, that cuts them off from participation in human life.

This, briefly, is the way I would explain the legend mentioned above, and ample confirmation will be forthcoming when we consider some of the other legends. Attention may be called here to a very significant phrase in a version of the fire legend recorded by Mr Portman [196] to the effect that “it was on account of the fire (i.e. of the possession of fire) that the ancestors became alive.”

The three stories considered above contain three motives. (1) They express the social value of fire, by making the foundation of human society (through the differentiation of men and animals) depend on the discovery of fire. (2) They express a peculiar notion as to the relation of the human species to other animals, which is found also in other legends. (3) They give a legendary explanation of some of the characteristics of animals, such as the bright colours of certain birds and fishes.

It would seem that these same motives are present in many of the legends relating to the origin of fire. In the common version of the fire legend the fire is stolen from Biliku (Puluga) by the kingfisher. This bird has a patch of bright red feathers at the neck and these are explained as being where he was struck by the fire or the pearl-shell (lightning) flung by Biliku. In one variant the kingfisher swallowed the fire and had his head cut off by the lightning, whereupon the fire came out of his neck where the red feathers now are. In most of the versions it would seem to be implied that though the kingfisher succeeded in obtaining fire for the use of the ancestors, he was himself unable to profit by his own exertions, for he was turned into a bird condemned to eat his fish raw for ever. In one story, however, from the Aka-Kede tribe, it would seem that the kingfisher, by the possession of fire, and through the loss of his wings and tail, became a man. There is a lack of logic here which it is worth while to note. Although the kingfisher became a man yet the legend is clearly based on the explanation of the red feathers of the bird’s neck as due to the action of the fire. The psychological significance of such inconsistencies as this will have to be discussed later on.

Let us now consider another group of legends. We have seen that one explanation (in the mythological sense) of how the birds arose is that they were ancestors who fled from the fire. There are other stories that give a different account and relate that the animals came into existence through a great flood or storm that overwhelmed the ancestors. Both of these legends are to be found in the same tribes. Their incompatibility does not prevent them from being both equally accepted. If it can be shown that the story of the flood is simply an alternative method of expressing the same set of representations that underlie the story of the origin of the animals through the discovery of fire, the interpretation of the latter will be in some degree confirmed.

One account of the flood or storm, variants of which were obtained from both the north and south of the islands, tells how the ancestors only with great difficulty succeeded in saving the fire. Although it is not explicitly stated, we may conclude, I think, that it was because some of the ancestors kept their fire alight that they remained human, while those who lost their fire were turned into animals. If my personal impressions are of any value, this is really the idea that does underlie the legend in the native mind. Thus it would appear that this version of the flood myth is simply a reversal of the fire legend previously considered. They both express the same thing in different ways. They both make the possession of fire the thing on which social (i.e., human) life depends, the fundamental difference between man and animals.

It may be objected to this interpretation that in some of the versions of the flood myth there is no reference to the ancestors being turned into animals, while in others there is no reference to the saving of the fire. The reply to this is that if we are to understand the legends we must not consider each separately, but must seek out the connections between the different stories, connections that are not always obvious. Thus, as there are, in each of the tribes, different versions of a flood myth it might be supposed that the natives believe in several different floods having taken place in the times of the ancestors. Mr Man seems to have come to the conclusion that there were two distinct floods. I am fully satisfied, from personal knowledge, that the natives think of only one flood or catastrophe, and refer to it all the different legends. Sometimes a man will relate how the flood came and the fire was nearly lost, but will make no mention of the origin of animals at this time. At another time the same man will relate how the flood turned the ancestors into animals, but will make no mention of the saving of the fire. To understand the meaning of the legends we must connect these different stories together, for we know that they are connected in the minds of the Andaman Islanders themselves. Every native knows that it was at the time of the flood that the animals came into existence and he may remember this fact when he hears the story of how the fire was nearly lost. Similarly, when he hears the story of how the animals came into existence he remembers the other story of how the fire was nearly lost. Thus one man gave me a legend of the flood which explained the origin of the animals, and at the very end he mentioned as an afterthought “It was at this time that the fire was saved by Maia Taolu.”

When we thus connect the different stories relating to the flood we see that they express a definite system of representations or beliefs, which are found in all the tribes, and that this system is sometimes completely and sometimes partially expressed in the different versions. On the interpretation here suggested the major motives of the flood myth are (1) the social value of fire as expressed by making the difference between man and the animals depend on its possession by the former and not by the latter, and (2) the notion of the animals as having once been one with the ancestors. These two motives are both present in the legends of the origin of fire that were previously considered. It can be shown that even the third motive of the fire legend manages to creep into the flood story. In the Aka-Kede version [197] the dove is mentioned as having saved the fire. The connection between the dove and the fire (which appears in other legends) [198] would seem to have its basis in the shining plumage of the bird, just as the kingfisher is connected with the fire through the red feathers of its neck.

The details of the legends may be briefly mentioned. One Aka-J̌eru version [199] explains how one of the ancestors made a noise by breaking firewood while the cicada was singing and so raised a great storm, in which the fire was nearly lost, and in which many of the ancestors were turned into animals. This version is a fairly complete expression of the fundamental representations on which the whole group of legends is based. There is an elaboration of one point in that an account is given of how the cyclone was brought about. This is a separate motive which will be discussed and explained later in connection with the Biliku myth.

Another legend from the same tribe [200] relates to a storm that was caused in the same way, and that resulted in the destruction of the whole world. The fire, which was nearly extinguished, was saved by one of the ancestors. No mention was made of the ancestors being turned into animals. This version, however, as I have recorded it, is incomplete. I was unfortunately unable to understand some of what the narrator told me.

The Aka-Kede version [201] similarly does not distinctly state that the ancestors who were destroyed by the flood were turned into animals, but the fact that the three persons mentioned in the legend are all birds suggests that it was at this time that the birds originated. The bird called čarami-lebek, having lowered the surviving ancestors to the ground with their fire, remained at the top of the Dipterocarpus tree and has been there ever since. The Aka-Ko̱l version of the same story [202] simply states that the ancestors were turned into animals in a cyclone, but contains no mention of the rescue of the fire.

In a number of these legends it is stated that the ancestors saved themselves by climbing up into a tall tree or into the trees. This is to be explained by the fact that the birds all live up in the trees, and a great many of them can never be seen save overhead. The top of the forest is where the birds live, it is their world, raised above the world of men and women. The flood drove the inhabitants up to the tops of the trees. The birds remained there and only the human beings came down again. As the original inhabitants were driven up into the trees by water covering the land we may complete the myth by saying that those who failed to reach the upper world were on that account compelled to spend the rest of their existence in the water as fish and turtle. This is, I think, what the legend really means. Thus the story of the flood gives a picture of a threefold world, the waters below with their inhabitants the fishes and turtle and other marine creatures, the solid earth, and the upper region of the top of the forest where the flowers bloom and the butterflies and other insects and the birds pass their lives. This representation of the top of the forest as a world in itself may seem strange to one who has never seen a tropical forest, but to one who has spent months beneath it the forest-top of the Andamans does seem a world in itself, near yet inaccessible, a world where there is a gay and interesting life in the sunshine above, of which the wanderer in the deep shade beneath can only catch occasional glimpses as he gazes up through the tangle of boughs and leaves. For the natives of the islands therefore the top of the forest is an alien world into which they can only penetrate with extreme difficulty, by climbing, and with the life of which they have little to do. Similarly the waters of the sea are another world into which they can only penetrate for a few moments at a time by diving [203].

It may be said that, on this view, no allowance is made for the existence of terrestrial animals. That is true, but it must be remembered that there are very few such animals in the Andamans. The civet-cat and the monitor lizard and some of the snakes are as much arboreal in their habits as they are terrestrial. There remain only the pig and the rat as true terrestrial animals, and it may be noted that neither of these two animals ever figures in the legends as an ancestor. There are independent legends that relate to the origin of the pig, and the rat seems to be of so little importance that no explanation of its origin would seem to be necessary. Moreover the monitor lizard and the civet-cat, which are partly terrestrial, occupy for this reason exceptional positions in the legends. Thus there is a legend recorded from the Aka-Kede tribe which accounts for the simultaneous origin of the civet-cat and the pigs through a game of the ancestors [204]. The monitor lizard is in an altogether exceptional position in that it is equally at home in the trees, on the ground and in the water of a creek. It is in a way free of all the three divisions of the world. This helps us to understand why in some of the tribes the monitor lizard is regarded as the original ancestor not only of the Andamanese but also of all the animals, including the birds of the forest and the fishes of the sea. The civet-cat cannot live in the water as the lizard can [205], but can climb trees and run on the ground. In many of the legends the civet-cat is said to be the wife of the monitor lizard. It will be remembered that in the Akar-Bale story it is the civet-cat, the wife of the first ancestor (the monitor lizard), who saved the fire from the flood by climbing up to the top of a steep hill with it. Thus it may be seen that the position of the monitor lizard and the civet-cat in the legends of the Andamanese is partly determined by the position that these two animals occupy in relation to the threefold division of the world revealed in the story of the flood.

The repeated mention of the Dipterocarpus tree in these legends would seem to indicate that it is a motive of importance. The tree is the tallest tree of the Andaman forests, and is very common, but it is probable that this does not afford an adequate explanation, and that there are other ideas connected with it in the minds of the Andamanese that would justify the place it occupies in the mythology. In one Aka-J̌eru story the whole forest is said to have sprung from a Dipterocarpus seed dropped by Biliku after she had destroyed the original forest in her anger. It may be noted in passing that in the languages of the North Andaman the word for this tree is the same as the word for dugong.

Let us now briefly examine the story of the origin of animals as recorded from the Akar-Bale tribe [206]. There are three variants of this story. The one recorded from an A-Pučikwar informant [207] must really be regarded, I believe, as an imperfect reproduction of the Akar-Bale version. The version given by Mr Man [208] is also of Akar-Bale origin, as is shown by the fact that the phrases in it are in the Akar-Bale language. A comparison of these variants shows that the main purpose of the story is to relate how a great storm or cyclone visited the islands in the times of the ancestors and turned many of them into animals. The storm was brought about by the action of one of the ancestors who in anger did some of the things that are known to anger Puluga and cause a storm.

In some of the other legends we find the same motive. Thus in an Aka-J̌eru legend [209] the flood is said to have been caused by one of the ancestors breaking firewood while the cicada was singing. In an Aka-Kede version [210] this part of the story is further elaborated, and a reason is given for this action on the part of the ancestor. Ko̱po-tera-wat was angry with the rest of the ancestors because they refused to give him any of the honey they had collected, and he therefore deliberately performed the action that brought the storm. The purpose of these elements of the legend is to explain how the great flood came about, by tracing it to the anti-social action of some one or more of the ancestors, just as the night is supposed to have been produced by an ancestor who performed a forbidden action. In the Aka-Kede version and also, as we shall see, in the Akar-Bale story, the matter is traced still further back and the anti-social action of the ancestor is explained as being caused by his anger which had been aroused by a disagreement with the ancestors. The origin of the catastrophe that separated the once united ancestors into animals and human beings is thus traced to the fact that they could not live together sociably and in harmony.

In the Akar-Bale story the part which explains how one of the ancestors came to give way to anger is highly elaborated. It starts with the quarrel of the tree-lizard with some of the ancestors. (It may be noted in passing that the tree-lizard is quarrelsome in reality.) This leads to the death of the lizard (or his transformation into an animal that still bears the name), and so to the grief of his mother and her anger against the ancestors who have killed her son. This elaboration of one part of the story tends to obscure the meaning of the whole. This is particularly the case in the version recorded by myself in which the anger of the tree-lizard is the direct cause of the change of some of the ancestors into animals. The narrator sets out to explain how a flood or cyclone came and turned the ancestors into fishes and birds. He elaborates the details of the first part of the story to such an extent that he loses sight of the conclusion. The purpose of the story as explaining the origin of animals remains in his mind, however, and gives rise to the description of how some of the animals had their origin as animals (i.e., were cut off from the human society) by being thrown by the lizard into the forest or into the sea. The legend in this form may therefore be regarded as giving an alternative explanation of the separation of the animals from the human society, the cause of the separation being a great quarrel in which they were all involved. In other words, human society is only possible if personal anger be subordinated to the need of good order; the animals are cut off from human society because they could not live peaceably together without quarrelling.

The examination of the variants of the flood-myth has taken us away from the main argument. In the various stories there are two separable elements. There is first the explanation of how a disastrous flood or storm was caused by the non-observance of ritual prohibitions connected with Biliku (Puluga). This element will have to be considered in relation to the Biliku myth. There is secondly the account of how through the flood or storm the birds and fishes became separated from the human race, and the three regions of the world, as the Andaman Islander knows it, became established. It is this second element that I have sought to explain. To repeat the argument, I would hold that it is really through the loss of the fire that the birds and fishes became cut off from mankind, and that therefore this element of the legends of the flood expresses exactly the same notion as the legend of the catastrophe that followed the discovery of fire. The two groups of legends result from the way the Andaman Islander feels about the fire as being the one thing on which the society most completely depends for its welfare.

The preceding analysis has shown that the legends relating to the origin of animals, whether through the action of fire, or by the flood, serve to express the social value of fire. If this interpretation be correct we have a close parallel to the explanation of the story of the origin of night. In both cases, it has been argued, what the legend really expresses is the way in which a particular phenomenon (fire, in one case, the alternation of day and night in the other) affects the life of the society and the sentiments on which that life depends. The legends of the catastrophe, however, obviously contain another element of importance, revealing as they do a certain way of thinking about the animals. This element has not yet been explained. The representation of the birds, etc., as ancestors is not confined to one particular legend or group of legends, but runs through them all. Its explanation is therefore better postponed until we come to deal with the general features of the mythology, and will then have to be undertaken.

Let us now turn to the legends that concern Biliku (Puluga) and Tarai (Deria), which are of capital importance in the Andaman mythology. The clue to the understanding of them lies in the Andamanese notions about the weather and the seasons. In the Andaman Islands the year may be divided into four seasons. There is the cool season lasting from the beginning of December to the middle of February; immediately following this is the hot season from February to the middle of May; then comes the rainy season, from May to the end of September; October and November constitute a short season to themselves. In the cool season the weather is uniformly cool; there is very little rain, and storms are almost unknown; the wind blows uniformly from the N.E. In the hot season there is little or no rain; the wind is generally N.E., but may be variable; summer lightning is frequent, but there are no violent storms except at the very end of the season. During the rainy season, after a short period of uncertain stormy weather with which it begins, the wind blows uniformly from the S.W.; it rains heavily, sometimes every day for weeks together, but violent storms (cyclones) are very rare. Between the rainy season proper and the cool season there is a period of six or eight weeks in which the weather is unsettled; the wind is variable; fine weather alternates with storms that are sometimes of terrific violence; waterspouts are frequent; it is at this season that violent cyclonic storms are likely to occur. This season is called by the Andamanese Kimil (Gumul of Aka-Bea). We have seen in the last chapter that the word kimil denotes a condition of social danger, or of contact with the power possessed by all things that can affect the life and safety of the society. It is obviously in this sense, and not as meaning “hot,” that it is applied to the season in question, for the months of October and November are fairly cool, certainly very much cooler than February and March. We shall find that this is an important point in connection with the Biliku myth.

The life of the Andaman Islander is profoundly affected by the alternation of the seasons. There are, first of all, the violent cyclonic storms that occasionally occur. Such a storm may uproot the jungle for miles, making it impassable for years to come, and thus destroying some of the native hunting grounds. The wind is sometimes so violent as to tear every leaf from the trees in its path. While the storm lasts there is danger to the lives of the natives. An old man recounted to me how on the occasion of a violent cyclone he and the others of his village took refuge in the sea and on the open shore from the danger of falling trees, and remained there till the violence of the storm had abated. The usual name for a cyclone in Aka-J̌eru is to̱ko-po̱r, i.e. “falling wood” or “falling trees.” Even if all the natives escape the danger of death or injury, there is still the extreme fear and discomfort of the experience. If a storm lasts for any length of time the natives, who are unable or afraid to go out hunting, have to do without food until it is over. Incidentally the storm may destroy their huts, canoes, and other property and thus cause loss that has to be made up by toil.

The second important effect of the seasons on the life of the Andamanese is through the food supply. During the cool season, and the succeeding hot season, a number of vegetable foods, including the very important roots and some of the most prized fruits, are available. On the other hand, during these seasons the land animals are in poor condition. In the hot season, at any rate, lizards, snakes and the civet-cat are not eaten. Pigs are breeding and are in such poor condition that often a pig that has been killed is left in the jungle as being not good enough to eat. The hot season is pre-eminently the season of honey, which is so abundant that the natives are able to obtain much more than they can consume. In the rainy season there are few vegetable foods and very little honey, but on the other hand the jungle animals are in good condition and flesh food is abundant; fish are more plentiful in this season than during the dry weather. In the Kimil season (October and November) the natives add to their food supply two varieties of grub (the larvæ of the cicada and of a beetle) which are regarded as great delicacies. Roughly we can say that the rainy season is the season of flesh food, the Kimil season is the season of grubs, the cool season is the season of fruits and roots, and the hot season is the season of honey.

By reference to the prevailing wind the year may be divided into two parts, the N.E. monsoon from November to May, and the S.W. monsoon from May to November.

I propose to show that the Andaman Islanders express the social value of the phenomena of the weather and the seasons, i.e., the way these phenomena affect the social life and the social sentiments, by means of legends and beliefs relating to the two mythical beings whom they call Biliku and Tarai. Using the word personification in a sense to be defined later in the chapter, we may say that the Andamanese personify the weather and the seasons in the persons of Biliku and Tarai. Biliku is associated with the N.E. monsoon; she lives in the N.E.; the wind from that quarter is called “the Biliku wind”; to Biliku, therefore, belong the cool and the hot seasons, these being the seasons of the N.E. monsoon. Tarai is associated with the S.W. monsoon; he lives in the S.W.; the wind from that quarter is called “the Tarai wind,” or, in Aka-Bea, simply Deria; to Tarai therefore belongs the rainy season. It is possible to show that the Andaman Islanders associate with these two beings all the phenomena of the weather and the seasons, and are able to represent the changes of the latter as though they were the actions of human or anthropomorphic beings.

In the mass of beliefs and stories relating to Biliku and Tarai there are some elements on which there is absolute agreement in all the tribes of the Great Andaman Division. I propose to treat these as being the most important elements. There is absolute unanimity, for instance, as to the connection of Biliku and Tarai with the N.E. and the S.W. respectively, and with the winds that blow from these two points of the compass. Further, this belief does not conflict in any way with any other belief of the Andamanese. There is similar unanimity in the beliefs that Biliku is angry at the digging up of yams, and at the melting of bees’-wax. There are other matters on which the agreement is fairly general but not absolute. For instance, there is a common belief that it was Biliku who first discovered fire, but there are also legends as to the origin of fire in which Biliku does not figure. I propose to treat such elements as these as being of secondary importance. Finally there are other elements with regard to which the beliefs of different tribes are not in agreement. For instance, in the South Andaman Puluga is regarded as male, while in the North Andaman Biliku is female. I propose to regard such elements as being of only minor importance, i.e., as not being closely connected with the central notion or notions expressed in the myth.

Applying the strict method outlined above, we may begin by noting that there is complete unanimity in regard to the connection of Biliku and Tarai with the N.E. and the S.W. respectively, and therefore with the monsoons. No interpretation of the myth can be adequate unless it sets out from this fact. The connection is so firmly fixed that it appears in the names of the winds themselves [211]. Even in this matter of the winds, however, there is a slight difference in the detail of the beliefs in different tribes. In the North Andaman it would seem that only the two principal winds are recognized; the S.W. wind (more accurately W.S.W.) is called “the Tarai wind” (not, be it noted, “the wind of Tarai”); the N.E. (or more accurately N.N.E.) wind is called “the Biliku wind.” These two winds are by far the most important, as the former blows steadily throughout the rainy season and the latter blows with almost equal steadiness throughout a good part of the cool and hot seasons. In the Aka-Bea and Akar-Bale tribes the general belief seems to be precisely the same as in the North Andaman. Only the two principal winds are considered to be of importance and one is associated with Deria and the other with Puluga. In these two tribes, as in the North Andaman, practically no notice is taken of the existence of winds from other quarters. In the A-Pučikwar tribe there is a notable difference, of great importance to the true interpretation of the legend. There is a dual division of the winds; the S.W. wind is called Teria; the other winds (of which a number are recognized) are all called Bilik. Thus Bilik is a generic name for a number of winds, namely for all the northerly or easterly winds, including not only the N.E., but also the N.W. and S.E. winds. The S.W. wind is called by a simple name, Teria, or as it would be better rendered in English “the Teria.” The other winds are called by compound names such as Me̱tepur Bilik, Ko̱ičo Bilik, etc., which we can only translate as “the N.E. Bilik,” “the East Bilik,” etc.

Two things of importance are shown by the consideration of these facts. The first is that there is a sense in which it may be said that the Andaman Islanders personify the winds in the persons of Biliku and Tarai; they apply to the natural phenomenon a name which is also the name of a mythological person, and they apply it directly and not in a possessive form, i.e., they say “the Bilik” or “the Biliku wind” and not “Biliku’s wind.” The second is that only the S.W. wind is associated with Tarai and all the other winds are associated with Biliku.

The last point is one of considerable importance in the interpretation of the myth. If we divide the year by reference to the prevailing winds, then the rainy season, with the exception of its beginning and its end, belongs to the S.W. wind; the hot season (save its end) and the cool season may be regarded as belonging to the N.E. wind, though the wind may be variable in the hot season; there remain two portions of the year, at the change of the monsoon, when the wind is variable, which cannot be classified as belonging strictly to the S.W. or to the N.E. wind. The fact that all these variable winds are denoted in the A-Pučikwar tribe by the name Bilik shows that in this tribe they are all classified with the N.E. wind. In this way the year is divided into two slightly unequal parts, one belonging to Teria or Tarai including the whole of the rainy season except the end and the very beginning, the other belonging to Bilik (Biliku) including the Kimil season, the cool season, the hot season, and even the first few days of the rainy season. This strict division only appears in the A-Pučikwar tribe, but it will be shown that an approximation to the same notion is found in the other tribes.

There is general agreement in all the tribes in the belief that storms are due to Biliku or Tarai. Both of them send rain and thunder and lightning, but whenever mention is made in the legends of a violent storm it is always Biliku who is mentioned as causing it, and never by any chance Tarai. Thus, in regard to this matter of storms, it is evident that Biliku is more important than Tarai, and this is only one example of the preponderance of Biliku over her consort. This preponderance will need to be explained as one of the essentials of the myth [212].

We have already seen how the Andaman Islander represents any natural phenomenon having negative social value as though it were the result of the action of a person in anger, this being the one anti-social passion with which he is most familiar in his own life. Thus the withdrawing of the light of the moon after the full is explained as being due to the anger of the moon. The negative social value of a violent storm is obvious. In accordance with the general principles of his mythology the Andaman Islander therefore explains the storm as being due to the anger of a personal mythical being. But storms are intimately connected with the winds, so that it must be Biliku and Tarai (in whom the winds are personified) who are responsible for the storms. Further, in the Andamans, violent storms are very rare except at two special periods of the year, at the change of the monsoon. This gives a further ground of association with Biliku and Tarai between whom the seasons are divided. We have seen that in classifying the winds the natives (of one tribe at any rate) associate with Tarai only the steady S.W. wind which brings not cyclones and violent storms but steady rain, while all the other winds are associated with Biliku. If this be so it is clear that a cyclone, with its wind veering from one quarter to another, must be the work of Biliku. Further, if the Biliku season be regarded as including all the periods of variable northerly and easterly winds as well as the period of the steady N.E., then we can say that it is only in the Biliku period that violent storms are likely to occur. It is evident therefore that an examination of the natural phenomena themselves gives us an adequate reason for the preponderance of Biliku over Tarai in the legends. This will be made even more evident as we proceed.

Another law of the Andaman mythology is that a person, such as the moon, is never angry without cause. There are a number of actions that are believed by the Andamanese to cause the anger of Biliku; of these there are three of extreme importance, all the others being certainly of much less importance. It is necessary, therefore, to examine these three carefully and find their meaning.

There is absolute agreement in all the tribes with regard to the belief that Biliku is angry and sends bad weather when bees’-wax is melted or burnt. The season of honey is the hot season from February to May. During the rainy season scarcely any honey is to be found and that only of the inferior (black) variety. It is clear therefore that honey belongs particularly to the Biliku portion of the year. During the hot season honey is abundant and large quantities are collected. As the natives make use of the wax, and as this is useless till it has been melted, this is the special season of the melting of bees’-wax. At the beginning of the season the Biliku wind blows calmly from the N.N.E. As the season draws to a close the wind becomes variable, uncertain, and in some years violent storms occur ushering in the rains of the S.W. monsoon. Year after year the wax-melting season comes to a close in stormy weather. Now stormy weather and the anger of Biliku are, for the Andaman Islander, one and the same thing, so that to say that the anger of Biliku follows the melting of bees’-wax is in one sense simply a statement of actual observable fact.

Another belief about which there is absolute unanimity in all parts of the Islands is that Biliku is angry when certain plants are cut down or dug up. These plants include some of the most valuable vegetable foods of the Andamanese, such as the yams and the pith of the Caryota palm. Amongst the roots and fruits associated with Biliku there are one or two that were not botanically identified. All of them, however, about which I was able to obtain any information whatever, are available as food during the cool and hot seasons, and either not at all or in very small quantities during the rainy season. On the other hand, of the vegetable foods that are available during the rainy season, not one is ever mentioned as being in any way connected with Biliku. Further, amongst all the foods of the cool and hot seasons only those are intimately connected with Biliku which begin to be available during the Kimil season. A few examples may be mentioned. The yams and other edible roots are not found at all in the rainy season, but the tubers begin to form in the Kimil season (October and November) and small quantities of these roots are available for food at that time. By the time the cool season has set in the roots become abundant, and they continue to be found until well on into the hot season. All these roots are regarded as being specially connected with Biliku and are spoken of as her foods. The same thing applies to the Caryota sobolifera of which the pith is eaten either raw or cooked. The pith begins to form in the Kimil season, and this highly prized food is available right through the cool season. The fruit of the Cycas, which is another of those belonging to Biliku, also begins to ripen at the beginning of the cool weather. As regards the Entada scandens, Kurz, in his Burmese Flora, mentions it as seeding in the “cold season.” I neglected to take note of the relation of this plant to the seasons, but the statement of Kurz may be relied on. Thus it is seen that the vegetable foods that are associated with Biliku are those that begin to be available for food during the Kimil season and are abundant during the cool season. Now the Kimil season, which is really the opening of the N.E. or Biliku monsoon, is the season at which cyclonic storms are likely to occur. Here again therefore, as in the case of bees’-wax, there is a definite ground of association in familiar natural phenomena. Year after year, as these foods begin to ripen and to be eaten, the islands are visited with stormy weather, sometimes of exceptional violence. When the Andaman Islander says that the stormy weather which is the sign of the anger of Biliku follows the digging up of yams and the cutting down of the Caryota palm or the gathering of the seeds of the Cycas or Entada, he is stating what is an actual fact.

The case of these vegetable foods is in one way different from that of bees’-wax. The melting of the wax goes on for some weeks before the anger of Biliku is finally aroused, when storms come to punish the offenders, and the change of season cuts short the supply of honey. In the case of the roots, etc., it would seem that it is only the first step that counts. The danger lies in the beginning of the season. Once the anger of Biliku has burst forth the bad weather ceases, the danger is past, and weeks of fine weather ensue, during which the natives may eat freely of the foods in question without fear of consequences. In this connection considerable importance may be attached to a statement made to me on more than one occasion, to the effect that the most efficient way of stopping a storm is to go into the forest and destroy the plants that belong to Biliku, i.e., do the very things that make her angry. We may apply this to the events of the Kimil season. The natives begin to dig up yams and collect other vegetable foods, and thereupon Biliku becomes angry and stormy weather follows. All that the natives have to do is to show sufficient persistence in continuing to eat yams, etc., and the anger of Biliku is bound to subside and the stormy weather to cease.

There is a third belief that is generally accepted in all parts of the Great Andaman, that Biliku is angry if a cicada be killed, or if a noise be made while the cicada is singing in the morning or the evening. The interpretation of this belief is made difficult by the fact that there is also an association between the cicada and the day and night. Thus Mr Man states that the prohibition against making a noise at dawn (while the cicada is singing) is associated not with Puluga but with the sun [213].

The grub of the cicada is eaten during the Kimil season, and at no other time of the year. Here the association is simple enough. The killing of the cicada (grub) takes place only during a brief season, and this is the season when cyclones occur. However, the grub of a beetle is eaten at the same season and yet I never heard of any connection between Biliku and this other grub. Certainly if there is a belief in such a connection it is very much less important than the belief relating to the cicada. Further, there is the belief that if the imago of the cicada be killed or if a noise be made while the cicada is singing, Biliku will be angry and will send bad weather, which is obviously not simply the result of the custom of eating the grub of the cicada during the Kimil season.

The relation of the cicada to Biliku is almost certainly due to the connection of the insect with the seasons. Unfortunately, not then recognizing the importance of the matter, I did not, while in the Andamans, take particular note of the relation of the life-cycle of the cicada to the revolution of the seasons, and I am reluctant to trust to vague memories of matters to which I did not pay special attention. Mr Man states, apparently on the authority of a native, that during the cold and dry seasons the cicada is seldom seen (and is therefore presumably also seldom heard). What I believe to be the life-cycle of the insect is as follows. During the rainy season only the adult insects are to be found. They lay their eggs at some period during the rainy season, possibly towards the end. In October and November the eggs have developed into pupæ, and it is these that the natives eat; but apparently the adult insects, or some of them, still survive at this time and are to be seen and heard. By about December the last of the adult insects die out and the grubs have not yet attained the adult form, so that there is a period during which no adult insects are either seen or heard. It is probable that the new generation makes its first appearance in adult form as soon as the first rains of the rainy season begin.

The essential point, on which we can base an interpretation of the myth, is that the cicada is not seen or heard during the fine weather (December to March). It probably, as stated above, makes its reappearance just at the period of the stormy weather that ushers in the rainy season. Similarly, it does not disappear until after the end of the stormy period of the Kimil season. (I have certainly heard and seen the insect in October, and to the best of my recollection in November also.) Thus the cicada is definitely associated with the part of the year including the rainy season and the two stormy periods at its beginning and end. I believe that this is the fundamental fact that explains the Andamanese beliefs about the connection of the insect with the weather.

I was told of a ceremony that was held at the end of the Kimil season in the Akar-Bale tribe (and possibly in other tribes also) the purpose of which was said to be to ensure fine weather for some months and which is called “Killing the cicada.” The ceremony consists of doing the very thing that is believed to produce storms, viz., making a noise while the cicada is singing in the evening. As soon as the cicadæ begin to sing all the persons in camp make as much noise as they can by banging bamboos on the ground, striking the sounding-board, or hammering on the sides of canoes, thus making just the kinds of noise that are said to be most disliked by the cicada. According to the statement of my informant this ceremony results in “killing” all the cicadæ so that they are not heard again for many weeks, and while this silence lasts fine weather is assured. The meaning of this little ceremony is plain when we recall the fact that though the digging up of yams and the cutting down of the Caryota palm anger Biliku and result in storms yet sufficient persistence in these actions, and therefore in any others that are displeasing to Biliku, results in dispelling the bad weather. Thus it is seen that although the matter is a little more complicated, yet the belief in the connection of the cicada with Biliku and with bad weather can be explained on exactly the same lines as the beliefs about bees’-wax and vegetable foods. The fact that the same explanation can be given of the three most important prohibitions connected with Biliku gives a high degree of probability to the interpretation here offered. These three beliefs are the only ones of real importance. I am unable to explain the connection of Biliku with the species of fish, the bird and the two kinds of wood mentioned on page 156. In the North Andaman there is a definite association between Biliku and spiders, the generic name for “spider” being biliku. I believe that this could be explained on the same basis as the connection with the cicada, i.e., through the connection of spiders with the changes of the seasons, but as I unfortunately neglected to take note of the habits of the spiders of the Andamans I cannot speak with any certainty and therefore prefer not to enter into a discussion of the subject [214].

The explanation that I have to offer of these beliefs relating to Biliku and to the things that offend her is that they are simply the statement in a special form of observable facts of nature. The rainy season comes to an end, the wind becomes variable, yams and other vegetable products begin to ripen and are used for food, and stormy weather comes, some years bringing cyclones of exceptional violence. Then follows a period of steady N.E. winds with fine weather and abundance of vegetable foods, during which the noise of the cicada is not to be heard. Then comes the honey season, when everyone is busy collecting honey and melting bees’-wax. The wind becomes very variable, storms come, the fine weather comes to an end and the rainy season begins again. These facts affect the feelings of the Andaman Islander and he expresses his impressions by regarding all these happenings as if they were the actions of an anthropomorphic being. The vegetable products, the cicada, and the honey all belong to Biliku. When the yams are dug up she is angry, or in other words, storms occur; a storm is the anger of Biliku. The cessation of the song of the cicada removes one of the possible causes of the anger of Biliku, and therefore marks the period of fine weather. That anger appears once more when the natives busy themselves with melting bees’-wax.

It may be noted that these beliefs about Biliku give an expression of the social value of honey and bees’-wax and of vegetable foods such as yams. The Andaman Islands provide few fruits containing natural sugar. Yet the natives are inordinately fond of sweet things; they greatly enjoy the sugar that they now obtain from the Settlement of Port Blair. Honey, which was almost their only sweet food in former times, was therefore very greatly valued. Apart from the yams and other foods associated with Biliku there are very few productions of the Andamans containing starch in a palatable form. To the native who has been living during the rainy season almost entirely on meat and fish, the starchy foods of the stormy season (yams, Caryota, etc.) are of great value, and they are very highly prized. Thus the foods associated with Biliku all have a high value.

We all know how the value of an object is increased if, in order to obtain it, we have to make some considerable effort or sacrifice, or put ourselves in danger of some evil. Reversing this mental process, the Andaman Islander expresses his sense of the value of honey and yams by the statement that to obtain them he must be prepared to risk the anger of Biliku with its results. It was shown in the last chapter that the value of food in general is expressed in the belief that all food is more or less dangerous to eat, and that ritual precautions must be observed if the danger is to be avoided. Here in the Biliku myth, we have a further example of the same sort of mental process, in relation not to all foods in general but to a few foods of special value. Yet another example may be given. Roast pork is highly relished by the natives, and they believe that the roasting of pork offends certain spirits of the sky and is therefore dangerous [215].

Returning now to the subject of Biliku as the sender of cyclones, it is necessary for the argument, even at the risk of repetition, to show (1) that this is by far the most important attribute of Biliku, and (2) that it follows immediately from her connection with the N.E. monsoon.

Taking the second point first, we may note, in the first place, that while Tarai is associated with the steady S.W. wind which blows with very little variation for months at a time, Biliku is associated with the variable winds of the hot season. Now a characteristic of a cyclonic storm is the way in which the wind veers from one quarter to another. Further, as most of the cyclones that cross the Andamans travel from the south-east in a north-westerly direction, and the movement of the cyclone is in a counter-clockwise direction, the first wind of a cyclonic storm when it strikes the islands comes from the north-east. This may be seen from the accompanying diagram. It is only at the very end of the storm, when the storm centre has passed, that the wind blows from the south-west. Thus it is clear that the association of cyclones with Biliku and not with Tarai is determined by the nature of the phenomena which the Biliku-Tarai myth sets out to explain.

That the most important attribute of Biliku is her connection with the cyclones is evident when we consider the legends in which she is mentioned. In most of the legends in which her name occurs [216] she is spoken of as being angry with the ancestors, and we know that a cyclone and the anger of Biliku are, for the Andaman Islander, one and the same thing. In some of the stories mention is made of a great storm that Biliku sent which nearly destroyed the world. All through the legends we find her pictured as a being whose anger is to be feared, who has the power to destroy human life and human property. Tarai is never mentioned in this way, for the rains of the south-west monsoon themselves have no such power.

We are now in a position to compare the characters of Biliku and Tarai and explain their relative positions in the myth. The reason for the preponderance of Biliku lies in the fact that it is she who sends cyclones, while Tarai sends nothing more than heavy showers of rain. Tarai is never responsible for the destruction of life and property, whereas Biliku is. Thus the preponderance of Biliku follows from the essentials of the myth. Secondly, Tarai is constant, ever the same, whereas Biliku is changeable. The rainy season of one year is exactly like that of another, and during the time it lasts the weather is consistent throughout. On the contrary, one year the Biliku season brings a terrific storm, and another year it is much less violent, while, from day to day during certain parts of the Biliku season the weather is unsettled, so that you cannot tell what the morrow will bring with it. It is obvious that this uncertainty about the actions of Biliku, the fact that she cannot altogether be reckoned with, would tend to make her of greater importance in the eyes of the Andamanese than her consort Tarai.

Let us now consider the question of the sex of Biliku. On this matter there is a lack of agreement. In the North Andaman Tarai is declared to be male and Biliku female. It can readily be shown that this results from the position of Biliku and Tarai as regulating the seasons. Tarai rules over the rainy season, in which the chief food is the flesh of animals of the land and of the sea; it is the business of men to provide flesh-food. On the contrary Biliku rules over the seasons in which the chief foods are vegetable products of different kinds; it is the business of women to provide such foods. It is only men who go out hunting for pigs or turtle or who harpoon or shoot fish, and it is always the men who attend to the first part of the cooking of pig, turtle and dugong; it is the women who dig up the yams and collect the fruits and seeds, and it is the women also who cook them. There is a very real sense, then, in which flesh foods may be called the foods of men, and vegetable foods may be called the foods of women, and, since flesh foods are the foods of Tarai and vegetable foods are the foods of Biliku, there is a sound reason for calling Tarai male and Biliku female.

This way of thinking of Biliku as female is in harmony with her character as outlined above. Women (in the Andamans) are notoriously uncertain, changeable creatures. You can always reckon fairly well what a man will do, but not so with a woman. Moreover, when the Andaman Islander wishes to picture to himself a pair of closely associated beings, it is natural that he should compare them to the most closely associated couple with which he is familiar,—husband and wife. This tendency leads him to make the sun and moon man and wife in many of his legends, and it may well be expected to have its influence on the Biliku myth also.

In the South Andaman however, both Puluga and Daria are said to be male. It can be shown that this view is also appropriate in its way. The Akar-Bale say that Puluga and Daria were once friends, but have quarrelled and now live at opposite ends of the earth and are perpetually renewing their quarrel. Daria has things to himself for a few months (the S.W. monsoon) and sends his wind; then Puluga makes an attack on him; some weeks of unsettled weather ensue while they are fighting, until Daria is beaten and Puluga takes over the control of the weather and sends the N.E. wind. By and by, however, Daria shows himself again and there is another quarrel, with its unsettled and stormy weather, which ends in the defeat of Puluga and the reinstatement for a period of Daria. Even the bald language in which it is stated does not quite hide the poetical grandeur of this conception of the world as the arena of two battling giants in a never-ending quarrel. Those who have lived through a tropical cyclone with its wind changing from one quarter to another, its consummate violence, its sudden onslaught, its pause (that is felt to be merely a pause) as the centre of the disturbance reaches and passes you, and then its sudden renewal of the mad combat with the wind coming now from the opposite quarter, cannot but recognize in the Akar-Bale myth a successful attempt to describe such a storm in figurative language.

Such a combat could only be pictured by the Andamanese as taking place between two men, and the myth in this form therefore necessarily involves the belief that both Puluga and Daria are male. It is evident, therefore, that this view has some justification, that it does enable the Andaman Islander to express the feelings and impressions evoked in him by the phenomena of the weather. I venture to think, however, that the southern myth is not quite so satisfactory as the northern one, does not translate quite so well all the different features of the natural phenomena with which it deals [217].

A most important element of the myth is the connection of Biliku (Puluga) with fire. In all the tribes there are legends that represent Biliku as the first possessor of fire, which was, according to some versions, given by her to the ancestors, and according to others stolen from her by one of them. There can be no doubt that these legends owe their origin to the connection between Biliku the storm-sender and lightning.

There are several different beliefs about the lightning. According to one of these the lightning (Ele) and the thunder (Korude) are persons, who produce the phenomena of the same name. Another belief is that thunder and lightning are produced by Biliku and Tarai. On the whole, it would seem that the latter belief is the one which is most frequently present to the minds of the natives. A man seeing lightning in the sky will say, according to the season, the prevailing wind, etc., Biliku čatobom, or Tarai čatobom; “Biliku (or Tarai) is at work.” There are different accounts, however, of the way in which Biliku makes the lightning. One belief is that it is a fire-brand flung by her through the sky; a second is that it is a mother-of-pearl shell (be) similarly flung; yet a third statement is that she produces the lightning by striking a pearl shell (be) on a red stone.

There is no doubt that the Andamanese regard lightning as fire; the charring of trees struck by it is sufficient to convince them of this. Thus lightning and the sun are the only two natural fires that they know. (With the relation of Biliku to the sun I shall deal later.) As the wielder of lightning Biliku thus becomes the possessor of fire. The simplest of the different beliefs, the one following immediately from the natural phenomena, would be, therefore, that which makes the lightning a fire-brand. This is, on the whole, the one that is most usually expressed, at any rate in the South Andaman.

The explanation of lightning as a shell depends not only upon the pearly lustre of this kind of shell, but also on other features of it. The shell in question (be) is used by women alone, and its use is confined to slicing yams and other vegetables in preparing them for food. Its association with Biliku therefore follows from the view of Biliku as female and as being especially associated with yams and other vegetable foods. Granting this fundamental connection, then the brightness of the shell, its keen edge and the way in which it can be made to skim through the air, will explain the statement that lightning is just such a shell thrown by Biliku. In the South Andaman, where Puluga is regarded as male, this belief about the pearl shell would be out of harmony with the rest of the myth, and, as we should expect, it is not found. However, the Aka-Bea word for lightning (be-iŋa, the -iŋa or -ŋa being a suffix) suggests that they may have had a similar belief in the past [218].

In the North Andaman the two views of lightning as a fire-brand and as a shell are both held, because they both, in different ways, fit in well with the rest of the myth. There is yet a third view in which these two contradictory beliefs are, as it were, reconciled. This is that Biliku produces lightning by striking a pearl shell against a red stone.

In the North Andaman the action of throwing a shell or a fire-brand is regarded as typical of Biliku; this is the way in which she is pictured by the native, and in which she would doubtless be portrayed if the Andamanese had a pictorial art. In the dance described in an earlier chapter, in which the dancer gave representations of various mythical beings, Biliku was represented by the dancer holding a shell in his hand and dancing round threatening to throw the shell at the spectators.

The representation of Biliku or Puluga as throwing her lightning in the form of a fire-brand or a shell appears in several of the legends of the origin of fire, and in particular in the legend of which different versions are found in all parts of the islands that tells how the kingfisher stole fire from Biliku and how the latter flung a fire-brand or a shell at the thief.

The most usual form of the fire legend, and the only one that I ever heard, is that in which the fire is stolen. Mr Man has recorded a version in which Puluga is represented as giving the fire to the ancestors. Considerable importance attaches to this motive of the story as it reveals to us the way in which the Andamanese usually think of Biliku and of their own relation to her. She is not, so far as these stories go, a benefactress who by the invention of fire has earned the gratitude of men, but rather a person with whom the human society, both in the time of the ancestors and at the present day, is in a condition of opposition. Though Biliku had fire, yet she kept it for herself and it was only obtained from her by stealth. She was angry when her fire was stolen and tried to punish the offender.

This opposition between Biliku and the ancestors is shown in other legends. In some of the stories she is represented not as living with the ancestors, but as living on one side of a narrow strait while the ancestors lived on the other, as in the Akar-Bale and A-Pučikwar legends. She is thus separated from the ancestors in the minds of the natives. In the Aka-Kede legend the ancestors eat the foods that Bilika regards as specially belonging to her, and she kills them. As a result the ancestors join together and kill Bilika. In the Akar-Bale version something of the same sort appears; Puluga is always getting angry with the ancestors because they eat vegetable foods, and in his anger he destroys their huts and other property (as a cyclone does, and as an Andaman Islander is sometimes known to do in a fit of temper); at last the ancestors send him away out of the world. In the A-Pučikwar legend Bilik goes away from the world in anger because the ancestors steal his fire. In the Aka-J̌eru version Biliku eats up all the food of the ancestors, and so they go away and leave her; she then destroys them with her shells (lightning) and finally perishes in an attempt to cross the sea on a stone. All these legends seem to express much the same thing in different ways, namely the existence of a condition of hostility between Biliku and human beings, based on the fact that the latter venture to make use of the things (yams, etc.) that Biliku regards as peculiarly her property. There can be no doubt that this is the usual way in which the Andamanese conceive the relation between Biliku and the ancestors, and therefore, since the ancestors represent the society in its beginnings, between Biliku and themselves. This relation is quite in agreement with what we have seen to be the essential basis of the myth. The natives obtain from the N.E. monsoon things highly valued, such as yams and honey, but they are given as it were grudgingly after a period of storms, and finally taken away in another period of storms.

This view of Biliku as hostile to mankind is not, however, absolutely universal if we are to accept Mr Man’s account of the myths of the South Andaman. Mr Man describes Puluga as the creator of the world and the beneficent ruler of mankind. Although I could not find a native who held exactly the same views about Puluga as those that Mr Man represents as being the views commonly held in the tribes he studied (Aka-Bea and A-Pučikwar), yet there is no doubt that at times, and more particularly in the southern tribes, the natives do regard Puluga as the benefactor and even the creator of the human race [219].

The representation of Biliku as hostile to mankind depends upon her position as the angry storm-sender, and this, as the legends show, does seem to be the more usual way of regarding her. But there is another and contrary aspect of Biliku. The revolution of the seasons brings to the Andamanese new supplies of relished foods,—the grubs of the Kimil season, the yams and honey of the cool and hot seasons. One of the Andamanese names for the season of the N.E. monsoon means “the season of abundance.” Therefore Biliku, as the personification of this season, is herself the giver of good things. This aspect finds a partial expression in the legends. Biliku is regarded as having created or discovered the use of all the natural productions associated with her. (In one legend it is Pe̱rǰido, the son of Biliku, who discovers honey with his mother’s help.) She thus occupies a position similar to that of the other ancestors, towards whom the men of the present feel grateful for the benefits they have bestowed on mankind. This view of Biliku as benefactress is often extended in the North Andaman to the belief that it was she who invented all the arts now practised by women, and there are traces of a belief that it was her son Pe̱rǰido who was similarly responsible for the arts practised by men.

This view of Biliku as a benefactress, although it conflicts to some extent with the view of her as on the whole hostile to mankind, yet, since it springs from the essential basis of the myth, cannot be overlooked. During the stormy season the Andaman Islander may well forget every aspect of Biliku save that she is responsible for the storms of which he goes in fear, but during the fine weather of the N.E. monsoon, when there is no longer any fear of a violent storm and when he is enjoying an abundance of the good things that he regards as especially belonging to Biliku, his feeling towards her must be of a very different nature; she is then the being who gives him the fine weather, the relished foods. Thus, contrary though they be, these two aspects of Biliku are both integral parts of the myth.

But Biliku is also the first possessor of fire, and we have seen that fire is regarded by the Andamanese as the source of the life of society, and therefore, in a way, of all life. Biliku as the source from which comes the fire is also the source of life. This view of Biliku is certainly to be found in all parts of the islands, though it has been developed more in the South than in the North. Biliku thus becomes responsible for the beginning of the society, and since the whole universe centres in the society, of the whole universe. She becomes the being who created or arranged the order in which men live.

For the honour of this position Biliku has, however, a competitor. Besides the lightning there is another natural source of fire, the sun. We find therefore two different (and contrary) developments of the myth of the beginning of the world. In one of these the sun is associated with Biliku, is regarded as belonging to her or made by her. For instance, in an Aka-Kede legend, she is stated to have made the sun by throwing a flaming brand into the sky. By this means Biliku becomes the sole source of fire and therefore of life. This is the position that Puluga occupies in the versions of the legends recorded by Mr Man. In those legends Puluga gives fire to the first human beings by making the sun come down to earth and ignite a pile of wood. The alternative development makes the sun independent of Biliku and it is then the sun, or a mythical person associated directly with the sun, who becomes the maker of the world, the source of life. Unfortunately, I did not obtain much detailed information about this development of the myth. In the North Andaman the being named Čara is associated with the sun and with fine weather, and is certainly sometimes regarded as the maker of the world. In the South Andaman it is Tomo who is associated with the sun. Men and women, when they die, go to live with Tomo in the sky. It is Tomo who is responsible for all things being as they are. He was the first being; it was he who arranged the order of nature; and similarly it was he who created the social order, so that a question as to why some custom is observed is often answered by saying that it was Tomo who made it so. In Mr Man’s account Tomo is degraded to the position of being merely the first man made by Puluga, but in the accounts that were given to me by the natives of the Akar-Bale and A-Pučikwar tribes Tomo was a rival of Puluga; sometimes one and sometimes the other was spoken of as being the supreme maker of all things. An Akar-Bale man of very high intelligence, who had been educated as a Christian, in trying to explain to me statements about Tomo made by another Akar-Bale who was regarded as an authority on the legends of his tribe, said that Tomo was the same thing to the Akar-Bale that God is to the Christian. When I asked him if it was not rather Puluga who was the Andaman equivalent of God, he said that some people might think so, but that according to the old man to whom I was talking it was Tomo and not Puluga who occupied the position [220].

There is only one more point that needs to be discussed, and that is the connection of Biliku with the spirits. It is clear that Biliku and Tarai must be distinguished from the spirits (Lau), yet at the same time Biliku is brought into relation with the spirits by the existence of two alternative explanations of bad weather. One of the explanations is that storms are due to Biliku, while the other is that they are due to the spirits, particularly the spirits of the sea. Both these beliefs, contradictory as they seem, are held by the Andamanese. The connection of the spirits with the weather is due to the fact that the weather is a thing that can limit the activity of the society, and we saw in the last chapter that there is a tendency to associate with the spirits of the dead all things that in any way interfere with the smooth progress of social life. When it is said that a storm can be stopped by swishing arrows in the sea, or by placing in the sea a piece of Anadendron creeper, it is to the spirits of the sea, who are afraid of arrows and of the Anadendron, that the storm is attributed, and not to Biliku.

In the A-Pučikwar tribe I found an association of Bilik with the spirits. One man of this tribe (a medicine-man or dreamer) stated that the Bilik are a distinct class of spirits, distinct from the Lau and the J̌urua, yet similar to them. It is the Bilik who control the weather. Certain men, when they die, become not Lau or J̌urua, but Bilik. Thus in one of his dreams that he related to me he met and conversed with the spirit of a deceased friend whom he spoke of as Boičo Bilik, Boičo having been his name when he was alive. A medicine-man is able to control the weather through his communication with the Bilik in dreams. In this tribe therefore we find a doctrine according to which Bilik is not the name of a single being but of a class of beings similar in essentials to the other two classes of spirits. It seemed to me possible that these beliefs are a comparatively late introduction by some of the medicine-men of the tribe. The Boičo about whom my informant Tora dreamed seemed to have had some part in the development of the doctrine. This does not, however, in the least detract from its value as affording us an insight into the beliefs of the Andamanese.

These beliefs clearly spring from an attempt to distinguish from one another the different northerly and easterly winds, each of the recognizable winds being regarded as a separate person, and from the merging together of the two contrary beliefs in the weather as regulated by spirits and by Bilik and Teria. The general system of beliefs about spirits as being responsible for all things that may affect human well-being inevitably leads to the notion that the weather is controlled by the spirits, and this is implied also in the belief that a medicine-man (whose power is derived from contact with the spirits) is also able to influence the weather to some extent. This doctrine, however, conflicts with the view of the weather and the seasons as controlled by Biliku and Tarai, who are not spirits but personifications of natural phenomena. It is perhaps this conflict between doctrines, both of them important and indeed necessary, that has led to the elaboration of the peculiar beliefs met with in the A-Pučikwar tribe.

I have dealt with most of the more important details of the Biliku-Tarai myth, and have tried to show that the whole myth is an expression of the social value of the phenomena of the weather and the seasons. These phenomena affect the social life in certain definite ways and thereby become the objects of certain sentiments; these sentiments are expressed in the legends. Biliku and Tarai are personifications of the N.E. and S.W. monsoons; as such they are responsible for the weather; feelings awakened by the weather are therefore referred to Biliku and Tarai; thus the fear of a cyclone at certain periods of the year is expressed as a fear of the anger of Biliku. Since the time when men go in fear of storms is also the time when they are just beginning to dig up yams and eat them, the myth connects the anger of Biliku with the digging up of yams, and similarly in the cases of honey and the cicada. As Biliku is associated with vegetable foods, and these are things with which women chiefly have to do, Biliku (in the North Andaman) is regarded as female; Tarai, being associated with flesh foods, is male; the two are therefore conceived as wife and husband. As the maker of storms Biliku is responsible for the lightning and is therefore possessed of fire. She thus comes to be regarded as the first possessor of fire. This gives rise to stories of how the ancestors obtained their fire from Biliku, and as she is generally regarded as being hostile rather than friendly towards mankind, the stories relate how the fire was stolen from her. But besides being the maker of storms Biliku is also the dispenser of the good things of the season of the N.E. monsoon and when this aspect of the procession of the seasons is prominent before their minds the natives think of Biliku as a benefactress of mankind. As she is the possessor of fire, and as fire is the source of the life of the society, she comes to be regarded as herself the source of life, though there is an alternative myth that gives this position to a being associated with the sun.

Such is a brief outline of the explanation that I have tried to demonstrate. It may be objected that there are a few important details and several minor details that I have not explained. To that extent my explanation is incomplete, but I hope that I have given sufficient evidence for it to justify us in using it as an integral part of the explanation of the meaning and function of the Andaman mythology in general.

It is not necessary, for the purpose of this chapter, to examine one by one all the legends recorded. Indeed, there are many details of the Andaman mythology that I cannot explain, owing simply, I believe, to my lack of insight into the ways of thought of the natives. The examples already considered are sufficient for the argument. If the interpretations given of these be correct we can base on them certain general conclusions.

I have explained some of the more important of the legends as being expressions or statements of the social value of natural phenomena. The alternation of day and night, for example, affects the life of the society in a certain definite manner and this gives rise to a certain way of thinking and feeling about the phenomenon in question. These thoughts and feelings, however, remain vague and without fixity until they are formulated and expressed either in the form of some definite rule of behaviour, such as the prohibition against noise while the cicada is singing, or in some concrete statement, such as that afforded by the legend of the origin of night. Similarly the legends relating to the origin of fire or the saving of the fire during the flood serve to give definite and permanent form to the vague feelings that result from the way in which the possession of fire affects the social life. Finally, I have tried to show that the myths relating to Biliku and Tarai are nothing but the expression in concrete form of the ideas and feelings that result from the effects of the weather and the seasons on the life of the Andaman Islanders. From these examples I now propose to draw a general conclusion. All the legends, I wish to maintain, are simply the expression in concrete form of the feelings and ideas aroused by things of all kinds as the result of the way in which these things affect the moral and social life of the Andaman Islanders. In other words the legends have for their function to express the social values of different objects,—to express in general the system of social values that is characteristic of the Andaman social organisation. To justify this general statement it will be necessary to show how it comes about that these representations are expressed in the form of myths and legends dealing with the ancestors and with such anthropomorphic beings as Biliku and Tarai.

Throughout the myths we meet with examples of what I have called the personification of natural phenomena. It is now necessary to give a more exact definition of this term. By it I mean the association of a natural phenomenon with the idea of a person in such a way that the characteristics of the phenomenon may be regarded as though they were actions or characteristics of the person. The simplest form is that in which the phenomenon itself is spoken of and thought of as if it were an actual person. Thus the sun and the moon are spoken of as Lady Sun and Sir Moon. Similarly, in the North Andaman, the night is personified and is called Lady Night (Mimi Bat). In many cases of personification however, while the person may or may not possess the same name as the phenomenon, the latter is said to be produced by the former. Thus, in the North Andaman, Ele is the name of the lightning, and Ele is spoken of as a person; yet, if we enquire further, we are told that Ele (the person) produces the lightning by shaking his leg. A somewhat similar case is that of Biliku and Tarai. These two beings are said to produce the winds that blow from the different quarters of the compass. But when we enquire as to the names of the winds, we find that in the South Andaman (A-Pučikwar tribe) the S.W. wind is called Teria, and the other winds are all called Bilik. Thus the name of the person is also used as the name of the phenomenon of which he is (in the phraseology here used) the personification. In the North Andaman we find a difference, the winds being called “the Biliku wind” and “the Tarai wind.” It is necessary to insist on this translation of the native Biliku bo̱to and Tarai bo̱to. We should expect, if Biliku were simply a person who produced the winds, that the latter would be called “the wind of Biliku,” a possessive form (Biliku ičo bo̱to) being used, but this is not so, and the phrase habitually used can only be properly translated “the Biliku wind” just as we might say “the north wind.” Thus, even in the North Andaman Biliku and Tarai are used as the names of the two chief winds.

In all these cases, sun and moon, Biliku and Tarai, etc., I propose to use the term personification, as being the most convenient and not liable to be misunderstood after having been carefully defined. We have now to seek an explanation of this process of personification. A great deal has been written on the subject of personification in mythology, and it is therefore not without diffidence that I venture to put forward an explanation which can only be very briefly stated in this place and would require for its full exhibition a lengthy psychological explanation.

An insight into the process of personification is afforded by considering our own use of figurative language. We talk of the angry storm, the raging sea. In such cases we allow ourselves for a moment to regard the natural phenomenon as if it were a person or the action of a person, and we do not even trouble distinctly to express the “as if.” We use such phrases in order to attain a more forcible expression of our thoughts and feelings. How is it that such expressions succeed in the purpose for which they are used?

The reason would seem to be that our knowledge and understanding of persons is much more intimate than our knowledge of things. The fact that we are able, by the action of sympathy, to know what persons with whom we are in contact are feeling, gives us an understanding of them that we can never reach with inanimate objects.

In all human society the most important elements of the experience of the individual are due to his relations with other persons. In the development of the emotional life of the child, persons intervene at every turn, and there is thus built up a system of sentiments and representations which forms the very foundation of the individual’s affective life. In other words the first organised experience that the individual attains is all connected with persons and their relations to himself. This early experience provides a basis on which we may and do organise later experiences. The perception of the leaping waves and lashing spray of a sea in tempest arouses in us a vague emotional reaction, but it is an experience that we have not learned to formulate exactly. The feeling awakened in us is, so to speak, unclassified, there is no exact word by which we can express it. We therefore fall back upon that system of affective experiences that have been classified, and for which we do have adequate words, and we apply the word “angry” to the scene before us. At the utterance of the word, with its appeal to infantile memories and to the long series of experiences that have been associated with it, the emotion becomes more definite, if not more intense. We are thus enabled to classify our present experience, to associate it with past experiences that have been arranged in our minds in an organised system, and to find a place for it in that system.

Applying this to the case of the myths we must first of all note that the Andaman Islander has no interest in nature save in so far as it directly affects the social life. Scientific and artistic interest in nature are products of civilisation. The Andaman Islander has no desire to understand the processes of nature as a scientist would wish to do, nor has he any conception of nature as a subject of esthetic contemplation. Natural phenomena affect him immediately by their influence on his own life and on the life of his fellows, and are thereby the source of a number of emotional experiences. In order to express these he has to make use of that part of his own experience that is already thoroughly organised, namely, that relating to the actions of one person as affecting another or as affecting the society. Only in this way is he able to organise his experiences arising from the processes of nature, to classify and render definite the vague impressions that are aroused in him. He interprets nature in terms of the world with which he is most familiar, the world of persons, being enabled to do so by the presence within him of a regulated and definite body of experience which he has derived from his relations with persons from the time of his first awakening to the consciousness of the external world.

There is a parallelism here, as in many other matters, between the psychological development of the individual and that of the race. The fundamental need for the child is to learn to accommodate himself to his environment. In this environment by far the most important objects are persons—parents and other children—and the first business of the growing child is to learn to adapt his actions to the requirements of this intercourse with persons. This is so overwhelmingly important that the other need (of adapting himself to inanimate objects) is quite overshadowed by it. The child has to make experiments and observations upon persons, to learn how they will act. He meets with such a phenomenon as anger, for example, the anger of a parent, or of another child, and by means of a succession of experiences he comes to a satisfactory understanding of this particular thing, and what it means with reference to himself and his actions. This notion of the anger of a parent becomes the nucleus around which is organised the experience of similar phenomena. In play or sometimes in earnest, the child treats all sorts of inanimate objects and events connected with them as if they were persons or the actions of persons. By this means, and by this means alone, he is able to exercise himself in his newly acquired experience and to extend and organise it yet further.

In the history of the race the development of society depends upon the organisation of personal relations. The task of man in primitive society is therefore similar to the task of the child. The needs of his life compel him above everything else to devote himself to organising that part of his experience that relates to the actions of persons upon one another; all else is subordinated to this supreme need; and just as the child organises and develops his experience by treating inanimate objects as if they were persons in such a way that we can hardly tell if he is in play or in earnest, so primitive man, in exactly the same way, organises and develops his social experience by conceiving the whole universe as if it were the interaction of personal forces.

This explanation of the nature of personification helps us to understand some of the Andamanese beliefs. Natural phenomena such as the alternation of day and night, the changes of the moon, the procession of the seasons, and variations of the weather, have important effects on the welfare of the society. The latter, in so far as it is regulated from within, depends on the adaptation of persons to one another. Men must learn to live in harmony, to sacrifice their own desires at times to the needs of others, to avoid occasions of giving offence, and not readily to give way to anger when offence is given. The Andaman Islander represents this fundamental law of the society as though it were the fundamental law of the whole universe. When any evil befalls the society it is as though some personal power were in question, as though some one were angry at some offence. Thus the moon and Biliku are represented as persons who can be offended and whose anger has unpleasant results. Conversely when all goes well it is because there is harmony or solidarity between men and the nature beings which affect men’s lives. In a word, the forces with which the Andaman Islander is most familiar as affecting his welfare are those of solidarity and opposition; it is solidarity that maintains the harmony of social life, opposition that destroys it. The forces of nature in so far as they affect the society are therefore represented as being of the same nature; there can be either solidarity or opposition between men and nature; the former leads to well-being, the latter to misfortune.

Thus the personification of natural phenomena is one of the methods by which the Andaman Islander projects into the world of nature the moral forces that he experiences in the society. The process is essentially similar to that described in the last chapter in connection with the ceremonial, save that there the forces we were considering were largely impersonal. Perhaps, rather than speaking of it as a projection of moral forces into nature, we should regard it as a process of bringing within the circle of the social life those aspects of nature that are of importance to the well-being of the society, making the moon and the monsoons a part of the social order and therefore subject to the same moral forces that have sway therein.

The personification of natural phenomena is not, however, the only method by which their social value can be expressed. The Akar-Bale legend of the origin of day and night, as we saw at the beginning of the chapter, expresses the social value of the alternation of light and darkness by means of a story of how it originated in the time of the ancestors. If we seek to understand all that this legend means we must ask why the Andaman Islanders believe in the existence of the ancestors, and why they attribute to them the characteristics that are exhibited in the stories they tell about them. The ground of the belief in the ancestors is to be found in the existence of a sentiment fundamental in all human society, which I shall call the feeling of tradition. When an Andaman Islander is asked the question “Why do you do so and so?” he very frequently replies “Because our fathers did so before us.” This answer expresses in its simplest form the feeling of tradition. In all his actions, in the way he obtains and cooks his food, in the way in which he makes his various implements and weapons, in the moral and ritual customs that he is required to observe, the native acts in accordance with tradition. If he should ever feel inclined to deviate from it he finds himself in conflict with a powerful compulsive force. In tradition, therefore, the individual is aware of a force stronger than himself, to which he must submit whether he will or not. Further, he is aware that the power which he possesses, as a member of the society, whereby he is able to face the hostile or at best indifferent forces of nature and provide himself with food and maintain himself in security and happiness, is not simply a product of his own personality, but is derived by him from the past. Towards this past, therefore, on which his own life so obviously depends, he feels a grateful dependence. So long as he acts in conformity with tradition he can enjoy safety and happiness, because he is relying on something much greater than his own qualities of mind and body.

To put the matter in a few words, the individual finds himself in relation with an ordered system—the social order—to which he has to adapt himself. The two chief moments in his affective attitude towards that order are his sense of his own dependence upon it and of the need of conforming to its requirements in his actions. It is this,—his sense of his own relation to the social order,—that the Andaman Islander expresses in the legends about the ancestors, which recount how that order came into existence as the result of actions of anthropomorphic beings.

Some of the legends recount the invention of weapons or implements or the discovery of the uses of natural objects. In one of the North Andaman stories it is said that all the weapons and implements now used by men were invented by the first man, whose name, J̌utpu, probably means “alone,” i.e., the man who was at first by himself. This first man made himself a wife from the nest of the white ant. The regulated society of the ants, and the numerous population that a nest contains, give this story its symbolic meaning.

Besides what may be called general culture legends, of which the story of J̌utpu is an example, there are several special culture legends relating to various discoveries and inventions, such as the tale of how the use of yams for food was first discovered, or that which tells how the monitor lizard discovered quartz and scarified himself with it. By means of these legends the Andaman Islander expresses his sense of his own dependence on the past. He pictures a time when the social order as it now is had not begun, or was just beginning; the knowledge he now possesses was then being acquired, the weapons he uses were being invented, the moral and ritual laws that he obeys were in process of being formulated.

It is obvious that the Andaman Islander cannot regard the ancestors as being persons exactly like himself, for they were responsible for the establishment of the social order to which he merely conforms and of which he has the advantage. He says, therefore, that they were bigger men than himself, meaning by this that they were bigger mentally or spiritually, rather than physically, that they were endowed with powers much greater than those even of the medicine-men of the present time. This explains the magical powers that are attributed to many, or indeed to all, of the ancestors; the belief in the existence in the past of men or beings endowed with what we may almost call supernatural powers is the inevitable result of the way in which the man of to-day feels towards the men of the past on whose inventions and discoveries he is dependent for his daily nourishment [221].

Besides the social order there is another, the order of nature, which is constantly acting upon the social order. To this also the individual has to adapt himself, and his knowledge of how to do so is equally derived from the past. The order of nature only affects him through the social order, and the two therefore necessarily seem to him merely two parts of one whole,—the order of the universe. In the legends he tells how not only the social order but also the order of nature came into existence; an example is the story of the origin of night.

The Andaman Islander finds himself in an ordered world, a world subject to law, controlled by unseen forces. The laws are not to him what natural laws are to the scientist of to-day, they are rather of the nature of moral laws. He recognizes only one meaning of the word right and of the word wrong; right action is that which is in conformity with law, wrong action is that in opposition to the law; it is wrong to give way to anger, it is wrong to kill a cicada, or to have a bright light in camp when the moon is rising in the third quarter, and it is wrong also to try and use unsuitable material for an implement or weapon. Wrong actions always lead to harm; if you use unsuitable wood for your bow it will break and your labour be wasted; if you kill a cicada it will rain heavily; if you give way to anger readily you will earn the dislike of your fellows that may some day lead to your undoing. Right and wrong mean acting in accordance with the laws of the world or in opposition to them, and this means acting in accordance with or in opposition to custom. Custom and law are indeed here two words for the same thing.

The forces of the world, as the Andaman Islander conceives them, are not the blind mechanical forces of modern science: rather are they moral forces. Their action upon human beings is not only to be witnessed in external events, but is to be experienced in the man’s own consciousness or conscience. He feels within himself their compulsion when he would run counter to them, and their support when he leans upon them. The law of the world, then, is a moral law, its forces are moral forces, its values moral values; its order is a moral order.

This view of the world is the immediate and inevitable result of the experience of man in society. It is a philosophy not reached by painful intellectual effort, by the searching out of meanings and reasons and causes; it is impressed upon him in all the happenings of his life, is assumed in all his actions; it needs only to be formulated. And the argument of this chapter has been that it is as the expression or formulation of this view of the world as an order regulated by law that the legends have their meaning, fulfil their function.

The legends of the Andamanese then, as I understand them, set out to give an account of how the order of the world came into existence. But the Andaman Islander has no interest in any part of it except in so far as it affects his own life. He is interested in the procession of the seasons or the alternation of day and night, or the phases of the moon, only in so far as these things have effects upon the community. In other words he is interested in natural phenomena only in so far as such phenomena are really parts of the social order. This I have expressed earlier in the chapter by saying that the legends deal not with all aspects of natural phenomena but only with their social values.

A fundamental character of the natural order (as of the social order) is uniformity; the same processes are for ever repeated. This character of nature the legends take for granted; they assume that if a force is once set into action it will continue to act indefinitely. They assume also a period in which the present order did not exist. Anything that happened in that period has gone on happening ever since. One of the ancestors discovered how to cook yams, and men have been cooking yams in the same way down to the present day. A cicada was crushed and cried out and the night came, and since then the darkness has come every evening as soon as the cicada sings. In one of the legends the tree lizard was quarrelsome, and has remained so. Thus the legends represent the social order, including such natural phenomena as may be said to belong to it, as being due to the interaction of forces of a special character that came into existence in the beginning and have continued to act uniformly ever since. In this way they express two most important conceptions, that of uniformity (or law) and that of the dependence of the present on the past.

It is the need of expressing these two conceptions that gives the legends their function. They are not merely theoretical principles but are both intensely practical. The law of uniformity means that certain actions must be done and others not done if life is to run smoothly; any deviation from uniformity in conduct is dangerous as being contrary to the law that regulates the universe. What actions are to be done and what are to be left undone was determined once for all in the past when the present order came into existence. The knowledge of what to do and what to avoid doing is what constitutes the tradition of the society, to which every individual is required to conform.

The legends, then, set out to express and to justify these two fundamental conceptions. They do so by telling how the social order itself came into existence, and how, also, all those natural phenomena that have any bearing on the social well-being came to be as they are and came to have the relation to the society that they possess.

One group of facts that have an obvious relation to the society consists of the geographical features of the islands. The more notable features of the part of the country in which a man lives, and which he regards as his own, are intimately connected with his moral sentiments. His attachment to his group necessarily involves an attachment to the country of the group. The same sort of thing exists amongst ourselves. This attachment of the members of a group to their own country explains, I think, the part played by what may be called “local motives” in the legends of the Andamanese. Such motives are of considerable importance, of much more importance than would appear from the stories that I have transcribed. The recent changes in their mode of life have had far more influence on the local organisation of the tribes than on any other part of their social organisation, and this has not been without its effect on the legends. We may say, briefly, that the local motives of the legends serve to express the social values of localities. In general each locality has its own versions of the legends, in which the events related are supposed to have taken place at some spot or other in the neighbourhood. Thus all the more prominent features of a locality are associated with the events of the legends. In some cases tales are told that explain these features as having come into existence when the ancestors were alive; a reef of rocks was formerly a canoe, for instance. A few such legends were recorded in an earlier chapter, but it is probable that there were a vast number of similar tales that I did not hear. In some cases a locality has a special social value and therefore a special place in the legends. Thus Wota-Emi was the great meeting-place for the natives who lived on Baratang and on parts of the South Andaman and the Middle Andaman, and was also sometimes visited by the natives of the Archipelago. Consequently Wota-Emi is represented in the legends of the A-Pučikwar tribe as being the great meeting-place or dwelling-place of the ancestors. The effect of these associations between the places with which he is familiar and the events of the legendary epoch in the mind of the Andaman Islander probably is similar to the effect on ourselves of the historical associations of our own country; they serve to make him aware of his attachment to his country or to express his sense of that attachment.

There still remains a most important feature of the legends which has not yet been explained, namely the position of the animals as ancestors. Many of the actors in the legends bear the names of animals but at the same time are spoken of as though they were human beings. Many of the legends explain how some species of animal arose from some one of the ancestors who became an animal and the progenitor of the species. Thus, in the North Andaman, Kolo was one of the ancestors; he made wings for himself out of palm-leaves, and so was able to fly; he lived a solitary life in his home at the top of a tree, and was in the habit of stealing men’s wives; in the end he became the sea-eagle, and this species still bears the name kolo. It is necessary to define as exactly as possible what meaning these stories have to the natives. It is not simply that the legendary person is a man with the name and some of the characteristics of an animal; nor is it simply that the legendary person is the ancestor of the species of which he bears the name. We can only adequately express the thought of the Andamanese by saying that he regards the whole species as if it were a human being. When, in the legends, he speaks of “Sea-eagle” he is thereby personifying the species in the sense in which the word personification has been used throughout this chapter; he is regarding the characteristics of the species as if they were characteristics or actions or results of actions of a person. Admittedly this is a vague description, but the vagueness is in the mental phenomenon described; the Andamanese do not, in this matter, think clearly and analyse their own thoughts. However, we can help ourselves to understand their thoughts by recalling the tales that amused us as children, in which the fox or the rabbit of the tale was an embodiment of the whole species.

The part played in the legends by any particular animal is determined either immediately or indirectly by its observable characteristics. Thus the connection of the kingfisher with fire is due to the fact that he is a fish-eating bird, and that he has a patch of bright red feathers, red being, in the Andamanese mind, always associated with fire. The other birds that are mentioned in the different versions of the fire legend either possess remarkable plumage (as the dove, and the parrot) or are fish-eating birds. The Andamanese regard fish as the fundamental human food, having only one word for “food” and “fish,” and they never eat their fish raw as the kingfisher does. In the Akar-Bale story of the origin of the animals the tree lizard is characterised by his quarrelsomeness, and by the fact that he is very difficult to catch hold of; these are both actual characteristics of the animal itself. The crab appears in the same legend as a person with a very powerful grip, and with a hard shell to his body. The monitor lizard has his place in the legends determined by the fact that he can climb trees, run on the ground and swim in the water, and is thus equally at home at the top of the trees, on the ground, or in the creek. I have already given this as one of the reasons why he is chosen as the first ancestor of all the animals and of human beings. The lizard also seems to be regarded by the Andamanese as a particularly libidinous animal, and is therefore regarded as the inventor of sexual intercourse and of procreation. Why he should have this sexual reputation I do not know [222]. The tale of how the lizard invented scarification depends on the fact that the marks on the lizard’s skin bear a strong resemblance to the marks that the natives make on their own skins with sharp fragments of quartz. The position of the Paradoxurus or civet-cat in the stories in which she appears is due to the fact that while she can live in the trees or on the ground she cannot swim; hence, when the flood came, she fled from the water and climbed a steep hill and thus kept the fire alight. In the light of these examples we are justified, I think, in assuming that in all cases, even when the meaning is not clear, the part played by any animal in the legends is due to some actual characteristic of it.

There is thus a parallelism between the personification of natural phenomena and the personification of animal species. I have shown that the characteristics of such beings as Biliku and Tarai are all to be explained by a consideration of the actual characteristics of the phenomena of which they are the personification (the winds) and of the phenomena immediately connected therewith. The same thing has now been shown to be true with regard to the personified animals. The process of personification is carried out in exactly the same way in the two different classes of cases. I gave as the reason for personifying natural phenomena the fact that in this way, and in this way only, the Andaman Islander is able to express the sentiments that are aroused in him by them. We must see if we can justify the personification of animals by a similar argument.

The habits of observation fostered in the mind of the Andaman Islander by his method of winning his sustenance lead him to take a lively interest in all the creatures of the jungle and the sea, about whose ways he therefore has a great store of knowledge. Every tree and plant of the forest, every bird and insect, every creature that lives in the sea or on the reef has its name. His interest, however, in the case of many of the animals has little or no relation to practical life, for he does not make use of them for food or in any other way. There is here therefore something that contradicts the fundamental assumption of the philosophy that is expressed in the legends, there is a lack of mental unity. These interests in the birds and insects are not correlated with the central mass of interests that control the Andamanese mind and give it its unity. Although his philosophy assumes that everything in which he takes an interest has some meaning in reference to his own life, yet here are things that at first sight have no such meaning. The correlation that is lacking in his experience is brought about by means of the legends; a meaning is provided for the apparently meaningless. The fundamental interest of the Andaman Islander, as of all men in primitive societies, is his interest in persons and personal relations. By regarding the animals as persons and relating stories about them he is able to correlate his interest in them with the fundamental basis of his mental life.

This explanation does not perhaps sound very satisfactory. We do not at present understand the forces that compel the normal mind to strive after unity in its experience. Let us examine the matter a little more closely. All the thoughts and feelings of the Andaman Islander (or at any rate all those that are expressed in the legends) centre in the society; for him the world is merely a stage on which the social drama is perpetually enacted. He coordinates all his thoughts, emotions, and interests around the society, and in the legends he builds up a picture showing the connection between the society and those phenomena of nature that affect it. The majority of the animals (the birds, the insects, and innumerable kinds of fish), not being used for food, or in any other way, bear no apparent relation to the social life. Yet by reason of the woodcraft developed by the necessities of his life he is compelled to take notice of these creatures and to become interested in their ways. Here, therefore, are two conflicting elements in his consciousness, (1) his belief that the whole of nature derives its meaning and interest from its relation to the society, and (2) his consciousness of an alien world (of the birds, etc.) which seems to have no direct relation to the society, and which nevertheless he cannot help being constantly aware of. The Andaman Islander, as I have stated more than once, does not possess any scientific or abstract interest in nature. He never asks himself “What is the meaning of this?” in the same way that a scientist of our own civilisation might do. He asks “What is the meaning of this thing in relation to me and my interests and feelings, and to the social life of which my life is a fragment?” It is because he does feel the need of answers to questions of this kind that the conflict we have noticed arises. This conflict has to be resolved, and there are apparently three alternatives: (1) to admit that there is a meaning in nature apart from its relation to the society, (2) to refuse to take any interest in birds and insects, (3) to explain away the apparent lack of relation. It is this third alternative that is chosen by the Andaman Islander, and there are obvious reasons why it should be so. The explanation is accomplished in a direct and simple manner. In the beginning men and animals were one; then came an event or series of events (the discovery of fire, the great flood, or a great quarrel amongst the ancestors) whereby the men and the animals became cut off from one another, to live henceforward in the same world, but separated by an unseen barrier.

The argument may be put in another way that may perhaps be more convincing. The actual sentiment that is aroused in the mind of the native by the animals is that here is an important and interesting part of the universe that is alien to him, from which he is cut off in some strange way. It is this real sentiment, itself the inevitable result of his life and his surroundings, that is expressed in the belief in the animals as ancestors.

If this explanation be correct we should expect to find that the animals that figure in the legends are those that have no immediate social value either as food or in any other way, while on the other hand the animals that are used for food will not appear in the legends, or will occupy therein a very different place from the others. The only land animal that is regularly used for food is the pig. It is therefore a confirmation of the explanation that we find that the pig is never under any circumstances regarded as one of the ancestors, that is to say, is never personified in the same way that other animals are. One legend about the pig [223] explains, not how the animal came into existence (that seems to be assumed), but how it acquired its senses. Another legend [224] tells how the civet-cat persuaded some of the ancestors to play a game in which they pretended to be pigs, and they were turned into these animals. Here we are clearly dealing with something different from the ordinary process of personification, for we have not one ancestor in whom the species is personified, but a number of persons who were suddenly changed from men and women into pigs by the magical performance of the civet-cat. In the sea there are several animals that are regularly used for food. The dugong is spoken of as an ancestor in an Akar-Bale legend, but in the North Andaman there is a story of how the dugong originated from a pig that Pe̱rǰido tried to roast without first disembowelling it and cutting the joints of its legs. There is also in the North Andaman a story of how turtles originated [225]. The existence of these legends shows that the pig, the turtle and the dugong occupy a different position in the minds of the Andamanese from that of the other animals. This serves, in some measure, to confirm the explanation given above.

We may briefly consider what may be regarded as a kind of negative instance by which to test the argument. The world of the stars constitutes a part of the universe just as alien, just as devoid of apparent meaning as that of the birds. We may ask therefore how it is that the Andaman Islanders have no star myths of the kind that are common in other primitive societies. The answer is, I think, that the Andamanese do not have their attention called to the stars. As their camps are in the dense forest there are very few occasions on which they see the sky at night. When fishing at night on the reefs or in canoes they are too busy to pay much attention to the stars. They have not learnt to relate the procession of the stars and the change of the seasons, nor have they learnt to tell the time at night from their declination. Their navigation is only along the coast and they have therefore no use for the stars as guides of direction. On the contrary, wherever we find a developed star-mythology we find that the stars are studied either as guides to navigation or journeying overland, or as giving indications of the changes of the seasons.

We have considered all the more important aspects of the subject matter of the legends; it remains for us to turn to the form and enquire how it comes about that the representations which analysis reveals are expressed in just the way they are, in a word, why the expression takes the form of a story. It is obvious that in this place no attempt can be made to deal with the general problems of the psychology of story-telling. All that I wish to do is to point out one or two reasons why the legend is an appropriate form (perhaps we might say, the only possible form) for the expression of the view of the world that is revealed in the Andaman mythology.

The Andamanese, like other savages, have not acquired the power of thinking abstractly. All their thought necessarily deals with concrete things. Now the story form provides a means of expressing concretely what could otherwise only be put in an abstract statement. (A large part of the interpretation of the legends, as here undertaken, consists in restating the content of the legends in abstract terms.) Moreover, even if the Andaman Islanders were capable of thinking abstractly, yet, since what they need to express are not thoughts so much as feelings (not intellectual so much as affective processes), they would still need a concrete form of expression. For it is a familiar fact that the concrete has a much greater power of awakening or appealing to our feelings than has the abstract. In particular the story has ever been a popular medium by which to appeal to sentiments of all kinds.

The chief ground for the interest in stories shown by children and by savages is, I believe, that they afford the means of exercising the imagination in certain specific directions and thereby play an important part in enabling the individual to organise his experience. The course of the development of the human mind (from childhood to adolescence, and from the earliest human ancestor to ourselves) depends upon or involves the existence at certain stages of growth (and to a certain extent throughout the whole process) of a conscious egoistic interest. Mankind, to develop what we call character and conscience, must learn to take a conscious interest in himself, in his own actions, and their motives. The development of this self-consciousness in children is a process of great interest to the psychologist and has already been studied in an imperfect fashion. You have only to watch a child playing a game in which he or she enacts some imaginary part to see how such games afford a means by which the child develops and widens his interest in himself. Children, and many grown-up people (particularly during conditions of lessened mental activity), indulge in what are called daydreams, which take the form of an imaginary succession of adventures of which the dreamer is always the hero. The character of daydreams is that they are always frankly egoistic and boastful. Now this sort of interest in stories is found in the Andamanese, though not in the legends. At the end of a day a group of Andamanese may often be seen seated round a fire listening while one of them recounts adventures. The narration may be merely an exaggerated account of real happenings, but is more often purely fictitious. The narrator will tell, with few words, but with many expressive gestures, how he harpooned a turtle or shot a pig. He may, if his hearers are content to remain and listen, as they sometimes are, go on killing pig after pig for an hour or two together. The point to be noted is that these tales are always frankly egoistic and boastful, and it is for this reason that they may well be compared with the daydreams of the more civilised.

Besides this egoistic interest in stories there is another that is closely connected with it in origin and function. The necessities of social life, particularly in childhood and in primitive societies where a small number of people are constantly reacting upon one another, involve an intense degree of interest in persons and personal qualities. This interest is aroused and fostered by the constant play of personal forces in the social life. Its strength accounts, I believe, for the power of appeal to sentiments that is possessed by stories.

It is a commonplace that in many forms of play the child or the adult (and it is also true of animals) exercises faculties that are important parts of the system of habits or dispositions by which the individual adapts himself to his surroundings. We may regard the interest in stories as similar to play-interests in general. Life in society requires the individual to develop a faculty of what may be called character-estimation, whereby he may judge the motives that are likely to influence the conduct of another person. I have myself noticed that savages such as the Andaman Islanders and the Australian aborigines are as a rule good judges of character. They can quickly estimate how to adapt their conduct and conversation to the character of a person they meet for the first time. They are often excellent mimics, being able to imitate exactly the tone of voice or manner of walking or any other idiosyncrasy of a person whom they have only seen for a short time. I believe, then, that the legends of the Andamanese may be regarded as a means whereby they give exercise to their interest in human character, just as in other kinds of play they exercise other interests and faculties that are integral parts of their adaptation to their environment. By means of the personification of natural phenomena and of species of animals, and through the assumption of the existence of the ancestors and their times, they are able to develop a special kind of unwritten literature, which has for them just the same sort of appeal that much of our own literature has for us. Doubtless it is not a very polished form of art; the characterisation that it exhibits is simple and even crude; the story is not told very skilfully, and indeed the story-teller relies much on his use of expressive gesture to convey his meaning; nevertheless it does fulfil amongst the Andamanese the same sort of function that more developed literary art does in civilised society.

There remains one other matter to be dealt with briefly. I have pointed out on several occasions that the legends contain inconsistencies. Some of these only appear when the real meaning of the legend is discovered, but others are on the surface. It is clear that the Andamanese do not always apply to their legends the laws of logical consistency. It must not, however, be supposed that they are equally illogical in other matters, for this is not so. In matters of everyday practical life the Andamanese show just as much sound commonsense as the inhabitants of a civilised country. They are excellent observers of natural phenomena and are capable of putting their observations to practical use. In any attempt to explain their mythology, therefore, it is necessary to show why in this sphere they do not apply their powers of reasoning. We can understand this when we recall the purpose of the legends as here described, which is, not to give rational explanations, but to express sentiments. When there are two alternative rational explanations of a phenomenon between which we cannot definitely choose we say that either one or other is probably true. In those mental processes in which the purpose is to find a symbolic expression for sentiments or desires, the either-or relation is inadmissible owing to the very nature of the thought-process itself. If two expressions of the same sentiment are present, both equally adequate, we must either reject one of them or by making use of both on different occasions admit the possibility of inconsistency. Where the inconsistency becomes more or less obvious we expect the reason to step in and insist that a choice shall be made. But a mind intent on expressing certain feelings, faced with two alternative and equally satisfactory but inconsistent symbols, will hesitate to choose between them even at the command of the desire for logical consistency. It will cling as long as possible to both of them. This is just what the Andaman Islander seems to do in his mythology. The view of lightning as a person who shakes his leg seems to express in some way certain notions of the natives about the lightning. The alternative explanation of lightning as a fire-brand thrown by Biliku also satisfies in some way his need of expressing the impressions that the phenomena make upon him. In spite of the inconsistency he clings to both symbols as best he can.

The very existence of inconsistencies of this kind proves without any doubt that the mental processes underlying the legends of the Andamanese are not similar to those that we ourselves follow when we attempt to understand intelligently the facts of nature and of life, but rather are to be compared to those that are to be found in dreams and in art,—processes of what might conveniently be called symbolic thought. It would perhaps hardly be necessary to point this out were it not that many ethnologists still try to interpret the beliefs of savages as being the result of attempts to understand natural facts, such as dreams, death, birth, etc. Such writers assume that the savage is impelled by the same motive that so strongly dominates themselves, the desire to understand,—scientific curiosity—and that such beliefs as animism or totemism are of the nature of scientific hypotheses invented to explain the facts of dreaming and of death on the one hand and of conception and birth on the other. If this view of the nature of primitive thought were correct it would be impossible to conceive how such inconsistencies as those that we meet with among the Andamanese could be permitted. On the view that the myths of primitive societies are merely the result of an endeavour to express certain ways of thinking and feeling about the facts of life which are brought into existence by the manner in which life is regulated in society, the presence of such inconsistencies need not in the least surprise us, for the myths satisfactorily fulfil their function not by any appeal to the reasoning powers of the intellect but by appealing, through the imagination, to the mind’s affective dispositions.

The thesis of this chapter has been that the legends are the expression of social values of objects of different kinds. By the social value of an object is meant the way in which it affects the life of the society, and therefore, since every one is interested in the welfare of the society to which he belongs, the way in which it affects the social sentiments of the individual. The system of social values of a society obviously depends upon the manner in which the society is constituted, and therefore the legends can only be understood by constant reference to the mode of life of the Andamanese.

The legends give us in the first place a simple and crude valuation of human actions. Anger, quarrelsomeness, carelessness in observing ritual requirements are exhibited as resulting in harm. This is the moral element of the stories strictly so called, and is to be observed in many of them. The young men who failed to observe the rules laid down for those who have recently been through one of the initiation ceremonies were turned to stone. The quarrelsomeness of the lizard led to the ancestors being turned into animals. The bad temper of one of the ancestors resulted in darkness covering the earth, or in a great cyclone in which many were destroyed.

Secondly, the legends as a whole give expression to the social value of the past, of all that is derived from tradition, whether it be the knowledge by which men win their sustenance, or the customs that they observe. In the wonderful times of the ancestors all things were ordered, all necessary knowledge was acquired, and the rules that must guide conduct were discovered. It remains for the individual of the present only to observe the customs with which his elders are familiar.

The legends of a man’s own tribe serve also to give a social value to the places with which he is familiar. The creeks and hills that he knows, the camping sites at which he lives, the reefs and rocks that act as landmarks by reason of any striking feature they may present, are all for him possessed of a historic interest that makes them dear to him. The very names, in many cases, recall events of the far-off legendary epoch.

Again, many of the legends express the social value of natural phenomena. By reference to Biliku and Tarai, for instance, the native can express what he feels with respect to the weather and the seasonal changes that so profoundly affect the common life. Finally, in the legends he is able to express what he feels about the bright plumaged birds and the other creatures with which he is constantly meeting in the jungles, which are a source of perennial interest, and are yet so clearly a part of the world cut off from himself and his life, having no immediately discernible influence upon his welfare.

This system of social values, or rather this system of sentiments, that we find expressed in the legends is an essential part of the life of the Andamanese; without it they could not have organised their social life in the way they have. Moreover the sentiments in question need to be regularly expressed in some way or another if they are to be kept alive and passed on from one generation to another. The legends, which are related by the elders to the young folk, are one of the means (the various ceremonial customs analysed in the last chapter being another) by which they are so expressed, and by which their existence is maintained.

Although the term “social value” has been used as a convenient expression, yet the meaning of the legends might be expressed in other ways. We may say, for instance, that they give a representation of the world as regulated by law. The conception of law which they reveal is not, however, that to which we are accustomed when we think of natural law. We may perhaps adequately state the Andaman notion by saying that moral law and natural law are not distinguished from one another. The welfare of the society depends upon right actions; wrong actions inevitably lead to evil results. Giving way to anger is a wrong action, as being a cause of social disturbance. In the legends the catastrophes that overwhelmed the ancestors are in many instances represented as being caused by some one giving way to anger. There is a right way and a wrong way to set about making such a thing as a bow. We should explain this by saying that the right way will give a good serviceable weapon, whereas the wrong way will give an inferior or useless one. The Andaman Islander tends to look at the matter from a different angle; the right way is right because it is the one that has been followed from time immemorial, and any other way is wrong, is contrary to custom, to law. Law, for the Andaman Islander, means that there is an order of the universe, characterised by absolute uniformity; this order was established once for all in the time of the ancestors, and is not to be interfered with, the results of any such interference being evil, ranging from merely minor ills such as disappointment or discomfort to great calamities. The law of compensation is absolute. Any deviation from law or custom will inevitably bring its results, and inversely any evil that befalls must be the result of some lack of observance. The legends reveal to our analysis a conception of the universe as a moral order.

Here I must conclude my attempt to interpret the customs and beliefs of the Andaman Islanders, but in doing so I wish to point out, though indeed it must already be fairly obvious, that if my interpretation be correct, then the meaning of the customs of other primitive peoples is to be discovered by similar methods and in accordance with the same psychological principles. It is because I have satisfied myself of the soundness of these methods and principles, by applying them to the interpretation of other cultures, that I put forward the hypotheses of these two chapters with an assurance that would not perhaps be justified if I relied solely on a study of the Andamanese. To put the matter in another way, I have assumed a certain working hypothesis, and I have shown that on the basis of this hypothesis there can be built up a satisfactory explanation of the customs and beliefs of the Andamanese. But the hypothesis is of such a nature, stating or involving as it does certain sociological or psychological laws and principles, that if it be true for one primitive people it must be true for others, and indeed, with necessary modifications, must be true of all human society. Such a hypothesis, it is obvious, cannot be adequately tested by reference only to one limited set of facts, and it will therefore be necessary, if it is to become something more than a hypothesis, to test its application over a wider range of ethnological facts.

The matter is so important that it is necessary, even at the risk of wearisome repetition, to give a final statement of the hypothesis that, in this chapter and the last, has been applied to and tested by the facts known to us concerning the Andaman Islanders.

In an enquiry such as this, we are studying, I take it, not isolated facts, but a “culture,” understanding by that word the whole mass of institutions, customs and beliefs of a given people. For a culture to exist at all, and to continue to exist, it must conform to certain conditions. It must provide a mode of subsistence adequate to the environment and the existing density of population; it must provide for the continuance of the society by the proper care of children; it must provide means for maintaining the cohesion of the society. All these things involve the regulation of individual conduct in certain definite ways; they involve, that is, a certain system of moral customs.

Each type of social organisation has its own system of moral customs, and these could be explained by showing how they serve to maintain the society in existence. Such an explanation would be of the psychological, not of the historical type; it would give not the cause of origin of any custom, but its social function. For example it is easy to see the function of the very strong feelings of the Andamanese as to the value of generosity in the distribution of food and of energy in obtaining it, and as to the highly reprehensible nature of laziness and greediness (meaning by the latter word, eating much when others have little). It has only been by the cultivation of these virtues, or by the eradication of the opposite vices, that the Andaman society has maintained itself in existence in an environment where food is only obtainable by individual effort, where it cannot be preserved from day to day, and where there are occasional times of scarcity. It could be shown, to take a further example, how the manner in which the life of the family is organised is closely related to certain fundamental social needs. If we were attempting an explanation of the Andamanese culture as a whole and in all its details it would be necessary to examine all the moral customs of the people and show their relations one to another and to the fundamental basis on which the society is organised.

The necessary regulation of conduct in a given society depends upon the existence in each individual of an organised system of sentiments. That system of sentiments or motives will clearly be different in different cultures, just as the system of moral rules is different in societies of different types. Yet there is, so to speak, a general substratum that is the same in all human societies. No matter how the society may be organised there must be in the individual a strong feeling of attachment to his own group, to the social division (nation, village, clan, tribe, caste, or what not) to which he belongs. The particular way in which that sentiment is revealed in thought and action will depend upon the nature of the group to which it refers. Similarly, no society can exist without the presence in the minds of its members of some form or other of the sentiment of moral obligation—the sentiment that certain things must be done, certain other things must not be done, because those are right, good, virtuous, these are wrong, bad, vicious or sinful. Further, though perhaps less important, yet not less necessary, there is the sentiment of dependence in its various forms—dependence on others, on the society, on tradition or custom.

For a culture to exist, then, these sentiments (and others connected with them, that need not be enumerated) must exist in the minds of individuals in certain definite forms, capable of influencing action in the direction required to maintain the cohesion of the society on its actual basis of organisation. This, we may say, is the social function of these sentiments.

Leaving aside altogether the question of how sentiments of these kinds come into existence, we may note that they involve the existence of an experience of a particular type. The individual experiences the action upon himself of a power or force—constraining him to act in certain ways not always pleasant, supporting him in his weakness, binding him to his fellows, to his group. This force is clearly something not himself—something outside of him therefore, and yet equally clearly it makes itself felt not as mere external compulsion or support, but as something within his own consciousness—within himself, therefore. If we would give a name to this force we can only call it the moral force of society. The very existence of a human society, the argument has run, necessarily involves the existence of this actual experience of a moral force, acting through the society upon the individual, and yet acting within his own consciousness. The experience, then, is there, but it does not follow that the primitive man can analyse his own experience; it is obvious enough that such analysis is beyond him. Still the experience does lead him to form certain notions or representations, and it is possible to show how these notions are psychologically related to the experience of a moral force.

The experience of this moral force comes to the individual in definite concrete experiences only. We first learn to experience our own dependence in our dealings with our parents, and thus we derive the concrete form in which we clothe our later adult feeling of our dependence upon our God. Or, to take an example from the vast number provided by the customs of the Andamanese, the Andaman Islander, like other savages, the main concern of whose lives is the getting and eating of food, inevitably finds his experience of a moral force most intimately associated with the things he uses for food. Inevitably, therefore, he regards food as a substance in which, in some way, the moral force is inherent, since it is often through food that the force actually affects him and his actions. The psychology of the matter can be traced, I hope, in the arguments of the last chapter. From the analysis there given of different customs and beliefs it should be obvious that the way in which the Andaman Islander regards all the things that influence the social life is due to the way in which they are associated with his experience of the moral force of the society.

In this way there arises in the mind of primitive man, as the result of his social life and the play of feeling that it involves, the more or less crude and undefined notion of a power in society and in nature having certain attributes. It is this power that is responsible for all conditions of social euphoria or dysphoria because in all such conditions the power itself is actually experienced. It is the same power that compels the individual to conform to custom in his conduct, acting upon him both within as the force of conscience and without as the force of opinion. It is the same force on which the individual feels himself to be dependent, as a source of inner strength to him in times of need. It is this force also that carries him away during periods of social excitement such as dances, ceremonies or fights, and which gives him the feeling of a sudden great addition to his own personal force.

The Andamanese have not reached the point of recognizing by a special name this power of which they are thus aware. I have shown that in some of its manifestations they regard it, symbolically, as being a sort of heat, or a force similar to that which they know in fire and heat. In more developed societies, however, we find a nearer approach to a definite recognition of this power or force in its different manifestations by means of a single name. The power denoted by the word mana in Melanesia, and by the words orenda, wakan, nauala, etc., amongst different tribes of North America, is this same power of which I have tried to show that the notion arises from the actual experience of the moral force of the society.

These sentiments and the representations connected with them, upon the existence of which, as we have seen, the very existence of the society depends, need to be kept alive, to be maintained at a given degree of intensity. Apart from the necessity that exists of keeping them alive in the mind of the individual, there is the necessity of impressing them upon each new individual added to the society, upon each child as he or she develops into an adult. Even individual sentiments do not remain in existence in the mind unless they are exercised by being expressed. Much more is this the case with collective sentiments, those shared by a number of persons. The only possible way by which such collective sentiments can be maintained is by giving them regular and adequate expression.

Here then, according to the argument of the last chapter, we find the function of the ceremonial customs of primitive peoples such as the Andamanese. All these customs are simply means by which certain ways of feeling about the different aspects of social life are regularly expressed, and, through expression, kept alive and passed on from one generation to another. Thus the customs connected with foods serve to maintain in existence certain ways of feeling about foods and the moral duties connected with them, and similarly with other customs.

Affective modes of experience (sentiments, feelings or emotions) can be expressed not only in bodily movements but also by means of language. I have tried to show that the function of the myths and legends of the Andamanese is exactly parallel to that of the ritual and ceremonial. They serve to express certain ways of thinking and feeling about the society and its relation to the world of nature, and thereby to maintain these ways of thought and feeling and pass them on to succeeding generations. In the case of both ritual and myth the sentiments expressed are those that are essential to the existence of the society.

Throughout these two chapters I have avoided the use of the term religion. My reason for this is that I have not been able to find a definition of this term which would render it suitable for use in a scientific discussion of the beliefs of such primitive peoples as the Andamanese.

When we use the term religion we inevitably think first of what we understand by that term in civilised society. It is not possible, I believe, to give an exact definition which shall retain all the connotations of the word as commonly used and which shall at the same time help us in the study of the customs of undeveloped societies. The definition of religion that seems to me on the whole most satisfactory is that it consists of (1) a belief in a great moral force or power (whether personal or not) existing in nature, and (2) an organised relation between man and this Higher Power. If this definition be accepted it is clear that the Andamanese have religious beliefs and customs. They do believe in a moral power regulating the universe, and they have organised their relations to that power by means of some of their simple ceremonies. Yet it does not seem possible to draw a sharp dividing line between those beliefs and customs that properly deserve to be called religious, and others which do not deserve the adjective. It is not possible, in the Andamans, to separate a definite entity which we can call religion from things that may more appropriately be regarded as art, morality, play, or social ceremonial.

Nevertheless the purpose of these two chapters has been to explain the nature and function of the Andamanese religion. Amongst the fundamental conditions that must be fulfilled if human beings are to live together in society is the existence of this thing that we call religion, the belief in a great Unseen Power, between which and ourselves it must ever be the great concern of life to establish and maintain harmony. The Andaman Islander with his somewhat childish faith, the Australian black-fellow decorated with paint and feathers impersonating his totemic ancestor, the Polynesian sacrificing human victims on the marae of his god, the Buddhist following the Holy Eight-Staged Path, are all following in however different ways the same eternal quest.

APPENDIX A

THE TECHNICAL CULTURE OF THE ANDAMAN ISLANDERS

In this appendix I shall give a brief account of the technical culture of the Andaman Islanders, with a few comparative notes on the technology of the Semang of the Malay Peninsula and the Negritos of the Philippine Islands. The Andamanese, the Semang and the Philippine Negritos are so similar in physical characteristics that it is reasonable to suppose that they are descended from a single stock. It is on the basis of this hypothesis that they are all spoken of as belonging to one race, the Negrito race. It is therefore of some interest to compare the culture of these three different peoples to see if we can determine what was the culture of their ancestors.

In such hypothetical reconstructions of the past it is necessary to proceed with extreme caution, as there is no means of controlling results. The method I have adopted is to compare first of all the different types of technological products or activities found in different parts of the Andamans in order to determine as far as possible what was the technical culture of the ancestors of the Andamanese when they first reached the islands, and what changes have taken place since the islands were occupied. It is only this primitive or generalised Andamanese culture that can be compared with that of the Semang or the Philippine Negritos.

From the point of view of technical culture the natives of the Andamans must be separated into two main divisions, which will be spoken of as the Great Andaman Division and the Little Andaman Division respectively [226]. The most plausible explanation of the differences of culture and language between these two divisions has been mentioned already. We must assume that when the islands were first peopled, or at some later time, the inhabitants of the Little Andaman became isolated from those of the Great Andaman. The language and the technical culture of each of the two groups underwent a number of changes during the many centuries that followed. At a much later date, after the differences between the two divisions had been developed, and probably not many centuries ago, a party or several parties of natives must have made their way from the Little Andaman as far as Rutland Island. Here they came in conflict with the natives of the Great Andaman Division, and in this way arose the antagonism between the Jarawa (the immigrants from the Little Andaman) and the other natives of the South Andaman (who formed in 1858 the Aka-Bea tribe), which has lasted down to the present day. We shall find that the technical culture of the Jarawa has been only very slightly influenced by contact with the natives of the Great Andaman Division, and therefore differs very little from that of the Little Andaman at the present day.

Primitive Andaman Culture | _____________/ \____________ / / \ ________/|\________ / \ / | \ / \ N. Sentinel Little Jarawa Southern Northern Andaman Group Group \____________ ____________/ \_____ _____/ \/ \/ Little Andaman Division Great Andaman Division

I have provisionally included the natives of the North Sentinel Island in the Little Andaman Division. The ground for so doing is that the form of bow in use in the North Sentinel Island is similar to that of the Little Andaman and unlike that of the Great Andaman. Unfortunately, almost nothing is known about the technology of the North Sentinel, and nothing whatever about the language. It is possible that the natives of this outlying islet have been isolated for many centuries from both the Little Andaman and the Great Andaman, and further information about them might show that their technology is different in important respects from that of the Little Andaman.

Within the Great Andaman Division there are a number of differences in technology between the tribes of the North Andaman and those of the South Andaman and Middle Andaman.

In order to render the exposition and argument that follows more easily understood the supposed relations of the different types of culture are shown in the form of a diagram or tree. The justification for this arrangement will appear as we proceed.

There is only very scanty information available about the technical culture of the Negritos of the Malay Peninsula, whom we may speak of as the Semang. There are differences of technology between the Semang of different parts, and a careful study of these differences would serve to throw much light on changes that have been introduced since the Semang were isolated from the rest of their race. There is no doubt that the Semang have adopted many elements of their present culture from their neighbours the Sakai and others. In some instances it is possible to trace this external influence, but in others it is doubtful whether we are dealing with a primitive Semang form or with a form adopted from their neighbours [227].

The same thing must be said about the Philippine Negritos. Our information is not sufficient to enable us to discuss the local differences, nor to determine what elements of the culture have been introduced by contact with other races [228].

HABITATIONS.

The huts of the Andamanese are best understood by considering first of all the simplest and most temporary structures. A man away from the main camp at night (on a hunting expedition) erects for himself a simple shelter of leaves. Such hunting shelters vary considerably according to circumstances. In the rainy season they are built much more substantially than in the dry season. Sometimes shelter is found between the buttresses of large trees, a few leaves being added. There is, however, one type of hunting shelter that is usual. Two poles are cut and erected perpendicularly in the ground so that they stand about four feet apart and about four feet high. To the top of these is tied, with cane or creeper, a horizontal pole. A few poles or sticks of sufficient length are placed so as to lean against the horizontal pole at an angle of about 45°, the ends resting on the ground. On these are placed any leaves that can be obtained, preferably the leaves of canes and other palms. The shelter thus consists of a single rectangular roof, one end of which rests on the ground, while the other rests on a horizontal bar attached to the top of two perpendicular supports. The shelter is built facing to leeward.

The usual family hut of the Andamans is built on exactly the same principles as a hunter’s shelter, but, being intended for occupation for some weeks or even months, is more carefully built. For a small hut, to be occupied by one family, four posts are erected, two at the back being from two to four feet high above the ground, while two at the front are from five to seven feet high. Two horizontal poles are attached, one to the top of the front posts and the other to the back posts, with strips of cane. If poles of a convenient size and forked at the top are available these may be used for the posts of the hut, the horizontal poles being supported in the forks, but a native would not trouble to search for such timbers, being satisfied with an unforked post. A few slender timbers, preferably of mangrove wood (Bruguiera), are placed on the two horizontal poles and bound to them with cane. These rafters, as they may be called, project for a foot or two above or beyond the higher horizontal, and similarly project a foot beyond the lower one so as almost to reach the ground.

In the better kind of hut a mat is made of palm leaves, and this mat is placed on the rafters and tied to them with strips of cane. To make a mat a number of strips of bamboo or cane of sufficient length are taken and placed on the ground parallel to each other. Leaves of a species of cane are collected and each leaf is divided into two parts down the middle. These half-leaves are then attached to the strips of bamboo or cane, by means of strips of the outside of canes, the technique being wrapped-twined work. The half-leaves are attached so that the leaflets, which are attached to the leaf-stem at an angle, incline alternately to one side and the other. The photograph reproduced in Plate VII shows a hut of the kind here described. Mats in course of making are shown lying on the ground in Plates VI and VII.

A quicker, but less efficient way of thatching the hut is to take the half-leaves such as are used for making a mat and fasten them in bundles of five or six directly to the rafters.

Huts of this type, each occupied by a single family, are built by the natives of the Great Andaman Division in the form of villages. The Jarawa and the natives of the Little Andaman build similar huts in their hunting camps, occupied during the fine weather.

Some huts of this type are provided with a floor raised above the ground. Such a floor is erected on short posts, and may be made of bamboos or of planks or pieces of broken-up canoes. A floor of this kind, raised a foot or so above the ground, is shown in Plate VII. Huts are sometimes to be seen with a floor raised as much as three feet above the ground.

The simple Andaman hut as above described is entirely open at the front and on each side. In an exposed situation screens of palm-leaves may be erected at the side. If still more shelter is required, a hut may be built with two roofs. Such a hut requires six posts, two taller ones six or seven feet high, and four shorter ones, two on each side. For such a hut two mats are made, and are so attached that one mat projects above the other. No attempt is made to fasten the two mats together at the top, but on the contrary a space of several inches is left between them to allow the smoke of the fire to escape, rain being excluded by the overhang of one of the mats. Huts of this type may be seen in Plate VI.

Each of the huts hitherto described is occupied by a single family. In order to understand the communal huts it is necessary to consider the arrangement of small huts in a camp or village. In the tribes of the Great Andaman there are two main types of such arrangement. The first type is that of the hunting camp, which is occupied for a few nights only. In this all the huts are placed facing in the same direction (to leeward) and in a line with one another. The second type is that of a village to be occupied for some weeks or months. In this the huts are arranged round an open space, all facing inwards, as described earlier in this book [229]. All encampments in the Great Andaman tend to conform to one or other of these types, but variations are introduced according to the nature of the site occupied. Thus in a hunting camp the site may not permit of the erection of the huts in one line. A village is, as a rule, only put up at a spot that has been used from time immemorial, where there is an open space of sufficient size, but if, for any reason, a site is selected where there is not room to arrange all the huts around the dancing ground, the arrangement of the village may be irregular.

The hunting camps of the Jarawa are sometimes arranged on the same principle as those of the tribes of the Great Andaman Division, i.e., all facing in one direction and as nearly in one line side by side as the site will allow.

The natives of the Little Andaman erect hunting camps in the fine weather. In the only one that I have seen the huts were arranged irregularly so as to make the best use of the available space.

A few words must be said on the sites chosen for encampments. It must be remembered that the islands are entirely covered with forest. The natives will not, if they can avoid it, put their camp under high trees, for fear of the danger of falling branches in a storm. At the same time they prefer a situation where there is an open space surrounded with forest so that they are sheltered from the wind. The coast-dwellers always camp immediately within the jungle on the shore of the sea or of a creek. The forest-dwellers usually choose a position on a hill or ridge, and this is particularly the case with the Jarawa. The camp must be close to a supply of fresh water. In the tribes of the Great Andaman Division no precautions are taken against a possible attack by enemies, but the Jarawa do take precautions, clearing the trees around their camps so that they have a good view of the approaches, and even, apparently, placing look-out stations at the tops of the paths [230].

Amongst the coast-dwelling tribes there are sites that have been used for encampments for many centuries. At these spots there are found heaps of refuse that have accumulated year by year. These kitchen-middens, as they are sometimes called, consist of the shells of molluscs, bones of animals, stones that have been used for cooking, fragments of pottery, and loam produced from decayed wood and other refuse.

The two types of camp arrangement which are seen in the village and the hunting camp are exhibited in two different types of communal hut. One of these, corresponding to the hunting camp, may be termed the long shelter. It is apparently only used in the North Sentinel Island. A hut of this type was seen by Mr Gilbert Rogers in 1903. It was rectangular, 40 feet long and 12 feet wide. The roof was supported on three rows of small posts ranging in height from 3 feet at the back to 6 feet at the front of the hut. The roof projected about 2 feet in either direction beyond the posts and was about 2 feet from the ground at the back and 7 feet above the ground at the front. There were twelve places for fires, six in front and six at the back of the hut, and near each, on the right-hand side, was a platform supported on four sticks, of the usual Andamanese type, for keeping food. There were two rows of sleeping places which were separated by small poles, making rectangles on the ground about 5 feet by 4 feet, each of which was probably occupied by a man and his wife and small children [231].

The relation of this type of communal hut, in which all the members of one local group are brought together under a single roof of one slope, to the ordinary family hut of the Andamans, and the arrangement of the hunting camp in a line, is obvious.

To the arrangement of huts in a village around a central open space corresponds the second type of communal hut, which may be called the round hut. Communal huts of this type were formerly built by the natives of the Great Andaman Division, but have fallen into disuse in recent times, owing to the natives having become much more migratory in their habits. Huts of the same type are built at the present day by the natives of the Little Andaman and by the Jarawa.

In its typical form this kind of hut is built by erecting two circles of posts, a smaller circle of tall posts, and a wider circle of shorter posts. The tops of these posts are connected by horizontal and sloping timbers, which make the framework of the roof. The roof is made of a number of mats of palm-leaves, which are laid on the rafters and tied to them with strips of cane. The mats are made in exactly the same way as the smaller mats used for the small huts and already described. They are sometimes rectangular in shape, though occasionally an attempt is made to make them narrower at the top and broader at the bottom. They are arranged on the roof so as to overlap one another and thus make the hut rain-proof. They are not joined in the centre, but a small space is left for the smoke of the fires to escape, and the rain is prevented from entering by letting one or two of the mats overhang the others at the top.

In the round huts of the Jarawa and the Little Andaman there is no centre-post, and according to the statements made to me by the natives of the Great Andaman they did not use a centre-post for their huts. In the description attached to a photograph in the British Museum Mr Portman speaks of the centre-post of a communal hut, which is shown in the photograph still standing, although the hut had been pulled down. It would therefore seem that in the Great Andaman the natives did sometimes erect a centre-post for their round huts. The typical round hut, however, has no centre-post.

It is clear that the round hut has been developed from the village. If all the small huts of a village be drawn together so as to touch each other, and if the mats of thatching be lengthened so as to meet and overlap in the middle, we have a round hut in its typical form. The evidence that this is so is afforded by the thatching, consisting of separate mats, often rectangular in shape (like the mats used for family huts), placed so as to overlap one another. This crude way of thatching could hardly have originated in any other way. Further evidence is afforded, as we shall see, by the internal arrangement of the hut.

Although the hut is here called a round hut, it must not be supposed that the shape is always regularly circular. It may be somewhat oval, and in any case is rarely very regularly constructed. In general, however, the shape approaches more or less nearly to a circle.

Huts of this kind vary in size according to the number of families occupying them. The height in the middle may be as much as 30 feet and the diameter may be 60 feet. The smallest I have seen was a Jarawa hut on Rutland Island, which was only nine feet high and 15 feet maximum diameter. In exposed situations the mats of thatching reach as far as the ground, but huts are sometimes built in sheltered situations with a space of a foot or two left between the ends of the thatch and the ground. A low doorway is provided on one side.

Within the hut there is a central space that is the common part of the hut and corresponds to the dancing ground of the village. In the wet season the communal fire is situated in this open space, and here the communal cooking is performed. In Jarawa huts the roof of the central part of the hut is hung with trophies of the chase consisting of pigs’ skulls bound with cane. In former times the natives of the Great Andaman Division hung similar trophies in their round huts. Around the central space are the spaces allotted to the different families, these being marked off by means of short lengths of wood laid on the ground.

It is thus clear that the basis of Andamanese architecture is the use of a single rectangular roof giving a shelter open at the front. This is the usual form of the hunter’s shelter and of the family hut in the village. For additional shelter two such roofs may be used, but no attempt is made to join them, one being made to overlap the other. There are two customary modes of arranging huts, either side by side facing in the same direction or round an open space facing inwards. Where, instead of separate roofs for each family, we have a united roof, these two arrangements of the camp give rise to two different types of communal hut, the long hut and the round hut.

In a village each hut is occupied by one family. In the communal hut (of either type) each family has a special portion of the hut marked off for its special use. Whether in a village or in a communal hut each family has its own small fire, at which the family meals are prepared. At one side of this fire is erected a small platform about a foot above the ground, supported on either three or four upright sticks. This platform is used for storing food. The natives of the Little Andaman erect low bamboo platforms to serve as beds, arranged round the communal hut, each family having its own. In the Great Andaman the natives, as a rule, make a bed of leaves on the ground and lay a sleeping mat on the top of this. In damp situations, however, they sometimes, as already mentioned, make a floor to the hut, raised a foot or two above the ground, and sleep on that. The Jarawa have a habit of sleeping in the wood-ashes of their fires in their cold weather hunting camps.

Turning now to the Semang, we find some differences in respect to their habitations. Those of the Semang who have not been influenced to a great extent by their neighbours and have not settled down to agricultural pursuits, never camp in the same spot for more than a few days, and have therefore no need to build anything except temporary shelters [232].

The Semang often erect their shelters in trees, well above the surface of the ground. This is a feature which distinguishes them from the Andamanese. It seems probable that these tree-shelters have been adopted by the Semang as a protection against wild beasts [233]. As there are no dangerous beasts in the Andamans, the extra labour involved in building a shelter in the branches of a tree instead of on the ground would serve no useful purpose. The difference in this respect between the Semang and the Andamanese is therefore due to a difference in the circumstances in which they live.

The typical form of Semang shelter, occupied by one family, is erected by planting three or four stout sticks or poles in the ground in a row at an angle of about 60° or 75° and lashing palm-leaves across these. The screen or roof thus formed is further supported, if necessary, with one or two poles used as props in front [234]. These shelters are similar to the Andaman shelters in having a single sloping rectangular roof, but differ from them in being supported, not by upright posts, but in an altogether less adequate manner. However, the Semang shelters are apparently very easy to erect, and as they are only occupied for a night or two there is no inducement to the natives to make them more substantial.

The Semang sometimes make a shelter by planting a number of palm-leaves in the ground in a semicircle so that the overhanging ends meet in the centre [235].

As the Semang are constantly moving from place to place, they have little use for a communal hut of substantial build. One communal shelter has been described, which contained eleven sleeping-places arranged in two long rows. The upright timbers of the shelter consisted of young saplings planted in two opposite rows, across them being lashed the leaves of a palm. There were, besides, two central posts or pillars, each about a third of the distance from either end of the shelter, and a dozen poles placed as props or wind-braces in various positions and at various angles, in order to strengthen the structure and keep it from being blown over in a high wind. The two slopes of the roof were not united over a ridge-pole, but a longitudinal aperture was left between them for about two-thirds of the entire length of the roof, and through the gap thus caused the greater part of the smoke from the many fireplaces issued. All round the walls were ranged a number of bamboo sleeping-platforms, five to six feet in length by about three feet in breadth. The owner of each sleeping-platform or family unit possessed a separate fire or hearth [236].

We have only scanty information about the huts of the Philippine Negritos. In Zambales (Luzon) a certain number of the Negritos have adopted a settled mode of life and depend on agriculture for some part of their subsistence. The most advanced of these have adopted the form of hut common amongst their neighbours. The less settled Negritos of Zambales erect huts which are almost exactly the same as the family huts of the Andamanese. Two short upright posts are erected for the back of the hut, and two taller ones for the front, and on these four posts a rectangular roof of one slope is erected. A bamboo floor or platform is erected a foot or so above the ground, just as in some Andaman huts [237]. In the Zambales huts the upright posts are forked and the horizontal poles are supported in the fork.

At Casiguran the Negritos erect palm-leaf shelters similar to those of the Semang. A few poles are thrust into the ground at an angle and in a row and palm-leaves are attached to these, the screen being further supported with props [238].

A comparison of the three branches of the Negrito race in the light of present information shows that the usual form of habitation amongst them is a sloping roof or screen of palm-leaves. One form of this, the simplest to construct, but only suitable as a temporary shelter, is in common use amongst the Semang and is found amongst the Negritos of Casiguran. The other form, more permanent but requiring more labour to erect, is in common use in the Andamans and amongst the Negritos of Zambales. Of communal huts we have no evidence in the Philippines. The communal shelter of the Semang consists of two screens leaning towards one another. The two types of communal hut of the Andamans are both derived from the family hut.

HUNTING, FISHING, ETC.

The Andaman Islanders depend for their subsistence entirely upon the natural productions of the forest and the sea. They make no attempt whatever to cultivate the soil. Until the introduction of dogs in 1858 they had no domestic animals. Young pigs are occasionally kept in captivity till they are grown, but they are killed for food and are not bred in captivity. Thus the Andamanese provide themselves with food by three different forms of activity: (1) collecting such things as roots and fruits and honey, (2) fishing in the sea and in the creeks, (3) hunting the wild animals of the forest.

For hunting the Andamanese rely entirely on the bow and arrow. Since they have had dogs they occasionally make hunting spears, but they did not do so in former times. They make no use whatever of any method of trapping game or birds. For fishing they also make use of the bow and arrow, wading out on to the reefs and shooting the fish, and in this they are very skilful. Crustaceans, such as crabs and crayfish, are captured in the same way. In the North Andaman a sort of short fish spear was formerly in use as an occasional substitute for the bow and arrow. In all parts of the islands small nets are used by the women for catching small fish and prawns. In the Great Andaman large nets were formerly used for capturing turtle, dugong and large fish near the shore. At the present time the natives of the Great Andaman Division make use of harpoons with which they capture turtle, dugong and large fish from their canoes. Harpoons are not used in the Little Andaman. The Andamanese are also aware of methods of poisoning or stupefying fish in pools by means of certain plants that they crush and place in the water, but I have never seen them use this method of fishing, although they say that they formerly did so. They have no fish hooks and no fish traps. At the present time a few of the natives have learnt to take fish with hook and line, but they are unable to make hooks for themselves, and have to obtain them from the Settlement at Port Blair.

In collecting roots a digging stick is used, and a hooked pole is used for gathering fruit, but they have no other special implements in use in collecting natural productions, and have no need of any. The adze is used for obtaining molluscs and for cutting honey-combs from hollow trees.

It is thus clear that by far the most important utensil of the Andamanese is the bow and arrow. We may say that they are essentially a bow and arrow people. This is even more true of the natives of the Little Andaman Division than of those of the Great Andaman Division.

It may be noted here that the Andamanese have no weapons that are used only for fighting. They fight with their chief hunting weapon, the bow and arrow. Nor have they any special defensive weapons, the shield being unknown.

The Semang in their natural condition depend for their subsistence on collecting roots and fruits from the forest, on catching fish in the streams, and on hunting animals. Their mode of subsistence is thus essentially the same as that of the Andamanese. One difference is that they have not the sea from which to draw supplies, and another is that the forests in which they live afford a much larger variety of game. A number of the Semang now practice a little rude agriculture which they have undoubtedly adopted in imitation of their neighbours of other races [239].

The principal weapon of the Semang, as of the Andamanese, is the bow and arrow. In hunting they also use spears [240], thus showing a difference from the Andamanese. Some of the Semang make use of the blow-pipe with poisoned darts, but it is practically certain that they have adopted the use of this weapon from their neighbours the Sakai [241]. They also make use to some extent of traps with which to capture jungle animals and birds. The wilder Semang living in the mountains have little opportunity of obtaining fish. Those of them that dwell near rivers use fish-spears and harpoons for catching large fish, and a small basket-work scoop for catching small fry [242]. They also fish with rod and line, the hooks being, as a rule, roughly manufactured from bits of brass or other wire [243]. The Semang have no special fighting weapons either offensive or defensive.

In the Philippines some of the Negritos practice a little rude agriculture [244]. It is practically certain that they have only adopted this mode of subsistence through contact with agricultural peoples of other races. They originally depended entirely upon collecting, fishing and hunting, and even those who now grow a few scanty crops devote a large part of their energies to hunting and collecting the natural products of the jungles [245]. The chief weapon of the Negritos of the Philippines, as of the Andamanese and the Semang, is the bow and arrow. They use the bow and arrow for shooting fish, having special fish-arrows [246]. It seems doubtful if they use spears, unless they have adopted them from their neighbours. In hunting deer the Negritos of Zambales use large nets like fish nets. They are acquainted with the use of traps for game but they seem to prefer to depend on the bow and arrow [247]. In the larger streams of Zambales they make fishing weirs of bamboo, after the manner of the Christianised natives of the same part [248].

As the most important weapon of the Andamanese, and indeed of the Negritos in general, is the bow, we may consider this first. Different kinds of bow are in use in different parts of the Andamans, but by a careful comparison of them it is possible to show how they are all derived from one original pattern.

The first kind of bow to be described is that in use in the Little Andaman. These bows are all made of a reddish-brown wood (possibly Mimusops littoralis). They are cut with an adze from a straight piece of wood, and are planed but not polished. The length varies within fairly wide limits. Six specimens selected as typical have lengths of 131, 150, 159·5, 163, 168 and 188 centimetres, giving an average of about 160 centimetres (= 63 inches). In section the bow is markedly convex on the one side and slightly convex on the other. The two figures (Fig. 1) show the section at the middle and at a point 7 cm. from the end of a typical specimen. The shape in section varies a little from one example to another, and the dimensions of breadth and thickness also vary. At the broadest point, which is in the middle, the average breadth of six bows is 3·2 cm., the broadest being 3·7 cm., and the narrowest 2·3 cm. The average thickness in the middle is 1·8 cm., the actual figures ranging from 2·1 to 1·3 cm. From the middle the bow tapers slightly towards each end. At a distance of 7 cm. from the end of the bow the average breadth is 1·8 cm., and the average thickness 1·2 cm.

The flatter side is the inside of the bow. Referring to the figures, the side marked A is that which faces a man as he holds the bow ready to shoot (called here the inside). C is thus the right-hand side and D the left-hand. By breadth is meant the distance from C to D, and by thickness the distance from A to B.

At each end of the bow there is a shoulder, as shown in Fig. 2. The length from the shoulder to the end of the bow, i.e. the length of the point on which the string is looped, is about 10 to 12 mm. Both ends are the same. For a few centimetres below the shoulder the bow is served over with string or fibre. In a carefully finished bow the serving is usually done with ornamental string, i.e. with string round which is twisted the dried yellow skin of the Dendrobium. In other examples plain string is used, or a strip of twisted Ficus fibre, or even nowadays a twisted strip of cotton cloth.

Bows are never ornamented in the Little Andaman either with paint or with incised patterns.

The bow-string of the Little Andaman is made of strips of the bark of the Ficus laccifera. The number and width of the strips used depend on the size of the bow. In a small bow now in the Cambridge Museum the string is made of a single strip of bark about 1 cm. in width. This strip is simply twisted, the twist being that of a right-hand or male screw. When two strips are used they are not twisted around one another in the way that a two-ply rope is made, but are laid flat together and twisted together, so that when the string is finished only one of the strips is visible, the other being inside. In a stout string for a large bow three or four strips may be twisted together in this way. The bow-string is not a rope, but a twisted strand (Fig. 3.)

At one end of the string a loop is made, as shown in Fig. 4. The end is doubled over to make a loop of the right size, a round turn is made over the standing part (A) and the end (B) is twisted in with the standing part by untwisting the latter, laying the end in, and twisting up again. If this splicing, as it may perhaps be loosely called, be not sufficiently secure, it is served over or stopped with finer fibre of the same kind. This loop is of sufficient size to slip down over the shoulders. At the other end the string is attached to the peg either with a knot, or else by means of a small loop (just large enough to go over the peg, but not large enough to slip over the shoulder) made in exactly the same way as the loop already described. When the bow is to be strung the larger loop is slipped over the peg at the top end of the bow and is pushed down over the shoulder. The other end (with the smaller loop) is then slipped on the peg at the lower end, resting on the shoulder. The lower end is placed on the ground, while the top end is held in the hand. The man places his foot against the middle of the bow and draws the top towards him until he is able to slip the top loop of the string up over the shoulder so that it catches the peg or tip. The bow is then ready for use.

Toy bows are made for small boys of exactly the same general pattern as the large bows. A toy bow of this kind, now in the Cambridge Museum, is 107 cm. long and 18 mm. broad in the middle.

The next type of bow to be considered is that used by the natives of the North Sentinel Island. I have only been able to see one specimen of this type, which is in the British Museum. It is made of a different kind of wood from that used in the Little Andaman. The length is 155·5 cm., and the breadth at the middle is 4·3 cm. The section in the middle, which is shown in Fig. 5, is slightly different from that of the average Little Andaman bow, but it has the same feature of greater convexity on the outside and less convexity on the inside, and it lies just within the range of variation of the Little Andaman type. The ends of the bow are shaped in the same way as those of the Little Andaman bow. The breadth at the shoulder, however, is 2·5 cm., which is greater than the corresponding measurement of the Little Andaman bow. The bow is not ornamented either with a painted or incised pattern. The string is missing. There is no binding at the ends below the shoulders, but this has possibly been present and come off, as the specimen is one that has been thrown away by its owner owing to the wood having split. So far as we can tell from this single specimen the bow of the North Sentinel differs very little from that of the Little Andaman.

We now come to the bows of the Jarawa of the South Andaman. The Jarawa of Rutland Island, of whom there are now very few, but of whom there were a larger number twenty or thirty years ago, make bows exactly like those of the Little Andaman, and apparently do not make any other kind. The Jarawa to the north of Port Blair, who have been driven northwards by the spread of the Penal Settlement, also make bows of this type, which it is not possible to distinguish from Little Andaman bows. These northern Jarawa, however, also make bows of a different kind. These will be spoken of as belonging to the “modified Jarawa type.” They are larger than Little Andaman bows, having an average length of about 185 cm., with a breadth of about 5 cm. The section, throughout the greater part of the length, is either plano-convex, or, more frequently, concavo-convex. The section of a typical example is shown in Fig. 6. At the middle of the bow, where it is held in the hand, there is a slight thickening produced by a protuberance on the inside, i.e. on the flat or concave side. In a certain number of specimens the bow, instead of being straight, is slightly recurved outwards. Finally, the wood from which these bows are cut is not the same as that used in the Little Andaman.

The Little Andaman bow, the North Sentinel bow and the Jarawa bow are all varieties of one type. The Little Andaman form is probably nearest to the original of the type, and I shall show later how the modifications found in the modified Jarawa type came to be adopted.

We now come to bows of a different type, of which there are two varieties, one used in the South and Middle Andaman, and the other used in the North Andaman.

The bow of the South Andaman tribes is not cut from a straight piece of wood, but is cut from a tree that has bent in the course of its growth into a suitable curve. A tree has to be found that will provide a piece of wood of the required shape. From this the bow is shaped with an adze, and is finished by planing with a boar’s tusk.

Bows of this kind vary in length between 180 and 210 cm., the most usual length being between 190 and 195 cm. At the upper end the bow is brought to a point approximately circular in section. From this point it broadens out until, at a distance of about 50 or 55 cm., or between one-quarter and one-third of the length of the bow, it reaches its maximum breadth, which is, on the average, about 5·5 cm. The section of the bow at this point is convex on the outer side, while on the inner side it may be flat or slightly concave, or even in rare instances slightly convex. In many specimens there is a very slightly raised keel running down the middle of the inside of the bow. The thickness of the bow at the point mentioned is usually 1·5 to 1·75 cm., and there is little variation in this respect in different specimens. (See Fig. 8.)

At the middle the bow decreases in breadth and increases in thickness to form a handle. At the handle the usual section may be described as pear-shaped, the greatest diameter being the thickness (from inside to outside) and not the breadth.

From the handle towards the lower end the bow again increases in breadth, so that the lower portion is about the same breadth and thickness as the upper portion. At the lower end it tapers to a point, circular in section, but the point is blunter than at the upper end.

Thus the whole bow consists of a leaf-shaped upper portion or blade which is straight (i.e. neither curved inwards nor outwards), a waist or handle, and a lower blade that is curved backwards or outwards at about its middle, this being the position of the bend in the wood from which it is cut. A bow of this type is shown in Plate V.

Near each end the bow is served over with string for a distance of 3 or 4 cm., leaving a bare point at the upper end of about 7 cm. long, and a point at the lower end of about 1·5 cm. (Fig. 7.)

A bow-string is made from the fibre of the Anadendron. A number of strands of the fibre are taken and are waxed with black bees’-wax. Four of these strands are taken, three of them are placed together and the fourth is wound spirally round them. When the end of the active strand (the one being twisted round the others) is neared, a new strand is taken and laid in. The twisting is continued for a few turns and the newly inserted one is then taken, the end of the first active strand being laid in and wound over in its turn. The process continues in this way, new strands being added until a cord of sufficient length has been made. This is again waxed over on the outside.

At one end of the cord a knot is tied. At the other end a loop or eye is formed. To make this eye, when the cord is of sufficient length, the end of it is bent over to form a loop of about 1 cm. or a little more in diameter. This loop is then served over with thread made of Anadendron fibre. The serving is continued over the neck of the loop for about 1·5 cm. This gives an eye with the appearance shown in Fig. 9. A loose strand of fibre is left at the neck of the loop. This is wound spirally over the cord, as described before, new strands being added one after another until the cord has been treated in this way for about 35 cm. from the eye. It is then stopped by serving it over for about 2 cm. with Anadendron thread. It is clear from this description that the cord is somewhat thicker for about 35 cm. from the end with the eye than it is in the rest of its length.

To string the bow the knotted end of the bow-string is fastened round the top end of the bow with a slip knot, so that it rests on the top of the string serving. The bow is then turned upside down and the top end (now temporarily at the bottom) is fixed in the ground or against a stone, so that it will not slip. The other end of the bow is taken by the left hand, while the cord is held in the right, the right foot is placed against the handle or middle of the bow and the bow is bent, the end held by the hand being drawn towards the operator until he is able to slip over it the eye or loop at the end of the string.

After the bow has been strung the upper portion, which before was straight, is now curved inwards, and the bow therefore appears as S-shaped when seen from the side. When a man starts out hunting or fishing he strings his bow and tests it, and it remains strung till he returns, when he unstrings it and places it in his hut.

The advantage of having a knot at one end of the string seems to be that should the string be stretched by use it can be tightened by altering the position of the knot.

At the point where the nock of the arrow is placed when the bow is drawn, it is usual to serve the string over with thread of Anadendron fibre.

The peculiar features of the South Andaman bow depend on the fact that the bow takes advantage of the greater toughness and elasticity of wood that has been compressed in the course of its growth. When the bow is drawn the strain does not fall evenly, but, by reason of the shape of the bow, is concentrated on one portion, namely the lower portion of the bow where it is curved outwards. This is easily seen when a bow is strongly drawn, for from the S-shape that it has before, it becomes very nearly true arc-shaped when fully drawn. The lower portion of the bow works as though hinged, and thus the strain is largely borne by the curved portion of the bow. Now this portion is cut from the concave side of a tree that has been bent while growing, and consequently the fibres of the wood are here stronger, tougher and more elastic. The result is that for a given amount of energy spent in drawing the bow a greater force of propulsion is given to the arrow than with a bow of the Little Andaman type.

The breadth of the bow is necessitated by its shape, for if it were narrow the string would slip round on to the outside of the bow. The narrowing at the handle is necessary for holding the bow. The adoption of tapered ends instead of shoulders is a definite improvement as it makes the bow less liable to split at the ends.

The bows of the South Andaman group of tribes are always decorated with incised patterns. The conventional pattern is shown in Fig. 10. One line of such pattern runs down each edge of both the inside and the outside of the bow, and on the inside a similar line of pattern runs down the middle. When bows are newly made they are often also decorated with designs in red paint and white clay, particularly if they are intended as gifts. These painted designs soon wear off and are not renewed.

In these tribes bows are sometimes made of a size so large as to be almost useless for hunting. One such bow, now in the Cambridge Museum, is 220 cm. long and with a maximum breadth of 10 cm. Such bows are very carefully made and decorated and are intended as gifts. A man generally makes such a bow with the deliberate intention of giving it to some person whom he wishes to please. The bow that I have was specially made to give to me in this way. A man who possessed such a bow would not dream of using it in hunting, but he might use it in a shooting match, in order to show his skill.

In the South Andaman tribes toy bows are made for boys of somewhat the same shape as the ordinary hunting bow. An example of such a bow, now in the Cambridge Museum, is 121 cm. long. It is cut from a bent piece of wood in such a way that the lower portion is curved outwards. The section in the middle is plano-convex, very nearly the half of a circle, the breadth being 26 mm. and the thickness 13 mm. It is broadest in the middle, and tapers towards each end. When strung it assumes the typical S-shape of the South Andaman bow. It is served over with thread at one end and with a strip of cotton cloth at the other, leaving two points for the string. The latter is of the usual South Andaman type, but of smaller dimensions.

We must turn now to the bow used by the four tribes of the North Andaman, which is of a somewhat different pattern from that just described. It is, in the first place, shorter, lighter and more slenderly made. Of ten typical specimens the shortest is 153 cm. long, and the longest is 182 cm. The usual length is about 160 to 165 cm. In its broadest part the North Andaman bow is broader than the South Andaman bow, the breadth varying from 6·5 to 7·5 cm. in different specimens.

Although the North Andaman bow is, as a rule, cut from a curved piece of wood, it may, on occasion, be cut from a piece that is practically straight.

At the upper end of the bow there is a long point. In a specimen that is in every way typical, at about 5 cm. from the point the section is circular and the diameter is about 5 mm.; at about 30 cm. from the end the section is slightly flattened or oval, and the maximum diameter (the breadth from side to side) is about 1·5 cm. From this the bow broadens fairly rapidly, until at a distance of about 60 cm. from the end it is 7 cm. broad. The section at a point 60 cm. from the end is shown in Fig. 11, where it may be seen to be convex on the outside and only very slightly convex on the inside. At about 75 cm. from the end the bow narrows in breadth to form a handle, at the same time increasing slightly in thickness. The handle is approximately circular in section in the middle, which is about 95 cm. from the upper end, and about 80 cm. from the lower end, the diameter being about 2·2 cm. Below the handle the bow broadens out once more into a lower blade which in shape and section is similar to the upper blade. At a distance of about 30 cm. from the lower end the bow once more narrows off to a point approximately circular in section. The lower point of the bow is not so long or so tapering as the upper point.

The whole bow thus consists of two blade-shaped portions tapering to a point at each end, and with a waist or handle between them. The upper blade is straight, i.e. is not curved either outwards or inwards. The lower blade is curved outwards (like that of the South Andaman bow) in nearly every newly made bow and in every bow that has been in use.

The upper part of the bow is served over with string for about 1·5 cm. (at a distance of 15·5 cm. from the end in the bow that has been described), and the lower end is similarly served (at a distance of 6 cm. from the end). The general shape of the bow as seen from inside is shown in Fig. 12.

The bow-string of the North Andaman is made from Anadendron fibre in much the same way as described in connection with the South Andaman bow, but in the North there is a loop or eye at both ends of the string. As soon as the first few centimetres of the cord have been made (by the method previously described) it is bent over into a loop, and this loop is served with Anadendron thread, just as in the case of the South Andaman string. The making of the string then proceeds in the usual way until a sufficient length has been made, this depending, of course, on the length of the bow for which it is intended. The end is then bent over into a loop, and this loop is served over with thread. The loose end of fibre is not in this case (as it is in the South Andaman string) twisted round the standing part of the cord, but is laid beside it, and the thread that has been used for serving is wound spirally round them both for a distance of about 10 cm. from the neck of the loop, so that the end is stopped.

When the bow is to be strung the first made loop is slipped over the top end of the bow so that it rests on the thread serving already mentioned, the neck of the loop being on the inside of the bow. The bow is then laid on the ground, inside downwards, a foot is placed on the middle, and the lower end of the bow is bent upwards (and therefore outwards) far enough to allow the other loop of the cord to be slipped over the end. The bow is now in what may be called the half-strung position, and in order to understand the mechanical principles of this type of bow it is necessary to make quite clear what this position is. It is shown in Fig. 13, A. The string passes from the top to the bottom on the outside of the bow, so that the bow is, so to speak, reversed, and is subjected to a strain that causes it to curve outwards. In most bows, when they are first made, there is an outward curve in the lower portion, owing to the bow having been cut from a curved piece of wood. When the bow is half strung this outward curvature is increased. If a bow be made from a straight piece of wood, an outward curve is produced by the operation of stringing it, as described above.

As soon as a bow is completed it is strung in the reversed position described, and is then placed over a fire, in such a position that the lower (curved) blade is immediately above the fire. The smoke and heat of the fire season the wood of this portion of the bow. Any specimen of a bow of this type, unless it has been newly made and not seasoned, is blackened on the inner surface of its lower part. The bow is left to season in this way for some time. A man places his bow over the fire of his own hut, which is kept constantly burning day and night. It must be remembered that all the time it is being seasoned the bow is subjected to a slight strain curving it outwards.

After the bow has been sufficiently seasoned it is brought into use. When a bow that is half strung or strung in a reversed way is to be used, it is taken by the handle in the left hand, with the string away from the body, the bow being upside down. The lower part of the bow (i.e. what is really the top of the bow when it is in its normal position) is rested against the thigh. The string is taken in the right hand and pulled over towards the body, so that the bow reverses itself and appears in the fully strung position shown in Fig. 13, B. It is then ready for immediate use.

A bow of this type is hardly ever entirely unstrung. When a man has finished with his bow for the time being, he puts it once more in the half-strung position, by an action the reverse of that described above, and then hangs the bow over the fire. Thus while the bow is in active use it is in the fully strung position, and at all other times it is kept in the half-strung position.

It is clear that the North Andaman bow depends on a principle that is not made use of in the South Andaman bow, which we may state by saying that if a piece of wood be subjected to the influence of heat and smoke while it is bent in one position it will acquire greater strength and elasticity to react against a strain that bends it in the opposite direction. When the bow is fully strung it is S-shaped. When it is drawn the greater part of the strain falls on the lower portion where it is curved outwards. It is this portion of the bow that is strengthened by seasoning.

The North Andaman bow is very much lighter than the South Andaman bow and is much more elastic. I always found it very difficult to shoot with a South Andaman bow, but on the other hand I found the North Andaman bow very easy to use. In drawing it only a slight pull is required in order to send an arrow with considerable velocity. The disadvantage of the northern bow is that, owing to its slighter build, it does not last very long, and is liable to be broken. However, it only takes a man a few days to make a new bow, string included, and the very definite superiority of the North Andaman bow over that of the South Andaman amply compensates for its shorter life.

Bows of exactly the same shape but of smaller dimensions are made in the North Andaman for boys, the length varying from about 90 cm. to about 120 cm. For very small boys toy bows of a different pattern are made. The bow is formed of a piece of wood about 90 cm. long and from 2 to 2·5 cm. broad in the middle. The section in the middle is convexo-convex, with a high degree of convexity on the outside and a much slighter convexity on the inside. The bow tapers to a point at each end, but it tapers more gradually at the top than at the bottom. The bow-string is a simple piece of string (two-ply) made of Anadendron fibre. It is tied to the lower end of the bow at a distance of 1·5 to 3 cm. from the end, and at the top it is tied at from 4 to 7 cm. from the end. The shape of a toy bow of this kind as seen from the side is shown in Fig. 14. It is not S-shaped, like the toy bow of the South Andaman previously described, but the curvature is asymmetrical.

I obtained a specimen of a toy bow made of bamboo. Unfortunately there was no string, but it was probably intended to be strung in the fashion of the North Andaman toy bow just described. The outer surface of the bamboo was the outside of the bow, with the result that in section the inner side of the bow was more convex than the outer side. This is the only bow in the whole of the Andamans in which I ever saw this feature. In all other bows of whatever type the outer side is markedly convex and the inner side is either concave, flat or only slightly convex.

It is now possible to compare one with another the different forms of bow in use in the Andamans. It would seem almost certain that the North Andaman bow can only have been derived from the form in use in the South Andaman or from one very similar to it. It is only after they were in the habit of making bows with an outward curve in the lower portion that the natives could have devised the method of seasoning this portion of the bow and keeping it in the reversed or half-strung position. It is unnecessary to argue the matter in detail, and we may conclude that the North Andaman type is derived from the South Andaman type.

It is less certain, but still highly probable, that the South Andaman form was derived from a bow similar to that still in use in the Little Andaman. The South Andaman toy bow shows a stage intermediate between the Little Andaman bow and the usual South Andaman form. The section of this toy bow is very similar to that of the Little Andaman bow. It has no blades, and therefore no waist for the handle. The shape, however, is asymmetrical. Owing to the different method of stringing it, the shoulder at the end of the bow is unnecessary, and the bow is strengthened (prevented from splitting so easily) by tapering the end to a point instead. The difference between the toy bow and the general South Andaman bow is the presence in the latter of the two blades and the waist. The broadening of the bow into the blades is necessary in order to prevent it from accidentally reversing itself.

We have still to consider the modified form of the Jarawa bow. The origin of this is easy to discover by the examination of a few typical specimens. Since the Jarawa have been in the South Andaman they have been in hostile contact with the tribes of the South Andaman Division. They have had opportunities of handling bows of the kind made by these tribes, and they have apparently discovered that these bows are more efficient than their own, but they have had no opportunity, such as only friendly intercourse would give, of discovering the principles on which the South Andaman bow is made. They have attempted to imitate it to the best of their ability, and this they have done (1) by making their bows longer and broader, (2) by making them concavo-convex in section instead of convexo-convex, (3) by cutting them occasionally from wood that gives them an outward curve in the lower portion, (4) by imitating the shape of the handle without, however, giving the bow a waist, (5) by serving over the bow-string with thread at the point where the arrow touches it, (6) by ornamenting their bows with incised and painted patterns. These are the only differences between the modified Jarawa type and the Little Andaman type, and all these may be explained as attempts to imitate the bows of the South Andaman Division. In not a single one of the modified Jarawa bows that I have seen is the fundamental principle of the South Andaman bow successfully applied.

We may conclude that the ancestors of the Andamanese at one time used a bow resembling that in use in the Little Andaman at the present day, and that the S-shaped bow of the Great Andaman has been invented since the separation of the two main divisions of the race.

It is not possible, owing to lack of sufficient information, to determine exactly the types of bow used by the Semang. The following notes are based on only six specimens, two of which are in the Museum of Ethnology at Cambridge [249], while the others are in the British Museum. Four of the specimens are sufficiently similar to one another to be regarded as belonging to one type, which seems to be the usual type of Semang bow. In length they are 165, 174·5, 182 and 197·5 cm., and at the middle they vary in breadth between 2·5 and 3 cm. Three are of palm-wood, and the other is of a light-coloured but tough kind of wood. The shape of the section in the middle of the bow varies considerably in the different specimens, as shown in Fig. 15. There is some uncertainty as to which is the inside, and which is the outside of the bow. At each end there is a shoulder, the point or tip at one end being in every instance considerably longer than the other. The string in each case is a three-ply rope, having a spliced eye at one end and being fastened to the bow with a knot at the other end.

The other two specimens do not conform to this type. One is of wood, 134 cm. long, and 3·5 cm. broad in the middle. One end is provided with a notch on each side for the string, while the other end has three pairs of notches. The string is a three-ply cord with a loop or eye at each end. The other specimen is made of bamboo, and is 147 cm. long and 2·25 cm. broad in the middle. One end has one pair of notches and the other has two pairs. The string is two-ply with a loop at each end.

What we may perhaps regard as the usual type of Semang bow thus differs from the bow of the Little Andaman in three important respects, (1) in having a longer point at one end than at the other [250], (2) in having a string of three-ply rope instead of a strand of twisted fibre, and (3) in the variations in the section at the middle. From the four specimens available it is not possible to determine around what norm or norms the section of different specimens varies.

Turning to the Negritos of the Philippine Islands, although a number of bows have been described by Meyer [251], the available information is not sufficient to enable us to determine what are the different types, and what is their relation one to another. Amongst the different varieties of bow used by the Negritos there is one which is very similar to the bow of the Little Andaman. It has a rounded or convex outer side, and a flattened inner side. The string loops on to a point at each end, and the string itself is formed of twisted fibre.

From a study of the available material it seems that we are justified in concluding that the primitive Negrito bow was made of wood, with a shoulder at each end, probably with a section rounded on one side and flattened or keeled on the other, and that it had a string of twisted fibre with a loop or eye at one end, the other end being attached with a knot.

The Andaman Islanders use two different kinds of arrows, one for shooting fish and the other for shooting pigs.

The common fish-arrow, as at present used in all parts of the Great Andaman Division, consists of three parts—a shaft, a fore-shaft, and a point. The shaft is a length of bamboo straightened by means of heat, and may vary in length from 70 to 110 cm. At one end the bamboo is cut off about 3 cm. beyond one of the nodes, and a nock is made (Fig. 16). At this end the shaft is roughened with a Cyrena shell so as to give a firm grip for the fingers. At the other end the shaft is tapered for about a centimetre. At this end the bamboo is roughened with a shell to give a hold to the thread with which it is bound. The fore-shaft is a length of wood from 15 to 40 cm. long. One end is slightly tapered so that it fits tightly into the end of the bamboo shaft. The other end is tapered to a point, which is flattened on one side. The fore-shaft is inserted into the end of the shaft and the joint is bound over for a distance of about 2·5 cm. with thread. The point consists of a piece of iron wire, sharply pointed at both ends. This is laid against the flattened side of the fore-shaft and is bound to it with thread in such a way that one point projects at the back to form a barb (Fig. 16). When the binding is completed it is covered entirely over with a composition made by melting together bees’-wax, resin and red ochre. The composition is melted over a fire, is applied with a short piece of wood and is then smoothed over with a hot Cyrena shell. Only the binding attaching the point to the fore-shaft is covered with composition, and not that at the joining of the fore-shaft and the shaft.

Arrows of this kind are used for shooting fish, but they also serve to shoot snakes or rats and on rare occasions birds.

Similar fish-arrows are made in the Little Andaman, but they are larger (i.e. both longer and thicker) than those of the Great Andaman Division. The two ends of the bamboo shaft are not roughened, and the binding attaching the point to the fore-shaft is not covered with composition (which seems to be unknown in the Little Andaman) but with bees’-wax only.

This seems to be the traditional form of fish-arrow of the Andamans. Before iron was plentiful the point consisted either of the serrated bone from the tail of the sting-ray or of a piece of the tibia of a pig ground down to the requisite dimensions on a piece of stone, and sharpened at each end.

In the Little Andaman fish-arrows are sometimes used with two or four prongs attached to a bamboo shaft. In the British Museum there is an arrow from the North Sentinel Island with four prongs tied on to a wooden shaft, each prong being barbed by a detached piece of wood at the end.

A simple form of arrow is made in both the Great Andaman and the Little Andaman consisting of a bamboo shaft with a pointed wooden head, the point being hardened in the fire. Such arrows are now very rarely used, save for shooting at a mark, but it is probable that before iron was plentiful they were used as a substitute for the fish-arrow described above, being easier to make although less serviceable.

The pig-arrow in use in the Great Andaman consists of a shaft, and a fore-shaft to which is attached a head. The shaft is a piece of the wood of the Tetranthera lancæfolia, cut from the tree and straightened by means of heat. At the narrower end a nock about 1 cm. deep is cut, and the arrow is served with thread of Anadendron fibre for about 1·6 cm. above the nock, in order to prevent splitting. At the other end the shaft is hollowed out to a depth of about a centimetre. This hollowing is done with the point of a fish-arrow or other similar piece of pointed iron. For a distance of about 1·5 cm. the end of the shaft is served over with thread of Anadendron fibre, so as to prevent it from splitting.

The fore-shaft consists of a piece of tough wood one end of which is cut to such a size that it will fit fairly tightly into the hollow at the end of the shaft. At the other end it is split so as to admit the head.

The head consists of a piece of iron broken into shape with the aid of a stone hammer and then ground down and sharpened on a whet-stone or with a file if one be obtainable. The usual shape is shown in Fig. 17. The head is inserted into the split end of the fore-shaft and the end of the latter is then served over with thread. A few centimetres below the head either one or two sharp-pointed pieces of iron wire are placed against the fore-shaft in the same plane as the head and are bound firmly to it with the thread, so as to provide a barb or barbs.

A cord is made and one end of it is attached to the shaft and the other end to the fore-shaft. This cord is made as follows. A number of strands of Anadendron fibre are taken and waxed with bees’-wax. These are made into a cord by the same method as that described in connection with the Great Andaman bow-string, one strand being wrapped round the others. About 40 cm. of single cord is made in this way and the two ends are tied together. A piece of elastic wood is bent into the form of an arc and the loop of cord is placed over this so that it is stretched tight. A length of thread (of Anadendron fibre) is made and wound on to a fine netting needle or on to a thin slip of wood, and the two cords as they are stretched side by side are bound together with this thread by the process known as “nippering” (Fig. 19). In this way a firm and strong flattened cord is produced. One end of this is fastened to the fore-shaft immediately above the end that fits into the shaft. The other end is fastened to the shaft a few centimetres from the end, leaving a short length of the shaft around which the cord may be spirally wound when the arrow is in use. (Fig. 18.)

Finally, the thread on the fore-shaft, i.e. that which holds the head and barbs in place, and also that which serves to attach the end of the cord, are covered with the composition already described as used on fish-arrows.

Arrows of this kind are used in pig-hunting. The fore-shaft is inserted into the end of the shaft, the cord attaching the two being wound spirally round the end of the shaft. When a pig is struck the barbs prevent the head from coming out of the wound. As the pig attempts to run away the shaft catches against the undergrowth of the jungle and comes loose from the fore-shaft. Sooner or later the shaft becomes entangled in the undergrowth and holds the wounded pig fast till the hunters can come up with it and despatch it. It is obvious that the cord of the arrow needs to be so strong that the pig cannot break it.

The natives of the Great Andaman tribes say that before they had plenty of iron they made similar pig-arrows with heads of shell and barbs of pig’s bone.

The natives of the Little Andaman make a pig-arrow very similar to that of the Great Andaman tribes, but on the average somewhat longer. The cord attaching the fore-shaft to the shaft consists of a length of double two-ply rope of Hibiscus fibre. The binding of the arrow is done with thread of the Gnetum fibre instead of Anadendron, and is not coated with composition but is smeared with bees’-wax. The barb (there being usually only one) is not fixed in the same plane as the head, but in the plane at right angles to it. (Fig. 20.)

Amongst the Jarawa the head of the pig-arrow is attached to the fore-shaft by a different method, holes being made in the iron through which the thread that holds it is passed. (Fig. 21.)

Another kind of pig-arrow is sometimes made in the Great Andaman that has not a detachable head. The shaft is a length of bamboo into one end of which is fitted a fore-shaft of wood. The end of this fore-shaft is split and a head of iron is inserted into it and bound there. Such an arrow may be without barbs or may have one or two barbs of iron. It is used only rarely and then chiefly for despatching a pig that has already been struck by an arrow of the usual kind. The natives say that in former times arrows of this kind were used in fighting in preference to ordinary pig-arrows, which, however, were also used.

In former times the natives of the Great Andaman, according to their own statements, made an arrow consisting of a bamboo shaft at the end of which was inserted a head made of Areca wood. An arrow of this kind, made for me by a native, is shown in Fig. 22.

None of the arrows made in any part of the Andamans is feathered.

In a comparison of the arrows of the Andamanese with those of the Semang and the Philippine Negritos the most interesting point is that all three branches of the Negrito race use arrows with detachable heads. Arrows of this kind from the Philippines are described by Meyer [252].

An important point of difference would seem to be that while the Andamanese do not feather their arrows the Semang and the Negritos of the Philippines do so. It would seem, however, from the account of Semang arrows given by Skeat [253] that the feathering is such that it is of no actual service in directing the flight of the weapon, and that it is doubtful whether the Semang really understand the principle of feathering, or whether they do not employ it as the mutilated survival of more intelligent methods or perhaps make use of it for solely magical purposes.

Another important point of difference is that the Semang poison their arrows, while the Andamanese do not. In this connection it must be remembered that the former people have for long been neighbours of people who use blow-pipes with poisoned darts.

After the bow and arrow the most important hunting weapon of the Great Andaman is the harpoon which is used in capturing dugong, turtle, porpoise, and large fish. The harpoon consists of a head, a shaft and a line. The line is a length of rope of Hibiscus fibre of as much as twenty fathoms or more in length. The shaft is a bamboo of about 18 feet in length. One end is cut off fairly near a node and is then served over with thread, and slightly hollowed. The head consists of a long piece of iron, such as a stout nail, brought to a sharp point at one end. The other end is served over with thread in such a way as to make it fit fairly tightly into the end of the bamboo shaft. Some distance from the point of the head two barbs of iron are attached by thread, and between this point and the lower end the line is attached. (See Fig. 23.)

A man using the harpoon stands on the forward platform of the canoe, holding the bamboo shaft in his hand. The head is inserted in the upper end of this, and the line passes over his shoulder and is coiled in the bottom of the canoe, the other end being attached to the forward out-rigger boom or to the thwart that takes its place in a large canoe. He poles the canoe along the reef with the harpoon shaft. When about to make a throw he raises the shaft till he can hold the butt end in his right hand, with the point directed towards the fish or turtle, and he then leaps forward so that if he succeeds in his aim the weapon strikes with all the force of his weight behind it. When the turtle or fish is struck the bamboo shaft floats loose and this is secured by the man in the water, who returns to the canoe. It may be necessary to strike the prey with a second harpoon, but if the first was well thrown the animal is firmly held by the line.

Harpoons are not used in the Little Andaman. The natives of the Great Andaman say that they themselves have only used them since they were able to obtain iron and that before that time they could only capture turtle and dugong in nets. It would seem therefore that the harpoon has been invented or adopted by the tribes of the Great Andaman Division in comparatively recent times, and was not an element of the primitive Andamanese culture.

The turtle net is no longer used, as the natives prefer the harpoon and have all the iron they need. Such nets were formerly made of rope of Hibiscus fibre. A net was about 150 cm. in width and of variable length. One specimen that was made for me had an open mesh of about 25 cm. square, while another had a smaller mesh. The knot used in a net from the South Andaman is the ordinary fisherman’s knot shown in Fig. 24 b. In a net from the North Andaman the knot used is a slip-knot, one strand being tied with an overhand knot over another which it crosses at right angles as shown in Fig. 25.

Each end of the turtle net is attached to a stake pointed at the lower end. The lower edge of the net is weighted with stones attached as shown in Fig. 24, while to the upper edge are attached a number of floats, each consisting of a long thin stick of Hibiscus wood to the upper end of which is attached a tassel of fibre.

The net was placed in shallow water so that the stones rested on the bottom while the tassels at the upper ends of the floats appeared above the surface. As soon as a turtle was entangled in the net the agitation could be observed by those watching who would proceed to the spot to secure their capture.

So far as is known it would seem that nets of this description are not used in the Little Andaman.

The Andamanese make practically no use of spears. At the present time the natives of the Great Andaman Division sometimes make pig-spears of a length of stout cane or rattan with a head of iron attached. The natives themselves say that such spears have only been made since the occupation of the islands, and it is probable that they were first made in imitation of spears used by Burmese convicts for pig-hunting. They are hardly ever used, the pig-arrow being preferred.

The true fish-spear is unknown in the Andamans though use is sometimes made of a harpoon similar to the turtle harpoon, but of smaller dimensions and with a finer line, for harpooning fish.

In the North Andaman a sort of fish-gig was formerly in use made of about twelve pieces of Areca wood of about 105 to 110 cm. long and 1 cm. or less broad and with tapered and sharp-pointed ends. These were fastened side by side by means of a strip of wood near one end, as shown in Fig. 26. This weapon was used for spearing small fish in pools on the reef.

CUTTING IMPLEMENTS.

At the present time the Andamanese make use of iron for their cutting implements. It is uncertain when they first learnt the use of iron, but it was certainly before the end of the eighteenth century. What iron they had was obtained from wrecks, of which there have always been a number on the Andamans. The metal has only become plentiful since the European settlement of 1858.

It is highly probable that the Andamanese, though they may have learnt the use of iron from implements used by visitors to their shores, have not learnt from any other people the method of working the metal. Even at the present day they do not make any use of heat in the manufacture of their iron implements, the metal being worked cold. It seems highly probable that they have simply adopted in connection with iron the methods they formerly used in dealing with other materials, particularly shells.

The materials used by the Andamanese, apart from iron, are wood, bone, shell and stone. We may begin by considering their use of stone.

In former times quartz flakes were used by the Andamanese for the two purposes of shaving and scarifying the skin, and for hardly any other purpose. (Among minor uses of stone flakes may be mentioned those of cutting the finger-nails, and sharpening boars’ tusks.) A quartz pebble is held in the left hand and is struck with a hard rounded pebble of any suitable kind. A flake is thus knocked off and falls into the palm of the left hand. The flake is examined, and if it be suitable it is at once used. If it be unsuitable it is thrown away and another made. For shaving, flakes with a sharp blade-like edge are required; for scarifying, flakes with a fine point are preferred. A flake is used till its fine edge is lost and is then thrown away and another made. Thus a woman who is shaving some one’s head may use as many as twenty flakes one after another, and to obtain twenty suitable flakes she probably makes as many as forty or even more. The kitchen-middens or heaps of refuse that are found on the sites of old encampments contain thousands of quartz pebbles that have been used as cores, and thousands of flakes.

Besides quartz there is a flinty kind of stone that is used in much the same way for making flakes. Suitable pieces of the stone are obtained and are placed in the fire for a few hours. They are taken out, and when they are cold are used in exactly the same way as a quartz pebble.

At the present time quartz is hardly ever used in this way, for the natives greatly prefer glass, and they obtain sufficient old bottles from Port Blair to satisfy their requirements. The bottom of a bottle is treated in every way as though it was a quartz pebble, a flake being knocked off and used, and then another and so on till the operation in hand (whether shaving or scarifying) is completed. The flake is held between the thumb and first finger when it is being used. In no case is a flake of quartz or glass ever kept. It is only made when required and after having been used is thrown away.

The natives themselves say that they formerly never made any use of stone for cutting purposes save in the case of stone flakes as described above. As against this there are three statements that must be considered. Colebrooke, who visited the islands in 1789, says of the Andamanese that “their canoes are hollowed out of the trunks of trees by means of fire and instruments of stone, having no iron in use amongst them, except such utensils as they have procured from the Europeans and sailors who have lately visited these islands; or from the wrecks of vessels formerly stranded on their coasts.” The accuracy of Colebrooke’s statement is made doubtful by the fact that at the present time (since 1858) the natives do not use fire in making their canoes, and it seems improbable that if they had this custom in 1789 they should have discontinued it and have entirely forgotten that it ever existed. Further if they used implements of stone in 1789 it is certainly strange that by 1858 they should have entirely forgotten that they ever did so. When Mr Man was making his enquiries the oldest men all agreed in stating that they never used stone for their adzes. We may conclude that Colebrooke’s statement is untrustworthy.

Stoliczka records the finding in the South Andaman of a stone celt and a stone arrow-head in the kitchen-middens of the South Andaman. The chief reason for doubting the value of this find is that Stoliczka states that these implements were made of tertiary sandstone, which it is very hard to believe would be of any use whatever. We may therefore adopt the opinion of M. Lapicque [254] that Stoliczka had found fragments of a whet-stone of sandstone and had been mislead into thinking that he had found an axe and an arrow-head.

A third statement that needs to be considered is one by Mr Portman, who presented to the British Museum an arrow with a head of stone made specially for him by a native of the North Andaman who stated that in former times such arrow-heads were used by the Andamanese. At the present time the arrow-head is broken and it would seem to be so fragile as to be entirely worthless for the purpose to which it was supposed to be put. The natives of the North Andaman whom I questioned stated that they did not use stone for their arrow-heads, but shell. We may therefore hold that the evidence given by Mr Portman is not at all satisfactory.

In the Akar-Bale tribe I heard a legend that at a certain spot there is a kind of stone which was used by the ancestors for making adzes. I visited the spot and the stone was pointed out to me. Unfortunately the specimen that I took was lost and I am therefore unable to state what the stone was, but it was such that it would have been utterly impossible to make any sort of adze out of it. It was of a crystalline nature and was easily fractured by a blow against even a soft substance such as wood. It was clear that the native statements about it were merely a legend having no historical value.

We may justifiably conclude that it is probable that the statement of the natives to the effect that before they possessed iron in any quantity they made their adzes and arrow-heads out of shell and not out of stone, is correct. Their use of stone for cutting was therefore confined to the flakes which have been described.

The most important material to the Andamanese seems to have been shell. Mollusc shells were used in the natural form or after having been manufactured. The chief shell used in its natural form is the Cyrena which serves at the present time as a knife, a scraper and a spoon. Even when they have knives of iron and steel they still use the Cyrena shell in preference for some purposes. It is used as a scraper in preparing fibres for rope and thread, in making arrows, as a knife for cutting thatching leaves and cane and even thread and rope, and for making incised patterns on bows and arrows. The shells are always to be found lying about their encampments, and a few are always carried with them when they migrate to a fresh camp. Those living inland obtain their supply of shells from their friends on the coast.

When in use the shell is clasped between the thumb and first finger, the thumb passing over the convex side and the finger round the hinged edge. The remaining fingers are used to clasp the object that is being scraped or cut. In cutting, the motion is away from the body, being produced by a twist of the wrist. In scraping the motion is away from the body, or from left to right. A knife of iron or steel is held in this way by the natives whenever it is used for any purpose for which they formerly would have used a shell. The blade is clasped near the handle between the thumb and first finger, the back of the blade pressing against the root of the thumb, and the handle away from the body.

Another shell that is used in its natural form is a small whelk shell that is used as a scraper for scraping off the outer skin of mangrove seeds in preparing them for food.

A shell that is used in very nearly its natural form is a kind of pearl shell that grows along creeks through the mangrove swamps. The shell is only very slightly curved and it is for this reason that it is selected as suitable. The weak edge or lip of the valve is broken away, and the edge is then slightly ground on a stone. This implement is used by women for slicing yams and certain other vegetables such as some kinds of seeds when they are being prepared for food.

The natives say that before iron was plentiful they used shells for the heads of their pig-arrows. Several different species of shell seem to have been used, the chief concern being to obtain a piece of sufficient size that was as nearly flat as possible. Such shells are those belonging to the larger bivalves. The natives state that their method of working the shell was to break it roughly into shape with stones and then grind it down on a whet-stone until it was given a sufficiently sharp point and edge. Some arrow-heads of shell were made for me by this method at my request by one of the old men of the North Andaman.

The natives state that before they had iron they made their adzes of shell. Two different men of the North Andaman made two shell adzes for me, one of Pinna shell, and the other of a shell that I omitted to identify. The Pinna shell adze seemed to me only suitable for light work such as finishing off a bow or a canoe, as it seemed likely to break under a strong blow. The other adze was much stronger and therefore capable of heavy work, and although the edge seemed to me to make it a poor implement with which to cut down a tree yet it certainly did not seem less suitable than the stone adzes used by many primitive peoples. If I were given a choice of implements with which to fell a tree, between the shell adze of the Andamanese and a stone axe of South-western Australia I should certainly choose the former.

According to the natives they formerly used bone for the points of their fish-arrows and for the barbs of their pig-arrows. For both of these purposes they now use iron. The bone was broken into a piece of suitable length and then ground down with a whet-stone. Apparently the bone most frequently used was the tibia of the pig. For their fish-arrows they also made use of the bone of the tail of the sting-ray,—its “sting.” When the fish was caught the bone was knocked off and reserved for use. It required no treatment whatever, being simply bound on to the point of the fore-shaft in the same way that an iron point is now attached.

Colebrooke, in 1789, described their arrows as “headed with fish-bones or the tusks of wild hogs, sometimes merely with a sharp bit of wood hardened in the fire.” By fish-bone he probably means the bone of the sting-ray. Where he writes the tusks of wild hogs we should probably read “the bones.” A boar’s tusk is curved, and it seems impossible to imagine how it could possibly be used as an arrow-head or arrow-point.

The boar’s tusk is used by the Andamanese as an implement, however, making a very efficient sort of spokeshave. The edge which is used is kept sharp by scraping with a quartz or glass flake or with a Cyrena shell. The edge is near the point (at a in Fig. 27) and the tusk is clasped at the other end between the forefinger and the root of the thumb (at b in Fig. 27), the movement being away from the body. It is used for planing bows and paddles, and in the hands of an Andaman Islander is a very efficient implement, producing a beautifully smooth and even surface.

Of wood the Andamanese formerly made knives and arrow-points. The knives were made of a slip of bamboo or cane shaped and sharpened with a Cyrena shell. Such knives were used for cutting meat and apparently for no other purpose. A knife was always attached by a short length of cord to a skewer of pointed Areca wood. The double implement was used in cooking and eating, the skewer serving to lift pieces of meat in and out of a pot, while the knife served to cut them. At the present time the cane or bamboo knife is replaced by a knife made from hoop-iron, but the shape of the original implement is retained as nearly as possible and a skewer of Areca wood is generally attached to it.

As has been already stated the Andamanese formerly used hard wood such as that of the Areca palm for the points and heads of their arrows. They do not seem to have made use of bamboo in this way.

At the present time iron is used for the blades of adzes, for the heads and barbs of pig-arrows, the points of fish-arrows, the heads of harpoons, and for knives. The method of working the metal is apparently exactly the same as the method they formerly used for working shell and bone. For the head of a pig-arrow a suitable piece of iron is taken and a fragment of about the right size is broken off by means of a stone hammer. This is then roughly broken into the required shape, no heat being used, and no advantage being taken of the malleability of the metal. The next process is to grind it on a whet-stone. The natives are always eager to obtain files which enable them to do this part of the work much more rapidly. When the arrow-head has been ground into shape the edges are sharpened. Blades for adzes are made in exactly the same way from any suitable piece of iron or steel, such as a cutlass or an old file or a piece of thick hoop-iron. The adze-blade is attached to a handle of mangrove wood by the method shown in Fig. 28.

The barbs of pig-arrows and the points of fish-arrows are made in the same way by breaking the metal into a suitable shape and then grinding it on a whet-stone. It is probable that this was the method that was formerly used for dealing with bone for these purposes.

In the case of the knife, iron or steel is now substituted for cane or bamboo, but the knife has retained its shape in spite of the change of material. The shape of a knife, whether of cane or of iron, with its attached skewer of Areca wood is shown in Fig. 28.

In the case of the harpoon the native tradition is that this implement was only made after they had discovered the use of iron.

At the present time both the Semang and the Negritos of the Philippines make use of iron. The Semang heat the iron until it is red-hot and then batter it into shape between two stones [255]. The shapes of the iron weapons and implements which they make follow fairly closely those made by the Malays.

In an attempt to reconstruct the primitive Negrito culture it would seem that the most reasonable hypothesis is that the primitive Negritos had no knowledge of iron and had not learnt to fashion implements out of stone, but relied entirely on such materials as wood, bone and shell. The Andamanese, becoming possessed of iron through wrecks upon their islands, applied to it the technique that they had developed for dealing with shell, and thereby invented their present method of working iron without heating it. The Semang and the Negritos of the Philippines probably first learnt the use of iron from their neighbours of other races. There is not at present any evidence to show that the Negritos ever had any method of working stone except the very simple one at present in use in the Andamans for making flakes.

STRING, ROPE, MATS, BASKETS, AND NETTING.

For string, rope and thread the Andaman Islanders make use of a number of different vegetable substances, but they make no use whatever of any animal substances. Some of the more important fibres, with their uses and the methods of preparing them, are mentioned below.

The bark of the Hibiscus tiliaceus, which occurs in the beach vegetation in all parts of the islands, provides the Andamanese with one of their most important fibres. By the coast-dwellers of the Great and Little Andaman Divisions it is used for making rope. In the Great Andaman Division the rope made from it was formerly used for making turtle nets, and is now used for the lines of turtle harpoons, and for hawsers to attach a canoe either to a stone used as an anchor or to a tree. No other fibre is used for these purposes. The Hibiscus rope does not seem to be much affected by salt water. The forest-dwellers of the Great Andaman have less use for rope, and at the same time are not able to obtain so readily the Hibiscus fibre. What rope they do have is therefore obtained from the coast-dwellers or is made of some other fibre. In the Little Andaman the Hibiscus is regularly used for rope. It is also used for the short cord by which the detachable head of the pig-arrow is attached to the shaft. In the Great Andaman a strip of the bark of the Hibiscus is used for the sling in which children are carried. Strips of the bark are worn by the women of the Little Andaman across their shoulders and breasts, as a sort of ornament.

To obtain the fibre young straight shoots of about 120 cm. in length are cut from the tree, those free from gnarls, and having a smooth bark, being chosen. The bark (inner and outer layers) is peeled off in strips of from 1·5 to 3 cm. in width. The inner or liber layer is then separated from the outer layer of the bark, is well scraped with a Cyrena shell and dried in the sun or over a fire. When dry it is worked in the hands until the various layers of fibre separate one from another. It is then ready to be made into rope. The fibre is interlacing, and when freshly made is a lustrous greyish brown. After exposure to salt water it turns a dark brown.

Mr E. H. Man, in his work on the Andamans, speaks of the Melochia velutina as providing fibre for rope. This is an error. The tree to which Mr Man refers is the Hibiscus tiliaceus. It is extremely common on the shores of the islands, as it is in many other parts of the tropics. It is very easily identified, as it bears its characteristic yellow flowers for a long time every year. There is no doubt whatever that this is the tree from which the natives regularly obtain the fibre for the rope they use in turtle-hunting and fishing and in their canoes. Other writers, following Mr Man, have repeated his error in calling it the Melochia velutina, for example Sir Richard Temple and Mr Portman. In Mr Portman’s collection of photographs in the British Museum there is a good photograph of a Hibiscus tiliaceus tree labelled “Melochia velutina.” I looked carefully in the Andaman jungles for the Melochia velutina but was unable to find it, and I am quite certain that in any case, even if it be found there, it is not commonly used by the natives for rope.

The bark of a number of other trees provides fibre of which the natives occasionally make use. Amongst these are one or more species of Sterculia (S. villosa?), and a tree that I identified somewhat doubtfully as Grewia laevigata. The coarse fibre of the liber layer of these trees may be made into rope by the same method as that employed in dealing with Hibiscus tiliaceus. Very little actual use is made of them however. A fibre which looks very like that obtained from one species of Sterculia is frequently used by the natives of the Little Andaman (and also by the Jarawa) for their personal ornaments. Mr Portman says that this fibre is obtained from the Celtis cinnamonea.

A species of Hibiscus, which I believe is Hibiscus scandens, growing in the jungles and not along the shore, provides a fibre that is prized by the natives of the Great Andaman tribes for making string or fine rope. The fibre is less easily obtained than that of the Hibiscus tiliaceus, but owing to its quality (it is not so interlacing) is capable of being made into finer rope and string. It is often made into string and then used for making netted bags. I did not find this fibre in use in the Little Andaman, but as it is not very often met with even in the Great Andaman, it may possibly be used in the Little Andaman.

There are several species of Ficus in the Andaman forests, and the natives know that they can obtain fibre from the bark of these trees. The only one that is regularly made use of is the Ficus laccifera. The natives of the Great Andaman Division use the bark of this tree for making their personal ornaments. In the Little Andaman it is used for bow-strings. A fibre called in the Little Andaman ulu, and said by Mr Portman to be obtained from the Ficus hispida, is used in that island, and by the Jarawa, for making personal ornaments.

The Gnetum edule, a climbing plant that is fairly common, is used in all parts of the Andamans for thread and string. The creeper is cut into short lengths at the nodes and is dried for a few days. The outer layer of bark is then scraped off with a Cyrena shell, and the liber layer beneath it is peeled off in fine strips and these are made into thread or string. This string is used in the Great Andaman Division for making netted bags and fishing nets. In the Little Andaman it is used for binding their arrows, as well as for netting.

The most valuable fibre of the Great Andaman tribes is that of the Anadendron paniculatum, which is used for string and thread and for bow-strings. Until recent times the method of preparing the fibre was not known to the natives of the Little Andaman, but they have now learnt it from the natives of the Great Andaman with whom they have been brought in contact, and the use of the fibre for string and thread is coming in amongst them.

The fibre is not easy to prepare. Long thin branches of the creeper are cut, which must be neither too young nor too old. To obtain these it is often necessary to climb up into high trees, for the Anadendron is a climbing plant. The creeper is cut into lengths of from 20 to 40 cm. The bark (inner and outer layers) is peeled off these in strips of from 7 to 10 mm. in width. A strip of the bark is taken and placed on the thigh, inner surface downwards, and is scraped with a Cyrena shell until the outer bark is entirely removed and the fibres remain clean and separate. These are dried in the sun or over a fire and, if not needed for immediate use, are stored for future occasion. The fibre is fine and of a light greyish brown colour. In its qualities it somewhat resembles ramie fibre. It is extremely strong.

There are a number of other trees and plants that are known by the natives to afford fibre, but they are not used, or if they are, it is extremely rarely.

The Andaman jungles have a number of different species of Calamus, and the canes or rattans of these are put to all sorts of uses, such as the making of baskets, the lashings and furnishings of canoes, and in building huts. In the Little Andaman one species of cane is used to provide the fibre for women’s belts. The outer skin is removed and the remainder of the cane is divided into fine strips or threads. A bundle of these tied together constitutes the belt worn by the women of the Little Andaman. The outer sheath of the leaf-stem of the Calamus tigrinus is used by the natives of the Great Andaman Division for making mats. Lengths of the leaf-stem are cut and the outer skin is removed in strips of about 3 to 5 mm. in width. The still adhering pith is removed with a Cyrena shell, and the strips are dried in the sun and then made into mats.

The leaf-stem of a species of palm is cut while green and is then shredded into long strips. The fibre thus obtained really consists of the leaflets of the young unopened leaves of the palm. It is used in the Little Andaman to make the tassel that women wear over the pudenda. The women of the North Andaman formerly wore a tassel of this fibre, but have now discontinued the custom, since their contact with the South Andaman. In the Great Andaman tribes this material has important ceremonial uses. It is called ko̱ro in Aka-Jeru and ara in Aka-Bea, and has been frequently mentioned in this volume. A tassel of the fibre is suspended near the grave of a dead person and at the entrance of the village at which the death took place. In the North Andaman a suspended cane hung with a fringe of the fibre is erected for the peace-making ceremony. (See Plate XIX.)

Two plants that were not identified are used in the North Andaman for making baskets. The methods of preparing these will be described later.

The natives of the Great Andaman Division make use of the leaves of the Pandanus Andamanensium for making belts for women and ornaments that are worn on ceremonial occasions. These leaves do not seem to be used in the Little Andaman.

The pods of one or more species of Dendrobium are collected by the natives of both Great Andaman and Little Andaman. They are roasted in the fire, until the outer skin turns a bright yellow, and this is torn off in strips and used for ornamenting nets, baskets, rope, etc.

The above description includes all the more important vegetable substances used by the Andamanese for their rope, string, netting, and basket-work. There are many other substances that they might use if they wished, of the properties of which they are fully aware. Their knowledge of the trees and plants of the forests and of the peculiar properties of each is very extensive. They themselves say that they use only those that best serve their purposes.

The Andamanese make rope and string or thread, but in all cases it is only two-ply. Rope is made by men only, and is used for the lines of turtle harpoons, and was formerly used for turtle nets. The ropes made from Hibiscus fibre are very strong and durable, being quite as good as the best hempen ropes of the same diameter. In rope-making the Hibiscus or other fibre (Sterculia or Grewia) is taken and twisted into a long strand, either with the fingers, or on the thigh by rolling beneath the palm of the hand, short lengths of fibre being added until a single twisted strand of sufficient length and uniform thickness is produced. The middle of this strand is passed over a piece of wood held by the toes, one half of it being wound on to a reel (kutobi in Aka-Jeru) made by tying together crossways two pieces of cane or wood each about 20 cm. long and 6 mm. in diameter. The other half of the strand is loose, and is held (near the point where it is tied to the wood held in the toes) between the finger and thumb of the left hand, the rest of it passing across the palm, over the left forearm, under the armpit, across the back and over the right shoulder, hanging down loosely to the worker’s right side. This arrangement is in order that the loose strand shall not become entangled or get in the man’s way as he works. The reel is held in the right hand and is passed first under the left hand, then back again over it, the two strands being thus twisted into a firm two-ply cord.

The natives of the Little Andaman make rope in much the same way, but they pass the reel from right to left over the other strand and back under it, the twist being thus in the opposite direction from that used in the Great Andaman.

String or thread is made by both men and women. It is put to many uses, the chief being for binding the heads of arrows, harpoons and spears and the ends of bows, and in making nets, baskets, mats and personal ornaments. In making string the man or woman sits down with legs outstretched. Thin strands of fibre, varying in thickness according to the thickness of the string required, are taken and each twisted singly by being rolled between the palm of the right hand and the right thigh, the motion being away from the body. When a sufficient number of short single strands has been thus made, two of them are taken and placed together on the thigh, being held at one end in the left hand. The two strands are rolled together beneath the palm of the right hand, the motion being inwards towards the body. A well twisted thread is thus produced. When some 10 cm. or so have been thus twisted, the thread is rolled once beneath the palm of the hand in the opposite direction, i.e. away from the body, this action rendering it more compact. As soon as the end of the two strands that are being twisted is neared, two more are taken and joined on, first one and then the other, by being rolled in with the first two. Fresh strands are thus continually added as the string grows in length. String of any desired length is made in this way, of considerable strength and of surprisingly uniform thickness.

String is made in this way from the fibre of Anadendron, Gnetum and Hibiscus scandens in the Great Andaman Division, and from Gnetum and ulu fibre in the Little Andaman. In the Great Andaman string made from Anadendron fibre is rendered more durable by being waxed with black bee’s-wax, but this treatment is not considered necessary for string made from Gnetum fibre or from Hibiscus scandens.

Ornamental rope is made for men’s belts in the Great Andaman. Hibiscus fibre is twisted into a single strand. Around this strand strips of Dendrobium skin are wound spirally so that it is entirely covered, and the strand itself is twisted into a two-ply cord.

Two other forms of cord have been already mentioned, namely the bow-string, of twisted fibre of the Ficus laccifera in the Little Andaman, and of wrapped fibre of the Anadendron in the Great Andaman Division, and the special cord used in the Great Andaman for attaching the head of a pig-arrow to the shaft. The Andamanese make very little use of plaited cord. I have only met with it in personal ornaments made of Pandanus leaf in the Great Andaman.

The mat-work of the Andamanese is very simple. The natives of the Little Andaman make bamboo mats on which they sleep. Strips of bamboo of about 120 cm. in length and ·75 cm. in width are attached by means of thin strips of cane to other strips of bamboo at right angles to the first series. The technique is illustrated in Fig. 29 which shows the back and the front of a portion of such a mat. It is that usually known as wrapped-twined work.

A similar technique is used in both the Little Andaman and the Great Andaman in making thatching of cane-leaves. There is a difference, however, the wrapping used in making thatch being that shown diagrammatically in Fig. 30.

The natives of the Great Andaman make sleeping mats from the outer sheath of the leaf-stem of the Calamus tigrinus. Lengths of the material are prepared and cleaned and are cut to a uniform length, generally about 60 to 80 cm., having a breadth of 3 to 5 mm. A length of thread, generally of the less valuable Gnetum fibre, but occasionally of Anadendron fibre, is made and is wound on to two netting needles, one half on each. With this thread the strips of cane-leaf are fastened together. The technique is different in the North Andaman and in the South Andaman.

In the North the technique, which is represented diagrammatically in Fig. 31, A is that known as wrapped-twined work. One of the two threads of which the work is composed is held taut, the needle on which it is wound being held in the toes, and the other thread is wrapped spirally round it, one of the strips of cane-leaf sheath being enclosed at every turn. Thus the method is exactly the same as that adopted in making mats of thatch.

In the South the technique is that known as twined work or fitching. The two wefts (i.e. the threads) are twisted together in the same direction one under the other, enclosing at each half turn one of the strips of leaf-sheath. This is shown diagrammatically in Fig. 31, B.

The mat is made by parallel lines of such twining or wrapped-twining. At each side of the mat the line of threading is quite close to the ends of the strips of which the mat is made. In the South Andaman the work on each side of the mat is different from that in the middle. Each of the two threads is alternately given a complete turn round one of the strips of material.

Mats may be of any length, and examples vary from 1 metre to 10 metres. When in use about a metre and a half is unrolled and the remainder serves as a pillow. If the mat be short a split log does service as a pillow instead, but the full-length mat is certainly a more comfortable bed. When a mat begins to wear or fall to pieces in some part it is not thrown away, but this part is kept rolled up, and an unbroken part of the mat is unrolled to sleep on, the remainder being kept rolled up either at the head, where it forms a pillow, or at the foot. An old mat may be continually increased in length by additions made to it. The work of making these mats is performed by women only.

The Jarawa and the natives of the Little Andaman make mats of a somewhat similar pattern, but I have not been able to secure one so as to see how it is made.

To explain the different forms of the Andamanese baskets, it is most convenient to begin by considering the way in which the natives of the North Andaman tie up their pots. The small cooking-pots of the North Andaman are fragile things and are not easily made, and it is therefore necessary to take care of them. A leaf of the Licuala palm is taken. The leaflets are plaited over one another, close to the point of their insertion in the petiole, so as to form a sort of rosette with leaflets radiating from it in every direction (Fig. 32 a). This is laid on the ground, the pot is placed on it upside down, and the leaflets are brought up all round the pot so as to meet at the point, and are there roughly fastened. Three strips of cane are then taken and are tied together crossways in the middle so as to form a sort of six-rayed star with six approximately equal angles. This is laid on the ground with the outer surface of the canes downwards, the pot is placed on it upside down, and the strips of cane are bent upwards over the pot so as to meet at the point. The ends of two opposite strips of cane are left projecting for a few centimetres above the point, and the ends of the other four are fastened firmly down. Another strip of cane is now fastened round the middle of the pot, being applied to the six canes previously mentioned by wrapping, i.e. a turn is taken with it round each of the six strips in turn. The pot is now safely tied up and can be hung in the hut or carried on a journey without much fear of its coming to grief. To use the pot it is of course necessary to untie it. A pot wrapped up in this way is shown in Fig. 32 a and b.

In the South Andaman the pots have rounded bottoms. They are not tied up in the same way as in the North Andaman, but for purposes of safety and carriage each pot is provided with a rude basket. The basket is made so as to fit the pot. Six strips of cane are taken and tied together in the middle, as previously described. A stout strip of cane is then taken and is bent round into a circle so as to be just a little larger than the outside rim of the pot. This, which is to form the rim of the basket, is placed in position and the six strips of cane before mentioned are bent round and attached to it. The manner of attaching the uprights of the basket to the rim is shown in Fig. 33. The strip of cane forming the upright is thinned down beyond the point where it reaches the rim. It is given one turn round the rim, ascending on the outside and descending inside, then a half turn round the standing part of itself, immediately below the rim from left to right, then another complete turn round the rim ascending inside and descending outside, a half turn behind its own standing part below the rim, a third complete turn round the rim, and the end is fastened with an overhand knot.

A thinner strip of cane is now taken and wound round the six uprights (the warp of the basket) being given a turn round one after another. The technique is that known as wrapped work. If the strip be not long enough another is joined to it with a reef or sailor’s knot. The weft (as this thinner strip may be called) is given five or six spiral turns, and thus leaves a very open and rather weak basket. The basket is then further strengthened by other strips of cane attached by one end to the rim and carried downwards, with one turn round each of the horizontal canes (weft) and the other end attached to the centre of the bottom of the basket. A strip of cane or bark is attached to the rim by its two ends to provide a strap by which the basket with its pot may be carried on the back. Before the pot is placed in it the basket is lined with the leaflets of the Licuala palm.

We may now turn to the baskets of the Little Andaman, of which there are two varieties, one made with more care than the other. As regards shape both varieties are the same, and the shape is exactly that of the Little Andaman pots.

The following is a description of a small but typical specimen of the better variety of Little Andaman basket. The foundation consists of twelve whole canes. A little under 80 cm. of the cane is left whole, and at each end it is thinned down to a strip. The twelve canes are taken in four bundles of three each and placed so as to cross each other in the middle. They are bent into a somewhat conical shape, and the ends (where the cane is thinned) are attached to a rim composed of a whole cane bent into a circle and tied. The method by which each of the uprights or stakes is attached to the rim is shown in Fig. 34. It is almost identical with that used in the South Andaman pot basket. The weaving is then begun near the bottom of the basket. A thin strip of the outside of a cane is taken, and is applied to the uprights (warp or stakes) by wrapped work, i.e. it is given a complete turn round each of them in turn. This wrapped weaving is continued spirally from near the bottom of the basket to near the rim. Near the top of the basket, between 4 and 5 cm. from the rim, the weaving is so arranged that for about three-quarters of the way round the basket there is a gap of about 1·5 cm. between two rows of weft (see Fig. 34). The purpose of this will be mentioned later. The basket now consists of a rim to which are attached twelve uprights forming the warp of the basket, around which a fine strip of cane has been spirally wrapped from the bottom to the top. Twelve fine strips of the outside of a cane are now taken. One end of each is fastened to the rim in between two of the stakes, the mode of fastening being shown in Fig. 34. The strip is then carried down the basket, on the outside, as far as the bottom row of weaving, round which it is doubled, and is then wound spirally, from the bottom to the top of the basket, around its own standing part, including at each spiral turn one of the wefts. Thus each of these twelve strips of cane is attached to the outside of the basket by the process known as wrapped-twined work. The basket is furnished with a handle of bark fibre which is attached by its two ends to the rim on that side where there is no gap between the rows of weft near the top.

In the less carefully made baskets of the Little Andaman there are a few important differences. The stakes of the basket are not thin whole canes, but are strips of larger canes. The weft is applied in wrapped work, as in the basket already described, but the rows of weft are not so close together and are therefore not so numerous. After the first process, when the basket consists of stakes and horizontal (spiral) weft only, vertical strengthening strips are added, but these are applied, not in wrapped-twined work as in the basket described, but in wrapped work, in exactly the same way as in the South Andaman pot-basket. Thus, apart from its shape, which is that of the Little Andaman pot, the Little Andaman basket of this kind is very similar to the South Andaman pot-basket.

The natives of the Little Andaman make pots that are much larger and deeper than those of the South Andaman, and have a more rounded bottom than those of the North Andaman. For every pot a basket is made that exactly fits it, and in this basket it is stored and carried. Every basket that is made in the Little Andaman, whether it be used for carrying a pot or for any other purpose, is made of exactly the same shape.

The purpose of the gap that is left near the top of the basket as described above is in order that strips of string or fibre may be tied across the mouth of the basket, from side to side, in order to keep its contents safe.

We may now return to the Great Andaman and consider the baskets of the South Andaman Group of tribes. These are made from the best canes. From 80 to 120 fine strips of cane are taken which are to form the stakes or uprights. A slight hollow is made in the ground, and the strips of cane are placed crossways across one another in this hollow, the inner surfaces of the canes being downwards. As the strips are being arranged, and when the weaving is begun, the centre, i.e., the point where the strips cross one another in the middle of the hollow, is pressed firmly beneath the heel so as to maintain them in position. The first few strips are sometimes tied together in the middle, but this is not always done. When all the strips are arranged evenly the weaving of the basket is begun with a length of thread, which is slewed in and out between the strips of cane, beginning as near the centre as possible, the stroke being that of ordinary wicker-work. After four or five spiral turns have been taken with the thread it is fastened. The bottom of the basket is then reversed, the stakes being bent over, and the weaving proper is begun with a fine strip of cane. This is applied by wicker-work nearly as far as the top of the basket. At the top, the weaving is finished off with three or four spiral turns of wrapped-twined work in cane (see Fig. 35). The rim of the basket is formed of a thin piece of wood (circular in section) bent round into a circle of the right size and the two ends tied together. The stakes or uprights are attached to this rim (after the weaving is finished) but a space of about 5 cm. is left between the top of the weaving and the rim. The mode of attaching the uprights to the rim is shown in Fig. 35.

The South Andaman basket is really a conical basket with the bottom reversed or dented inwards to form a “kick” like the kick of a bottle. If it were not for the kick it would be the same shape as the Little Andaman basket. The kick enables it to stand upright, although it is inclined to be top-heavy, but renders it unfit for carrying pots.

The space between the top of the weaving and the rim is to admit of strings being tied across the mouth of the basket to keep its contents safe.

A handle of Hibiscus fibre is attached to the rim and rests across the front of the chest when the basket is carried on the back.

South Andaman baskets are sometimes ornamented, in the process of making, with strips of Dendrobium skin, applied horizontally by overlaid interlacing. The strip of Dendrobium skin is laid over the weft and woven in with it for one turn round the basket. I have never seen ornamentation with Dendrobium skin applied to the South Andaman baskets by any method save this one.

Patterns of red paint and white clay are occasionally painted on baskets when they are newly made. Shells are sometimes attached to different parts of the basket by thread, for the purpose of ornament.

In the North Andaman, baskets are made that differ in several important features from those of the South Andaman. They are not made of cane but of two different materials. One of these is the stem of a creeper called čup-to̱i. Lengths of the creeper are cut and dried and then split lengthways into two or three pieces according to their size. The outer bark or skin is then scraped off with a Cyrena shell. These strips are to form the stakes or warp of the basket. The other material is another creeper called bobi. The long tough tendrils of this plant are taken and the soft outer sheath removed by drawing the tendril through a piece of split cane or bamboo bent double so that the tendril is scraped between the two inner surfaces. The fibre that remains is split longitudinally into two pieces and dried.

A bundle of strips of the čup-to̱i is taken, sufficient in length and number for the required size of basket. The bundle is divided into two equal bundles and these are tied together in the middle crossways with thread. This cross forms the beginning of the basket. The weaving is begun with thread, which is slewed in and out between the warp, from 4 to 7 spiral turns being made. During this process the centre of the basket, i.e., the cross, is pressed beneath the heel into a slight hollow made in the ground, to give it a curve which, in the finished basket, will form the “kick.” The thread is tied, the bottom is turned upside down, the stakes are bent back and the weaving is continued, not with thread but with strips of bobi, till a short distance from the top of the basket, and then three or four rows of wrapped-twined work are made, the strip of bobi being coiled round the basket and attached to the uprights with thread. A rim is made of a strip of cane bent into a circle. This is placed inside the uprights and tied to them in two or three places. The remaining portion of each of the uprights, projecting above the rim, is bent down outside and slightly obliquely, and tied down by a thread passing over each in turn and round the rim. A very rough and untidy rim is thus produced, and this is again served or bound over with thread. A handle of Hibiscus fibre is added.

In the North Andaman baskets, as in those of the South Andaman, a space of a few centimetres is left between the top of the weaving and the rim, there being for that space only warp or uprights and no weft. This allows string to be tied in any direction across the mouth of the basket, so as to keep its contents safe.

The shape of the North Andaman baskets is different from that of the southern baskets, the former having a sort of belly at the bottom and narrowing somewhat above. The result is that the northern baskets will stand more firmly, being less top-heavy when either full or empty than those of the south.

In the North Andaman baskets are ornamented as they are made with worked-in strips of Dendrobium fibre. There are several different methods of working this ornamentation, resulting in different patterns. Baskets are also ornamented, when new, with painted patterns in white and red, though this is not general, and occasionally shells are attached to them by thread.

One more form of basket-work remains to be briefly mentioned. The natives of all parts of the islands were formerly in the habit of preserving as trophies the skulls of pigs and turtle that were killed in the chase. The natives of the Great Andaman Division do not now trouble to preserve all the skulls of the pigs they kill, and they give as their reason for this that now that they have dogs the hunting of pigs is not a sport that requires any great skill. The Jarawa however still keep up the old custom, and they go so far as carefully to encase every skull in basket-work. As may be seen from Fig. 36 the basket-work in question is of simple wrapped work, the material being strips of cane.

It is of some interest to consider the different forms of technique used by the Andamanese in dealing with flexible materials. Rope and string are only made two-ply. It would seem that the Andamanese have not discovered that three-ply cord is stronger for a given diameter than two-ply. They have, in the bow-string of the Great Andaman, an interesting form of cord that may perhaps best be described as wrapped cord. The making of a rope involves the twisting of two strands of material around one another. The making of a wrapped cord involves the spiral wrapping of one strand of material round another. This is exactly the same process as “serving,” and it is one that is used by the Andamanese in all sorts of ways. In serving their arrows with thread and in serving the ends of bows and the heads of harpoons the Andamanese have several different methods of making fast the ends, and I regret that I did not take more detailed notes on this subject. Their skill in handling this technique is shown in the strength of the binding on their arrows.

This spiral wrapping of one strand round a flexible or rigid object lies at the base of much else in their technique. We have seen that they make considerable use of wrapped-twined work. In this work a strip of material crosses at right angles a number of strips of the same or other material, and a weft is wound round the former, taking in one of the latter at each turn. There are two methods of doing this, either by simple spiral wrapping, as in the mats of thatch, or by what may be called “right and left” or “zig-zag” wrapping, as in the bamboo mat of the Little Andaman. A difference is also made according as the strip of material around which the weft is wrapped is rigid, as in the Little Andaman bamboo mat or in thatching, or flexible, as in the North Andaman mat, where it is one thread while the weft is another thread.

Wrapped work, in which a strip of weft is wound successively round one after another of a number of rigid stakes, is another very simple process that is employed in a number of different ways by the Andamanese. The most important development of wrapped work amongst them is seen in the pot-basket of the South Andaman, in the baskets of the Jarawa and Little Andaman and in the pig’s-skull basket-work of the Jarawa.

Simple twined work is rare in the Andamans. There is hardly any example of it except in the mats of the South Andaman. It would seem probable that the North Andaman mat technique of wrapped-twined work is the earlier, being more in agreement with what we may call the technical habits of the Andamanese, and that the South Andaman mat technique is a later elaboration. In this connection it may be remembered that plaiting, in which also several wefts are twisted one over another, is rarely used in the Andamans.

The process of nippering, by which the natives of the Great Andaman make the cord of their pig-arrows, and the somewhat similar process used in the Little Andaman in making personal ornaments, are quite in accordance with the general trend of the technique, but when such a process is applied to a number of parallel strips of material instead of to two only it constitutes a step towards wicker-work. It is notable, however, that it is only in the Great Andaman that wicker-work is used, and this suggests that it has only been invented or adopted since the separation of the two divisions of the Andamanese.

It is very tempting to regard the different forms of basket, in the order in which they are described above, as so many stages of a process of evolution. It is, at any rate, worth while to state the argument, and to show what the differences between them exactly are. In the North Andaman pot-covering we have (1) the technique simple wrapped work, and (2) the basis six strips of cane tied together in the middle. In the South Andaman pot-basket we have both these features, but the difference in the shape of the pots allows them to be carried in a true basket and we have therefore (3) a rim, with (4) a peculiar method of attaching the uprights to the rim, (5) a number of horizontal (wrapped) wefts instead of one or two, and (6) strengthening strips applied to the horizontal wefts in wrapped work. In the rougher kind of basket made in the Little Andaman we have nearly all the features of the South Andaman pot-basket. The only differences, apart from the shape of the basket, which in each case follows the shape of the pot, are (2) more than six uprights may be used, and (5) the number of horizontal wefts, i.e. the number of spiral turns taken round the basket, is as a rule greater. In the more carefully made Little Andaman basket there are several differences. The uprights are fine whole canes instead of strips of split cane. It is undoubtedly more difficult to procure whole canes of the proper size than simply to split up larger canes, but where the technique is wrapped work the circular section of the uprights improves the quality of the resulting basket, as a strip of cane is more easily wound round a whole cane than round a split cane, and there is less chance of it breaking when a strain is put upon it. Another difference is that in the better Little Andaman baskets the rows of weft are as close together as the peculiar technique will allow. This makes a finer and stronger basket, and is an obvious improvement. The third difference is that in these baskets the strengthening strips are applied not in wrapped work, but in wrapped-twined work, which, however, we have seen is a common technique in the Andamans. In the better baskets of the Little Andaman we find a special feature of some interest in the gap that is left in the weaving near the rim, to allow of strings being tied across the mouth.

When we look at the South Andaman basket the first thing that strikes us is that it is really a conical basket of much the same shape as the Little Andaman basket, but with the bottom dented in to make a kick, so allowing the basket to stand on its bottom. This denting is only rendered possible, however, by the fact that the uprights of the South Andaman basket are thin strips of cane that can be easily bent, and this again depends on the use of wicker-work in the basket instead of wrapped work. It must be remembered that the top of the weaving is finished off with three rows of wrapped-twined work, and this suggests that there may possibly have been a stage of development between the Little Andaman basket and the South Andaman form, in which the uprights were thin strips of cane, and the weft was applied in wrapped-twined work from top to bottom. This, however, is only a surmise. It does certainly seem probable that the South Andaman basket is derived immediately from a form of basket similar to that of the Little Andaman, the great difference being the change to wicker-work technique. The method of attaching the uprights to the rim was doubtless introduced owing to the fact that the original method is unsatisfactory when the uprights are thin and easily broken strips, instead of stout ones.

The North Andaman basket seems to have been derived from one similar to that of the South Andaman by the introduction of two changes, (1) the use of different materials, and (2) the change of shape. The materials used in the north are such as to give a basket on the whole stronger and more durable than that of the south. If a heavy weight be carried in a southern basket the pressure of the basket on the back tends to crack the canes of which it is composed. In the case of a northern basket it may lose its shape, but the materials of which it is composed will give or bend without cracking so readily. The shape of the northern basket is certainly an improvement, as it avoids the top-heaviness of the southern shape. Both the northern and the southern baskets have a gap between the top of the weaving and the rim, like the basket of the Little Andaman.

Thus every step, or nearly every step, in a hypothetical process of evolution is exhibited in the different forms of basket-work. First we have the pot-covering of the North Andaman, then the pot-basket of the South Andaman, then the rougher kind of Little Andaman basket, of the same shape as the pot, then the South Andaman basket of cane with a kick and finally the basket of the North Andaman. The better kind of Little Andaman basket is simply an independent improvement of the other, involving no new technique.

However much or little probability we may attach to this hypothetical reconstruction of the history of basket-work in the Andamans, one thing does seem fairly certain, and that is that the original ancestors of the Andamanese were not acquainted with wicker-work, or had no use for it. In the Little Andaman Division only wrapped work and wrapped-twined work are used, and the wicker-work of the Great Andaman Division has almost certainly been adopted since the two divisions were separated. The consideration of the general technical bias of the Andamanese in their dealings with flexible materials supports the view that in their case wicker-work is later than wrapped work and wrapped-twined work. It seems more than likely that the Andamanese of the larger island have invented wicker-work in its simplest form on the basis of a previous technique of wrapped and wrapped-twined work. To us wicker-work seems such a simple process as almost to need no inventing. It must be recognized however that the general bias of the Andamanese is against using materials in this way. The Andaman Islander shows a decided preference for those processes in which he uses a single flexible material which he winds or wraps round other rigid or flexible material, as in nippering, or wrapped work or wrapped-twined work.

It is impossible to obtain confirmation of this view, however, from a comparison of the Andamanese with the Semang and the Philippine Negritos. The Semang make mat-work bags and wallets of check, and they make (or use) baskets of hexagonal work. Both check and hexagonal work are used by other races in the Malay Peninsula and in Malaysia generally. The present mats and baskets of the Semang cannot therefore be regarded as original Negrito productions. They have almost certainly been adopted through contact with other cultures.

The same thing would seem to apply to the present basket-work of the Philippine Negritos, of which however we know very little.

Netted bags of string are made by the women of both the Great Andaman and the Little Andaman Divisions, and are used for carrying or storing small objects such as shells, fruit, roots, etc. The string used for these is made from the fibre of the Gnetum edule in the Little Andaman, and is generally made from the same fibre in the Great Andaman, but in the latter division the fibre of Hibiscus scandens is prized for this purpose and is used instead of that of the Gnetum when it is available. Small hand fishing nets are made by the women in both divisions from thread of Gnetum fibre. In the Great Andaman Division netting is also used for personal ornaments, the thread used for this purpose being generally made from Anadendron fibre.

The mode of netting is always the same. Netting needles are used, made from slips of bamboo or cane, and varying in size according to the work for which they are intended. The netting string or thread is wound on to this needle. For the foundation of the net a short length of string is taken and the two ends tied together, the loop thus formed being placed over the big toe as the woman sits on the ground.

The knot used in netting is that known as the fisherman’s knot, in use all over the world. The needle is held in the right hand, is passed from above downwards through the loop marked a in the figure, and is drawn through far enough to leave a new loop b of the required size. This loop is held between the thumb and forefinger of the left hand, the uniformity in mesh being apparently obtained largely by the sense of touch. The needle is then passed through the new loop b again from above and is drawn out leaving a loop c, through which the needle is passed once more, forming the finished knot, which is then drawn taut.

When netting is made for personal apparel it is generally ornamented with strips of Dendrobium skin worked in with the thread in the course of the netting. Netting for personal ornaments consists of a sort of bag open at both ends. Each end is tied with a string passed through the ultimate loops, and this string serves to tie the band of net round the waist or neck or wrist or knee.

Fishing nets are attached to a handle. The handles of the Little Andaman Division and those of the Great Andaman Division are different in shape. The Great Andaman net with its hoop can be folded up compactly for carriage, while that of the Little Andaman cannot.

The nets of rope formerly used in the Great Andaman for catching turtle have been already described.

DOMESTIC IMPLEMENTS AND UTENSILS.

The Andamanese are perhaps the only people in the world who have no method of their own of making fire. At the present time they obtain matches from the Settlement of Port Blair, and a few of them have learnt, either from Burmese or from Nicobarese, a method of making fire by the friction of pieces of split bamboo. Formerly, however, they had no knowledge of any method by which fire could be produced. Fires were and still are carefully kept alive in the village, and are carefully carried when travelling. Every hunting party carries its fire with it. The natives are very skilful in selecting wood that will smoulder for a long time without going out and without breaking into flame.

The most interesting of the Andamanese domestic utensils is undoubtedly the cooking-pot. Pots are made in all parts of the Andamans where suitable clay is to be found. The clay is obtained and is freed as far as possible from stones and gritty matter with the hands. It is then moistened with water and kneaded on a board consisting of a portion of a broken canoe. It is worked very stiff and after kneading is rolled beneath the palm of the hand into long thin rolls. These are built up into a pot by coiling, the requisite degree of thickness being obtained by pressure of the thumb and first finger. When the pot has been built up to the required size and shape, the surface, inside and out, is moistened and is scraped over in all directions with an Arca shell. The pot is dried in the sun for a few hours and is then baked by placing inside and around it pieces of burning wood. The pot often cracks in the baking, and another has to be made.

In the North Andaman the pots are made with pointed bottoms, and are generally small, the largest having a capacity of only six or seven pints. They are made by women only. In the South Andaman the pots have rounded bottoms and, on the average, are larger and thicker than those of the North Andaman. They are made by both men and women, the best being made by men. In the Little Andaman the pots are larger, and, particularly, deeper than those of the South Andaman, and have somewhat pointed bottoms. The pots of the Jarawa are similar to those of the Little Andaman.

In the North Andaman pots are not ornamented, but in the South Andaman they are decorated with usually simple patterns of dots and lines made with a small pointed stick. The Little Andaman pots that I have seen were not decorated.

The pots are used for cooking, i.e. for boiling meat and vegetables. In the North Andaman small pots are specially made for melting the composition used for covering the binding on the heads of arrows.

Neither the Semang nor the Philippine Negritos make any kind of pottery. The origin of Andamanese pottery therefore is a problem of some interest. It is almost certain that the early Andamanese were acquainted with pottery before they were divided into the Great Andaman and Little Andaman Divisions. One of the very few words which is the same in all Andamanese languages is the word for pot, buču in the Little Andaman, buǰ in Aka-Bea and peč in Aka-Jeru. The most reasonable hypothesis would therefore seem to be that the Andamanese learnt the method of making pottery by coiling before they reached the Andaman Islands but after they had become separated from that part of the Negrito race from which the Semang and the Philippine Negritos are descended. Of course it is possible that the art of pottery may have been an original possession of the Negritos and that the Semang and Philippine Negritos may have lost it. A people could easily lose the art if they were compelled in the course of their migrations to spend three or four generations in a region that lacked clay suitable for the purpose.

The Andamanese make buckets of wood, which they use for carrying and holding a supply of water. A solid piece is cut from the trunk of a soft-wooded tree and is hollowed out with a chisel made by attaching the blade of an adze to a stick. The natural form of the wood is retained, only the bark being removed from the outside while the inside is chiselled out to leave sides of about a centimetre thick and a bottom of somewhat greater thickness. In order to render the bottom of the bucket water-tight the natives of the Little Andaman pour over it on the inside melted bees’-wax. The natives of the Great Andaman use for this purpose the same composition with which they cover the bindings of their arrows, which certainly is superior to bees’-wax.

A bucket of the shape used in the Great Andaman is shown in Plate VII, on the left. A strip of cane is attached round the middle of the bucket, and to this in turn is attached another strip of cane which, being passed across the front of the chest, enables the bucket to be carried on the back.

The buckets of the Little Andaman are cut with thinner sides than those of the Great Andaman. A strip of cane is fastened round the bucket near the top. From this two other strips of cane are attached by both ends, passing under the bottom, and a third strip is attached which passes over the head and supports the bucket when it is carried on the back. In the Little Andaman the outside of the bucket is charred with fire.

Occasionally pieces of the giant bamboo, which does not grow in the Andamans, are found on the shore, having drifted from the Burma coast. When a sound piece is found it is made into buckets each formed of a single joint.

Water vessels are made from bamboos that do grow in the islands. A length of bamboo of good diameter is cut, containing three joints. The partition of the lowest node is preserved to serve as a bottom, and the other partitions are broken through with an arrow. This is the usual vessel used for carrying water on a journey by land or in a canoe, and for keeping a supply of drinking water in the hut.

A single joint of the same kind of bamboo is used as a cooking vessel. It is cleaned, washed, and dried, and is then filled with meat tightly packed. The top is closed with leaves and the bamboo is placed on the fire until the meat is cooked. Meat is not cooked in this way for immediate consumption. It will keep for twenty-four hours or even longer if not opened. To obtain the contents the bamboo is split open with an adze.

Trays used for food are cut from soft wood of a species of Sterculia with an adze. They are shallow and somewhat long and narrow, with pointed ends.

A large Pinna shell is occasionally used as a tray or dish for holding food, or for mixing clay with water for painting. A Nautilus shell forms a fairly convenient cup or drinking vessel and is frequently used for that purpose, as well as for baling out water from a canoe.

Bamboo tongs are made by bending double a piece split from a bamboo, and cutting the ends to the required shape. They are used for lifting from the fire anything too hot to be taken in the hand and are chiefly of service in cooking.

Digging sticks are made from various kinds of wood, being simply pointed at one or both ends. These sticks are not as a rule preserved, but made as required with an adze and thrown away after use. They are used for digging up edible roots.

Hooks for picking fruit, such as the Artocarpus, are made by attaching a small piece of wood to the end of a bamboo. Hooks for catching crabs are made from the wood of the Rhizophora by taking advantage of the natural form where a small branch joins a larger one.

The fan-shaped leaf of a Licuala palm is made use of in many ways. The edges of the leaflets are sewn together with fine strips of cane, and the sewn leaf is then used either as a sunshade or umbrella for protection from sunshine or rain, as a sleeping mat if the proper article be lacking, as a screen to make the roof or sides of a hut more wind or rain proof, as a wrapper for making objects of all sorts into bundles, and as a winding sheet for a corpse.

Torches are made from resin, which is broken into small pieces and wrapped up in leaves of a species of Crinum (? lorifolium), a few pieces of smouldering charcoal being added before it is tied up. The torch is then parcelled by marling with a strip of cane or a length of some tough creeper. These resin torches are used in turtle-hunting and fishing expeditions on dark nights.

Other torches are made of fragments of rotten Dipterocarpus wood. They are used only in the village.

PERSONAL ORNAMENT; GREAT ANDAMAN.

At the present time the natives of the Great Andaman Division obtain from the Settlement of Port Blair cloth which both men and women wear round the loins. They also obtain beads from which they make necklaces.

The following is a list of the various personal ornaments made by the natives of the Great Andaman Division, and worn by them.

Rope girdle. Every man wears some sort of girdle round his waist, and this was formerly the only object that was constantly worn by men. The girdle may consist of a length of rope of Hibiscus fibre or a length of ornamental cord made by wrapping the yellow skin of the Dendrobium over two strands of Hibiscus fibre and then twisting these into a two-ply cord.

Necklaces and garters of string. Both men and women are often to be seen with a simple piece of string, usually of Anadendron fibre, tied round the neck or around the leg just below the knee.

Ornaments of Pandanus leaf. Every married woman always wears a belt of Pandanus leaf which she is never without for even a moment. When the belt she is wearing needs renewing she puts the new one on before taking the other off. To make such a belt two leaves of the Pandanus Andamanensium are taken and cut to a sufficient length (about 20 cm.). The thorns at the edge of the leaf are removed by cutting off a strip of about 3 mm. wide from the edge, leaving a strip of leaf about 4 cm. broad. The two leaves are placed one on the other and are wound spirally round in three turns so as to give a belt of six thicknesses of leaf, the upper surface of the leaf being on the outside of the belt. The leaves are secured together by tying with thread at the back where the two ends just overlap. At the point where the leaves are tied one or two bundles of strips of Pandanus leaf are attached with thread. The bundle is made of a number of strips of leaf about 90 cm. long and 2·5 cm. broad which are chewed in the mouth to make them soft and then placed together and served over with thread for about 12 cm. in the middle. Belts of this kind are generally worn by married women, but precisely similar belts are worn by men on certain ceremonial occasions. They are called toto t’er-bua in Aka-Jeru.

A very similar belt is made in exactly the same way save that the tassel of leaves at the back consists of narrow strips of Pandanus leaf instead of broad strips. This kind of belt is worn by women only. Examples may be seen in Plate IV (the lower belt of the two) and in Plate XVIII. It is called toto t’er-nyarab in Aka-Jeru.

A belt is made in much the same way out of Pandanus leaves split in half down the midrib, giving strips of about 2·5 cm. broad. Such belts have only a scanty tassel of thin strips of leaf at the back. They are worn by girls and women only. They are called kudu in Aka-Jeru.

Yet another variety of belt is made of whole leaves in exactly the same way as the toto t’er-bua but has no tassel at the back. An example may be seen in Plate IV (the upper belt). It is worn by women.

Girdles are made of strips of Pandanus leaf of about 1·25 cm. broad without any tassel, but with strings of Dentalium shell attached at various points. A girdle of this kind is shown in Plate XV.

Girdles are also made by cutting a number of strips of leaf and softening them by chewing them in the mouth. These strips are laid together and either served over or marled with thread so as to make a girdle of round section. A tassel of leaves similar to that of the toto t’er-bua is attached to the back, and very frequently strings of Dentalium shell are attached at various points. Such a girdle may be worn by either men or women. It is called toto t’er-ŋau in Aka-Jeru.

Yet another kind of girdle is made by splitting Pandanus leaves into thin strips and making them into a kind of wrapped cord, one strip being wrapped spirally round one or more others by the same technique as that used in making bow-strings. A number of coils of strands made in this way are tied together with thread at various points and a tassel similar to that of the toto t’er-bua is added at the back. Such girdles are usually improved by the addition of a few pendent strings of Dentalium shell. They may be worn by either men or women. Their name in Aka-Jeru is toto t’er-mo̱i.

Ornaments of Pandanus leaf to be worn either round the leg just below the knee or round the wrist are made in exactly the same way as the belt called toto t’er-bua, each having a tassel of Pandanus leaf strips attached. Such garters and bracelets are worn at a dance by men.

Other ornaments for wearing round the wrist or knee when dancing are made by the same method as the girdle called toto t’er-ŋau, each having a tassel of strips of leaf.

Similar dancing ornaments are made by plaiting strips of leaf into a three-plait cord of the right length, a tassel of loose leaf strips being left at each end. These are tied round the wrist or knee.

Ornaments for the knee or wrist, such as those shown on the legs of the man in Plate XII, are made by winding spirally a narrow strip of leaf and sewing it. A number of pendent strings of Dentalium shell are attached round it, and often strings are attached at the end of which small shells hang suspended which rattle against one another as the wearer walks or dances.

Chaplets or headdresses worn by men when dancing, and occasionally by women, are made of fairly broad strips of leaf in the same way as the toto t’er-bua. Such a chaplet may have a tassel of narrow strips of Pandanus leaf at the back to which are attached shells that rattle as the wearer moves, or it may have pendent strings of Dentalium shells round the hinder half of its circumference.

In making ornaments of Pandanus leaf such as the toto t’er-bua the upper surface of the strip of leaf is usually ornamented with a design scratched on it with a pointed piece of wood. The design usually covers not only the portion of leaf that is visible when the belt or other object is finished, but also that portion which is not visible, being underneath. Many ornaments of this kind are further decorated when finished with the composition used for covering the bindings of arrows, which is applied with a pointed stick in simple geometrical patterns. The woman shown in Plate X is wearing two belts that have been ornamented with composition in this way.

Woman’s leaf apron. In the South Andaman the women wear a sort of small apron consisting of a number of leaves of the Mimusops littoralis laid one over the other, the stalk ends of the leaves being tucked in between the layers of a belt of Pandanus leaf. The leaves thus hang suspended so as to cover, somewhat inadequately, the pudenda. The natives say that the leaves of the Mimusops are chosen because they remain green longer than those of any other species. As soon as the leaves fade and turn yellow they are renewed. The appearance of the leaf apron may be seen in Plates IV and XV.

The women of the North Andaman have within recent years adopted the fashion of those of the South Andaman in this matter, but formerly they made a similar use of a different kind of leaf from a plant called čainyo in Aka-Jeru, and over the top of the leaves they wore a tassel of the fibre called ko̱ro.

Ornaments of netting and Dentalium shells. Bands of netting (in shape of a cylinder or bag open at both ends) are made of suitable size to tie round the waist, the neck, the leg below the knee or the wrist. Such netting is generally ornamented as it is being made with strips of Dendrobium skin worked in the net. Along the lower edge of the band of netting are attached a number of threads each having Dentalium shells strung on to it like beads. Ornaments of this kind are shown in Plates V and IX. They are worn by both men and women, but usually only on the occasion of a dance or some other ceremony.

Ornaments of bone, etc. These are made with human bones, with the bones of such animals as pig, turtle, dugong, Paradoxurus, monitor lizard, or with pieces of wood or cane, or of coral, of suitable shape. A length of cord, of the fibre of the Hibiscus tiliaceus or of the Ficus laccifera, is taken, and the bones are attached to it by thread. As a rule, strips of Dendrobium skin are worked in, being laid on the bone and bound over with the thread.

Ornaments of shell. Various kinds of shells are perforated and attached to string and are worn round the neck, the head, the knee, or the wrist. A necklace of fresh-water shells (ino ko̱lo to̱i in Aka-Jeru) is shown in Plate IX. A necklace of small sea-shells is shown in Plate XIII. The favourite shell of the Great Andaman tribes is the Dentalium octogonum. The shells are collected from the shore by the women. The closed end of each is bitten off with the teeth and the shells, which thus form cylindrical beads, are strung on to a piece of thread. These strings of shell are worn as necklaces, as shown in Plates IV and XII, and are tied round the wrist and knee and ankle as shown in Plate IV.

Ornaments of seed. The seed-tops of two or three species of mangrove are collected and strung on to thread and worn round the neck. Fig. 40 shows the two kinds of mangrove seed commonly used in this way.

Bamboo necklaces. A necklace is sometimes made of a number of short pieces of bamboo arrow-shaft threaded on to a string. The pieces of bamboo are ornamented with simple designs scratched or cut on them with a shell.

Sling of bark. Another object that may perhaps be mentioned amongst objects of personal ornament is the sling used in carrying children. It is made of a broad strip of the bark of the Hibiscus tiliaceus. Some slings are covered entirely with netting, while others are ornamented with shells in various ways. Plate XIV shows one with strings of Dentalium shell sewn on to it.

Dancing ornaments of Tetranthera wood. A piece of Tetranthera wood, usually part of the shaft of an old pig-arrow, about 30 to 35 cm. long, is taken and made into shavings with a Cyrena shell. The wood is shaved carefully round and round, so as to make a continuous sheet of fibre, as though unwinding a roll of material. A bundle of these shavings is tied at one end and covered with red paint, and forms an object that is carried in the hand or worn in the belt at dances.

PERSONAL ORNAMENT; LITTLE ANDAMAN.

The personal ornaments of the Little Andaman and of the Jarawa are different from those of the Great Andaman Division, and therefore need to be described separately.

Ornaments of bark. Strips of bark (? Celtis cinnamonea) are worn by the men round the waist and round the arm.

Ornamental cord. These are the ornaments most frequently met with both in the Little Andaman and amongst the Jarawa. The basis is a strip of cane, varying in breadth in different examples. On one side of this are laid strips of the yellow skin of the Dendrobium, varying in number according to the breadth of the cane, and the whole is served over or bound with thread. The technique in shown in Fig. 41, which represents diagrammatically the method adopted when there are two strips of Dendrobium skin. Such ornamental cord is made in pieces of considerable length. Often tassels of thread (of Ficus hispida fibre) are attached to it at intervals. The cord is worn wound round the waist, the neck, or the arm. Both men and women wear it.

Woman’s girdle. In the Little Andaman this is made of a number of fine strips of cane tied together with thread. At the front is attached a tassel of fibre made from young unopened palm-leaves (the fibre called ko̱ro in Aka-Jeru).

Woman’s shoulder strap. The women of the Little Andaman wear a strip of bark over the shoulders, crossing over the chest and passing beneath the breasts.

The above brief description of the ornaments of the Andamanese is perhaps sufficient for the purpose of this appendix, which is to determine as far as possible the elements of a primitive Negrito culture. Any complete account of the subject would need a large number of figures and a discussion of many comparatively unimportant details. The first point of importance to be noted is that the personal ornaments of the Little Andaman Division differ markedly from those of the Great Andaman Division. One difference is that the Pandanus leaf, which is used so much and in so many ways in the Great Andaman, seems not to be used at all in the Little Andaman. Another is that shells, which are much used in the Great Andaman, are used to a far less extent in the Little Andaman. The natives of the Little Andaman told me that they sometimes make ornaments of Dentalium shell, but I did not see any such ornament, nor any other ornament of shell, in use. The ornaments of netting worn in the Great Andaman, and forming the usual dancing costume, seem not to be used in the Little Andaman. Finally, perhaps most important of all, there is at present no evidence that the natives of the Little Andaman make ornaments of either human or animal bones. In the Little Andaman the lower jaw of a child is preserved by the parents and is worn by them, but I never saw a human skull (whether of child or adult) so worn, and I was not able to obtain any evidence of the use of strings of human bones such as are constantly seen in a camp of the Great Andaman.

The points of similarity between the ornaments of the Little Andaman and those of the Great Andaman are very few. One of the most striking is the great use that is made in both divisions of the yellow skin of the Dendrobium. It seems probable that here we have evidence of one element of a primitive Negrito culture, for the Negritos of the Philippines also are fond of using a yellow vegetable fibre for their personal ornaments. So far as it is possible to judge from the figure and description, the armlet given by Meyer in Plate iii, No. 11, seems to be very similar to the ornamental cord of the Little Andaman. It is described as a “mit schwarz und gelben Grasstreifchen umflocktener Bambus-reif.”

Another point of resemblance between the Great Andaman and the Little Andaman is that in both very little use is made of feathers or flowers. The natives of the Great Andaman never make use of the feathers of birds. The Jarawa occasionally wear in a chaplet a feather of the king-crow (Dicrurus macrocercus) if we may judge from a specimen in the British Museum. The natives of the Little Andaman certainly do not as a rule make any use of feathers. It would seem, from all accounts, that the Semang and the Philippine Negritos do not make any considerable use of feathers for personal ornament. We may perhaps hazard the conclusion that this is a mark of the Negrito culture distinguishing them from such people as the Papuans or Australians in whose personal ornaments the feathers of birds occupy an important place.

In the Great Andaman flowers are not used as personal ornaments. In the British Museum there is an ornament from the Little Andaman consisting of a strip of bark-fibre with a few flowers attached.

As regards personal ornament, therefore, the only elements of a primitive Negrito culture that we seem to be able to trace in the Andamans at the present day are (1) the use of yellow vegetable fibre, and (2) the absence of any considerable use of feathers.

One element of a primitive Andamanese culture, though not necessarily of a primitive Negrito culture, would seem to be the use of a tassel of the fibre obtained from an unopened palm-leaf which is used by women to cover their genitals in the Little Andaman, and was similarly used until recently in the North Andaman.

HAIR-DRESSING, SCARIFICATION, AND BODY-PAINTING.

At the present time the usual method of hair-dressing in the Great Andaman is to shave a portion of the scalp all round so as to leave a sort of skull-cap of hair, as may be seen in many of the plates of this volume. In some cases a “parting” is made by shaving a narrow strip over the crown. (See Plate XV, for example.) When the hair grows so long as to be uncomfortable the whole head is shaved, and it is then permitted to grow again. In these days the natives cut their hair whenever they have an opportunity of obtaining a pair of scissors. In the Little Andaman women and old men are frequently to be seen with the head entirely shaved. The younger men shave away the lower edge of the hair all round in the same way as the natives of the Great Andaman, but this may be a recent practice.

The fashion of hair-dressing, at any rate for women, has changed within recent times, for Mr Man wrote in 1882 that “the majority of the women every week or ten days shave their heads almost entirely, leaving only two narrow parallel lines of hair, termed gor, from the crown to the nape of the neck [256].” At the present time this style of hair-dressing has fallen entirely into disuse, and the women do their hair in the same way as the men.

The operation of shaving, which is done with a flake of glass or quartz, is performed by women, and never, or very rarely, by men.

Mention has been made in an earlier part of the work of the way in which the natives of the Great Andaman scarify the skin of the body and limbs with a flake of glass or quartz. The Semang do not scarify themselves in this way, but some, at any rate, of the Negritos of the Philippines do.

The natives of the Great Andaman, as described earlier in this work, paint their bodies with a grey clay called odu or og, with a fine white clay, and with red paint made by mixing burnt oxide of iron with fat or oil. The natives of the Little Andaman use the same kind of clay as that called odu or og in the Great Andaman, but instead of applying it in patterns they smear it roughly on the back and front of the trunk. They also use red paint, with which they smear their hair, a practice never met with in the Great Andaman.

ORNAMENTATION.

The Andamanese have simple designs which they paint or incise on their bodies and on a great number of the objects that they make and use. A few typical designs such as are incised or painted on belts of Pandanus leaf are shown in Fig. 42. A very large number of designs are based on the zig-zag line. Examples are shown in Fig. 42 c, e, and g. In all parts of the Great Andaman and also in the Little Andaman the zig-zag line is associated with snakes. Thus in the Little Andaman the simple zig-zag line is called dobo kwolage (dobo = snake). In the North Andaman the design of zig-zag lines painted on the body with white clay is called or-čubi t’era-bat, or-čubi being the name of a species of large snake.

A number of other common designs consist of parallel lines of dots or of short strokes, an example of which is shown in Fig. 42 f.

By far the greater number of the Andamanese designs are based on the following elements, (1) parallel lines crossing a surface from side to side at right angles to the edge or else in a sloping direction (about 45°), (2) parallel lines of dots or of short lines, i.e. parallel broken lines, as in Fig. 42 f, (3) zig-zag lines, which may be single, or parallel or opposed so as to make lines of lozenges. As an example of the way in which these elements may be combined two designs copied from bamboo necklaces are shown in Fig. 43.

It would perhaps be possible to show that there is a real connection between the ornamentation of the Andamanese and that of the Semang, as there is certainly a considerable degree of superficial resemblance, but at present we understand so little the psychological processes underlying the use of ornament amongst primitive peoples that the subject is one of considerable difficulty.

CANOES.

Canoes are in regular use on the coast in all parts of the islands. There are three types of canoe. (1) The Little Andaman canoe, with one outrigger, propelled with paddles or with a pole. (2) The Great Andaman small canoe, with one outrigger, propelled with paddles or with a pole. (3) The Great Andaman large canoe, without outrigger, propelled with oars.

The third kind of canoe mentioned above is a recent innovation. The natives themselves say that such canoes have only been made in recent times, since they have been able to obtain a plentiful supply of iron tools, and so have been able to cut down and hollow out large trunks [257]. They seem to have been invented by the natives of the South Andaman, and copied by those of the Middle and North Andaman.

Canoes of this type are propelled by rowing with short oars, except in shallow water where they are poled. This method of propulsion (rowing as opposed to paddling) was adopted in imitation of the boats with which they have become familiar since the European occupation.

For the small canoe of the Great Andaman five or six species of soft-wooded trees are used, of which three are species of Sterculia. A suitable tree is selected near the shore or a creek, and is felled. Care is taken to make it fall in a particular direction. Thus, if the trunk is curved, the convex side of the curve will have to be the bottom of the canoe, and the tree should fall so that this side lies on the ground. Trees are very rarely regular and before beginning the work of cutting the natives have to decide how it should be cut so as to give the best result, i.e., the greatest stability.

After the tree is felled the trunk is cut to the requisite length. The inside of the canoe is first roughly hollowed out with the adze, no use being made of fire. The bark is then removed from the outside of the trunk and the two ends are shaped. Finally, the inside is carefully finished with the adze so as to reduce the sides and bottom to the requisite thickness.

Except at the stem and stern, the canoe retains the shape of the tree, only the bark being removed, and the sides and bottom being formed of the alburnum or sap-wood. At the stern a small platform is cut projecting over the water, which serves as a seat for the steersman. At the prow a larger platform is cut, on which the harpooner stands when he is harpooning turtle or fish. Below these two platforms the ends are not cut away squarely but are rounded from side to side. The prow of the canoe is in every case the lower and therefore broader end of the trunk. It is only in this way that a sufficiently large platform can be provided for the harpooner.

The trees used for canoes have a pithy core and there is therefore a small patch in both the prow and the stern which would admit the water. In former times these two places were caulked with bees’-wax. At the present time the natives often nail a piece of tin (part of an old kerosene tin, for example), with some rags beneath it, on the outside of the canoe at these two places.

When the hull of the canoe is finished it is moved to the shore or to the bank of a creek and the outrigger is attached. The float is a straight spar of light wood. In the North Andaman the wood of the Hibiscus tiliaceus is often used, but Mr Man says that in the South Andaman the float is always made from a species of Sterculia (mai in Aka-Bea) [258]. The ends of the float are only roughly shaped. The broader end of the float is forward.

The float is attached to a number of booms, of which there are never less than three in the smallest canoes, while there may be as many as eight or nine in a large canoe. A medium-sized canoe has five or six booms. The boom is a thin straight piece of tough wood, of which one end is sharpened and thrust right through two holes cut in the gunwales of the canoe opposite to one another, the sharpened end projecting for a few inches on the port side of the canoe. The boom thus projects about three feet on the starboard side on the level of the gunwale.

Where the boom passes through the gunwales of the canoe it is bound with cane, and the cane is bound round the whole of that part of the boom that is within the canoe between the two gunwales. (See Fig. 44.) This portion of the boom forms a seat for the man paddling the canoe, so that he sits on a level with the gunwale with his feet on the floor of the canoe.

The boom is attached to the float by means of sticks of tough wood. These sticks, having pointed ends, are driven into the float, one perpendicular, and the other two at an angle on each side. The tops of the three sticks are fastened to the boom a few inches from its end by means of a strip of cane. The arrangement of the three sticks is shown in Fig. 45.

The strip of cane with which the sticks are bound to the boom is wound spirally round the boom itself for a few inches and is then carried down round the float and back to the boom again on the other side. The three sticks provide an efficient resistance against a longitudinal thrust (i.e., a thrust in the same direction as the line of the canoe). The strip of cane passing from the boom round the float and back to the boom again provides a resistance against any lateral thrust on the float. The three sticks, being driven in when the wood of the float is dry, do not readily work loose, as the water in which it is constantly immersed keeps the wood swollen. The cane binding, including the stays on each side, may work loose, but can readily be tightened or renewed. Each of the booms is attached to the float in exactly the same way, and the whole arrangement is very efficient in keeping the float rigidly attached to the hull in such a position that it rests on the surface of the water when the hull itself rides freely balanced.

Canoes of this type vary in dimensions within wide limits. A small canoe with only three booms, which would carry three persons, measured 4·85 metres in length over all with a beam of about 35 centimetres. A large canoe may measure as much as 9 metres with a proportionate beam.

A well-made canoe will often balance well enough as it stands, but it is sometimes necessary to balance it with ballast of stones or pieces of coral. In any case the canoe is easily overturned in a rough sea unless the occupants can maintain the balance with their bodies. As the canoe is made of light wood it cannot sink even when full of water, and the natives easily right an overturned canoe, bale it out, and get in again, even in a rough sea.

The furniture of a canoe consists of the ballast (of stone), a piece of stone (or sometimes a piece of tin) on which to keep a small fire smouldering, an anchor consisting of a lump of coral or stone attached to a length of rope, a Nautilus shell or two for baling out the canoe, a bamboo pole of about 18 feet in length for poling the canoe in shallow water, and paddles.

In the platform overhanging the prow a few holes are cut. These holes are sometimes used to attach the rope by which the canoe is fastened to an anchor. One or more turtle skulls are often attached so as to hang down beneath the platform. In turtle-hunting expeditions on dark nights a torch is slung beneath the forward platform so as to shed its light on the water while the harpooner remains in shadow.

When a canoe is finished it is decorated with designs painted on it with red paint and white clay, particularly on the forward platform and along the gunwale. These designs soon wear off when the canoe is in use and are not renewed.

The paddles used by the Andamanese vary considerably in size and to some extent in shape, but the following description with its accompanying figure gives a fair idea of a typical specimen. The whole paddle has a length of 123·5 centimetres, the shaft being 85 centimetres and the blade 38·5 centimetres. The diameter of the shaft from the blade to the middle is 2·6 centimetres, and from the middle towards the handle end it tapers to a point. The shaft is circular in section throughout its length. The blade is leaf-shaped, pointed bluntly at the apex. In section it is plano-convex, with a maximum thickness of 1·3 centimetres and a width of 8·7 centimetres. Paddles are cut with an adze from the wood of the Myristica longifolia and planed with a boar’s tusk. They are often ornamented, when new, with painted designs in red and white.

In deep water the canoe is paddled. Each of the occupants sits facing forward. The steersman sits on the stern platform. The others sit on the seats provided by the outrigger booms. Each man paddles on which side he chooses. It rests with the steersman to maintain the canoe in its proper course. In shallow water the canoe is propelled with a pole. A man stands on the forward platform and poles the canoe, steering as he does so. In a fairly large canoe a man at the stern may also take a pole and, standing up, help to propel the canoe.

All the work connected with the making of canoes and paddles is done by men alone, except the painting, which is usually done by women. It is the men also who make most use of canoes.

The large canoe, that is now made by all the tribes of the Great Andaman Division, is simply a canoe of the same general shape as the Great Andaman outrigger canoe, cut from a larger tree and without the outrigger. The shape of the hull, with its platforms fore and aft, is exactly the same. It seems that when the natives obtained a plentiful supply of iron tools (after 1858) they began to cut down and hollow out larger trees than formerly. Having made these larger canoes they found that they would, when well cut and ballasted with stone, float quite well without an outrigger. (It may be mentioned that the hull of a small canoe is always tested on the water before the outrigger is attached.) Indeed a well cut canoe of large size floats and balances better in a rough sea than a smaller one with an outrigger. It is possible that at first these large canoes were propelled with paddles just as the outrigger canoes are, the paddlers facing forward. Having learnt to understand the principle of the oar, through their contact with the Penal Settlement, the natives applied this principle to their own canoes. It could not, of course, be applied to the small canoes, as the shape of the canoe and the position of the paddler make the use of an oar impossible. It could be applied very easily, however, to the new large canoes. In these the oarsman does not sit on a level with the gunwale, but sits down in the hull itself on a piece of wood resting on the two sides of the hull a few inches above the floor. The gunwale of the canoe is thus about on a level with the bottom of his sternum. A number of holes are made in the gunwale on each side, and by means of these, loops of cane are attached to the gunwale. The oar, which is shaped in imitation of European oars, but with a short shaft, is thrust through the loop of cane, which serves as a fulcrum or rowlock. The rowers face aft. A man at the stern steers with a paddle. In shallow water the large canoes are propelled with poles in exactly the same way as the smaller canoes.

In the bow, at about the position that would be occupied by the foremost boom in an outrigger canoe, holes are made in the gunwale on each side and a piece of wood is thrust through them as a sort of thwart. This is to provide a means of making fast the end of the harpoon line or the anchor line, and thus serves a purpose that is served by the foremost boom in the outrigger canoe.

The large canoes are not quite so useful in turtle-hunting as the smaller outrigger variety, as they cannot be so quickly turned when the pursued turtle doubles. Very often a large canoe and a small canoe are taken together on an expedition, the harpooning being mostly done from the smaller one while the captured turtles are placed in the larger one. A small canoe with three or four men cannot hold more than one or at most two big turtles, whereas as many as ten or a dozen can be stowed in one of the large canoes.

The chief use of the large canoes is to make journeys from place to place. One of the largest will hold as many as thirty men and women with their baggage, whereas an outrigger canoe would never carry more than nine or ten. Further, there is less chance of an even heavily laden big canoe capsizing in a rough sea than of an outrigger canoe doing so. One result of the introduction of the large canoe has therefore been to enable the natives to move much more freely about the islands than formerly. The passage from the South Andaman to Ritchie’s Archipelago, for instance, would only be attempted in an outrigger canoe on a very calm day, whereas in a large canoe it can be successfully accomplished even when there is something of a sea running.

The small canoe of the Little Andaman is fairly similar to that of the Great Andaman. There are three differences. (1) The stem and stern are squarely cut in the Little Andaman, instead of being rounded off. (2) The outrigger booms are attached to the top of the gunwale by cane binding which passes through holes made in the gunwales, instead of being themselves passed through holes in the gunwale. (3) The float is attached to the booms in a different and less efficient manner. Three pointed hard-wood sticks are driven into the float, but they are all three approximately perpendicular. They are bound at the top to the boom, but there are no stays of cane to maintain the float rigid against a lateral thrust. In other respects the Little Andaman canoe is the same as the Great Andaman canoe.

The Jarawa of the South Andaman do not at the present time make use of canoes. This is apparently because, through their hostility with the Aka-Bea, they have been confined to the interior of the island. They make rafts of bamboos lashed together for crossing creeks and inlets. The forest-dwellers of the Great Andaman Division seem also to have made occasional use of similar rafts for the same purpose.

A canoe of the North Sentinel was seen by Mr Gilbert Rogers during a visit to that island in 1903 [259]. It had been hollowed out of a tree and was about 15 feet long. The ends of the canoe were cut off perpendicularly to its length leaving a piece of the tree about one inch thick projecting for about three inches beyond either end to form a small but rickety seat. The log from which the canoe was cut was curved so that the ends were slightly higher than the middle. It had a float supported by six booms passing through holes cut in the sides of the canoe. These booms were fastened to smaller pieces of stick fixed into the sides of the canoe beneath them. The outrigger was attached to each boom by two small pointed sticks driven into the float and tied to the boom above with cane. There was one small paddle, a Nautilus shell for a baler, and five poles resting on the outrigger booms. These point to the canoe being poled along in the lagoon, which is quite shallow, rather than to its being used for long journeys or outside the reefs which surround the island. The canoe was 18 inches in diameter at the smaller end and perhaps 30 inches wide at the larger end.

This description shows that the canoe of the North Sentinel is on the whole more like that of the Little Andaman than like that of the Great Andaman.

It seems probable that the Andaman Islands were peopled by sea from the coast of Burma. If this were so, then the original ancestors of the Andamanese must have been in possession of canoes. A consideration of the present Andaman canoes suggests that their ancestors had canoes with a single outrigger on the starboard side, with a number of booms. Of the different methods of attaching the booms to the float, it is possible that the method now in use in the Little Andaman (and apparently also in the North Sentinel) is primitive, and that the Great Andaman attachment is an improvement that has been invented since the separation of the two divisions. On the other hand it is not impossible that the Great Andaman attachment is primitive, and that in the Little Andaman we have a degeneration that might be due to the fact that the Little Andaman (and equally the North Sentinel) provides much less scope for maritime pursuits than the Great Andaman.

The recent invention of the large canoe in the Great Andaman and the adoption of the principle of the oar shows that the Andamanese readily adopt new inventions when these are clearly of service to them.

Turning now to the Semang, as these people live inland they have no use for canoes. They make rafts of bamboos lashed together with which they float down the rivers, returning overland.

Some of the Philippine Negritos seem to live on the coast and possibly have canoes, but nothing is known about these.

CONCLUSION.

The examination of the technical culture of the Andamanese given above has been sufficient to enable us to make a few statements as to what was probably the culture of the Negritos before they were split up into isolated groups. It is highly probable that they obtained their subsistence solely by hunting and collecting vegetable products. They had bows and arrows, the form of bow being probably fairly similar to that used at the present day in the Little Andaman, while for hunting the larger animals they had arrows with detachable heads. They possibly had no knowledge of any way of making implements of stone, but made use only of such materials as wood, bone, and shell. It is not probable that they possessed the art of making pottery, and their basketry and mat-work were probably confined to very simple forms. In their personal ornaments there is reason to think that they showed a fondness for bright yellow vegetable fibre, and made little or no use of the feathers of birds. The ornamentation of their utensils was probably confined to the use of the simplest forms of geometric design with a preponderance of the zig-zag and the lozenge. Finally their huts consisted of a single sloping roof sufficient to afford shelter for a single family or larger huts consisting of such small huts joined together.

We have seen that since the Andamanese have occupied their present home, or at any rate since the Great Andaman Division and the Little Andaman Division have been separated from one another, many changes, some of considerable importance, have taken place in the Andaman technology. In general it would seem that the technical culture of the Great Andaman has changed more than that of the Little Andaman. Putting aside the effect on the technology of the introduction of iron, there is no evidence that any of the changes that have taken place in the Great Andaman have been due to outside influence. Important modifications have taken place in the form of the bow, in the forms and technique of baskets, and in personal ornaments, and in all these instances there is no reason to think that these changes have not been brought about by the natives themselves without the influence of contact with other people. Their method of working iron, based as it is, to all appearance, on their former method of working shell, shows that even here, though the iron itself came to them from outside, and even though they may have learnt its use from seeing it used by aliens, still they have not learnt from others how to fashion the metal into shape by heating it. Thus, so far as their technical culture is concerned, there is no evidence whatever that the Andamanese have ever been influenced by contact with any other race since the time, now many centuries ago, when they first reached the islands.

On the other hand there is some probability that the ancestors of the Andamanese, before they first reached the islands, or at any rate before the isolation of the Little Andaman from the Great Andaman, had learnt from some other race how to make pottery, and it is possible that at the same time they may have acquired other elements of their culture, such as the outrigger canoe. We may even give a guess as to the particular culture from which the ancestors of the Andamanese may have adopted these elements, which may well have been that of a branch of that people of whom an offshoot peopled the Nicobars.

Confirmation of these hypotheses, if confirmation be ever forthcoming, can only be obtained in the study of the history of races and of culture in south-eastern Asia. Until we have much fuller knowledge of the culture of the Semang and the Negritos of the Philippines, any conclusions that may be drawn from the study of the Andamanese alone must be regarded as provisional working hypotheses only, and it is as such that they are here put forward.

APPENDIX B

THE SPELLING OF ANDAMANESE WORDS

In writing words of the Andaman languages I have used a slightly modified form of the “Anthropos” Alphabet of Father Schmidt [260], which I consider to be by far the most scientific alphabet for writing down the languages of primitive peoples. The consonants are

k g y ŋ č ǰ ń t d n l r p b w m

The letter ŋ is used for the nasalised guttural stop (ng in English) which should always be written with one letter, since it is a single consonant, quite distinct from the double consonant ng of “ungodly.” The letter ń stands for a palatalised n, something like the sound in French “agneau.” The č and ǰ, which, in the “Anthropos” Alphabet represent the sounds in English “church” and “judge” respectively, should, I think, really be written t′ and d′. The t′ is a palatalised t, as heard in “Tuesday,” whereas the č is a fricative, often regarded as a compound of t and sh. It is not always easy to distinguish t′ from č and d′ from ǰ, but I believe the Andamanese sounds are really t′ and d′, and this is to some extent confirmed by the fact that they have no s, z, sh or zh in their languages. I have used the č and ǰ because former writers had written these sounds ch and j and it seemed worth while to make some sacrifice of scientific exactness in order to avoid too great a divergence in spelling from previous workers in the same field.

The remaining consonants may be pronounced as in English. I have not distinguished between different varieties of the consonants l, r, t, d, k and g. Further I have not distinguished between p and p̌ (the labial fricative). Many of the words of the Northern languages that I have written with a p are often pronounced with a p̌ sound.

The vowels are

i u e o ö e̱ o̱ a̤ a̱̱ a

These may be pronounced as follows:

i, intermediate between the vowels of “it” and “eat.” e, as the vowel in “say.” e̱, as the e in “error” or the a in “Mary.” a̤, as the a in “man.” a, as the a in French “pas.” a̱̱, as the a in “path.” o̱, as the vowel in “not” or in “nought.” o, as in “go.” u, as the vowel in “fool.” ö, nearly as the German ö.

I have not attempted to distinguish all the different varieties of vowel sounds that are found in the different dialects. Slightly different but closely related sounds are represented by the same letter [261].

In writing Andamanese words I have followed the practice of separating by hyphens the affixes from the stems in each word. In the Andamanese languages there are two main classes of words. The first class consists of words each of which is a simple stem (without affixes). Such words are the names of what the Andaman Islander regards as simple independent objects or things, such as roa, canoe, baraba, a mat, ra, a pig. The second class consists of words each of which is formed of a stem and a prefix. In the language of the Little Andaman (and in that of the Jarawa as far as known) these prefixes are simple vowels, i-, e-, a-, o-, and u-. In the languages of the Great Andaman Division they are such as ot-, aka-, era-, e-, u-, ab-, etc. Such words are used to denote dependent objects such as the parts, qualities or actions of a thing. Thus while a pig (ra) or a canoe (roa) is an independent object and is therefore denoted by a simple stem, the head or prow of a pig or canoe, being a part of a “thing,” is denoted by a word (ot-čo) consisting of a stem (-čo) and a prefix (ot-). So also the quality of bigness which may belong to a pig or a canoe is denoted by a word (er-kuro) consisting of a stem (-kuro) and a prefix (er-).

Thus the second class includes many words that we should call nouns, all the words we should call adjectives and practically all those we should regard as verbs. In the Andamanese languages the distinction between nouns and adjectives is not very clear and even less so is the distinction between adjectives and verbs. Whereas the distinction between things (independent objects) on the one hand, and the parts, qualities, actions, etc. of things on the other, is of the utmost importance. For this reason I have thought it advisable always to separate by a hyphen the prefix and the stem in words of the second class.

In compound words or phrases in which the second word consists of prefix and stem it is common to insert before the prefix a t or an l. Thus ra t’er-kuro is “a big pig” and ra t’ot-čo is “a pig’s head.” In writing such words I have placed an inverted comma between the t or l and the prefix. This infix t must not be confused with the first personal pronoun in the North Andaman, Tio, contracted to T’ before a prefix.

NOTES

[1] “Notes on the Languages of the Andaman Islands,” by A. R. Brown, Anthropos, Vol. IX, 1914, pp. 36–52 with map. This paper contains notes on I, The Relations of the Andamanese Languages, and II, The Formation of Words in the Language of the Little Andaman.

[2] I hope to be able to publish shortly the first volume of a work in which the same method is applied to the interpretation of the social institutions of the natives of Australia.

[3] The formation of the Arakan Fold (including the Andaman and Nicobar Islands), dates from the middle of the Tertiary Period, and was apparently connected with the great movements that produced the Himalaya-Alpine mountain system and the Circum-Pacific Fold. The Andaman Sea, in the later Tertiary period, was prolonged much further to the north, over the region now occupied by the Pegu Yomah.

[4] This line of volcanic activity is a minor continuation of the Sunda Range of volcanoes of Java and Sumatra. It is continued northward, parallel to the Arakan Fold, as far as the extinct volcano of Puppadoung, east of Pagan, not far from Lat. 21°.

[5] The flora of the Andamans and Cocos contains a number of species, the presence of which can only be explained by the supposition of a past land connection with the Arakan region. (See Prain, “The Vegetation of the Coco Group,” Journ. Asiatic Soc. of Bengal, Vol. LX,