Passing on to the Philippine Islands, we meet there with the Ahetas, who, like
the Orang-Lauts, have no religious system, but, unlike the Orang-Lauts, cherish
at least a religious sentiment. It appears that they have learned from—or have
taught—the Tanguianes, a brave race dwelling in the vicinity, the practice of
worshipping—for a day—the trunk of a distorted tree, or a fragment of rock, in
which they trace some fancied resemblance to an animal. Then they turn away
from it, and think no more about gods until they encounter another strange and
fantastical form, for the existence of which they are unable to account: this, in
turn, they make the object of a fugitive devotion. For the dead their reverence is
pathetic. Year after year they visit their graves, with as much fidelity as a
Christian mourner, though without the Christian’s faith in a future reunion, and
place there a modest offering of tobacco and betel. The bows and arrows of the
departed are suspended above his grave on the day of interment, and the Ahetas
fondly believe that every night he rises from his resting-place to pursue the
shadowy hunt in the haunted glades of the forest.
In the case of an aged person afflicted with a mortal illness, they adopt too often
a summary procedure, not waiting for him to die before they bury him. But no
sooner has the body been deposited in the grave, than it becomes imperative,
according to their traditions, that his death should be avenged; and, accordingly,
the warriors of the tribe sally forth, with lance and arrow, to slay the first living
creature they encounter,—whether man, or stag, or wild hog, or buffalo. When
thus in quest of an expiatory victim, they take the precaution of breaking off the
young shoots of the shrubs as they pass by, and leave the broken ends hanging in
the direction of their roots, as a warning to travellers or neighbours to shun the
path they are taking; for were one of their own people to be the first to come
across the avengers, they dare not suffer him to escape any more than
Agamemnon could spare his daughter Iphigenia. As she suffered for her father’s
vow, so must the ill-fated Aheta suffer for the custom of his tribe.
Their superiority to many savage races is attested by their faithfulness in
marriage; they practise monogamy. When a young man has chosen his future
partner, his friends or relatives ask the consent of their parents, which is never
refused. The marriage day is fixed, and in the morning, before sunrise, the
maiden is despatched into the forest, where she conceals herself or not,
according to her inclinations towards her suitor. An hour’s grace is allowed, and
the young man then goes in search of her: if he succeed in finding her, and