Folk-Lore/Volume 28/Magic and Religion
This paper is based upon our President's article on Magic in the Encyclopædia of Religion and Ethics and on a book by the Archbishop of Upsala, Gudstrons Uppkomst, of which a German translation (with additions by the author) appeared in 1916 (Das Werden des Gottesglaubens).
The position taken in this paper will perhaps come out most clearly if it is contrasted with that maintained by Sir James Frazer in the second edition of his Golden Bough. His position is that magic "has probably everywhere preceded religion," and that the essence or distinguishing mark of religion is that it assumes the course of nature and of human life to be controlled by personal beings superior to man. A proof, or at least an instance and a confirmation of this theory, is supposed to be afforded by the Australian black-fellows, who practice magic and do not seem to believe that personal beings, superior to man, control the course of nature and of human life.
The first thing to notice is that "magic" is an ambiguous term; we, who do not believe in magic, employ the term to designate both proceedings which are intended to injure an individual or a community, and proceedings which are intended to work good. But for those who do believe in magic there is a world of difference between the two sets of proceedings. The one set is condemned by public opinion, the other is approved. To call them both "magic" is not a mere inexactitude, not a mere error of expression. It involves a falsehood as serious and as misleading as if we were to say that killing is the same thing as murder. The execution of a murderer or the destruction of the enemy by a soldier is not murder. And there is the same difference between the proceedings which, being regarded by a community as magical, are condemned by it, and the proceedings which are approved by it and are by us falsely called magical. The modus operandi is doubtless the same in the two cases, just as the modus operandi—the use of a revolver for instance—may be the same in the case of a soldier and a criminal. But from the similarity in the modus operandi nothing whatever can be inferred as to the moral value of the act or the agent. The proceeding in the one case is magical or murderous, while in the other case it is not. And it is the difference between the two sets of proceedings which is of cardinal importance, not the similarity in the modus operandi. If then we are to bear in mind this difference and keep its importance constantly in view, it will be well to reserve the term "magic" exclusively for the proceedings which excite the disapproval of the community. It will be well also to bear in mind that the disapproval is evoked by the results which "magic" is intended or supposed to produce, rather than by any theory as to the source from which the magician's power comes: whether the power be inherent in the magician or not, its supposed effects are resented by the community.
If we once clearly grasp the fact that magical proceedings are those which are disapproved and resented by the community, it becomes evident that it is impossible to speak consistently of "an age of magic," meaning thereby an age in which magic alone was believed in. The impossibility reveals itself when we turn to the Australian black-fellows who are supposed to be in "the age of magic." Amongst them we find indeed the magic which works mischief, but we do not find that magic alone is believed in. They have their ceremonies, which they perform for the good of the community; but those ceremonies, being for the good of the community, are clearly different from the magic which works harm to the community or its members. The modus operandi is doubtless much the same in the two cases; but as killing is not the same thing as murder, so the ceremonies are not the same thing as magic, even though the modus operandi be the same. Amongst the Australian black-fellows therefore we find magic, but we do not find "an age of magic," meaning thereby an age in which magic alone is believed in—for we find them also practising ceremonies which are just as much, or just as little, like magic as killing is like murder.
Again, the same herb may be used for murderous or for medicinal purposes. But that fact would not warrant us in inferring that an age of medicine was preceded by an age of poison. The herb itself is neither medicinal nor murderous: it is the use it is put to that makes it so. Its use for medicinal purposes is approved, and for the purpose of murder is condemned by the community. But there is no ground for imagining that herbs of this kind were used originally for none but harmful purposes, and only in a later age came to be used for purposes of medicine. So too there is no ground for supposing that originally the only rites practised were magical, that is, were rites practised with evil intent. On the contrary, tribes amongst whom magic is practised are tribes that also have ceremonies which they do not regard as magical—ceremonies of which they as thoroughly approve as they thoroughly condemn magic. And the difference between what they approve and what they condemn is a real difference, not a mere question of terminology. To us it may seem a mere matter of words whether their ceremonies for ensuring the food supply are or are not to be called magical. But to the black-fellows the difference between proceedings which are used for a good end and proceedings which are used for evil purposes is not a merely verbal difference. It is for them, and it is, as I suggest, in fact, a real difference—as real as the difference between killing and murder. The modus operandi may be the same in killing as in murder, but that does not make the one proceeding the same as the other, nor does it show that the difference between the two is merely verbal.
To speak then of an "age of magic" is to imply one of two things. Either it implies an age in which evil is always, and good is never, aimed at—and such an age there has never been. Or else it implies an age in which man was not conscious of the difference between proceedings aimed at an end that he thought good and proceedings directed to an end which he felt to be evil—and such an age there has never been. Proceedings directed to an end felt to be evil are themselves evil and are magical.
What then are we to say of proceedings aimed at an end felt to be good? Can we say of them that, if they are not to be called magical, they must be termed religious? The moment we ask this question we find ourselves face to face with the difficulty of defining rehgion. We may with Sir James Frazer define or describe religion as involving belief in personal beings superior to man; and then we cannot class the ceremonies which in Australia are conducted for the good of the community either as religion or as magic. Religious they are not, if religion implies belief m personal beings superior to man, and if in the Australian intichiuma ceremonies there is no reference to any such beings. Magical they are not, for the essence of the connotation of magic is that its purpose is condemned by the community as evil. Dr. Marett in the Encyclopædia of Religion and Ethics suggests that what he calls "determinate religion"—by which he presumably means the belief in personal beings superior to man—was preceded by and evolved out of what he speaks of as "nascent religion." And the intichiuma ceremonies would, I suppose, be in Dr. Marett's view an instance of "the stage of cult or ritual (if so it may be termed)" which may be spoken of as "nascent religion." The Archbishop of Upsala regards these ceremonies as "nascent religion." He quotes (Das Werden des Gottesglaudens, p. 194) the following passage from Messrs. Spencer and Gillen, and asks the reader to decide for himself whether what is described in the passage is or is not religion. The passage (from The Northern Tribes of Central Australia, p. 33), cf. pp. 177 ff.), runs as follows:
"Attention may be drawn to one striking feature of savage life, so far as the men are concerned. During his early years, up till perhaps the age of fourteen, the boy is perfectly free, wandering about in the bush, searching for food, playing with his companions during the daytime, and perhaps spending the evening watching the ordinary corroborees. From the moment of his initiation however his life is sharply marked out into two parts. He has first of all what we may speak of as the ordinary life, common to all the men and women, and associated with the procuring of food and the performance of corroborees, the peaceful monotony of this part of his life being broken every now and again by the excitement of a fight. On the other hand, he has what gradually becomes of greater and greater importance to him, and that is the portion of his life devoted to matters of a sacred or secret nature. As he grows older he takes an increasing share in these, until finally this side of his life occupies by far the greater part of his thoughts. The sacred ceremonies which appear very trivial matters to the white man are most serious matters to him. They are all connected with the great ancestors of the tribe, and he is firmly convinced that, when it comes to his turn to die, his spirit part will finally return to his old alcheringa home, where he will be in communion with them until such time as it seems good to him to undergo reincarnation."
If then we are to regard the intichhima ceremonies as typical of the stage of cult or ritual which may be spoken of as "nascent religion," and if in such ceremonies there is, as Sir James Frazer holds, no reference to personal beings regarded as superior to man. it is clear that we can no longer suppose the essence or distinguishing mark of religion to consist in the assumption that the course of nature and of human life is controlled by personal beings superior to man. On the one hand we have narrowed the denotation of magic and have limited it, in accordance with the conception of those who believe in it, to proceedings intended for the harm of the community or its members. On the other hand, we have extended the denotation of religion until it embraces all ceremonies or rites practised by the community for the good of the community. Now, in this way we do get rid of the necessity of assuming that in the evolution Of man. there was a stage in which magic was known to man and religion was not. But we only get rid of it at the cost of extending and attenuating our notion of religion until it no longer contains any reference to a personal god or gods. Now, this it may seem at first we cannot possibly do. Religion, it may be said, implies at least belief in a personal god or gods. But to say that, is in effect to say that what I believe in is religion, and what other people believe in—if it differs from my belief—is not religion. Now that view, however common and however firmly held, is not scientific. From the point of view of science all forms of religion alike are forms of religion. We may and indeed we must have a provisional definition of religion, a working hypothesis to go upon. But we may and indeed we must also be prepared to amend our definition—for it is ex hypothesi but a provisional definition—and for our working hypothesis we must always be prepared to substitute one that works better. But the point to which the Science of Religion has been brought by Dr. Marett's article in the Encyclopædia of Religion and Ethics, and by Dr. Söderblom's book on the growth of the belief in God, is precisely whether Sir James Frazer's description of religion is absolute and final, or whether it is merely a working hypothesis which can now be improved—or rather a provisional definition which must now be amended and extended. If it be amended and extended, then we may be able to include under it the intichiuma ceremonies at one end; but the question which will probably arise in most minds is whether at the other end the belief in personal beings may not disappear from the definition. For if it does disappear, then it cannot possibly be a definition.
The difficulty thus raised might be serious, if it arose only when we were seeking for a definition of religion. But, so far from arising only then, it appears with just the same force whenever we attempt to define anything whatever that develops or evolves. The difference between the acorn and the full-grown oak tree is as great as that between the intichiuma ceremonies and a polytheistic or a monotheistic form of religion. But though no description we can give of the oak will describe the acorn, the fact remains that the oak grows out of the acorn, or that the acorn becomes an oak by a process of continuous growth. And the process is not only one of continuity but of change—of change in continuity and of continuity in change. No one imagines that the oak is preformed in the acorn—that if we take the acorn to pieces we shall find an oak inside. And it would be just as unreasonable to imagine that if we dissect one stage of religion we ought to find, preformed in it, the stages which later are to evolve from it. The fact that we do not find in an acorn an oak-tree preformed does not in the least shake the fact that the acorn becomes an oak—that oak and acorn are but different stages of one process of growth. And the fact that in the earlier stages of religion we do not find the later stages preformed is no proof that the earlier stages do not pass into the later. If anyone chooses to insist that an oak is not the same thing as an acorn, he is entitled to do so. But, we must point out, he is not also entitled to assert that the oak is the same thing as the tree. "Tree," we will take it, is a term which includes or is applicable to all stages from the first to the last—to the acorn, the sapling and the oak alike. And so, too, religion is a term which includes or is applicable to all stages in the one process, and not to the stage of monotheism alone or of polytheism alone, or even to those stages alone in which there is a reference to personal beings. Each of these stages is a stage in the process of religion, but no stage is by itself the whole process, and consequently a definition of one stage cannot possibly be a definition of the processes as a whole.
If we bear that simple and undeniable fact in mind, we shall have no difficulty in recognising that what is essential to, or an essential part of, religion in one stage may have to be cast aside when a later stage is reached. And in such a case it is a mistake to say that what is thrown off in the later stage was never at any time an essential part of religion. The husk of the acorn is thrown off, indeed, as the tree begins to grow, but in the acorn-stage of the tree it is an essential part of the tree, even though at a later stage it ceases to be any part of the tree whatever. Thus in the intichiuma rites there are ceremonies which, even if they are felt by the celebrants of the ceremonies to be very different from magic, and should by us be unmistakably distinguished from magic, nevertheless have the same modus operandi as magic. These ceremonies correspond to the husk of the acorn: they tend to be dropped in proportion as religion rises to higher stages. But it would plainly be erroneous to say that they were not essential to the earlier stages because of necessity they cease to be part of the later stages. And, as already said, it is equally erroneous to suppose that these ceremonies, because their modus operandi is the same as that of magic, are, or are supposed by their celebrants to be, magical: what is intended for the good of a community is different from what is intended for its harm. Between magic and religion in Australia the difference is, then, to begin with, a difference of value. To imagine the Australians do not distinguish between magic and religion because ceremonies practised by them as religious are felt by people in another stage of religion to be magical, is just as unreasonable as it would be to say that the Australians are unaware of the difference between good and bad, or between truth and falsehood, because they think things to be good or true which we see to be bad and false. As there is no human society which does not distinguish between good and bad, truth and falsehood, so there is none which does not distinguish between religion and magic, though in each case the line between the two may be drawn at different points. The important fact, however, is that always the line is drawn somewhere The line may be continually shifting; but it could not shift, if it did not exist.
Sir James Frazer's definition or description of religion—that the course of nature and of human life is controlled by personal beings superior to man—receives the assent of many who do not agree with all his views. It wins their assent because it places the idea of God at the beginning of religion. It has the advantage from his point of view that it enables him to cite the Australians as an instance of a people who have not attained to the belief in personal beings superior to man—as an instance of man in a pre-religious stage. May it not, however, be, as a definition or description of religion, capable of amendment? Viewed from the point of view of science, it has the same drawback as the notion that the oak exists preformed in the acorn. It seems to imply a "preformation" theory; and, as such, to be inconsistent with modern views of the nature either of growth or of evolution. The steam-plough has grown or evolved from the primitive digging-stick by a series of changes which though they have been changes have an unbroken continuity. But this continuity affords not the slightest ground for supposing that the idea of the steam-plough existed, preformed, in the mind of the man who first used a digging-stick. Neither, however, does the undoubted continuity throw the least doubt on the fact that the digging-stick has considerably changed in the process of its evolution. Different as a steam-plough is from a digging-stick, there is unbroken continuity between the two; and the unbroken continuity manifests itself in the changes by which the implement in its later stages has been evolved from the implement in its earlier stages. Enormous as the difference is, the similarity is none the less. So too, I suggest, enormous as is the difference between a stage of religion in which there is no reference to beings superior to man, and later stages of polytheism or monotheism, the process by which the later stages have followed on the earlier has been a process not only of change but of continuity—of change in continuity and of continuity in change—a process in which the very differences postulate similarity, and the similarity implies difference. The continuity of the digging-stick and the steam-plough implies all the stages of difference which at the same time separate and yet unite them.
For the illustration of my argument I may perhaps employ a statement made by our President. He says (following Mr. J. Burnet, Early Greek Philosophy, p. 24): "European geometry would seem to be the outcome of the art of the 'cord-fasteners,' who measured out the land in Egypt after each inundation of the Nile." Now, European geometry as it exists to-day certainly did not exist preformed in the mind of the ancient Egyptian "cord-fasteners," any more than the steam-plough existed in the mind of the first men who used digging-sticks. And, as we cannot say that the geometry which now exists in Europe, is nothing more than what was present to the mind of the early Egyptian, so we cannot say that the religion of the polytheist or monotheist is nothing more than was present to minds which had not attained to the belief in personal beings superior to man. But neither can we close our eyes to the fact that what was in the mind of the Egyptian "cord-fastener" has become modern European geometry by a process of continuity, which is none the less continuous because it has been continuously changing.
Whether the Egyptian "cord-fasteners" went on fastening their cords in the primitive way even after the time of Euclid, I do not know. If they did, then we should have an earlier and a later stage of geometry existing simultaneously in different countries, in the same way that we have in Australia an earlier stage of religion existing simultaneously with later stages elsewhere.
If we consider the process by which geometry has evolved to be analogous to the process by which religion has evolved, we shall perhaps be inclined to differ somewhat from Dr. Marett in one point. He says (E.R.E., viii., p. 247b), "In the sphere of nascent religion there must have been a stage of cult or ritual (if so it may be termed), the product of sheer unreflective habit, which preceded the growth of ideas concerning the how and why of what was being done." But, I suggest, that in the sphere of nascent geometry the stage in which the Egyptian "cord-fastener" measured out the land in Egypt after each inundation of the Nile—or, in the sphere of nascent agriculture, the stage in which a digging-stick was first used—was not "the product of sheer unreflective habit."
What was in the mind of the early Egyptian, or of the men who first used a digging-stick, different though it was from modern European geometry, or from a steam-plough, is nevertheless connected by a continuous process with the later developments, and it is no more reasonable to say that the earlier stages were "the product of sheer unreflective habit" than it would be to say that the later stages of geometry or agriculture are. If there is something more than "sheer unreflective habit" in the work of modern geometry or agriculture, so there was in the earlier stages of the work. And in the same way, if there is something more than "sheer unreflective habit" in the later stages of the growth of religion, so there must have been in the earlier stages. What is evident is that in geometry, agriculture and religion alike, the earlier stages would not have been practised unless they had been thought worth while—unless they were felt to have some value. But whereas the value of geometry or agriculture is displayed mainly, if not wholly, in their material results, the value of religion is felt mainly if not wholly in the frame of mind or state of spirit produced. The Australian (as Messrs. Spencer and Gillen testify) is profoundly moved by the ceremonies in which he participates, whether as celebrant or witness; and, as the Archbishop of Upsala says (l.c, p. 195), in those ceremonies the Australian feels that man is in relation with what is holy—and feels such a state of mind or spirit to be the highest of all. Its value we may in other words say is supreme.
Dr. Marett (E.R.E., viii., p. 248b) deprecates the idea of dividing magic from religion by a horizontal line as it were, and inclines rather to regard the line of division between magic and religion as perpendicular. And he would place rudimentary cult, as we find it for instance amongst the Australians, on one side of the perpendicular line and magic on the other side. Thus we have not magic first existing for itself and religion subsequently coming into existence, but both existing side by side. If, then, the order of events is not from magic to religion—is not magic first and rehgion subsequently occurring—then, I suggest, neither can the order of events be "from spell to prayer." If, as Sir James Frazer says, there is between magic and religion "a fundamental distinction and even opposition of principle," then as magic does not become religion, so neither can spell become prayer. Between spell and prayer there is the same "fundamental distinction and even opposition of principle" as there is between magic and religion. As a mere matter of grammar, indeed, the verb which is used in formulating a prayer is as much in the imperative mood as the verb formulating a spell. "Be it done" is an expression which, as far as the words go, may be either a spell or a prayer. But from this it would be an error to infer that the attitude of mind and emotion is the same in magic and religion. Between the two attitudes there is a distinction which is fundamental and an opposition which is an opposition of principle. Prayer is on one side of the perpendicular line separating magic from religion; spell is on the other side. It is possible indeed to pass rapidly, instantaneously, from the one side to the other—from commanding to beseeching, as the spoilt child does—but that does not diminish the distinction and opposition between the two attitudes of mind. Nor does it constitute the least presumption that the two opposed attitudes are but two manifestations or two developments of one and the same principle. On the contrary, if we recognised that there is a fundamental opposition between magic and rudimentary cult, as we find it in Australia for instance, then we must class spells as from the beginning belonging to magic, and prayer as belonging to religion. At the same time if we recognise that there is in religion a stage of rudimentary cult in which a tribe no more relies upon personal beings superior to man than the Egyptian "cord-fasteners" relied upon Euclid, we shall have also to recognise that though prayer might eventually develop from rudimentary cult, it has not as a matter of fact developed in the rudimentary cult of the Australian black-fellows. The important fact however is that the rudimentary stage of religion must have been such that from it both belief in personal beings superior to man and the supplicatory attitude of prayer could develop, whereas from magic spells alone could be evolved. If the line separating magic from religion be perpendicular, as Dr. Marett says, and not horizontal, then prayer originates from or in religion on the one side, and spells from or in magic on the other. The spirit or frame of mind which resorts to spells and magic is fundamentally distinguished from, and opposed in principle to that which relies on religion and trusts to prayer. The spirit, the intention, of religion differs wholly from the spirit and intention of the magician. The two cannot be brought under one head, or into the same class. The difference between them is the same as and identical with the difference between good and bad. It cannot therefore be, as Dr. Alarett suggests that it is, "best to treat all magico-religious rites as generically akin." A poisoner and a physician may use the same drug, indeed; but to regard the two as "generically akin," implies that poisoning and healing are species of the same genus, that there is no difference—no generic difference—between the intention to heal and the intention to kill. But between the one intention and the other there is all the difference in the world; and as we do not in the least get rid of the difference between poisoning and healing by saying that the poisoner and the physician make use, it may be, of the same drug, so we do not in the least get rid of the absolute and fundamental difference between magic and religion by calling attention (E.R.E., viii., p. 379a) "to the element which magic and religion have in common," Poisoning and healing have no element in common: neither have magic and religion. The intention and the spirit make the difference, the world of difference, between them—a difference as patent to the most primitive of peoples as it is to us. That the drug is obtained and administered in much the same way by poisoner and physician does not diminish the fundamental difference—the difference of purpose and intention—between the two. Between the murderer and the physician there is a difference. It would be vain to say that because they use the same drug there is "a unity in difference," or any unity whatever between them. And so, too, it is vain to "treat the magico-religious as a unity in difference" (E.R.E. ib.) on the ground that there are rites which are similar in magic and religion, just as there are drugs which are used both by murderer and physician. To us, indeed, who do not believe in magic it may be clear that some of the rites used in religion are the same as those used in magic; but to the men who believed in magic the difference was fundamental and absolute: it lay in the intention of the agent and in the approval or disapproval of the community. This difference it is which is ignored or denied in using the term "magico-religious," and in speaking of "all magico-religious rites as generically akin." From the point of view of tribes that believe in magic, there are rites which are magical, and there are rites which are religious; but there are no rites which are "magico-religious," for to such tribes "magical" means "non-religious," and "religious" means "non-magical"—or rather "magic" means to them what is condemned by the community, while what is approved by the community belongs to the sphere of what we call religion. But between what is approved and what is condemned by the community there is no unity—there is only difference. Approval and condemnation are not "generically akin." And to classify "all magico-religious rites as generically akin" is to commit an error in classification. To assume that there was a "magico-religious" age is as though we were to assume a "medico-poisonous" age. It is to assume that men knew both poison and medicine, without knowing that poison was poison, and medicine, medicine. The assumption allke in the case of the "magico-religious" and the "medico-poisonous" is self-contradictory or meaningless. To say that the same drug is used by poisoner and physician is true enough. The same bricks and mortar may serve as a house or a home. But there is a difference between them. And it is an error in classification to say that house and home, poisoner and physician, or magic and religion are "generically akin." The difference is fundamental. The difference is fundamental for those who believe in magic. It is fundamental also for those of us who, though they believe in religion, do not believe in magic. For those of us, however, who believe in neither it can hardly be fundamental.
To one person in a street a certain house is home; to the hundreds or thousands of other people who pass it by it is but a house. Yet the distinction is fundamental between the conception of a house and the feeling of home. And it remains fundamental however much one house in a street may be like another. If both were built of brick, we might possibly say they had an element in common. But we should not feel that they had really. So too when Dr. Marett says (E.R.E., viii., p. 249b), "mana usefully calls attention to the eleme'nt which magic and religion have in common," I do not feel that they have anything in common really. But since both Dr. Marett and the Bishop of Upsala think that they have, we must pay attention to what they say.
Dr. Söderblom says (Das Werden des Gottesglaubens, p. 195), that belief in mana, and dealings with that power are accompanied not merely by fear but also by trust. Further, these two feelings—fear and trust—are the marks by which religion is distinguished from magic. But the distinction thus drawn by Dr. Söderblom will hardly suffice to mark off magic from religion. The person who uses magic trusts in it, and also fears it. The distinction which Dr. Söderblom draws is a distinction without a difference. So far from distinguishing magic and religion it would identify them.
The real difference is that, though the means or the modus operandi, regarded by themselves and viewed in the abstract, are the same in the two cases, the ends to which they are applied are different—different with all the difference between good and bad, between what is approved and what is disapproved by society. And the difference which is felt between the ends constitutes in itself the difference' between the means. The difference between the means is exactly the same as the difference between the ends. Means and ends apart from one another are mere abstractions. In reality they are no more separable from one another than a cause is from its effect. It is because the intention of the agent in the one case is good and in the other case is evil, that his action is approved in the one case and disapproved of in the other.
Dr. Söderblom himself on a later page (215) sees that the difference between primitive religion and magic consists partly in the use to which they are put, and states explicitly that in both religion and magic "power" or mana is employed. The difference, he says, originates in the purpose aimed at. He should therefore hold that it is the purpose which constitutes the difference, and not merely the feelings of fear and trust—for, as already said, those feelings accompany the use of magic as well as the practice of religion. A difference in the feeling with which magic and religion are viewed there is. But the difference is that the one is felt by the community to be used for evil and the other for good. So long as we take that to be a fundamental difference between magic and religion, we shall be constrained to reject the notion that religion is but a sort of magic, and also to reject the idea that religion and magic, good and evil, are but different manifestations of fundamentally the same thing. The notion that religion is but a sort of magic is like the idea that justice is a sort of thievishness: the latter idea, as Plato showed, is the consequence that follows from a false notion of what justice is, and the other idea is based on a mistaken notion of what religion is. To appreciate the view that religion and magic were originally, or are fundamentally the same, it is necessary to take account of mana or "power."
Dr Söderblom's view is that the conception of mana or "power" differentiates itself, in the course of its evolution, into good mana and bad mana (p. 218), and that with this differentiation the opposition between magic and religion becomes marked (p. 219). Mana in the earliest stage of its evolution was, according to Dr. Söderblom, neither good nor bad; from this original mana, by the process of differentiation and evolution, sprang two species of mana, the good and the bad, and then the difference, or a difference, between magic and religion became clear. There are however difficulties about Dr. Söderblom's views. Power to do good is good power, good mana; power to do evil is evil mana, evil power. Wherever mana is believed in, the two kinds of mana are found. No case of the mana belief can be produced in which the two kinds of mana are absent. And the reason is clear: the only grounds on which the existence or nature of a power can be inferred are its effects; and it is because the effects are good, or because the effects are bad, that the supposed power is pronounced to be good in the one case, or bad in the other. If the effects were neither good nor bad, then indeed the mana would be neither good nor bad. But to effects which are neither good nor bad primitive man pays no attention, and consequently he only infers good mana and bad mana. They may be resident in the same person or the same thing, but they are none the less different powers. Doubtless when the abstract conceptions of good mana and bad mana have been reached, the still more abstract conception of mana that is neither good nor bad may be reached. But that is a further and a later conception: it is not the first or original conception. And for this reason I dissent from Dr. Söderblom's view that mana in the earliest stage of its evolution was conceived to be neither good nor bad. And I dissent from his view the more decidedly because it seems to me to imply necessarily what Dr. Söderblom himself refuses to believe, viz., that magic and religion have a common origin and therefore in their original stage were the same thing.
The other view from which I dissent is one which is held by Dr. Marett, if I understand rightly what he says about mana (E.R.E., viii., p. 379a, s.v. Mana). He says that religion and magic have an element in common. That element is mana, the wonder-working power; and as it is present in both religion and magic, it is termed by Dr. Marett "magico-religious," and it is viewed by him as constituting the unity of magic and religion. That is to say, from the point of view of logic, and of logical classification or definition, magic and religion are generically and fundamentally the same, though they are different species of the same genus—the specific difference being that in the one the wonder-working powers is social, and in the other anti-social in its use. As against Dr. Marett's view I venture to suggest that it does not follow that, because two things have an element in common, therefore the two things are generically the same or belong to the same genus. It does not follow that two things belong to the same genus because they have weight or even because they have the same weight; and it does not follow that two things belong to the same genus because they have or are believed to have power or even the same power.
The resemblance between magic and religion consists simply in the fact that both are subjects of which value is predicated. The difference is absolute and fundamental: it consists in the fact that the values predicated of the two are different and opposed. Magic, where it is believed in, is illicit and evil; religion is licit and approved by the community. The difference is not that religion makes and that magic avoids the assumption that there are powers superior to man, for magic often makes the assumption, whereas religion in its earliest stage probably had not yet come to make it or not to make it consciously. It may be that the behef in personal gods followed not only after but from the earlier stages of religious evolution, as European geometry not only followed but was evolved from the art of the Egyptian "cord-fasteners," or the steam plough from the primitive digging-stick, or as the oak grows from the acorn. But as we shall not expect by any process of analysis or dissection to find an oak in the acorn, neither shall we expect to find personal gods, or beings superior to man, in the earliest stages of religion. Nor should we for that reason deny that the earlier stages are religious, any more than we should deny that the oak and the acorn are both stages in the growth of the tree. Magic and religion differ not merely as two species of the same genus may differ, but at the outset with all the difference that lies between good and bad, and at the present day further with all the difference between what has been proved irrational and what has not.