In certain parts of the lower reaches of the large Bornean rivers, where large sand-banks are to be found, the swift incoming spring-tide makes, soon after it has covered the sand-bank, a peculiar dangerous motion of the water, called by the natives langan. We all know the bubbling appearance of boiling water in an open pot, and if we picture to ourselves that kind of thing on a very large scale, it will give a good idea of what the langan is like. It does not last long in any particular part of the river, because, as soon as the water has risen and is deeper, the langan disappears. It is most dangerous. The peculiar motion of the water is so irregular and uncertain that small boats are easily swamped, and many lives have been lost owing to this langan. The part of the Batang Lupar near the village of Rawan is particularly dangerous from this cause. I have known of many cases of a Dyak boat being swamped by the langan there, and not a single person being saved. Though the Dyaks are good swimmers, the boat is rolled over by the swift current, and they have no chance of saving themselves. When I have had to travel past Rawan during the spring-tides when there is most danger, if the tide has only just made, I have thought it wisest not to run any risks, and have told my boatmen to fasten the boat to the bank, and wait for ten minutes, and not to proceed till there was no danger of being swamped by the terrible langan.

In the rapids up the rivers travelling is done in a “dug-out,” because that draws little water. The boat has a long cane or creeper tied to the bows, and when it has to be pulled over the rapids some of the men drag at this, while the others remain in the boat and work with their poles or small paddles. The skill with which the Dyaks pole the boat along, as they stand up in it, is beautiful to see. With a skilful turn of the pole they will guide the boat past some huge boulder which it seems impossible to avoid. The sensation to one sitting in a boat going over the rapids, either up or down stream, is not particularly pleasant. The boat is bumped and jerked about, and the water often splashes in. At times the boat will be propelled by poles; then, when the water is too shallow, the men jump out and walk by the side, pulling the boat along. When they get to deeper water, they jump in again.

The Dyaks are most excellent companions when travelling has to be done. They are hard-working and good-tempered, and most resourceful. When one is travelling in small “dug-outs” in the upper reaches of the river, it often happens that he has to spend some nights on the journey. If any Dyak house be near, the travellers make for it, knowing well that the hospitable inmates will gladly give them shelter. But sometimes they have to camp out on the river-bank. It is quite remarkable how well the Dyaks manage under such circumstances. I have always admired the way in which in a very short time wood and creepers are got from the jungle, and a little hut put up for me on a cleared spot on the river-bank. The creepers are used for tying the wood together; the kadjang from the boat is fastened up for the roof of the little hut; a flooring, two or three feet off the ground, is made of laths of wood tied together with creepers; my small cork boat mattress and curtain are fixed up; and in about an hour’s time I am safely lodged for the night. The Dyaks themselves are very hardy. They will wrap themselves up in their puah, or sheet, and sleep in the open air, sometimes on mats; but if there are no mats, they will make for themselves a bed of leaves on the ground, and think it no great hardship to sleep on this.

When travelling has to be done on foot, one has to walk on a Dyak jungle path, which consists of the trunks of the giants of the forest placed in a line. No attempt is made to hew the round trunks into an even upper surface, so one must walk carefully lest he slip off; for in some parts the bark on these tree-trunks is rotten, and in others there is a growth of wet slippery moss. Over the jungle streams there are Dyak bridges made, like the path, of the trunk of a tree, sometimes with a light hand-rail tied to it, sometimes not.

I have often travelled on foot through the jungle, accompanied by Dyaks carrying my baggage. We have walked in single file on these trunks of trees, and have listened to the weird jungle sounds—the creaking of giant trees, the strange cries of insects, or birds, or monkeys. And sometimes in the gathering darkness, when the storm-clouds have hurried overhead and the winds shrieked through the tree-tops in fierce discord, ruthlessly twanging the harp-strings of Nature, I have understood why it is that the Dyaks believe that the lone forests are inhabited by the spirits of the wind and the rivers, of the mountains and the trees.

No one can adequately realize the Equatorial Bornean jungle until he sees it in all its wonder—the heated steamy stillness broken by weird sounds, the colossal trees, the birds with brilliant plumage, and the infinite variety of monkeys among the branches, sitting, hanging by hands or tails, leaping, grimacing, jabbering, as they see the strange sight of human beings invading their domains.

What are the wild animals that the traveller is likely to meet as he walks through the jungle? The animal life of Borneo is akin to that of Sumatra or Java, but with certain differences. Borneo is free from tigers, and this is fortunate, for travelling through the forests would be dangerous indeed if tigers were likely to be encountered. The only wild animals to be met with are the small and comparatively harmless tree-tiger, and the small brown honey-bear, but neither of them is much feared. There are, of course, ferocious crocodiles in the rivers, and many varieties of snakes, varying in size from the python downwards. But the cobra, so much dreaded in India, is not met with in Borneo, and death from a snake-bite is very rare. The elephant and the rhinoceros seem to be confined to the north end of the island. There is the great man-like ape—the orang-utan, or maias, as it is called by the Dyaks. It is only found in a limited area, in the territory between the Batang Lupar and the Rejang Rivers. As a rule, this animal does not exceed the height of four feet two inches, though there are stories told of its attaining a far greater size. The height, however, gives a poor idea of the animal’s bulk and strength. The body is as large as that of an average man, but the legs are extremely short. Its arms are of great length, and measure over seven feet in spread. The whole body is covered with long red hair. It rarely attacks man, but when provoked is very ferocious, and as its strength is very great, it is a foe not to be despised. There are numerous wild boars in the jungle, but they never attack the traveller, and are not a source of danger.

The vegetation of Borneo is rich and varied. By the seashore and at the mouths of the rivers there grows the nipa palm, “the tree of a thousand uses.” The young leaves are used for making kadjangs, the awnings with which Dyak boats are covered. The old leaves are made into attap for the roofs and walls of their houses. From the blossom a sweet drink is obtained, and this is converted into sugar. From the ashes of the burnt stump of this palm salt is obtained. As one travels up a Bornean river the nipa palms become less and less plentiful, and one finds the banks covered with mangroves. These trees thrive on the muddy banks. A network of roots grows out of the stem several feet above the soil, and keeps them firm. At night these mangroves are lit up by myriads of fireflies. The missionary stationed at Banting many years ago had all the mangrove-trees, except one on each side of his landing-place, cut down, and on the darkest night there was no difficulty in knowing where his boat was to stop. These two trees, covered with fireflies, were not to be mistaken in the surrounding darkness.

In Borneo there are many varieties of palms. There is the nibong palm, the trunk of which is often used for the posts of native houses. When split up, it is used for the flooring. There is the sago palm, from the pith of the trunk of which sago is obtained. There are the cocoanut and betel-nut palms, and lastly a useful climbing palm—the cane, or rotan—which is exported in great quantities and used for the seats of chairs.

There are many kinds of useful woods to be found in the Bornean jungles. There is the bilian, or iron-wood, which is so valuable for building purposes, as it is practically indestructible. It will not rot in earth or water, and it is the only wood that the white ants cannot destroy. There are also many other hard woods used for the building of houses and the making of keels for boats.

The ebony-tree is to be found in Borneo. The ebony is the heart of the tree, the rest of the wood being of a light colour.

The camphor-tree is also found, as well as various trees which produce gutta and rubber of different sorts.

There are many fruit-trees, but the fruit most loved by the Dyaks is the durian. This grows on a large tree, and is about the size of a man’s head. When ripe, it is easily split open, and in it are pods in which are rows of seeds covered with a sweet pulp.

CHAPTER XII
OMENS AND DREAMS

Seven omen birds—Other omen animals—Omens sought before beginning rice-farming—House-building omens—Substitutions for omens—Good and bad omens in farming—A dead animal—Means of avoiding bad effects—Omens obeyed at all times—Bird flying through a house—A drop of blood—Killing an omen bird or insect—Origin of the system of omens—Augury—Dreams.

The Dyak is conscious of his ignorance of the natural laws which govern the world in which he lives. He longs for some guidance in his precarious farming, in his work in the lonely depths of the jungle, in his boating over the dangerous rapids or treacherous tides of the swift rivers. He is aware that injury or death may suddenly confront him from many an unexpected source. He knows that Nature has voices, many and varied, and he is convinced that if he could only understand those voices aright, he would know when to advance and when to recede. He feels the need of guidance, and he has devised for himself a system of omens.

Like the ancient Romans, who took auguries from the flight or notes of certain birds—the raven, the owl, the magpie, the eagle, and the vulture—the Dyak has his sacred birds, whose flight or calls are supposed to intimate to him the will of unseen powers. They are seven in number, and their native names are: Katupong, Beragai, Kutok, Embuas, Nendak, Papau, and Bejampong. They are beautiful in plumage, but, like most tropical birds, they have little song, and their calls are shrill and piercing. They are supposed to be manifestations of the seven spirit sons of the great god Singalang Burong (see the “Story of Siu,” p. 278).

The system, as carried out by the Dyaks, is most elaborate and complicated, and the younger men have constantly to ask the older ones how to act in unexpected combinations of apparently contradictory omens. The law and observance of omens occupy a greater share of the thoughts of the Dyak than any other part of his religion.

It is not only to the cry of birds that the Dyaks pay heed. There are certain animals—the deer, the armadillo, the lizard, the bat, the python, the cobra, even the rat, as well as certain insects—which all may give omens under special circumstances. But these other creatures are subordinate to the birds, from which alone augury is sought at the beginning of any important undertaking.

Some idea of the method in which the Dyaks carry out their system of omens may be gathered from what is done at the commencement of the yearly rice-farming. Some man who has the reputation of being fortunate, and has had large paddy crops, will be the augur, and undertake to obtain omens for a large area of land on which he and others intend to plant. The Dyaks begin clearing the ground of jungle and high grass when the Pleiades appear at a certain height above the horizon at sunset. Some little time before this the augur sets about his work. He will have to hear the cry of the nendak, the katupong, and the beragai, all on his left. If these cries come from birds on his right, they are not propitious. The cries of the other sacred birds must sound on his right. He goes forth in the early morning, and wanders about the jungle till the cry of the nendak is heard on his left. He will then break off a twig of anything growing near, and take it home and put it in a safe place. But it may happen that some other omen bird or animal is first to be seen or heard. In that case he must give the matter up, return, and try his chance another day. Thus, sometimes several days pass before he has obtained his first omen. When he has heard the nendak, he will then listen for the katupong and the other birds in the necessary order. There is always the liability of delays caused by the wrong birds being heard, and it may possibly be a month or more before he obtains all those augural predictions, which will give him confidence that his farming for the year will be successful. When the augur has collected a twig for each bird he has heard, he takes these to the land selected for farming, buries them in the ground, and with a short form of address to the birds and to Pulang Gana—the god of the Earth—clears a small portion of the ground of grass or jungle, and then returns home. The magic virtues of the birds have been conveyed to the land, and the work of clearing it for planting may be begun at any time.

The sacred birds can be bad omens as well as good. If heard on the wrong side, or in the wrong order, the matter in hand must be postponed or altogether abandoned, unless a subsequent conjunction of good omens occurs, which in the judgment of old experts more than counterbalances the bad omens.

I have mentioned the omens necessary before planting the seed. In a similar manner, before beginning to build a house, or starting on a war expedition, or undertaking any new line of action, certain omens are required if good fortune is to attend them and the Fates be propitious.

For house-building, the cries of the same birds are required, and in the same order as before planting the seed. But for a war expedition, birds heard on the right hand are best, except in the case of the nendak, which may be heard either on the right or on the left hand side.

There are, I believe, certain substitutions for this tedious process of seeking the omens of birds. It is said that for farming, if a piece of gold be hidden in the ground, the hearing of the proper omen birds may be dispensed with. If a fowl be sacrificed, and the blood made to drop in a hole in the earth in which the fowl is afterwards buried, it is said the gods will be satisfied, and a good harvest ensue. And on the occasion of a war expedition, if an offering is made with beating of gongs and drums on starting from the house, it is said that no cries of birds need be obeyed afterwards. But none of these methods are ever used, the Dyaks preferring to submit to the tedious procedure of listening to the cries of the birds.

It is in regard to farming that the practice is most conspicuous. And if any of these omen birds are heard or seen by the Dyak on his way to his work on his paddy land, it foretells either good or evil to himself or to his farm—if good, then all is well, and he goes on his way rejoicing; if evil, he will at once turn back and wait for the following day before going to his work again. The nendak foretells good, whether heard on the right hand or the left; so does the katupong; but the papau is of evil omen, and, if heard, the man must at once beat a retreat. A beragai heard occasionally does not matter, but if heard frequently, no work must be done for one day. The embuas heard on the right hand is very bad, and in order to insure a good harvest, the unlucky man must not work on his farm for five days. The cry of the beragai acts as an antidote, and destroys the bad effects of the cries of birds of bad omen. For instance, the kutok and katupong are both birds of bad omen, but if after hearing them the cry of a beragai is heard, no evil effects need be dreaded. If the cry of a deer, a gazelle, or a mouse-deer be heard, or if a rat crosses the path of a man on his way to his farm, a day’s rest is necessary, or he will either cut himself, or become ill, or suffer by failure of his crop.

When a remarkably good omen is heard—one which foretells a plentiful harvest—the man must go to his farm at once, and do some trifling work there, and then return, and in this way clench the foreshadowed luck and at the same time reverence the spirit who promises it. Should a deer, a gazelle, or a mouse-deer come out of the jungle to the farm when a man is at work there, it is an exceptionally good omen. It means that customers will come to buy the paddy, and that therefore the crop will be very good in order that there may be paddy to sell. They honour this omen by resting from work for three days.

But the worst of all omens is to find anywhere on the farm the dead body of any animal, especially if it be that of any animal included in the omen list. It infuses a deadly poison into the whole crop, and one or other of the owner’s family will certainly die within the year. When such a terrible thing happens, the omen is tested by killing a pig, and divining from the appearance of its liver directly after death. If the liver be pronounced to be of good omen, then all is well, but if not, then all the rice grown on that ground must be sold or given away. Other people may eat it, for the omen affects only those who own the crops.

A way of escaping from the bad effects of omens is sometimes resorted to. Certain men, who by some peculiar magic influence are credited with possessing in themselves some occult power which can overcome bad omens, are able by eating some little thing of the produce of the farm to turn away the evil prognostication and render it ineffectual. Something grown on the farm—a little Indian corn or a few cucumber-shoots—is taken to the man. For a small consideration he eats it raw. By this means he appropriates to himself the evil omen, which can do him no harm, and thus delivers the owner of the farm from any possible evil in the future.

The Dyak pays heed to these ominous creatures not only in his farming, but in all his journeyings and in any kind of work he may be engaged in. If he be going to visit a friend, the cry of a bird of ill omen will send him back. If he be engaged in carrying beams from the jungle for his house, and hear a kutok, or bejampong, or an embuas, he will at once throw down the piece of timber, and it will be left there for a day or two, or perhaps abandoned altogether. If at night the inhabitants of a long Dyak house hear an owl make a peculiar noise called sabut, they will all hastily leave the house in the early morning, and remain away, living in temporary sheds, for some weeks, and return to the house only when they hear a nendak or beragai cry on their left. There are many omens which make a place unfit for habitation—for example, a beragai flying over the house or an armadillo crawling up into it.

So great is the Dyak belief in omens that a man will sometimes abandon a nearly finished boat simply because a bird of ill omen flies across its bows. The labour of weeks will thus be wasted. I have myself seen wooden beams and posts left half finished in the jungle, and have learned on inquiry that some bird of ill omen was heard while the man was at work on them, and so they had to be abandoned.

If a katupong flies in at one end of the house and flies out at the other, it is a bad omen, and the house is often abandoned. On one of my visits to Sebetan there was great excitement at the Dyak house near mine because on the previous night a katupong had flown through the house. Opinions were divided. Some thought the house ought to be abandoned; others said that if sacrifices were offered, there was no need to desert the house. My opinion was asked. At that time of the year the Dyak house was very empty, as most of the families, if not all, would be living on their farms, and I said: “You have fruit-trees growing thickly all round your houses, and as you leave your houses empty, I am not surprised at any bird flying through the house.” My matter-of-fact ideas were not much approved. As usual in doubtful cases, they sacrificed a pig and examined its liver. Luckily, the omen was good, so they continued to live in the house; otherwise, they would have had to leave that house and build another.

To see a drop of blood on a mat or on the floor of a Dyak house is considered a bad omen, which sometimes necessitates the abandoning of the house altogether. I remember hearing a woman of this same house in Sebetan relate that, after she and the children had had their evening meal, she was putting away the plates on the rack in the wall, when she saw a drop of fresh blood on the mat. The Dyaks considered it a most terrible thing to happen. I was asked what I thought about it. I said that probably one of the children had a cut finger, and the blood was from that. The mother was positive the blood was not that of any of her children. I said that perhaps there was a wounded rat in the roof, and the blood was from it. I could see that the Dyaks considered me very ignorant. They told me that they were sure the blood must be that of some spirit who chose that method of showing his displeasure. It was useless for me to argue that if the spirit was invisible, his blood must be invisible, too.

To kill one of these omen creatures, be it bird or insect, is a crime which will certainly be punished by sickness or death. But this sacredness of life, it may be noticed, does not apply to the deer, the gazelle, the mouse-deer, the armadillo, and the iguana, all of which they freely kill for food. Rats also are killed, as they are great pests. It would seem that physical requirements are stronger than religious theory.

This is the merest outline of the practice of interpreting omens among the Dyaks, but it will give some idea of the tediousness of the process. And the intricacies of the subject are great. The different combinations of these voices of Nature are endless, and it is difficult to know in each special case whether the spirits intend to foretell good or bad fortune. It is not an unusual thing to see old men, industrious and sensible in ordinary matters of life, sitting down for hours discussing the probable effect on their destiny of some special combination of omens.

The full Dyak explanation of the origin of this system of listening to the cries of certain birds is contained in the “Story of Siu” (see p. 278).

Another story tells how some Dyaks in the Batang Lupar made a great feast, and invited many guests. When everything was ready, and the arrival of the guests expected, the sound of a great company of people was heard near the village. The hosts, thinking they were the invited friends, went to meet them, but to their surprise found they were all utter strangers. However, they received them with due honour, and entertained them in a manner suitable to the occasion. When the time of departure came, they asked the strange visitors who they were, and from whence they came. Their Chief replied: “I am Singalang Burong, and these are my sons-in-law and their friends. When you hear the voices of the following birds [giving their names] you must pay heed to them. They are our deputies in this lower world.” And then the Dyaks understood that they had been entertaining guests from the Spirit World, who rewarded their hospitality by giving them the guidance of the omen system.

A favourite way of auguring good or evil among the Dyaks is the old classical method of examining the entrails of some animal offered in sacrifice. A pig is killed, and the heart and liver taken out and placed upon leaves. These organs are handed round to the old men present, who closely examine them, and pronounce them to augur either good or evil. This method of augury is often resorted to when the interpretation of the cries of birds is doubtful.

A study of the subject of omens and augury shows the need the Dyak feels, in common with all mankind, of some guidance from higher and unseen powers. What is the principle which underlies this system of omens? There is no doubt a morbid anxiety to know the secrets of the future. But that is not all. Surely in addition to this there is the hidden conviction that the gods have some way of revealing their wishes to mankind, and that obedience to the will of the higher powers is the only way to insure success and happiness.

The Dyaks place implicit confidence in dreams. Their theory is that during sleep the soul can hear, see, and understand, and so what is dreamt is really what the soul sees. When anyone dreams of a distant land, they believe that his soul has paid a flying visit to that land. They interpret their dreams literally. The appearance of deceased relatives in dreams is to the Dyaks a proof that the souls live in Sabayan, and as in the dreams they seem to wear the same dress and to be engaged in the same occupations as when they lived in this world, it is difficult to persuade the Dyaks that the life in the other world can be different from that in this.

In dreams, also, the gods and spirits are supposed to bring charms to human beings. The story is often told of how a man falls asleep, and dreams that a spirit came to him and gave certain charms, and lo! when he awakes, he finds them in his hands. Or else he is told in his dream to go to a certain spot at a certain time, and take some stone which will have some mysterious influence for good over his fortunes. Very often these magic charms, or pengaroh, as they are called by the Dyaks, are nothing more than ordinary black pebbles, but the possession of them is supposed to endow the owner with exceptional powers.

No doubt Dyaks often concoct dreams out of their waking thoughts to suit their own interests, and many a man falsely declares he has received the gift of a charm from some spirit in order to appear of importance before others.

To conclude, dreams are looked upon by the Dyaks as the means the gods and spirits use to convey their commands or to warn men of coming danger. Houses are often deserted, and farming land on which much labour has been spent abandoned, on account of dreams. Newly-married couples often separate from the same cause. It is no unusual thing for a man or a woman to dream that the spirits are hungry and need food. In that case the inmates of the Dyak house organize a feast, and offerings are made to the hungry spirits.

Sometimes dreams are made an excuse for evil deeds. A woman who had been guilty of adultery said she was only carrying out the command of the gods conveyed to her in a dream, and that if she disobeyed she would probably become mad!

CHAPTER XIII
THE “MANANG,” OR WITCH-DOCTOR

Manangs supposed to possess mysterious powers over evil spirits—Dyak theory of disease—Treatment of disease—Lupong, or box of charms—Batu Ilau—Manang performances—Pagar Api—Catching the soul—Sixteen different manang ceremonies—Killing the demon Buyu—Saut—Salampandai—Deceit of manangs—Story of a schoolboy—Smallpox and cholera—Three ceremonies of initiation—Different ranks of manangs.

Among the lower races of mankind there is always to be found the witch-doctor, who claims to have mysterious powers, and to be able to hold communication with the spirit-world. Where there is ignorance as to the cause of disease, and the effects that different medicines have on the human body, magical ceremonies and pretensions to supernatural powers are allowed full sway. Fear and anxiety in cases of illness make men eager to believe in any suggested remedy, however absurd it may be. The Dyaks are no exception to the rule. They have their manangs, or witch-doctors.

The peculiar attribute of the manang is the possession of mysterious powers over the spirits, rather than any special knowledge of medicines. There is often some small idea of the use of certain simple herbal remedies, but it is not on this knowledge that his importance depends. The great function of the manang is to defeat and drive away the malignant spirits which cause sickness and death. All maladies are supposed to be inflicted by the passing or the touch of demons, who are enemies to mankind. The Dyak description of most diseases is pansa utai, literally “something passed him.” A spirit passed him and struck him. In accordance with this idea of disease, the only person who can cure the sick man is the one who can cope with the unseen evil spirit. The manang claims to be able to do this. He can charm or persuade or kill the evil spirit and rescue the departing soul from his cruel clutches. When called in to attend a patient, he, in company with other medicine-men, goes through a performance called Pelian. There are different varieties of this ceremony, according to the disease and the amount of the fees paid.

Manangs are generally called to their profession by a revelation made to them in dreams by some spirit. Each manang, therefore, claims to have a familiar spirit, whom he can call to his aid when necessary. When a person receives a call from the spirit, he bids adieu for a while to his relatives, abandons his former occupations, and attaches himself to some other experienced manang, who, for a consideration, will take him in hand and instruct him in the incantations, a knowledge of which is necessary for his calling.

The manang looks upon a sick person as in the power of an evil spirit. As long as that spirit remains in possession, the patient cannot recover. He bids it depart. If it be obstinate and will not go, he summons his own familiar spirit to his aid. If the evil spirit still refuse to go, then the manang admits his inability to deal with the case alone, and several other manangs are called to his aid.

Whether the patient live or die, the manang is rewarded for his trouble. He makes sure of this before he undertakes a case, as he is put to considerable inconvenience by being fetched away from his own home and his own work. He takes up his abode with the patient, and has his meals with the family, and in other ways makes himself at home. If a cure be effected, he receives a present in addition to his regular fee. Herbal remedies are often administered internally or applied outwardly by him, but, in addition to these, spells are muttered and incantations made to exorcize the evil spirit that is tormenting the man.

Every manang consults his familiar spirit as to what is best to be done for the case. When a person complains of pain in his body, the familiar is said to suggest that some mischievous spirit has put something into him to cause the pain. The manang will then manipulate the part, and pretend to draw something out—a small piece of wood or a stone, or whatever it may chance to be—and exhibit it as the cause of the pain in the body. This he has by his magical power been able to remove from the body without even leaving a mark on the skin!

The manang always possesses a lupong, or medicine-box (see p. 184), generally made of the bark of a tree, and this is filled with charms consisting of scraps of wood or bark, curiously twisted roots, pebbles, and fragments of quartz. These medicinal charms are either inherited, or have been revealed by the spirits in dreams to their owners. One important and necessary charm is the Batu Ilau (“stone of light”)—a bit of quartz crystal which every manang possesses.

The manang never carries his own box of charms; the people who fetch him must carry it for him. He arrives at the house of the sick man generally at sunset, for he never performs in daylight, unless the case is very serious and he is paid extra for doing so. It is difficult and dangerous work, he says, to have any dealings with the spirits in the daytime. Sitting down by the patient, after some inquiries, he produces out of his medicine-box a boar’s tusk or pebble, or some other charm, and gently strokes the body with it. If there be several medicine-men called in, the leader undertakes the preliminary examination, the rest giving their assent.

The manang now produces his Batu Ilau (“stone of light”), and gravely looks into it to diagnose the character of the disease, and to see where the soul is, and to discover what is the proper ceremony necessary for the case in question. Where there is serious illness the witch-doctor affirms that the spirit of the afflicted person has already left the body and is on its way to the next world, but that he may be able to overtake it and bring it back, and restore it to the person to whom it belongs. He pretends to converse with the spirit that troubles the sick man, repeating aloud the answers that the spirit is supposed to make.

There are many different ceremonies resorted to in cases of illness, but the following is what is common to all manang performances.

In the public hall of the Dyak house a long-handled spear is fixed blade upwards, with a few leaves tied round it, and at its foot are placed the medicine-boxes of all the witch-doctors who take part in the ceremony. This is called the Pagar Api (“fence of fire”). Why it is called by this curious name is not clear. The manangs all squat on the floor, and the leader begins a long monotonous drawl, the rest either singing in concert or joining in the choruses or singing antiphonally with him. After a tiresome period of this dull drawling, they stand up and march with slow and solemn step in single file round the Pagar Api. The monotonous chant sometimes slackens, sometimes quickens, as they march round and round the whole night through, with only one interval for food in the middle of the night. The patient simply lies on his mat and listens.

Most of what is chanted is unintelligible, and consists of meaningless sounds, it being supposed that what is not understood by man is intelligible to the spirits. But some parts of it, though expressed in very prolix and ornate language, can be understood by the careful listener.

The witch-doctors call upon the sickness to be off to the ends of the earth, and return to the unseen regions from whence it came. They invoke the aid of spirits and of ancient worthies and unworthies down to their own immediate ancestors, and spin the invocation out to a sufficient length to last till early morning. Then comes the climax to which all this has been leading—the truant soul has to be caught and brought back again to the body of the sick man.

If the patient be in a dangerous state they pretend his soul has escaped far away. Perhaps they give out that it has escaped to the river, and they will wave about a garment or a piece of woven cloth to imitate the action of throwing a casting net to enclose it as a fish is caught. Or else they say that it has escaped into the jungle, and they will rush out of the house to secure it there. Or perhaps they say that it has been carried over the sea to unknown lands, and they all sit down and imitate the action of paddling a boat to follow it. But this is only done in special cases, and I have often been told by Dyaks who have been present at a particular manang performance: “The man was very ill indeed. His samengat (soul) had gone so far away that the manangs had great difficulty in finding it. They paddled over the sea, they threw a net into the water, and did many other things before they ultimately succeeded in catching it.”

Generally the next thing they do is to move faster and faster, till they rush round the Pagar Api as hard as they can, still singing their incantation. One of their number suddenly falls to the floor and remains motionless. The others sit down round him. The motionless manang is covered over with a blanket, and all wait while his spirit is supposed to hurry away to the other world to find the wandering soul and bring it back. Presently he revives, and looks vacantly round like a man just waking out of sleep. Then he raises his right hand, clenched as if holding something. That hand contains the soul, and he proceeds to the patient and solemnly returns it to the body of the sick man through the crown of his head, muttering at the same time more words of incantation. This “catching of the soul” (nangkap samengat) is the great end to which all that has preceded leads up. One function remains to complete the cure. A live fowl must be waved over the patient, and as he does so, the leader sings a special invocation of great length. The animal is afterwards killed as an offering to the spirits, and eaten by the manangs.

I have given a general account of all Pelian or manang performances. There are different kinds of ceremonies, according to the advice of the manang or the fee the patient is prepared to pay. In the following list are the names of the principal Pelian. If a patient fail to recover after one kind of ceremony, the manangs often recommend another and more expensive one.

1. Betepas (“sweeping”): At the time of the birth of each individual, a plant is supposed to grow up in the other world. If this plant continues to grow well, then the man enjoys good and robust health; if it droops, the man’s health suffers. When a man, therefore, has bad dreams or feels slightly unwell for a few days, his plant in Hades is said to be in a bad condition, and the manang is called to weed and sweep around it, and by doing so improve the condition of the plant, and consequently the health of the man. This is the first and cheapest function of the manang. In this he does not “catch the soul,” as is done in the other ceremonies. All he does is to mutter some incantation and wave a fowl over the person.

2. Berenchah (“making an assault”): The door between the private room and the public veranda is thrown open, and the manangs march backwards and forwards between room and veranda. Each manang carries two swords, one in each hand, and he beats these against each other, and they rush at the patient as if to attack him. This is supposed to be making an assault against the evil spirits and scattering them on all sides.

3. Berua (“swinging”): A swing is hung up outside the door of the sick person’s room. The manang sits in this swing, with the double object of catching the man’s soul, if it leave his body, and also of frightening any evil spirit that may come near to hurt the man.

4. Betanam pentik (“planting a pentik”): A pentik is a roughly carved wooden representation of a man. The manang rushes through the house three times with this figure, and then plants it in the ground at the foot of the ladder of the house, and near it is put a winnowing-basket, a cooking-pot, and the piece of wood used in weaving to press the threads together. The figure is planted in the ground in the evening. If it remain till the morning in an upright position, recovery is certain; but if it be inclined either to the right or left, it is an omen of death.

5. Bepancha (“making a pancha”): A pancha is a swing erected on the tanju, or open-air platform, of the house. In this swing the manang sits, and by the movement of his feet “kicks away” the disease. While seated in this swing he “catches the soul” of the patient.

6. Ngelembayan (“taking a long sight”): A number of planks are laid about in the public veranda, and the manangs walk upon them, chanting their incantations. Then one of their number pretends to swoon, and is supposed to sail over rivers and seas to find the soul and bring it back.

7. Bebayak (“making a bayak, or iguana”): Some cooked rice is moulded into the shape of an iguana, and is covered over with cloths. This figure is supposed to eat up the evil spirits which cause the disease.

8. Nemuai Ka Sabayan (“making a journey to Hades”): The manangs, with hats on their heads, march up and down the house singing their incantations. While their bodies are doing this, their souls are supposed to speed away to Hades and bring back all manner of medicinal charms and talismans, as well as the wandering soul of the sick man.

9. Betiang garong (“making a post for departed souls”): A piece of bamboo is hung up to the roof-ridge, and an offering is put on the ridge. A swing is erected up there for the manang, and he makes his incantations and “catches the soul.”

10. Begiling lantai (“rolled up in the flooring”): In this ceremony, when the manang feigns to swoon, his body is rolled up in part of the flooring, and certain miniature articles are put by his side, just as a dead man’s possessions are put by his body, and the manang is taken out of the house as if to be buried.

11. Beburong raia (“making or acting the adjutant bird”): The manangs walk up and down the house seven times, imitating the actions of the adjutant bird. They are covered with native sheets, put over their bodies like cloaks, and they pretend to personate the bird.

12. Bebaju besi (“wearing an iron coat”): Each manang fastens two choppers on his back and two in front, and carries one in each hand. Thus equipped, they walk round and “catch the soul.”

13. Bebandong Api (“displaying fire”): The patient is laid out in the public part of the house, and several small fires are made round him. The manangs pretend to dissect his body, and fan the flames towards him to drive away the sickness.

14. Betiti tendai (“walking on the tendai”): The tendai is the bar on which cotton is placed when being spun. This bar is oiled and placed in the middle of the public veranda, and the manang, armed with a chopper in each hand, walks on it in order to “catch the soul” of the patient.

15. Beremaung (“acting the tiger”): In the middle of each family’s portion of the public veranda is placed a wooden mortar, and the manang prowls round them to “catch the soul” of the patient.

16. Betukup rarong (“to split open the coffin”): A manang is put in a coffin, and by his side are put miniature articles, supposed to represent the utensils used in daily life. The other manangs walk round, and attempt to “catch the soul” of the sick man. When they have succeeded in doing this, the coffin is split open and the manang gets out.

These are the different kinds of manang ceremonies known, but only the first four are in common use. The others are rarely resorted to nowadays.

In addition to these must be mentioned the Munoh Antu, or Bepantap Buyu (“killing the demon,” or “wounding Buyu”). Buyu is the name of the evil spirit who brings many diseases and causes miscarriage in women. When there is some unusual or obstinate disease, or when a woman has had miscarriage, the manangs declare that Buyu is the cause of the trouble, and must be killed. A large number of witch-doctors are called together, and the feat is performed in this way: The patient is taken out of the room, and laid on the common veranda, and covered with a net. In the room is placed an offering of food, and the manangs walk in procession up and down the whole length of the house, chanting their incantations, and inviting the evil spirit to come to his victim, and also to partake of the sumptuous repast that is prepared for him. This occupies some time, for the spirit may be far away, on a journey, or fishing, or hunting. All lights are extinguished, and in the darkness the manangs walk up and down the public hall of the Dyak house. At intervals one of them peeps in at the door to see if the spirit has arrived. In due time the demon comes, and then the manangs themselves enter the darkened room. Presently sounds of scuffling, of clashing of weapons, and of shouting are heard by the Dyaks outside. Soon after the door is thrown open, and the demon said to be dead. He was cheated into coming to torment his prey, and instead of a weak and helpless victim he met the crafty and mighty manangs, who have done what ordinary mortals cannot do—attacked and killed him. As a proof of the reality of the deed lights are brought in, and the manangs point to spots of blood on the floor, and occasionally to the corpse itself in the shape of a dead monkey or snake, which they say was the form the spirit took for the occasion. The trick is a very simple one. Some time in the day the manangs procure blood from a fowl or some other animal, or it may be from their own bodies, mix it with water in a bamboo to prevent congealing, smuggle it into the room, and scatter it on the floor in the dark. This can safely be done, as no one but the manangs themselves are in the room. Neither lights nor outsiders are admitted, on the plea that under such circumstances the demon could not be enticed to enter. The trick has often been detected and the performers openly accused of imposture; consequently, it is not now practised so often as in former times. When this victory over the spirit is won, the Pelian goes on in the usual way till the morning hours.

In addition to these Pelian, there is another manang ceremony which is often performed, and known by the name of Saut. A feast is always given in the house where this ceremony takes place, so it is the occasion of the gathering of friends from many different Dyak houses. The reasons for having this ceremony are various. If they have had a series of bad harvests, or if one or more people in the house are ill, or if they wish the future of one child or many to be bright and prosperous, then the manangs are called in to perform the Saut.

The principal god or deity invoked in this ceremony is Selampandai, the god who fashions mankind out of clay by hammering them out on an anvil. As in other performances of the manangs, there is a Pagar Api put up in the open veranda. The ceremony begins at dusk, when three offerings of food are made. The first is to the gods of the women, and this is thrown out of the window of the room to the ground; the second offering is made to the gods of the men, and is thrown out to the ground from the unroofed veranda in front of the house; the third offering is to Selampandai, and this is put in the loft over the Pagar Api.

Areca-nut blossoms are placed ready for use on a little shelf, and three plates of rice are put near them as offerings to the spirits. A large valuable jar (tajau) filled with native spirit (tuak) is placed in the public veranda of the house. If there be a sick man to be cured, he sits on a brass gong (chanang) by the Pagar Api. The manangs march up and down singing their incantations. After doing this for some time, each of them takes a bunch of areca-blossom in his hands, and they strike each other with these until the blossoms are broken and strew the ground. Then the manangs walk slowly round the jar, bowing to it at each step. After this they join hands, and rush round the jar as fast as they can go, until they are quite exhausted.

During this the guests who have been invited to the feast are seated about eating and drinking, or chatting to each other. Later on in the evening, when the manangs have completed their ceremony, the tuak in the jar is handed round in cups for the guests to drink. As usual at feasts, when a cup of spirit is given to a man, he drinks the contents and keeps the cup, and it is no unusual thing to see a man returning from a feast with twenty or thirty cups in his possession.

There is a good deal of deceit and humbug and a little clumsy sleight-of-hand on the part of the manang, and an unlimited amount of faith on the part of the patient. The manang must be conscious of his own deceit, but he believes that his incantations do good, and I have often known cases of manangs having these ceremonies for members of their own family who are ill. But as a rule a manang is not a truthful man at all. He is not above telling any number of lies to increase his importance. He always pretends to have had previous knowledge of what is going to happen, and often says, when he is called in to a case, that he knew some time previously that his patient would be ill and come to him for help.

There can be no doubt that the average Dyak knows that there is a great deal of deceit connected with the manang’s profession, but he also knows he must submit to that deceit if he wishes to have his help, and he believes that in some way the incantations and remarkable actions of the manangs help to scare away the evil spirit which is the cause of the disease.

I remember that one of my schoolboys was on a visit to his relatives in Saribas. His sister was ill, and his parents sent for the manangs to cure her. The boy protested. He said they were Christians, and ought not to make incantations to the spirits. But no notice was taken of what he said. The manang went through the usual farce of “catching the soul” and restoring it to the girl. The boy looked on, and when it was over said to him:

“You are a fraud. You know you cannot ‘catch the soul,’ and you only pretend to do so, and get paid for it.”

The manang was no doubt disgusted at being thus reproved by a little boy, and replied:

“I am able to catch the soul and restore it. I will catch your soul if you like.”

“Do so,” said the boy. “I would like you very much to do it.”

The foolish manang pretended to faint; then he woke up in the orthodox manner with one hand clenched, and when he opened it, lo and behold! there was something there which he declared was the boy’s soul.

The boy sat and looked on while all this went on.

“Here is your soul,” the manang said, “which I have succeeded in catching after much troubled. Let me restore it to you, so that you may be in good health.”

“Call that my soul?” said the boy. “I make a present of it to you. I do not want it. You can keep it. I have a soul which you cannot touch.”

The manang was puzzled. He had never known such a thing as anyone daring to refuse to have his own soul. He spoke to the parents, and said that something terrible would happen to the boy if he persisted in not having his soul returned to his body. The parents wished the boy to do what the manang desired, but he was determined, and did what all Dyak boys do when they are disobedient—ran off into the jungle, where he knew he would not easily be found.

When this boy came back to my school, he told me all about it, and later on, when he and I went to his people, they spoke about it. As the boy was in very good health, they all had a laugh at the manang’s expense. If, however, anything had happened to the boy, no doubt the manang would have made much capital out of it.

I have sometimes argued with a manang that if the soul has already left the body of the patient when he is called in, then the man ought to be dead. The answer to this is that a man has more than one soul. It is only when all his souls leave the body that the man dies. Some Dyaks assert that a man has three souls, and others seven. Their ideas on this matter do not agree.

Though the manang is supposed to be able to defeat the evil spirits which cause disease, there are some diseases which are too terrible for even his mystical powers. The epidemic scourges of cholera and smallpox are said to be caused by the direct influence of evil spirits. Smallpox is said to be caused by the King of Evil Spirits, because it is such a terrible disease. The name by which it is known among the Dyaks is Sakit Rajah (the sickness of, or caused by, the King of Evil Spirits). But the manangs will not go near a case of either. Probably a consciousness of their own powerlessness, combined with a fear of infection, has made them assert that those diseases do not come within reach of their powers. Other means, such as propitiatory sacrifices and offerings, must be resorted to.

To qualify a man to take part in this mixed system of symbolism and deceit, a form of initiative ceremony is gone through by other witch-doctors, in the course of which he is supposed to learn the secrets of his mystic calling. The aspirant to the office of manang must first commit to memory a certain amount of Dyak traditional lore, to enable him to take part in the incantations in company with other witch-doctors. But in addition to this, before he can accomplish the more important parts, such as pretending to catch the soul of a sick man, he must be publicly initiated by one or more of the following ceremonies:

1. The first is called Besudi, which means “feeling,” or “touching.” The aspirant sits in the veranda of the Dyak house, and a number of witch-doctors walk round him singing incantations the whole night. The ceremony performed over him is the same as that done for a sick man (Pelian). This is supposed to endow him with the power to touch and feel the maladies of the body, and apply the requisite cure. It admits to the lowest grade, called manang mata (unripe manang), and is obtainable for the lowest fees.

2. If a manang wishes to attain a higher grade, he goes through a second ceremony, which is called Bekliti, or “opening.” A whole night’s incantation is again gone through by the other manangs, and in the early morning the great function of initiation is carried out. The witch-doctors lead the aspirant into an apartment curtained off from public gaze by large sheets of native woven cloth. There they assert they cut his head open, and take out his brains and wash and restore them. This is to give him a clear mind to penetrate into the mysteries of disease and to circumvent the wiles of the unseen spirits. They insert gold-dust into his eyes to give him keenness and strength of sight, so that he may be able to see the soul wherever it may have wandered. They plant barbed hooks in the tips of his fingers to enable him to seize the struggling soul and hold it fast, and, lastly, they pierce his heart with an arrow to make him tender-hearted and full of sympathy with the sick and suffering. Needless to say, none of these things are done. A few symbolic actions representing them are all that are gone through. A cocoanut is placed on the head of the man and split open instead of the head, and so on. After this second ceremony the man is a fully-qualified manang—a manang mansau (a ripe manang)—competent to practise all parts of his deceitful craft.

3. There is, however, a third and highest grade, which is attainable only by ambitious candidates who are rich enough to make the necessary outlay. They may become manang bangun, manang enjun (manangs waved upon, manangs trampled upon). As in other cases, this involves a whole night’s ceremony, in which many of the older witch-doctors take part. They begin by walking round and round the aspirant to this high honour, and wave over him bunches of betel-nut blossom. This is the bangun (the waving upon). Then in the middle of the veranda a large jar is placed having a short ladder fastened on each side and connected at the top. At various intervals during the night the manangs, leading the new candidate, march him up one ladder and down the other, but what this is supposed to symbolize is not clear. As a finish to this play at mysteries, the man lays himself flat on the floor and the others walk over him and trample upon him. In some mysterious way this action is supposed to impart to him the supernatural power they themselves possess. This is the enjun, the “trampling upon.” The fees necessary to obtain this highest grade among witch-doctors are high, and therefore few are able to afford it. One who has been through this ceremony will often be heard to boast that he is no ordinary spirit-controller or soul-catcher, but something far superior—a manang bangun, manang enjun.

There is a yet higher grade which some manangs attain to—that is, when he becomes a manang bali. Bali means “changed,” and a manang bali is one who is supposed to have changed his sex, and become a woman.

Sometimes a male manang assumes female attire. He does this, it is said, because he has had a supernatural command conveyed to him in dreams on three separate occasions. To disregard such a command would mean death. He prepares a feast, and sacrifices a pig or two to avert evil consequences to the tribe, and then assumes female costume. Thenceforth he is treated like a woman, and occupies himself in female pursuits. His chief aim in life is to copy female manners and habits as accurately as possible.

A manang bali is paid much higher fees than an ordinary manang, and is often called in when others have been unable to effect a cure. I do not think there is ever a case of a young man becoming a manang bali. Generally it is an old and childless man who uses this means of earning a livelihood.

The only occasion on which I have met a manang bali was in the upper part of the Krian River. He seemed a poor sort of creature, and appeared to me to be looked down upon by the Dyaks, though they were glad enough to ask his help in cases of illness. He had a “husband,” a lazy good-for-nothing, who lived on the earnings of the manang bali.

Women as well as men may become manangs, though it is not usual to meet many such nowadays. I have only come across one woman manang, and that was at Temudok, though I have heard of several others in different parts of the country.

The fact that the manang claims to be able to hold communion with the spirit-world would lead one to suppose that he is the priest of the Dyak system of worship. But in practice the manang is more a doctor than a priest. His aid is always called in case of illness, but not necessarily at the great religious functions of the Dyaks—the sacrifice of propitiation to Pulang Gana, the god of the earth, or the sacrificial feast to Singalang Burong, the god of war. Generally, other Dyaks are the officiating ministers on these occasions, the only requisite qualification being the ability to chant the invocation and incantations which accompany the offering and ceremonies. Also at marriages or at burials the manang is not the officiant, but some old man of standing, who has a reputation for being fortunate in his undertakings. A manang may be the officiant, not by virtue of his office, but for other reasons.

CHAPTER XIV
NATIVE REMEDIES AND DYAK CHARMS

Native remedies—Cupping—Charms—A Dyak medicine-chest—Smallpox and cholera—My experience at Temudok.

As has already been shown in the preceding chapter, the Dyak looks to the manang, or witch-doctor, to help him in all cases of illness. All sickness is caused by some evil spirit, and the manang alone has power over these unseen enemies, and he uses incantations to appease or frighten these demons away.

But though in all cases of serious illness the manang is called in, yet the treatment of every disease is not left in his hands. Dyaks use some things as outward applications, and certain herbal remedies are given internally in the case of illness. I have seen Dyaks boil some bitter bark in water and drink this liquid when they have fever. Certain oils are also used as liniments. The betel-nut and pepper-leaf (sireh) mixture is used as an outward application for many complaints. Some man—generally one who is successful in what he undertakes—is asked to chew some of this hot mixture in his mouth. Having done this, he leans over and squirts the red saliva over the affected part, and rubs it in with his fingers. Dyaks with a headache will be seen with their foreheads smeared over with it. Newly-born babes have their stomachs and chests covered with daily applications of the same thing by their mothers.

Ground ginger is also used as a poultice, especially in the case of women who have given birth to a child; and the water in which pieces of ginger have been boiled is drunk by people suffering from ague, as well as by lying-in women.

The Dyaks are very fond of blood-letting whenever there is pain in any part of the body or limb, and they have a method of “cupping” which is rather ingenious. The part from which the blood is to be drawn has incisions made in it with a small knife. The “cupping-glass” is a young wet bamboo which has a knot at one end, but is open at the other. This is heated at the fire, and then placed firmly over the incisions made in the flesh. Cold water is then poured on the bamboo, and it draws out the blood. The heat fills the bamboo with steam from its dampness. The cold water condenses this steam, and makes the bamboo an excellent “cupping-glass.”

As the Dyak believes that all sickness is caused by the spirits, it is not surprising that his faith in medicines is small, and that he knows of few remedies, and depends for his cures either on the mysterious ceremonies of the witch-doctors or on charms which have been made known by the spirits to the fortunate owners by means of dreams. These charms are generally pebbles, roots, leaves, feathers, or bits of wood. The pebbles and roots are rubbed on the body, or else put in water and the water applied. The leaves, bits of wood, feathers, etc., are burnt, and the ashes rubbed on the affected part.

Though the manang depends upon his power over spirits to cure diseases, still he calls to his aid his numerous charms, which he claims to have received from the spirits. These valued treasures are carried in his lupong, or medicine-chest.

The following excellent description of “The Contents of a Dyak Medicine-chest,” by Bishop Hose, under whom I worked for many years as a missionary to the Dyaks, is reproduced here by his kind permission. The place and the people mentioned in it are all well known to me, as the village of Kundong is in the Saribas District, which was in my charge for many years:—

“A few days ago I was in the upper part of the Saribas River, the home of the race once celebrated throughout Malaya for daring deeds of piracy. My companion was the Rev. William Howell, the joint author with Mr. D. J. S. Bailey of “A Dictionary of the Sea Dyak Language,” and an authority on all subjects connected with the religious and other customs of that people. We had ascended the Padih, an affluent of the main river, to the village of Kundong, where we were going to spend the night in the Dyak house of which Brok is the tuai, or headman. The house is of moderate length—about twenty doors—and as usual the apartments of the tuai are near the middle of the building. There we were hospitably installed on the ruai, or undivided hall (sometimes described as a veranda), which extends throughout the whole length of a Sea Dyak house and occupies about half of its area. The good mats were brought down from the sadau, or loft, and spread for us—the rare luxury of a chair was provided for me—and there we talked, and taught, and answered questions, and dispensed medicines, while the inhabitants of the other rooms gathered round us, as well as the occupants of our host’s private quarters. There also we ate, and there we slept when the kindly people would at last consent to our going to bed.

“The majority of the ‘rooms’—i.e., separate tenements—in this house are inhabited by Christians of long standing, but there are a few who have not yet come in. Amongst them is a manang, or doctor of magic, named Dasu, who has a large practice in the neighbourhood. I was anxious to interview him in order to get some information that I wanted for the purpose of comparing the original spiritual beliefs of the Borneans with those that underlie the Mohammedanism of the Malays of the Peninsula. I was also desirous of ascertaining how far the methods of the Dyak manang, when undertaking to cure diseases, resembled those of the pawang and bomor, his Malay confrères.

“At our invitation Dr. Dasu came out of his room readily enough, and sat down with us to chat and smoke a cigarette. He talked freely and intelligently about such matters of general interest as happened to be broached, especially the late expedition against the turbulent people of the Ulu Ai, and the terrible epidemic of cholera which was just passing away. But as soon as we began to give the conversation a professional turn, and speak of the practice of medicine by the native doctors of the Saribas, he put on a look of impenetrable reserve, and could hardly be persuaded to speak at all. There is reason to believe that this was chiefly owing to the presence of Mr. Howell. He has succeeded in winning the confidence and affectionate regard of Dyaks to an unusual degree, but he is unpopular among the manangs. His teaching has led people to think for themselves, and wherever he goes the business and the gains of the village doctor show a tendency to decrease. Moreover, several of the fraternity have submitted to his influence, abandoned their tricks, and taken to honest farming. It is known, too, that some of these have surrendered their whole stock of charms to my friend, and have also made dangerous revelations, whereby the profession has been much discredited.

“So Dr. Dasu was only with great difficulty induced to impart to us his knowledge. He told me, after more confidential relations had grown up between us, that he suspected me of an intention, by some means or other, to get possession of his precious materia medica, and so deprive him of his means of living. However, his fears were removed by repeated assurances that it was information only that I wanted, and that I was consulting him just because I preferred to get it direct from a professor of repute rather than trust to reports received from white men. At length we persuaded him to be gently catechized. I got some precise answers to my questions respecting certain articles of Dyak belief which had been variously defined by different investigators, and about which my ideas had been a good deal confused. But those matters are not the subject of this note. It is the concluding incident of the rather prolonged interview that I propose to describe.

“We had talked to one another so pleasantly and frankly that I thought I might ask Dasu as a great favour to show me his lupong, or medicine-chest, and the charms of power which it contained. It was quite evident that this aroused his suspicions again, and he retired within himself as before. But the principal people of the house, who were sitting by us, urged him to consent, and, as old acquaintances of mine, assured him of my good faith. So he was at last persuaded, and went to his own room to fetch the treasure.

“As I have said, the good mats of the household, as is usual when it is intended to show respect to a visitor, had been taken down for our accommodation from the place where they are stored. But we now saw that the most valued of them all had been held in reserve. This, which was made of fine and very flexible rotan, the latest triumph of the skill and industry of our courteous hostess, Ipah, Brok’s wife, was now handed down and spread in front of us for the reception of the great man and the mysterious implements of his profession. After some considerable delay, probably intended to excite our curiosity the more, he appeared, and sat down on the mat prepared for him, a subdued murmur of applause and satisfaction greeting him as he took his seat.

“A manang’s lupong, or case for holding his charms, may be almost anything. Sometimes it is a box, sometimes a basket, sometimes a bag. In this instance it was an open-mouthed basket made of thin shavings of bamboo hung round the neck of the owner by a strip of bark.

“Before beginning the exhibition, Dasu made a little formal speech, in which, with much show of humility, he spoke in depreciation of his own powers and knowledge and of his collection of remedial charms, as compared with those of other members of the profession elsewhere. These remarks were of course received with complimentary expressions of dissent from the audience; and then at last the contents of the basket were displayed before us. They were tied up together in a cloth bag, the most highly-prized being further enclosed in special receptacles of their own, such as a second cloth covering, a little bamboo box with a lid, or a match-box. They were ceremoniously brought out, and placed side by side on the mat of honour. I was then invited to handle and examine them, and the name and use of each were told me without any fresh indication of unwillingness. This is a list of them: