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 origins of religion,
cognition and culture
 Religion, Cognition and Culture

Series Editors: Jeppe Sinding Jensen and

Armin W. Geertz, Aarhus University

This series is based on a broadly conceived cognitive science of religion. It

explores the role of religion and culture in cognitive formation and brings
together methods, theories and approaches from the humanities, social sci-
ences, cognitive sciences, psychology and the neurosciences. The series is asso-
ciated with the Religion, Cognition and Culture (RCC) research unit at the
Department of Culture and Society, Aarhus University (www.rcc.au.dk).

Published

The Burning Saints: Cognition and Culture

in the Fire-walking Rituals of the Anastenaria
Dimitris Xygalatas

Mental Culture: Towards a Cognitive Science of Religion

Edited by Dimitris Xygalatas and William W. McCorkle Jr

Past Minds: Studies in Cognitive Historiography

Edited by Luther H. Martin and Jesper Sørensen

Origins of Religion, Cognition and Culture

Edited by Armin W. Geertz

Religion as Magical Ideology: How the Supernatural

Reflects Rationality
Konrad Talmont-Kaminski

Religious Narrative, Cognition and Culture:

Image and Word in the Mind of Narrative
Edited by Armin W. Geertz and Jeppe Sinding Jensen
 Origins of Religion,
Cognition and Culture
Edited by
Armin W. Geertz
 First published in 2013 by Acumen
Published 2014 by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

Editorial matter and selection © Armin W. Geertz, 2013

Individual chapters © individual contributors

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

No reproduction without permission.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.

Notices
Practitioners and researchers must always rely on their own experience and
knowledge in evaluating and using any information, methods, compounds, or
experiments described herein. In using such information or methods they should
be mindful of their own safety and the safety of others, including parties for whom
they have a professional responsibility.

To the fullest extent of the law, neither the Publisher nor the authors, contributors,
or editors, assume any liability for any injury and/or damage to persons or property
as a matter of products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or
operation of any methods, products, instructions, or ideas contained in the material
herein.

isbn: 978-1-84465-701-8 (hardcover)

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro by JS Typesetting Ltd, Porthcawl, Mid Glamorgan.

 Contents

Contributors ix

Introduction 1
Armin W. Geertz

PART I: EVOLUTIONARY SCENARIOS

1. Whence religion? How the brain constructs the world and
what this might tell us about the origins of religion,
cognition and culture 17
Armin W. Geertz
2. Why “costly signalling” models of religion require
cognitive psychology 71
Joseph Bulbulia
3. The prestige of the gods: evolutionary continuities in the
formation of sacred objects 82
William E. Paden
4. The evolutionary dynamics of religious systems: laying the
foundations of a network model 98
István Czachesz
5. Art as a human universal: an adaptationist view 121
Ellen Dissanayake
6. The significance of the natural experience of a “non-natural”
world to the question of the origin of religion 140
Donald Wiebe

v
 contents

7. Religion and the emergence of human imagination 160

Andreas Lieberoth
8. The origins of religion, cognition and culture: the
bowerbird syndrome 178
Luther H. Martin
9. The will to sacrifice: sharing and sociality in humans, apes
and monkeys 203
Henrik Høgh-Olesen
10. Apetales: exploring the deep roots of religious cognition 219
Tom Sjöblom

PART II: COGNITIVE THEORIES

11. Cognition and meaning 241
Jeppe Sinding Jensen
12. Wittgenstein and the naturalness of religious belief 258
Mark Addis
13. “Peekaboo!” and object permanence: on the play of
concealment and appearance in cognition and religion 269
Thomas Hoffmann
14. Yogācāra Buddhist views on the causal relation between
language, cognition and the evolution of worlds 285
William S. Waldron
15. A resource model of religious cognition: motivation as a
primary determinant for the complexity of supernatural
agency representations 301
Uffe Schjoedt
16. The recognition of religion: archaeological diagnosis and
implicit theorizing 310
Peter Jackson
17. Religion and the extra-somatics of conceptual thought 319
Mads D. Jessen
18. Tools for thought: the ritual use of ordinary tools 341
Pierre Liénard and Jesper Sørensen
19. Care of the soul: empathy in a dualistic worldview 365
Gretchen Koch

vi
 contents

20. From corpse to concept: a cognitive theory on the

ritualized treatment of dead bodies 374
William W. McCorkle Jr
21. Anthropomorphism in god concepts: the role of narrative 396
Peter Westh

Index 415

vii
This page intentionally left blank
 Contributors

Mark Addis is Professor of Philosophy at Birmingham City University,

Visiting Professor at the Department of Culture and Society at Aarhus Uni-
versity and a Research Associate at the Centre for Philosophy of Natural
and Social Science at the London School of Economics. His publications on
Wittgenstein include Wittgenstein: A Guide for the Perplexed (2006), Wittgen-
stein: Making Sense of Other Minds (1999) and he co-edited Wittgenstein and
Philosophy of Religion (2001).

Joseph Bulbulia is a Senior Lecturer at Victoria University of Wellington,

New Zealand and publishes widely in psychology, philosophy and evolu-
tionary religious studies. His work on the evolution of religion focuses on
costly signalling models and large-scale coordination problems. Among his
many publications are “First Shots Fired for the Phylogenetic Revolution
in Religious Studies” (co-authored, 2013) and “Why Do Religious Cultures
Evolve Slowly?” (2013), and he is co-editor of The Evolution of Religion:
Studies, Theories, & Critiques (2008).

István Czachesz is Heisenberg Fellow and Privatdozent of New Testament

at the University of Heidelberg. He is author of Commission Narratives: A
Comparative Study of the Canonical and Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles (2007)
and The Grotesque Body in Early Christian Discourse: Hell, Scatology, and
Metamorphosis (2012), and the books he has co-edited include Mind, Morality
and Magic: Cognitive Science Approaches in Biblical Studies (2013).

Ellen Dissanayake is an Affiliate Professor in the School of Music at the

University of Washington and an independent scholar, author and lecturer
in many disciplines, including evolutionary biology, ethology, cognitive
and developmental psychology, cultural and physical anthropology, neuro-
science, and the history, theory and practice of the various arts. She is the

ix
 contributors

author of What Is Art For? (1988), Homo Aestheticus (1992) and Art and
Intimacy (2000), as well as over seventy scholarly and popular articles and
book chapters.

Armin W. Geertz is Professor in the History of Religions at the Department

of Culture and Society, Section for the Study of Religion, and Chair of the
Religion, Cognition and Culture Research Unit (RCC), Aarhus University,
Denmark. His publications in the cognitive science of religion range from
religious narrative and evolutionary theory to the neurobiology of religion.
His recent publications include Religious Narrative, Cognition and Culture (co-
edited, 2011). He is co-editor of Acumen’s Religion, Cognition and Culture
series, and senior co-editor of Journal for the Cognitive Science of Religion.

Thomas Hoffmann is Professor with special responsibilities at the Section

for Biblical Exegesis at the Faculty of Theology, Copenhagen University,
Denmark. He specializes in the study of the Qur’an and has published articles
on cognitive poetics-approaches to the Qur’an and is currently working on a
monograph on the ‘cognitive Qur’an.’ His books include The Poetic Qur’ân:
Studies on Qur’ânic Poeticity (2008).

Henrik Høgh-Olesen is Professor in Social and Personality Psychology and

Head of the Department of Psychology and Behavioral Sciences, Aarhus Uni-
versity, Denmark. His research interests include evolutionary and comparative
perspectives on human mind and kind, human characteristics and the human
condition. His recent edited books are Human Characteristics: Evolutionary
Perspectives on Human Mind and Kind (co-edited, 2009) and Human Morality
and Sociality: Evolutionary and Comparative Perspectives (2010).

Peter Jackson is Professor of the History of Religions at Stockholm University,

Sweden. He specializes in the study of Indo-European religions, particu-
larly ancient Indian and Iranian religions, the religions of ancient Greece
and Rome, and Old Norse religion and works on more general theoretical
and conceptual concerns in the study of religion. Among his many publica-
tions are The Extended Voice: Instances of Myth in the Indo-European Corpus
(1999) and Verbis pingendis: Contributions to the Study of Ritual Speech and
Mythopoeia (2002).

Jeppe Sinding Jensen is Associate Professor at the Department of Culture and

Society, Section for the Study of Religion, and Coordinator of the Religion,
Cognition and Culture Research Unit (RCC), Aarhus University, Denmark.
His research interests include semantics and cognition in religious narrativity,
myth and cosmology, and method, theory and the philosophy of science in

x
 contributors

the study of religion. He is the author of The Study of Religion in a New Key:
Theoretical and Philosophical Soundings in the Comparative and General Study
of Religion (2003), and he is editor-in-chief of Acumen’s Religion, Cognition
and Culture series.

Mads D. Jessen is a Project Researcher at the National Museum of Den-

mark. He is currently excavating the Late Viking Age royal monument at
Jelling, Jutland and studying pre- and proto-Christian rituals in south Scan-
dinavia. His publications include “Material Culture, Embodiment and the
Construction of Religious Knowledge” (2012). He is the co-editor of the new
journal Danish Journal of Archaeology.

Gretchen Koch received her PhD in the cognitive science of religion from
Aarhus University, Denmark, in 2009. She has published journal articles and
participates in interfaith dialogue on websites such as Religion Dispatches
and the Journal of Inter-Religious Dialogue’s State of Formation, and promotes
cognitive approaches to religion and morality to secular audiences on her blog
Cheap Signals.

Andreas Lieberoth is a PhD Fellow at the Department of Psychology and

Behavioral Science and the Centre for Functionally Integrative Neuroscience
(CFIN), Aarhus University. He studies phenomena connected with playful-
ness, imagination and the application of game design to serious contexts. His
publications include “Similarity of Social Information Processes in Games
and Rituals: Magical Interface” (co-authored, 2012).

Pierre Liénard is an Assistant Professor at the University of Nevada, Las

Vegas where he teaches social and cultural anthropology as well as culture
and cognition. He has conducted ethnographic fieldwork in Eastern Africa.
His publications include “Whence Collective Rituals? A Cultural Selection
Model of Ritualized Behavior” (co-authored, 2006), “Life Stages and Risk-
Avoidance: Status- and Context-Sensitivity in Precaution Systems” (2011)
and “Beyond Kin: Cooperation in a Tribal Society” (2014).

Luther H. Martin is Professor Emeritus of Religion, University of Vermont.

He is the author of Hellenistic Religions (1987) and of numerous articles in
this field of his historical specialization and has co-edited several volumes
in cognitive theory and historiographical method, including Past Minds:
Studies in Cognitive Historiography (co-edited, 2011). He is a member of the
Honorary Board of Method & Theory in the Study of Religion, senior co-editor
of Journal of the Cognitive Science of Religion and a founding editor of the
Journal of Cognitive Historiography.

xi
 contributors

William W. McCorkle Jr served from 2011 to 2013 as Director of Experi-

mental Research at LEVYNA (Laboratory for the Experimental Research of
Religion) and Associate Professor and Research Specialist in the Department
for the Study of Religions at Masaryk University, Czech Republic. His publi-
cations include Ritualizing the Disposal of the Deceased: From Corpse to Concept
(2010), and he co-edited Mental Culture: Classical Social Theory and the
Cognitive Science of Religion (2013). He is the managing editor for the Journal
of Cognitive Historiography.

William E. Paden is Professor Emeritus of Religion at the University of Ver-

mont in Burlington, Vermont, where he taught for forty-five years and served
as department chair for two decades. He is the author of Religious Worlds:
The Comparative Study of Religion (1988, 1994) and Interpreting the Sacred:
Ways of Viewing Religion (1992, 2003), each appearing in numerous foreign
translations and editions.

Uffe Schjoedt is a Postdoc Researcher at the Department of Culture and

Society, in the Religion, Cognition and Culture Research Unit (RCC), Aarhus
University, Denmark. His research fields include cognitive science of religion,
psychology of religion and experimental cognitive neuroscience. His publica-
tions include “Cognitive Resource Depletion in Religious Interactions” (co-
authored, 2013).

Tom Sjöblom is Docent in the History of Religions at the Department of the

Study of Religions, University of Helsinki, Finland. He is the author of the
book Early Irish Taboos: A Study in Cognitive History (2000). His interest areas
in cognitive science include narrative cognition, the deep roots of religious
cognition, emotional communication, and cognitive ethology.

Jesper Sørensen is MINDLab Associate Professor at the Department of

Culture and Society in the Religion, Cognition and Culture Research Unit
(RCC), Aarhus University. He has published numerous articles on the cogni-
tive science of religion, in particular on magic, ritual and conceptual trans-
mission, as well as more general papers pertaining to theoretical issues in the
scientific study of religion. His publications include “Magic Reconsidered:
Towards a Scientifically Valid Concept of Magic” (2012), “Cognitive Resource
Depletion in Religious Interactions” (co-authored, 2013) and A Cognitive
Theory of Magic (2007).

William S. Waldron is Professor and Chair of the Department of Religion

at Middlebury College, where he teaches courses on South Asian Buddhism,
Hinduism, and the Study of Religion. He has written numerous publications

xii
 contributors

on the interface between Buddhist philosophy and modern theories of mind

from evolutionary biology, cognitive science and psychology, including
“Buddhist Steps to an Ecology of Mind” (2002) and The Buddhist Unconscious
(2003).

Peter Westh is part-time Lecturer in the History of Religions at the Department

of Cross-Cultural and Regional Studies, University of Copenhagen, and
teaches religion, culture and social science at the Efterslægten upper-secondary
school in Copenhagen, Denmark. Recent publications include “Illuminator
of the Wide Earth; Unbribable Judge; Strong Weapon of the Gods: Intuitive
Ontology and Divine Epithets in Assyro-Babylonian Religious Texts” (2011)
and “The Fire and the Sun: God Concepts in an Assyrian Incantation in a
Cognitive Light” (2011).

Donald Wiebe is Professor of Philosophy at Trinity College, University of

Toronto. His primary areas of research interest are the history of the academic
study of religion, the philosophy of science, and method and theory in the
study of religion. He is the author of Religion and Truth (1981), The Irony
of Theology and the Nature of Religious Thought (1991), Beyond Legitimation
(1994), The Politics of Religious Studies (1999), and over two hundred aca-
demic articles, essays and reviews.

xiii
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advanced on all sides from the plantations, and nothing but a small
open space divided the people from each other, Sir George directed
them to halt, and, after thanking them for what they had done, he
requested them to rest themselves on the grass till refreshments
could be brought from the Hermitage, after partaking of which they
had best move homewards, as it seemed in vain to attempt anything
more till next day. He then took leave of them, and hurried home to
the Hermitage, from whence a number of people were soon seen
returning with the promised refreshments.
Having finished what was set before them, and sufficiently rested
themselves, most of them departed, having first declared their
readiness to turn out the moment they were wanted. But when his
friends proposed to David Williams his returning home, he resolutely
refused, declaring his determination to continue his search the whole
night; and the poor man’s distress seemed so great, that a number of
the people agreed to accompany him. Robert, on being applied to,
furnished them, from the Hermitage, with a quantity of torches and
lanterns; and the people themselves, having got others from the
cottages in the neighbourhood, divided into bands, and, fixing on
John Maxwell’s house for intelligence to be sent to, parted in
different ways on their search.
At first all were extremely active, and no place the least suspicious
was passed by; but as the night advanced their exertions evidently
flagged, and many of them began to whisper to each other that it was
in vain to expect doing any good in the midst of darkness; and, as the
idea gained ground, the people gradually separated from each other,
and returned to their homes, promising to be ready early in the
morning to renew the search.
“An’ now, David,” said John Maxwell, “let’s be gaun on.”
“No to my house,” cried David;—“not to my ain house. I canna face
Matty, and them no found yet.”
“Aweel, then,” said John, “suppose ye gang hame wi’ me, and fling
yersel down for a wee; an’ then we’ll be ready to start again at gray
daylight.”
“An’ what will Matty think in the meantime?” answered David.
“But gang on, gang on, however,” he added, “an’ I’se follow ye.”
 John Maxwell, glad that he had got him this length, now led the
way, occasionally making a remark to David, which was very briefly
answered, so that John, seeing him in that mood, gave up speaking
to him, till, coming at length to a bad step, and warning David of it,
to which he got no answer, he hastily turned round and found that he
was gone. He immediately went back, calling to David as loud as he
could, but all to no purpose. It then occurred to him that David had
probably changed his mind, and had gone homewards; and, at any
rate, if he had taken another direction, that it was in vain for him to
attempt following him, the light he carried being now nearly burnt
out. He therefore made the best of his way to his own house.
In the meantime, poor David Williams, who could neither endure
the thought of going to his own house nor to his brother-in-law’s,
and had purposely given him the slip, continued to wander up and
down without well knowing where he was, or where he was going to,
when he suddenly found himself, on coming out of the wood, close to
the cottage inhabited by a widow named Elie Anderson.
“I wad gie the world for a drink o’ water,” said he to himself; “but
the puir creature will hae lain down lang syne, an’ I’m sweer to
disturb her;” and as he said this, he listened at the door, and tried to
see in at the window, but he could neither see nor hear anything, and
was turning to go away, when he thought he saw something like the
reflection of a light from a hole in the wall, on a tree which was
opposite. It was too high for him to get at it without something to
stand upon; but after searching about, he got part of an old hen-
coop, and placing it to the side of the house, he mounted quietly on
it. He now applied his eye to the hole where the light came through,
and the first sight which met his horrified gaze was the body of his
eldest daughter, lying on a table quite dead,—a large incision down
her breast, and another across it!
David Williams could not tell how he forced his way into the
house; but he remembered bolts and bars crashing before him,—his
seizing Elie Anderson, and dashing her from him with all his might;
and that he was standing gazing on his murdered child when two
young ones put out their hands from beneath the bed-clothes.
“There’s faither,” said the one.
“Oh, faither, faither,” said the other, “but I’m glad ye’re come, for
Nanny’s been crying sair, sair, an’ she’s a’ bluiding.”
 David pressed them to his heart in a perfect agony, then catching
them up in his arms, he rushed like a maniac from the place, and
soon afterwards burst into John Maxwell’s cottage,—his face pale, his
eye wild, and gasping for breath.
“God be praised,” cried John Maxwell, “the bairns are found! But
where’s Nanny?”
Poor David tried to speak, but could not articulate a word.
“Maybe ye couldna carry them a’?” said John; “but tell me whaur
Nanny is, and I’se set out for her momently.”
“Ye needna, John, ye needna,” said David; “it’s ower late, it’s ower
late!”
“How sae? how sae?” cried John; “surely naething mischancy has
happened to the lassie?”
“John,” said David, “grasping his hand, she’s murdered—my
bairn’s murdered, John!”
“Gude preserve us a’,” cried John; “an’ wha’s dune it?”
“Elie Anderson,” answered David; “the poor innocent lies yonder a’
cut to bits;” and the unhappy man broke into a passion of tears.
John Maxwell darted off to Saunders Wilson’s. “Rise, Saunders!”
cried he, thundering at the door; “haste ye and rise!”
“What’s the matter now?” said Saunders.
“Elie Anderson’s murdered David’s Nanny; sae haste ye, rise, and
yoke your cart, that we may tak her to the towbuith.”
Up jumped Saunders Wilson, and up jumped his wife and his
weans, and in a few minutes the story was spread like wildfire. Many
a man had lain down so weary with the long search they had made,
that nothing they thought would have tempted them to rise again;
but now they and their families sprung from their beds, and hurried,
many of them only half-dressed, to John Maxwell’s, scarcely
believing that the story could be true. Amongst the first came
Geordie Turnbull, who proposed that a number of them should set
off immediately, without waiting till Saunders Wilson was ready, as
Elie Anderson might abscond in the meantime; and away he went,
followed by about a dozen of the most active. They soon reached her
habitation, where they found the door open and a light burning.
 “Ay, ay,” said Geordie, “she’s aff, nae doubt, but we’ll get her yet.
Na, faith,” cried he, entering, “she’s here still; but, gudesake, what a
sight’s this!” continued he, gazing on the slaughtered child. The
others now entered, and seemed filled with horror at what they saw.
“Haste ye,” cried Geordie, “and fling a sheet or something ower
her, that we mayna lose our wits a’thegither. And now, ye wretch,”
turning to Elie Anderson, “your life shall answer for this infernal
deed. Here,” continued he, “bring ropes and tie her, and whenever
Saunders comes up, we’ll off wi’ her to the towbuith.”
Ropes were soon got, and she was tied roughly enough, and then
thrown carelessly into the cart; but notwithstanding the pain
occasioned by her thigh-bone being broken by the force with which
David Williams dashed her to the ground, she answered not one
word to all their threats and reproaches, till the cart coming on some
very uneven ground, occasioned her such exquisite pain, that, losing
all command over herself, she broke out into such a torrent of abuse
against those who surrounded her, that Geordie Turnbull would have
killed her on the spot, had they not prevented him by main force.
Shortly afterwards they arrived at the prison; and having delivered
her to the jailor, with many strict charges to keep her safe, they
immediately returned to assist in the search for the bodies of the
other children, who, they had no doubt, would be found in or about
her house.
When they arrived there, they found an immense crowd
assembled, for the story had spread everywhere; and all who had lost
children, accompanied by their friends and neighbours and
acquaintances, had repaired to the spot, and had already commenced
digging and searching all round. After working in this way for a long
while, without any discovery being made, it was at length proposed
to give up the search and return home, when Robin Galt, who was a
mason, and who had been repeatedly pacing the ground from the
kitchen to the pig-sty, and from the pig-sty to the kitchen, said,
“Frien’s, I’ve been considering, and I canna help thinking that there
maun be a space no discovered atween the sty and the kitchen, an’
I’m unco fond to hae that ascertained.”
“We’ll sune settle that,” says Geordie Turnbull. “Whereabouts
should it be?”
 “Just there, I think,” says Robin.
Geordie immediately drove a stone or two out, so that he could get
his hand in.
“Does onybody see my hand frae the kitchen?” asked he.
“No a bit o’t,” was the answer.
“Nor frae the sty?”
“Nor frae that either.”
“Then there maun be a space, sure enough,” cried Geordie,
drawing out one stone after another, till he had made a large hole in
the wall. “An’ now,” said he, “gie me a light;” and he shoved in a
lantern, and looked into the place. “The Lord preserve us a’!” cried
he, starting back.
“What is’t—what is’t?” cried the people, pressing forward on all
sides.
“Look an’ see!—look an’ see!” he answered; “they’re a there—a’ the
murdered weans are there, lying in a raw!”
The wall was torn down in a moment; and, as he had said, the
bodies of the poor innocents were found laid side by side together.
Those who entered first gazed on the horrid scene without speaking,
and then proceeded to carry out the bodies, and to lay them on the
green before the house. It was then that the grief of the unhappy
parents broke forth; and their cries and lamentations, as they
recognised their murdered little ones, roused the passions of the
crowd to absolute frenzy.
“Hanging’s ower gude for her,” cried one.
“Let’s rive her to coupens,” exclaimed another.
A universal shout was the answer; and immediately the greater
part of them set off for the prison, their numbers increasing as they
ran, and all burning with fury against the unhappy author of so much
misery.
The wretched woman was at this moment sitting with an old crony
who had been admitted to see her, and to whom she was confessing
what had influenced her in acting as she had done.
“Ye ken,” said she, “I haena jist been mysel since a rascal that had
a grudge at me put aboot a story of my having made awa wi’ John
Anderson, wi’ the help o’ arsenic. I was ta’en up and examined aboot
it, and afterwards tried for it, and though I was acquitted, the
neebours aye looked on me wi’ an evil eye, and avoided me. This
drave me to drinking and other bad courses, and it ended in my
leaving that part of the kintra, and coming here. But the thing
rankled in my mind, and many a time hae I sat thinkin’ on it, till I
scarcely kent where I was, or what I was doing. Weel, ae day, as I was
sitting at the roadside, near the Hermitage, and very low about it, I
heard a voice say, ‘Are you thinking on John Anderson, Elie? Ay,
woman,’ said Charlotte Beaumont, for it was her, ‘what a shame in
you to poison your own gudeman!’ and she pointed her finger, and
hissed at me. When I heard that,” continued Elie, “the whole blood in
my body seemed to flee up to my face, an’ my very een were like to
start frae my head; an’ I believe I wad hae killed her on the spot,
hadna ane o’ Sir George’s servants come up at the time; sae I sat
mysel doun again, an’ after a lang while, I reasoned mysel, as I
thought, into the notion that I shouldna mind what a bairn said; but
I hadna forgotten’t for a’ that.
“Weel, ae day that I met wi’ her near the wood, I tell’t her that it
wasna right in her to speak yon gate, an’ didna mean to say ony mair,
hadna the lassie gane on ten times waur nor she had done before,
and sae angered me, that I gied her a wee bit shake, and then she
threatened me wi’ what her faither wad do, and misca’ed me sae sair,
that I struck her, and my passion being ance up, I gaed on striking
her till I killed her outright. I didna ken for a while that she was
dead; but when I found that it was really sae, I had sense enough left
to row her in my apron, an’ to tak her hame wi’ me; an’ when I had
barred the door, I laid her body on a chair, and sat down on my
knees beside it, an’ grat an’ wrung my hands a’ night lang.
“Then I began to think what would be done to me if it was found
out; an’ thought o’ pittin’ her into a cunning place, which the man
who had the house before me, and who was a great poacher, had
contrived to hide his game in; and when that was done, I was a
thought easier, though I couldna forgie mysel for what I had done,
till it cam into my head that it had been the means o’ saving her frae
sin, and frae haein’ muckle to answer for; an’ this thought made me
unco happy. At last I began to think that it would be right to save
mair o’ them, and that it would atone for a’ my former sins; an’ this
took sic a hold o’ me, that I was aye on the watch to get some ane or
ither o’ them by themselves, to dedicate them to their Maker, by
marking their bodies wi’ the holy cross:—but oh!” she groaned, “if I
hae been wrang in a’ this!”
The sound of the people rushing towards the prison was now
distinctly heard; and both at once seemed to apprehend their object.
“Is there no way of escape, Elie,” asked her friend, wringing her
hands.
Elie pointed to her broken thigh, and shook her head. “Besides,”
said she, “I know my hour is come.”
The mob had now reached the prison, and immediately burst open
the doors. Ascending to the room where Elie was confined, they
seized her by the hair, and dragged her furiously downstairs. They
then hurried her to the river, and, with the bitterest curses, plunged
her into the stream; but their intention was not so soon
accomplished as they had expected; and one of the party having
exclaimed that a witch would not drown, it was suggested, and
unanimously agreed to, to burn her. A fire was instantly lighted by
the waterside, and when they thought it was sufficiently kindled, they
threw her into the midst of it. For some time her wet clothes
protected her, but when the fire began to scorch her, she made a
strong exertion, and rolled herself off. She was immediately seized
and thrown on again; but having again succeeded in rolling herself
off, the mob became furious, and called for more wood for the fire;
and by stirring it on all hands, they raised it into a tremendous blaze.
Some of the most active now hastened to lay hold of the poor wretch,
and to toss her into it; but in their hurry one of them having trod on
her broken limb, caused her such excessive pain, that when Geordie
Turnbull stooped to assist in lifting her head, she suddenly caught
him by the thumb with her teeth, and held him so fast, that he found
it impossible to extricate it. She was therefore laid down again, and
in many ways tried to force open her mouth, but without other effect
than increasing Geordie’s agony; till at length one of them seizing a
pointed stick from the fire, and thrusting it into an aperture
occasioned by the loss of some of her teeth, the pressure of its sharp
point against the roof of her mouth, and the smoke setting her
coughing, forced her to relax her hold, when the man’s thumb was
got out of her grasp terribly lacerated. Immediately thereafter she
was tossed in the midst of the flames, and forcibly held there by
means of long prongs; and the fire soon reaching the vital parts, the
poor wretch’s screams and imprecations became so horrifying, that
one of the bystanders, unable to bear it any longer, threw a large
stone at her head, which, hitting her on the temples, deprived her of
sense and motion.
Their vengeance satisfied, the people immediately dispersed,
having first pledged themselves to the strictest secrecy. Most of them
returned home, but a few went back to Elie Anderson’s, whose house,
and everything belonging to her, had been set on fire by the furious
multitude. They then retired, leaving a few men to watch the remains
of the children, till coffins could be procured for them. “Never in a’
my days,” said John Maxwell, when speaking of it afterwards, “did I
weary for daylight as I did that night. When the smoke smothered
the fire, and it was quite dark, we didna mind sae muckle; but when a
rafter or a bit o’ the roof fell in, and a bleeze raise, then the firelight
shining on the ghastly faces of the puir wee innocents a’ laid in a row,
—it was mair than we could weel stand; and it was mony a day or I
was my ainsel again.”
 Chapter III.
Next morning the parents met, and it being agreed that all their
little ones should be interred in one grave, and that the funeral
should take place on the following day, the necessary preparations
were accordingly made. In the meantime, Matty went over to her
brother John Maxwell, to tell him, if possible, to persuade David
Williams not to attend the funeral, as she was sure he could not
stand it. “He hadna closed his ee,” she said, “since that terrible night,
and had neither ate nor drank, but had just wandered up and down
between the house and the fields, moaning as if his heart would
break.” John Maxwell promised to speak to David, but when he did
so, he found him so determined on attending, that it was needless to
say any more on the subject.
On the morning of the funeral, David Williams appeared very
composed; and John Maxwell was saying to some of the neighbours
that he thought he would be quite able to attend, when word was
brought that Geordie Turnbull had died that morning of lock-jaw,
brought on, it was supposed, as much from the idea of his having
been bitten by a witch, or one that was not canny, as from the injury
done to him.
This news made an evident impression on David Williams, and he
became so restless and uneasy, and felt himself so unwell, that he at
one time declared he would not go to the funeral; but getting
afterwards somewhat more composed, he joined the melancholy
procession, and conducted himself with firmness and propriety from
the time of their setting out till all the coffins were lowered into the
grave. But the first spadeful of earth was scarcely thrown in, when
the people were startled by his breaking into a long and loud laugh;—
“There she’s!—there she’s!” he exclaimed; and, darting through the
astonished multitude, he made with all his speed to the gate of the
churchyard.
“Oh! stop him,—will naebody stop him?” cried his distracted wife;
and immediately a number of his friends and acquaintances set off
after him, the remainder of the people crowding to the churchyard
wall, whence there was an extensive view over the surrounding
country. But quickly as those ran who followed him, David Williams
kept far a-head of them, terror lending him wings,—till at length, on
slackening his pace, William Russel, who was the only one near,
gained on him, and endeavoured, by calling in a kind and soothing
manner, to prevail on him to return. This only made him increase his
speed, and William would have been thrown behind farther than
ever, had he not taken a short cut, which brought him very near him.
“Thank God, he will get him now!” cried the people in the
churchyard; when David Williams, turning suddenly to the right,
made with the utmost speed towards a rising ground, at the end of
which was a freestone quarry of great depth. At this sight a cry of
horror arose from the crowd, and most fervently did they pray that
he might yet be overtaken; and great was their joy when they saw
that, by the most wonderful exertion, William Russel had got up so
near as to stretch out his arm to catch him; but at that instant his
foot slipped, and ere he could recover himself, the unhappy man,
who had now gained the summit, loudly shouting, sprung into the
air.
“God preserve us!” cried the people, covering their eyes that they
might not see a fellow-creature dashed in pieces; “it is all over!”
“Then help me to lift his poor wife,” said Isabel Lawson. “And now
stan’ back, and gie her a’ the air, that she may draw her breath.”
“She’s drawn her last breath already, I’m doubting,” said Janet
Ogilvie, an old skilful woman; and her fears were found to be too
true.
“An’ what will become o’ the poor orphans?” said Isabel.
She had scarcely spoken, when Sir George Beaumont advanced,
and, taking one of the children in each hand, he motioned the people
to return towards the grave.
“The puir bairns are provided for now,” whispered one to another,
as they followed to witness the completion of the mournful
ceremony. It was hastily finished in silence, and Sir George having
said a few words to his steward, and committed the orphans to his
care, set out on his way to the Hermitage, the assembled multitude
all standing uncovered as he passed, to mark their respect for his
goodness and humanity.
 As might have been expected, the late unhappy occurrences greatly
affected Lady Beaumont’s health, and Sir George determined to quit
the Hermitage for a time; and directions were accordingly given to
prepare for their immediate removal. While this was doing, the
friend who had been with Elie Anderson in the prison happened to
call at the Hermitage, and the servants crowded about her, eager to
learn what had induced Elie to commit such crimes. When she had
repeated what Elie had said, a young woman, one of the servants,
exclaimed, “I know who’s been the cause of this; for if Bet,”——and
she suddenly checked herself.
“That must mean Betsy Pringle,” said Robert, who was her
sweetheart, and indeed engaged to her; “so you will please let us hear
what you have to say against her, or own that you’re a slanderer.”
“I have no wish to make mischief,” said the servant; “and as what I
said came out without much thought, I would rather say no more;
but I’ll not be called a slanderer neither.”
“Then say what you have to say,” cried Robert; “it’s the only way to
settle the matter.”
“Well, then,” said she, “since I must do it, I shall. Soon after I came
here, I was one day walking with the bairns and Betsy Pringle, when
we met a woman rather oddly dressed, and who had something
queer in her manner, and, when she had left us, I asked Betsy who it
was. ‘Why,’ said Betsy, ‘I don’t know a great deal about her, as she
comes from another part of the country; but if what a friend of mine
told me lately is true, this Elie Anderson, as they call her, should
have been hanged.’
“‘Hanged!’ cried Miss Charlotte; ‘and why should she be hanged,
Betsy?’
“‘Never you mind, Miss Charlotte,’ said Betsy, ‘I’m speaking to
Fanny here.’
“‘You can tell me some other time,’ said I.
“‘Nonsense,’ cried Betsy, ‘what can a bairn know about it? Weel,’
continued she, ‘it was believed that she had made away with John
Anderson, her gudeman.’
“‘What’s a gudeman, Betsy?’ asked Miss Charlotte.
“‘A husband,’ answered she.
 “‘And what’s making away with him, Betsy?’
“‘What need you care?’ said Betsy.
“‘You may just as well tell me,’ said Miss Charlotte; ‘or I’ll ask Elie
Anderson herself all about it, the first time I meet her.’
“‘That would be a good joke,’ said Betsy, laughing; ‘how Elie
Anderson would look to hear a bairn like you speaking about a
gudeman, and making away with him; however,’ she continued, ‘that
means killing him.’
“‘Killing him!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotte. ‘Oh, the wretch; and how
did she kill him, Betsy?’
“‘You must ask no more questions, miss,’ said Betsy, and the
subject dropped.
“‘Betsy,’ said I to her afterwards, you should not have mentioned
these things before the children; do you forget how noticing they
are?’
“‘Oh, so they are,’ said Betsy, ‘but only for the moment; and I’ll
wager Miss Charlotte has forgotten it all already.’
“But, poor thing,” Fanny added, “she remembered it but too well.”
“I’ll not believe this,” cried Robert.
“Let Betsy be called, then,” said the housekeeper, “and we’ll soon
get at the truth.” Betsy came, was questioned by the housekeeper,
and acknowledged the fact.
“Then,” said Robert, “you have murdered my master’s daughter,
and you and I can never be more to one another than we are at this
moment;” and he hastily left the room.
Betsy gazed after him for an instant, and then fell on the floor. She
was immediately raised up and conveyed to bed, but recovering soon
after, and expressing a wish to sleep, her attendant left her. The
unhappy woman, feeling herself unable to face her mistress after
what had happened, immediately got up, and, jumping from the
window, fled from the Hermitage. The first accounts they had of her
were contained in a letter from herself to Lady Beaumont, written on
her death-bed, wherein she described the miserable life she had led
since quitting the Hermitage, and entreating her ladyship’s
forgiveness for the unhappiness which she had occasioned.
 “Let what has happened,” said Lady Beaumont, “be a warning to
those who have the charge of them, to beware of what they say
before children;—a sentiment which Sir George considered as so just
and important, that he had it engraven on the stone which covered
the little innocents, that their fate and its cause might be had in
everlasting remembrance.”—“The Odd Volume.”
 AN ORKNEY WEDDING.

By John Malcolm.
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—Goldsmith.

Gentle reader! you, I doubt not, have seen many strange sights,
and have passed through a variety of eventful scenes. Perhaps you
have visited the Thames Tunnel, and there threaded your way under
ground and under water, or you may have witnessed Mr Green’s
balloon ascent, and seen him take an airing on horseback among the
clouds.
Perhaps, too, you have been an observer of human life in all its
varieties and extremes: one night figuring away at Almack’s with
aristocratic beauty, and the next footing it with a band of gipsies in
Epping Forest. But, pray tell me, have you ever seen an Orkney
Wedding? If not, as I have just received an invitation to one,
inclusive of a friend, you shall, if it so please you, accompany me to
that scene of rural hospitality.
In conformity with the custom of the country, I have sent off to the
young couple a pair of fowls and a leg of mutton, to play their parts
upon the festive board; and as every family contributes in like
manner, a general pic-nic is formed, which considerably diminishes
the expense incident to the occasion; although, as the festivities are
frequently kept up for three or four days by a numerous assemblage
of rural beauty and fashion, the young people must contrive to live
upon love, if they can, during the first year of their union, having
little else left upon which to subsist, except the fragments of the
mighty feast.
 Well, then, away we go, and about noon approach the scene of
festivity,—a country-seat built in the cottage style, thatched with
straw, and flanked with a barn and a well-filled corn-yard, enclosed
with a turf-dyke.
The wedding company are now seen making their way towards the
place of rendezvous; and the young women, arrayed in white robes of
emblematic purity, exhibit a most edifying example of economy.
With their upper garments carried to a height to which the fashion of
short petticoats never reached even at Paris, they trip it away
barefooted through the mud, until they reach the banks of a purling
stream, about a quarter of a mile distant from the wedding-house.
Here their feet, having been previously kissed by the crystal waters,
and covered with cotton stockings, which in whiteness would fain vie
with the skin they enviously conceal, are inserted into shoes, in
whose mirror of glossy black the enamoured youth obtains a peep of
his own charms, while stooping down to adjust their ties into a love-
knot.
Immediately in front of the outer-door, or principal entrance of the
house, and answering the double purpose of shelter and ornament,
stands a broad square pile, composed of the most varied materials,
needless to be enumerated, and vulgarly denominated a midden,
around the base of which some half-dozen of pigs are acting the part
of miners, in search of its hidden treasures. It is separated from the
house by a sheet of water, tinged with the fairest hues of heaven and
earth, viz., blue and green, and over which we pass by a bridge of
stepping-stones.
And now, my friend, before entering the house, it may be as well to
consider what character you are to personate during the
entertainment; for the good people in these islands, like their
neighbours of the mainland of Scotland, take that friendly interest in
other people’s affairs, which the thankless world very unkindly
denominates impertinent curiosity.
If I pass you off as a lawyer, you will immediately be overwhelmed
with statements of their quarrels and grievances; for they are main
fond of law, and will expend the hard-earned savings of years in
litigation, although the subject-matter of dispute should happen to
be only a goose. You must not, therefore, belong to the bar, since, in
the present case, consultations would produce no fees.
 I think I shall therefore confer upon you the degree of M.D., which
will do as well for the occasion as if you had obtained it by purchase
at the University of Aberdeen; although I am not sure that it also
may not subject you to some trouble in the way of medical advice.
And now having safely passed over the puddle, and tapped gently
at the door, our arrival is immediately announced by a grand musical
chorus, produced by the barking of curs, the cackling of geese, the
quacking of ducks, and the grunting and squeaking of pigs. After this
preliminary salutation, we are received by the bridegroom, and
ushered, with many kind welcomes, into the principal hall, through a
half open door, at one end of which we are refreshed with a picture of
rural felicity, namely, some sleek-looking cows, ruminating in
philosophical tranquillity on the subject of diet.
In the middle of the hall is a large blazing turf fire, the smoke of
which escapes in part through an aperture in the roof, while the
remainder expands in the manner of a pavilion over the heads of the
guests.
A door at the other end of the hall opens into the withdrawing-
room, the principal furniture of which consists of two large chests
filled with oat and barley meal and home-made cheeses, a concealed
bed, and a chest of drawers. Both rooms have floors inlaid with
earth, and roofs of a dark soot colour, from which drops of a
corresponding hue occasionally fall upon the bridal robes of the
ladies, with all the fine effect arising from contrast, and ornamental
on the principle of the patch upon the cheek of beauty.
Separated from the dwelling-house only by a puddle dotted with
stepping-stones stands the barn, which, from its length and breadth,
is admirably adapted for the purposes of a ball-room.
Upon entering the withdrawing-room, which the good people with
admirable modesty call the ben, we take our seats among the elders
and chiefs of the people, and drink to the health of the young couple
in a glass of delicious Hollands, which, unlike Macbeth’s “Amen,”
does not stick in our throats, although we are well aware that it never
paid duty, but was slily smuggled over sea in a Dutch lugger, and
safely stowed, during some dark night, in the caves of the more
remote islands.
 The clergyman having now arrived, the company assembled, and
the ceremony of marriage being about to take place, the parties to be
united walk in, accompanied by the best man and the bride’s maid,—
those important functionaries, whose business it is to pull off the
gloves from the right hands of their constituents, as soon as the order
is given to “join hands,”—but this they find to be no easy matter, for
at that eventful part of the ceremony their efforts are long baffled,
owing to the tightness of the gloves. While they are tugging away to
no purpose, the bridegroom looks chagrined, and the bride is
covered with blushes; and when at last the operation is
accomplished, and perseverance crowned with success, the confusion
of the scene seems to have infected the parson, who thus blunders
through the ceremony:
“Bridegroom,” quoth he, “do you take the woman whom you now
hold by the hand, to be your lawful married husband?”
To which interrogation the bridegroom having nodded in the
affirmative, the parson perceives his mistake, and calls out, “Wife, I
mean.” “Wife, I mean,” echoes the bridegroom; and the whole
company are in a titter.
But, thank heaven, the affair is got over at last; and the bride being
well saluted, a large rich cake is broken over her head, the fragments
of which are the subject of a scramble among the bystanders, by
whom they are picked up as precious relics, having power to produce
love-dreams.
And now the married pair, followed by the whole company, set off
to church, to be kirked, as the phrase is. A performer on the violin
(not quite a Rossini) heads the procession, and plays a variety of
appropriate airs, until he reaches the church-door. As soon as the
party have entered and taken their seats, the parish-clerk, in a truly
impressive and orthodox tone of voice, reads a certain portion of
Scripture, wherein wives are enjoined to be obedient to their
husbands. The service is concluded with a psalm, and the whole
party march back, headed as before by the musician.
Upon returning from church, the company partake of a cold
collation, called the hansel, which is distributed to each and all by
the bride’s mother, who for the time obtains the elegant designation
of hansel-wife. The refreshments consist of cheese, old and new, cut
down in large slices, or rather junks, and placed upon oat and barley
cakes,—some of the former being about an inch thick, and called
snoddies.
These delicate viands are washed down with copious libations of
new ale, which is handed about in a large wooden vessel, having
three handles, and ycleped a three-lugged cog.[18] The etherial
beverage is seasoned with pepper, ginger, and nutmeg, and
thickened with eggs and pieces of toasted biscuit.
18. Also called the Bride’s cog.—Ed.
These preliminaries being concluded, the company return to the
barn, where the music strikes up, and the dancing commences with
what is called the Bride’s Reel; after which, two or three young men
take possession of the floor, which they do not resign until they have
danced with every woman present; they then give place to others,
who pass through the same ordeal, and so on. The dance then
becomes more varied and general. Old men and young ones, maids,
matrons, and grandmothers, mingle in its mazes. And, oh! what
movements are there,—what freaks of the “fantastic toe,”—what
goodly figures and glorious gambols in a dance;—compared to which
the waltz is but the shadow of joy, and the quadrille the feeble effort
of Mirth upon her last legs.
Casting an eye, however, upon the various performers, I cannot
but observe that the old people seem to have monopolised all the airs
and graces; for, while the young maidens slide through the reel in the
most quiet and unostentatious way, and then keep bobbing opposite
to their partners in all the monotony of the back-step, their more
gifted grandmothers figure away in quite another style. With a length
of waist which our modern belles do not wish to possess, and an
underfigure, which they cannot if they would, even with the aid of
pads, but which is nevertheless the true court-shape, rendering the
hoop unnecessary, and which is moreover increased by the swinging
appendages of huge scarlet pockets, stuffed with bread and cheese,
behold them sideling up to their partners in a kind of echellon
movement, spreading out their petticoats like sails, and then, as if
seized with a sudden fit of bashfulness, making a hasty retreat
rearwards. Back they go at a round trot; and seldom do they stop
until their career of retiring modesty ends in a somersault over the
sitters along the sides of the room.
 The old men, in like manner, possess similar advantages over the
young ones; the latter being sadly inferior to their seniors in address
and attitudes. Nor is this much to be wondered at, the young
gentlemen having passed most of their summer vacations at Davis’
Straits, where their society consisted chiefly of bears; whereas the old
ones are men of the world, having in early life entered the Company’s
service (I do not mean that of the East Indies, but of Hudson’s Bay),
where their manners must no doubt have been highly polished by
their intercourse with the Squaws, and all the beauty and fashion of
that interesting country.
Such of them as have sojourned there are called north-westers,
and are distinguished by that modest assurance, and perfect ease and
self-possession, only to be acquired by mixing frequently and freely
with the best society. Indeed, one would suppose that their manners
were formed upon the model of the old French school; and queues
are in general use among them—not, however, those of the small
pigtail kind, but ones which in shape and size strongly resemble the
Boulogne sausage.
And now, amidst these ancients, I recognise my old and very
worthy friend, Mr James Houston, kirk-officer and sexton of the
parish, of whom a few words, perhaps, may not be unacceptable.
His degree of longitude may be about five feet from the earth, and
in latitude he may extend at an average to about three. His
countenance, which is swarthy, and fully as broad as it is long,
although not altogether the model which an Italian painter would
select for his Apollo, would yet be considered handsome among the
Esquimaux; or, as James calls them, the Huskinese. His hair, which
(notwithstanding an age at which Time generally saves us the
expense of the powder-tax) is jet black, is of a length and strength
that would not shrink from comparison with that of a horse’s tail,
and hangs down over his broad shoulders in a fine and generous
flow. The coat which he wears upon this, as upon all other occasions,
is cut upon the model of the spencer; its colour, a “heavenly blue,”
varied by numerous dark spots, like clouds in a summer sky; while
his nether bulk is embraced by a pair of tight buckskin
“unmentionables.”
Extending from the bosom down to the knee he wears a leather
apron. This part of his dress is never dispensed with, except at
church; and though I have not been able to ascertain its precise
purpose with perfect certainty, I am inclined to think it is used as a
perpetual pinafore, to preserve his garments from the pollution of
soup and grease-drops at table.
The principal materials of his dress are, moreover, prepared for
use by his own hands: Mr Houston being at once sole proprietor and
operative of a small manufactory, consisting of a single loom; when
not employed at which, or in spreading the couch of rest in the
churchyard, he enjoys a kind of perpetual otium cum dignitate.
His chief moveables, in addition to the loom, consist of three
Shetland ponies and a small Orkney plough, by the united aid of
which he is enabled to scratch up the surface of a small estate, which
supplies him with grain sufficient for home consumption, but not for
exportation.
His peculiar and more shining accomplishments consist in the art
of mimicking the dance of every man and woman in the parish,
which he does with a curious felicity, and in executing short pieces of
music on that sweetest of lyres, the Jew’s harp.
Like most of his profession, he is a humorist; and though he has
long “walked hand-in-hand with death,” nobody enjoys life with a
keener relish at the festive board or the midnight ball, which he finds
delightful relaxations from his grave occupations during the day;
and yet even these latter afford him a rare and consolatory joy denied
to other men,—I mean that of meeting with his old friends, after they
have been long dead, and of welcoming, with a grin of recognition,
the skulls of his early associates, as he playfully pats them with his
spade, and tosses them into the light of day.
But it is in his capacity of kirk-officer that Mr Houston appears to
the greatest advantage, while ushering the clergyman to the pulpit,
and marching before him with an air truly magnificent, and an
erectness of carriage somewhat beyond the perpendicular, he
performs his important function of opening and shutting the door of
the pulpit, and takes his seat under an almost overwhelming sense of
dignity, being for the time a kind of lord high constable, with whom
is entrusted the execution of the law. And that he does not bear the
sword in vain is known to their cost, by all the litigious and
churchgoing dogs of the parish; for no sooner do they begin to growl
and tear each other, with loud yells, which they generally do, so as to
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