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From Ritual to Romance

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Title: From Ritual to Romance

Author: Jessie L. Weston


        
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4090]
                Most recently updated: July 15, 2025

Language: English

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From Ritual to Romance

by Jessie L. Weston


“Animus ad amplitudinem Mysteriorum pro modulo suo dilatetur, non
Mysteria ad angustias animi constringantur.” (Bacon.)

“Many literary critics seem to think that an hypothesis about obscure
and remote questions of history can be refuted by a simple demand for
the production of more evidence than in fact exists.—But the true test
of an hypothesis, if it cannot be shewn to conflict with known truths,
is the number of facts that it correlaates, and explains.” (Cornford,
_Origins of Attic Comedy_.)




Preface


In the introductory Chapter the reader will find the aim and object of
these studies set forth at length. In view of the importance and
complexity of the problems involved it seemed better to incorporate
such a statement in the book itself, rather than relegate it to a
Preface which all might not trouble to read. Yet I feel that such a
general statement does not adequately express my full debt of
obligation.

Among the many whose labour has been laid under contribution in the
following pages there are certain scholars whose published work, or
personal advice, has been specially illuminating, and to whom specific
acknowledgment is therefore due. Like many others I owe to Sir J. G.
Frazer the initial inspiration which set me, as I may truly say, on the
road to the Grail Castle. Without the guidance of _The Golden Bough_ I
should probably, as the late M. Gaston Paris happily expressed it,
still be wandering in the forest of Broceliande!

During the Bayreuth Festival of 1911 I had frequent opportunities of
meeting, and discussion with, Professor von Schroeder. I owe to him not
only the introduction to his own work, which I found most helpful, but
references which have been of the greatest assistance; _e.g._ my
knowledge of Cumont’s _Les Religions Orientales_, and Scheftelowitz’s
valuable study on _Fish Symbolism_, both of which have furnished
important links in the chain of evidence, is due to Professor von
Schroeder.

The perusal of Miss J. E. Harrison’s _Themis_ opened my eyes to the
extended importance of these Vegetation rites. In view of the evidence
there adduced I asked myself whether beliefs which had found expression
not only in social institution, and popular custom, but, as set forth
in Sir G. Murray’s study on Greek Dramatic Origins, attached to the
work, also in Drama and Literature, might not reasonably—even
inevitably—be expected to have left their mark on Romance? The one
seemed to me a necessary corollary of the other, and I felt that I had
gained, as the result of Miss Harrison’s work, a wider, and more
assured basis for my own researches. I was no longer engaged merely in
enquiring into the sources of a fascinating legend, but on the
identification of another field of activity for forces whose potency as
agents of evolution we were only now beginning rightly to appreciate.

Finally, a casual reference, in Anrich’s work on the Mysteries, to the
_Naassene Document_, caused me to apply to Mr G. R. S. Mead, of whose
knowledge of the mysterious border-land between Christianity and
Paganism, and willingness to place that knowledge at the disposal of
others, I had, for some years past, had pleasant experience. Mr Mead
referred me to his own translation and analysis of the text in
question, and there, to my satisfaction, I found, not only the final
link that completed the chain of evolution from Pagan Mystery to
Christian Ceremonial, but also proof of that wider significance I was
beginning to apprehend. The problem involved was not one of Folk-lore,
not even one of Literature, but of Comparative Religion in its widest
sense.

Thus, while I trust that my co-workers in the field of Arthurian
research will accept these studies as a permanent contribution to the
elucidation of the Grail problem, I would fain hope that those scholars
who labour in a wider field, and to whose works I owe so much, may find
in the results here set forth elements that may prove of real value in
the study of the evolution of religious belief.

J. L. W.


Paris,

    _October_, 1919.




CONTENTS




CHAPTER I
Introductory

Nature of the Grail problem. Unsatisfactory character of results
achieved. Objections to Christian Legendary origin; to Folk-lore
origin. Elements in both theories sound. Solution to be sought in a
direction which will do justice to both. Sir J. G. Frazer’s _Golden
Bough_ indicates possible line of research. Sir W. Ridgeway’s criticism
of _Vegetation_ theory examined. _Dramas and Dramatic Dances_. The
Living and not the Dead King the factor of importance. Impossibility of
proving human origin for Vegetation Deities. Not Death but Resurrection
the essential centre of Ritual. _Muharram_ too late in date and lacks
Resurrection feature. Relation between defunct heroes and special
localities. Sanctity possibly antecedent to connection. _Mana_ not
necessarily a case of relics. Self-acting weapons frequent in Medieval
Romance. Sir J. G. Frazer’s theory holds good. Remarks on method and
design of present Studies.

CHAPTER II
The Task of the Hero

Essential to determine the original nature of the task imposed upon the
hero. Versions examined. The Gawain forms—_Bleheris, Diû Crône_.
Perceval versions—_Gerbert, prose Perceval, Chrétien de Troyes,
Perlesvaus, Manessier, Peredur, Parzival_. Galahad—Queste. Result,
primary task healing of Fisher King and removal of curse of Waste Land.
The two inter-dependent. Illness of King entails misfortune on Land.
Enquiry into nature of King’s disability. _Sone de Nansai_. For
elucidation of problem necessary to bear in mind close connection
between Land and Ruler. Importance of Waste Land _motif_ for criticism.

CHAPTER III
The Freeing of the Waters

Enquiry may commence with early Aryan tradition. The _Rig-Veda_.
Extreme importance assigned to Indra’s feat of “Freeing the Waters.”
This also specific achievement of Grail heroes. Extracts from
_Rig-Veda_. Dramatic poems and monologues. Professor von Schroeder’s
theory. _Mysterium und Mimus. Ṛishyaçṛiñga_ drama. Parallels with
_Perceval_ story. Result, the specific task of the Grail hero not a
literary invention but an inheritance of Aryan tradition.

CHAPTER IV
Tammuz and Adonis

General objects to be attained by these Nature Cults. Stimulation of
Fertility, Animal and Vegetable. Principle of Life ultimately conceived
of in anthropomorphic form. This process already advanced in
_Rig-Veda_. Greek Mythology preserves intermediate stage. The _Eniautos
Daimon_. Tammuz—earliest known representative of Dying God. Character
of the worship. Origin of the name. _Lament for Tammuz_. His death
affects not only Vegetable but Animal life. Lack of artistic
representation of Mysteries. Mr Langdon’s suggestion. Ritual possibly
dramatic. Summary of evidence. Adonis—Phoenician-Greek equivalent of
Tammuz. Probably most popular and best known form of Nature Cult.
Mythological tale of Adonis. Enquiry into nature of injury. Importance
of recognizing true nature of these cults and of the ritual observed.
Varying dates of celebration. Adonis probably originally _Eniautos
Daimon_. Principle of Life in general, hence lack of fixity in date.
Details of the ritual. Parallels with the Grail legend examined. Dead
Knight or Disabled King. Consequent misfortunes of Land. The Weeping
Women. The Hairless Maiden. Position of Castle. Summing up. Can
incidents of such remote antiquity be used as criticism for a Medieval
text?

CHAPTER V
Medieval and Modern Forms of Nature Ritual

Is it possible to establish chain of descent connecting early Aryan and
Babylonian Ritual with Classic, Medieval and Modern forms of Nature
worship? Survival of Adonis cult established. Evidence of Mannhardt and
Frazer. Existing Continental customs recognized as survivals of ancient
beliefs. Instances. ‘Directly related’ to Attis-Adonis cult. Von
Schroeder establishes parallel between existing Fertility procession
and _Rig-Veda_ poem. Identification of Life Principle with King.
Prosperity of land dependent on king as representative of god. Celts.
Greeks. Modern instances, the Shilluk Kings. Parallel between Shilluk
King, Grail King and Vegetation Deity. _Sone de Nansai_ and the _Lament
for Tammuz_. Identity of situation. Plea for unprejudiced criticism.
Impossibility of such parallels being fortuitous; the result of
deliberate intention, not an accident of literary invention. If
identity of central character be admitted his relation to Waste Land
becomes fundamental factor in criticizing versions. Another African
survival.

CHAPTER VI
The Symbols

Summary of results of previous enquiry. _The Medieval Stage_. Grail
romances probably contain record of secret ritual of a Fertility cult.
The Symbols of the cult—Cup, Lance, Sword, Stone, or Dish. Plea for
treating Symbols as a related group not as isolated units. Failure to
do so probably cause of unsatisfactory result of long research.
Essential to recognize Grail story as an original whole and to treat it
in its _ensemble_ aspect. We must differentiate between origin and
accretion. Instances. _The Legend of Longinus_. Lance and Cup not
associated in Christian Art. Evidence. The _Spear_ of Eastern Liturgies
only a _Knife. The Bleeding Lance_. Treasures of the Tuatha de Danann.
Correspond as a group with Grail Symbols. Difficulty of equating
Cauldron-Grail. Probably belong to a different line of tradition.
Instances given. Real significance of Lance and Cup. Well known as Life
Symbols. The Samurai. Four Symbols also preserved as Suits of the
Tarot. Origin of Tarot discussed. Probably reached Europe from the
East. Use of the Symbols in Magic. Probable explanation of these
various appearances to be found in fact that associated group were at
one time symbols of a Fertility cult. Further evidence to be examined.

CHAPTER VII
The Sword Dance

Relation of Sword Dance, Morris Dance, and Mumming Play. Their
Ceremonial origin now admitted by scholars. Connected with seasonal
Festivals and Fertility Ritual. Earliest Sword Dancers, the Maruts. Von
Schroeder, _Mysterium und Mimus_. Discussion of their nature and
functions. The Kouretes. Character of their dance. Miss J. E. Harrison,
Themis. The Korybantes. Dance probably sacrificial in origin. The
Salii. Dramatic element in their dance. Mars, as Fertility god.
Mamurius Veturius. Anna Perenna. Character of dance seasonal. Modern
British survivals. The Sword Dance. Mostly preserved in North.
Variants. Mr E. K. Chambers, _The Medieval Stage_. The Mumming Plays.
Description. Characters. Recognized as representing Death and Revival
of Vegetation Deity. Dr Jevons, _Masks and the Origin of the Greek
Drama_. Morris Dances. No dramatic element. Costume of character
significant. Possible survival of theriomorphic origin. Elaborate
character of figures in each group. Symbols employed. The Pentangle.
The Chalice. Present form shows dislocation. Probability that three
groups were once a combined whole and Symbols united. Evidence
strengthens view advanced in last Chapter. Symbols originally a group
connected with lost form of Fertility Ritual. Possible origin of Grail
Knights to be found in Sword Dancers.

CHAPTER VIII
The Medicine Man

The _rôle_ of the Medicine Man, or Doctor in Fertility Ritual. Its
importance and antiquity. The _Rig-Veda_ poem. Classical evidence, Mr
F. Cornford. Traces of Medicine Man in the Grail romances. Gawain as
Healer. Persistent tradition. Possible survival from pre-literary form.
Evidence of the _Triads_. Peredur as Healer. Evolution of theme. _Le
Dist de l’Erberie_.

CHAPTER IX
The Fisher King

Summary of evidence presented. Need of a ‘test’ element. To be found in
central figure. Mystery of his title. Analysis of variants. _Gawain_
version. _Perceval_ version. Borron alone attempts explanation of
title. _Parzival. Perlesvaus. Queste. Grand Saint Graal_. Comparison
with surviving ritual variants. Original form King dead, and restored
to life. Old Age and Wounding themes. Legitimate variants. Doubling of
character a literary device. Title. Why _Fisher_ King? Examination of
Fish Symbolism. Fish a Life symbol. Examples. Indian—Manu, Vishnu,
Buddha. Fish in Buddhism. Evidence from China. Orpheus. Babylonian
evidence. Tammuz _Lord of the Net_. Jewish Symbolism. The Messianic
Fish-meal. Adopted by Christianity. Evidence of the catacombs. Source
of Borron’s Fish-meals. Mystery tradition not Celtic Folk-tale.
Comparison of version with _Finn_ story. With Messianic tradition.
_Epitaph of Bishop Aberkios. Voyage of Saint Brandan_. Connection of
Fish with goddess Astarte. Cumont. Connection of Fish and Dove. Fish as
Fertility Symbol. Its use in Marriage ceremonies. Summing up of
evidence. Fisher King inexplicable from Christian point of view.
Folk-lore solution unsatisfactory. As a Ritual survival completely in
place. Centre of action, and proof of soundness of theory.

CHAPTER X
The Secret of the Grail (1)

_The Mysteries_

The Grail regarded as an object of awe. Danger of speaking of Grail or
revealing Its secrets. Passages in illustration. Why, if survival of
Nature cults, popular, and openly performed? A two-fold element in
these cults, _Exoteric, Esoteric_. The Mysteries. Their influence on
Christianity to be sought in the _Hellenized_ rather than the
_Hellenic_ cults. Cumont. Rohde. Radical difference between Greek and
Oriental conceptions. Lack of evidence as regards Mysteries on the
whole. Best attested form that connected with Nature cults.
Attis-Adonis. Popularity of the Phrygian cult in Rome. Evidence as to
Attis Mysteries. Utilized by Neo-Platonists as vehicle for teaching.
Close connection with Mithraism. The Taurobolium. Details of Attis
Mysteries. Parallels with the Grail romances.

CHAPTER XI
The Secret of the Grail (2)

_The Naassene Document_

Relations between early Christianity, and pre-Christian cults. Early
Heresies. Hippolytus, and _The Refutation of all Heresies_. Character
of the work. _The Naassene Document_. Mr Mead’s analysis of text. A
synthesis of Mysteries. Identification of Life Principle with the
Logos. Connection between Drama and Mysteries of Attis. Importance of
the Phrygian Mysteries. Naassene claim to be sole Christians.
Significance of evidence. Vegetation cults as vehicle of high spiritual
teaching. Exoteric and Esoteric parallels with the Grail tradition.
Process of evolution sketched. Bleheris. _Perlesvaus_. Borron and the
Mystery tradition. Christian Legendary, and Folk-tale, secondary, not
primary, features.

CHAPTER XII
Mithra and Attis

Problem of close connection of cults. Their apparent divergence. Nature
of deities examined. Attis. Mithra. The Messianic Feast. Dieterich,
_Eine Mithrasliturgie_. Difference between the two initiations. Link
between Phrygian, Mithraic, and Christian, Mysteries to be found in
their higher, esoteric, teaching. Women not admitted to Mithraic
initiation. Possible survival in Grail text. Joint diffusion through
the Roman Empire. Cumont’s evidence. Traces of cult in British Isles.
Possible explanation of unorthodox character of Grail legend. Evidence
of survival of cult in fifth century. The _Elucidation_ a possible
record of historic facts. Reason for connecting Grail with Arthurian
tradition.

CHAPTER XIII
The Perilous Chapel

The adventure of the Perilous Chapel in Grail romances. _Gawain_ form.
_Perceval_ versions. _Queste. Perlesvaus. Lancelot. Chevalier à Deux
Espées_. Perilous Cemetery. Earliest reference in _Chastel Orguellous.
Âtre Perilleus. Prose Lancelot_. Adventure part of ‘Secret of the
Grail.’ The Chapel of Saint Austin. _Histoire de Fulk Fitz-Warin_.
Genuine record of an initiation. Probable locality North Britain. Site
of remains of Mithra-Attis cults. Traces of Mystery tradition in
Medieval romance. _Owain Miles_. Bousset, _Himmelfahrt der Seele_.
Parallels with romance. Appeal to Celtic scholars. Otherworld journeys
a possible survival of Mystery tradition. The Templars, were they
Naassenes?

CHAPTER XIV
The Author

_Provenance_ and authorship of Grail romantic tradition. Evidence
points to Wales, probably Pembrokeshire. Earliest form contained in
group of _Gawain_ poems assigned to Bleheris. Of Welsh origin. Master
Blihis, Blihos, Bliheris, Bréri, Bledhericus. Probably all references
to same person. Conditions of identity. Mr E. Owen, and Bledri ap
Cadivor. Evidence not complete but fulfils conditions of problem
Professor Singer and possible character of Bleheris’ text. Mr Alfred
Nutt. Irish and Welsh parallels. Recapitulation of evolutionary
process. Summary and conclusion.




CHAPTER I
Introductory


In view of the extensive literature to which the Grail legend has
already given birth it may seem that the addition of another volume to
the already existing _corpus_ calls for some words of apology and
explanation. When the student of the subject contemplates the countless
essays and brochures, the volumes of studies and criticism, which have
been devoted to this fascinating subject, the conflicting character of
their aims, their hopelessly contradictory results, he, or she, may
well hesitate before adding another element to such a veritable
witches’ cauldron of apparently profitless study. And indeed, were I
not convinced that the theory advocated in the following pages contains
in itself the element that will resolve these conflicting ingredients
into one harmonious compound I should hardly feel justified in offering
a further contribution to the subject.

But it is precisely because upwards of thirty years’ steady and
persevering study of the Grail texts has brought me gradually and
inevitably to certain very definite conclusions, has placed me in
possession of evidence hitherto ignored, or unsuspected, that I venture
to offer the result in these studies, trusting that they may be
accepted as, what I believe them to be, a genuine _Elucidation_ of the
Grail problem.

My fellow-workers in this field know all too well the essential
elements of that problem; I do not need here to go over already
well-trodden ground; it will be sufficient to point out certain salient
features of the position.

The main difficulty of our research lies in the fact that the Grail
legend consists of a congeries of widely differing elements—elements
which at first sight appear hopelessly incongruous, if not completely
contradictory, yet at the same time are present to an extent, and in a
form, which no honest critic can afford to ignore.

Thus it has been perfectly possible for one group of scholars, relying
upon the undeniably Christian-Legendary elements, preponderant in
certain versions, to maintain the thesis that the Grail legend is _ab
initio_ a Christian, and ecclesiastical, legend, and to analyse the
literature on that basis alone.

Another group, with equal reason, have pointed to the strongly marked
Folk-lore features preserved in the tale, to its kinship with other
themes, mainly of Celtic _provenance_, and have argued that, while the
later versions of the cycle have been worked over by ecclesiastical
writers in the interests of edification, the story itself is
non-Christian, and Folk-lore in origin.

Both groups have a basis of truth for their arguments: the features
upon which they rely are, in each case, undeniably present, yet at the
same time each line of argument is faced with certain insuperable
difficulties, fatal to the claims advanced.

Thus, the theory of Christian origin breaks down when faced with the
awkward fact that there is no Christian legend concerning Joseph of
Arimathea and the Grail. Neither in Legendary, nor in Art, is there any
trace of the story; it has no existence outside the Grail literature,
it is the creation of romance, and no genuine tradition.

On this very ground it was severely criticized by the Dutch writer
Jacob van Maerlant, in 1260. In his _Merlin_ he denounces the whole
Grail history as lies, asserting that the Church knows nothing of
it—which is true.

In the same way the advocate of a Folk-lore origin is met with the
objection that the section of the cycle for which such a source can be
definitely proved, _i.e._, the _Perceval_ story, has originally nothing
whatever to do with the Grail; and that, while parallels can be found
for this or that feature of the legend, such parallels are isolated in
character and involve the breaking up of the tale into a composite of
mutually independent themes. A prototype, containing the main features
of the Grail story—the Waste Land, the Fisher King, the Hidden Castle
with its solemn Feast, and mysterious Feeding Vessel, the Bleeding
Lance and Cup—does not, so far as we know, exist. None of the great
collections of Folk-tales, due to the industry of a Cosquin, a
Hartland, or a Campbell, has preserved specimens of such a type; it is
not such a story as, _e.g._, _The Three Days Tournament_, examples of
which are found all over the world. Yet neither the advocate of a
Christian origin, nor the Folk-lorist, can afford to ignore the
arguments, and evidence of the opposing school, and while the result of
half a century of patient investigation has been to show that the
origin of the Grail story must be sought elsewhere than in
ecclesiastical legend, or popular tale, I hold that the result has
equally been to demonstrate that neither of these solutions should be
ignored, but that the ultimate source must be sought for in a direction
which shall do justice to what is sound in the claims of both.

Some years ago, when fresh from the study of Sir J. G. Frazer’s
epoch-making work, _The Golden Bough_, I was struck by the resemblance
existing between certain features of the Grail story, and
characteristic details of the Nature Cults described. The more closely
I analysed the tale, the more striking became the resemblance, and I
finally asked myself whether it were not possible that in this
mysterious legend—mysterious alike in its character, its sudden
appearance, the importance apparently assigned to it, followed by as
sudden and complete a disappearance—we might not have the confused
record of a ritual, once popular, later surviving under conditions of
strict secrecy? This would fully account for the atmosphere of awe and
reverence which even under distinctly non-Christian conditions never
fails to surround the Grail, It may act simply as a feeding vessel, It
is none the less _toute sainte cose;_ and also for the presence in the
tale of distinctly popular, and Folk-lore, elements. Such an
interpretation would also explain features irreconcilable with orthodox
Christianity, which had caused some scholars to postulate a heterodox
origin for the legend, and thus explain its curiously complete
disappearance as a literary theme. In the first volume of my _Perceval_
studies, published in 1906, I hinted at this possible solution of the
problem, a solution worked out more fully in a paper read before the
Folk-lore Society in December of the same year, and published in Volume
XVIII. of the Journal of the Society. By the time my second volume of
studies was ready for publication in 1909, further evidence had come
into my hands; I was then certain that I was upon the right path, and I
felt justified in laying before the public the outlines of a theory of
evolution, alike of the legend, and of the literature, to the main
principles of which I adhere to-day.

But certain links were missing in the chain of evidence, and the work
was not complete. No inconsiderable part of the information at my
disposal depended upon personal testimony, the testimony of those who
knew of the continued existence of such a ritual, and had actually been
initiated into its mysteries—and for such evidence the student of the
letter has little respect. He worships the written word; for the oral,
living, tradition from which the word derives force and vitality he has
little use. Therefore the written word had to be found. It has taken me
some nine or ten years longer to complete the evidence, but the chain
is at last linked up, and we can now prove by printed texts the
parallels existing between each and every feature of the Grail story
and the recorded symbolism of the Mystery cults. Further, we can show
that between these Mystery cults and Christianity there existed at one
time a close and intimate union, such a union as of itself involved the
practical assimilation of the central rite, in each case a
‘Eucharisticc’ Feast, in which the worshippers partook of the Food of
Life from the sacred vessels.

In face of the proofs which will be found in these pages I do not think
any fair-minded critic will be inclined to dispute any longer the
origin of the ‘Holy’ Grail; after all it is as august and ancient an
origin as the most tenacious upholder of Its Christian character could
desire.

But I should wish it clearly to be understood that the aim of these
studies is, as indicated in the title, to determine the _origin_ of the
Grail, not to discuss the _provenance_ and interrelation of the
different versions. I do not believe this latter task can be
satisfactorily achieved unless and until we are of one accord as to the
character of the subject matter. When we have made up our minds as to
what the Grail really was, and what it stood for, we shall be able to
analyse the romances; to decide which of them contains more, which
less, of the original matter, and to group them accordingly. On this
point I believe that the table of descent, printed in Volume II. of my
_Perceval_ studies is in the main correct, but there is still much
analytical work to be done, in particular the establishment of the
original form of the _Perlesvaus_ is highly desirable. But apart from
the primary object of these studies, and the results therein obtained,
I would draw attention to the manner in which the evidence set forth in
the chapters on the Mystery cults, and especially that on _The Naassene
Document_, a text of extraordinary value from more than one point of
view, supports and complements the researches of Sir J. G. Frazer. I
am, of course, familiar with the attacks directed against the
‘Vegetation’ theory, the sarcasms of which it has been the object, and
the criticisms of what is held in some quarters to be the exaggerated
importance attached to these Nature cults. But in view of the use made
of these cults as the medium of imparting high spiritual teaching, a
use which, in face of the document above referred to, can no longer be
ignored or evaded, are we not rather justified in asking if the true
importance of the rites has as yet been recognized? Can we possibly
exaggerate their value as a factor in the evolution of religious
consciousness?

Such a development of his researches naturally lay outside the range of
Sir J. G. Frazer’s work, but posterity will probably decide that, like
many another patient and honest worker, he ‘builded better than he
knew.’

I have carefully read Sir W. Ridgeway’s attack on the school in his
_Dramas and Dramatic Dances_, and while the above remarks explain my
position with regard to the question as a whole, I would here take the
opportunity of stating specifically my grounds for dissenting from
certain of the conclusions at which the learned author arrives. I do
not wish it to be said: “This is all very well, but Miss Weston ignores
the arguments on the other side.” I do not ignore, but I do not admit
their validity. It is perfectly obvious that Sir W. Ridgeway’s theory,
reduced to abstract terms, would result in the conclusion that all
religion is based upon the cult of the Dead, and that men originally
knew no gods but their grandfathers, a theory from which as a student
of religion I absolutely and entirely dissent. I can understand that
such Dead Ancestors can be looked upon as Protectors, or as
Benefactors, but I see no ground for supposing that they have ever been
regarded as Creators, yet it is precisely as vehicle for the most lofty
teaching as to the Cosmic relations existing between God and Man, that
these Vegetation cults were employed. The more closely one studies
pre-Christian Theology, the more strongly one is impressed with the
deeply, and daringly, spiritual character of its speculations, and the
more doubtful it appears that such teaching can depend upon the unaided
processes of human thought, or can have been evolved from such germs as
we find among the supposedly ‘primitive’ peoples, such as _e.g._ the
Australian tribes. Are they really primitive? Or are we dealing, not
with the primary elements of religion, but with the _disjecta membra_
of a vanished civilization? Certain it is that so far as historical
evidence goes our earliest records point to the recognition of a
spiritual, not of a material, origin of the human race; the Sumerian
and Babylonian Psalms were not composed by men who believed themselves
the descendants of ‘witchetty grubs.’ The Folk practices and ceremonies
studied in these pages, the Dances, the rough Dramas, the local and
seasonal celebrations, do not represent the material out of which the
Attis-Adonis cult was formed, but surviving fragments of a worship from
which the higher significance has vanished.

Sir W. Ridgeway is confident that Osiris, Attis, Adonis, were all at
one time human beings, whose tragic fate gripped hold of popular
imagination, and led to their ultimate deification. The first-named
cult stands on a somewhat different basis from the others, the
beneficent activities of Osiris being more widely diffused, more
universal in their operation. I should be inclined to regard the
Egyptian deity primarily as a Culture Hero, rather than a Vegetation
God.

With regard to Attis and Adonis, whatever their original character (and
it seems to me highly improbable that there should have been two youths
each beloved by a goddess, each victim of a similar untimely fate),
long before we have any trace of them both have become so intimately
identified with the processes of Nature that they have ceased to be men
and become gods, and as such alone can we deal with them. It is also
permissible to point out that in the case of Tammuz, Esmun, and Adonis,
the title is not a proper name, but a vague appellative, denoting an
abstract rather than a concrete origin. Proof of this will be found
later. Sir W. Ridgeway overlooks the fact that it is not the tragic
death of Attis-Adonis which is of importance for these cults, but their
subsequent restoration to life, a feature which cannot be postulated of
any ordinary mortal.

And how are we to regard Tammuz, the prototype of all these deities? Is
there any possible ground for maintaining that he was ever a man? Prove
it we cannot, as the records of his cult go back thousands of years
before our era. Here, again, we have the same dominant feature; it is
not merely the untimely death which is lamented, but the restoration to
life which is celebrated.

Throughout the whole study the author fails to discriminate between the
activities of the living, and the dead, king. The Dead king may, as I
have said above, be regarded as the Benefactor, as the Protector, of
his people, but it is the Living king upon whom their actual and
continued prosperity depends. The detail that the ruling sovereign is
sometimes regarded as the re-incarnation of the original founder of the
race strengthens this point—the king never dies—_Le Roi est mort, Vive
le Roi_ is very emphatically the motto of this Faith. It is the
insistence on Life, Life continuous, and ever-renewing, which is the
abiding characteristic of these cults, a characteristic which
differentiates them utterly and entirely from the ancestral worship
with which Sir W. Ridgeway would fain connect them.

Nor are the arguments based upon the memorial rites of definitely
historical heroes, of comparatively late date, such as Hussein and
Hossein, of any value here. It is precisely the death, and not the
resurrection, of the martyr which is of the essence of the Muharram. No
one contends that Hussein rose from the dead, but it is precisely this
point which is of primary importance in the Nature cults; and Sir W.
Ridgeway must surely be aware that Folk-lorists find in this very
Muharram distinct traces of borrowing from the earlier Vegetation
rites.

The author triumphantly asserts that the fact that certain Burmese
heroes and heroines are after death reverenced as tree spirits ‘sets at
rest for ever’ the belief in abstract deities. But how can he be sure
that the process was not the reverse of that which he postulates,
_i.e._, that certain natural objects, trees, rivers, etc., were not
regarded as sacred _before_ the Nats became connected with them? That
the deified human beings were not after death assigned to places
already held in reverence? Such a possibility is obvious to any
Folk-lore student, and local traditions should in each case be
carefully examined before the contrary is definitely asserted.

So far as the origins of Drama are concerned the Ode quoted later from
the Naassene Document is absolute and definite proof of the close
connection existing between the Attis Mystery ritual, and dramatic
performances, _i.e._, Attis regarded in his deified, Creative, ‘Logos,’
aspect, not Attis, the dead youth.

Nor do I think that the idea of ‘Mana’ can be lightly dismissed as ‘an
ordinary case of relics.’ The influence may well be something entirely
apart from the continued existence of the ancestor, an independent
force, assisting him in life, and transferring itself after death to
his successor. A ‘Magic’ Sword or Staff is not necessarily a relic;
Medieval romance supplies numerous instances of self-acting weapons
whose virtue in no wise depends upon their previous owner, as _e.g._
the Sword in _Le Chevalier à l’Épée_, or the Flaming Lance of the
_Chevalier de la Charrette_. Doubtless the cult of Ancestors plays a
large _rôle_ in the beliefs of certain peoples, but it is not a
sufficiently solid foundation to bear the weight of the super-structure
Sir W. Ridgeway would fain rear upon it, while it differs too radically
from the cults he attacks to be used as an argument against them; the
one is based upon Death, the other on Life.

Wherefore, in spite of all the learning and ingenuity brought to bear
against it, I avow myself an impenitent believer in Sir J. G. Frazer’s
main theory, and as I have said above, I hold that theory to be of
greater and more far-reaching importance than has been hitherto
suspected.

I would add a few words as to the form of these studies—they may be
found disconnected. They have been written at intervals of time
extending over several years, and my aim has been to prove the
essentially archaic character of _all_ the elements composing the Grail
story rather than to analyse the story as a connected whole. With this
aim in view I have devoted chapters to features which have now either
dropped out of the existing versions, or only survive in a subordinate
form, e.g. the chapters on _The Medicine Man_, and _The Freeing of the
Waters_. The studies will, I hope, and believe, be accepted as offering
a definite contribution towards establishing the fundamental character
of our material; as stated above, when we are all at one as to what the
Holy Grail really was, and is, we can then proceed with some hope of
success to criticize the manner in which different writers have handled
the inspiring theme, but such success seems to be hopeless so long as
we all start from different, and often utterly irreconcilable,
standpoints and proceed along widely diverging roads. One or another
may, indeed, arrive at the goal, but such unanimity of opinion as will
lend to our criticism authoritative weight is, on such lines,
impossible of achievement.




CHAPTER II
The Task of the Hero


As a first step towards the successful prosecution of an investigation
into the true nature and character of the mysterious object we know as
the Grail it will be well to ask ourselves whether any light may be
thrown upon the subject by examining more closely the details of the
Quest in its varying forms; _i.e._, what was the precise character of
the task undertaken by, or imposed upon, the Grail hero, whether that
hero were Gawain, Perceval, or Galahad, and what the results to be
expected from a successful achievement of the task. We shall find at
once a uniformity which assures us of the essential identity of the
tradition underlying the varying forms, and a diversity indicating that
the tradition has undergone a gradual, but radical, modification in the
process of literary evolution. Taken in their relative order the
versions give the following result.

GAWAIN (_Bleheris_). Here the hero sets out on his journey with no
clear idea of the task before him. He is taking the place of a knight
mysteriously slain in his company, but whither he rides, and why, he
does not know, only that the business is important and pressing. From
the records of his partial success we gather that he ought to have
enquired concerning the nature of the Grail, and that this enquiry
would have resulted in the restoration to fruitfulness of a Waste Land,
the desolation of which is, in some manner, not clearly explained,
connected with the death of a knight whose name and identity are never
disclosed. “Great is the loss that ye lie thus, ’tis even the
destruction of kingdoms, God grant that ye be avenged, so that the folk
be once more joyful and the land repeopled which by ye and this sword
are wasted and made void.”[1] The fact that Gawain does ask concerning
the Lance assures the partial restoration of the land; I would draw
attention to the special terms in which this is described: “for so soon
as Sir Gawain asked of the Lance...the waters flowed again thro’ their
channel, and all the woods were turned to verdure.”[2]

_Diû Crône_. Here the question is more general in character; it affects
the marvels beheld, not the Grail alone; but now the Quester is
prepared, and knows what is expected of him. The result is to break the
spell which retains the Grail King in a semblance of life, and we
learn, by implication, that the land is restored to fruitfulness: “yet
had the land been waste, but by his coming had folk and land alike been
delivered.”[3] Thus in the earliest preserved, the GAWAIN form, the
effect upon the land appears to be the primary result of the Quest.

PERCEVAL. The _Perceval_ versions, which form the bulk of the existing
Grail texts, differ considerably the one from the other, alike in the
task to be achieved, and the effects resulting from the hero’s success,
or failure. The distinctive feature of the _Perceval_ version is the
insistence upon the sickness, and disability of the ruler of the land,
the Fisher King. Regarded first as the direct cause of the wasting of
the land, it gradually assumes overwhelming importance, the task of the
Quester becomes that of healing the King, the restoration of the land
not only falls into the background but the operating cause of its
desolation is changed, and finally it disappears from the story
altogether. One version, alone, the source of which is, at present,
undetermined, links the PERCEVAL with the GAWAIN form; this is the
version preserved in the Gerbert continuation of the _Perceval_ of
Chrétien de Troyes. Here the hero having, like Gawain, partially
achieved the task, but again like Gawain, having failed satisfactorily
to resolder the broken sword, wakes, like the earlier hero, to find
that the Grail Castle has disappeared, and he is alone in a flowery
meadow. He pursues his way through a land fertile, and well-peopled and
marvels much, for the day before it had been a waste desert. Coming to
a castle he is received by a solemn procession, with great rejoicing;
through him the folk have regained the land and goods which they had
lost. The mistress of the castle is more explicit. Perceval had asked
concerning the Grail:

“par coi amendé
Somes, en si faite maniére
Qu’en ceste regne n’avoit riviére
Qui ne fust gaste, ne fontaine.
E la terre gaste et soutaine.”

Like Gawain he has ‘freed the waters’ and thus restored the land.[4]

In the prose _Perceval_ the _motif_ of the Waste Land has disappeared,
the task of the hero consists in asking concerning the Grail, and by so
doing, to restore the Fisher King, who is suffering from extreme old
age, to health, and youth.[5]

“Se tu eusses demandé quel’en on faisoit, que li rois ton aiol fust
gariz de l’enfermetez qu’il a, et fust revenu en sa juventé.”

When the question has been asked: “Le rois péschéor estoit gariz et tot
muez de sa nature.” “Li rois peschiére estoit mués de se nature et
estoit garis de se maladie, et estoit sains comme pissons.”[6] Here we
have the introduction of a new element, the restoration to youth of the
sick King.

In the _Perceval_ of Chrétien de Troyes we find ourselves in presence
of certain definite changes, neither slight, nor unimportant, upon
which it seems to me insufficient stress has hitherto been laid. The
question is changed; the hero no longer asks what the Grail is, but (as
in the prose _Perceval_) whom it serves? a departure from an essential
and primitive simplicity—the motive for which is apparent in Chrétien,
but not in the prose form, where there is no enigmatic personality to
be served apart. A far more important change is that, while the malady
of the Fisher King is antecedent to the hero’s visit, and capable of
cure if the question be asked, the failure to fulfil the prescribed
conditions of itself entails disaster upon the land. Thus the sickness
of the King, and the desolation of the land, are not necessarily
connected as cause and effect, but, a point which seems hitherto
unaccountably to have been overlooked, the latter is directly
attributable to the Quester himself.[7]

“Car se tu demandé l’eusses
Li rice roi qui moult s’esmaie
Fust or tost garis de sa plaie
Et si tenist sa tière en pais
Dont il n’en tenra point jamais,”

but by Perceval’s failure to ask the question he has entailed dire
misfortune upon the land:

“Dames en perdront lor maris,
Tiéres en seront essiliés,
Et pucielles desconselliés
Orfenes, veves, en remanront
Et maint chevalier en morront.”[8]

This idea, that the misfortunes of the land are not antecedent to, but
dependent upon, the hero’s abortive visit to the Grail Castle, is
carried still further by the compiler of the _Perlesvaus_, where the
failure of the predestined hero to ask concerning the office of the
Grail is alone responsible for the illness of the King and the
misfortunes of the country. “Une grans dolors est avenue an terre
novelement par un jeune chevalier qui fu herbergiez an l’ostel au riche
roi Peschéor, si aparut à lui li saintimes Graaus, et la lance de quoi
li fiers seigne par la poignte; ne demanda de quoi ce servoit, ou dont
ce venoit, et por ce qu’il ne demanda sont toutes les terres comméues
an guerre, ne chevalier n’ancontre autre au forest qu’il ne li core
sus, et ocie s’il peut.”[9]

“Li Roi Pecheors de qui est grant dolors, quar il est cheüz en une
douleureuse langour—ceste langour li est venue par celui qui se heberga
an son ostel, à qui li seintimes Graaus s’aparut, por ce que cil ne
vost demander de qu’il an servoit, toutes les terres an furent comméues
en gerre.”[10]

“Je suis cheüz an langour dès cele oure que li chevaliers se herberga
çoianz dont vous avez oï parler; par un soule parole que il déloia a
dire me vint ceste langour.”[11]

From this cause the Fisher King dies before the hero has achieved the
task, and can take his place. “Li bons Rois Peschiéres est morz.”[12]
There is here no cure of the King or restoration of the land, the
specific task of the Grail hero is never accomplished, he comes into
his kingdom as the result of a number of knightly adventures, neither
more nor less significant than those found in non-Grail romances.

The _Perlesvaus_, in its present form, appears to be a later, and more
fully developed, treatment of the _motif_ noted in Chrétien, _i.e._,
that the misfortunes of King and country are directly due to the
Quester himself, and had no antecedent existence; this, I would submit,
alters the whole character of the story, and we are at a loss to know
what, had the hero put the question on the occasion of his first visit,
could possibly have been the result achieved. It would not have been
the cure of the King: he was, apparently, in perfect health; it would
not have been the restoration to verdure of the Land: the Land was not
Waste; where, as in the case of Gawain, there is a Dead Knight, whose
death is to be avenged, _something_ might have been achieved, in the
case of the overwhelming majority of the _Perceval_ versions, which do
not contain this feature, the dependence of the Curse upon the Quester
reduces the story to incoherence. In one _Perceval_ version alone do we
find a _motif_ analogous to the earlier _Gawain Bleheris_ form. In
Manessier the hero’s task is not restricted to the simple asking of a
question, but he must also slay the enemy whose treachery has caused
the death of the Fisher King’s brother; thereby healing the wound of
the King himself, and removing the woes of the land. What these may be
we are not told, but, apparently, the country is not ‘Waste.’[13]

In _Peredur_ we have a version closely agreeing with that of Chrétien;
the hero fails to enquire the meaning of what he sees in the Castle of
Wonders, and is told in consequence: “Hadst thou done so the King would
have been restored to health, and his dominions to peace, whereas from
henceforth he will have to endure battles and conflicts, and his
knights will perish, and wives will be widowed, and maidens will be
left portionless, and all this because of thee.”[14] This certainly
seems to imply that, while the illness of the Fisher King may be
antecedent to, and independent of, the visit and failure of the hero,
the misfortunes which fall on the land have been directly caused
thereby.

The conclusion which states that the Bleeding Head seen by the hero
“was thy cousin’s, and he was killed by the Sorceresses of Gloucester,
who also lamed thine uncle—and there is a prediction that thou art to
avenge these things—” would seem to indicate the presence in the
original of a ‘Vengeance’ theme, such as that referred to above.[15]

In _Parzival_ the stress is laid entirely on the sufferings of the
King; the question has been modified in the interests of this theme,
and here assumes the form “What aileth thee, mine uncle?” The blame
bestowed upon the hero is solely on account of the prolonged sorrow his
silence has inflicted on King and people; of a Land laid Waste, either
through drought, or war, there is no mention.

“Iuch solt’ iur wirt erbarmet hân,
An dem Got wunder hât getân,
Und het gevrâget sîner nôt,
Ir lebet, und sît an saelden tôt.”[16]
“Dô der trûrege vischaere
Saz âne fröude und âne trôst
War umb’ iren niht siufzens hât erlôst.”[17]


The punishment falls on the hero who has failed to put the question,
rather than on the land, which, indeed, appears to be in no way
affected, either by the wound of the King, or the silence of the hero.
The divergence from Chrétien’s version is here very marked, and, so
far, seems to have been neglected by critics. The point is also of
importance in view of the curious parallels which are otherwise to be
found between this version and _Perlesvaus;_ here the two are in marked
contradiction with one another.

The question finally asked, the result is, as indicated in the prose
version, the restoration of the King not merely to health, but also to
youth—

“Swaz der Frânzoys heizet flô’rî’
Der glast kom sinem velle bî,
Parzival’s schoen’ was nu ein wint;
Und Absalôn Dâvîdes kint,
Von Askalûn Vergulaht
Und al den schoene was geslaht,
Und des man Gahmurete jach
Dô man’n in zogen sach
Ze Kanvoleis sô wünneclîch,
Ir dechéines schoen’ was der gelîch,
Die Anfortas ûz siecheit truoc.
Got noch künste kan genuoc.”[18]

GALAHAD. In the final form assumed by the story, that preserved in the
_Queste_, the achievement of the task is not preceded by any failure on
the part of the hero, and the advantages derived therefrom are personal
and spiritual, though we are incidentally told that he heals the Fisher
King’s father, and also the old King, Mordrains, whose life has been
preternaturally prolonged. In the case of this latter it is to be noted
that the mere fact of Galahad’s being the predestined winner suffices,
and the healing takes place _before_ the Quest is definitely achieved.

There is no Waste Land, and the wounding of the two Kings is entirely
unconnected with Galahad. We find hints, in the story of Lambar, of a
knowledge of the earlier form, but for all practical purposes it has
disappeared from the story.[19]

Analysing the above statements we find that the results may be grouped
under certain definite headings:

(_a_) There is a general consensus of evidence to the effect that the
main object of the Quest is the restoration to health and vigour of a
King suffering from infirmity caused by wounds, sickness, or old age;

(_b_) and whose infirmity, for some mysterious and unexplained reason,
reacts disastrously upon his kingdom, either depriving it of
vegetation, or exposing it to the ravages of war.

(_c_) In two cases it is definitely stated that the King will be
restored to youthful vigour and beauty.

(_d_) In both cases where we find Gawain as the hero of the story, and
in one connected with Perceval, the misfortune which has fallen upon
the country is that of a prolonged drought, which has destroyed
vegetation, and left the land Waste; the effect of the hero’s question
is to restore the waters to their channel, and render the land once
more fertile.

(_e_) In three cases the misfortunes and wasting of the land are the
result of war, and directly caused by the hero’s failure to ask the
question; we are not dealing with an antecedent condition. This, in my
opinion, constitutes a marked difference between the two groups, which
has not hitherto received the attention it deserves. One aim of our
present investigation will be to determine which of these two forms
should be considered the elder.

But this much seems certain, the aim of the Grail Quest is two-fold; it
is to benefit (_a_) the King, (_b_) the land. The first of these two is
the more important, as it is the infirmity of the King which entails
misfortune on his land, the condition of the one reacts, for good or
ill, upon the other; how, or why, we are left to discover for
ourselves.

Before proceeding further in our investigation it may be well to
determine the precise nature of the King’s illness, and see whether any
light upon the problem can be thus obtained.

In both the _Gawain_ forms the person upon whom the fertility of the
land depends is dead, though, in the version of _Diû Crône_ he is, to
all appearance, still in life. It should be noted that in the
_Bleheris_ form the king of the castle, who is not referred to as the
Fisher King, is himself hale and sound; the wasting of the land was
brought about by the blow which slew the knight whose body Gawain sees
on the bier.

In both the _Perlesvaus_, and the prose _Perceval_ the King has simply
‘fallen into languishment,’ in the first instance, as noted above, on
account of the failure of the Quester, in the second as the result of
extreme old age.

In Chrétien, Manessier, _Peredur_, and the _Parzival_, the King is
suffering from a wound the nature of which, euphemistically disguised
in the French texts, is quite clearly explained in the German.[20]

But the whole position is made absolutely clear by a passage preserved
in _Sone de Nansai_ and obviously taken over from an earlier poem. This
romance contains a lengthy section dealing with the history of Joseph
‘d’Abarimathie,’ who is represented as the patron Saint of the kingdom
of Norway; his bones, with the sacred relics of which he had the
charge, the Grail and the Lance, are preserved in a monastery on an
island in the interior of that country. In this version Joseph himself
is the Fisher King; ensnared by the beauty of the daughter of the Pagan
King of Norway, whom he has slain, he baptizes her, though she is still
an unbeliever at heart, and makes her his wife, thus drawing the wrath
of Heaven upon himself. God punishes him for his sin:

“Es rains et desous l’afola
De coi grant dolor endura.”[21]


Then, in a remarkable passage, we are told of the direful result
entailed by this punishment upon his land:

“Sa tierre ert a ce jour nommée
Lorgres, ch’est verités prouvée,
Lorgres est uns nons de dolour
Nommés en larmes et en plours,
Bien doit iestre en dolour nommés
Car on n’i seme pois ne blés
Ne enfes d’omme n’i nasqui
Ne puchielle n’i ot mari,
Ne arbres fueille n’i porta
Ne nus prés n’i raverdïa,
Ne nus oysiaus n’i ot naon
Ne se n’i ot beste faon,
Tant que li rois fu mehaigniés
Et qu’il fu fors de ses pechiés,
Car Jesu-Crist fourment pesa
Qu’à la mescréant habita.”[22]


Now there can be no possible doubt here, the condition of the King is
sympathetically reflected on the land, the loss of virility in the one
brings about a suspension of the reproductive processes of Nature on
the other. The same effect would naturally be the result of the death
of the sovereign upon whose vitality these processes depended.

To sum up the result of the analysis, I hold that we have solid grounds
for the belief that the story postulates a close connection between the
vitality of a certain King, and the prosperity of his kingdom; the
forces of the ruler being weakened or destroyed, by wound, sickness,
old age, or death, the land becomes Waste, and the task of the hero is
that of restoration.[23]

It seems to me, then, that, if we desire to elucidate the perplexing
mystery of the Grail romances, and to place the criticism of this
important and singularly fascinating body of literature upon an assured
basis, we shall do so most effectually by pursuing a line of
investigation which will concentrate upon the persistent elements of
the story, the character and significance of the achievement proposed,
rather than upon the varying details, such as Grail and Lance, however
important may be their _rôle_. If we can ascertain, accurately, and
unmistakably, the meaning of the whole, we shall, I think, find less
difficulty in determining the character and office of the parts, in
fact, the question _solvitur ambulando_, the ‘complex’ of the problem
being solved, the constituent elements will reveal their significance.

As a first step I propose to ask whether this ‘Quest of the Grail’
represents an isolated, and unique achievement, or whether the task
allotted to the hero, Gawain, Perceval, or Galahad, is one that has
been undertaken, and carried out by heroes of other ages, and other
lands. In the process of our investigation we must retrace our steps
and turn back to the early traditions of our Aryan forefathers, and see
whether we cannot, even in that remote antiquity, lay our hand upon a
clue, which, like the fabled thread of Ariadne, shall serve as guide
through the mazes of a varying, yet curiously persistent, tradition.




CHAPTER III
The Freeing of the Waters


‘To begin at the beginning,’ was the old story-telling formula, and it
was a very sound one, if ‘the beginning’ could only be definitely
ascertained! As our nearest possible approach to it I would draw
attention to certain curious parallels in the earliest literary
monuments of our race. I would at the same time beg those scholars who
may think it ‘a far cry’ from the romances of the twelfth century of
our era to some 1000 years B.C. to suspend their judgment till they
have fairly examined the evidence for a tradition common to the Aryan
race in general, and persisting with extraordinary vitality, and a
marked correspondence of characteristic detail, through all migrations
and modifications of that race, down to the present day.

Turning back to the earliest existing literary evidence, the
_Rig-Veda_, we become aware that, in this vast collection of over 1000
poems (it is commonly known as _The Thousand and One Hymns_ but the
poems contained in it are more than that in number) are certain
parallels with our Grail stories which, if taken by themselves, are
perhaps interesting and suggestive rather than in any way conclusive,
yet which, when they are considered in relation to the entire body of
evidence, assume a curious significance and importance. We must first
note that a very considerable number of the _Rig-Veda_ hymns depend for
their initial inspiration on the actual bodily needs and requirements
of a mainly agricultural population, _i.e._, of a people that depend
upon the fruits of the earth for their subsistence, and to whom the
regular and ordered sequence of the processes of Nature was a vital
necessity.

Their hymns and prayers, and, as we have strong reason to suppose,
their dramatic ritual, were devised for the main purpose of obtaining
from the gods of their worship that which was essential to ensure their
well-being and the fertility of their land—warmth, sunshine, above all,
sufficient water. That this last should, in an Eastern land, under a
tropical sun, become a point of supreme importance, is easily to be
understood. There is consequently small cause for surprise when we
find, throughout the collection, the god who bestows upon them this
much desired boon to be the one to whom by far the greater proportion
of the hymns are addressed. It is not necessary here to enter into a
discussion as to the original conception of Indra, and the place
occupied by him in the early Aryan Pantheon, whether he was originally
regarded as a god of war, or a god of weather; what is important for
our purpose is the fact that it is Indra to whom a disproportionate
number of the hymns of the _Rig-Veda_ are addressed, that it is from
him the much desired boon of rain and abundant water is besought, and
that the feat which above all others redounded to his praise, and is
ceaselessly glorified both by the god himself, and his grateful
worshippers, is precisely the feat by which the Grail heroes, Gawain
and Perceval, rejoiced the hearts of a suffering folk, _i.e._, the
restoration of the rivers to their channels, the ‘Freeing of the
Waters.’ Tradition relates that the seven great rivers of India had
been imprisoned by the evil giant, Vritra, or Ahi, whom Indra slew,
thereby releasing the streams from their captivity.

The _Rig-Veda_ hymns abound in references to this feat; it will only be
necessary to cite a few from among the numerous passages I have noted.

‘Thou hast set loose the seven rivers to flow.’

‘Thou causest water to flow on every side.’

‘Indra set free the waters.’

‘Thou, Indra, hast slain Vritra by thy vigour, thou hast set free the
rivers.’

‘Thou hast slain the slumbering Ahi for the release of the waters, and
hast marked out the channels of the all-delighting rivers.’

‘Indra has filled the rivers, he has inundated the dry land.’

‘Indra has released the imprisoned waters to flow upon the earth.’[1]

It would be easy to fill pages with similar quotations, but these are
sufficient for our purpose.

Among the _Rig-Veda_ hymns are certain poems in Dialogue form, which
from their curious and elliptic character have been the subject of much
discussion among scholars. Professor Oldenberg, in drawing attention to
their peculiarities, had expressed his opinion that these poems were
the remains of a distinct type of early Indian literature, where verses
forming the central, and illuminating, point of a formal ceremonial
recital had been ‘farced’ with illustrative and explanatory prose
passages; the form of the verses being fixed, that of the prose being
varied at the will of the reciter.[2]

This theory, which is technically known as the ‘Âkhyâna’ theory (as it
derived its starting point from the discussion of the Suparnâkhyâna
text), won considerable support, but was contested by M. Sylvain Lévi,
who asserted that, in these hymns, we had the remains of the earliest,
and oldest, Indian dramatic creations, the beginning of the Indian
Drama; and that the fragments could only be satisfactorily interpreted
from the point of view that they were intended to be spoken, not by a
solitary reciter, but by two or more _dramatis personae_.[3]

J. Hertel (_Der Ursprung des Indischen Dramas und Epos_) went still
further, and while accepting, and demonstrating, the justice of this
interpretation of the ‘Dialogue’ poems, suggested a similar origin for
certain ‘Monologues’ found in the same collection.[4]

Professor Leopold von Schroeder, in his extremely interesting volume,
_Mysterium und Mimus im Rig-Veda_,[5] has given a popular and practical
form to the results of these researches, by translating and publishing,
with an explanatory study, a selection of these early ‘Culture’ Dramas,
explaining the speeches, and placing them in the mouth of the
respective actors to whom they were, presumably, assigned. Professor
von Schroeder holds the entire group to be linked together by one
common intention, _viz_., the purpose of stimulating the processes of
Nature, and of obtaining, as a result of what may be called a Ritual
Culture Drama, an abundant return of the fruits of the earth. The whole
book is rich in parallels drawn from ancient and modern sources, and is
of extraordinary interest to the Folk-lore student.

In the light thrown by Professor von Schroeder’s researches, following
as they do upon the illuminating studies of Mannhardt, and Frazer, we
become strikingly aware of the curious vitality and persistence of
certain popular customs and beliefs; and while the two last-named
writers have rendered inestimable service to the study of Comparative
Religion by linking the practices of Classical and Medieval times with
the Folk-customs of to-day, we recognize, through von Schroeder’s work,
that the root of such belief and custom is imbedded in a deeper stratum
of Folk-tradition than we had hitherto realized, that it is, in fact, a
heritage from the far-off past of the Aryan peoples.

For the purposes of our especial line of research _Mysterium und Mimus_
offers much of value and interest. As noted above, the main object of
these primitive Dramas was that of encouraging, we may say, ensuring,
the fertility of the Earth; thus it is not surprising that more than
one deals with the theme of which we are treating, the Freeing of the
Waters, only that whereas, in the quotations given above, the
worshippers praise Indra for his beneficent action, here Indra himself,
_in propria persona_ appears, and vaunts his feat.

“Ich schlug den Vritra mit der Kraft des Indra!
Durch eignen Grimm war ich so stark geworden!
Ich machte für die Menschen frei die Wasser”[6]

And the impersonated rivers speak for themselves.

“Indra, den Blitz im Arm, brach uns die Bahnen,
Er schlug den Vritra, die Ströme einschloss.”[7]


There is no need to insist further on the point that the task of the
Grail hero is in this special respect no mere literary invention, but a
heritage from the achievements of the prehistoric heroes of the Aryan
race.

But the poems selected by Professor von Schroeder for discussion offer
us a further, and more curious, parallel with the Grail romances.

In Section VIII. of the work referred to the author discusses the story
of Ṛishyaçṛiñga, as the _Mahâbhârata_ names the hero; here we find a
young Brahmin brought up by his father, Vibhândaka, in a lonely forest
hermitage[8] absolutely ignorant of the outside world, and even of the
very existence of beings other than his father and himself. He has
never seen a woman, and does not know that such a creature exists.

A drought falls upon a neighbouring kingdom, and the inhabitants are
reduced to great straits for lack of food. The King, seeking to know by
what means the sufferings of his people may be relieved, learns that so
long as Ṛishyaçṛiñga continues chaste so long will the drought endure.
An old woman, who has a fair daughter of irregular life, undertakes the
seduction of the hero. The King has a ship, or raft (both versions are
given), fitted out with all possible luxury, and an apparent Hermit’s
cell erected upon it. The old woman, her daughter and companions,
embark; and the river carries them to a point not far from the young
Brahmin’s hermitage.

Taking advantage of the absence of his father, the girl visits
Ṛishyaçṛiñga in his forest cell, giving him to understand that she is a
Hermit, like himself, which the boy, in his innocence, believes. He is
so fascinated by her appearance and caresses that, on her leaving him,
he, deep in thought of the lovely visitor, forgets, for the first time,
his religious duties.

On his father’s return he innocently relates what has happened, and the
father warns him that fiends in this fair disguise strive to tempt
hermits to their undoing. The next time the father is absent the
temptress, watching her opportunity, returns, and persuades the boy to
accompany her to her ‘Hermitage’ which she assures him, is far more
beautiful than his own. So soon as Ṛishyaçṛiñga is safely on board the
ship sails, the lad is carried to the capital of the rainless land, the
King gives him his daughter as wife, and so soon as the marriage is
consummated the spell is broken, and rain falls in abundance.

Professor von Schroeder points out that there is little doubt that, in
certain earlier versions of the tale, the King’s daughter herself
played the _rôle_ of temptress.

There is no doubt that a ceremonial ‘marriage’ very frequently formed a
part of the ‘Fertility’ ritual, and was supposed to be specially
efficacious in bringing about the effect desired.[9] The practice
subsists in Indian ritual to this hour, and the surviving traces in
European Folk-custom have been noted in full by Mannhardt in his
exhaustive work on _Wald und Feld-Kulte;_ its existence in Classic
times is well known, and it is certainly one of the living Folk-customs
for which a well-attested chain of descent can be cited. Professor von
Schroeder remarks that the efficacy of the rite appears to be enhanced
by the previous strict observance of the rule of chastity by the
officiant.[10]

What, however, is of more immediate interest for our purpose is the
fact that the Ṛishyaçṛiñga story does, in effect, possess certain
curious points of contact with the Grail tradition.

Thus, the lonely upbringing of the youth in a forest, far from the
haunts of men, his absolute ignorance of the existence of human beings
other than his parent and himself, present a close parallel to the
accounts of Perceval’s youth and woodland life, as related in the Grail
romances.[11]

In Gerbert’s continuation we are told that the marriage of the hero is
an indispensable condition of achieving the Quest, a detail which must
have been taken over from an earlier version, as Gerbert proceeds to
stultify himself by describing the solemnities of the marriage, and the
ceremonial blessing of the nuptial couch, after which hero and heroine
simultaneously agree to live a life of strict chastity, and are
rewarded by the promise that the Swan Knight shall be their
descendant—a tissue of contradictions which can only be explained by
the _mal-à-droit_ blending of two versions, one of which knew the hero
as wedded, the other, as celibate. There can be no doubt that the
original _Perceval_ story included the marriage of the hero.[12]

The circumstances under which Ṛishyaçṛiñga is lured from his Hermitage
are curiously paralleled by the account, found in the _Queste_ and
Manessier, of Perceval’s temptation by a fiend, in the form of a fair
maiden, who comes to him by water in a vessel hung with black silk, and
with great riches on board.[13]

In pointing out these parallels I wish to make my position perfectly
clear; I do not claim that either in the _Rig-Veda_, or in any other
early Aryan literary monument, we can hope to discover the direct
sources of the Grail legend, but what I would urge upon scholars is the
fact that, in adopting the hypothesis of a Nature Cult as a possible
origin, and examining the history of these Cults, their evolution, and
their variant forms, we do, in effect, find at every period and stage
of development undoubted points of contact, which, though taken
separately, might be regarded as accidental, in their _ensemble_ can
hardly be thus considered. When every parallel to our Grail story is
found within the circle of a well-defined, and carefully studied,
sequence of belief and practice, when each and all form part of a
well-recognized body of tradition the descent of which has been
abundantly demonstrated, then I submit such parallels stand on a sound
basis, and it is not unreasonable to conclude that the body of
tradition containing them belongs to the same family and is to be
interpreted on the same principles as the closely analogous rites and
ceremonies.

I suspend the notice and discussion of other poems contained in Prof.
von Schroeder’s collection till we have reached a later stage of the
tradition, when their correspondence will be recognized as even more
striking and suggestive.




CHAPTER IV
Tammuz and Adonis

PART I. TAMMUZ

In the previous chapter we considered certain aspects of the attitude
assumed by our Aryan forefathers towards the great processes of Nature
in their ordered sequence of Birth, Growth, and Decay. We saw that
while on one hand they, by prayer and supplication, threw themselves
upon the mercy of the Divinity, who, in their belief, was responsible
for the granting, or withholding, of the water, whether of rain, or
river, the constant supply of which was an essential condition of such
ordered sequence, they, on the other hand, believed that, by their own
actions, they could stimulate and assist the Divine activity. Hence the
dramatic representations to which I have referred, the performance, for
instance, of such a drama as the _Ṛishyaçṛiñga_, the ceremonial
‘marriages,’ and other exercises of what we now call sympathetic magic.
To quote a well-known passage from Sir J. G. Frazer: “They commonly
believed that the tie between the animal and vegetable world was even
closer than it really is—to them the principle of life and fertility,
whether animal or vegetable, was one and indivisible. Hence actions
that induced fertility in the animal world were held to be equally
efficacious in stimulating the reproductive energies of the
vegetable.”[1] How deeply this idea was rooted in the minds of our
ancestors we, their descendants, may learn from its survival to our own
day.

The ultimate, and what we may in a general sense term the classical,
form in which this sense of the community of the Life principle found
expression was that which endowed the vivifying force of Nature with a
distinct personality, divine, or semi-divine, whose experiences, in
virtue of his close kinship with humanity, might be expressed in terms
of ordinary life.

At this stage the progress of the seasons, the birth of vegetation in
spring, or its revival after the autumn rains, its glorious fruition in
early summer, its decline and death under the maleficent influence
either of the scorching sun, or the bitter winter cold, symbolically
represented the corresponding stages in the life of this
anthropomorphically conceived Being, whose annual progress from birth
to death, from death to a renewed life, was celebrated with a solemn
ritual of corresponding alternations of rejoicing and lamentation.

Recent research has provided us with abundant material for the study of
the varying forms of this Nature Cult, the extraordinary importance of
which as an evolutionary factor in what we may term the concrete
expression of human thought and feeling is only gradually becoming
realized.[2]

Before turning our attention to this, the most important, section of
our investigation, it may be well to consider one characteristic
difference between the Nature ritual of the _Rig-Veda_, and that
preserved to us in the later monuments of Greek antiquity.

In the _Rig-Veda_, early as it is, we find the process of religious
evolution already far advanced; the god has separated himself from his
worshippers, and assumed an anthropomorphic form. Indra, while still
retaining traces of his ‘weather’ origin, is no longer, to borrow Miss
Harrison’s descriptive phrase, ‘an automatic explosive thunder-storm,’
he wields the thunderbolt certainly, but he appears in heroic form to
receive the offerings made to him, and to celebrate his victory in a
solemn ritual dance. In Greek art and literature, on the other hand,
where we might expect to find an even more advanced conception, we are
faced with one seemingly more primitive and inchoate, _i.e._, the idea
of a constantly recurring cycle of Birth, Death, and Resurrection, or
Re-Birth, of all things in Nature, this cycle depending upon the
activities of an entity at first vaguely conceived of as the ‘Luck of
the Year,’ the _Eniautos Daimon_. This Being, at one stage of evolution
theriomorphic—he might assume the form of a bull, a goat, or a snake
(the latter, probably from the close connection of the reptile with the
earth, being the more general form)—only gradually, and by distinctly
traceable stages, assumed an anthropomorphic shape.[3] This gives to
the study of Greek antiquity a special and peculiar value, since in
regard to the body of religious belief and observance with which we are
here immediately concerned, neither in what we may not improperly term
its ultimate (early Aryan), nor in what has been generally considered
its proximate (Syro-Phoenician), source, have these intermediate stages
been preserved; in each case the ritual remains are illustrative of a
highly developed cult, distinctly anthropomorphic in conception. I
offer no opinion as to the critical significance of this fact, but I
would draw the attention of scholars to its existence.

That the process of evolution was complete at a very early date has
been proved by recent researches into the Sumerian-Babylonian
civilization. We know now that the cult of the god Tammuz, who, if not
the direct original of the Phoenician-Greek Adonis, is at least
representative of a common parent deity, may be traced back to 3000
B.C., while it persisted among the Sabeans at Harran into the Middle
Ages.[4]

While much relating to the god and his precise position in the
Sumerian-Babylonian Pantheon still remains obscure, fragmentary
cuneiform texts connected with the religious services of the period
have been discovered, and to a considerable extent deciphered, and we
are thus in a position to judge, from the prayers and invocations
addressed to the deity, what were the powers attributed to, and the
benefits besought from, him. These texts are of a uniform character;
they are all ‘Lamentations,’ or ‘Wailings,’ having for their exciting
cause the disappearance of Tammuz from this upper earth, and the
disastrous effects produced upon animal and vegetable life by his
absence. The woes of the land and the folk are set forth in poignant
detail, and Tammuz is passionately invoked to have pity upon his
worshippers, and to end their sufferings by a speedy return. This
return, we find from other texts, was effected by the action of a
goddess, the mother, sister, or paramour, of Tammuz, who, descending
into the nether world, induced the youthful deity to return with her to
earth. It is perfectly clear from the texts which have been deciphered
that Tammuz is not to be regarded merely as representing the Spirit of
Vegetation; his influence is operative, not only in the vernal
processes of Nature, as a Spring god, but in all its reproductive
energies, without distinction or limitation, he may be considered as an
embodiment of the Life principle, and his cult as a Life Cult.

Mr Stephen Langdon inclines to believe that the original Tammuz
typified the vivifying waters; he writes: “Since, in Babylonia as in
Egypt, the fertility of the soil depended upon irrigation, it is but
natural to expect that the youthful god who represents the birth and
death of nature, would represent the beneficent waters which flooded
the valleys of the Tigris and Euphrates in the late winter, and which
ebbed away, and nearly disappeared, in the canals and rivers in the
period of Summer drought. We find therefore that the theologians
regarded this youthful divinity as belonging to the cult of Eridu,
centre of the worship of Ea, lord of the nether sea.”[5] In a note to
this passage Mr Langdon adds: “He appears in the great theological list
as _Dami-zi, ab-zu_, ‘Tammuz of the nether sea,’ _i.e._, ‘the faithful
son of the fresh waters which come from the earth.’”[6]

This presents us with an interesting analogy to the citations given in
the previous chapter from the _Rig-Veda;_ the Tammuz cult is specially
valuable as providing us with evidence of the gradual evolution of the
Life Cult from the early conception of the vivifying power of the
waters, to the wider recognition of a common principle underlying all
manifestations of Life.

This is very clearly brought out in the beautiful Lament for Tammuz,
published by Mr Langdon in _Tammuz and Ishtar_, and also in _Sumerian
and Babylonian Psalms_.[7]

“In Eanna, high and low, there is weeping,

Wailing for the house of the lord they raise.

The wailing is for the plants; the first lament is ‘they grow not.’

The wailing is for the barley; the ears grow not.

For the habitations and flocks it is; they produce not.

For the perishing wedded ones, for perishing children it is; the
dark-headed people create not.

The wailing is for the great river; it brings the flood no more.

The wailing is for the fields of men; the gunu grows no more.

The wailing is for the fish-ponds; the dasuhur fish spawn not.

The wailing is for the cane-brake; the fallen stalks grow not.

The wailing is for the forests; the tamarisks grow not.

The wailing is for the highlands; the masgam trees grow not.

The wailing is for the garden store-house; honey and wine are produced
not.

The wailing is for the meadows; the bounty of the garden, the sihtu
plants grow not.

The wailing is for the palace; life unto distant days is not.”

Can anything be more expressive of the community of life animating the
whole of Nature than this poignantly worded lament?

A point which differentiates the worship of Tammuz from the kindred,
and better known, cult of Adonis, is the fact that we have no
liturgical record of the celebration of the resurrection of the deity;
it certainly took place, for the effects are referred to:

“Where grass was not, there grass is eaten,
Where water was not, water is drunk,
Where the cattle sheds were not, cattle sheds are built.”[8]


While this distinctly implies the revival of vegetable and animal life,
those features (_i.e._, resurrection and sacred marriage), which made
the Adonis ritual one of rejoicing as much as of lamentation, are
absent from liturgical remains of the Tammuz cult.[9]

A detail which has attracted the attention of scholars is the lack of
any artistic representation of this ritual, a lack which is the more
striking in view of the important position which these ‘Wailings for
Tammuz’ occupy in the extant remains of Babylonian liturgies. On this
point Mr Langdon makes an interesting suggestion: “It is probable that
the service of wailing for the dying god, the descent of the mother,
and the resurrection, were attended by mysterious rituals. The actual
mysteries may have been performed in a secret chamber, and consequently
the scenes were forbidden in Art. This would account for the surprising
dearth of archaeological evidence concerning a cult upon which the very
life of mankind was supposed to depend.”[10]

In view of the fact that my suggestion as to the possible later
development of these Life Cults as Mysteries has aroused considerable
opposition, it is well to bear in mind that such development is held by
those best acquainted with the earliest forms of the ritual to have
been not merely possible, but to have actually taken place, and that at
a very remote date. Mr Langdon quotes a passage referring to “Kings who
in their day played the _rôle_ of Tammuz in the mystery of this cult”;
he considers that here we have to do with kings who, by a symbolic act,
escaped the final penalty of sacrifice as representative of the Dying
God.[11]

The full importance of the evidence above set forth will become more
clearly apparent as we proceed with our investigation; here I would
simply draw attention to the fact that we now possess definite proof
that, at a period of some 3000 years B.C., the idea of a Being upon
whose life and reproductive activities the very existence of Nature and
its corresponding energies was held to depend, yet who was himself
subject to the vicissitudes of declining powers and death, like an
ordinary mortal, had already assumed a fixed, and practically final,
form; further, that this form was specially crystallized in ritual
observances. In our study of the later manifestations of this cult we
shall find that this central idea is always, and unalterably, the same,
and is, moreover, frequently accompanied by a remarkable correspondence
of detail. The chain of evidence is already strong, and we may justly
claim that the links added by further research strengthen, while they
lengthen, that chain.

PART II. ADONIS

While it is only of comparatively recent date that information as to
the exact character of the worship directed to Tammuz has been
available and the material we at present possess is but fragmentary in
character, the corresponding cult of the Phoenician-Greek divinity we
know as Adonis has for some years been the subject of scholarly
research. Not only have the details of the ritual been examined and
discussed, and the surviving artistic evidence described and
illustrated, but from the anthropological side attention has been
forcibly directed to its importance as a factor in the elucidation of
certain widespread Folk-beliefs and practices.[12]

We know now that the worship of Adonis, which enjoyed among the Greeks
a popularity extending to our own day, was originally of Phoenician
origin, its principal centres being the cities of Byblos, and Aphaka.
From Phoenicia it spread to the Greek islands, the earliest evidence of
the worship being found in Cyprus, and from thence to the mainland,
where it established itself firmly. The records of the cult go back to
700 B.C., but it may quite possibly be of much earlier date. Mr Langdon
suggests that the worship of the divinity we know as Adonis, may, under
another name, reach back to an antiquity equal with that we can now
ascribe to the cult of Tammuz. In its fully evolved classical form the
cult of Adonis offers, as it were, a halfway house, between the
fragmentary relics of Aryan and Babylonian antiquity, and the wealth of
Medieval and Modern survivals to which the ingenuity and patience of
contemporary scholars have directed our attention.

We all know the mythological tale popularly attached to the name of
Adonis; that he was a fair youth, beloved of Aphrodite, who, wounded in
the thigh by a wild boar, died of his wound. The goddess, in despair at
his death, by her prayers won from Zeus the boon that Adonis be allowed
to return to earth for a portion of each year, and henceforward the
youthful god divides his time between the goddess of Hades, Persephone,
and Aphrodite. But the importance assumed by the story, the elaborate
ceremonial with which the death of Adonis was mourned, and his
restoration to life fêted, the date and character of the celebrations,
all leave no doubt that the personage with whom we are dealing was no
mere favourite of a goddess, but one with whose life and well-being the
ordinary processes of Nature, whether animal or vegetable, were closely
and intimately concerned. In fact the central figure of these rites, by
whatever name he may be called, is the somewhat elusive and impersonal
entity, who represents in anthropomorphic form the principle of animate
Nature, upon whose preservation, and unimpaired energies, the life of
man, directly, and indirectly, depends.[13]

Before proceeding to examine these rites there is one point, to which I
have alluded earlier, in another connection, upon which our minds must
be quite clear, _i.e._, the nature of the injury suffered. Writers upon
the subject are of one accord in considering the usual account to be
but a euphemistic veiling of the truth, while the close relation
between the stories of Adonis and Attis, and the practices associated
with the cult, place beyond any shadow of a doubt the fact that the
true reason for this universal mourning was the cessation, or
suspension, by injury or death, of the reproductive energy of the god
upon whose virile activity vegetable life directly, and human life
indirectly, depended.[14] What we have need to seize and to insist upon
is the overpowering influence which the sense of Life, the need for
Life, the essential Sanctity of the Life-giving faculty, exercised upon
primitive religions. Vellay puts this well when he says: “En réalité
c’est sur la conception de la vie physique, considérée dans son
origine, et dans son action, et dans le double principe qui l’anime,
que repose tout le cycle religieux des peuples Orientaux de
l’Antiquité.”[15]

Professor von Schroeder says even more precisely and emphatically: “In
der Religion der Arischen Urzeit ist Alles auf Lebensbejahung
gerichtet, Mann kann den Phallus als ihr Beherrschendes Symbol
betrachten.”[16] And in spite of the strong opposition to this cult
manifested in Indian literature, beginning with the _Rig-Veda_, and
ripening to fruition in the _Upanishads_, in spite of the rise of
Buddhism, with its opposing dictum of renunciation, the ‘Life-Cult’
asserted its essential vitality against all opposition, and under
modified forms represents the ‘popular’ religion of India to this day.

Each and all of the ritual dramas, reconstructed in the pages of
_Mysterium und Mimus_ bear, more or less distinctly, the stamp of their
‘Fertility’ origin,[17] while outside India the pages of Frazer and
Mannhardt, and numerous other writers on Folk-lore and Ethnology,
record the widespread, and persistent, survival of these rites, and
their successful defiance of the spread of civilization.

It is to this special group of belief and practice that the Adonis (and
more especially its Phrygian counterpart the Attis) worship belong, and
even when transplanted to the more restrained and cultured environment
of the Greek mainland, they still retained their primitive character.
Farnell, in his _Cults of the Greek States_, refers to the worship of
Adonis as “a ritual that the more austere State religion of Greece
probably failed to purify, the saner minds, bred in a religious
atmosphere that was, on the whole, genial, and temperate, revolted from
the din of cymbals and drums, the meaningless ecstasies of sorrow and
joy, that marked the new religion.”[18]

It is, I submit, indispensable for the purposes of our investigation
that the essential character and significance of the cults with which
we are dealing should not be evaded or ignored, but faced, frankly
admitted and held in mind during the progress of our enquiry.

Having now determined the general character of the ritual, what were
the specific details?

The date of the feast seems to have varied in different countries; thus
in Greece it was celebrated in the Spring, the moment of the birth of
Vegetation; according to Saint Jerome, in Palestine the celebration
fell in June, when plant life was in its first full luxuriance. In
Cyprus, at the autumnal equinox, _i.e._, the beginning of the year in
the Syro-Macedonian calendar, the death of Adonis falling on the 23rd
of September, his resurrection on the 1st of October, the beginning of
a New Year. This would seem to indicate that here Adonis was
considered, as Vellay suggests, less as the god of Vegetation than as
the superior and nameless Lord of Life (Adonis=Syriac _Adôn_, Lord),
under whose protection the year was placed.[19] He is the _Eniautos
Daimon_.

In the same way as the dates varied, so, also, did the order of the
ritual; generally speaking the elaborate ceremonies of mourning for the
dead god, and committing his effigy to the waves, preceded the joyous
celebration of his resurrection, but in Alexandria the sequence was
otherwise; the feast began with the solemn and joyous celebration of
the nuptials of Adonis and Aphrodite, at the conclusion of which a
Head, of papyrus, representing the god, was, with every show of
mourning, committed to the waves, and borne within seven days by a
current (always to be counted upon at that season of the year) to
Byblos, where it was received and welcomed with popular rejoicing.[20]
The duration of the feast varied from two days, as at Alexandria, to
seven or eight.

Connected with the longer period of the feast were the so-called
‘Gardens of Adonis,’ baskets, or pans, planted with quick growing
seeds, which speedily come to fruition, and as speedily wither. In the
modern survivals of the cult three days form the general term for the
flowering of these gardens.[21]

The most noticeable feature of the ritual was the prominence assigned
to women; “ce sont les femmes qui le pleurent, et qui l’accompagnent à
sa tombe. Elles sanglotent éperdument pendant les nuits,—c’est leur
dieu plus que tout autre, et seules elles veulent pleurer sa mort, et
chanter sa résurrection.”[22]

Thus in the tenth century the festival received the Arabic name of
_El-Bûgat_, or ‘The Festival of the Weeping Women.’[23]

One very curious practice during these celebrations was that of cutting
off the hair in honour of the god; women who hesitated to make this
sacrifice must offer themselves to strangers, either in the temple, or
on the market-place, the gold received as the price of their favours
being offered to the goddess. This obligation only lasted for one
day.[24] It was also customary for the priests of Adonis to mutilate
themselves in imitation of the god, a distinct proof, if one were
needed, of the traditional cause of his death.[25]

Turning from a consideration of the Adonis ritual, its details, and
significance, to an examination of the Grail romances, we find that
their _mise-en-scène_ provides a striking series of parallels with the
Classical celebrations, parallels, which instead of vanishing, as
parallels have occasionally an awkward habit of doing, before closer
investigation, rather gain in force the more closely they are studied.

Thus the central figure is either a dead knight on a bier (as in the
_Gawain_ versions), or a wounded king on a litter; when wounded the
injury corresponds with that suffered by Adonis and Attis.[26]

Closely connected with the wounding of the king is the destruction
which has fallen on the land, which will be removed when the king is
healed. The version of _Sone de Nansai_ is here of extreme interest;
the position is stated with so much clearness and precision that the
conclusion cannot be evaded—we are face to face with the dreaded
calamity which it was the aim of the Adonis ritual to avert, the
temporary suspension of all the reproductive energies of Nature.[27]

While the condition of the king is the cause of general and vociferous
lamentation, a special feature, never satisfactorily accounted for, is
the presence of a weeping woman, or several weeping women. Thus in the
interpolated visit of Gawain to the Grail castle, found in the C group
of _Perceval_ MSS., the Grail-bearer weeps piteously, as she does also
in _Diû Crône_.[28]

In the version of the prose _Lancelot_ Gawain, during the night, sees
twelve maidens come to the door of the chamber where the Grail is kept,
kneel down, and weep bitterly, in fact behave precisely as did the
classical mourners for Adonis—“Elles sanglotent éperdument pendant la
nuit.”[29]—behaviour for which the text, as it now stands, provides no
shadow of explanation or excuse. The Grail is here the most revered of
Christian relics, the dwellers in the castle of Corbenic have all that
heart can desire, with the additional prestige of being the guardians
of the Grail; if the feature be not a belated survival, which has lost
its meaning, it defies any explanation whatsoever.

In _Diû Crône_ alone, where the Grail-bearer and her maidens are the
sole living beings in an abode of the Dead, is any explanation of the
‘Weeping Women’ attempted, but an interpolated passage in the Heralds’
College MS. of the _Perceval_ states that when the Quest is achieved,
the hero shall learn the cause of the maiden’s grief, and also the
explanation of the Dead Knight upon the bier:

“del graal q’vient aprés
E purquei plure tut adés
La pucele qui le sustient
De la biere qu’aprés vient
Savera la vérité adonques
Ceo que nul ne pot saveir onques
Pur nule rien qui avenist.”
fo. 180vo-181.


Of course in the _Perceval_ there is neither a Weeping Maiden, nor a
Bier, and the passage must therefore be either an unintelligent
addition by a scribe familiar with the _Gawain_ versions, or an
interpolation from a source which did contain the features in question.
So far as the texts at our disposal are concerned, both features belong
exclusively to the _Gawain_, and not to the _Perceval_ Quest. The
interpolation is significant as it indicates a surviving sense of the
importance of this feature.

In the _Perlesvaus_ we have the curious detail of a maiden who has lost
her hair as a result of the hero’s failure to ask the question, and the
consequent sickness of the Fisher King. The occurrence of this detail
may be purely fortuitous, but at the same time it is admissible to
point out that the Adonis cults do provide us with a parallel in the
enforced loss of hair by the women taking part in these rites, while no
explanation of this curious feature has so far as I am aware been
suggested by critics of the text.[30]

We may also note the fact that the Grail castle is always situated in
the close vicinity of water, either on or near the sea, or on the banks
of an important river. In two cases the final home of the Grail is in a
monastery situated upon an island. The presence of water, either sea,
or river, is an important feature in the Adonis cult, the effigy of the
dead god being, not buried in the earth, but thrown into the water.[31]

It will thus be seen that, in suggesting a form of Nature worship,
analogous to this well-known cult, as the possible ultimate source from
which the incidents and _mise-en-scène_ of the Grail stories were
derived, we are relying not upon an isolated parallel, but upon a group
of parallels, which alike in incident and intention offer, not merely a
resemblance to, but also an explanation of, the perplexing problems of
the Grail literature. We must now consider the question whether
incidents so remote in time may fairly and justly be utilized in this
manner.




CHAPTER V
Medieval and Modern Forms of Nature Ritual


Readers of the foregoing pages may, not improbably, object that, while
we have instanced certain curious and isolated parallels from early
Aryan literature and tradition, and, what, from the point of view of
declared intention, appears to be a kindred group of religious belief
and practice in pre-Historic and Classical times, the two, so far, show
no direct signs of affiliation, while both may be held to be far
removed, in point of date, alike from one another, and from the
romantic literature of the twelfth century.

This objection is sound in itself, but if we can show by modern
parallels that the ideas which took form and shape in early Aryan
Drama, and Babylonian and Classic Ritual, not only survive to our day,
but are found in combination with features corresponding minutely with
details recorded in early Aryan literature, we may hold the gulf to be
bridged, and the common origin, and close relationship, of the
different stages to be an ascertained fact. At the outset, and before
examining the evidence collected by scholars, I would remind my readers
that the modern Greeks have retained, in many instances under changed
names, no inconsiderable portion of their ancient mythological beliefs,
among them the ‘Adonis’ celebrations; the ‘Gardens of Adonis’ blossom
and fade to-day, as they did many centuries ago, and I have myself
spoken with a scholar who has seen ‘women, at the door of their houses,
weeping for Adonis.’[1]

For evidence of the widespread character of Medieval and Modern
survivals we have only to consult the epoch-making works of Mannhardt,
_Wald und Feld-Kulte_, and Frazer, _The Golden Bough;_[2] in the pages
of these volumes we shall find more than sufficient for our purpose.
From the wealth of illustration with which these works abound I have
selected merely such instances as seem to apply more directly to the
subject of our investigation.[3]

Thus, in many places, it is still the custom to carry a figure
representing the Vegetation Spirit on a bier, attended by mourning
women, and either bury the figure, throw it into water (as a rain
charm), or, after a mock death, carry the revivified Deity, with
rejoicing, back to the town. Thus in the Lechrain a man in black
women’s clothes is borne on a bier, followed by men dressed as
professional women mourners making lamentation, thrown on the village
dung-heap, drenched with water, and buried in straw.[4]

In Russia the Vegetation or Year Spirit is known as Yarilo,[5] and is
represented by a doll with phallic attributes, which is enclosed in a
coffin, and carried through the streets to the accompaniment of
lamentation by women whose emotions have been excited by drink.
Mannhardt gives the lament as follows: “Wessen war Er schuldig? Er war
so gut! Er wird nicht mehr aufstehen! O! Wie sollen wir uns von Dir
trennen? Was ist das Leben wenn Du nicht mehr da bist? Erhebe Dich,
wenn auch nur auf ein Stündchen! Aber Er steht nicht auf, Er steht
nicht auf!”[6]

In other forms of the ritual, we find distinct traces of the
resuscitation of the Vegetation Deity, occasionally accompanied by
evidence of rejuvenation. Thus, in Lausitz, on Laetare Sunday (the 4th
Sunday in Lent), women with mourning veils carry a straw figure,
dressed in a man’s shirt, to the bounds of the next village, where they
tear the effigy to pieces, hang the shirt on a young and flourishing
tree, “schöne Wald-Baum,” which they proceed to cut down, and carry
home with every sign of rejoicing. Here evidently the young tree is
regarded as a rejuvenation of the person represented in the first
instance by the straw figure.[7]

In many parts of Europe to-day the corresponding ceremonies, very
generally held at Whitsuntide, include the mock execution of the
individual representing the Vegetation Spirit, frequently known as the
King of the May. In Bohemia the person playing the _rôle_ of the King
is, with his attendants, dressed in bark, and decked with garlands of
flowers; at the conclusion of the ceremonies the King is allowed a
short start, and is then pursued by the armed attendants. If he is not
overtaken he holds office for a year, but if overtaken, he suffers a
mock decapitation, head-dress, or crown, being struck off, and the
pretended corpse is then borne on a bier to the next village.[8]

Mannhardt, discussing this point, remarks that in the mock execution we
must recognize “Ein verbreiteter und jedenfalls uralter Gebrauch.” He
enumerates the various modes of death, shooting, stabbing (in the
latter case a bladder filled with blood, and concealed under the
clothes, is pierced); in Bohemia, decapitation, occasionally drowning
(which primarily represents a rain charm), is the form adopted.[9] He
then goes on to remark that this ceremonial death must have been
generally followed by resuscitation, as in Thuringia, where the ‘Wild
Man,’ as the central figure is there named, is brought to life again by
the Doctor, while the survival, in the more elaborate Spring
processions of this latter character, even where he plays no special
_rôle_, points to the fact that his part in the proceedings was
originally a more important one.

That Mannhardt was not mistaken is proved by the evidence of the
kindred Dances, a subject we shall consider later; there we shall find
the Doctor playing his old-time _rôle_, and restoring to life the slain
representative of the Vegetation Spirit.[10] The character of the
Doctor, or Medicine Man, formed, as I believe, at one time, no
unimportant link in the chain which connects these practices with the
Grail tradition.

The signification of the resuscitation ceremony is obscured in cases
where the same figure undergoes death and revival without any
corresponding change of form. This point did not escape Mannhardt’s
acute critical eye; he remarks that, in cases where, _e.g._, in Swabia,
the ‘King’ is described as “ein armer alter Mann,” who has lived seven
years in the woods (the seven winter months), a scene of rejuvenation
should follow—“diese scheint meistenteils verloren gegangen; doch
vielleicht _scheint_ es nur so.” He goes on to draw attention to the
practice in Reideberg, bei Halle, where, after burying a straw figure,
called the Old Man, the villagers dance round the May-Pole, and he
suggests that the ‘Old Man’ represents the defunct Vegetation Spirit,
the May Tree, that Spirit resuscitated, and refers in this connection
to the “durchaus verwandten Asiatischen Gebrauchen des Attis, und
Adonis-Kultus.”[11]

The foregoing evidence offers, I think, sufficient proof of the, now
generally admitted, relationship between Classical, Medieval, and
Modern forms of Nature ritual.

But what of the relation to early Aryan practice? Can that, also, be
proved?

In this connection I would draw attention to Chapter 17 of _Mysterium
und Mimus_, entitled, _Ein Volkstümlicher Umzug beim Soma-Fest_. Here
Professor von Schroeder discusses the real meaning and significance of
a very curious little poem (Rig-Veda, 9. 112); the title by which it is
generally known, _Alles lauft nach Geld_, does not, at first sight, fit
the content of the verse, and the suggestion of scholars who have seen
in it a humorous enumeration of different trades and handicrafts does
not explain the fact that the Frog and the Horse appear in it.

To Professor von Schroeder belongs the credit of having discovered that
the _personnel_ of the poem corresponds with extraordinary exactitude
to the Figures of the Spring and Summer ‘Fertility-exciting’
processions, described with such fulness of detail by Mannhardt.
Especially is this the case with the Whitsuntide procession at
Värdegötzen, in Hanover, where we find the group of phallic and
fertility demons, who, on Prof. von Schroeder’s hypothesis, figure in
the song, in concrete, and actual form.[12] The Vegetation Spirit
appears in the song as an Old Man, while his female counterpart, an Old
Woman, is described as ‘filling the hand-mill.’ Prof. von Schroeder
points out that in some parts of Russia the ‘Baba-jaga’ as the Corn
Mother is called, is an Old Woman, who flies through the air in a
hand-mill. The Doctor, to whom we have referred above, is mentioned
twice in the four verses composing the song; he was evidently regarded
as an important figure; while the whole is put into the mouth of a
‘Singer’ evidently the Spokesman of the party, who proclaims their
object, “Verschiednes könnend suchen wir Gute Dinge,” _i.e._, gifts in
money and kind, as such folk processions do to-day.

The whole study is of extraordinary interest for Folk-lore students,
and so far as our especial investigation is concerned it seems to me to
supply the necessary proof of the identity, and persistence, of Aryan
folk-custom and tradition.

A very important modification of the root idea, and one which appears
to have a direct bearing on the sources of the Grail tradition, was
that by which, among certain peoples, the _rôle_ of the god, his
responsibility for providing the requisite rain upon which the
fertility of the land, and the life of the folk, depended, was combined
with that of the King.

This was the case among the Celts; McCulloch, in _The Religion of the
Celts_, discussing the question of the early Irish _geasa_ or taboo,
explains the _geasa_ of the Irish kings as designed to promote the
welfare of the tribe, the making of rain and sunshine on which their
prosperity depended. “Their observance made the earth fruitful,
produced abundance and prosperity, and kept both the king and his land
from misfortune. The Kings were divinities on whom depended
fruitfulness and plenty, and who must therefore submit to obey their
‘_geasa_.’[13]

The same idea seems to have prevailed in early Greece; Mr A. B. Cook,
in his studies on _The European Sky-God_, remarks that the king in
early Greece was regarded as the representative of Zeus: his duties
could be satisfactorily discharged only by a man who was perfect, and
without blemish, _i.e._, by a man in the prime of life, suffering from
no defect of body, or mind; he quotes in illustration the speech of
Odysseus (_Od_. 19. 109 ff.). “‘Even as a king without blemish, who
ruleth god-fearing over many mighty men, and maintaineth justice, while
the black earth beareth wheat and barley, and the trees are laden with
fruit, and the flocks bring forth without fail, and the sea yieldeth
fish by reason of his good rule, and the folk prosper beneath him.’ The
king who is without blemish has a flourishing kingdom, the king who is
maimed has a kingdom diseased like himself, thus the Spartans were
warned by an oracle to beware of a ‘lame reign.’”[14]

A most remarkable modern survival of this idea is recorded by Dr Frazer
in the latest edition of _The Golden Bough_,[15] and is so complete and
suggestive that I make no apology for transcribing it at some length.
The Shilluk, an African tribe, inhabit the banks of the White Nile,
their territory extending on the west bank from Kaka in the north, to
Lake No in the south, on the east bank from Fashoda to Taufikia, and
some 35 miles up the Sohat river. Numbering some 40,000 in all, they
are a pastoral people, their wealth consisting in flocks and herds,
grain and millet. The King resides at Fashoda, and is regarded with
extreme reverence, as being a re-incarnation of Nyakang, the
semi-divine hero who settled the tribe in their present territory.
Nyakang is the rain-giver, on whom their life and prosperity depend;
there are several shrines in which sacred Spears, now kept for
sacrificial purposes, are preserved, the originals, which were the
property of Nyakang, having disappeared.

The King, though regarded with reverence, must not be allowed to become
old or feeble, lest, with the diminishing vigour of the ruler, the
cattle should sicken, and fail to bear increase, the crops should rot
in the field and men die in ever growing numbers. One of the signs of
failing energy is the King’s inability to fulfil the desires of his
wives, of whom he has a large number. When this occurs the wives report
the fact to the chiefs, who condemn the King to death forthwith,
communicating the sentence to him by spreading a white cloth over his
face and knees during his mid-day slumber. Formerly the King was
starved to death in a hut, in company with a young maiden but (in
consequence, it is said, of the great vitality and protracted suffering
of one King) this is no longer done; the precise manner of death is
difficult to ascertain; Dr Seligmann, who was Sir J. G. Frazer’s
authority, thinks that he is now strangled in a hut, especially erected
for that purpose.

At one time he might be attacked and slain by a rival, either of his
own family, or of that of one of the previous Kings, of whom there are
many, but this has long been superseded by the ceremonial slaying of
the monarch who after his death is revered as Nyakang.[16]

This survival is of extraordinary interest; it presents us with a
curiously close parallel to the situation which, on the evidence of the
texts, we have postulated as forming the basic idea of the Grail
tradition—the position of a people whose prosperity, and the fertility
of their land, are closely bound up with the life and virility of their
King, who is not a mere man, but a Divine re-incarnation. If he ‘falls
into languishment,’ as does the Fisher King in _Perlesvaus_, the land
and its inhabitants will suffer correspondingly; not only will the
country suffer from drought, “_Nus près n’i raverdia_,” but the men
will die in numbers:

“Dames en perdront lor maris”

we may say; the cattle will cease to bear increase:

“Ne se n’i ot beste faon,”

and the people take drastic steps to bring about a rejuvenation; the
old King dies, to be replaced by a young and vigorous successor, even
as Brons was replaced by Perceval.

Let us now turn back to the preceding chapter, and compare the position
of the people of the Shilluk tribe, and the subjects of the Grail King,
with that of the ancient Babylonians, as set forth in their
Lamentations for Tammuz.

There we find that the absence of the Life-giving deity was followed by
precisely the same disastrous consequences;

Vegetation fails—

“The wailing is for the plants; the first lament is they grow not.
The wailing is for the barley; the ears grow not.”


The reproductive energies of the animal kingdom are suspended—

“For the habitation of flocks it is; they produce not.
For the perishing wedded ones, for perishing children it is; the
dark-headed people create not.”


Nor can we evade the full force of the parallel by objecting that we
are here dealing with a god, not with a man; we possess the recorded
names of ‘kings who played the _rôle_ of Tammuz,’ thus even for that
early period the commingling of the two conceptions, god and king, is
definitely established.

Now in face of this group of parallels, whose close correspondence, if
we consider their separation in point of time (3000 B.C.; 1200 A.D.;
and the present day), is nothing short of astonishing, is it not
absolutely and utterly unreasonable to admit (as scholars no longer
hesitate to do) the relationship between the first and last, and
exclude, as a mere literary invention, the intermediate parallel?

The ground for such a denial may be mere prejudice, a reluctance to
renounce a long cherished critical prepossession, but in the face of
this new evidence does it not come perilously close to scientific
dishonesty, to a disregard for that respect for truth in research the
imperative duty of which has been so finely expressed by the late M.
Gaston Paris.—“Je professe absolument et sans réserve cette doctrine,
que la science n’a d’autre objet que la vérité, et la vérité pour
elle-même, sans aucun souci des conséquences, bonnes ou mauvaises,
regrettables ou heureuses, que cette vérité pourrait avoir dans la
pratique.”[17] When we further consider that behind these three main
parallels, linking them together, there lies a continuous chain of
evidence, expressed alike in classical literature, and surviving Folk
practice, I would submit that there is no longer any shadow of a doubt
that in the Grail King we have a romantic literary version of that
strange mysterious figure whose presence hovers in the shadowy
background of the history of our Aryan race; the figure of a divine or
semi-divine ruler, at once god and king, upon whose life, and
unimpaired vitality, the existence of his land and people directly
depends.

And if we once grant this initial fact, and resolve that we will no
longer, in the interests of an outworn critical tradition, deny the
weight of scientific evidence in determining the real significance of
the story, does it not inevitably follow, as a logical sequence, that
such versions as fail to connect the misfortunes of the land directly
with the disability of the king, but make them dependent upon the
failure of the Quester, are, by that very fact, stamped as secondary
versions. That by this one detail, of capital importance, they approve
themselves as literary treatments of a traditional theme, the true
meaning of which was unknown to the author?

Let us for a moment consider what the opposite view would entail; that
a story which was originally the outcome of pure literary invention
should in the course of re-modelling have been accidentally brought
into close and detailed correspondence with a deeply rooted sequence of
popular faith and practice is simply inconceivable, the re-modelling,
if re-modelling there were, must have been intentional, the men whose
handiwork it was were in possession of the requisite knowledge.

But how did they possess that knowledge, and why should they undertake
such a task? Surely not from the point of view of antiquarian interest,
as might be done to-day; they were no twelfth century Frazers and
Mannhardts; the subject must have had for them a more living, a more
intimate, interest. And if, in face of the evidence we now possess, we
feel bound to admit the existence of such knowledge, is it not more
reasonable to suppose that the men who first told the story were the
men who _knew_, and that the confusion was due to those who, with more
literary skill, but less first-hand information, re-modelled the
original theme?

In view of the present facts I would submit that the problem posed in
our first chapter may be held to be solved; that we accept as a _fait
acquis_ the conclusion that the woes of the land are directly dependent
upon the sickness, or maiming, of the King, and in no wise caused by
the failure of the Quester. The ‘Wasting of the land’ must be held to
have been antecedent to that failure, and the _Gawain_ versions in
which we find this condition fulfilled are, therefore, prior in origin
to the _Perceval_, in which the ‘Wasting’ is brought about by the
action of the hero; in some versions, indeed, has altogether
disappeared from the story.

Thus the position assigned in the versions to this feature of the Waste
Land becomes one of capital importance as a critical factor. This is a
point which has hitherto escaped the attention of scholars; the
misfortunes of the land have been treated rather as an accident, than
as an essential, of the Grail story, entirely subordinate in interest
to the _dramatis personae_ of the tale, or the objects, Lance and
Grail, round which the action revolves. As a matter of fact I believe
that the ‘Waste Land’ is really the very heart of our problem; a
rightful appreciation of its position and significance will place us in
possession of the clue which will lead us safely through the most
bewildering mazes of the fully developed tale.

Since the above pages were written Dr Frazer has notified the discovery
of a second African parallel, equally complete, and striking. In
_Folk-Lore_ (Vol. XXVI.) he prints, under the title _A Priest-King in
Nigeria_, a communication received from Mr P. A. Talbot, District
Commissioner in S. Nigeria. The writer states that the dominant Ju-Ju
of Elele, a town in the N.W. of the Degema district, is a Priest-King,
elected for a term of seven years. “The whole prosperity of the town,
especially the fruitfulness of farm, byre, and marriage-bed, was linked
with his life. Should he fall sick it entailed famine and grave
disaster upon the inhabitants.” So soon as a successor is appointed the
former holder of the dignity is reported to ‘die for himself.’ Previous
to the introduction of ordered government it is admitted that at any
time during his seven years’ term of office the Priest might be put to
death by any man sufficiently strong and resourceful, consequently it
is only on the rarest occasions (in fact only one such is recorded)
that the Ju-Ju ventures to leave his compound. At the same time the
riches derived from the offerings of the people are so considerable
that there is never a lack of candidates for the office.

From this and the evidence cited above it would appear that the
institution was widely spread in Africa, and at the same time it
affords a striking proof in support of the essential soundness of Dr
Frazer’s interpretation of the Priest of Nemi, an interpretation which
has been violently attacked in certain quarters, very largely on the
ground that no one would be found willing to accept an office involving
such direct danger to life. The above evidence shows clearly that not
only does such an office exist, but that it is by no means an unpopular
post.




CHAPTER VI
The Symbols


In the previous chapters we have discussed the Grail Legend from a
general, rather than a specific, point of view; _i.e._, we have
endeavoured to ascertain what was the real character of the task
imposed upon the hero, and what the nature and value of his
achievement.

We have been led to the conclusion that that achievement was, in the
first instance, of an altruistic character—it was no question of
advantages, temporal or spiritual, which should accrue to the Quester
himself, but rather of definite benefits to be won for others, the
freeing of a ruler and his land from the dire results of a punishment
which, falling upon the King, was fraught with the most disastrous
consequences for his kingdom.

We have found, further, that this close relation between the ruler and
his land, which resulted in the ill of one becoming the calamity of
all, is no mere literary invention, proceeding from the fertile
imagination of a twelfth century court poet, but a deeply rooted
popular belief, of practically immemorial antiquity and inexhaustible
vitality; we can trace it back thousands of years before the Christian
era, we find it fraught with decisions of life and death to-day.

Further, we find in that belief a tendency to express itself in certain
ceremonial practices, which retain in a greater or less degree the
character of the ritual observances of which they are the survival. Mr
E. K. Chambers, in _The Mediaeval Stage_, remarks: “If the comparative
study of Religion proves anything it is, that the traditional beliefs
and customs of the mediaeval or modern peasant are in nine cases out of
ten but the _detritus_ of heathen mythology and heathen worship,
enduring with but little external change in the shadow of a hostile
faith. This is notably true of the village festivals and their _ludi_.
Their full significance only appears when they are regarded as
fragments of forgotten cults, the naïve cults addressed by a primitive
folk to the beneficent deities of field and wood and river, or the
shadowy populace of its own dreams.”[1] We may, I think, take it that
we have established at least the possibility that in the Grail romances
we possess, in literary form, an example of the _detritus_ above
referred to, the fragmentary record of the secret ritual of a Fertility
cult.

Having reached this hypothetical conclusion, our next step must be to
examine the Symbols of this cult, the group of mysterious objects which
forms the central point of the action, a true understanding of the
nature of these objects being as essential for our success as
interpreters of the story as it was for the success of the Quester in
days of old. We must ask whether these objects, the Grail itself,
whether Cup or Dish; the Lance; the Sword; the Stone—one and all
invested with a certain atmosphere of awe, credited with strange
virtues, with sanctity itself, will harmonize with the proposed
solution, will range themselves fitly and fairly within the framework
of this hypothetical ritual.

That they should do so is a matter of capital importance; were it
otherwise the theory advanced might well, as some of my critics have
maintained, ‘never get beyond the region of ingenious speculation,’ but
it is precisely upon the fact that this theory of origin, and so far as
criticism has gone, this theory alone, does permit of a natural and
unforced interpretation of these related symbols that I rely as one of
the most convincing proofs of the correctness of my hypothesis.

Before commencing the investigation there is one point which I would
desire to emphasize, _viz._, the imperative necessity for treating the
Symbols or Talismans, call them what we will, on the same principle as
we have treated the incidents of the story, _i.e._, as a connected
whole. That they be not separated the one _from_ the other, and made
the subject of independent treatment, but that they be regarded in
their relation the one _to_ the other, and that no theory of origin be
held admissible which does not allow for that relation as a primitive
and indispensable factor. It may be the modern tendency to specialize
which is apt to blind scholars to the essential importance of regarding
their object of study as a whole, that fosters in them a habit of
focussing their attention upon that one point or incident of the story
which lends itself to treatment in their special line of study, and
which induces them to minimize, or ignore, those elements which lie
outside their particular range. But, whatever the cause, it is
indubitable that this method of ‘criticism by isolation’ has been, and
is, one of the main factors which have operated in retarding the
solution of the Grail problem.

So long as critics of the story will insist on pulling it into little
pieces, selecting one detail here, another there, for study and
elucidation, so long will the _ensemble_ result be chaotic and
unsatisfactory. We shall continue to have a number of monographs, more
or less scholarly in treatment—one dealing with the Grail as a
Food-providing talisman, and that alone; another with the Grail as a
vehicle of spiritual sustenance. One that treats of the Lance as a
Pagan weapon, and nothing more; another that regards it as a Christian
relic, and nothing less. At one moment the object of the study will be
the Fisher King, without any relation to the symbols he guards, or the
land he rules; at the next it will be the relation of the Quester to
the Fisher King, without any explanation of the tasks assigned to him
by the story. The result obtained is always quite satisfactory to the
writer, often plausible, sometimes in a measure sound, but it would
defy the skill of the most synthetic genius to co-ordinate the results
thus obtained, and combine them in one harmonious whole. They are like
pieces of a puzzle, each of which has been symmetrically cut and
trimmed, till they lie side by side, un-fitting, and un-related.

And we have been pursuing this method for over fifty years, and are
still, apparently, content to go on, each devoting attention to the
symmetrical perfection of his own little section of the puzzle, quite
indifferent to the fact that our neighbour is in possession of an
equally neatly trimmed fragment, which entirely refuses to fit in with
our own!

Is it not time that we should frankly admit the unsatisfactory results
of these years of labour, and honestly face the fact that while we now
have at our disposal an immense mass of interesting and suggestive
material often of high value, we have failed, so far, to formulate a
conclusion which, by embracing and satisfying the manifold conditions
of the problem, will command general acceptance? And if this failure be
admitted, may not its cause be sought in the faulty method which has
failed to recognize in the Grail story an original whole, in which the
parts—the action, the actors, the Symbols, the result to be obtained,
incident, and intention—stood from the very first in intimate relation
the one to the other? That while in process of utilization as a
literary theme these various parts have suffered modification and
accretion from this, or that, side, the problem of the _ultimate_
source remains thereby unaffected?

Such a reversal of method as I suggest will, I submit, not only provide
us with a critical solution capable of general acceptance, but it will
also enable us to utilize, and appreciate at their due value, the
result of researches which at the present moment appear to be mutually
destructive the one of the other. Thus, while the purely Folk-lore
interpretation of the Grail and Lance excludes the Christian origin,
and the theory of the exclusively Christian origin negatives the
Folk-lore, the pre-existence of these symbols in a popular ritual
setting would admit, indeed would invite, later accretion alike from
folk belief and ecclesiastical legend.

We are the gainers by any light that can possibly be thrown upon the
process of development of the story, but studies of the separate
symbols while they may, and do, afford valuable _data_ for determining
the character and period of certain accretions, should not be regarded
as supplying proof of the origin of the related group.

Reference to some recent studies in the Legend will make my meaning
clear. A reviewer of my small _Quest of the Holy Grail_ volume remarked
that I appeared to be ignorant of Miss Peebles’s study _The Legend of
Longinus_ “which materially strengthens the evidence for the Christian
origin.”[2] Now this is precisely what, in my view, the study in
question, which I knew and possessed, does not do. As evidence for the
fact that the Grail legend has taken over certain features derived from
the popular ‘Longinus’ story (which, incidentally, no one disputed),
the essay is, I hold, sound, and valuable; as affording material for
determining the source of the Grail story, it is, on the other hand,
entirely without value.

On the principle laid down above no theory which purports to be
explanatory of the source of one symbol can be held satisfactory in a
case where that symbol does not stand alone. We cannot accept for the
Grail story a theory of origin which concerns itself with the Lance, as
independent of the Grail. In the study referred to the author has been
at immense pains to examine the different versions of the ‘Longinus’
legend, and to trace its development in literature; in no single
instance do we find Longinus and his Lance associated with a Cup or
Vase, receptacle of the Sacred Blood.

The plain fact is that in Christian art and tradition Lance and Cup are
not associated symbols. The Lance or Spear, as an instrument of the
Passion, is found in conjunction with the Cross, Nails, Sponge, and
Crown of Thorns, (anyone familiar with the wayside Crosses of Catholic
Europe will recognize this), not with the Chalice of the Mass.[3] This
latter is associated with the Host, or _Agnus Dei_. Still less is the
Spear to be found in connection with the Grail in its Food-providing
form of a Dish.

No doubt to this, critics who share the views of Golther and Burdach
will object, “but what of the Byzantine Mass? Do we not there find a
Spear connected with the Chalice?”[4]

I very much doubt whether we do—the so-called ‘Holy Spear’ of the
Byzantine, and present Greek, liturgy is simply a small silver
spear-shaped knife, nor can I discover that it was ever anything else.
I have made careful enquiries of liturgical scholars, and consulted
editions of Oriental liturgies, but I can find no evidence that the
knife (the use of which is to divide the Loaf which, in the Oriental
rite, corresponds to the Wafer of the Occidental, in a manner
symbolically corresponding to the Wounds actually inflicted on the
Divine Victim) was ever other than what it is to-day. It seems obvious,
from the method of employment, that an actual Spear could hardly have
been used, it would have been an impossibly unwieldy instrument for the
purpose.

Nor is the ‘procession’ in which the elements are carried from the
Chapel of the Prothesis to the Sanctuary of a public character
comparable with that of the Grail castle; the actual ceremony of the
Greek Mass takes place, of course, behind a veil. A point of
considerable interest, however, is, what caused this difference in the
Byzantine liturgy? What were the influences which led to the
introduction of a feature unknown to the Western rite? If, as the
result of the evidence set forth in these pages, the ultimate origin of
the Grail story be finally accepted as deriving from a prehistoric
ritual possessing elements of extraordinary persistence and vitality,
then the _mise-en-scène_ of that story is older than the Byzantine
ritual. Students of the subject are well aware that the tradition of
ancient pre-Christian rites and ceremonies lingered on in the East long
after they had been banished by the more practical genius of the West.
It may well prove that so far from the Grail story being a reminiscence
of the Byzantine rite, that rite itself has been affected by a ritual
of which the Grail legend preserves a fragmentary record.

In my view a Christian origin for Lance and Cup, as associated symbols,
has not been made out; still less can it be postulated for Lance and
Cup as members of an extended group, including Dish, Sword, and Stone.

On this point Professor Brown’s attempt to find in Irish tradition the
origin of the Grail symbols is distinctly more satisfactory.[5]

I cannot accept as decisive the solution proposed, which seems to me to
be open to much the same criticism as that which would find in the
Lance the Lance of Longinus—both are occupied with details, rather than
with _ensemble;_ both would find their justification as offering
evidence of accretion, rather than of origin; neither can provide us
with the required _mise-en-scène_.

But Professor Brown’s theory is the more sound in that he is really
dealing with a group of associated symbols; in his view Lance and Grail
alike belong to the treasures of the Tuatha de Danann (that legendary
race of Irish ancestors, who were at once gods and kings), and
therefore _ab initio_ belong together. But while I should, on the
whole, accept the affiliation of the two groups, and believe that the
treasures of the Tuatha de Danann really correspond to the symbols
displayed in the hall of the Grail castle, I cannot consider that the
one is the origin of the other. There is one very fundamental
difference, the importance of which I cannot ignore, but which, I
believe, has hitherto escaped Professor Brown’s attention.

The object corresponding to the Grail itself is the cauldron of the
Dagda, “No company ever went from it unthankful” (or ‘unsatisfied’).[6]

Now this can in no sense be considered as a Cup, or Vase, nor is it the
true parallel to a Dish. The connection with the Grail is to be found
solely and exclusively in the food-providing properties ascribed to
both. But even here the position is radically different; the impression
we derive from the Irish text and its analogous parallels is that of
size (it is also called a ‘tub’), and inexhaustible content, it is a
cauldron of plenty.[7] Now, neither of these qualities can be
postulated of the Grail; whatever its form, Cup or Dish, it can easily
be borne (in uplifted hands, _entre ses mains hautement porte_) by a
maiden, which certainly could not be postulated of a cauldron! Nor is
there any proof that the Vessel itself contained the food with which
the folk of the Grail castle were regaled; the texts rather point to
the conclusion that the appearance of the Grail synchronized with a
mysterious supply of food of a choice and varied character. There is
never any hint that the folk feed _from the Grail;_ the only suggestion
of such feeding is in the ‘Oiste,’ by which the father of the Fisher
King (or the King himself) is nourished.

In certain texts the separation of the two is clearly brought out; in
_Joseph of Arimathea_, for instance, the Fish caught by Brons is to be
placed at one end of the table, the Grail at the other. In Gawain’s
adventure at the Grail castle, in the prose _Lancelot_, as the Grail is
carried through the hall “forthwith were the tables replenished with
the choicest meats in the world,” but the table before Gawain remains
void and bare.[8] I submit that while the Grail is in certain phases a
food-supplying talisman it is not one of the same character as the
cauldrons of plenty; also while the food supply of these latter has the
marked characteristic of _quantity_, that of the Grail is remarkable
rather for _quality_, its choice character is always insisted upon.

The perusal of Professor Brown’s subsequent study, _Notes on Celtic
Cauldrons of Plenty and The Land-Beneath-the-Waves_, has confirmed me
in my view that these special objects belong to another line of
tradition altogether; that which deals with an inexhaustible submarine
source of life, examples of which will be found in the ‘Sampo’ of the
Finnish _Kalewala_, and the ever-grinding mills of popular
folk-tale.[9] The fundamental idea here seems to be that of the origin
of all Life from Water, a very ancient idea, but one which, though akin
to the Grail tradition, is yet quite distinct therefrom. The study of
this special theme would, I believe, produce valuable results.[10]

On the whole, I am of the opinion that the treasures of the Tuatha de
Danann and the symbols of the Grail castle go back to a common
original, but that they have developed on different lines; in the
process of this development one ‘Life’ symbol has been exchanged for
another.

But Lance and Cup (or Vase) were in truth connected together in a
symbolic relation long ages before the institution of Christianity, or
the birth of Celtic tradition. They are sex symbols of immemorial
antiquity and world-wide diffusion, the Lance, or Spear, representing
the Male, the Cup, or Vase, the Female, reproductive energy.[12]

Found in juxtaposition, the Spear upright in the Vase, as in the
_Bleheris_ and _Balin_ (both, be it noted, _Gawain_) forms, their
signification is admitted by all familiar with ‘Life’ symbolism, and
they are absolutely in place as forming part of a ritual dealing with
the processes of life and reproductive vitality.[13]

A most remarkable and significant use of these symbols is found in the
ceremonies of the Samurai, the noble warrior caste of Japan. The
aspirant was (I am told still is) admitted into the caste at the age of
fourteen, when he was given over to the care of a guardian at least
fifteen years his senior, to whom he took an oath of obedience, which
was sworn upon the Spear. He remained celibate during the period
covered by the oath. When the Samurai was held to have attained the
degree of responsibility which would fit him for the full duties of a
citizen, a second solemn ceremony was held, at which he was released
from his previous vows, and presented with the Cup; he was henceforth
free to marry, but intercourse with women previous to this ceremony was
at one time punishable with death.[14]

That Lance and Cup are, _outside_ the Grail story, ‘Life’ symbols, and
have been such from time immemorial, is a fact; why, then should they
not retain that character _inside_ the framework of that story? An
acceptance of this interpretation will not only be in harmony with the
general _mise-en-scène_, but it will also explain finally and
satisfactorily, (_a_) the dominant position frequently assigned to the
Lance; (_b_) the fact that, while the Lance is borne in procession by a
youth, the Grail is carried by a maiden—the sex of the bearer
corresponds with the symbol borne.[15]

But Lance and Cup, though the most prominent of the Symbols, do not
always appear alone, but are associated with other objects, the
significance of which is not always apparent. Thus the Dish, which is
sometimes the form assumed by the Grail itself, at other times appears
as a _tailléor_, or carving platter of silver, carried in the same
procession as the Grail; or there may be two small _tailléors;_
finally, a Sword appears in varying _rôles_ in the story.

I have already referred to the fact, first pointed out by the late Mr
Alfred Nutt,[16] that the four treasures of the Tuatha de Danann
correspond generally with the group of symbols found in the Grail
romances; this correspondence becomes the more interesting in view of
the fact that these mysterious Beings are now recognized as alike
Demons of Fertility and Lords of Life. As Mr Nutt subsequently pointed
out, the ‘Treasures’ may well be, Sword and Cauldron certainly are,
‘Life’ symbols.

Of direct connection between these Celtic objects and the Grail story
there is no trace; as remarked above, we have no Irish Folk or Hero
tale at all corresponding to the Legend; the relation must, therefore,
go back beyond the date of formation of these tales, _i.e._, it must be
considered as one of origin rather than of dependence.

But we have further evidence that these four objects do, in fact, form
a special group entirely independent of any appearance in Folk-lore or
Romance. They exist to-day as the four suits of the Tarot.

Students of the Grail texts, whose attention is mainly occupied with
Medieval Literature, may not be familiar with the word Tarot, or aware
of its meaning. It is the name given to a pack of cards, seventy-eight
in number, of which twenty-two are designated as the ‘Keys.’

These cards are divided into four suits, which correspond with those of
the ordinary cards; they are:

Cup (Chalice, or Goblet)—Hearts.
Lance (Wand, or Sceptre)—Diamonds.
Sword—Spades.
Dish (Circles, or Pentangles, the form varies)—Clubs.


To-day the Tarot has fallen somewhat into disrepute, being principally
used for purposes of divination, but its origin, and precise relation
to our present playing-cards, are questions of considerable antiquarian
interest. Were these cards the direct parents of our modern pack, or
are they entirely distinct therefrom?[17]

Some writers are disposed to assign a very high antiquity to the Tarot.
Traditionally, it is said to have been brought from Egypt; there is no
doubt that parallel designs and combinations are to be found in the
surviving decorations of Egyptian temples, notably in the astronomic
designs on the ceiling of one of the halls of the palace of Medinet
Abou, which is supported on twenty-two columns (a number corresponding
to the ‘keys’ of the Tarot), and also repeated in a calendar sculptured
on the southern façade of the same building, under a sovereign of the
XXIII dynasty. This calendar is supposed to have been connected with
the periodic rise and fall of the waters of the Nile.[18]

The Tarot has also been connected with an ancient Chinese monument,
traditionally erected in commemoration of the drying up of the waters
of the Deluge by Yao. The face of this monument is divided up into
small sections corresponding in size and number with the cards of the
Tarot, and bearing characters which have, so far, not been deciphered.

What is certain is that these cards are used to-day by the Gipsies for
purposes of divination, and the opinion of those who have studied the
subject is that there is some real ground for the popular tradition
that they were introduced into Europe by this mysterious people.

In a very interesting article on the subject in _The Journal of the
Gipsy-Lore Society_,[19] Mr De la Hoste Ranking examines closely into
the figures depicted on the various cards, and the names attached to
the suits by the Gipsies. He comes to the conclusion that many of the
words are of Sanskrit, or Hindustani, origin, and sums up the result of
the internal evidence as follows: “The Tarot was introduced by a race
speaking an Indian dialect. The figure known as ‘The Pope’ shows the
influence of the Orthodox Eastern Faith; he is bearded, and carries the
Triple Cross. The card called ‘The King’ represents a figure with the
head-dress of a Russian Grand-Duke, and a shield bearing the Polish
eagle. Thus the people who used the Tarot must have been familiar with
a country where the Orthodox Faith prevailed, and which was ruled by
princes of the status of Grand-Dukes. The general result seems to point
to a genuine basis for the belief that the Tarot was introduced into
Europe from the East.”

As regards the group of symbols in general, Mr W. B. Yeats, whose
practical acquaintance with Medieval and Modern Magic is well known,
writes: “(1) Cup, Lance, Dish, Sword, in slightly varying forms, have
never lost their mystic significance, and are to-day a part of magical
operations. (2) The memory kept by the four suits of the Tarot, Cup,
Lance, Sword, Pentangle (Dish), is an esoterical notation for
fortune-telling purposes.”[20]

But if the connection with the Egyptian and Chinese monuments, referred
to above, is genuine, the original use of the ‘Tarot’ would seem to
have been, not to foretell the Future in general, but to predict the
rise and fall of the waters which brought fertility to the land.

Such use would bring the ‘Suits’ into line with the analogous symbols
of the Grail castle and the treasures of the Tuatha de Danann, both of
which we have seen to be connected with the embodiment of the
reproductive forces of Nature.

If it is difficult to establish a direct connection between these two
latter, it is practically impossible to argue any connection between
either group and the ‘Tarot’; no one has as yet ventured to suggest the
popularity of the works of Chrétien de Troyes among the Gipsies! Yet
the correspondence can hardly be fortuitous. I would suggest that,
while Lance and Cup, in their associated form, are primarily symbols of
Human Life energy, in conjunction with others they formed a group of
‘Fertility’ symbols, connected with a very ancient ritual, of which
fragmentary survivals alone have been preserved to us.

This view will, I believe, receive support from the evidence of the
ceremonial Dances which formed so important a part of ‘Fertility’
ritual, and which survive in so many places to this day. If we find
these symbols reappearing as a part of these dances, their real
significance can hardly be disputed.




CHAPTER VII
The Sword Dance


The subject we are now about to consider is one which of late years has
attracted considerable attention, and much acute criticism has been
expended on the question of its origin and significance. Valuable
material has been collected, but the studies, so far, have been
individual, and independent, the much needed _travail d’ensemble_ has
not yet appeared.

One definite result has, however, been obtained; it is now generally
admitted that the so-called Sword Dances, with the closely related
Morris Dances, and Mumming Plays, are not mere survivals of martial
exercises, an inherited tradition from our warrior ancestors, but were
solemn, ceremonial (in some cases there is reason to believe,
Initiatory) dances, performed at stated seasons of the year, and
directly and intimately connected with the ritual of which we have
treated in previous chapters, a ritual designed to preserve and promote
the regular and ordered sequence of the processes of Nature. And here,
again, our enquiry must begin with the very earliest records of our
race, with the traditions of our Aryan forefathers.

The earliest recorded Sword Dancers are undoubtedly the Maruts, those
swift-footed youths in gleaming armour who are the faithful attendants
on the great god, Indra. Professor von Schroeder, in _Mysterium und
Mimus_, describes them thus:[1] they are a group of youths of equal age
and identical parentage, they are always depicted as attired in the
same manner, “Sie sind reich und prächtig geschmückt, mit Goldschmuck
auf der Brust, mit Spangen an den Händen, Hirschfelle tragen sie auf
den Schultern. Vor allem aber sind sie kriegerisch gerüstet, funkelnde
Speere tragen sie in den Händen, oder auch goldene Äxte. Goldene
Harnische oder Mäntel umhüllen sie, goldene Helme schimmern auf ihren
Häuptern. Nie erscheinen sie ohne Wehr und Waffen. Es scheint dass
diese ganz und gar zu ihren Wesen gehören.”

The writer goes on to remark that when such a band of armed youths, all
of the same age, always closely associated with each other, are
represented as Dancers, and always as Dancers—“dann haben wir
unabweislich das Bild eines Waffentanzes vor unseren Augen”—and
Professor von Schroeder is undoubtedly right.

Constantly throughout the _Rig-Veda_ the Maruts are referred to as
Dancers, “gold-bedecked Dancers,” “with songs of praise they danced
round the spring,” “When ye Maruts spear-armed dance, they (_i.e._, the
Heavens) stream together like waves of water.”[2]

And a special moment for the dance of these glorious youths “ever young
brothers of whom none is elder, none younger”[3] is that of the
ceremonial sacrifice, “sie tanzen auf ihren himmlischen Bahnen, sie
springen und tanzen auch bei den Opferfesten der Menschen.”[4]

The Maruts, as said above, were conceived of as the companions of
Indra, and helpers in his fight against his monstrous adversaries; thus
they were included in the sacrifices offered in honour of that Deity.

One of the most striking of the ritual Dramas reconstructed by
Professor von Schroeder is that which represents Indra as indignantly
rejecting the claim of the Maruts to share in such a sacrifice; they
had failed to support him in his conflict with the dragon, Vritra, when
by his might he loosed the waters, ‘neither to-day, nor to-morrow’ will
he accept a sacrifice of which they share the honour; it requires all
the tact of the Offerer, Agastya, and of the leader of the Maruts to
soothe the offended Deity.[5]

Here I would draw attention to the significant fact that the feat
celebrated is that to which I have previously referred as the most
famous of all the deeds attributed to Indra, the ‘Freeing of the
Waters,’ and here the Maruts are associated with the god.

But they were also the objects of independent worship. They were
specially honoured at the Câturmâsya, the feasts which heralded the
commencement of the three seasons of four months each into which the
Indian year was divided, a division corresponding respectively to the
hot, the cool, and the wet, season. The advantages to be derived from
the worship of the Maruts may be deduced from the following extracts
from the _Rig-Veda_, which devotes more than thirty hymns to their
praise. “The adorable Maruts, armed with bright lances, and cuirassed
with golden breastplates, enjoy vigorous existence; may the cars of the
quick-moving Maruts arrive for our good.” “Bringers of rain and
fertility, shedding water, augmenting food.” “Givers of abundant food.”
“Your milchkine are never dry.” “We invoke the food-laden chariots of
the Maruts.”[6] Nothing can be clearer than this; the Maruts are
‘daimons’ of fertility, the worship of whom will secure the necessary
supply of the fruits of the earth.

The close association of the Maruts with Indra, the great Nature god,
has led some scholars to regard them as personifications of a special
manifestation of Nature, as Wind-gods. Professor von Schroeder points
out that their father was the god Rudra, later known as Çiva, the god
of departed souls, and of fruitfulness, _i.e._, a Chthonian deity, and
suggests that the Maruts represent the “in Wind und Sturm dahinjagende
Seelenschar.”[7] He points out that the belief in a troop of departed
souls is an integral part of Aryan tradition, and classifies such
belief under four main headings.

1. Under the form of a spectral Hunt, the Wild Huntsman well known in
European Folk-lore. He equates this with Dionysus Zagreus, and the Hunt
of Artemis-Hekate.

2. That of a spectral Army, the souls of warriors slain in fight. The
Northern _Einherier_ belong to this class, and the many traditions of
spectral combats, and ghostly battles, heard, but not seen.

3. The conception of a host of women in a condition of ecstatic
exaltation bordering on madness, who appear girdled with snakes, or
hissing like snakes, tear living animals to pieces, and devour the
flesh. The classic examples here are the Greek Maenads, and the Indian
Senâs, who accompany Rudra.

4. The conception of a train of theriomorphic, phallic, demons of
fertility, with their companion group of fair women. Such are the
Satyrs and Nymphs of Greek, the Gandharvas and Apsaras of Indian,
Mythology.

To these four main groups may be added the belief among Germanic
peoples, also among the Letts, in a troop of Child Souls.

These four groups, in more or less modified forms, appear closely
connected with the dominant Spirit of Vegetation, by whatever name that
spirit may be known.

According to von Schroeder there was, among the Aryan peoples
generally, a tendency to regard the dead as assuming the character of
daimons of fertility. This view the learned Professor considers to be
at the root of the annual celebrations in honour of the Departed, the
‘Feast of Souls,’ which characterized the commencement of the winter
season, and is retained in the Catholic conception of November as the
month of the Dead.[8]

In any case we may safely conclude that the Maruts, represented as
armed youths, were worshipped as deities of fruitfulness; that their
dances were of a ceremonial character; and that they were, by nature
and origin, closely connected with spirits of fertility of a lower
order, such as the Gandharvas. It also appears probable that, if the
Dramas of which traces have been preserved in the _Rig-Veda_, were, as
scholars are now of opinion, once actually represented, the
mythological conception of the Maruts must have found its embodiment in
youths, most probably of the priestly caste, who played their _rôle_,
and actually danced the ceremonial Sword Dance. As von Schroeder says,
“Kein Zweifel dass sie dabei von menschlichen, resp. priesterlichen
Personen dargestellt wurden.[9]

When we turn from the early Aryan to the classic Greek period we find
in the Kouretes, and in a minor degree in the Korybantes, a parallel so
extraordinarily complete, alike in action and significance, that an
essential identity of origin appears to be beyond doubt.

The Kouretes were, as their name indicates, a band of armed youths, of
semi-divine origin, “Kureten sind von Haus aus halb-göttlich dämonische
Wesen nicht nur menschliche Priester, oder deren mythische
Vertreter.”[10] Again, they are to be considered as “elementare
Urwesen,” and as such of “Göttliche Abkunft.”[11] Preller regards them
as “Dämonen des Gebirgs,”[12] while a passage from Hesiod, quoted by
Strabo, equates them with nymphs and satyrs, _i.e._, fertility
demons.[13]

When we remember that the Gandharvas are the Indian equivalent of the
Satyrs the close parallel between the Maruts and the Kouretes, both
alike bands of armed youths, of elementary origin, and connected with
beings of a lower grade, is striking.

The home of the Kouretes was in Crete, where they were closely
associated with the worship of the goddess Rhea. The traditional story
held that, in order to preserve the infant Zeus from destruction by his
father Kronos, they danced their famous Sword Dance round the babe,
overpowering his cries by the clash of their weapons.

Their dance was by some writers identified with the Pyrrhic dance,
first performed by Athene, in honour of her victory over the Giants,
and taught by her to the Kouretes. It had however, as we shall see, a
very distinct aim and purpose, and one in no way connected with warlike
ends.

In Miss J. E. Harrison’s deeply interesting volume, _Themis_,[14] she
gives the translation of a fragmentary _Hymn of the Kouretes_,
discovered among the ruins of a temple in Crete, a text which places
beyond all doubt the fact that, however mythical in origin, the
Kouretes, certainly, had actual human representatives, and that while
in the case of the Maruts there may be a question as to whether their
dance actually took place, or not, so far as the Kouretes are concerned
there can be no such doubt.

The following is the text as preserved to us; the slabs on which it is
inscribed are broken, and there are consequent lacunae.

“Io, Kouros most great, I give thee hail, Kronian, lord of all that is
wet and gleaming, thou art come at the head of thy Daimones. To Dikte
for the year, Oh march, and rejoice in the dance and song,

“That we make to thee with harps and pipes mingled together, and sing
as we come to a stand at thy well-fenced altar.

“Io, &c.

“For here the shielded Nurturers took thee, a child immortal, from
Rhea, and with noise of beating feet hid thee away.

“Io, &c.

“And the Horai began to be fruitful year by year, and Dikè to possess
mankind and all wild living things were held about by wealth-loving
Peace.

“Io, &c.

“And the Horai began to be fruitful year by year, and Dikè to possess
mankind and all wild living things were held about by wealth-loving
Peace.

“Io, &c.

“To us also leap for full jars, and leap for fleecy flocks, and leap
for fields of fruit, and for hives to bring increase.

“Io, &c.

“Leap for our cities, and leap for our sea-borne ships, and leap for
our young citizens, and for goodly Themis.”

This hymn is most extraordinarily interesting; it places beyond all
doubt what was the root intention of this ceremonial dance; it was
designed to stimulate the reproductive energies of Nature, to bring
into being fruitful fields, and vineyards, plenteous increase in the
flocks and herds, and to people the cities with youthful citizens; and
the god is entreated not merely to accept the worship offered, but
himself to join in the action which shall produce such fair results, to
leap for full jars, and fleecy flocks, and for youthful citizens.

The importance of movement, notably of what we may call group movement,
as a stimulant to natural energies, is thoroughly recognized among
primitive peoples; with them Dance holds a position equivalent to that
which, in more advanced communities, is assigned to Prayer. Professor
von Schroeder comments on this, “Es ist merkwürdig genug zu sehen wie
das Tanzen nach dem Glauben primitiver Völker eine ähnliche Kraft und
Bedeutung zu haben scheint wie man sie auf höheren Kulturstufen dem
inbrünstigen Gebete zuschreibt.”[15] He cites the case of the
Tarahumara Indians of Central America; while the family as a whole are
labouring in the fields it is the office of one man to dance
uninterruptedly on the dance place of the house; if he fails in his
office the labour of the others will be unsuccessful. The one sin of
which a Tarahumara Indian is conscious is that of not having danced
enough. Miss Harrison, in commenting on the dance of the Kouretes,
remarks that among certain savage tribes when a man is too old to dance
he hands on his dance to another. He then ceases to exist socially;
when he dies his funeral is celebrated with scanty rites; having ‘lost
his dance’ he has ceased to count as a social unit.[16]

With regard to the connection of the Kouretes with the infant Zeus,
Miss Harrison makes the interesting suggestion that we have here a
trace of an Initiation Dance, analogous to those discussed by M. Van
Gennep in his _Rites du Passage_, that the original form was Tităns,
‘White-clay men,’ which later became Titāns, ‘Giants,’ and she draws
attention to the fact that daubing the skin with white clay is a
frequent practice in these primitive rituals. To this I would add that
it is a noteworthy fact that in our modern survivals of these dances
the performers are, as a rule, dressed in white.

The above suggestion is of extreme significance, as it brings out the
possibility that these celebrations were not only concerned with the
prosperity of the community, as a whole, but may also have borne a
special, and individual, aspect, and that the idea of Initiation into
the group is closely connected with the ceremonial exercise of group
functions.

To sum up, there is direct proof that the classic Greeks, in common
with their Aryan forefathers, held the conception of a group of Beings,
of mythic origin, represented under the form of armed youths, who were
noted dancers, and whose activities were closely connected with the
processes of Nature. They recognized a relation between these beings,
and others of a less highly developed aspect, phallic demons, often of
theriomorphic form. Thus the dance of the Kouretes should be considered
as a ceremonial ritual action, rather than as a warlike exercise; it
was designed to promote the fruitfulness of the earth, not to display
the skill of the dancers in the handling of weapons. When we turn to an
analogous group, that of the Korybantes, we find that, while presenting
a general parallel to the Kouretes (with whom they are often coupled in
mythologies), they also possess certain distinct characteristics, which
form a connecting link with other, and later, groups.

The Korybantes were of Phrygian origin, attached to the worship of the
goddess Kybele, and Attis, the well-known Phrygian counterpart to the
Phoenician Adonis, and originally the most important embodiment of the
Vegetation Spirit. Röscher considers them to be of identical origin
with the Kouretes, _i.e._, as elementary ‘daimons,’ but the Korybantes
of Classic art and tradition are undoubtedly human beings. Priests of
Kybele, they appear in surviving bas-reliefs in company with that
goddess, and with Attis.

The dance of the Korybantes is distinguished from that of the Kouretes
by its less restrained, and more orgiastic character; it was a wild and
whirling dance resembling that of the modern Dervishes, accompanied by
self-mutilation and an unrhythmic clashing of weapons, designed, some
writers think, to overpower the cries of the victims.

If this suggestion be correct it would seem to indicate that, if the
Dance of the Kouretes was originally an Initiation Dance, that of the
Korybantes was Sacrificial in character. We shall see later that
certain features in the surviving forms of the Sword Dance also point
in this direction.

The interest of the Korybantes for our investigation lies in the fact
that here again we have the Sword Dance in close and intimate
connection with the worship of the Vegetation Spirit, and there can be
no doubt that here, as elsewhere, it was held to possess a stimulating
virtue.

A noticeable point in the modern survivals of these Dances is that the
Dance proper is combined with a more or less coherent dramatic action.
The Sword Dance originally did not stand alone, but formed part of a
Drama, to the action of which it may be held to have given a cumulative
force.

On this point I would refer the reader to Professor von Schroeder’s
book, where this aspect of the Dance is fully discussed.[17]

We have already spoken of the Maruts, and their dramatic connection
with Indra; the Greek Dancers offer us no direct parallel, though the
connection of the Kouretes with the infant Zeus may quite possibly
indicate the existence in the original form of the Dance, of a more
distinctly dramatic element.

We have, however, in the Roman Salii a connecting link which proves
beyond all doubt that our modern dances, and analogous representations,
are in fact genuine survivals of primitive ceremonies, and in no way a
mere fortuitous combination of originally independent elements.

The Salii formed a college of priests, twelve in number, dedicated to
the service of Mars, who, it is important to remember, was originally a
god of growth and vegetation, a Spring Deity, who bestowed his name on
the vernal month of March; only by degrees did the activities of the
god become specially connected with the domain of War.[18]

There seem to have been two groups of Salii, one having their college
on the Palatine, the other on the Quirinal; the first were the more
important. The Quirinal group shared in the celebrations of the latter
part of the month only.

The first of March was the traditional birthday of Mars, and from that
date, during the whole of the month, the Salii offered sacrifices and
performed dances in his honour. They wore pointed caps, or helmets, on
their head, were girt with swords, and carried on the left arm shields,
copied from the ‘ancilia’ or traditional shield of Mars, fabled to have
fallen from heaven. In their right hand they bore a small lance.

Dionysus of Halicarnassus, in a passage describing the Salii, says,
“they carried in their right hand a spear, or staff, or something of
that sort.” Miss Harrison, quoting this passage, gives a reproduction
of a bas-relief representing the Salii carrying what she says “are
clearly drumsticks.” (As a matter of fact they very closely resemble
the ‘Wands’ which in the Tarot cards sometimes represent the ‘Lance’
suit.)

Miss Harrison suggests that the original shields were made of skins,
stretched upon a frame, and beaten by these ‘drumsticks.’ This may
quite well have been the case, and it would bear out my contention that
the original contact of weapon and shield was designed rather as a
rhythmic accompaniment to the Dance, than as a display of skill in
handling sword and lance, _i.e._, that these dances were not primarily
warlike exercises.

At the conclusion of their songs the Salii invoked Mamurius Veturius,
the smith who was fabled to have executed the copies of the original
shield, while on the 14th of March, a man, dressed in skins, and
supposed to represent the aforesaid smith, was led through the streets,
beaten by the Salii with rods, and thrust out of the city.

The following day, the 15th, was the feast of Anna Perenna, fabled to
be an old woman, to whom Mars had confided the tale of his love for
Nerio, and who, disguising herself as the maiden, had gone through the
ceremony of marriage with the god. This feast was held outside the
gates. On the 23rd the combined feast of Mars and Nerio was held with
great rejoicing throughout the city. Modern scholars have unanimously
recognized in Mamurius Veturius and Anna Perenna the representatives of
the Old Year, the Vegetation Spirit, and his female counterpart, who,
grown old, must yield place to the young god and his correspondingly
youthful bride. Reference to Chapter 5, where the medieval and modern
forms of this Nature ritual are discussed, and instances of the
carrying out of Winter, and ceremonial bringing in of Spring, are
given, will suffice to show how vital and enduring an element in
Folk-lore is this idea of driving out the Old Year, while celebrating
the birth of the New. Here then, again, we have a ritual Sword Dance
closely associated with the practice of a Nature cult; there can, I
think, be no doubt that _ab initio_ the two were connected with each
other.

But the dance of the Salii with its dramatic Folk-play features forms
an interesting link between the classic Dance of the Kouretes, and the
modern English survivals, in which the dramatic element is strongly
marked. These English forms may be divided into three related groups,
the Sword Dance, the Morris Dance, and the Mumming Play. Of these the
Morris Dance stands somewhat apart; of identical origin, it has
discarded the dramatic element, and now survives simply as a Dance,
whereas the Sword Dance is always dramatic in form, and the Mumming
Play, acted by characters appearing also in the Sword Dance, invariably
contains a more or less elaborate fight.[19]

The Sword Dance proper appears to have been preserved mostly in the
North of England, and in Scotland. Mr Cecil Sharp has found four
distinct varieties in Yorkshire alone. At one time there existed a
special variant known as the _Giants’ Dance_, in which the leading
characters were known by the names of Wotan, and Frau Frigg; one figure
of this dance consisted in making a ring of swords round the neck of a
lad, without wounding him.

Mr E. K. Chambers has commented on this as the survival of a
sacrificial origin.[20] The remarks of this writer on the Sword Dance
in its dramatic aspect are so much to the point that I quote them here.
“The Sword Dance makes its appearance, not like heroic poetry in
general, as part of the minstrel repertory, but as a purely popular
thing at the agricultural festivals. To these festivals we may
therefore suppose it to have originally belonged.” Mr Chambers goes on
to remark that the dance of the Salii discussed above, was clearly
agricultural, “and belongs to Mars not as War god, but in his more
primitive quality of a fertilization Spirit.”

In an Appendix to his most valuable book the same writer gives a full
description, with text, of the most famous surviving form of the Sword
Dance, that of Papa Stour (old Norwegian _Pâpey in Stôra_), one of the
Shetland Islands.

The dance was performed at Christmas (Yule-tide). The dancers, seven in
number, represented the seven champions of Christendom; the leader,
Saint George, after an introductory speech, performed a solo dance, to
the music of an accompanying minstrel. He then presented his comrades,
one by one, each in turn going through the same performance. Finally
the seven together performed an elaborate dance. The complete text of
the speeches is given in the Appendix referred to.[21]

The close connection between the English Sword Dance, and the Mumming
Play, is indicated by the fact that the chief character in these plays
is, generally speaking, Saint George. (The title has in some cases
become corrupted into _King_ George.) In Professor von Schroeder’s
opinion this is due to Saint George’s legendary _rôle_ as Dragon
slayer, and he sees in the importance assigned to this hero an argument
in favour of his theory that the “Slaying of the Dragon” was the
earliest Aryan Folk-Drama.

In _Folk-Lore_, Vol. X., a fully illustrated description of the Mumming
Play, as performed at Newbold, a village near Rugby, is given.[22] Here
the characters are Father Christmas, Saint George, a Turkish Knight,
Doctor, Moll Finney (mother of the Knight), Humpty Jack, Beelzebub, and
‘Big-Head-and-Little-Wit.’ These last three have no share in the action
proper, but appear in a kind of Epilogue, accompanying a collection
made by Beelzebub.

The Play is always performed at Christmas time, consequently Father
Christmas appears as stage-manager, and introduces the characters. The
action consists in a general challenge issued by Saint George, and
accepted by the Turkish Knight. A combat follows, in which the Turk is
slain. His mother rushes in, weeps over the body, and demands the
services of a Doctor, who appears accordingly, vaunts his skill in
lines interspersed with unintelligible gibberish, and restores the Turk
to life. In the version which used to be played throughout Scotland at
Hogmanay (New-Year-tide), the characters are Bol Bendo, the King of
France, the King of Spain, Doctor Beelzebub, Golishan, and Sir
Alexander.[23] The fight is between Bol Bendo (who represents the Saint
George of the English version), and Golishan. The latter is killed,
and, on the demand of Sir Alexander (who acts as stage-manager),
revived by the doctor, this character, as in the English version,
interlarding the recital of his feats of healing skill with
unintelligible phrases.[24] There is a general consensus of opinion
among Folk-lore authorities that in this rough drama, which we find
played in slightly modified form all over Europe (in Scandinavia it is
the Julbock, a man dressed in skins, who, after a dramatic dance, is
killed and revived),[25] we have a symbolic representation of the death
and re-birth of the year; a counterpart to those ceremonies of driving
out Winter, and bringing in Spring, which we have already described.

This chapter had already been written when an important article, by Dr
Jevons, entitled _Masks and the Origin of the Greek Drama_ appeared in
_Folk-Lore_ (Vol. XXVII.) The author, having discussed the different
forms of Greek Drama, and the variety of masks employed, decides that
“Greek Comedy originated in Harvest Festivals, in some ceremony in
which the Harvesters went about in procession wearing masks.” This
ceremony he connects directly with the English Mumming Plays,
suggesting that “the characters represented on this occasion were the
Vegetation Spirit, and those who were concerned in bringing about his
revivification—in fine, Greek Comedy and the Mumming Play both sprang
from the rite of revivification.” At a later stage of our enquiry we
shall have occasion to return to this point, and realize its great
importance for our theory.

The Morris Dances differ somewhat from the Sword, and Mumming Dances.
The performances as a rule take place in the Spring, or early Summer,
chiefly May, and Whitsuntide. The dances retain little or no trace of
dramatic action but are dances pure and simple. The performers,
generally six in number, are attired in white elaborately-pleated
shirts, decked with ribbons, white mole-skin trousers, with bells at
the knee, and beaver hats adorned with ribbons and flowers. The leader
carries a sword, on the point of which is generally impaled a cake;
during the dancing slices of this cake are distributed to the lookers
on, who are supposed to make a contribution to the ‘Treasury,’ a
money-box carried by an individual called the Squire, or Clown, dressed
in motley, and bearing in the other hand a stick with a bladder at one
end, and a cow’s tail at the other.

In some forms of the dance there is a ‘Lord’ and a ‘Lady,’ who carry
‘Maces’ of office; these maces are short staves, with a transverse
piece at the top, and a hoop over it. The whole is decorated with
ribbons and flowers, and bears a curious resemblance to the _Crux
Ansata_.[26] In certain figures of the dance the performers carry
handkerchiefs, in others, wands, painted with the colours of the
village to which they belong; the dances are always more or less
elaborate in form.

The costume of the ‘Clown’ (an animal’s skin, or cap of skin with tail
pendant) and the special character assumed by the Maytide celebrations
in certain parts of England, _e.g._, Cornwall and Staffordshire,[27]
would seem to indicate that, while the English Morris Dance has dropped
the dramatic action, the dancers not being designated by name, and
playing no special _rôle_, it has, on the other hand, retained the
theriomorphic features so closely associated with Aryan ritual, which
the Sword Dance, and Mumming Play, on their side, have lost.[28]

A special note of these English survivals, and one to which I would now
draw attention, is the very elaborate character of the figures, and the
existence of a distinct symbolic element. I am informed that the Sword
dancers of to-day always, at the conclusion of a series of elaborate
sword-lacing figures, form the Pentangle; as they hold up the sign they
cry, triumphantly, “_A Nut! A Nut!_” The word _Nut_=_Knot_ (as in the
game of ‘_Nuts_, _i.e._, breast-knots, nosegays, _in May_’). They do
this often even when performing a later form of the Mumming Play.

I have already drawn attention to the fact that in _Gawain and the
Green Knight_ the hero’s badge is the Pentangle (or Pentacle), there
explained as called by the English ‘the Endless Knot.’[29] In the
previous chapter I have noted that the Pentangle frequently in the
Tarot suits replaces the Dish; in Mr Yeats’s remarks, cited above, the
two are held to be interchangeable, one or the other always forms one
of the group of symbols.

In one form of the Morris Dance, that performed in Berkshire, the
leader, or ‘Squire’ of the Morris carries a Chalice! At the same time
he bears a Sword, and a bull’s head at the end of a long pole. This
figure is illustrated in Miss Mary Neal’s _Esperance Morris Book_.[30]

Thus our English survivals of these early Vegetation ceremonies
preserve, in a more or less detached form, the four symbols discussed
in the preceding chapter, Grail, Sword, Lance, and Pentangle, or Dish.
It seems to me that, in view of the evidence thus offered, it is not a
very hazardous, or far-fetched hypothesis to suggest that these
symbols, the exact value of which, as a group, we cannot clearly
determine, but of which we know the two most prominent, Cup and Lance,
to be sex symbols, were originally ‘Fertility’ emblems, and as such
employed in a ritual designed to promote, or restore, the activity of
the reproductive energies of Nature.

As I have pointed out above an obvious dislocation has taken place in
our English survivals. Sword Dance, Mumming Play, and Morris Dance, no
longer form part of one ceremony, but have become separated, and
connected, on the one hand with the Winter, on the other with the early
Summer, Nature celebrations; it is thus not surprising that the symbols
should also have become detached. The fact that the three groups
manifestly form part of an original whole is an argument in favour of
the view that at one moment all the symbols were used together, and the
Grail chalice carried in a ceremony in which Sword, Lance, and
Pentangle, were also displayed.

But there is another point I would suggest. Is it not possible that, in
these armed youths, who were in some cases, notably in that of the
Salii, at once warriors and priests, we have the real origin of the
Grail Knights? We know now, absolutely, and indubitably, that these
Sword Dances formed an important part of the Vegetation ritual; is it
not easily within the bounds of possibility that, as the general
ceremonial became elevated, first to the rank of a Mystery Cult, and
then used as a vehicle for symbolic Christian teaching, the figures of
the attendant warrior-priests underwent a corresponding change? From
Salii to Templars is not after all so ‘far a cry’ as from the
glittering golden-armed Maruts, and the youthful leaping Kouretes, to
the grotesque tatterdemalion personages of the Christmas Mumming Play.
We have learnt to acknowledge the common origin of these two latter
groups; may we not reasonably contemplate a possible relation existing
between the two first named?




CHAPTER VIII
The Medicine Man


In previous chapters I have referred to the part played by the Doctor
in a large number of the surviving ‘Fertility’ ceremonies, and to the
fact, noted by other writers, that even where an active share is no
longer assigned to the character, he still appears among the _dramatis
personae_ of these Folk-plays and processions.[1] We will now examine
more closely the _rôle_ allotted to this mysterious personage; we shall
find it to be of extreme antiquity and remarkable significance.

In the interesting and important work by Professor von Schroeder, to
which I have already often referred, we find the translation of a
curious poem (_Rig-Veda_, 10. 97), a monologue placed in the mouth of a
Doctor, or Medicine Man, who vaunts the virtue of his herbs, and their
power to cure human ills.[2] From the references made to a special sick
man von Schroeder infers that this poem, like others in the collection,
was intended to be acted, as well as recited, and that the personage to
be healed, evidently present on the scene, was probably represented by
a dummy, as no speeches are allotted to the character.

The entire poem consists of 23 verses of four lines each, and is
divided by the translator into three distinct sections; the first is
devoted to the praise of herbs in general, their power to cure the sick
man before them, and at the same time to bring riches to the Healer—the
opening verses run:

“Die Kräuter alt, entsprossen einst
Drei Alter vor den Göttern noch,
Die braunen will Ich preisen jetzt!
Hundert und sieben Arten sinds.
“Ja, hundert Arten, Mütterlein,
Und tausend Zweige habt ihr auch,
Ihr, die ihr hundert Kräfte habt,
Macht diesen Menschen mir gesund.
“Ihr Kräuter hört, ihr Mütterchen,
Ihr göttlichen, das sag ich euch:
Ross, Rind und Kleid gewänn’ ich gern
Und auch dein Leben, lieber Mann!

.................................

Fürwahr ihr bringt mir Rinder ein,
Wenn ihr ihn rettet diesen Mann.”
He then praises the power of all herbs:
“Vom Himmel kam der Kräuter Schar
Geflogen, und da sprechen sie;
Wen wir noch lebend treffen an
Der Mann soll frei von Schaden sein.”


Finally the speaker singles out one herb as superior to all others:

“Die Kräuter viel in Soma’s Reich
Die hundertfach verständigen,
Von denen bist das beste du
Erfüllst den Wunsch, und heilst das Herz.”


He conjures all other herbs to lend their virtue to this special
remedy:

“Ihr Kräuter all’ in Soma’s Reich
Verbreitet auf der Erde hin,
Ihr, von Brihaspati erzeugt,
Gebt diesem Kraute eure Kraft!
“Nicht nehme Schaden, der euch gräbt,
Noch der, für Welchen Ich euch grub!
Bei uns soll Alles, Mensch, und Vieh,
Gesund und ohne Schaden sein.
“Ihr, die ihr höret dies mein Wort,
Ihr, die ihr in der Ferne seid,
Ihr Pflanzen all’, vereignet euch,
Gebt diesem Kraute eure Kraft!”


And the herbs, taking counsel together with Soma their king, answer:

“Für Wen uns ein Brahmane braucht
Den, König, wollen retten wir,”


a line which throws a light upon the personality of the speaker; he is
obviously a Brahmin, and the Medicine Man here, as elsewhere, unites
the functions of Priest and Healer.

Professor von Schroeder suggests that this Dramatic Monologue formed
part of the ceremonies of a Soma feast, that it is the Soma plant from
which the heavenly drink is brewed which is to be understood as the
first of all herbs and the curer of all ills, and the reference to Soma
as King of the herbs seems to bear out this suggestion.

In a previous chapter[3] I have referred to a curious little poem, also
found in the _Rig-Veda_, and translated by von Schroeder under the
title _A Folk-Procession at a Soma-Feast_, the _dramatis personae_ of
the poem offering, as I pointed out, a most striking and significant
parallel to certain surviving Fertility processions, notably that of
Värdegötzen in Hanover. In this little song which von Schroeder places
in the mouth of the leader of the band of maskers, the Doctor is twice
referred to; in the opening lines we have the Brahmin, the Doctor, the
Carpenter, the Smith, given as men plying different trades, and each
and all in search of gain; in the final verse the speaker announces, “I
am a Poet (or Singer), my father a Doctor.” Thus of the various trades
and personages enumerated the Doctor alone appears twice over, an
indication of the importance attached to this character.

Unfortunately, in view of the fragmentary condition of the survivals of
early Aryan literature, and the lack of explanatory material at our
disposal, it is impossible to decide what was the precise _rôle_
assigned to the ‘Medicine Man’; judging from the general character of
the surviving dramatic fragments and the close parallel which exists
between these fragments and the Medieval and Modern Fertility
ceremonies, it seems extremely probable that his original _rôle_ was
identical with that assigned to his modern counterpart, _i.e._, that of
restoring to life or health the slain, or suffering, representative of
the Vegetation Spirit.

This presumption gains additional support from the fact that it is in
this character that the Doctor appears in Greek Classical Drama. Von
Schroeder refers to the fact that the Doctor was a stock figure in the
Greek ‘Mimus’[4] and in Mr Cornford’s interesting volume entitled _The
Origin of Attic Comedy_, the author reckons the Doctor among the stock
Masks of the early Greek Theatre, and assigns to this character the
precise _rôle_ which later survivals have led us to attribute to him.

The significance of Mr Cornford’s work lies in the fact that, while he
accepts Sir Gilbert Murray’s deeply interesting and suggestive theory
that the origins of Greek Tragedy are to be sought in “the Agon of the
Fertility Spirit, his Pathos, and Theophany,” he contends that a
similar origin may be postulated for Attic Comedy—that the stock Masks
(characters) agree with a theory of derivation of such Comedy from a
ritual performance celebrating the renewal of the seasons.[5] “They
were at first serious, and even awful, figures in a Religious Mystery,
the God who every year is born, and dies, and rises again; his Mother
and his Bride; the Antagonist who kills him; the Medicine Man who
restores him to life.”[6]

I would submit that the presence of such a character in the original
ritual drama of Revival which, on my theory, underlies the romantic
form of the Grail legend, may, in view of the above evidence, and of
that brought forward in the previous chapters, be accepted as at least
a probable hypothesis.

But, it may be objected, granting that the Doctor in these Fertility
processions and dramas represents a genuine survival of a feature of
immemorial antiquity, a survival to be traced alike in Aryan remains,
in Greek literature, and in Medieval ceremony, what is the precise
bearing upon the special subject of our investigations? There is no
Doctor in the Grail legend, although there is certainly abundant scope
for his activities!

There may be no Doctor in the Grail legend to-day, but was there never
such a character? How if this be the key to explain the curious and
persistent attribution of healing skill to so apparently unsuitable a
personage as Sir Gawain? I would draw the attention of my readers to a
passage in the _Perceval_ of Chrétien de Troyes, where Gawain, finding
a wounded knight by the roadside, proceeds to treat him:

“Et Mesire Gauvain savoit
Plus que nuls homs de garir plaie;
Une herbe voit en une haie
Trop bonne pour douleur tolir
De plaie, et il la va cueillir.”[7]


Other MSS. are rather fuller:

“Et Messires Gauvain savoit
Plus que nus hons vivant de plaies,
Unes herbe voit les une haies
Qu’il connoissoit lonc temps avoit
Que son mestre apris li avoit
Enseigniee et bien moustree,
Et il l’avoit bien esgardee
Si l’a molt bien reconneue.”[8]


We find reference to Gawain’s possession of medical knowledge
elsewhere. In the poem entitled _Lancelot et le cerf au pied blanc_,
Gawain, finding his friend desperately wounded, carries him to a
physician whom he instructs as to the proper treatment.[9]

“Ende Walewein wiesde den Ersatere mere
Ene const, die daertoe halp wel sere.”[10]


In the parallel adventure related in _Morien_ Gawain heals Lancelot
without the aid of any physician:[11]

“Doe was Walewein harde blide
Ende bant hem sine wonden ten tide
Met selken crude die daer dochten
Dat si niet bloden mochten.”[12]


They ride to an anchorite’s cell:
“Si waren doe in dire gedochten
Mochten sie daer comen tier stont
Datten Walewein soude maken gesont.”[13]


The Dutch _Lancelot_ has numerous references to Gawain’s skill in
healing. Of course the advocates of the originality of Chrétien de
Troyes will object that these references, though found in poems which
have no connection with Chrétien, and which are translations from lost
French originals of an undetermined date, are one and all loans from
the more famous poem. This, however, can hardly be contended of the
Welsh _Triads;_ there we find Gwalchmai, the Welsh Gawain, cited as one
of the three men “To whom the nature of every object was known,”[14] an
accomplishment exceedingly necessary for a ‘Medicine Man,’ but not at
first sight especially needful for the equipment of a knight.[15] This
persistent attribution of healing skill is not, so far as my
acquaintance with medieval Romance goes, paralleled in the case of any
other knight; even Tristan, who is probably the most accomplished of
heroes of romance, the most thoroughly trained in all branches of
knightly education, is not credited with any such knowledge. No other
knight, save Gawain, has the reputation of a Healer, yet Gawain, the
Maidens’ Knight, the ‘fair Father of Nurture’ is, at first sight,
hardly the personage one might expect to possess such skill. Why he
should be so persistently connected with healing was for long a problem
to me; recently, however, I have begun to suspect that we have in this
apparently motiveless attribution the survival of an early stage of
tradition in which not only did Gawain cure the Grail King, but he did
so, not by means of a question, or by the welding of a broken sword,
but by more obvious and natural means, the administration of a healing
herb. Gawain’s character of Healer belongs to him in his _rôle_ of
Grail Winner.

Some years ago, in the course of my reading, I came across a passage in
which certain knights of Arthur’s court, riding through a forest, come
upon a herb ‘which belonged to the Grail.’ Unfortunately the reference,
at the time I met with it, though it struck me as curious, did not
possess any special significance, and either I omitted to make a note
of it, or entered it in a book which, with sundry others, went
mysteriously astray in the process of moving furniture. In any case,
though I have searched diligently I have failed to recover the passage,
but I note it here in the hope that one of my reader may be more
fortunate.

It is perhaps not without significance that a mention of Peredur
(Perceval) in Welsh poetry may also possibly contain a reference to his
healing office. I refer to the well-known _Song of the Graves_ in the
Black Book of Carmarthen where the grave of Mor, son of Peredur
Penwetic, is referred to. According to Dr G. Evans the word _penwedic_,
or _perfeddyg_, as it may also be read, means _chief Healer_. Peredur,
it is needless to say, is the Welsh equivalent of Perceval, Gawain’s
successor and supplanter in the _rôle_ of Grail hero.

I have no desire to press the point unduly, but it is certainly
significant that, entirely apart from any such theory of the evolution
of the Grail legend as that advanced in these pages, a Welsh scholar
should have suggested a rendering of the title of the Grail hero which
is in complete harmony with that theory; a rendering also which places
him side by side with his compatriot Gwalchmai, even as the completely
evolved Grail story connects him with Gawain. In any case there is food
for reflection in the fact that the possibility of such an origin once
admitted, the most apparently incongruous, and inharmonious, elements
of the story show themselves capable of a natural and unforced
explanation.

In face of the evidence above set forth it seems impossible to deny
that the Doctor, or Medicine Man, did, from the very earliest ages,
play an important part in Dramatic Fertility Ritual, that he still
survives in the modern Folk-play, the rude representative of the early
ritual form, and it is at least possible that the attribution of
healing skill to so romantic and chivalrous a character as Sir Gawain
may depend upon the fact that, at an early, and pre-literary stage of
his story, he played the _rôle_ traditionally assigned to the Doctor,
that of restoring to life and health the dead, or wounded,
representative of the Spirit of Vegetation.

If I am right in my reading of this complicated problem the
_mise-en-scène_ of the Grail story was originally a loan from a ritual
actually performed, and familiar to those who first told the tale. This
ritual, in its earlier stages comparatively simple and objective in
form, under the process of an insistence upon the inner and spiritual
significance, took upon itself a more complex and esoteric character,
the rite became a Mystery, and with this change the _rôle_ of the
principal actors became of heightened significance. That of the Healer
could no longer be adequately fulfilled by the administration of a
medicinal remedy; the relation of Body and Soul became of cardinal
importance for the Drama, the Medicine Man gave place to the Redeemer;
and his task involved more than the administration of the original
Herbal remedy. In fact in the final development of the story the
_Pathos_ is shared alike by the representative of the Vegetation
Spirit, and the Healer, whose task involves a period of stern testing
and probation.

If we wish to understand clearly the evolution of the Grail story we
must realize that the simple Fertility Drama from which it sprung has
undergone a gradual and mysterious change, which has invested it with
elements at once ‘rich and strange,’ and that though Folk-lore may be
the key to unlock the outer portal of the Grail castle it will not
suffice to give us the entrance to its deeper secrets.

APPENDIX TO CHAPTER VIII

While having no connection with the main subject of our study, the
Grail legend, I should like to draw the attention of students of
Medieval literature to the curious parallel between the _Rig-Veda_ poem
of the _Medicine Man_ or _Kräuter-Lied_ as it is also called, and
Rusteboeuf’s _Dist de l’Erberie_. Both are monologues, both presuppose
the presence of an audience, in each case the speaker is one who vaunts
his skill in the use of herbs, in each case he has in view the ultimate
gain to himself. Here are the opening lines of the Medieval poem:[1]

“Seignor qui ci estes venu
Petit et grant, jone et chenu,
Il vos est trop bien avenu
Sachiez de voir;
Je ne vos vueil pas deçevoir
Bien le porroz aperçevoir
Ainz que m’en voise.
Asiez vos, ne fetes noise
Si escotez s’il ne vos poise
Je sui uns mires.”


He has been long with the lord of Caire, where he won much gold; in
Puille, Calabre, Luserne.

“Ai herbes prises
Qui de granz vertuz sont enprises
Sus quelque mal qu’el soient mises
Le maus s’enfuit.”


There is no reference in the poem to a cure about to be performed in
the presence of the audience, which does not however exclude the
possibility of such cure being effected.

It would be interesting to know under what circumstances such a poem
was recited, whether it formed part of a popular representation. The
audience in view is of a mixed character, young and old, great and
small, and one has a vision of the Quack Doctor at some village fair,
on the platform before his booth, declaiming the virtues of his
nostrums before an audience representative of all ranks and ages. It is
a far cry from such a Medieval scene to the prehistoric days of the
_Rig-Veda_, but the _mise-en-scène_ is the same; the popular ‘seasonal’
feast, the Doctor with his healing herbs, which he vaunts in skilful
rhyme, the hearers, drawn from all ranks, some credulous, some amused.
There seems very little doubt that both poems are specimens, and very
good specimens, of a _genre_ the popularity and vitality of which are
commensurate with the antiquity of its origin.[2]




CHAPTER IX
The Fisher King


The gradual process of our investigation has led us to the conclusion
that the elements forming the existing Grail legend—the setting of the
story, the nature of the task which awaits the hero, the symbols and
their significance—one and all, while finding their counterpart in
prehistoric record, present remarkable parallels to the extant practice
and belief of countries so widely separate as the British Isles,
Russia, and Central Africa.

The explanation of so curious a fact, for it is a fact, and not a mere
hypothesis, may, it was suggested, most probably be found in the theory
that in this fascinating literature we have the, sometimes partially
understood, sometimes wholly misinterpreted, record of a ritual,
originally presumed to exercise a life-giving potency, which, at one
time of universal observance, has, even in its decay, shown itself
possessed of elements of the most persistent vitality.

That if the ritual, which according to our theory lies at the root of
the Grail story, be indeed the ritual of a Life Cult, it should, _in_
and _per se_, possess precisely these characteristics, will, I think,
be admitted by any fair-minded critic; the point of course is, can we
definitely _prove_ our theory, _i.e._, not merely point to striking
parallels, but select, from the figures and incidents composing our
story, some one element, which, by showing itself capable of
explanation on this theory, and on this theory alone, may be held to
afford decisive proof of the soundness of our hypothesis?

It seems to me that there is one such element in the bewildering
complex, by which the theory can be thus definitely tested, that is the
personality of the central figure and the title by which he is known.
If we can prove that the Fisher King, _qua_ Fisher King, is an integral
part of the ritual, and can be satisfactorily explained alike by its
intention, and inherent symbolism, we shall, I think, have taken the
final step which will establish our theory upon a sure basis. On the
other hand, if the Fisher King, _qua_ Fisher King, does not fit into
our framework we shall be forced to conclude that, while the
_provenance_ of certain elements of the Grail literature is practically
assured, the _ensemble_ has been complicated by the introduction of a
terminology, which, whether the outcome of serious intention, or of
mere literary caprice, was foreign to the original source, and so far,
defies explanation. In this latter case our theory would not
necessarily be _manqué_, but would certainly be seriously incomplete.

We have already seen that the personality of the King, the nature of
the disability under which he is suffering, and the reflex effect
exercised upon his folk and his land, correspond, in a most striking
manner, to the intimate relation at one time held to exist between the
ruler and his land; a relation mainly dependent upon the identification
of the King with the Divine principle of Life and Fertility.

This relation, as we have seen above, exists to-day among certain
African tribes.

If we examine more closely into the existing variants of our romances,
we shall find that those very variants are not only thoroughly _dans le
cadre_ of our proposed solution, but also afford a valuable, and
hitherto unsuspected, indication of the relative priority of the
versions.

In Chapter I, I discussed the task of the hero in general, here I
propose to focus attention upon his host, and while in a measure
traversing the same ground, to do so with a view to determining the
true character of this enigmatic personage.

In the _Bleheris_ version,[1] the lord of the castle is suffering under
no disability whatever; he is described as “tall, and strong of limb,
of no great age, but somewhat bald.” Besides the King there is a Dead
Knight upon a bier, over whose body Vespers for the Dead are solemnly
sung. The wasting of the land, partially restored by Gawain’s question
concerning the Lance, has been caused by the ‘Dolorous Stroke,’ _i.e._,
the stroke which brought about the death of the Knight, whose identity
is here never revealed. Certain versions which interpolate the account
of Joseph of Arimathea and the Grail, allude to ‘Le riche Pescheur’ and
his heirs as Joseph’s descendants, and, presumably, for it is not
directly stated, guardians of the Grail,[2] but the King himself is
here never called by that title. From his connection with the Waste
Land it seems more probable that it was the Dead Knight who filled that
_rôle_.

In the second version of which Gawain is the hero, that of _Diû
Crône_,[3] the Host is an old and infirm man. After Gawain has asked
the question we learn that he is really dead, and only compelled to
retain the semblance of life till the task of the Quester be achieved.
Here, again, he is not called the Fisher King.

In the _Perceval_ versions, on the contrary, we find the name
invariably associated with him, but he is not always directly connected
with the misfortunes which have fallen upon his land. Thus, while the
Wauchier texts are incomplete, breaking off at the critical moment of
asking the question, Manessier who continues, and ostensibly completes,
Wauchier, introduces the Dead Knight, here Goondesert, or Gondefer
(which I suspect is the more correct form), brother of the King, whose
death by treachery has plunged the land in misery, and been the direct
cause of the self-wounding of the King.[4] The healing of the King and
the restoration of the land depend upon Perceval’s slaying the murderer
Partinal. These two versions show a combination of Perceval and Gawain
themes, such as their respective dates might lead us to expect.

Robert de Borron is the only writer who gives a clear, and tolerably
reasonable, account of why the guardian of the Grail bears the title of
Fisher King; in other cases, such as the poems of Chrétien and Wolfram,
the name is connected with his partiality for fishing, an obviously
_post hoc_ addition.

The story in question is found in Borron’s _Joseph of Arimathea_.[5]
Here we are told how, during the wanderings of that holy man and his
companions in the wilderness, certain of the company fell into sin. By
the command of God, Brons, Joseph’s brother-in-law, caught a Fish,
which, with the Grail, provided a mystic meal of which the unworthy
cannot partake; thus the sinners were separated from the righteous.
Henceforward Brons was known as ‘The Rich Fisher.’ It is noteworthy,
however, that in the Perceval romance, ascribed to Borron, the title is
as a rule, _Roi_ Pescheur, not _Riche_ Pescheur.[6]

In this romance the King is not suffering from any special malady, but
is the victim of extreme old age; not surprising, as he is Brons
himself, who has survived from the dawn of Christianity to the days of
King Arthur. We are told that the effect of asking the question will be
to restore him to youth;[7] as a matter of fact it appears to bring
about his death, as he only lives three days after his restoration.[8]

When we come to Chrétien’s poem we find ourselves confronted with a
striking alteration in the presentment. There are, not one, but two,
disabled kings; one suffering from the effects of a wound, the other in
extreme old age. Chrétien’s poem being incomplete we do not know what
he intended to be the result of the achieved Quest, but we may I think
reasonably conclude that the wounded King at least was healed.[9]

The _Parzival_ of von Eschenbach follows the same tradition, but is
happily complete. Here we find the wounded King was healed, but what
becomes of the aged man (here the grandfather, not as in Chrétien the
father, of the Fisher King) we are not told.[10]

The _Perlesvaus_ is, as I have noted above,[13] very unsatisfactory.
The illness of the King is badly motivated, and he dies before the
achievement of the Quest. This romance, while retaining certain
interesting, and undoubtedly primitive features, is, as a whole, too
late, and _remaniée_ a redaction to be of much use in determining the
question of origins.

The same may be said of the _Grand Saint Graal_ and _Queste_ versions,
both of which are too closely connected with the prose _Lancelot_, and
too obviously intended to develope and complete the _données_ of that
romance to be relied upon as evidence for the original form of the
Grail legend.[12] The version of the _Queste_ is very confused: there
are two kings at the Grail castle, Pelles, and his father; sometimes
the one, sometimes the other, bears the title of Roi Pescheur.[13]
There is besides, an extremely old, and desperately wounded, king,
Mordrains, a contemporary of Joseph, who practically belongs, not to
the Grail tradition, but to a Conversion legend embodied in the _Grand
Saint Graal_.[14] Finally, in the latest cyclic texts, we have three
Kings, all of whom are wounded.[15]

The above will show that the presentment of this central figure is much
confused; generally termed Le Roi Pescheur, he is sometimes described
as in middle life, and in full possession of his bodily powers.
Sometimes while still comparatively young he is incapacitated by the
effects of a wound, and is known also by the title of Roi Mehaigné, or
Maimed King. Sometimes he is in extreme old age, and in certain closely
connected versions the two ideas are combined, and we have a wounded
Fisher King, and an aged father, or grandfather. But I would draw
attention to the significant fact that in no case is the Fisher King a
youthful character; that distinction is reserved for his Healer, and
successor.

Now is it possible to arrive at any conclusion as to the relative value
and probable order of these conflicting variants? I think that if we
admit that th

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