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AMONG THE HEAD-HUNTERS OF FORMOSA

MAN AND WOMAN OF YAMI TRIBE IN REGALIA WORN AT THE SPRING FESTIVAL IN HONOUR OF THE SEA-GOD.

(See page [149].)

AMONG THE HEAD-HUNTERS
OF FORMOSA

By JANET B. MONTGOMERY MCGOVERN, B.L.

Diplomée in Anthropology, University of Oxford

WITH A PREFACE BY
R. R. MARETT, M.A., D.Sc.
READER IN SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY, UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD

ILLUSTRATED

T. FISHER UNWIN LTD
LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE

First published in 1922

(All rights reserved)

TO
W. M. M.
MY SON AND THE COMPANION
OF MY WANDERINGS

“No human thought is so primitive as to have lost bearing on our own thought, or so ancient as to have broken connection with our own life.”

E. B. Tylor, Primitive Culture.

PREFACE

To treat her as a goddess has always been accounted a sure way of winning a lady’s favour. To the cynic, therefore, it might seem that Mrs. McGovern was bound to speak well of her head-hunting friends of the Formosan hills, seeing that they welcomed her with a respect that bordered on veneration. But of other head-hunters, hailing, say, from Borneo or from Assam, anthropologists have reported no less well, and that though the investigators were accorded no divine honours. The key to a just estimate of savage morality is knowledge of all the conditions. A custom that considered in itself is decidedly revolting may, on further acquaintance with the state of culture as a whole, turn out to be, if not praiseworthy, at least a drawback incidental to a normal phase of the ruder life of mankind.

The “grizzled warrior,” we are told, who made oblation to our authoress, bore on his chin the honourable mark of the man-slayer. To her Chinese coolie that formidable badge would have been enough to proclaim the wearer seban—the kind of wicked animal that defends itself when attacked. Thus, if it merely served to warn an invading alien to keep his distance, this crude advertisement of a head-hunting habit would be justified, from the standpoint of the survival of the hard-pressed aborigines. Even had a threat of cannibalism been thrown in, its protective value could hardly be denied; for, much as men object to be killed, they commonly deem it worse to be killed and eaten. Though reputed to be man-eaters, however, the savages of Formosa are not so in fact. Indeed, the boot is on the other foot. I remember Mr. Shinji Ishii telling us at a meeting of the Folk-lore Society that, despite their claim to a higher form of civilization, the Chinese of the adjoining districts will occasionally partake of a head-hunter, chopped up small and disguised in soup: the principle implied in the precaution being, I dare say, sound enough, namely, that of inoculation, though doubtless the application is unfortunate.

Meanwhile, head-hunting has for these wild-folk a function and significance that are not to be understood so long as we consider it as a thing apart. The same canon of interpretation holds good of any other outstanding feature of the social life. Customs are the organic parts of a body of custom. To use a technical expression, they are but so many elements composing a single “culture-complex.” Modern research is greatly concerned with the tracing out of resemblances due to the spread of one or another system of associated customs. The method is to try to work back to some ethnic centre of diffusion; where the characteristic elements of the system, whatever might have been their remoter derivation, have been thoroughly fused together, in the course of a long process of adaptation to a given environment. Thereupon it becomes possible to follow up the propagation of influence as it radiates from this centre in various directions outwards. Now it may well be that the tradition rarely, or never, is imparted in its entirety. Selection, or sheer accident, will cause not a little to be left behind. On the other hand, the chances are all against one custom setting forth by itself. Customs tend to emigrate in groups. Thus head-hunting, and a certain mode of tattooing, and the institution of the skull-shelf, and the requirement that a would-be husband must display a head as token of his prowess, are on the face of them associated customs, and such as are suited to have been travelling companions. Hence it is for the ethnologist to see whether he cannot refer the whole assortment to some intrusive culture of Indonesian or other origin.

Yet lest one good method should corrupt the science, we should not forget that there is another side to the study of culture; though from this side likewise there is equal need to examine customs, not apart, but in their organic connexion with each other. Whencesoever derived, the customs of a people have an ascertainable worth here and now for those who live by them. The first business, I should even venture to say, of any anthropologist, be his sphere the study or the field, is to seek to appreciate a given culture as the expression of a scheme of values. Every culture represents a set of means whereby it is sought to realize a mode of life. Unconsciously for the most part, yet none the less actually, every human society pursues an ideal. To grasp this ideal is to possess the clue to the whole cultural process as a spiritual and vital movement. The social inheritance is subject to a constant revaluation, bringing readaptation in its train. There is a selective activity at work, and to apprehend its secret springs one must keep asking all the time, what does this people want, and want most? unconscious though it may largely be, the want is there. Correspondingly, since it is a question of getting into touch with a latent process, the anthropologist must employ a method which I can only describe as one of divination. He must somehow enter into the soul of a people. Introjection, or in plainer language sympathy, is the master-key. Objective methods so-called are all very well; but if, as sometimes happens, they lead one to forget that anthropology is ultimately the science of the inner man, then they but batter at a closed door.

A sure criterion, then, by which to appraise any account of a savage people consists in the measure of the sympathy shown. A summary sketch that has this saving quality will be found more illuminating than many volumes of statistics. Literally or otherwise, the student of wild-folk must have undergone initiation at their hands. Having become as one of themselves, he is qualified to act as their spokesman, putting into such words as we can understand the felt needs and aspirations of a less self-conscious type of humanity. Here, for instance, Mrs. McGovern, though writing for the general public, and reserving a full digest of her material for another work, has sought to present an insider’s version of the aboriginal life of Formosa. She was willing to become an initiate, and did in fact become so, almost overshooting the mark, as it were, through translation to a super-human plane. So throughout she tries to do justice to the native point of view. She says enough to make us feel that, despite certain notions more or less offensive to our conscience, the ideal of the Formosan tribesman is in important respects quite admirable. He is on the whole a good man according to his lights. Allowance being made for his handicap, he is playing the game of life as well as he can.

Having thus dealt briefly with principles of interpretation I perhaps ought to stop short, since an anthropologist as such has nothing to do with the bearing of his science on questions of political administration. Mrs. McGovern, however, has a good deal to say about the means whereby it is proposed to convert head-hunters into peaceable and useful citizens. Without going into the facts, upon which I am incompetent to throw any fresh light, I might venture to make some observations of a general nature that depend on a principle already mentioned. This principle was, that to understand a people is to envisage its ideal. The practical corollary, I suggest, is that, to preserve a people, one must preserve its ideal so far as to leave its vital and vitalizing elements intact. In other words, in purging that ideal, as may be done and ought to be done when it is sought to lift a backward people out of savagery, great care should be taken not to wreck their whole scheme of values, to cause all that has hitherto made life worth living for them to seem cheap and futile. Given sympathetic insight into their dream of the good life—one that is, probably, not unlike ours in its main essentials—it ought to prove feasible to curtail noxious practices by substituting better ways of satisfying the same needs. Contact with civilization is apt to produce among savages a paralysis of the will to live. More die of depression than of disease or drink. They lose their interest in existence. Their spirit is broken. When the policy is to preserve them, the mere man of science can lend a hand by pointing out what indeed every experienced administrator knows by the time he has bought his experience at other people’s expense. Given, then, the insider’s point of view, a sense of what the savage people itself wants and is trying for, and given also patience in abundance, civilization may effectively undertake to fulfil, instead of destroying.

R. R. Marett.

INTRODUCTION

Among the Head-hunters of Formosa contains the substance of observations made during a two-years’ stay in Formosa—from September 1916 to September 1918. The book is written for the general reader, rather than for the specialist in anthropology or ethnology. Hence many details—especially those concerning minor differences in manners and customs among the various aboriginal tribes—have been omitted; for these, while perhaps of interest to the specialist, would prove wearying to the layman.

Inadequate as the treatment of the subject may seem to the anthropologist, I venture to hope that such information as the book contains may stimulate interest, and perhaps encourage further investigation, before it is too late, into the tribal customs and habits of a little-known, and rapidly disappearing, people.

A writer—signing himself “P. M.”—discussing the aborigines of Formosa, in the China Review (vol. ii) for 1873, says: “Decay and death are always sad sights to contemplate, and when decay and death are those of a nation or race, the feeling is stimulated to acuteness.”

If this feeling in connection with the aborigines was aroused in a European resident in Formosa in 1873, how much more strongly is this the case to-day—nearly half a century later—when the aboriginal population has dwindled from approximately one-sixth of the population of the island (an estimate given by Keane in his remarks on Formosa, in Man Past and Present) to about 3 per cent. of the entire population—a decline of 15 per cent. in less than fifty years. Under the present system of “benevolent assimilation” on the part of the Japanese Government the aboriginal population seems declining at an even more rapid rate than it did under Chinese rule, which ended in 1895. Hence if the mistake which was made in the case of the Tasmanians—that of allowing them to die out before definite or detailed information regarding their beliefs and customs was gained—is to be avoided in the case of the Formosan aborigines, all anthropological data available, both social and physical, should be gained without further delay. Up to this time apparently but little has been done in the way of scientific study of these people, in spite of the fact that, as Keane points out, Formosa “presents a curious ethnical and linguistic connecting link between the continental and oceanic populations of Asia.”

Dr. W. Campbell, writing in Hastings’ Encyclopædia of Religion and Ethics (vol. vi) remarks: “The first thing to notice in making any statement about the savages of Formosa is the extreme paucity of information which is available.” If anything which I—the first white woman to go among certain of the tribal groups of these savages—am able to say will make less this “extreme paucity of information,” then I shall feel that the time spent in writing this book has not been wasted.

I must add that I am deeply indebted to Dr. Marett, of Oxford, who most kindly read the greater part of the book in manuscript form; and again in proof.

Janet B. Montgomery McGovern.

Salzburg, Austria.
March 1922.

NOTE

Among other valuable suggestions, Dr. Marett has called my attention to the fact that the word “caribou” (sometimes spelt carabao) is used in this book to describe an animal other than the American reindeer. It is quite true that no dictionary would define “caribou” as meaning the hideous, almost hairless, beast of the bovine species used in certain parts of Indonesia for ploughing the rice-paddies, and whose favourite recreation—when not harnessed to the plough—is to lie, or to stand, buried to its neck in muddy water; yet this beast is so called both in the Philippines and in Formosa; that is, by English and Americans resident in these islands. By the Japanese the animal is called sui-gyu; by the Chinese shui-niu (as nearly as the sound can be imitated in English spelling); the characters being the same in both languages, but the pronunciation different.

In connection with the pronunciation and the English spelling of Chinese and Japanese words, the spelling is of course phonetic. This applies to the names of places, as well as to other words. As regards Formosan place names, the difficulty of adequate transliteration is aggravated by the fact that the Chinese-Formosans and the Japanese, while using the same written characters, pronounce the names quite differently. In spelling the names of places, I have followed that system usually adopted in English books. There can, however, be no hard and fast rules for Sino-Japanese spelling; therefore the Japanese gentleman to whom I am indebted for the map who has spelled Keelung with a single “e,” is quite “within his rights” from the point of view of transliteration.

J. B. M. M.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PART I

DESCRIPTION OF THE ISLAND AND ITS INHABITANTS

ANTHROPOLOGICAL MAP OF FORMOSA.

Scale 1:2,000,000. Heights in feet

CHAPTER I

IMPRESSIONS FROM A DISTANCE

Scepticism regarding the Existence of a Matriarchate—Glimpse of Formosa from a Steamer’s Deck in passing—Hearsay in Japan concerning the Island Colony—Opportunity of going to Formosa as a Government Official.

As to the actual existence of matriarchates I had always been sceptical. Matrilineal tribes, and those matrilocal—that was a different matter. The existence of these among certain primitive peoples had long been substantiated. But that the name should descend in the line of the mother, or that the newly married couple should take up its residence in the tribe or phratry of the bride, has not of necessity meant that the woman held the reins of power. Quite the reverse in many cases, as actual contact with peoples among whom matrilineal and matrilocal customs existed has proved to every practical observer.[1]

Those lecturers in the “Woman’s Cause” who boasted of the “great matriarchates of old” I thought weakened, rather than strengthened, the cause they would advocate by attempting to bring to its aid evidence builded on the sands. The great “matriarchates of antiquity” I was inclined to class with the “Golden Age” of the Theosophists, as representing a state of affairs not only “too good to be true,” but one in which the wish was—to paraphrase—father to the belief. And as to prehistoric matriarchates, representing a highly evolved state of civilization—in anything like the present-day significance of that word—I am still sceptical; as sceptical as I am of a Golden Age preceding the day of Pithecanthropus and his kind.

But a land which is, as regards its aboriginal inhabitants—now confined to a few tribes, and those fast diminishing, in its more mountainous and inaccessible portions—sufficiently matripotestal to justify its being called a matriarchate, I have found. And this, as is often the case with a quest of any sort, rather by accident. Residence among the American Indians of New Mexico, of Arizona, and of Nevada, and a slight knowledge of the natives of certain of the Pacific Islands—particularly those of Hawaii and of the Philippines—had led me to give up the idea of finding a genuine matriarchate even among primitive peoples. Too often I had found that where those who had “passed by” had spoken of a “matriarchal state” as existing, investigation had proved one that was only matrilineal or matrilocal.

It was in Formosa that I found these matriarchal people; Formosa, that little-known island in the typhoon-infested South China Sea, so well called by its early Portuguese discoverers—as its name implies—“the beautiful.” Indeed, it was the beauty of Formosa that first attracted me. I shall never forget the first glimpse that I caught of the island as I passed it, going by steamer from Manila[2] to Nagasaki. There it lay, in the light of the tropical sunrise, glowing and shimmering like a great emerald, with an apparent vividness of green that I had never seen before, even in the tropics. During the greater part of the day it remained in sight, apparently floating slowly past—an emerald on a turquoise bed. For on that day there was no typhoon or threat of typhoon, and on such a day the China Sea can, with its wonderful blueness and calm, make amends for the many other days on which, like the raging dragon that the Chinese peasants believe it veritably to be, of murky green, spitting white foam, deck-high, it threatens—and often brings—death and destruction to those who venture upon it. Nor was the emerald island a jewel in the rough. The Chinese call it Taiwan, a name which means, in the characters of their language, Terrace Beach,

The glimpse which I caught that day of the shining island with its vivid colouring, and seemingly wondrously carved surface, remained with me as a pleasant memory during the several years that I spent in Japan.

Although Formosa is now a Japanese colony—has been since 1895—one is able to get curiously little definite information in Japan regarding the island. From the Japanese themselves one hears only of the marvellous energy and skill of the Japanese in exploiting the resources of the island—sugar, camphor, tea—and the manufacture of opium, a Government monopoly. From the English, Scottish, and Canadian missionaries stationed in Formosa, who sometimes spend their summers in Japan, one hears more of the exploiting, on the part of the Japanese, of the Chinese population of Formosa—a fact which later I found to be cruelly true.

Now and then, while I was in Japan, I heard vague rumours of head-hunting aboriginal tribes in the mountains of Formosa, but regarding these I could gain little exact information. The Japanese, when questioned about the aborigines, were either curiously uncommunicative, or else launched at once into panegyrics concerning the nobility of the Japanese authorities in Formosa in allowing dirty, head-hunting savages to live, especially as some of these dirty head-hunters had dared to rebel against the Japanese Government of the island. Of the manners and customs of the aborigines, however, the Japanese seemed wholly ignorant. Nor were the missionaries from Formosa much better informed, as far as the aborigines were concerned. Their mission work, they said, was confined to the Chinese population of the island, with now and then tactful attempts at the conversion of the Japanese. But as for the aboriginal tribes—yes, they believed there were such people in the mountains; one of their number, when going from one Chinese village to another in the interior of the island, had seen a queen or “heathen priestess” of the aborigines carried on the shoulders of her followers. More they did not know—yes, probably it was true that these savages cut off people’s heads whenever they had a chance. They were heathen—what could one expect?...

While failing to get much accurate information regarding the aborigines of Formosa, I managed, on the other hand, to get a good deal of misinformation. One book in particular, I remember, written obviously by one who had never been there, gave the impression that the whole island was inhabited by savages, with a “small sprinkling at the ports of Japanese, Chinese, English, and Filipinos.”

The most trustworthy information concerning Formosa—as I later learned, after I myself had been to the island—was that obtained through the columns of the Japan Chronicle, an English newspaper published in Kobe. This information was in connection, particularly, with “reprisal-measures” of extraordinary severity taken by the Japanese Government of Formosa against certain of the aboriginal tribes, some members of which had risen in revolt against the Japanese gendarmerie (Aiyu-sen) placed in authority over them. This curiously cruel strain in the Japanese character was at that time difficult for me to believe[5] (I had not then been in Korea, or in any of the other Japanese dependencies). But what was said of the Formosan aborigines aroused my interest to such an extent that I was anxious to study them at first-hand.

Circumstances, however, prevented my going to Formosa for some time. A “foreigner”—American or European—anywhere in the Japanese Empire is always more or less under surveillance; in the colonies—Formosa and Korea—more rather than less. Any attempt to go to Formosa to carry out independent investigation of the aborigines would, I knew, have been politely thwarted by the Japanese authorities. A “personally conducted tour” could, finances permitting, have easily been arranged. I would have been most politely received by the Japanese officials of the island, and escorted by them to those places which they wished me to see, and introduced to those people whom they wished me to meet. Such had been the experience of several “foreigners” who had gone to visit the island and “study its people.” To live for any length of time in Formosa one must satisfy the Japanese authorities that definite business demands one’s presence there. At that time I had no “definite business which demanded my presence” in Formosa. Nor had a “bradyaga”[6] like myself the capital to start a business in tea or sugar, which would have given a credible excuse for living in the island. Besides, a woman tea-exporter!—the Japanese authorities would scarcely have been satisfied.

My desire to learn at first-hand something of the aborigines of Formosa remained, therefore, more or less an inchoate inclination on my part, and I turned my attention to other things. Then, curiously enough, as coincidences always seem curious when they affect ourselves, a few months later, when I was in Kyoto, studying Mahayana Buddhism,[7] came an offer from a Japanese official to go to Formosa as a teacher of English in the Japanese Government School in Taihoku, the capital of the island.[8]

I had taught English in Japan—both in Tokyo and Kagoshima[9]—and I knew that however Japanese people in different parts of the empire might vary in other respects, on one point, at least, they were singularly alike; that is, in their incapacity for the ready assimilation of a European tongue. This in rather curious contrast to their ability for imitation in other respects. No; teaching English to Japanese was no sinecure. But it opened for me the way to go to Formosa; it gave me an “excuse for being,” as far as existence on that island was concerned. Consequently I accepted the offer to teach in the school which had been built for the sons of Japanese officials in Formosa,[10] and in September 1916 I sailed from Kobe, Japan, for Keelung, the northernmost port of Formosa.

CHAPTER II

IMPRESSIONS AT FIRST-HAND

The Voyage from Kobe to Keelung—The History of Formosa as recounted by a Chinese-Formosan—A Visit to a Chinese-Formosan Home—The Scenery of Formosa—Experience with Japanese Officialdom in Formosa.

Formosa lies about a thousand miles south of Kobe—six hundred and sixty miles, it is estimated, south of Kagoshima, the southernmost point of Japan proper—and the voyage of four days down through the Tung Hai (Eastern China Sea) was a warm one, the latter part especially. Before Keelung was reached, the wraps that had been comfortable when leaving Japan were discarded in favour of the thinnest clothing that could be unpacked from bags or steamer-trunk. Two Scottish missionaries, returning to their work among the Chinese-Formosan in the southern part of the island, were the only other foreigners[11] (white people) on board. The other passengers—certainly of first and second class—were, with one exception, Japanese; chiefly Japanese officials, who, with their families, were going to take up their duties in the island colony of the empire; or to resume these duties after a summer vacation spent in Japan. The one exception was—as exceptions usually are—the most interesting person on board. This was a Chinese-Formosan; one who, in the days before the Japanese possession, had belonged to one of the “old” families of the island—as people all over the world are accustomed to reckon age in connection with “family” (au fond, how curiously alike are we all—Oriental and Occidental—in the little snobbishnesses that make up the sum of human pride—and human childishness).

GATEWAY OF THE OLD CHINESE WALL

Formerly surrounding the city of Taihoku, the capital of Formosa.

At any rate, in the days when “old” families in Formosa meant also wealthy families, this Chinese-Formosan, then young, had been sent to Hongkong, to be educated in an English college there. Consequently it was in excellent English that he told me something both of the early history of Formosa, as this had been recorded in old Chinese manuscripts, and also something of the traditions of the Chinese peasantry regarding the origin of the island. This—the origin—was connected, as are almost all things else in China, in the minds of the people, with the dragon. It seems that, according to popular legend—which the early Chinese geographers repeated in all seriousness—the particular dragon which was responsible for the origin of Formosa was one of more than usual ferocity. The home of this prince among dragons was Woo-hoo-mun (Five Tiger Gate), which lies at the entrance of Foochow, a town on the South China coast. One day his dragonship, being in a frolicsome mood, went for a day’s sport in the depths of the ocean. In his play he brought up from the ocean-bed sufficient earth to mould into a semblance of himself; Keelung being the head; the long, narrow peninsula, ending in Cape Garanbi, the southernmost point of the island, being the tail; the great mountain-range running from north to south—of which Mt. Sylvia and Mt. Morrison[12] are the two highest peaks—representing the bristling spines on the back of the dragon.

Thus according to tradition was created the island of Formosa, or Taiwan, which is in area about half the size of Scotland, but is in shape long and narrow, being about 265 miles long[13] and—at its widest point—about 80 miles wide. It is separated from China by the Formosa Channel, sometimes called Fokien Strait, which is at the widest about 245 miles, but at the narrowest only 62 miles; the dragon seeming to prefer to build this memorial of himself almost within sight of his permanent abiding-place. Indeed the Chinese-Formosan fishermen declare that on a clear day the coast-line of China may be discerned from the west coast of Formosa. But this I, myself, have never seen—the curve of the earth, alone, would, I think, prevent its being actually seen—and I am inclined to think that the fishermen mistake the outline of the Pescadores, small islands lying between China and Formosa, but nearer the latter, for China proper. That is, if their imagination does not play them false altogether, and build for them out of the clouds on the horizon a semblance of the coast-line of the home of their ancestors—something sacred to every Chinese, whatever the conditions of starvation or servitude which drove his ancestors from the motherland.

Something of the early historical, or pseudo-historical, records of Formosa my Chinese-Formosan fellow-voyager on the Osaka Shosen Kaisha steamer also told me. It seems that the first mention in Chinese records of the island is in the Sui-Shu—the history of the Sui Dynasty, which lasted from A.D. 581 to 618, according to Occidental reckoning. At that time Chinese historians and also geographers believed Formosa to be one of the Lu-chu (

According to early Chinese historians the aboriginal inhabitants of Formosa up to about the sixth century A.D. were a gentle and peaceable people, making no objection to Chinese settlements on the coast of the island. Then in about the second half of the sixth century—as nearly as Oriental and Occidental systems of reckoning time can be correlated (the beginning of the Sui dynasty) there swept up from “somewhere in the south” bands of fierce marauders who conquered the west coast of the island and drove the surviving aboriginal inhabitants into the central mountains. A little later—in about the seventh century—the Chinese historian, Ma Tuan-hiu, says a Chinese expedition went to Formosa, with the intention of forcing the new inhabitants to pay tribute to China. This, however, these “new inhabitants”—of Malay origin presumably—refused to do. Consequently great numbers were killed by the Chinese, who also burned many native villages, and used the blood of the slain inhabitants for caulking their boats. To one who knows the peculiar reverence with which blood is regarded by all primitive peoples, and the many ceremonies, religious and social, in which the use of blood makes the ceremony sacred, it is easily comprehensible that the caulking of Chinese boats with the blood of their kinsmen caused greater consternation among the Formosan savages than the mere slaughter of a greater number of their people would have done.

In spite, however, of the ruthless measures taken by the Chinese in their efforts to extort tribute, the “wild men of the South” held their ground, and the Chinese were at last obliged to leave the island without tribute, and without having exacted the promise of it. This, according to Chinese records, was an unprecedented occurrence when sons of the Flowery Kingdom were dealing with barbarians.

For several centuries Chinese records seem to have made little or no mention of Formosa; then in the twelfth century occurred an event even more extraordinary, as far as the relations between China and Formosa were concerned. This was the appearance in the sea-coast villages of Fokien Province, China, of a band of several hundred Formosans. These men came, it is said, for the purpose of pillaging iron from the homes and shops of the Chinese. This metal they valued above anything else in the world,[14] because they had learned that it could be made into spear-heads and arrow-heads, also into knives, more serviceable than those made of flint. They were not able, apparently, to smelt the crude ore, but they understood the building of forges, and were skilful in “beating ploughshares into swords”—to paraphrase. Locks, bolts, nails, from the houses of the Chinese villagers, were grist to the mill of these Formosans, as was anything else made of iron on which they could lay their hands. It is said that before they could be driven away they had secured a large store of iron, in various forms, much of which they succeeded in carrying off in their boats. This is the only occasion on record on which the Formosan “barbarians” ventured to cross the channel which separates their island from China; or at least the only one on which they succeeded in doing so.

It was not until the Yuan dynasty (in the early part of the fourteenth century), during a war between China and Japan, that a Chinese expedition proved that Formosa did not belong to the Lu-chu group; this with tragic consequences to an eminent Chinese scholar of the day. The history of the Yuan dynasty records that “a literate of Fokien Province advised attacking Japan through the Lu-chu Islands.” This literate, believing Formosa to be one of the Lu-chu group, begged the Chinese admiral, Yangtsian, to set sail first for that island. It seems that it had been the intention of Admiral Yangtsian to sail from North China directly to Japan, but, with that respect for reputed scholarship characteristic of the Chinese, the admiral listened to the advice of the literate; the latter being promoted to naval rank, and asked to join the expedition as adviser.

This expedition proved that the principal island of the Lu-chu group lay many li to the north of Formosa. China was the gainer in geographical knowledge; but the admiral lost the advantage which he probably would have gained had he sailed from North China, and his adviser, the literate, lost his head—not figuratively, but literally. Even after this expedition, however, Formosa was still called “Little Lu-chu.”

It was not until the time of the Ming dynasty (1368-1644) that the island seems to have been called Taiwan. In Chinese records of this period the name “Taiwan,” as applied to the island, appears for the first time. Indeed, for some reason, Chinese authorities seem to consider that the “authentic history” of the island begins from the time of the Ming dynasty. The event which in Chinese chronicles dates the beginning of this “authentic history” was the visit—an unintentional one—in about 1430, of the eunuch, Wan San-ho, an officer of the Chinese Court. Wan San-ho had been on a visit to Siam, and was on his way back to China, when the boat on which he was sailing was struck by a typhoon and blown so far out of its course that the captain was obliged to take refuge in the nearest port, which happened to be on the south-west coast of Formosa, near the present town of Tainan.[15] It is recorded that Wan San-ho remained for some time on the island, and when he eventually returned to China took back with him herbs and plants of high medicinal value. It is said that the Chinese still use in their pharmacopœia herbs grown from the seeds of those brought from Formosa by Wan San-ho in the fifteenth century. For the accuracy of this statement I, of course, cannot vouch; nor could my Chinese-Formosan friend who first told me the story of Wan San-ho. He, however, evidently believed it to be true.

It was also during the Ming dynasty that the first association of the Japanese with Formosa is recorded. This was about the close of what is known in Japanese history as the Ashikaga dynasty, which lasted from 1336 to 1443. At this time the Japanese Empire was torn by internal conflict, and was the scene of constant strife between contending political parties, the followers of the Great Daimyos. During this period of disorder Japanese pirates, under the banner of Hachiman (the Japanese God of War), plundered the villages on the coast of China and established headquarters, first on the Pescadores—the small group of islands off the west coast of Formosa—and later at the port that is now known as Keelung, on Formosa proper.

This seems to have been a harvest-time for Japanese pirates. Unrestrained by authority at home, and finding no enemy stronger than themselves on the sea, they made raids not only on the towns of the China Coast, but made successful plundering expeditions even as far south as Siam. The booty from these raids, it seems, was first brought to Keelung, then sent to Japan, where it was sold at a high profit. Those were days in which bold buccaneers waxed fat.

Nor were the Japanese pirates allowed to reap the harvest alone. At the same time that these men had headquarters at Keelung, in the north of Formosa, Chinese pirates had established headquarters near Tainan, in the southern part of the island. If the records report truly, the intercourse between the Chinese and Japanese pirates does not seem to have been unfriendly, even while their respective nations were at war with each other—outlaws presumably being absolved from the obligations of patriotism. This state of affairs lasted for over a hundred years. During the sixteenth century Formosa, which was then known to the Japanese as “Takasago,” seems to have become a sort of “clearing-house” between China and Japan—a link between nations the “respectable” portions of whose populations were estranged. In the early part of that century the Chinese pirates were united under the leadership of Gan Shi-sai, grandfather of the famous Koksinga, shrines to whose memory recently erected by the Japanese—because it has been learned that his mother was a Japanese—one sees everywhere in Formosa at the present time.[16]

The sixteenth century was a rather noteworthy one in the history of Formosa. It was during this century that the Hakkas—the outcaste class of China—fled to Formosa to escape persecution in the mother-country. And more important, at least from the European point of view, it was in the sixteenth century that Europeans first learned—as far as there is any record—of the existence of the island. It is sometimes said that the Portuguese had a fort in Keelung about 1590. Of this there seems to be no definite proof. Not only was this the opinion of the Chinese-Formosan who first gave me in outline the history of the island, but later investigation on my own part failed to find proof, or even trustworthy evidence, of the existence of such a fort. However, there can be little doubt that the Portuguese navigators, sailing down the west coast of the island, gave to it the name by which it is known to-day to Europeans—“Ilha Formosa” (Beautiful Island).[17] The Dutch navigator Linschotten, in the employ of the Portuguese, so recorded it in his chart in the latter part of the sixteenth century.

It was early in the next century that the Dutch, as a nation, first came into touch with Formosa. In 1604 the Dutch admiral, Van Narwijk, sailed for Macao, in the south of China; but a typhoon—that frequent occurrence in the China Sea—drove him to the Pescadores. While there he gained a knowledge of the near-by large island of Formosa, which knowledge, it is said, was responsible for the later—temporary—Dutch dominance of the island. Another typhoon, however, resulting in another wreck, brought about the actual first landing of Dutchmen on Formosa proper. This was in 1620, when a Dutch merchant ship was wrecked near the present town of Tainan.

At that time a Japanese colony was, with the permission of China, established at this point. The Dutch captain, after having first been refused by the Japanese land on which to build a depôt for his goods—or that portion which he had saved from the wreck—at last persuaded the men from Dai Nippon to allow him to build a depôt “if this could be built on ground no larger than that which could be covered with an ox-hide.” The “heaven-descended”[18] thought the Ketto-jin (hairy barbarian) mad. They naturally were not familiar with the European classics. The Dutch captain apparently was, since he repeated the famous manœuvre—said to have been responsible for the founding of Carthage[19]—of cutting the ox-hide into very thin strips. With the raw hide rope thus made he succeeded in encircling a piece of ground amply large for the building of a goods depôt.

The Chinese-Formosan, in relating this story, was so convulsed with laughter that, in spite of his excellent English, it was at first difficult to understand him. It seemed that what especially excited his risibility was the idea—to him ludicrous—that a man of any other nationality should be able to outwit a Japanese in a “sharp deal.” He declared the story “too good to be true,” but in the accounts of the early history of Formosa which I have read since hearing the Chinese-Formosan recount the story, there seems evidence for its verity.

At the time, however, when this incident is supposed to have occurred—the early part of the seventeenth century—the Chinese were really the masters both of the Pescadores and of Formosa proper. It was they who, in 1622, gave the Dutch permission to establish a fort on one of the Pescadore islands. This was done under the command of Admiral Cornelius Reyersz, who wished to have a stronghold from which he could sally forth to attack the Portuguese at Macao. The next year an agreement was reached between Holland and China by which the Dutch were to remove from the Pescadores to Formosa. In 1624 the Dutch built Fort Zelandia, the ruins of which are still to be seen at Anping, the harbour-town near Tainan.

The building of Fort Zelandia marked the beginning of Dutch dominance in Formosa, a period which, though lasting less than forty years, is one that has never been forgotten by the aboriginal inhabitants of the island, as I found later, when I went among them. During this time, however, the Dutch were not left in undisturbed control of the island. Another European nation cast covetous eyes upon the “Ilha Formosa.” Spain organised an expedition under the command of Don Antonio de Careño de Valdez, which in 1626 set forth from Manila, then a Spanish possession, and sailed north to the “Beautiful Island.” The Spaniards succeeded in establishing a colony at Keelung, which they called Santissima Trinidad, and afterwards built a fort—San Domingo—at the other northern port of the island, called by the Chinese and Japanese Tamsui.

For some years it seems there was a struggle between the Dutch and Spanish for the domination of the island. Then in 1641 the greater part of the Spanish troops in Formosa were recalled to Manila, in order to take part in an expedition against the Moors[20] in Mindanao, the southernmost island of the Philippine group. This gave the Dutch an opportunity of which they were not slow to take advantage. They renewed their attacks upon the Spanish garrison, now greatly weakened. The following year—1642—this surrendered, and the last Spaniard—including the priests and the Dominican Friars, who had come over with Don Careño de Valdez—left the island.

The Dutch were now left for a time undisputed masters of Formosa. They built forts on the ruins of those evacuated by the Spanish at Tamsui and Keelung. The old Dutch fort at Tamsui is still standing, and is in a good state of preservation. It has walls eight feet thick, and is used to-day as the British Consulate of the island.[21]

For about twenty years after the Spanish surrender in Formosa, Dutch prosperity in the island was at its height. It is said that during this time there were nearly three hundred villages under Dutch jurisdiction, divided for convenience of administration into seven provinces. The population of these villages, while recorded as being “native,” evidently consisted of Chinese-Formosans. Finding that agriculture was not progressing among these people, the Dutch minister, Gravius, is said to have sent to the East Indies for “water-buffaloes,” the so-called caribou, and when these arrived he distributed them among the Chinese population of the island. “Water-buffaloes”—descendants of those imported by the seventeenth-century Dutch—are used to-day by the Chinese-Formosans for ploughing their rice-paddies (see illustration).

“CARIBOU,” OR WATER-BUFFALO, USED BY THE CHINESE-FORMOSANS.

This is said to be a descendant of those introduced by the Dutch in the seventeenth century.

MEN AND YOUNG WOMEN (MEN CROUCHING, WOMEN STANDING) OF THE TAIYAL TRIBE ON A STATE VISIT TO THE CITY OF TAIHOKU.

Besides the Chinese population of Formosa under Dutch administration, the aboriginal tribes in the mountains also acknowledged Dutch supremacy, as they had never acknowledged Chinese, and as, more recently, they have never been reconciled to Japanese. Later, when I myself went among the aborigines, I received interesting confirmation of the account given me by the Chinese-Formosan on the boat, as the reason, apparently, that I was able to get into as close touch with them as I did was because they regarded me as the reincarnation of one of the seventeenth-century Dutch, whose rule over them, three hundred years ago, has become a sacred tradition.

This tradition among the aborigines confirms the records made by Father Candidius, and other Dutch missionaries of the period; although the records, naturally, go more fully and accurately into detail. If record and tradition are to be relied upon, the Dutch rule of Formosa was marked by unusual benevolence, sagacity, and sympathy with the aboriginal people; tradition in this instance carrying more weight than record, as the former is that of the subject people. Apparently the Dutch administrators allowed the natives much liberty regarding their own form of government; there was no interference in the choice of headmen or chieftains on the part of the various tribes; nor was there interference in the administration of tribal justice by these headmen. The chief of each of the most important tribes was invested with a silver-headed staff, bearing the Dutch commander’s coat of arms. This was supposed to be used as an insignia of authority. Thus only indirectly, and in a manner appealing to the vanity of the savage chieftains, was recognition of the over-lordship of the Dutch enforced. As also indirect was the influence exerted over the chiefs, by a great feast given once a year by the Dutch governor, to which it is said the chieftain of every aboriginal tribe was invited, and where matters both inter-tribal and intra-tribal were discussed. At the conclusion of this feast presents were distributed, and the chieftains sent home with the blessing of the Dutch governor.[22]

This time of peace and prosperity for the aboriginal tribes—the memory of which has remained among them as that of a Golden Age—was brought to an abrupt end in 1661, through the invasion of Formosa by the Chinese pirate Koksinga, before referred to, and his followers, who seem to have poured in hordes into the island. The Dutch made a brave resistance; but, in all, they numbered only a little over two thousand, and were unable to hold their own against the vastly greater number of Chinese, who came over from the mainland in the train of Koksinga. The latter is said to have owned three hundred boats, in which he brought his followers from China.

In 1662 Governor Cogett, the Dutch commander, surrendered to Koksinga. Then the Dutch who remained alive, both those who had composed the garrison and also the settlers with their families—the latter said to have numbered about six hundred—left the island as speedily as was possible, most of them sailing for the near-by Dutch East Indies.

From that time until 1895—the close of the Sino-Japanese War—when Formosa passed into the hands of the Japanese, the Chinese were lords of the island. Of this period of Chinese dominance—over two hundred years—I learned little from the Chinese-Formosan on the boat. He passed on to the recounting of the sufferings of his own people—the Chinese on the island—under Japanese rule, and the injustice to which they had been subjected for twenty years. Of this he was still speaking when the little steamer, rounding the rocky islet, the last of the Lu-chu group, which lies—or rather, rears upward—as a sort of natural fortification in front of the chief harbour of the island, puffed noisily into Keelung bay. My Chinese friend, on bidding me good-bye, said he hoped that while I was in Formosa I would come to his home and meet his wives—one of whom, especially, was very intelligent and spoke a little English.

“Bradyaga”[23] though I am, and accustomed to meeting all sorts and conditions of—wives of men, I must, I think, for a moment have looked startled. It was the man’s English accent and his English point of view regarding many matters that made his casual reference to his plural household seem incongruous. He must have noticed this (indeed it was his remark that revealed my own naïveté to myself; I thought I had my features under better control), for he smiled and said: “I know in Europe and in America it is different; certain things are done sub rosa—and denied. It is a question which is better. But come to my home and see for yourself how our system works.”

Later I met the wives of my Chinese-Formosan friend. There were three of them—the intelligent one, the pretty one, and the eldest and most honoured one, who was the mother of the eldest son and heir. At least the last was called the “Great Wife” and the “Honourable One” by the others; but there was no trace of shame or of dishonour in the position of any of the women. All seemed very proud, very happy, and curiously affectionate toward each other and—greater test of a woman’s affection—even toward each others’ children. Nor do I think that they were “showing off” for my benefit; it was said by all who knew them that this was their habitual attitude. Other lands, other manners—and morals, perhaps.

As I went away from that interview with the several Mrs.——, I startled my ricksha-man—who thought I was giving him some incomprehensible order—by humming, to the tune of a chant I had learned from an aboriginal tribe in the mountains (for this was after I had been in Formosa for several months), some words written, I think, by Kipling:

“There are nine-and-sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,

And every single one of them is right.”

Then I met a missionary acquaintance. So preoccupied was I with thoughts suggested by the visit I had just paid that I almost passed the missionary without speaking. Turning back, I apologized both for my seeming discourtesy in not speaking, and also for the barbaric chant, to the tune—if tune it could be called—of which I was humming Kipling’s words.

“A visit I have just made suggested the words, I suppose,” I explained, laughing, “or brought them up from some depth of the subconscious; I was rather fond of quoting them once.” Then I told the missionary of the visit from which I was returning.

“Disgusting heathen!” she exclaimed. “Besides, what have ‘different ways of constructing tribal lays’ to do with heathen immorality?” She frowned and looked puzzled. Then added more gently, as if explaining to a child: “‘Lays,’ you know, means poetry, and ‘constructing tribal lays’ just means writing poetry; nothing whatever to do with the heathen and their horrible ways.”

When we parted she adjured me to be more careful about wearing my sun-helmet, assuring me that it was necessary in that climate. “If one does not,” she explained, “something might happen to one—to one’s head, you know,” she added significantly, “and it would be a dreadful thing in a heathen country....”

To go back for a moment to the day of my landing:

As my first glimpse of Formosa from a passing steamer, a few years before, had fascinated me, so did my first glimpse of the island after I had landed. Not the Formosa of Keelung quay with its hordes of starving, skin-and-bone dogs—several of them dragging about on three legs or with paralysed hindquarters—nosing for food among the refuse,[24] or its crowd of screaming, guttural-voiced ricksha-coolies and vegetable-and-fish pedlars; or the arrogant Japanese officials—all in military uniform, with swords strapped at their sides[25]—bullying the Chinese-Formosans. But the Formosa of the country through which I passed in going from Keelung to Taihoku; the Formosa of scenery surpassing that of Japan proper, both in natural beauty and in the picturesqueness of the tiny peasant-villages, each village protected from tornadoes by a clump of marvellously tall bamboos, whose feathery tops of delicate green seemed to cut into the deep blue of the tropical sky; each house protected from evil spirits by cryptic signs—said to be quotations from Confucius—written, or painted, in black on red paper,[26] and pasted above and at both sides of each doorway. Every village was further protected by a temple of brilliant and varied colouring, on the roof of which wonderfully moulded dragons writhed or reared. The inhabitants of these villages were, of course, Chinese-Formosans. Very picturesque were these too, in their bright blue smocks and black trousers; men and women dressed so much alike that at a little distance they were indistinguishable. Only on nearer view was it clear that those who wore tinsel ornaments in their hair and walked as if on stilts were women. When these hobbled still nearer the cause of their queer stilted walk was obvious. Their feet were “bound,” i.e. deformed and distorted, pathetically—and to Western eyes abhorrently—out of shape.

Up to this time I had always supposed that only among the “upper classes” in China were the feet of the women bound; those of the class who could afford to go always in ricksha or sedan-chair. But all the women of the Chinese-Formosans—except those of the despised Hakkas—bind their feet; rather, have them bound in infancy. A woman with unbound feet is regarded as a sort of pariah, and her chances of a “good marriage”—that goal of every Chinese woman—are almost nil.[27]

These peasant and coolie-women hobbled nearer to see the train as it stopped at the little stations between Keelung and Taihoku, especially when it was reported that there was a white woman aboard. Many of them could not walk without the aid of a stick or without resting one hand on the shoulder of a small boy, thus maintaining their balance. “Lily feet” were obviously a handicap in the carrying of such burdens as most of these women had on their backs. In some cases the bundles consisted of babies strapped Indian-papoose fashion to the shoulders of the mothers—a custom common to both Chinese and Japanese women; in other cases, of heavy bundles of food or of faggots. Unattractive as were the figures of the women—the entire leg being undeveloped, as the result of the cramping of the feet from infancy—their faces were generally attractive; sweet, with a wistful, rather pathetic expression. Only the lips and teeth of the older women were often hideously disfigured from the habit of beetle-nut chewing. The women out of doors who were not burden-bearing were kneeling at the side of the streams and canals, used for irrigating the rice-paddies, busily engaged in washing the family linen—very much in public—or pounding it between stones. As these washerwomen—and they seemed legion, for the Chinese devote as much time to the washing of their clothing as the Japanese do to that of their bodies—knelt, I saw the soles of their feet. In the case of some of the poorer and more ill-dressed women, the splashing water had displaced the rags with which their feet were bound, and the “shoes” which were supposed to cover them. The feet themselves—those members which every lily-footed woman most carefully conceals—were exposed. The sight was not a pleasant one.

I turned to watch the men, most of whom were working in the rice-paddies. Some of them were ploughing—with much the same sort of plough as those supposed to have been used by the ancient Egyptians. To these ploughs were harnessed great “water-buffaloes.” Here was picturesqueness unmarred by a suggestion of pain, even of pain proudly borne, as in the case of the women. The greyness of the “water-buffaloes” made a pleasing contrast to the vivid green of the rice-paddies and to the blue smocks and high-peaked, yellow, dried-bamboo-leaf helmets of the men. There are few things more pleasing to the eye than a carefully terraced Chinese rice-paddy in full verdure, with its graceful slopes and intricate curves of shimmering green. If one approaches too near, the olfactory sense is unpleasantly assailed. But on this first day in Formosa I was not too near. I saw only the beauty—beauty of unusual richness and variety; for, as a background to the rice-paddies, and peasant villages and multi-coloured temples, beetled the great mountain crags, all glowing in the brilliance of tropical September sunshine.

So beautiful was the scenery of the island that after I was settled in Taihoku I made frequent excursions through the country, scraping what acquaintance I could—by means of sign language and the few words of Chinese-Formosan dialect that I had learned from my servants—with the peasants, and taking “snapshots” of their houses and temples, and of their children. Attractive as are all Oriental children, these little ones seemed particularly so; perhaps because of the quaintness of Chinese children’s costume, certainly as this is still worn in Formosa.

On one of these excursions into the country I passed through Keelung. My kodak was in my hand, but the idea of taking a picture in Keelung never occurred to me. In the first place, I knew that the taking of photographs of any sort in this port was one of the many things “strongly forbidden” by Japanese officialdom. In the second place, Keelung is a squalid and dirty town, with none of the picturesqueness of the open country or of the tiny peasant-villages. There was no temptation to photograph its ugliness, or the flaunting evidences of its vice—vice of the mean, sordid type of Oriental, sailor-haunted port-towns. I was hurrying through this hideous town as quickly as possible, in order to reach a stretch of open country, which I knew lay beyond, and which commanded a beautiful view of the sea and of fantastically rearing rocky islets, when I felt my arm roughly grasped. Turning around, I beheld a Japanese policeman. Clanking his sword as he spoke, he demanded my name and address; also he peremptorily demanded to know what I meant by coming to take photographs in the great colonial port-town of his Imperial Majesty, and asked if I did not know that this made me guilty of the unspeakably abominable crime of lack of respect for his August Majesty. I explained that I was not taking pictures in Keelung, had not done so, and had no intention of so doing; that there was nothing there worth photographing.

“But the fortifications,” he began; “you may be looking——” Then he stopped, apparently rather abashed.

“What fortifications?” I asked. “I did not know that there were any. Where are they?”

“Oh no, of course,” he answered, with confusion rather curious in a Japanese policeman. “Of course there are not any now. Only there might be some, one day, and——” Suddenly his brow cleared, as if under the inspiration of an idea that would elucidate matters. “Anybody might be a German—a German spy, you know, looking for a site to build some fortifications perhaps.”

Although this was during the Great War, I knew that in Formosa the fear on the part of the Japanese Government of a “German spy” was practically nil. Also the Japanese policeman was sufficiently intelligent to be able to distinguish one to whom English was the mother-tongue (I was speaking with my secretary as I walked) from a German, even though the latter were speaking English.[28] But in those days of war-hysteria when many English-speaking people became excitedly sympathetic at the suggestion of German spies and their machinations——. Yes, it was a clever move on the part of the policeman. But it aroused my curiosity.

Afterwards I made several trips to Keelung, but without my camera. And once, quite by accident, I learned how strongly fortified that port is at the present time, and with what ingenuity the fortifications are concealed. But that forms no part of the present narrative....

The fact that I had taken a “photographic apparatus” to Keelung was recorded against me in the police records of Taihoku, and brought several calls of an inquisitorial nature from the police.

To inquisitorial calls from the police and from other Japanese officials, however, I became accustomed during my residence in Formosa. My object in going there was to devote my leisure time—that not engaged in teaching—to the study of the aboriginal tribes of the island. There were reports—reports confirmed and denied—of a pigmy race among the aborigines. These reports still further stimulated my interest. I knew there were really pigmies—the Aetas—in the Philippines. Were there, or were there not, such people in the mountains of Formosa? I determined to find out.

My teaching duties occupied only four days a week. The other three days of each week, besides all the days of the rather frequent vacations, were supposedly my own, to employ as I felt inclined. It was supposed apparently by both school officials and police officials (the duties of the two seem curiously interlinked in the Japanese Empire) that inclination would lead me to devote this leisure to attending tea-parties at the houses of the missionaries in the city and to distributing pocket Testaments among the young men of the school. My predecessor (who had resigned the school-post in order to take up avowed missionary work) had, it seemed, so devoted her leisure, and to the mind of Japanese officialdom it was incomprehensible that what one seiyō-jin woman had done all others should not, as a matter of course, wish to do. When it was learned that my inclination lay in another direction—that of tramping the island, especially the mountains, and getting into as close touch as possible with the aborigines—I received several calls from horrified officials. The Director of Schools was especially insistent (he said he was requested to be so by the Chief of the Police Department) in wishing to know why I was not satisfied with ricksha-rides about the city. This after I had made him understand that I was not a missionary and that I was not particularly interested in either pink teas or Testament distribution. “Why you want to walk?” he demanded. “Japanese ladies never walk; only coolie-women walk.”

I explained that obviously I was not a Japanese, also that I was not at all certain that I was a lady, and that if the distinction between coolie-woman and lady lay in the fact that the one walked and the other did not, I much preferred being classed in the former category.

He scratched his head rather violently—a Japanese habit when puzzled or annoyed. Suddenly the light of a great idea seemed to dawn upon him. “Ah,” he exclaimed exultantly, the recollection of some missionary speech or sermon evidently being made to serve the occasion, “but they will say you are immoral, and Christian ladies do not like to be thought immoral.”

This struck me as being amusing—for several reasons.

“Yes,” I said, “and who is likely to think me immoral?”

“Oh, everybody,” he answered impressively. “And they will publish it in the papers—all the Japanese papers in the city, and in the island,” he emphasized, “that you are immoral. And, anyhow, you must do in Rome as the Romans do,” he added triumphantly, evidently thinking he had convicted me out of the mouth of one of the sages of my own Western world. Ever afterwards this: “Do in Rome as the Romans do” was a favourite phrase of his when he tried to insist upon my regulating my life in every detail upon the model of that of a Japanese woman.

AUTHOR IN RICKSHA IN THE CITY OF TAIHOKU.

USUAL FORM OF TORO (PUSH-CAR).

(Author has vacated seat by the side of Japanese policeman, in order to take “snapshot.”)

I am afraid I did not conceal my amusement on this occasion as well as I should have done. Japanese officials take themselves, and like to be taken, very seriously. I did not wish the Director to know that I saw through his ruse—and that of certain other of the Japanese officials—a ruse directed towards keeping me from coming into personal contact with the aborigines of the island and with the more intelligent Chinese-Formosans, except when under the immediate surveillance of the Japanese.

The Director said that it would be “all right” if he accompanied me on my excursions into the mountains. Now the Director happened to be a married man; his wife happened to be a Japanese lady who “of course did not walk.” I tried to explain that if he really thought there was danger of a scandal, the companionship of a married man on these excursions, one whose wife was left at home, would not tend to lessen this danger.

“I am afraid I must continue to go my wicked way without the protection of your companionship,” I said; “and if ‘they’—whoever ‘they’ may be—annoy you with questions as to the object of my excursions into the mountains, or if they are inquisitive as to whether I go there for the purpose of a romance, legitimate or otherwise, tell them that I am one of those who like to ‘eat of all the fruit of the trees of the garden of the world——’”

“Huh?” roared the Director. Both hands were at his head now.

“Tell them ‘Yes’ to anything they ask about me,” I said, “if that will set their minds at rest and prevent their annoying you with impertinent questions, as you say they annoy you.”

“I’ll tell them you are immoral, that’s what I’ll tell them; if you don’t just go about where you can ride in rickshas, like other ladies,” wrathily exclaimed the Director, attempting to rise and make a dignified exit. Unfortunately, however, the Director happened to be fat, and happened not to be accustomed to sitting in a chair.[29] Also his sword had become entangled in the wicker-work arm of the chair, so that, when he rose, the chair rose with him. This slightly spoiled the effect of the dignified exit. It may have been due to the fact that it was necessary to extricate him from the chair, that, before leaving, he became sufficiently mollified to concede: “If you want exercise more than other ladies, you may play tennis-ball on the school-grounds.”

CHAPTER III

PERSONAL CONTACT WITH THE ABORIGINES

A New Year Visit to the East Coast Tribes—Received by the Taiyal as a Reincarnation of one of the seventeenth-century Dutch “Fathers.”

In spite of the objections of the Director, and the suspicions of the police and of the hydra-headed ‘they,’ I did not, while in Formosa, confine either my interests or my exercise to ricksha-riding[30] or to “tennis-ball.”

My chief interest lay with the mountain tribes—the aborigines; my chief exercise consisted in what my Japanese friends called “prowling” among these tribes. Sometimes accompanied by another English teacher and a servant, sometimes by my son or secretary, sometimes quite alone, I went up into the mountains; going as far as I could by “trolly” (or toro, as the Japanese call it[31])—a push-car, propelled by Chinese-Formosan coolies, on rails laid by the Japanese—rather, under their instructions—into the mountains, for the purpose of bringing camphor-wood and crude camphor down to the great camphor-refining factory in Taihoku. From the terminus of the toro line I “prowled.”

For permission to go into the mountains—and permission for almost every movement on the part of a “foreigner” is necessary in the Japanese Empire, in Formosa even more than in Japan proper—I am indebted to Mr. Hosui and to Mr. Marui, the two most courteous Japanese officials whom I met in Formosa. I wish here to express my gratitude to both.[32]

The tribe that I first studied, and of which I saw perhaps more than of any other during my residence in Formosa, was the great Taiyal tribe of the north—reputed to be the most bloodthirsty on the island, and whose territory now covers almost as much as that of all the other tribes together.[33] From Taiyal territory I sometimes “prowled” over into that of the Saisett and Bunun tribes. This was perhaps not strictly according to official permission; I was told that it was “too dangerous.” But the spice of danger—perhaps also the “forbidden-fruit” element—made these walks the more interesting; and I still have my head on my shoulders.

TWO MEN OF THE TAIYAL TRIBE BRIBED BY GIFTS OF HAT AND CIGARETTES TO HAVE THEIR PICTURE TAKEN.

AUTHOR IN TORO (PUSH-CAR), GOING UP INTO TAIYAL TERRITORY.

The southern tribes I approached by water from the east coast; my first visit to them being during the first Christmas—rather, New Year[34]—vacation that I spent on the island. Of this visit I retain a somewhat vivid recollection, for two reasons. One because of the great cliffs of the east coast, a glimpse of which I caught in passing; the other because of the novel mode of debarkation, necessitated by stormy weather, at Pinan,[35] a port in Ami territory, just north of that occupied by the Paiwan and Piyuma tribes.

I embarked at Keelung, on one of the small coasting steamers, sailing around the east coast to Takao,[36] the southernmost port of the island. It was just south of Giran[37] that we passed the great cliffs, said to be the highest in the world. For about twenty-five miles these giant cliffs rise perpendicularly from the sea to a height of about 6,000 feet. This towering wall of granite—for such the rock seemed to be—is one of the most imposing sights that in my wanderings about the world I have seen.

The weather was grey and drizzling when we left Keelung, but it was just after we had left Karenko,[38] the first port south of the great cliffs—the second day out—that the storm broke. Those who have weathered a storm in a small boat know what this means. In all the guide-books, and other books dealing with Formosa, that I have seen, it is said that the sea-route, up and down the coast of the island, “can be safely followed only during six months of the year,” i.e. the spring and summer months. “Safely” is probably, like other words, a matter of individual definition. Personally I should be inclined to substitute the word “comfortably” for “safely,” judging from my own experience, both on this trip and on a subsequent one. That is, as far as the actual voyage is concerned, if one be content to remain on board the steamer from Keelung to Takao, where there is a good harbour. With the exception of one or two who disembarked at Karenko, the other passengers—all Japanese, naturally—seemed glad enough to do this. I, however, had not come on this trip for the sake of the sea-voyage, or with the object of reaching Takao—now a Japanese town, the southern terminus of the railway which starts from Keelung in the north—and which I could much more easily have reached by rail had I wished to visit it. Takao, like all the other large towns of the island, is on the western side of the great mountain range,[39] contains no aborigines, and, especially to one who has lived for some years in Japan, is of no especial interest.

The purpose of my trip was to study the aborigines of the east coast and those who lived in the narrow south-eastern peninsula of the island. It had not been possible for me to obtain police permission to cross—or to attempt to cross—the great mountain range; therefore I knew that my only hope of studying the eastern and south-eastern aboriginal tribes lay in landing at Pinan. The captain tried to dissuade me. He said that no man among his passengers would think of landing; much less should a woman attempt it. Would I not wait until another trip when the weather was calmer, or when I had a companion—one of my own race (on this occasion I happened to be quite alone and the only “foreigner” on board). He really did not like to take the responsibility.... But I assured him that he would be absolved of all responsibility “if anything happened” to me—a euphemism that he several times used, in his rather good, Scotch-accented English (he had been about the world among seafaring men). Also that my Government would not hold his Government responsible if “anything happened.” My blood would be on my own head.

The captain at last rather lost patience. He told me of some sensible missionaries—he stressed the adjective (he seemed to think I was a senseless one; apparently he could not conceive of any white woman wanting to go among “heathen” except for the purpose of “converting” them)—who in similar stormy weather had sailed around the island three times before they had dared to attempt a landing at a Chinese-Formosan village on the coast. I explained that the length of my vacation would not make such a proceeding possible in my case, and that rather than go on to Takao, I preferred to go ashore—or to attempt to do so—in one of the canoes in which some men of the Ami tribe had put out from shore, and in which they were evidently endeavouring to reach the ship. I was told it was their custom to do this, whenever a Japanese ship approached, in order to barter commodities.

The captain said rather grimly that would be my “only chance on this trip,” as, with the exception of a few articles which he would give the savages, if they succeeded in reaching the ship when it came to anchor, he would not attempt to discharge the cargo he had for Pinan, but would defer that until the return voyage from Takao....

The Ami canoes succeeded in reaching the ship, and I succeeded in persuading the captain to have a ladder lowered for me to descend. This, however, only after further argument, for the captain declared he had believed I was only “bluffing” (where he had learned this delightfully expressive word I do not know), when I had said that I was willing to trust myself to the Ami and to one of their canoes. He said, however, that these coast Ami were sek-huan—“half-tame,” he explained, when interpreting the expression—and that as far as my life was concerned, this would probably not be in danger, if I succeeded in reaching the shore; that is, so long as I did not venture into the interior. On this point I would make no promise, and the captain did not press the matter. He was probably glad to be rid of a passenger whom he evidently regarded as a missionary of less than average missionary intelligence. To do him justice, however, when the canoes were tossing on the waves at the side of the ship, he called down to one of the savages, who was evidently the chief, or leader, of those who had ventured out, a few words in mixed Japanese and Ami dialect. This he assured me was an order to look well after my life and comfort. The fact that I understood enough Japanese to know that the captain referred to me as the “mad one,” did not detract from my appreciation of his order.

I clung to the ladder until the crest of a wave brought the little canoe sufficiently high for me to drop into the arms of the chief, who deposited me, also the small bag I had with me—which one of the crew of the steamer had thrown down to him—in the bottom of the boat. Then shouting an order to the men in the several other canoes, the chief and the one other man in the same canoe with him—and me—began to paddle for shore. The order that the chief shouted was evidently to the effect that the men in the other boats were to wait and get certain things from the steamer, for on looking back, when the canoe in which I was rose on the crest of a wave, I could see bundles being lowered from the ship’s side into the canoes. What these contained I do not know, and soon it became impossible to watch, for the waves rose higher; the salt water was in my eyes, and was pouring constantly over my head and face. I was drenched to the skin, in spite of the supposedly waterproof coat that I wore. The chief’s assistant had given up paddling and was vigorously bailing the boat with a large gourd, or calabash. The chief alone paddled.

I had been in the boats of other Pacific islanders; these had been much more skilfully managed. I soon realized that in seamanship the Formosan aborigines could not compare with the Hawaians, the Filipinos, or with most of the peoples of the South Seas; perhaps for one reason, because their canoes carry no outrigger. Or is this effect, rather than cause? Is it because of their lack of seamanship at the present time that they venture into the waves in outriggerless canoes?

At any rate, whatever they lack in skill in the navigation of sea-craft, the Ami at least are not lacking in personal bravery, or in a sense of responsibility. When the canoe was swamped by the waves—as, soon after leaving the ship, I realized must inevitably be the case—the chief motioned me to get on his back, and when I had done so, began to swim for shore. He did this quite coolly, almost as if it were a matter of course, although he had never before seen a white woman; apparently regarding the whole affair from the Oriental, “it is ordered,” point of view. The other man in the boat seemed for a moment to be more at a loss, but at an order from the chief he dropped the now useless paddle, which for some reason (or none) he still held, and rescued my little travelling-bag, first taking the handle between his teeth, then, in spite of the waves, managing in a rather dexterous fashion—by means of the strip of homespun hemp-cloth which he had been wearing as a loin-cloth—to lash it to his shoulders, swimming with legs and one arm as he did so.

Thus from the water—literally—I reached the territory of the east coast tribes and southern tribes of the island. What I learned of their manners and customs I shall write in its proper place.[40] But I want here to record my appreciation of the courage and also the cool, matter-of-course calmness of the Ami chief, whose presence of mind undoubtedly saved my life on this occasion, as my own awkward attempts at swimming would never have carried me through those waves. So rough were they that it was with difficulty I was able even to cling to the back of the chief. Had the water been colder I should probably not have been able to do so. But at that latitude—a little south of the Tropic of Cancer—sea-water, even in January, is never numbingly cold.

Rather different was my experience on the occasion of another winter vacation during my stay in Formosa. That vacation I spent in the mountains, as I wished to visit certain sub-tribes of the Taiyal that I had not seen. Because of the altitude, it was—certainly by contrast with the plain below—bitterly cold. There had been flurries of snow during the day. I had with me, as guide and luggage-bearer, a Chinese-Formosan coolie, an elderly man, who was supposed to be well acquainted with the mountain trails—to have tramped them since his youth, when as a charcoal-burner he had ventured into the mountains for fuel. Thus had he recommended himself to me. However, perhaps because of the snowy greyness of the day, he managed to lose his way. I had—fortunately—a pocket compass with me. In such Chinese-Formosan dialect as I had acquired—inadequate enough—I attempted to explain the meaning of the pointing needle. My guide declared he understood, and said that in order to regain the trail we must go in a certain direction. Going in this way, it was necessary to cross a stream, which usually was little more than a shallow brook. Because of the winter rains,[41] however, this had become so swollen that it was almost a torrent, and when we reached it we found, instead of a shallow stream that could easily have been waded, or crossed over on stepping-stones, a great body of water, dashing over fallen trees, and swirling around boulders which normally lay far beyond its banks.

My guide, accustomed, as are all Chinese coolies—both in Formosa and on the mainland—to carrying burdens on his back, volunteered thus to carry me, declaring he could easily do so. I acquiesced; and thus “pick-a-back” fashion we started. The guide was a tall man, and, though the water came well up on his thighs, he felt his way carefully with a stout staff that he carried, and all seemed going well, in spite of the fact that it was growing dark, when, without warning, the man gave a startled, guttural cry—in the unexpected fashion of the usually phlegmatic Chinese when really frightened—shook me from his shoulders, and, stooping until his whole body was submerged in the water, shuffled rapidly to a boulder behind which he crouched. Dropped thus suddenly almost to my waist into very cold water, which was running with a swift current, I was nearly swept off my feet. I managed, however, to make my way to a boulder, near the one behind which my guide was cowering. As I drew myself up out of the water on to the boulder, I angrily demanded of him the reason of his extraordinary behaviour.

“Light of Heaven,” the man replied, in a low voice, between chattering teeth, “be not angry. It is a seban—a head-cutter—there.” With a motion of his head he indicated a figure that I had not seen, standing at the edge of the water.

“I was wary,” my guide continued, “I heard a movement in the bushes. I looked up—I saw. Now our heads must surely go. As it was with our fathers——” The man continued to murmur, growing more incoherent in his terror, and evidently more than half benumbed with the cold, as I found myself also becoming.

I decided that possible decapitation was preferable to freezing—especially as the agreeable stage of pleasant dreams, which is said to accompany actual death from cold, had not been reached; only that of extreme discomfort. The small weapon that I usually carried with me on these mountain trips was in my hand-bag, which, with my other impedimenta, was on the bank that we had left. My guide had promised to return for these things after carrying me across the water. However, there are times when it is better to flee from evils that one knows.... I hailed the seban, and, although he spoke a variety of Taiyal dialect a little different from that of which I knew a few words, he evidently understood the situation. Indeed, under the circumstances, words were scarcely necessary for such understanding. The man’s grin of comprehension pleased me. It was so human—so Aryanly human—that it was refreshing after the mask-like stolidity of both Chinese and Japanese to which for some time I had been accustomed; for these two peoples, however differing in other respects, are on this point at one. They equally regard it as a mark of the lowest breeding to allow any expression of emotion—of genuine feeling, of whatever kind—to be reflected in their features. Even the coolies, imitating their masters, have, as far as possible, adopted the code of the latter on this point. All wear a mask that is seldom, or never, dropped. The seban, however, are not trained in Confucian ethics; hence the play of joy and sorrow, of amusement and of other emotions, on their more mobile features.

The expression of that particular seban, at the moment, was one of mixed amusement and sympathy. I am afraid that he rather enjoyed the plight of the cowering Chinaman. For generations the Chinese-Formosans and the aborigines of the island have been hereditary foes. However, I made him understand that my guide—or the one who was supposed to act in that capacity—was not to be molested. The seban nodded in comprehension. Then by signs he made me understand that he would—if I so chose—carry me in safety to his side of the water, which he had seen I was trying to reach. My clothing was drenched, I was chilled to the bone, my fingers I found too numb to move. I realized that my hold on the boulder could not last much longer. The Chinese I knew could not be depended upon in the proximity of the seban. Indeed, the poor wretch (the Chinese) I feared could scarcely manage to get himself out of the water, so completely had he been unnerved by the unexpected appearance of the seban—one belonging, it seemed, to a sub-tribe which he had especial reason to fear. For me it was a choice between trusting myself unaided to the torrent—and, in my benumbed condition, I knew I should soon be swept off my feet—and accepting the offer of the friendly seban. Naturally I chose the latter alternative.

When I signalled the seban my acceptance of his offer, he again grinned, took his knife from his loin-cloth and, holding it out of reach of the water, stepped into the stream, which swirled about his loins. I was glad enough to slip from my precarious hold on the boulder to the shoulders of the seban, who, true to his word—as in my dealings with the aborigines I found them always to be with those who have not betrayed them—carried me safely to the shore. Then still holding me on his shoulders, for I was too benumbed with cold and fatigue to walk, he strode on to a fire a little distance away, around which a number of his people were gathered. I learned later that these were members of a village community higher up in the mountains, whose bamboo huts had been destroyed by recent torrential rains. The homeless people were camping temporarily near the foot of a great tree, in the branches of which the spirits of their ancestors were supposed to dwell; also the spirits of the Great White Fathers of Long Ago—obviously the seventeenth-century Dutch—to whom the priestesses of the demolished village had been offering constant prayers. My appearance among them was hailed as an answer to their prayers, which accounted for the fact, as I also later learned, that when I was carried into camp—a very benumbed and bedraggled goddess—both men and women fell on their faces, and some of the children fled shrieking in terror.

I have since wondered whether perhaps these two chance occurrences—one a storm at sea, the other a torrential rainfall in the mountains, which by accident brought me among two divisions of the aborigines, one those of the east coast, the other those of the northern mountains, in the fashion that I have described—had not something to do with the very friendly relations which existed between these “Naturvölker” and me. Certainly the rôle of the sea-born (or river-born) goddess was not one that I was anxious to play, or that I had in mind, on either occasion. But a few chance words of some of the people—after I had learned a little of their language—led me to believe that the fact that I had “come to them out of the water” contributed to the esteem in which I was held; made certain in their minds the conviction that I was the spirit of one of the beloved white rulers of old, returned from the elements. (Why a spirit should choose this particularly uncomfortable method of approach—or of return—was not quite clear.) That I had come among a matripotestal people probably accounted for the fact that none of the aborigines seemed to think it strange that the spirit of one of the Great White Fathers should choose to reappear in the body of a woman. That such a spirit had returned seemed to be the general supposition among the northern tribes. Among those of the south there were some who held, apparently, that a Goddess of the Sea (or “from out of the sea”) had come to them—one to whom semi-annual offerings were customarily made.

When I realized the reason for the regard in which I was held by these people a sense of the ludicrous overcame me. School-day struggles with Virgil—buried in some region of the subconscious—were recalled; these even more strongly when one day I overheard a discussion among some of the tribespeople regarding my walk. I neither hobbled as did the Chinese-Formosan women, nor did I walk with the toed-in, short steps of the Japanese women (a few of the coast aborigines had seen Japanese women).

“Feet strangely covered, stone-defying. With no burden on her back, freely, with long steps, she walks, as must the females of the gods from whom we spring.”

“Et vera incessu patuit dea,” etc. Curiously similar the idea, though the words in which this time it was voiced were those of this strange Malay dialect.... The childhood of the world! Still in odd comers it exists, and can, with seeking, be found.

CHAPTER IV

THE PRESENT POPULATION OF FORMOSA

Hakkas and other Chinese-Formosans, Japanese, Aborigines.

As regards this particular odd corner of the world, naturally, in my peregrinations about the island, I picked up a certain amount of information. Among other things, I learned that those who make up the vast majority of the population of the island at the present time, and who are known as “Formosans”—this not only among themselves, but who also are so called (i.e. Taiwan-jin, “men of Formosa”) by their Japanese conquerors, and by Europeans resident in the island—are Chinese; that is, descendants of the immigrants from the mainland of China. Of these, between 80,000 and 90,000 are Hakkas, originally from the Kwantung Province of China—a people rather despised by the other Chinese.[42] The remaining nearly 3,000,000 “Formosans” are descendants of Chinese from the Fukien Province of the mainland, and most of them speak the Amoy dialect of Chinese, though a few speak the dialect of Foochow.

The Japanese, who since the treaty of Shimonoseki (1895) have been masters of the island, number between 120,000 and 125,000, and are constantly increasing in population. All official positions, and those of authority of any sort, are in the hands of the Japanese as is now all the wealth of the island.

The aboriginal population it is naturally more difficult to estimate. But the number of the aborigines at the present time cannot, in reality, exceed 105,000. Personally I doubt if a carefully taken census would reveal that number.[43] Certainly the aboriginal population is steadily diminishing, and all tribes are being driven constantly farther up into the mountains; or, in the case of certain tribes—such as the Ami and Paiwan—are being more rigidly confined to the precipitous, barren east coast. The whole of the island—including the marvellously fertile great plains on the west side of the central mountain range—was naturally once in the hands of the aborigines. But during the Chinese dominion of the island, from the conquest of Koksinga (1662) to the close of the Sino-Japanese War (1895), the aboriginal population was—if all reports and all records, including those of the Chinese themselves, speak truly—treated with systematic cruelty and with ruthless greed and rapacity. Sometimes by wholesale slaughter, sometimes by fraud and cunning, the Chinese gradually pushed the aborigines back into the central mountain range, or, as the Japanese to-day are doing, confined them to the sterile, ill-watered east coast, and thus gained for themselves possession of the whole of the broad, level, western sea-board; and even of those valleys between the mountains where rice and tea could be made to grow. Chicanery was often cheaper than gunpowder. An aborigine would fancy a gun or a red blanket. A Chinaman would supply him with the commodity desired and would take in exchange, or more frequently “as security,” fertile fields. Naturally—to one who knows the habits of the aborigines—the “security” was seldom redeemed, and the Chinaman became the owner of the land.

If an effort were really made by an exceptionally industrious or far-seeing aborigine to redeem his land, some method was usually found by the Chinaman to thwart this effort. The land remained in Chinese hands.

Since 1895 all the land of agricultural value in the island has passed from the hands of the Chinese-Formosans into those of their Japanese conquerors; this usually by force and extortion, the Chinese having suffered at the hands of the Japanese, much as they had forced the aborigines to suffer at their hands during the preceding two hundred years.[44]

The well-being, or the reverse, of the aborigines has been little affected by the change of masters. On this point I should be contradicted by the Japanese, who would point out that they have introduced the eating, and—as far as this is possible in the mountains—the cultivation, of rice, instead of millet, among the aborigines. Also they would lay stress upon the fact that they have established among the aborigines schools for the “teaching of Japanese language, Japanese customs, and Japanese manners.” Apart, however, from wondering just how the displacement of millet by rice, as a staple of diet, and compulsory training in Japanese language and customs and Japanese “good manners” will be of benefit to the aborigine (the eating of white rice will probably give him berri-berri—as it has given this disease to so many of the Japanese—from which up to this time he has been spared by the eating of millet), one notes that the Japanese in their reports—official and otherwise—of the efforts of their Government in the direction of the “civilization of the aboriginal tribes” fail to remark upon the fact that, because of their establishment of camphor “factories”[45] (see illustration) throughout the mountains, they are encroaching further upon the territory of the aborigines than ever the Chinese did. Also they fail to remark upon the fact that bombs are dropped from aeroplanes upon villages of the aborigines, in order to impress the latter with the omnipotence of the Japanese Government, and with that of its Divine Emperor.[46]

“FACTORY” FOR EXTRACTING CAMPHOR IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FORMOSA.

The work is done by Chinese-Formosan coolies under the supervision of Japanese officials. The manufacture of camphor, like that of opium, is a Japanese Government monopoly.

As a matter of fact, the only people ever dominant in Formosa who seem to have treated the aborigines with either kindness or equity were the Dutch during their thirty-seven years’ over-lordship in the seventeenth century. The story of this period of just and kindly rule in their island has been handed down among the aborigines from parent to child and still remains a tradition among them—one of a Golden Age long past; just how long of course they have no idea, but in the time of “many grandfathers back.” There is a tradition that the Dutch even taught the aborigines to read, and also to write their own dialect—this in the “sign-marks of the gods” (Roman script). Old documents written by their ancestors are said to have existed among them even a generation ago. These are reported to have been confiscated by the Japanese, as part of a systematic and far-reaching attempt to eradicate the memory of any culture other than Japanese. Whether or not this story of the confiscation of old documents be true I do not know, but certainly during my two years’ residence in Formosa I was not able to find a single document of this sort among the aborigines.

Only the memory of past culture given by “fair gods who came over the sea in white-winged boats”—or, as some of the tribes have it, “came up out of the sea”—remains.

It seems that there exists among some of the tribes a belief that a reincarnation of a former “Great White Chief”—presumably Father Candidius, a Dutch priest, who devoted his life to the care, spiritual and temporal, of the aboriginal people—will return and help them throw off the yoke of their Chinese and Japanese conquerors.[47] Hence the welcome which a fair-haired, blue-eyed person receives from them, and the reverence with which he—or she—is treated: their appreciation of such a one being in rather marked contrast with the point of view of both Chinese and Japanese, who speak of a fair-haired—or even brown-haired—blue-eyed man or woman as a “red-haired, green-eyed barbarian.”

PART II

MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF THE ABORIGINAL TRIBES

CHAPTER V

RACIAL STOCK

Physical Appearance pointing to Indoneso-Malay Origin—Linguistic Evidence and Evidence of Handicraft—Tribal Divisions of the Aborigines—Moot Question as to the Existence of a Pigmy People in the Interior of the Island.

While the aborigines are divided into a number of tribes, and are also grouped—by the Chinese—according to the “greenness” or “ripeness” of their barbarity, yet they may, collectively speaking, be regarded as belonging to the Indoneso-Malay stock, many tribes being strikingly similar in appearance to certain tribes in the Philippine Islands. Hamay, writing under the head of “Les Races Malaïques” in L’Anthropologie for 1896, says that the aborigines of Formosa recalled to him the Igorotes of Northern Luzon (Philippines) as well as the Malays of Singapore.

Regarding the Malays of Singapore, I cannot speak from personal observation, as I have not been in Singapore; but as I spent six months in the Philippines, shortly before going to Formosa,[48] I am able to confirm Hamay’s statement as to the resemblance between Filipinos and Formosan aborigines. As regards the tribe of Igorotes, this resemblance extends also, to a certain degree, to social customs and religious beliefs. Considering physical resemblance alone, however, I should say that this is more striking between the Formosan aborigines and the Tagalogs of Luzon than between the former and the Igorotes—that is, where the Tagalogs are unmixed with Spanish blood. The resemblance between the Tagalogs and the Taiyal[49] tribe of northern Formosa is particularly striking as regards physical characteristics. The resemblance, however, ends here. The Tagalogs, as the result of Spanish influence, are so-called “Christians”; the Taiyal are not. The latter (Taiyal of Formosa) are a singularly chaste, honest, and fair-dealing people; the former (Tagalogs) are singularly—otherwise.

At least one Formosan tribe—the Ami, of the east coast—has a tradition that its forbears came “in boats across a great sea from an island somewhere in the south.” To this tradition I shall have occasion to refer again.

In connection with the racial affinities of the Formosan aborigines it is only fair to state that Arnold Schetelig says he “found to his great surprise that Polynesian and Maori skulls in the London College of Surgeons presented striking analogies with those collected by himself in Formosa.”

One can only surmise that the reason for the “great surprise” felt by Schetelig upon noting the resemblance between Polynesian and Formosan skulls was because he had previously stressed the fact of the linguistic similarity between modern Malay and the dialect spoken by the Formosan aborigines, and had gone on to point out the “remarkable harmony between speech and physical characteristics.” However, as, since the time that Schetelig wrote, kinship of race between Indonesian and Polynesian—or, at least, strong evidence pointing in the direction of a common origin—has been established, there need, at the present time, be no occasion for surprise; since Polynesian and Malay, or “Proto-Malay,” peoples doubtless sprang from a common stock, having its fountain-head in Indonesia.

Evidence which points strongly to an Indonesian origin of the aborigines of Formosa exists in certain of their articles of handicraft, notably the peculiar Indonesian form of loom, the nose-flute, and the musical bow. (To these I shall refer at greater length under the head of Arts and Crafts.) Also the custom of certain tribes—notably the Yami, of Botel Tobago—of building their houses on piles.[50] This in a climate, and under conditions, where there is no material need for such construction. When asked the reason for this, one gets the reply customary to any question that one may be foolish enough to ask as to the “reason why” of any custom whatsoever, viz. “Thus have our fathers done.”

To my mind, however, the strongest evidence showing Proto-Malay, rather than Chinese, Melanesian, or other affinity, is supplied by the language—considering the dialects collectively—of the aborigines.

MEN OF THE BUNUN TRIBE.

Japanese policemen in background.

YAMI TRIBESPEOPLE OF BOTEL TOBAGO IN FRONT OF “BACHELOR-HOUSE.”

I am aware that the evidence of linguistic affinity as in any way indicating that of race is rather disregarded by many anthropologists, on the ground that contact—commercial or otherwise—between peoples often affects linguistic interchange, or results in the introduction of words from the language of one people into that of another. With this I strongly agree, as regards different races living on the same continent (the different races of Africa being a case in point); or even as regards people living on neighbouring islands. With the Formosan aborigines, however, there has been no contact within historic times between themselves and other branches of the Malay or Indonesian race. They themselves are not a seafaring folk, and the people who have invaded their island—certainly since about the sixth century A.D., when Chinese records first speak of it, during the Sui Dynasty—have been successive waves of the Chinese themselves, the Dutch, the Spanish, possibly the Portuguese, and the Japanese. In spite of this fact, the language to which the Formosan dialects show closest affinity is Malay proper, that spoken on the Malay Peninsula, although there is some resemblance to that spoken in Java, judging from Malayan and Javanese words given in books, such as Wallace’s Malay Archipelago.

It has been estimated that about one-sixth of the words of the various Formosan dialects, i.e. those spoken by the different tribes, have a direct affinity with the Malayan language—that spoken by the Malays proper. With so large a proportion of words bearing a close resemblance, and taking into account the centuries-long isolation of the Formosan tribes—as regards contact with other Malay or Indonesian peoples—there can be little reasonable doubt that the languages have sprung from a common stock, as probably the races have done.

Regarding the tribal divisions of the aborigines, I shall mention the nine tribes into which they are now usually grouped—in the spelling of the names following the Japanese, rather than the Chinese, pronunciation, viz.: Taiyal, Saisett, Bunun, Tsuou, Tsarisen, Paiwan, Piyuma, Ami, and Yami. This is as nearly as the Japanese—or, for that matter the English—can imitate the pronunciation of the respective names by which these tribes-people call themselves. Each name seems merely to mean “Man” in the dialect of the tribe using it, except Ami (sometimes pronounced by themselves “Kami”), which means “Men of the North.” This is the tribe which has the tradition of having originally come from “somewhere in the south, across a great water.”

Mr. Ishii—the Japanese writer and lecturer on Formosa—mentions only seven tribes of aborigines, omitting the Tsarisen and Piyuma. This is according to the present Japanese system of grouping. They (the Japanese) say that it is because of “linguistic affinity,” i.e. because the dialects spoken by the Piyuma and Tsarisen resemble the tongue spoken by the Paiwan, that they group these tribes together. Perhaps! Certainly it is a fact that the tribes omitted from Japanese enumeration are rapidly disappearing; and their conquerors scarcely like to call attention to that fact. At any rate, Mr. Ishii is honest enough to admit that “the Piyuma possess a peculiar social organization and should be treated as separate from the Paiwan.” The Saisett is another tribe that is rapidly disappearing. Soon there will be only six tribes left to enumerate—that is, very soon. Soon, as history goes, there probably will be none.

The ethnological—or rather, ethnographical—map included in this book indicates the various areas in which the different tribes live, or over which they roam. However, the “Aiyu-sen” (military guard line) of the Japanese is gradually, but steadily, being drawn closer about the territory supposed to belong to the aborigines; and well within this territory—even in the mountain range, in which the aborigines were left undisturbed during the Chinese rule of the island—the Japanese Government has now established stations for cutting down camphor trees, and at some points machinery for extracting crude camphor, to be refined later in the great factory in Taihoku. The work at the “camphor stations” or “factories” in “savage territory” is done by Chinese-Formosan coolies under the direction of Japanese overseers. It is through this territory that the trolly (or toro) lines—referred to in Part I, page [69]—have been constructed, over which the man-propelled cars are pushed up the steep mountain-sides.

As the tribes now exist, I should consider the Taiyal, of the north, the largest, both in population and also as regards the territory over which its members roam.[51] Next to the Taiyal, the Ami, of the east coast, is the largest tribe, both in population and in extent of territory; next, the Paiwan, of the south. On this point—that of the relative size of population of the aboriginal tribes—I should be inclined to agree with the Bureau of Aboriginal Affairs (Japanese), of Formosa, rather than with Mr. Ishii, who considers the Paiwan the largest of the aboriginal tribes as regards population.

The Japanese usually speak of the “Savages of the North” and the “Savages of the South”; those “of the North” being the Taiyal—or “tattooed tribe,” so called because of the rather remarkable way in which the faces of these people are tattooed, of which I shall speak more in detail under another heading—together with the few remaining members of the Saisett tribe. In speaking of the Taiyal tribe, the “Report of the Control of the Aborigines in Formosa,” issued by the Japanese Government, says: “Their district [that of the Taiyal] comprises an area of about 500 square ri (2,977 square miles), with a population of about 30,000; but on account of the advancement of the guard-line in recent years, their district is gradually becoming less” (italics my own).

This statement as to the district of the Taiyal “gradually becoming less” (something which is acclaimed as being to the credit of the Japanese Government) might with equal truth be made regarding the territory of the other aboriginal tribes, those who are grouped together by the Japanese under the general term “Savages of the South,” about all of whom the cordon is gradually being drawn tighter.

The Taiyal is not only the largest and most powerful aboriginal tribe on the island, but it is also—perhaps for this reason—the boldest and least submissive. Most of the adult men of this tribe have upon their faces the tattoo-mark signifying that they have at least one human head to their credit. The other head-hunting tribes of the island are the Bunun and the Paiwan.

TAIYAL WOMAN (LEFT), A WOMAN LIVING AMONG THE TAIYAL TRIBE, BELIEVED TO BE PART PIGMY (RIGHT).

(See page [107].)

WOMAN OF THE YAMI TRIBE OF BOTEL TOBAGO.

(The tiny island just south of Formosa proper.) Note the difference of type, as compared with the more northern tribes.

In considering the divisions of the Formosan aborigines, it would be well for present-day investigators to guard against the error into which some European writers on the subject, in the early numbers of the China Review (1873-4), seem to have fallen—that is, the error of regarding the Chinese terms of Pepo-huan (

Regarding the latter point—physical characteristics: while, broadly speaking, all the aborigines of Formosa conform to the general “Malay type,” yet one who has been much among the different tribes can distinguish without much difficulty—quite apart from difference in tattoo-marking—between the tall, rather prognathous Taiyal of the north; the more mongoloid type of the Ami and Paiwan on the east coast; the handsomer, aquiline-nose type—approximating to that of certain tribes of the American Indians—of the central mountain-range Bunun; and the ever-smiling, gentler, darker Yami,[52] of Botel Tobago (Japanese “Koto Sho”), the tiny island just south of Formosa proper (see illustrations showing types of the different tribes).

To return for a moment to the Chinese system of classification—one based on various degrees of culture (from the Chinese point of view) existing among the aborigines: The Pepo-huan are about as non-existent in Formosa to-day as are the ancient Britons in present-day England. They—the Pepo-huan—formerly lived in the eastern plains, and the few who have not been exterminated have been amalgamated with the Chinese-Formosan population. The indefinite term of Sek-huan is sometimes applied to those members of the Ami and Paiwan tribes who have come most closely into contact with the Chinese. Under the term Chin-huan are included all the other tribes of the island.

Both Keane (in Man Past and Present) and T. L. Bullock, formerly British Consul in Takao[53] (in China Review, 1873), speak of a portion of the Sek-huan as being of light colour, compared with the other aborigines, as having remarkably long and prominent teeth, large, coarse mouth, prognathous jaw, and as having a weak constitution. Both writers suspect a strain of Dutch blood in these people—though just why weakness of constitution should be associated with Dutch descent I do not know. Apparently weakness of constitution has led to non-survival in a country, and under conditions, where the law of “survival of the fittest” holds rigidly true. Certainly I could find no trace of these people—taken as a group—either in the mountains or on the east coast. Half a century makes a great difference in an aboriginal people, especially when contending against stronger, conquering races.

The only extant people among the aborigines who can truthfully be described as having a “fair complexion”—as far as I could discover—are a subdivision, or local group, of the Taiyal, called Taruko. The Taruko group live within a restricted territory in the north-eastern part of the island, just behind the famous high cliffs. Not only are the Taruko of lighter colour than the other aborigines, but they have more regular and more clearly cut features. Ishii states that “they [the Taruko] are believed to be the oldest inhabitants of the island.” Of this I, personally, could find no confirmation, though Mr. Ishii may have good grounds for making the statement. At any rate, there is a tradition, both among themselves and among the neighbouring Taiyal, that the Taruko originally lived on the western side of the great mountains, and within the past few generations have migrated to their present habitat. If this be the case it is possible that they may have a strain of Dutch blood. Certainly they are famous for their intrepid bravery and unbroken spirit. They came under Japanese domination only in 1914; it is said they were never under that of the Chinese. These people hold a myth as to their origin, differing from that held by the other aborigines. Of this I shall speak under the head of Religion.

Before leaving the subject of the ethnology of the aborigines, reference must be made to the moot question as to whether or not there exists in Formosa a pigmy people similar to the Aetas of the Philippines. Regarding this most interesting point, I can only say that I was never able to discover a race of pigmies—a tribe or group, however small. But I did find, while in the territory of the Taiyal, isolated instances of individuals with apparently a pigmy strain. This particularly in the case of certain women—three or four. I do not refer, of course, only to the difference in size between these women and the Taiyal women—or the women of any of the other tribes; but to certain characteristics of physique in which they radically differ. For one thing, the shape of the head is distinctly different, that of these very small women being more negroid than Malay, and curiously infantile even for the negroid type of skull—i.e. with disproportionately bulging forehead. Also the whole shape of the body is more that of a child than is the case with most adult women, either among Formosan aborigines or others. The opposition between the great toe and the other toes is more marked than with the other aborigines. And—perhaps most significant feature of all—the hair of these women is distinctly “crinkly,” whereas that of the other aborigines of the main island, as of all Malay peoples, is absolutely straight—a fact of which the small women are evidently ashamed.[54]

The colour of these pigmy women—if such they may be called—is, however, not as dark as that of the Philippine Aetas or the Andamanese Islanders. On the contrary, it is rather lighter than that of the surrounding tribes-people.

Unfortunately, I did not take measurements of these small women—in fact, I had no instruments for accurately doing this—but I do not think their height can be over four feet two or three inches. An interesting point in connection with them is that the other aborigines among whom they live regard these women as being “different.” They themselves—those whom I saw—were taciturn and seemed averse to expressing themselves. Also curious, in a tribe where few divorces occur and seemingly little marital infelicity, all these tiny women whom I personally knew were divorced or separated from their husbands—Taiyal men; “mutual incompatibility” apparently being the cause.

What the true explanation is of the existence of these “pigmean” women, differing in colour, in features, and in physique from those of the surrounding tribe, I do not know. It is possible of course that the few whom I saw were merely anomalies—dwarf individuals of the tribe in the midst of whom they lived. But this would scarcely account for the difference in colour, still less for that in the character of the hair, even if it did for the more infantile type of cranium and of general physique. It must be remembered that these individuals referred to live in a zone through which the Tropic of Cancer runs; consequently they may be exemplifications of the theory sometimes put forward that every race living in the tropics has its duplicate pigmy race. Or it may be—and to me this seems more probable—that these few very small and dissimilar women living among the Taiyal represent the remainder of a pigmy people, now almost extinct, of whom all the men have been killed, and of whom but a few of the women still survive. And as these few (certainly those with whom I came into contact) seem childless, it is obvious that within the very near future there will be no representatives remaining—that is, if this last explanation which I have suggested be the true one. This is one of the many points in connection with Formosan ethnology which would well repay further investigation.

It may be added that the speech of the women referred to—when they can be induced to speak at all—seems more filled with guttural “clicks” than is that of the full-blooded Taiyal men and women.

MAN OF TAIYAL TRIBE, AND WOMAN LIVING AMONG THE TAIYAL.

This woman is suspected of having a strain of pigmy blood. Note difference of features, and difference in the shape of head and face.

AUTHOR’S SECRETARY MAKING NOTES OF TAIYAL DIALECT.

CHAPTER VI

SOCIAL ORGANIZATION

Head-hunting and associated Customs—“Mother-right” and Age-grade Systems—Property Rights—Sex Relations.

The social organization of the Formosan aborigines presents many points of interest, but the four which most forcibly impress the visitor or student of aboriginal customs, and which, taken together, constitute a somewhat unique system, are the following:

One, or more, of these customs naturally exists among primitive peoples in various parts of the world; it is the combination of these, welded into a well-defined social organization, that makes the latter unique.

That “head-hunting” should be included under the head of “social organization” may seem perhaps a contradiction in terms—head-hunting not being exactly a social custom. I think, however, that anyone who has lived among a head-hunting tribe will realize how closely this custom is interwoven with the fabric of their whole social organization. It regulates the social and political standing of the men of the tribe; it is directly connected with marriage—no head, no wife; and is reflected in the games, the songs, and the dances of the people. Moreover head-hunting is regulated by a code as rigid as the code of “an officer and a gentleman” in so-called civilized society—and is rather less frequently broken.

Deniker, in speaking of the Dyaks of Borneo (see The Races of Man, p. 251), aptly remarks: “A number of acts regarded as culpable by the codes of all civilized states are yet tolerated, and even extolled, in certain particular circumstances; such as the taking of life, for example, in legitimate defence, in a duel, during war, or as a capital punishment. Thus, in recalling examples of this kind, we shall be less severe on a Dyak who cuts off a man’s head solely that he may carry this trophy to his bride; for if he did otherwise he would be repulsed by all.” The same charity for which Deniker pleads in judgment of the Dyak may well be extended to the Formosan aborigine, who never thus seeks private vengeance, whatever his provocation, on one of his fellow-tribesmen,[55] private disputes being always laid before the chief—male or female—of the tribe or before the chief-priestess, or a convocation of the elderly women of the tribal group. Also when a Formosan has voluntarily given his word to refrain from head-hunting, it is said—and my personal observation would tend to confirm this—that he never breaks it.[56]

The tribes among whom head-hunting still exists are the Taiyal, the Bunun, and the Paiwan, though among the Bunun and the Paiwan to a lesser extent at the present time than among the Taiyal. Among all the other Chin-huan tribes it existed within the memory of the older generation still living.

Among the Taiyal tribe—the great tribe of the northern part of the island—one can tell at a glance who has “a head to his credit,” by the presence, or absence, of the tattoo-mark on the chin. Occasionally one sees the insignia of the successful head-hunter tattooed on the chin of young boys. This indicates that these boys are the sons of famous head-hunters and that their hands have been laid upon heads decapitated by their fathers; or that they have carried these heads in net-bags upon their backs. This, by tribal code, entitles them to the successful head-hunter’s tattoo-mark. Incidentally, it must be understood that while the Taiyal are—largely because of their peculiar form of tattooing—usually regarded as a single tribe, they do not so regard themselves, but are composed of a number of sub-groups (it is said twenty-six), who regard themselves as separate units; and who consequently go on head-hunting expeditions against each other.

When a boy attains maturity he is supposed to celebrate this by going on his first head-hunting expedition.[57] Usually several boys of about the same age go together on their first expedition, accompanied by older and more experienced warriors of the same group, or sub-tribe. Before going on such an expedition an omen is always consulted—usually a bird-omen, of which I shall speak more fully under the head of Religion—and it depends upon the favourable or unfavourable indication of the omen as to whether the expedition is undertaken forthwith or is postponed. The Taiyal consider it more auspicious to set forth on such an expedition with an odd number of men. They seem to think the chances will be greater of securing a head, which will count as a man, and thus make up the “lucky even number” with which they hope to return to the village.

During the absence of the warriors on one of these expeditions, the women of the group will abstain from weaving, or even from handling the material—a sort of coarse native hemp—which customarily they weave into clothing. Except for the studious tending of the fires in their respective huts—for if these were allowed to go out, it would be considered a most evil omen—they do little until they hear in the distance the cries which herald the return of the warriors. Then, depending upon whether the cries denote victory or defeat, the women prepare either for a festival or for a time of lamentation.

If the warriors have been successful—that is, if they have returned with one or more heads of slain enemies—a great feast is prepared, and partaken of by the men and women together. In this respect Formosan feasts differ from the victorious warrior-feasts of many other primitive communities, at which only the men are the revellers. This difference also distinguishes the dance that follows the feast, in which both men and women participate, the Formosan aborigines forming an exception to the rule laid down by Deniker that Malay men do not dance. As in feasting and dancing, so do the women also take part in the drinking of wine—made by themselves from millet—and in the smoking of tobacco. Among the Taiyal, as among most of the other tribes, both men and women smoke bamboo pipes—more of the size and shape of those smoked by Europeans than are the tiny pipes smoked by the Chinese and Japanese. These are, however, for some reason which they could not, or would not, explain, often held upside-down while being smoked, the tobacco being very tightly “jammed” into the bowl to prevent its falling out.

Among the coast Ami, only the men smoke pipes, the bowls of which are often decorated with bits of metal—bartered from the Chinese—in imitation of the features of a human face. The women of this tribe smoke huge cigars.

How tobacco was introduced into Formosa, where now it grows practically wild—the leaves being gathered by the women—is a mystery. Probably, however, it was first brought to the island by the Dutch; and, once having been planted in a soil favouring its growth, it continued to flourish and to spread, in spite of what in Europe and in America would be called lack of cultivation. Now smoking is universal among all the tribes of the main island of Formosa. Among the Yami alone—of Botel Tobago—it is, up to the present time, unknown; as is also, apparently, the drinking of any intoxicating liquor. Another thing that differentiates these gentle people from their neighbours of the main island, just to the north of them, is the fact that none of them are head-hunters.

TAIYAL TRIBESPEOPLE.

SKULL-SHELF IN A TAIYAL VILLAGE.

To return for a moment to the present chief head-hunting tribe, the Taiyal. At the time of feasting and dancing in celebration of a victory, the head of the victim is placed on the “skull-shelf” of the village—being often the last addition to a pile of others—and food and millet-wine are placed in front of it, food being sometimes inserted into its mouth. The chief (often a woman), or high-priestess, of the village offers to the last-decapitated head an invitation to the following effect: “O warrior, you are welcome to our village and to our feast! Eat and drink, and ask your brothers to come and join you, and to eat and drink with us also.”

This invocation is supposed to have a magical effect in bringing about other victories, and thus adding more heads to the skull-shelf (see illustration).

The knives with which the heads of enemies have been cut off are held in great reverence by all the tribes. Among one tribe—the Paiwan—it is believed that the spirits of ancestors dwell in certain knives, which have been in the possession of the tribe for several generations.

Among the Paiwan, and also the Bunun, the successful warrior is denoted, not as among the Taiyal by certain tattoo-marking, but by the wearing of a certain kind of cap which is made by the women of the tribe. The Paiwan, whose domain formerly extended all the way to Cape Garanbi, had—and have still in certain quarters—the reputation of being cannibals, as well as head-hunters. A statement to this effect is made in the Encyclopædia Britannica (see article under the head of “Formosa”). This, however, I believe to be a mistake; as did also George Taylor, for many years light-house keeper at South Cape (Garanbi), under the Chinese regime; one who probably knew the aborigines more intimately than any white man since the time of the Dutch occupation. The superficial observer, seeing a pile of skulls in a native village—often several skulls over, or at the side of, the doorway of a chief’s house[58]—is apt hastily to assume that the villagers must necessarily be cannibals. But, while head-hunters certainly, I do not believe that the Formosan aborigines are, or ever have been, cannibals.

Among the Paiwan a tradition exists that in “days of old,” when their territory extended to the sea-coast, “great boats” often came near their coast, from which men landed; and that these men were in the habit of capturing and carrying away numbers of the Paiwan people. Whether these “great boats” were Chinese junks or Spanish ships from the Philippines, I do not know. At any rate, among the Paiwan, the killing of strangers—except those with fair hair and blue eyes (which would indicate that the kidnapping invaders of the past were not Dutch)—is alleged to be an act of self-defence, to prevent their being carried away, “as their fathers were.” On what foundation of truth—if any—this tradition is built, I do not know.

In this connection also the Paiwan claim that once, in those olden days, when strangers were landing from one of the large ships, they themselves (the Paiwan) took refuge in a “secret place among the hills,” but they were betrayed by the crowing of a cock, which revealed their hiding-place to the strangers, who killed many of them and carried others away by force to their ship. This they give as their reason for never eating chicken.

But as a neighbouring tribe, the Ami, also never eat chicken, and assign for their abstention an entirely different reason—viz. that “souls of good and gentle people dwell in chickens”—it is not possible to give too great credence to Paiwan tradition, or to their own explanation of their custom; this being one of the many instances where various “reasons” are given by a primitive people in attempted explanation of a long-established custom.

In passing, it may be mentioned that it is only among the coast tribes, such as Paiwan, Piyuma, and Ami, that the raising of chickens, for the sake of their eggs, has been introduced—apparently by the Chinese.

Among the Paiwan, as among the other aboriginal tribes, including the Taiyal of the north, there exists the custom of two great festivals during the year, one at seed-time, the other at harvest-time. During these twice-yearly festivals there is much feasting, much dancing, and, unfortunately, much drinking of millet wine. That which distinguishes the Paiwan festivities, however, from those of the other tribes is that once every five years on these festive days the Paiwan play a game called Mavayaiya. This game consists of a contest between several warriors, each trying to impale on a bamboo lance a bundle—now made of bark—which is tossed into the air, the one who catches it on the point of his lance being considered the victor. Tradition among them asserts that in olden days it was a human head—that of a slain enemy—which was thus tossed about, a mere bundle of bark being considered a poor substitute. But Japanese laws against head-hunting are strict, for Japanese themselves have suffered from these expeditions—punitive usually—and knives, even sacred ones, are no match against modern rifles, or against bombs thrown from aeroplanes.

Similarly with the neighbouring tribe—now a small one—that of the Piyuma. On a festival day, held annually, a monkey—one of those with which the woods of Formosa are filled—is tied before the bachelor dormitory, and killed by the young men with arrows. After it is killed the village chief throws a little native wine three times towards the sky, and three times on the ground, near the body of the dead monkey. Singing, dancing, and feasting follow. The old people of the Piyuma tribe explain that in the “good days of old,” when their tribe was a large and powerful one, a prisoner, captured from some other tribe, was always sacrificed on these festal occasions, but now they—like the Paiwan, with their Mavayaiya—have to be satisfied with an inferior substitute. It seems that one of the reasons why a monkey is considered so particularly inferior a substitute for a man is that the former can at its death bear no message to the spirits of the ancestors of those who slay it. In the good old days every arrow that was shot into the body of the man bore with it a message to the spirit of the ancestor of the man who shot the arrow. Apparently it was regarded as an obligation, one that could not be evaded, on the part of the victim, to deliver this message—rather these many messages—immediately upon his arrival in the spirit-world.

Even among the Paiwan head-hunting is on the decline, being much less practised by this tribe to-day than among the Taiyal. Many of the honours which were formerly paid to the successful Paiwan head-hunter are now paid to the successful hunter of game, and the latter is now even wearing the cap of distinction at one time reserved exclusively for the former.

In game hunting the aborigines use either the old guns, obtained from the Chinese by barter, long ago, or—in the cases where these guns have been confiscated by the Japanese on the ground of their owners being “dangerous savages”—they have returned to the use of bows and arrows such as were used by their ancestors before guns were introduced among them. The bow is simple, usually made of wood of the catalpa tree, the bow-string being made of the tough “China grass,” which grows on the island. The arrow is made of bamboo, the arrow-head now being of iron, this being pounded out from any piece of scrap-iron which the tribes-people can obtain by barter.

An interesting feature of Formosan archery is that the arrows are not feathered, as Japanese arrows are; also that in shooting the arrow, this is always placed on the left side of the bow, whereas it is placed on the right side by both Chinese and Japanese.

So much for the rather unpleasant subject of head-hunting, and those customs which are associated with, or have sprung from, it.