THE MAN-EATERS
AND
OTHER ODD PEOPLE.

A POPULAR DESCRIPTION OF

SINGULAR RACES OF MAN.

BY

CAPT. MAYNE REID,

AUTHOR OF “THE DESERT HOME,” “THE BUSH-BOYS,” ETC.

With Illustrations.

NEW YORK:

THOMAS R. KNOX & CO.,

813 Broadway.

1884.

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1860, by

TICKNOR AND FIELDS,

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1884, by

THOMAS R. KNOX & CO.,

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

New York, January 1st, 1869.

Messrs. Fields, Osgood & Co.:—

I accept the terms offered, and hereby concede to you the exclusive right of publication, in the United States, of all my juvenile Tales of Adventure, known as Boys’ Novels.

MAYNE REID.

TROW’S

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,

NEW YORK.

MEMOIR OF MAYNE REID.

No one who has written books for the young during the present century ever had so large a circle of readers as Captain Mayne Reid, or ever was so well fitted by circumstances to write the books by which he is chiefly known. His life, which was an adventurous one, was ripened with the experience of two Continents, and his temperament, which was an ardent one, reflected the traits of two races. Irish by birth, he was American in his sympathies with the people of the New World, whose acquaintance he made at an early period, among whom he lived for years, and whose battles he helped to win. He was probably more familiar with the Southern and Western portion of the United States forty years ago than any native-born American of that time. A curious interest attaches to the life of Captain Reid, but it is not of the kind that casual biographers dwell upon. If he had written it himself it would have charmed thousands of readers, who can now merely imagine what it might have been from the glimpses of it which they obtain in his writings. It was not passed in the fierce light of publicity, but in that simple, silent obscurity which is the lot of most men, and is their happiness, if they only knew it.

Briefly related, the life of Captain Reid was as follows: He was born in 1818, in the north of Ireland, the son of a Presbyterian clergyman, who was a type of the class which Goldsmith has described so freshly in the “Deserted Village,” and was highly thought of for his labors among the poor of his neighborhood. An earnest, reverent man, to whom his calling was indeed a sacred one, he designed his son Mayne for the ministry, in the hope, no doubt, that he would be his successor. But nature had something to say about that, as well as his good father. He began to study for the ministry, but it was not long before he was drawn in another direction. Always a great reader, his favorite books were descriptions of travel in foreign lands, particularly those which dealt with the scenery, the people, and the resources of America. The spell which these exercised over his imagination, joined to a love of adventure which was inherent in his temperament, and inherited, perhaps with his race, determined his career. At the age of twenty he closed his theological tomes, and girding up his loins with a stout heart he sailed from the shores of the Old World for the New. Following the spirit in his feet he landed at New Orleans, which was probably a more promising field for a young man of his talents than any Northern city, and was speedily engaged in business. The nature of this business is not stated, further than it was that of a trader; but whatever it was it obliged this young Irishman to make long journeys into the interior of the country, which was almost a terra incognita. Sparsely settled, where settled at all, it was still clothed in primeval verdure—here in the endless reach of savannas, there in the depth of pathless woods, and far away to the North and the West in those monotonous ocean-like levels of land for which the speech of England has no name—the Prairies. Its population was nomadic, not to say barbaric, consisting of tribes of Indians whose hunting grounds from time immemorial the region was; hunters and trappers, who had turned their backs upon civilization for the free, wild life of nature; men of doubtful or dangerous antecedents, who had found it convenient to leave their country for their country’s good; and scattered about hardy pioneer communities from Eastern States, advancing waves of the great sea of emigration which is still drawing the course of empire westward. Travelling in a country like this, and among people like these, Mayne Reid passed five years of his early manhood. He was at home wherever he went, and never more so than when among the Indians of the Red River territory, with whom he spent several months, learning their language, studying their customs, and enjoying the wild and beautiful scenery of their camping grounds. Indian for the time, he lived in their lodges, rode with them, hunted with them, and night after night sat by their blazing camp-fires listening to the warlike stories of the braves and the quaint legends of the medicine men. There was that in the blood of Mayne Reid which fitted him to lead this life at this time, and whether he knew it or not it educated his genius as no other life could have done. It familiarized him with a large extent of country in the South and West; it introduced him to men and manners which existed nowhere else; and it revealed to him the secrets of Indian life and character.

There was another side, however, to Mayne Reid than that we have touched upon, and this, at the end of five years, drew him back to the average life of his kind. We find him next in Philadelphia, where he began to contribute stories and sketches of travel to the newspapers and magazines. Philadelphia was then the most literate city in the United States, the one in which a clever writer was at once encouraged and rewarded. Frank and warm-hearted, he made many friends there among journalists and authors. One of these friends was Edgar Allan Poe, whom he often visited at his home in Spring Garden, and concerning whom years after, when he was dead, he wrote with loving tenderness.

The next episode in the career of Mayne Reid was not what one would expect from a man of letters, though it was just what might have been expected from a man of his temperament and antecedents. It grew out of the time, which was warlike, and it drove him into the army with which the United States speedily crushed the forces of the sister Republic—Mexico. He obtained a commission, and served throughout the war with great bravery and distinction. This stormy episode ended with a severe wound, which he received in storming the heights of Chapultepec—a terrible battle which practically ended the war.

A second episode of a similar character, but with a more fortunate conclusion, occurred about four years later. It grew out of another war, which, happily for us, was not on our borders, but in the heart of Europe, where the Hungarian race had risen in insurrection against the hated power of Austria. Their desperate valor in the face of tremendous odds excited the sympathy of the American people, and fired the heart of Captain Mayne Reid, who buckled on his sword once more, and sailed from New York with a body of volunteers to aid the Hungarians in their struggles for independence. They were too late, for hardly had they reached Paris before they learned that all was over: Görgey had surrendered at Arad, and Hungary was crushed. They were at once dismissed, and Captain Reid betook himself to London.

The life of the Mayne Reid in whom we are most interested—Mayne Reid, the author—began at this time, when he was in his thirty-first year, and ended only on the day of his death, October 21, 1883. It covered one third of a century, and was, when compared with that which had preceded it, uneventful, if not devoid of incident. There is not much that needs be told—not much, indeed, that can be told—in the life of a man of letters like Captain Mayne Reid. It is written in his books. Mayne Reid was one of the best known authors of his time—differing in this from many authors who are popular without being known—and in the walk of fiction which he discovered for himself he is an acknowledged master. His reputation did not depend upon the admiration of the millions of young people who read his books, but upon the judgment of mature critics, to whom his delineations of adventurous life were literature of no common order. His reputation as a story-teller was widely recognized on the Continent, where he was accepted as an authority in regard to the customs of the pioneers and the guerilla warfare of the Indian tribes, and was warmly praised for his freshness, his novelty, and his hardy originality. The people of France and Germany delighted in this soldier-writer. “There was not a word in his books which a school-boy could not safely read aloud to his mother and sisters.” So says a late English critic, to which another adds, that if he has somewhat gone out of fashion of late years, the more’s the pity for the school-boy of the period. What Defoe is in Robinson Crusoe—realistic idyl of island solitude—that, in his romantic stories of wilderness life, is his great scholar, Captain Mayne Reid.

R. H. Stoddard.

CONTENTS.

THE MAN-EATERS OF THE FEEGEE ISLANDS.

Have I a reader who has not heard of the “King of the Cannibal Islands?” I think I may take it for granted that there is not one in my large circle of boy-readers who has not heard of that royal anthropophagist, that “mighty king” who,—

“in one hut,

Had fifty wives as black as sut,

And fifty of a double smut—

That King of the Cannibal Islands.”

And yet, strange as it may appear, the old song was no exaggeration—neither as regards the number of his wives, nor any other particular relating to King “Musty-fusty-shang.” On the contrary, it presents a picture of the life and habits of his polygamous majesty that is, alas! too ludicrously like the truth.

Though the king of the Cannibal Islands has been long known by reputation, people never had any very definite idea in what quarter of the world his majesty’s dominions lay. Being, as the name implies, an island-kingdom, it was to be looked for of course, in some part of the ocean; and the Pacific Ocean or Great South Sea was generally regarded as that in which it was situated; but whether it was the Tonga Islands, or the Marquesas, or the Loo-Choos, or the Soo-loos—or some other group, that was entitled to the distinction of being the man-eating community, with the man-eating king at their head—was not very distinctly ascertained up to a recent period. On this head there is uncertainty no longer. Though in several groups of South-Sea Islands the horrible propensity is known to exist, yet the man-eaters, par excellence, the real bona-fide followers of the habit, are the Feegees. Beyond doubt these are the greatest cannibals in all creation, their islands the true “Cannibal Islands,” and their king no other than “Musty-fusty-shang” himself.

Alas! the subject is too serious to jest upon, and it is not without pain that we employ our pen upon it. The truth must needs be told; and there is no reason why the world should not know how desperately wicked men may become under the influence of a despotism that leaves the masses in the power of the irresponsible few, with no law, either moral or physical, to restrain their unbridled passions.

You will find the Feegee Islands, in the Pacific Ocean, in the latitude of 18° south. This parallel passes nearly through the centre of the group. Their longitude is remarkable: it is the complement of the meridian of Greenwich—the line 180°. Therefore, when it is noon in London, it is midnight among the Feegees. Take the intersection of these two lines, 18° latitude and 180° longitude as a centre; describe an imaginary circle, with a diameter of 300 miles; its circumference, with the slight exception of a small outlying group, will enclose, in a “ring fence,” as it were, the whole Feegee archipelago.

The group numbers, in all, no fewer than 225 islands and islets, of which between 80 and 90 are at present inhabited—the whole population being not much under 200,000. The estimates of writers differ widely on this point; some state 150,000—others, more than double this amount. There is reason to believe that 150,000 is too low. Say, then, 200,000; since the old adage; “In medias res,” is generally true.

Only two of the islands are large,—“Viti,” and “Vanua.” Viti is 90 miles long, by 50 in breadth, and Vanua 100 by 25. Some are what are known as “coral islands;” others are “volcanic,” presenting all varieties of mountain aspect, rugged and sublime. A few of the mountain-peaks attain the elevation of 5,000 feet above sea-level, and every form is known—table-topped, dome-shaped, needle, and conical. In fact, no group in the Pacific affords so many varieties of form and aspect, as are to be observed in the Feegee archipelago. In sailing through these islands, the most lovely landscapes open out before the eye, the most picturesque groupings of rocks, ridges, and mountain-peaks, ravines filled with luxuriant vegetation, valleys covered with soft verdure, so divinely fair as to appear the abode, of angelic beings. “So beautiful was their aspect,” writes one who visited them, “that I could scarcely bring my mind to the realizing sense of the well-known fact, that they were the abode of a savage, ferocious, and treacherous race of cannibals.” Such, alas! is the fact, well known, as the writer observes.

Perhaps to no part of the world has Nature been more bountiful than to the Feegee Islands. She has here poured out her favors in very profusion; and the cornucopiæ might be regarded as an emblem of the land. The richest products of a tropic vegetation flourish in an abundance elsewhere unknown, and the growth of valuable articles of food is almost spontaneous. Many kinds are really of spontaneous production; and those under cultivation are almost endless in numbers and variety. Yams grow to the length of six feet, weighing one hundred pounds each! and several varieties are cultivated. The sweet potato reaches the weight of five or six pounds, and the “taro” (Arum esculentum) also produces a root of enormous size, which forms the staple article of the Feegeean’s food. Still another great tuber, weighing twenty or thirty pounds, and used as a liquorice, is the produce of the “massawe,” or ti-tree (dracæna terminalis); and the root of the piper methisticum often attains the weight of one hundred and forty pounds! This last is possessed of highly narcotic properties; and is the material universally used in the distillation, or rather brewing, of the native drink called “yaqona”—the “kava” of the South-Sea voyagers. Bread-fruit grows in abundance: there being no less than nine varieties of this celebrated tree upon the different islands of the group, each producing a distinct kind of fruit; and what is equally remarkable, of the musaceæ—the plantain and banana—there are in the Feegee isles thirty different kinds, either of spontaneous growth, or cultivated! All these are well distinguished from one another, and bear distinct appellations. Three kinds of cocoa-palm add to the extraordinary variety of vegetable food, as well as to the picturesqueness of the scenery; but there is no lack of lovely forms in the vegetation, where the beautiful ti-tree grows,—where the fern and the screw-pines flourish,—where plantains and bananas unfold their broad bright leaves to the sun; where arums spread their huge fronds mingling with the thick succulent blades of the bromelia, and where pawpaws, shaddocks, orange and lime-trees exhibit every hue of foliage, from deep green to the most brilliant golden.

Fruits of a hundred species are grown in the greatest plenty; the orange and the Papuan apple, the shaddock and lemon; in short, almost every species of fruit that will flourish in a tropical clime. In addition, many indigenous and valuable kinds, both of roots and fruits, are peculiar to the Feegee group, yet unknown and uncultivated in any other part of the world. Even the very cloth of the country—and a beautiful fabric it makes—is the product of an indigenous tree, the “malo” or paper-mulberry (Brousonetia papyrifera), the “tapa” of voyagers. Not only the material for dresses, but the tapestry for the adornment of their temples, the curtains and hangings of their houses, are all obtained from this valuable tree.

We have not space for a more detailed account of the productions of these isles. It would fill a volume to describe with any degree of minuteness the various genera and species of its plants alone. Enough has been said to show how bountiful, or rather how prodigal, nature has been to the islands of the Feegeean Archipelago.

Of the animal kingdom there is not much to be said. Of quadrupeds there is the usual paucity of species that is noticed everywhere throughout the Polynesian islands. Dogs and pigs are kept; the latter in considerable numbers, as the flesh forms an important article of food; but they are not indigenous to the Feegee group, though the period of their introduction is unknown. Two or three small rodents are the only quadrupeds yet known to be true natives of the soil. Reptiles are alike scarce in species,—though the turtle is common upon the coasts, and its fishery forms the regular occupation of a particular class of the inhabitants. The species of birds are more numerous, and there are parrots, peculiar to the islands, of rich and beautiful plumage.

But we are not allowed to dwell upon these subjects. Interesting as may be the zoölogy and botany of the Feegeean Archipelago, both sink into insignificance when brought into comparison with its ethnology,—the natural history of its human inhabitants;—a subject of deep, but alas! of a terribly painful interest. By inquiry into the condition and character of these people, we shall see how little they have deserved the favors which nature has so bounteously bestowed upon them.

In the portrait of the Feegeean you will expect something frightfully hideous,—knowing, as you already do, that he is an eater of human flesh,—a man of gigantic stature, swarthy skin, bloodshot eyes, gaunt, bony jaws, and terrific aspect. You will expect this man to be described as being naked,—or only with the skin of a wild beast upon his shoulders,—building no house, manufacturing no household or other utensils, and armed with a huge knotted club, which he is ever ready to use:—a man who dwells in a cavern, sleeps indifferently in the open air or under the shelter of a bush; in short, a true savage. That is the sort of creature you expect me to describe, and I confess that just such a physical aspect—just such a condition of personal hideousness—would be exactly in keeping with the moral deformity of the Feegeean. You would furthermore expect this savage to be almost devoid of intellectual power,—altogether wanting in moral sense,—without knowledge of right and wrong,—without knowledge of any kind,—without ideas. It seems but natural you should look for such characteristics in a cannibal.

The portrait I am about to paint will disappoint you. I do not regret it, since it enables me to bring forward another testimony that man in his original nature is not a being of such desperate wickedness. That simple and primitive state, which men glibly call savage, is not the condition favorable to cannibalism. I know that it is to such people that the habit is usually ascribed, but quite erroneously. The Andaman islander has been blamed with it simply because he chances to go naked, and looks, as he is, hungry and emaciated. The charge is proved false. The Bushman of South Africa has enjoyed a similar reputation. It also turns out to be a libel. The Carib long lived under the imputation, simply because he presented a fierce front to the Spanish tyrant, who would have enslaved him; and we have heard the same stigma cast upon a dozen other tribes, the lowest savages being usually selected; in other words, those whose condition appeared the most wretched. In such cases the accusation has ever been found, upon investigation, to be erroneous.

In the most primitive state in which man appears upon the earth, he is either without social organization altogether, or if any do exist, it is either patriarchal or republican. Neither of these conditions is favorable to the development of vice,—much less the most horrible of all vices.

It will not do to quote the character of the Bushman, or certain other of the low tribes, to refute this statement. These are not men in their primitive state ascending upward, but a condition altogether the reverse. They are the decaying remnants of some corrupt civilization, sinking back into the dust out of which they were created.

No—and I am happy to say it—man, as he originally came from the hands of the Creator, has no such horrid propensity as cannibalism. In his primitive state he has never been known to practise it,—except when the motives have been such as have equally tempted men professing the highest civilization,—but this cannot be considered cannibalism. Where that exists in its true unmitigated form,—and unhappily it does so,—the early stages of social organization must have been passed; the republican and patriarchal forms must both have given place to the absolute and monarchical. This condition of things is absolutely necessary, before man can obtain sufficient power to prey upon his fellow-man to the extent of eating him. There can be no “cannibal” without a “king.”

So far from the Feegeean cannibals being savages, according to the ordinary acceptation of the term, they are in reality the very reverse. If we adhere to the usual meaning of the word civilization, understanding by it a people possessing an intelligent knowledge of arts, living in well-built houses, fabricating fine goods, tilling their lands in a scientific and successful manner, practising the little politenesses and accomplishments of social life,—if these be the criteria of civilization, then it is no more than the truth to say that the standard possessed by the Feegee islanders is incomparably above that of the lower orders of most European nations.

It is startling to reflect—startling as sad—that a people possessed of such intellectual power, and who have ever exercised it to a wonderful extent, in arts, manufactures, and even in the accomplishing of their own persons, should at the same time exhibit moral traits of such an opposite character. An atrocious cruelty,—an instinct for oppression, brutal and ferocious,—a heart pitiless as that of the fiend himself,—a hand ever ready to strike the murderous blow, even though the victim be a brother,—lips that lie in every word they speak,—a tongue ever bent on barbaric boasting,—a bosom that beats only with sentiments of treachery and abject cowardice,—these are the revolting characteristics of the Feegeean. Dark as is his skin, his soul is many shades darker.

It is time, however, to descend to a more particular delineation of this man-eating monster; and first, we shall give a description of his personal appearance.

The Feegeeans are above the average height of Europeans or white men: men of six feet are common among them, though few reach the height of six feet six. Corpulent persons are not common, though large and muscular men abound. Their figure corresponds more nearly to that of the white man than any other race known. The proportions of their limbs resemble those of northern Europeans, though some are narrower across the loins. Their chests are broad and sinewy, and their stout limbs and short, well-set necks are conspicuous characters. The outline of the face is a good oval; the mouth large, with white teeth regularly arranged—ah! those horrid teeth!—the nose is well shaped, with full nostrils; yet quite distinct, as are the lips also, from the type of the African negro. Indeed, with the exception of their color, they bear very little resemblance to the negro,—that is, the thick-lipped, flat-nosed negro of our fancy; for there are negro tribes in Africa whose features are as fine as those of the Feegeeans, or even as our own. In color of skin the Feegeean is nearly, if not quite, as dark as the negro; but it may be remarked that there are different shades, as there are also among pure Ethiopians. In the Feegee group there are many men of mulatto color, but these are not of the original Feegee stock. They are either a mixed offspring with the Tonga islander, or pure-bred Tonga islanders themselves who for the past two hundred years have been insinuating themselves into the social compact of the Feegeeans. These light-colored people are mostly found on the eastern or windward side of the Feegee group,—that is, the side towards Tonga itself,—and the trade-winds will account for their immigration, which was at first purely accidental. They at present play a conspicuous part in the affairs of the Feegeeans, being in favor with the kings and great chiefs, partly on account of their being better sailors than the native Feegeeans, and partly on account of other services which these tyrants require them to perform. In some arts the Tongans are superior to the Feegeeans, but not in all. In pottery, wood-carving, making of mats or baskets, and the manufacture of the tapa cloth, the Feegeeans stand unrivalled over all the Pacific Ocean.

We need say no more of the Tongans here; they are elsewhere described. Those dwelling in Feegee are not all fixed there for life. Some are so, and these are called Tonga-Feegeeans; the others are only visitors, giving their services temporarily to the Feegeean chiefs, or occupied in ship-building,—in constructing those great war canoes that have been the astonishment of South-Sea voyagers, and which Feegee sends forth from her dock-yards in the greatest perfection. These, when finished by the Tongan strangers, are used to carry them back to their own islands, that lie about three hundred miles to the windward (southeast).

But to continue the portrait of the Feegeean. We have touched almost every part of it except the hair; but this requires a most elaborate limning, such as the owner himself gives it. In its natural state the head of the Feegeean is covered by a mass of black hair long, frizzled, and bushy, sometimes encroaching on the forehead, and joined by whiskers to a thick, round, or pointed beard, to which mustaches are often added. Black is, of course, the natural color of the hair, but it is not always worn of this hue. Other colors are thought more becoming; and the hair, both of the men and women, is dyed in a variety of ways, lime burning it to a redish or whity-brown shade. A turmeric-yellow, or even a vermilion-red are not uncommon colors; but all these keep varying, according to the change of fashions at court!

Commodore Wilkes, who has given a good deal of his time to an exploration of the Feegee Islands, states that the Feegee hair, in its natural condition, is straight, and not “frizzled,” as described above—he says that the frizzling is the work of the barber; but the Commodore is altogether mistaken in this idea. Thousands of Feegeans, whose hair was never touched by a barber, nor dressed even by themselves, exhibit this peculiarity. We regret to add that this is only one of a thousand erroneous statements which the Commodore has made during his gigantic exploration. He may have been excellent at his own speciality of making soundings and laying down charts; but on all matters pertaining to natural history or ethnology, the worthy Commodore appears to have been purblind, and, indeed, his extensive staff of naturalists of every kind have produced far less than might have been expected from such excellent opportunities as they enjoyed. The observations of the Commodore will not stand the test of time, and cannot be depended upon as safe guides, excepting in those cases where he was an actual eyewitness. About his truthful intentions there can be no doubt whatever.

Of one very peculiar performance among the Feegees he appears to have had actual demonstration, and as he has described this with sufficient minuteness, we shall copy his account; though, after what we have said, we should apologize largely for the liberty. The performance referred to is that of “barberizing” a barbarian monarch, and may be taken as a proof of high civilization among the Feegees. It will be seen that, with the exception of the tabooed fingers, there is not much difference between a barber of Bond Street and an artist of like calling in the Cannibal Islands.

“The chiefs in particular,” writes Commodore Wilkes, “pay great attention to the dressing of their heads, and for this purpose all of them have barbers, whose sole occupation is the care of their masters’ heads. These barbers are called a-vu-ni-ulu. They are attached to the household of the chiefs in numbers of from two to a dozen. The duty is held to be of so sacred a nature, that their hands are tabooed from all other employment, and they are not even permitted to feed themselves. To dress the head of a chief requires several hours. The hair is made to spread out from the head, on every side, to a distance that is often eight inches. The beard, which is also carefully nursed, often reaches the breast, and when a Feegeean has these important parts of his person well dressed, he exhibits a degree of conceit that is not a little amusing.

“In the process of dressing the hair it is well anointed with oil, mixed with a carbonaceous black, until it is completely saturated. The barber then takes the hair-pin, which is a long and slender rod, made of tortoise-shell or bone, and proceeds to twitch almost every separate hair. This causes it to frizzle and stand erect. The bush of hair is then trimmed smooth by singeing it, until it has the appearance of an immense wig. When this has been finished, a piece of tapa, so fine as to resemble tissue-paper, is wound in light folds around it, to protect the hair from the dew or dust. This covering, which has the look of a turban, is called sala, and none but the chiefs are allowed to wear it; any attempt to assume this head-dress by a kai-si, or common person, would be immediately punished with death. The sala, when taken proper care of, will last three weeks or a month, and the hair is not dressed except when it is removed; but the high chiefs and dandies seldom allow a day to pass without changing the sala and having the hair put in order.”

With this account, we conclude our description of the Feegeean’s person. His costume is of the simplest kind, and easily described. With the men it is merely a strip of “tapa” or “malo” cloth passed several times round the waist, and the ends left to hang down in front. The length of the hanging ends determines the rank of the wearer, and only in the case of kings or great chiefs are they allowed to touch the ground. A turban of the finest tapa cloth among the great mop of hair is another badge of rank, worn only by kings and chiefs; and this head-dress, which adds greatly to the dignified appearance of the wearer, is not always coiffed in the same fashion, but each chief adapts it to his own or the prevailing taste of the court. The dress of the women is a mere waist-belt, with a fringe from six to ten inches in length. It is worn longer after they have become wives, sometimes reaching near the knee, and forming a very picturesque garment. It is called the “liku,” and many of them are manufactured with surprising skill and neatness, the material being obtained from various climbing plants of the forest. Under the “liku” the women are tattooed, and there only. Their men, on the contrary, do not undergo the tattoo; but on grand occasions paint their faces and bodies in the most fanciful colors and patterns.

The kings and some chiefs suspend from their necks shell ornaments—often as large as a dining-plate—that hang down upon the breast. Some, instead of this, wear a necklace of whales’ teeth, carved to resemble claws, and bearing a very close resemblance to the necklaces of the Prairie Indians, made of the claws of the grizzly bear. Another kind of necklace—perhaps more appropriate to the Feegee—is a string of human teeth; and this kind is not unfrequently worn by these ferocious dandies.

It must not be supposed that the scantiness of the Feegeean costume arises from poverty or stinginess on the part of the wearer. Nothing of the kind. It is simply because such is the fashion of the time. Were it otherwise, he could easily supply the materials, but he does not wish it otherwise. His climate is an eternal summer, and he has no need to encumber his body with extraneous clothing. With the exception of the turban upon his head, his king is as naked as himself.

You may suppose that the Feegeans have but little notions of modesty; but, strange as it may appear, this is in reality not one of their failings. They regard the “malo” and “liku” as the most modest of garments; and a man or woman seen in the streets without these scanty coverings would be in danger of being clubbed to death!

It must be acknowledged that they are not altogether depraved—for in this respect they present the most astounding anomaly. Certain virtues are ascribed to them, and as I have painted only the dark side of their character, it is but fair to give the other. Indeed, it is a pleasure to do this—though there is not enough of the favorable to make any great alteration in the picture. The whole character is so well described by one of the most acute observers who has yet visited the South Seas—the Wesleyan missionary Williams—that we borrow the description.

“The aspect of the Feegeean,” says Mr. Williams, “with reference to his mental character, so far from supporting the decision which would thrust him almost out of mankind, presents many points of great interest, showing that, if an ordinary amount of attention were bestowed on him, he would take no mean rank in the human family, to which, hitherto, he has been a disgrace. Dull, barren stupidity forms no part of his character. His feelings are acute, but not lasting; his emotions easily roused, but transient; he can love truly, and hate deeply; he can sympathize with thorough sincerity, and feign with consummate skill; his fidelity and loyalty are strong and enduring, while his revenge never dies, but waits to avail itself of circumstances, or of the blackest treachery, to accomplish its purpose. His senses are keen, and so well employed, that he often excels the white man in ordinary things. Tact has been called ‘ready cash,’ and of this the native of Feegee has a full share, enabling him to surmount at once many difficulties, and accomplish many tasks, that would have ‘fixed’ an Englishman. Tools, cord, or packing materials, he finds directly, where the white man would be at a loss for either; and nature seems to him but a general store for his use, where the article he wants is always within reach.

“In social diplomacy the Feegeean is very cautious and clever. That he ever paid a visit merely en passant, is hard to be believed. If no request leaves his lips, he has brought the desire, and only waits for a good chance to present it now, or prepare the way for its favorable reception at some other time. His face and voice are all pleasantness; and he has the rare skill of finding out just the subject on which you most like to talk, or sees at once whether you desire silence. Rarely will he fail to read your countenance; and the case must be urgent indeed which obliges him to ask a favor when he sees a frown. The more important he feels his business the more earnestly he protests that he has none at all; and the subject uppermost in his thoughts comes last to his lips, or is not even named; for he will make a second, or even a third visit, rather than risk a failure through precipitancy. He seems to read other men by intuition, especially where selfishness or lust are prominent traits. If it serves his purpose, he will study difficult and peculiar characters, reserving the results for future use; if afterwards he wish to please them, he will know how, and if to annoy them, it will be done most exactly.

“His sense of hearing is acute, and by a stroke of his nail he judges the ripeness of fruits, or soundness of various substances.”

From what source the Feegeean has sprung is purely a matter of conjecture. He has no history,—not even a tradition of when his ancestors first peopled the Archipelago in which we now find him. Of his race we have not a much clearer knowledge. Speculation places him in the same family as the “Papuan Negro,” and he has some points of resemblance to this race, in the color and frizzled hair; but there is as much difference between the wretched native of West Australia and the finely-developed Feegeean as there is between the stunted Laplander and the stalwart Norwegian; nor is the coarse rough skin of the true Papuan to be recognized in the smooth, glossy epidermis of the Feegee Islander. This, however, may be the result of better living; and certainly among the mountain-tribes of the Feegees, who lead lives of greater privation and hardship, the approach to the Papuan appearance is observable. It is hardly necessary to add that the Feegeean is of a race quite distinct from that known as the Polynesian or South-Sea Islander. This last is different not only in form, complexion, and language, but also in many important mental characteristics. It is to this race the Tongans belong, and its pecularities will be sketched in treating of that people.

Were we to enter upon a minute description of the manners and customs of the Fegees,—of their mode of house and canoe building,—of their arts and manufactures, for they possess both,—of their implements of agriculture and domestic use,—of their weapons of war,—their ceremonies of religion and court etiquette,—our task would require more space than is here allotted to us: it would in fact be as much as to describe the complete social economy of a civilized nation; and a whole volume would scarce suffice to contain such a description. In a sketch like the present, the account of these people requires to be given in the most condensed and synoptical form, and only those points can be touched upon that may appear of the greatest interest.

It must be remembered that the civilization of the Feegees—of course, I allude to their proficiency in the industrial arts—is entirely an indigenous growth. They have borrowed ideas from the Tongans,—as the Tongans have also from them,—but both are native productions of the South Sea, and not derived from any of the so-called great centres of civilization. Such as have sprung from these sources are of modern date, and make but a small feature in the panorama of Feegeean life. The houses they build are substantial, and suitable to their necessities. We cannot stay to note the architecture minutely. The private dwellings are usually about twenty-five feet long by fifteen in breadth, the interior forming one room, but with a sort of elevated divan at the end, sometimes screened with beautiful “tapa” curtains, and serving as the dormitory.

The ground-plan of the house is that of an oblong square,—or, to speak more properly, a parallelogram. The walls are constructed of timber,—being straight posts of cocoa-palm, tree-fern, bamboo, or bread-fruit,—the spaces between closely warped or otherwise filled in with reeds of cane or calamus. The thatch is of the leaves of the wild or cultivated sugar-cane,—sometimes of a pandanus,—thickly laid on, especially near the eaves, where it is carefully cropped, exposing an edge of from one to two feet in thickness. The roof has four faces,—that is, it is a “hip roof.” It is made with a very steep pitch, and comes down low, projecting far over the heads of the upright timbers. This gives a sort of shaded veranda all around the house, and throws the rain quite clear of the walls. The ridge-pole is a peculiar feature; it is fastened to the ridge of the thatch by strong twisted ropes, that give it an ornamental appearance; and its carved ends project at both gables, or rather, over the “hip roofs,” to the length of a foot, or more; it is further ornamented by white shells, these of the cyprea ovula being most used for the purpose. The Feegee house presents altogether a picturesque and not inelegant appearance. The worst feature is the low door. There are usually two of them, neither in each house being over three feet in height. The Feegee assigns no reason why his door is made so low; but as he is frequently in expectation of a visitor, with a murderous bludgeon in his grasp, it is possible this may have something to do with his making the entrance so difficult.

The houses of the chiefs, and the great council-house, or temple,—called the “Bure,”—are built precisely in the same style; only that both are larger, and the doors, walls, and ridge-poles more elaborately ornamented. The fashionable style of decoration is a plaiting of cocoa fibre, or “sinnet,” which is worked and woven around the posts in regular figures of “relievo.”

The house described is not universal throughout all the group. There are many “orders” of architecture, and that prevailing in the Windward Islands is different from the style of the Leeward, and altogether of a better kind. Different districts have different forms. In one you may see a village looking like an assemblage of wicker baskets, while in another you might fancy it a collection of rustic arbors. A third seems a collection oblong hayricks, with holes in their sides; while, in a fourth these ricks are conical.

It will be seen that, with this variety in house-building, it would be a tedious task to illustrate the complete architecture of Feegeeans. Even Master Ruskin himself would surrender it up in despair.

Equally tedious would it be to describe the various implements or utensils which a Feegee house contains. The furniture is simple enough. There are neither chairs, tables, nor bedsteads. The bed is a beautiful mat spread on the däis, or divan; and in the houses of the rich the floors are covered with a similar carpet. These mats are of the finest texture, far superior to those made elsewhere. The materials used are the Hibiscus tiliaceus, Pandanus odoratissimus, and a species of rush. They are in great abundance in every house,—even the poorest person having his mat to sit or lie upon; and it is they that serve for the broad-spreading sails of the gigantic canoes. In addition to the mats, plenty of tapa cloth may be seen, and baskets of every shape and size,—the wicker being obtained from the rattan (flagellaria), and other sources. One piece of furniture deserves especial mention,—this is the pillow upon which the Feegee lord lays his head when he goes to sleep. It presents but little claim to the appellation of a downy pillow; since it is a mere cylinder of hard polished wood, with short arched pedestals to it, to keep it firmly in its place. Its object is to keep the great frizzled mop from being tossed or disarranged, during the hours of repose; and Feegeean vanity enables the owner of the mop to endure this flinty bolster with the most uncomplaining equanimity. If he were possessed of the slightest spark of conscience, even this would be soft, compared with any pillow upon which he might rest his guilty head.

In addition to the baskets, other vessels meet the eye. These are of pottery, as varied in shape and size as they are in kind. There are pots and pans, bowls, dishes, cups and saucers, jars and bottles,—many of them of rare and curious designs,—some red, some ornamented with a glaze obtained from the gum of the kauri pine,—for this tree is also an indigenous production of the Feegee Islands. Though no potter’s wheel is known to the Feegees, the proportions of their vessels are as just and true, and their polish as complete, as if Stafford had produced them. There are cooking pots to be seen of immense size. These are jars formed with mouths wide enough to admit the largest joint. I dare not mention the kind of joint that is frequently cooked in those great caldrons. Ugh! the horrid pots!

Their implements are equally varied and numerous,—some for manufacturing purposes, and others for agriculture. The latter are of the simplest kind. The Feegee plough is merely a pointed stick inserted deeply into the ground, and kept moving about till a lump of the soil is broken upward. This is crushed into mould, first by a light club, and afterwards pulverized with the fingers. The process is slow, but fast enough for the Feegeean, whose farm is only a garden. He requires no plough, neither bullocks nor horses. With taro-roots and sweet potatoes that weigh ten pounds each, yams and yaqonas over one hundred, and plantains producing bunches of a hundred and fifty fruits to the single head, why need he trouble himself by breaking up more surface? His single acre yields him as much vegetable wealth as fifty would to an English farmer!

It is not to be supposed that he has it all to himself; no, nor half of it either; nor yet the fifth part of it. At least four fifths of his sweat has to be expended in tax or tithe; and this brings us to the form of his government. We shall not dwell long upon this subject. Suffice it to say that the great body of the people are in a condition of abject serfdom,—worse than slavery itself. They own nothing that they can call their own,—not their wives,—not their daughters,—not even their lives! All these may be taken from them at any hour. There is no law against despoiling them,—no check upon the will and pleasure of their chiefs or superiors; and, as these constitute a numerous body, the poor canaille have no end of ruffian despoilers. It is an every-day act for a chief to rob, or club to death, one of the common people! and no unfrequent occurrence to be himself clubbed to death by his superior, the king! Of these kings there are eight in Feegee,—not one, as the old song has it; but the words of the ballad will apply to each of them with sufficient appropriateness. Any one of them will answer to the character of “Musty-fusty-shang!”

These kings have their residences on various islands, and the different parts of the group are distributed somewhat irregularly under their rule. Some islands, or parts of islands, are only tributary to them; others connected by a sort of deferential alliance; and there are communities quite independent, and living under the arbitrary sway of their own chieftains. The kings are not all of equal power or importance; but in this respect there have been many changes, even during the Feegeean historical period,—which extends back only to the beginning of the present century. Sometimes one is the most influential, sometimes another; and in most cases the pre-eminence is obtained by him who possesses the greatest amount of truculence and treachery. He who is most successful in murdering his rivals, and ridding himself of opposition, by the simple application of the club, usually succeeds in becoming for the time head “king of the Cannibal Islands.” I do not mean that he reigns over the whole Archipelago. No king has yet succeeded in uniting all the islands under one government. He only gets so far as to be feared everywhere, and to have tributary presents, and all manner of debasing compliments offered to him. These kings have all their courts and court etiquette, just as their “royal brothers” elsewhere; and the ceremonials observed are quite as complicated and degrading to the dignity of man.

The punishment for neglecting their observance is rather more severe in Feegee than elsewhere. For a decided or wilful non-compliance, the skull of the delinquent is frequently crushed in by the club of his majesty himself,—even in presence of a full “drawing-room.” Lesser or accidental mistakes, or even the exhibition of an ungraceful gaucherie, are punished by the loss of a finger: the consequence of which is, that in Feegee there are many fingers missing! Indeed, a complete set is rather the exception than the rule. If a king or great chief should chance to miss his foot and slip down, it is the true ton for all those who are near or around him to fall likewise,—the crowd coming down, literally like a “thousand of bricks!”

I might detail a thousand customs to show how far the dignity of the human form is debased and disgraced upon Feegee soil; but the subject could be well illustrated nearer home. Flunkeyism is a fashion unfortunately not confined to the Feegeean archipelago; and though the forms in which it exhibits itself there may be different, the sentiment is still the same. It must ever appear where men are politically unequal,—wherever there is a class possessed of hereditary privileges.

I come to the last,—the darkest feature in the Feegeean character,—the horrid crime and custom of cannibalism. I could paint a picture, and fill up the details with the testimony of scores of eyewitnesses,—a picture that would cause your heart to weep. It is too horrid to be given here. My pen declines the office; and, therefore, I must leave the painful story untold.

MUNDRUCUS, OR BEHEADERS.

In our general sketch of the Amazonian Indians it was stated that there were some few tribes who differed in certain customs from all the rest, and who might even be regarded as odd among the odd. One of these tribes is the Mundrucu, which, from its numbers and warlike strength, almost deserves to be styled a nation. It is, at all events, a powerful confederacy, of different tribes, linked together in one common nationality, and including in their league other Indians which the Mundrucus themselves first conquered, and afterwards associated with themselves on terms of equality; in other words, “annexed” them. The same sort of annexation or alliance is common among the tribes of North America; as in the case of the powerful Comanche nation, who extend their protecting alliance over the Wacoes, Washites, and Cayguäas or Kioways.

The Mahüe is the principal tribe that is patronized in this fashion by the Mundrucus, and the two together number at least 20,000 souls.

Before the days of the Portuguese slave-hunting, the Mundrucus occupied the south bank of the Amazon, from the mouth of the Tapajos to that of the Madeira. This infamous traffic had the effect of clearing the banks of the great river of its native inhabitants,—except such of them as chose to submit to slavery, or become neophytes, by adopting the monkish faith. Neither of these courses appeared pleasing in the eyes of the Mundrucus, and they adopted the only alternative that was likely to insure their independence,—by withdrawing from the dangerous proximity of the sanguinary slave-trade.

This retreat of the Mundrucus, however, was by no means an ignominious flight. The withdrawal was voluntary on their part, and not compulsory, as was the case with weaker tribes. From the earliest times they had presented a firm front to the Portuguese encroachments, and the latter were even forced into a sort of nefarious alliance with them. The leaving the Amazon on the part of the Mundrucus was rather the result of a negotiation, by which they conceded their territory—between the mouths of the Tapajos and Madeira—to the Brazilian government; and to this hour they are not exactly unfriendly to Brazilian whites, though to the mulattoes and negroes, who constitute a large proportion of the Brazilian population, the Mundrucu knows no other feeling than that of a deadly hostility. The origin of their hatred of the Brazilian blacks is to be found in a revolt which occurred in the provinces of the Lower Amazon (at Para) in 1835. It was a caste revolution against whites, but more especially against European Portuguese. In this affair the Mundrucus were employed against the darker-skinned rebels—the Cabanos, as they were called—and did great service in putting down the rebellion. Hence they retain a lingering spark of friendship for their ci-devant white allies; or perhaps it would be more correct to say they do not actually hate them, but carry on a little commerce with their traders. For all that, they occasionally cut the throats of a few of the latter,—especially those who do not come to deal directly with them, but who pass through their country in going from the Amazon to the diamond mines of Brazil. These last are called Monçaos, and their business is to carry supplies from the towns on the Amazon (Santarem and Para) to the miners of gold and washers of diamonds in the district of Matto Grosso, of which Cuiaba is the capital. Their route is by water and “portage” up the Tapajos river, and through the territory of the dreaded Mundrucus,—requiring a journey of six months, as perilous and toilsome as it is tedious.

The present residence of the Mundrucus is between the Tapajos and Madeira, as formerly, but far up on both rivers. On the Tapajos, above what are known as the “Caxoeiras,” or Cataracts, their villages are found. There they dwell, free from all molestation on the part of the whites; their borders extending widely around them, and limited only by contact with those of other warlike tribes like themselves, who are their deadly enemies. Among these last are the Muras, who dwell at the mouths of the Madeira and Rio Negro.

The Mundrucus build the malocca, elsewhere described; only in their case it is not used as a dwelling, but rather as a grand arsenal, a council-chamber, a ball-room, and, if need be, a fortress. When fearing an attack, all sleep in it “under arms.” It is a structure of large size and great strength, usually rendered more unassailable by being “chinked” and plastered with clay. It is in this building that are deposited those horrid trophies which have given to the Mundrucus their terrible title of decapitadores, or “beheaders.” The title and its origin shall be presently explained.

Around the great malocca the huts are placed, forming a village, and in these the people ordinarily dwell.

The Mundrucus are not without ample means of subsistence. Like most other Amazonian tribes, they cultivate a little manioc, plantains, and even maize; and they know how to prepare the farinha meal, and, unfortunately, also the detestable chicha, the universal beverage of the South-American aborigines. They have their vessels of calabash—both of the vegetable and arborescent kinds—and a full set of implements and utensils for the field and kitchen. Their war weapons are those common to other Amazonian tribes, and they sometimes also carry the spear. They have canoes of hollow trees; and, of course, fishing and hunting are the employments of the men,—the women, as almost everywhere else among Indians, doing the drudgery,—the tilling and reaping, the “hewing of wood and the drawing of water,” the making the household utensils and using them,—all such offices being beneath the dignity of the “lordly,” or rather lazy savage.

I have said that they carry on a commercial intercourse with the white traders. It is not of much magnitude, and their exports consist altogether of the native and spontaneous productions of the soil, sarsaparilla being one of the chief articles. They gather this (the women and children do) during six months of the year. The other six months no industry is followed,—as this period is spent in hostile excursions against the neighboring tribes. Their imports consist of iron tools and pieces for weapons; but they more especially barter the product of their labor for ornamental gewgaws,—such as savages universally admire and desire. Their sarsaparilla is good, and much sought for in the medical market.

Every one is acquainted with the nature and character of this valuable medicinal root, the appearance of which must also be known to almost everybody,—since it is so very common for our druggists to display the bundles of it in their shop windows. Perhaps every one is not acquainted with the fact, that the sarsaparilla root is the product of a great many different species of plants most of them of the genus Simlax, but not a few belonging to plants of other genera, as those of Carex and Herreria the roots of which are also sold as sarsaparilla. The species of simlax are widely distributed throughout the whole torrid zone, in Asia, Africa, and America, and some kinds are found growing many degrees outside the tropics,—as is the case in Virginia and the valley of the Mississippi, and also on the other side of the Pacific on the great continent-island of Australia.

The best sarsaparilla, however, is that which is produced in tropical countries, and especially in moist situations, where the atmosphere is at once hot and humid. It requires these conditions to concentrate the virtue of its sap, and render it more active.

It would be idle to give a list of the different species of simlax that furnish the sarsaparilla root of the pharmacopeia. There is an almost endless number of them, and they are equally varied in respect to excellence of quality; some kinds are in reality almost worthless, and for this reason, in using it as a medicine, great care should be taken in the selection of the species. Like all other articles, either of food or medicine, the valuable kinds are the scarcest; the reason in this case being that the best sarsaparilla is found in situations not only difficult of access, but where the gathering of its root is attended with considerable danger, from the unhealthy nature of the climate and the hostility of the savages in whose territory it grows. As to the quantity that may be obtained, there is no limit, on the score of any scarcity of the plant itself, since it is found throughout all the countries of tropical America plenteously distributed both in species and individual plants. Such quantities of it grow along the banks of some South-American rivers, that the Indians have a belief that those streams known as black waters—such as the Rio Negro and others—derive their peculiar color from the roots of this plant. This, however, is an erroneous supposition, as there are many of the white-water rivers that run through regions abundantly supplied with the sarsaparilla root. The black water, therefore, must arise from some other cause, as yet unknown.

As observed, the sarsaparilla of the Mundrucu country is of the very best quality. It is the Simlax papyracea of Soiret, and is known in commerce as the “Lisbon,” or “Brazilian.” It is a climbing plant, or under-shrub, the stem of which is flattened and angular, with rows of prickles standing along the prominent edges. Its leaves are of an oval acuminated shape, and marked with longitudinal nerves. It shoots up without any support, to a height of fifteen or twenty feet, after which it embraces the surrounding branches of trees and spreads to a great distance in every direction. The main root sends out many long tendrils, all of like thickness, covered with a brownish bark, of sometimes of a dark-gray color. These tendrils are fibrous, and about as thick as a quill. They present a constant tendency to become crooked, and they are also wrinkled longitudinally, with here and there some smaller lateral fibres branching off from the sides.

It is in the bark or epidermis of the rhizomes that the medicinal virtue lies; but the tendrils—both rhizome and bark—are collected together, and no attempt is made to separate them, until they have reached their commercial destination. Indeed, even these are sold together, the mode of preparing the root being left to the choice of the consumer, or the apothecary who procures it.

The Mundrucus collect it during the six months of the rainy season, partly because during the remaining six they are otherwise employed, and partly for the reason that, in the time of rain, the roots are more easily extracted from the damp soil. The process simply consists in digging them up or dragging them out of the earth—the latter mode especially where the tendrils lie near the surface, and they will pull up without breaking. If the main root be not dug out, it will send forth new tendrils, which in a short time would yield a new crop; but the improvident savages make no prudential calculations of this kind—present convenience forming their sole consideration; and on this account both the root and plant are generally destroyed by them during the operation of collecting.

As already stated, this labor devolves upon the women, who are also assisted in it by their children. They proceed into the depths of the forest—where the simlax grows in greatest abundance—and after collecting as much root as they can carry home with them, they return with their bundles to the malocca. When fresh gathered the sarsaparilla is heavy enough—partly on account of the sap which it then contains, and partly from the quantity of the mud or earth that adheres to the corrugated surface of the roots.

It is extremely probable that in this fresh state the virtue of the sarsaparilla, as a blood-purifier, is much greater than after it has passed through the channels of commerce; and the writer of this sketch has some reason, derived from personal experience, to believe that such is the case. Certain it is, that the reputation of this invaluable drug is far less in countries where the plant does not grow, than in those where it is common and can be obtained in its fresh state. In all parts of Spanish America its virtues are unquestioned, and experience has led to a more extensive use of it there than elsewhere. It is probable, therefore, that the virtue exists in the juice rather than the cortical integument of the rhizome; and this of course would be materially altered and deteriorated, if not altogether destroyed, in the process of exsiccation, which must necessarily take place in the time required for transporting it to distant parts of the world. In the European pharmacopeia it is the epidermis of the root which is supposed to contain the sanitary principle; and this, which is of a mucilaginous nature and slightly bitter taste, is employed, both in decoctions and infusions, as a tonic and alterative. In America, however, it is generally taken for what is termed purifying the blood—for the same purpose as the rhizomes of the Laurus sassafras and other plants are used; but the sarsaparilla is generally considered the best, and it certainly is the best of all known medicines for this purpose. Why it has fallen in the estimation of the Old-World practitioners, or why it never obtained so great a reputation as it has in America, may arise from two circumstances. First, that the root offered for sale is generally the product of the less valuable species; and second, that the sap, and not the rhizome, may be the part that contains the virtuous principle.

When the collected roots have been kept for awhile they become dry and light, and for the convenience of stowage and carriage—an important consideration to the trader in his eight-ton garratea—it is necessary to have the roots done up in packages of a uniform length and thickness. These packages are formed by laying the roots side by side, and doubling in the ends of the longer ones. A bundle of the proper size for stowage contains an arroba of twenty-five pounds, though the weight varies according to the condition of the root. Uniformity in size is the chief object aimed at, and the bundles are made of a round or cylindrical shape, about five inches in diameter, and something more than a yard in length. They are trimmed off small at the ends—so as to admit of stowage without leaving any empty space between two tiers of them—and each bundle is tightly corded round from one end to the other with a “sipo,” or creeping plant.

It has been stated that this “sipo” is a root of the sarsaparilla itself, with the bark scraped off; and, indeed, its own root would serve well enough—were it not that putting it to such a use would destroy its medicinal value, and thus cause a considerable waste of the costly material. The sarsaparilla is not to be had for nothing even upon the banks of the Tapajos. A bundle of the best quality does not leave the hands of the Mundrucu until about four dollars’ worth of exchange commodities have been put into them, which would bring the price of it to something over sixpence a pound. He is, therefore, a little particular about wasting a material that has cost him—or rather his wife and children—so much trouble in collecting. His cordage is obtained more cheaply, and consists of the long, flexible roots of a species of pothos, which roots—being what are termed aërial and not buried in the ground—require no labor or digging to get at them. It is only necessary to stretch up the hand, and pull them down from the tops of lofty trees, from which they hang like streamers, often to the length of a hundred feet. These are toughened by the bark being scraped off; and when that is done they are ready for use, and serve not only to tie up the bundles of sarsaparilla, but for many other purposes in the domestic economy of the Mundrucus.

In addition to the sarsaparilla, the Mundrucu furnishes the trader with several other items of commercial value—for his climate, although one of the most unhealthy in all the Amazon region, on account of its great heat and humidity, is for that very reason one of the most fertile. Nearly all those tropical vegetable products which are characteristics of Brazilian export commerce can here be produced of the most luxuriant kind; but it is only those that grow spontaneously at his very doors that tempt the Mundrucu to take the trouble of collecting them.

There is one article, however, which he not only takes some trouble to collect, but also to manufacture into an item of commercial exchange—a very rare item indeed. This is the guarana, which is manufactured from the fruit of a tree almost peculiar to the Mundrucu territory—since nowhere is it found so abundantly as on the Tapajos. It is so prized in the Brazilian settlements as to command almost its weight in silver when transported thither. It is the constituent element of a drink, which has a stimulating effect on the system, somewhat more powerful than tea or coffee. It will prevent sleep; but its most valuable property is, that it is a good febrifuge, equal to the best quinine. Guarana is prepared from the seeds of an inga—one of the Mimosacæ. It is a low, wide-spreading tree like most of the mimosa family. The legumes are gathered, and the seeds roasted in them. The latter are then taken out, and after being ground to powder, are mixed with water so as to make a tough paste, which is moulded into little bricks, and when dried is ready for use. The beverage is then prepared by scraping a table-spoonful of dust from the brick, and mixing it with about a pint of water; and the dry paste, keeping for any length of time, is ready whenever wanted.

The guarana bush grows elsewhere in the Amazon valley, and on some head-waters of the Orinoco, where certain tribes also know how to prepare the drink. But it is sparingly distributed, and is nowhere so common as on the upper Tapajos; hence its high price in the markets of Brazil. The Mundrucu manufactures it, not only for “home use,” but for “exportation.”

He prepares another singular article of luxury, and this he makes exclusively for his own use,—not for the gratification of his lips or palate, but for his nose,—in other words, a snuff. Do not fancy, however, that it is snuff of the ordinary kind—the pulverised produce of innocent tobacco. No such thing; but a composition of such a powerful and stimulating character, that he who inhales it feels as if struck by an electric shock; his body trembles; his eyes start forward as if they would forsake their sockets; his limbs fail to support him; and he drops to the earth like one in a state of intoxication! For a short time he is literally mad; but the fit is soon over,—lasting usually only a few minutes,—and then a feeling of renewed strength, courage, and joyousness succeeds. Such are the consequences of taking snuff with a Mundrucu.

And now to describe the nature of the substance which produces these powerful effects.

Like the guarana this snuff is a preparation, having for its basis the seeds of a leguminous tree. This time, however, it is an acacia, not an inga. It is the acacia niopo; so called because “niopo” is the name given to the snuff itself by certain tribes (the Ottomacs and others), who, like the Mundrucus, are snuff-takers. It is also called curupa, and the apparatus for preparing and taking it—for there is an apparatus of an extensive kind—is termed parica, in the general language (lingoa geral) of the Amazonian regions.

We shall describe the preparation, the apparatus, and the ceremonial.

The pods of the Acacia niopo—a small tree, with very delicate pinnate leaves—are plucked when ripe. They are then cut into small pieces and flung into a vessel of water. In this they remain until macerated, and until the seeds have turned black. These are then picked out, pounded in a mortar, which is usually the pericarp of the sapuçaia, or “monkey-pot” tree (Lecythis ollaria). The pounding reduces them to a paste, which is taken up, clapped between the hands and formed into little cakes—but not until it has been mixed with some manioc flour, some lime from a burnt shell (a helix), and a little juice from the fresh leaves of the “abuta”—a menispermous plant of the genus Cocculus. The cakes are then dried or “barbecued” upon a primitive gridiron—the bars of which are saplings of hard wood—and when well-hardened the snuff is ready for the “box.” In a box it is actually carried—usually one made out of some rare and beautiful shell.

The ceremonial of taking the snuff is the most singular part of the performance. When a Mundrucu feels inclined for a “pinch”—though it is something more than a pinch that he inhales when he does feel inclined—he takes the cake out of the box, scrapes off about a spoonful of it into a shallow, saucer-shaped vessel of the calabash kind, and then spreads the powder all over the bottom of the vessel in a regular “stratification.” The spreading is not performed by the fingers, but with a tiny, pencil-like brush made out of the bristles of the great ant-eater (Myrmecophaga jubata).

He is in no hurry, but takes his time,—for as you may guess from its effects, the performance is not one so often repeated as that of ordinary snuff-taking. When the niopo dust is laid to his liking, another implement is brought into play, the construction of which it is also necessary to describe. It is a “machine” of six to eight inches in length, and is made of two quills from the wing of the gaviao real, or “harpy eagle” (Harpyia destructor). These quills are placed side by side for the greater part of their length, forming two parallel tubes, and they are thus neatly whipped together by a thread. At one end they are pressed apart so as to diverge to a width corresponding to the breadth between the Mundrucu’s nostrils,—where it is intended they shall be placed during the ceremony of snuff-taking.

And thus are they placed,—one end of each quill being slightly intruded within the line of the septum, while the other end rests upon the snuff, or wanders over the surface of the saucer, till all the powder placed there is drawn up and inhaled, producing the convulsive effects already detailed.

The shank-bone of a species of bird—thought to be a plover—is sometimes used instead of the quills. It is hollow, and has a forking-tube at the end. This kind is not common or easily obtained, for the niopo-taker who has one, esteems it as the most valuable item of his apparatus.

Snuffing the niopo is not exclusively confined to the Mundrucu. We have seen elsewhere that it is also a habit of the dirt-eating Ottomacs; and other tribes on the upper Amazon practise it. But the Mahües, already mentioned as the allies of the Mundrucus, are the most confirmed snuff-takers of all.

Another odd custom of the Mundrucus is their habit of “tatooing.” I speak of real tatooing,—that is, marking the skin with dots and lines that cannot be effaced, in contradistinction to mere painting, or staining, which can easily be washed off. The Mundrucus paint also, with the anotto, huitoc, caruta, and other pigments, but in this they only follow the practice of hundreds of other tribes. The true tatoo is a far different affair, and scarcely known among the aborigines of America, though common enough in the islands of the South Sea. A few other Indian tribes practise it to a limited extent,—as is elsewhere stated,—but among the Mundrucus it is an “institution;” and painful though the process be, it has to be endured by every one in the nation, “every mother’s son,” and daughter as well, that are cursed with a Mundrucu for their father.

It is upon the young people the infliction is performed,—when they are about eight or ten years of age.

The tatoo has been so often described, that I should not repeat it here; but there are a few “points” peculiar to Mundrucu tatooing, and a few others, not elsewhere understood.

The performance is usually the work of certain old crones, who, from long practice, have acquired great skill in the art.

The chief instrument used is a comb of thorns,—not a single thorn, as is generally stated,—but a tier or row of them set comb-fashion. These thorns are the spines of the “murumuru,” or “pupunha” palm (Gullielmia speciosa). Humboldt states that this palm is smooth and spineless, but in this the great, good man was in error. Its trunk is so covered with thorns or spines, that when the Indians require to climb it—for the purpose of procuring the valuable fruits, which they eat variously prepared—they have to erect a staging, or rude sort of ladder, to be able to get at them.

The comb, then, is pressed down upon the skin of the “tatooee,” till all the points have penetrated the flesh, and a row of holes is laid open, from which the blood flows profusely. As soon as this can be wiped off, ashes of a burnt gum or pitch are rubbed into the wounds, which, when healed, appear like so many dots of a deep bluish or black color. In this way the young Mundrucus, both boys and girls, get those regular rows of dotted lines, which traverse their forehead and cheeks, their arms and limbs, breasts, and bodies in such eccentric fashion. It has often been asked how these lines of dots were carried over the skin in such straight and symmetrical rows, forming regular parallel lines, or other geometrical patterns. The “comb” will explain the mystery.

The tatoo, with a few strings of shell-beads or necklaces, and bracelets of monkey and jaguar teeth, is all the dress which is permitted to the Mundrucu belle. In Mundrucu-land it is the reverse of what is practised among civilized people: the men are the exponents of the fashions, and keep exclusively to themselves the cosmetics and bijouterie. Not contented with being tatooed, these also paint their bodies, by way of “overcoat,” and also adorn themselves with the bright feathers of birds. They wear on their heads the beautiful circlet of macaw plumes, and on grand occasions appear in the magnificent “feather dress,” so long celebrated as the peculiar costume of the tropical-forest Indian. These dresses their women weave and border, at a sacrifice of much tedious labor. They also ornament their arms and legs with rows of feathers around them, the tips turned upward and backward.

The tatooing is confined to the Mundrucus proper,—their allies, the Mahües not following the practice, but contenting themselves with a simple “coat” of paint.

It is difficult to say what motive first inducted human beings into this singular and barbarous custom. It is easier to tell why it is still followed, and the “why” is answered by saying that the Mundrucus “scarify” themselves, because their fathers did so before them. Many a custom among civilized nations, but little less ridiculous, if we could only think so, rests upon a similar basis. Perhaps our modern abominable hat—though it has a different origin—is not less ludicrous than the tatooed patterns of the savage. Certainly it is quite equal to it in ugliness, and is likely to rival it in permanence,—to our sorrow be it said. But even we deal slightly in the tatoo. Our jolly Jack would be nobody in the forecastle without “Polly,” in blue, upon his weather-beaten breast, and the foul anchor upon his arm.

But the Mundrucu baptizes his unfortunate offspring in a still more savage fashion. The tattoo may be termed the baptism in blood, performed at the tender age of ten. When the youth—fortunately it does not extend to the weaker sex—has attained to the age of eighteen, he has then to undergo the tocandeira, which deserves to be called the baptism of fire!

This too merits description. When the Mundrucu youth would become a candidate for manhood, a pair of “gloves” is prepared for him. These consist of two pieces of a palm-tree bark, with the pith hollowed out, but left in at one end. The hollow part is of sufficient diameter to draw over the hands loosely, and so long as to reach up to mid-arm, after the fashion of gauntlets.

The “gloves” being got ready, are nearly filled with ants, not only the venomous red ants, but all other species, large or small, that can either bite or sting, of which tropical South America possesses an endless variety. With this “lining” the “mittens” are ready for use, and the “novice” is compelled to draw them on. Should he refuse, or even exhibit a disposition to shrink from the fiery trial, he is a lost man. From that hour he need never hold up his head, much less offer his hand and heart, for there is not a maiden in all Mundrucu-land that would listen to his softest speech. He is forever debarred from the pleasure of becoming a benedict. Of course he does not refuse, but plunging his hands into the “mittens,” into the very midst of the crawling host, he sets about the ceremony.

He must keep on the gloves till he has danced before every door in the village. He must sing as if from very joy; and there is plenty of music to accompany him, drums and fifes, and human voices,—for his parents and relatives are by his side encouraging him with their songs and gestures. He is in pain,—in positive agony,—for these venomous ants both sting and bite, and have been busy at both, from the very first moment. Each moment his agony grows more intense, his sufferings more acute, for the poison is thrilling through his veins,—he turns pale,—his eyes become blood-cast,—his breast quivers with emotion and his limbs tremble beneath him; but despite all this, woe to him if he utter a cry of weakness! It would brand him with an eternal stigma,—he would never be suffered to carry the Mundrucu lance to battle,—to poise upon its point the ghastly trophy of the Beheaders. On, on, through the howling throng, amidst friends and relatives with faces anxious as his own; on to the sound of the shrill-piping reed and the hoarse booming of the Indian drum; on till he stands in front of the cabin of the chief! There again the song is sung, the “jig” is danced, both proudly prolonged till the strength of the performer becomes completely exhausted. Then, and not till then, the gloves are thrown aside, and the wearer falls back, into the arms of his friends, “sufficiently punished!”

This is the hour of congratulation. Girls gather round him, and fling their tatooed arms about his neck. They cluster and cling upon him, singing his song of triumph; but just at that crisis he is not in the mood for soft caresses; and, escaping from their blandishments, he makes a rush towards the river. On reaching its bank he plunges bodily in, and there remains up to his neck in the water, till the cooling fluid has to some extent eased his aching arms, and tranquillized the current of his boiling blood. When he emerges from the water, he is a man, fit stuff for a Mundrucu warrior, and eligible to the hand of a Mundrucu maiden.

It may be remarked that this terrible ordeal of the Mundrucus, though, perhaps, peculiar among South-American Indians, has its parallel among certain tribes of the north,—the Mandans and others, as detailed by Catlin, one of the most acute of ethnological observers.

The scalp trophy, too, of the Northern Indian has its analogy in a Mundrucu custom—that which distinguishes him most of all, and which has won him the terrible title of “Beheader.”

This singular appellation is now to be explained.

When a Mundrucu has succeeded in killing an enemy, he is not, like his northern compeer, satisfied with only the skin of the head. He must have the whole head, scalp and skull, bones, brains, and all! And he takes all, severing the head with his knife by a clean cut across the small of the neck, and leaving the trunk to the vulture king. With the ghastly trophy poised upon the point of his lance, he returns triumphant to the malocca to receive the greetings of his tribe and the praises of his chief.

But the warlike exploit requires a memento—some token by which he may perpetuate its fame. The art of printing does not exist among the Mundrucus, and there is no friendly pen to record the deed. It has been done,—behold the evidence! much clearer than often accompanies the exploits of civilized heroes. There is the evidence of an enemy slain; there is the grim, gory voucher, palpable both to sight and touch—proof positive that there is a dead body somewhere.

Of course, such evidence is sufficient for the present; but how about the future? As time passes, the feat may be forgotten, as great deeds are elsewhere. Somebody may even deny it. Some slanderous tongue may whisper, or insinuate, or openly declare that it was no exploit after all—that there was no dead man; for the vultures by this time would have removed the body, and the white ants (termites) would have equally extinguished all traces of the bones. How, then, are the proofs to be preserved? By preserving the head! And this is the very idea that is in the mind of the Mundrucu warrior. He is resolved not to permit his exploit to be buried in oblivion by burying the head of his enemy. That tongue, though mute, will tell the tale to posterity; that pallid cheek, though, perhaps, it may become a little shrivelled in the “drying,” will still be smooth enough to show that there is no tatoo, and to be identified as the skin of an enemy. Some young Mundrucu, yet unborn, will read in the countenance of that grinning and gory witness, the testimony of his father’s prowess. The head, therefore, must be preserved; and it is preserved with as much care as the cherished portrait of a famous ancestor. The cranial relic is even embalmed, as if out of affection for him to whom it belonged. The brains and eye-balls are removed, to facilitate the process of desiccation; but false eyes are inserted, and the tongue, teeth, and ears, scalp, skull, and hair, are all retained, not only retained, but “titivated” out in the most approved style of fashion. The long hair is carefully combed out, parted, and arranged; brilliant feathers of rock-cock and macaw are planted behind the ears and twisted in the hanging tresses. An ornamental string passes through the tongue, and by this the trophy is suspended from the beams of the great malocca.

It is not permitted to remain there. In some dark niche of this Golgotha—this Mundruquin Westminster—it might be overlooked and forgotten. To prevent this it is often brought forth, and receives many an airing. On all warlike and festive occasions does it appear, poised upon the point of the warrior’s lance, and even in peaceful times it may be seen—along with hundreds of its like—placed in the circular row around the manioc clearing, and lending its demure countenance to the labors of the field.

It is not a little singular that this custom of embalming the heads of their enemies is found among the Dyaks of Borneo, and the process in both places is ludicrously similar. Another rare coincidence occurs between the Amazonian tribes and the Bornean savages, viz. in both being provided with the blow-gun. The gravitana of the American tribes is almost identical with the sumpitan of Borneo. It furnishes a further proof of our theory regarding an original connection between the American Indians and the savages of the great South Sea.

The Mundrucu is rarely ill off in the way of food. When he is so, it is altogether his own fault, and chargeable to his indolent disposition. The soil of his territory is of the most fertile kind, and produces many kinds of edible fruits spontaneously, as the nuts of the pupunha palm and the splendid fruits of the Bertholetia excelsa, or juvia-tree, known in Europe as “Brazil-nuts.” Of these then are two kinds, as mentioned elsewhere, the second being a tree of the genus Lecythys,—the Lecythys ollaria, or “monkey-pot” tree. It obtains this trivial name from the circumstance, first, of its great pericarp, almost as large as a child’s head, having a movable top or lid, which falls off when the fruit ripens; and secondly, from the monkeys being often seen drawing the seeds or nuts out of that part of the shell which remains attached to the tree, and which, bearing a considerable resemblance to a pot in its shape, is thus very appropriately designated the pot of the monkeys. The common Indian name of the monkey-pot tree is sapucaya, and the nuts of this species are so called in commerce, though they are also termed Brazil-nuts. They are of a more agreeable flavor than the true Brazil-nuts, and not so easily obtained, as the Lecythys is less generally distributed over the Amazonian valley. It requires a peculiar soil, and grows only in those tracts that are subject to the annual inundations of the rivers.

The true Brazil-nuts are the “juvia” trees of the Indians; and the season for collecting them is one of the harvests of the Mundrucu people. The great pericarps—resembling large cocoa-nuts when stripped of the fibres—do not open and shed their seeds, as is the case with the monkey-pot tree. The whole fruit falls at once; and as it is very heavy, and the branches on which it grows are often nearly a hundred feet from the ground, it may easily be imagined that it comes down like a ten-pound shot; in fact, one of them falling upon the head of a Mundrucu would be very likely to crush his cranium, as a bullet would an egg-shell; and such accidents not unfrequently occur to persons passing imprudently under the branches of the Bertholetia when its nuts are ripe. Sometimes the monkeys, when on the ground looking after those that have fallen, become victims to the like accident; but these creatures are cunning reasoners, and being by experience aware of the danger, will scarce ever go under a juvia-tree, but when passing one always make a wide circuit around it. The monkeys cannot of themselves open the great pericarp, as they do that of the “sapucuya,” but are crafty enough to get at the precious contents, notwithstanding. In doing this they avail themselves of the help of other creatures, that have also a motive in opening the juvia shells—cavies and other small rodent animals, whose teeth, formed for this very purpose, enable them to gnaw a hole in the ligneous pericarps, hard and thick as they are. Meanwhile the monkeys, squatted around, watch the operation in a careless, nonchalant sort of way, as if they had no concern whatever in the result; but as soon as they perceive that an entrance has been effected, big enough to admit their hand, they rush forward, drive off the weaker creature, who has been so long and laboriously at work, and take possession of the prize.

Neither does the Mundrucu nut-gatherer get possession of the juvia fruit without a certain degree of danger and toil. He has to climb the tallest trees, to secure the whole crop at one time; and while engaged in collecting those upon the ground, he is in danger of a blow from odd ones that are constantly falling. To secure his skull against accidents, he wears upon his head a thick wooden cap or helmet,—after the fashion of the hats worn by our firemen,—and he is always careful to keep his body in an upright attitude, stooping as seldom as he can avoid doing so, lest he might get a thump between the shoulders, or upon the spine of his back, which would be very likely to flatten him out upon the earth. These Brazil-nuts furnish the Mundrucu with a portion of his food,—as they also do many other tribes of Amazonian Indians,—and they are also an item of Indian commerce, being collected from among the different tribes by the Portuguese and Spanish traders.

But the Mundrucu does not depend altogether on the spontaneous productions of the forest, which at best furnish only a precarious supply. He does something in the agricultural line,—cultivating a little manioc root, with plantains, yams, and other tropical plants that produce an enormous yield with the very slightest trouble or attention; and this is exactly what suits him. A few days spent by the little community in the yam patch—or rather, by the women and children, for these are the agricultural laborers in Mundrucu land—is sufficient to ensure an abundant supply of breadstuff for the whole year. With regard to flesh-meat he is net so well off, for the domestic animals, and oxen more especially, do not thrive in the Amazon country. In Mundrucu land, the carnivorous jaguar, aided by flies and vampire bats, would soon destroy them, even if the Indian had the inclination to raise them, which he has not.

Instead of beef, therefore, he contents himself with fish, and occasionally a steak from the great tapir, or a griskin of manati. Birds, too, furnish him with an occasional meal; but the staple article of his flesh diet is obtained from the quadrumana,—the numerous species of monkeys with which his forests abound. These he obtains by shooting them down from the trees with his bow and arrows, and also by various other hunting devices.

His mode of cooking them is sufficiently peculiar to be described. A large log fire is first kindled and permitted to burn until a sufficient quantity of red cinders are produced. Over these cinders a grating is erected with green saplings of wood, laid parallel to each other like the bars of a gridiron, and upon this the “joint” is laid.

Nothing is done to the monkey before its being placed on the gridiron. Its skin is not removed, and even the intestines are not always taken out. The fire will singe off the hair sufficiently to content a Mundrucu stomach, and the hide is broiled and eaten with the flesh. It is thus literally “carne con cuero.”

It may be observed that this forest gridiron, or “barbecue,” as it is properly termed, is not an idea exclusively confined to South America. It is in use among the Indians of the north, and various uncivilized tribes in other parts of the world.

Sometimes the Mundrucu does not take the trouble to construct the gridiron. When on the march in some warlike expedition that will not allow time for being particular about the mode of cooking, the joint is broiled upon a spit over the common fire. The spit is simply a stick, sharpened at both ends, one of which impales the monkey, and the other is stuck into the ground. The stick is then set with a lean towards the fire, so as to bring the carcass over the blaze. While on the spit the monkey appears in a sitting position, with its head upward, and its long tail hanging along the sapling,—just as if it were still living, and in one of its most natural attitudes, clinging to the branch of a tree! The sight is sufficiently comical; but sometimes a painful spectacle has been witnessed,—painful to any one but a savage: when the young of the monkey has been captured along with its dam, and still recognizing the form of its parent,—even when all the hair has been singed off, and the skin has become calcined by the fire,—is seen rushing forward into the very flames, and with plaintive cry inviting the maternal embrace! Such an affecting incident has been often witnessed amid the forests of Amazonia.

We conclude our sketch of the Mundrucus, by stating that their form of government is despotic, though not to an extreme degree. The “tushao,” or chief, has considerable power, though it is not absolute, and does not extend to the taking of life,—unless the object of his displeasure be a slave, and many of these are held in abject bondage among the Mundrucus.

The Mundrucu religion resembles that of many other tribes both in North and South America. It consists in absurd ceremonies, and appeals to the good and evil spirits of the other world, and is mixed up with a vast deal of quackery in relation to the ills that afflict the Mundrucu in this life. In other words, it is a combination of the priest and doctor united in one, that arch-charlatan known to the North-American Indians as the “Medicine-man,” and among the Mundrucus as the “Puge.”

THE CENTAURS OF THE “GRAN CHACO.”

I have elsewhere stated that a broad band of independent Indian territory—that is, territory never really subdued or possessed by the Spaniards—traverses the interior of South America, extending longitudinally throughout the whole continent. Beginning at Cape Horn, it ends in the peninsula of the free Goajiros, which projects into the Caribbean Sea,—in other words, it is nearly 5,000 miles in length. In breadth it varies much. In Patagonia and a portion of the Pampas country it extends from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and it is of still wider extent on the latitude of the Amazon river, where the whole country, from the Atlantic to the Peruvian Andes,—with the exception of some thinly-placed Brazilian settlements,—is occupied by tribes of independent Indians. At either point this territory will appear—upon maps—to be interrupted by tracts of country possessing civilized settlements. The names of towns and villages are set as thickly as if the country were well peopled; and numerous roads are traced, forming a labyrinthine network upon the paper. A broad belt of this kind extends from the Lower Parana (La Plata) to the Andes of Chili, constituting the upper provinces of the “Argentine Confederation;” another apparently joins the settlements of Bolivia and Brazil and again in the north, the provinces of Venezuela appear to be united to those of New Granada.

All this, however, is more apparent than real. The towns upon the maps are in general mere rancherias, or collections of huts; some of them are the names of fortified posts, and a large proportion are but ruins,—the ruins of monkish mission settlements long since gone to destruction, and with little else than the name on the map to testify that they ever had an existence. The roads are no roads at all, nothing more than tracings on the chart showing the general route of travel.

Even across the Argentine provinces—where this nomenclature appears thickest upon the map—the horse-Indian of the Pampas extends his forays at will; his “range” meeting, and, in some cases, “dovetailing” into that of the tribes dwelling upon the northern side of these settlements. The latter, in their turn, carry their plundering expeditions across to the Campos Parexis, on the head-waters of the Amazon, whence stretches the independent territory, far and wide to the Amazon itself; thence to the Orinoco, and across the Llanos to the shores of the Maracaibo Gulf—the free range of the independent Goajiros.

This immense belt of territory, then, is in actual possession of the aborigines. Although occupied at a few points by the white race,—Spanish and Portuguese,—the occupation scarce deserves the name. The settlements are sparse and rather retrograde than progressive. The Indian ranges through and around them, wherever and whenever his inclination leads him; and only when some humiliating treaty has secured him a temporary respite from hostilities does the colonist enjoy tranquillity. At other times he lives in continual dread, scarce daring to trust himself beyond the immediate vicinity of his house or village, both of which he has been under the necessity of fortifying.

It is true that at one period of South-American history things were not quite so bad. When the Spanish nation was at the zenith of its power a different condition existed; but even then, in the territory indicated, there were large tracts circumstanced just as at the present hour,—tracts which the Spaniards, with all their boasted warlike strength, were unable even to explore, much less to subdue. One of these was that which forms the subject of our sketch, “El Gran Chaco.”

Of all the tracts of wild territory existing in South America, and known by the different appellations of Pampas, Paramos, Campos Parexis, the Puna, the Pajonal, Llanos, and Montañas, there is none possessed of a greater interest than that of El Gran Chaco,—perhaps not one that equals it in this respect. It is interesting, not only from having a peculiar soil, climate, and productions, but quite as much from the character and history of its inhabitants, both of which present us with traits and episodes truly romantic.

The “Gran Chaco” is 200,000 square miles in extent, or twice the size of the British Isles. Its eastern boundary is well defined, being the Paraguay river, and its continuation the Parana, down to the point where the latter receives one of its great western tributaries, the Salado; and this last is usually regarded as the southern and western boundary of the Chaco. Northward its limits are scarcely so definite; though the highlands of Bolivia and the old missionary province of Chiquitos, forming the water-shed between the rivers of the La Plata and the Amazonian basins—may be geographically regarded as the termination of the Chaco in that direction. North and south it extends through eleven degrees of latitude; east and west it is of unequal breadth,—sometimes expanding, sometimes contracting, according to the ability of the white settlers along it borders to maintain their frontier. On its eastern side, as already stated, the frontier is definite, and terminates on the banks of the Paraguay and Parana. East of this line—coinciding almost with a meridian of longitude—the Indian of the Gran Chaco does not roam, the well-settled province of Corrientes and the dictatorial government of Paraguay presenting a firmer front of resistance; but neither does the colonist of these countries think of crossing to the western bank of the boundary river to form any establishment there. He dares not even set his foot upon the territory of the Chaco. For a thousand miles, up and down, the two races, European and American, hold the opposite banks of this great stream. They gaze across at each other: the one from the portico of his well-built mansion, or perhaps from the street of his town; the other, standing by his humble “toldo,” or mat-covered tent,—more probably, upon the back of his half-wild horse, reined up for a moment on some projecting promontory that commands the view of the river. And thus have these two races gazed at each other for three centuries, with little other intercourse passing between them than that of a deadly hostility.

The surface of the Gran Chaco is throughout of a champaign character. It may be described as a vast plain. It is not, however, a continuation of the Pampas, since the two are separated by a more broken tract of country, in which lie the sierras of Cordova and San Luis, with the Argentine settlements already mentioned. Besides, the two great plains differ essentially in their character, even to a greater extent than do the Pampas themselves from the desert steppes of Patagonia. Only a few of the annual and vegetable productions of the Gran Chaco are identical with those of the Pampas, and its Indian inhabitants are altogether unlike the sanguinary savages of the more southern plain. The Chaco, approaching many degrees nearer to the equator, is more tropical in its character; in fact, the northern portion of it is truly so, lying as it does within the torrid zone, and presenting the aspect of a tropical vegetation. Every inch of the Chaco is within the palm region; but in its northern half these beautiful trees abound in numberless species, yet unknown to the botanist, and forming the characteristic features of the landscape. Some grow in forests of many miles in extent, others only in “clumps,” with open, grass-covered plains between, while still other species mingle their graceful fronds with the leaves and branches of dicotyledonous trees, or clapsed in the embrace of luxuriant llianas and parasitical climbers form groves of the most variegated verdure and fantastic outlines. With such groves the whole surface of the Chaco country is enamelled; the intervals between being occupied by plains of rich waving grass, now and then tracts of morass covered with tall and elegant reeds, a few arid spots bristling with singular forms of algarobia and cactus, and, in some places, isolated rocky mounds, of dome or conical shape, rising above the general level of the plains, as if intended to be used as watch-towers for their guardianship and safety.

Such are the landscapes which the Grand Chaco presents to the eye—far different from the bald and uniform monotony exhibited in the aspect of either Prairie or Pampa; far grander and lovelier than either—in point of scenic loveliness, perhaps, unequalled on earth. No wonder, then, that the Indian of South America esteems it as an earthly Elysium; no wonder that the Spaniard dreams of it as such,—though to the Spanish priest and the Spanish soldier it has ever proved more of a Purgatory than a Paradise. Both have entered upon its borders, but neither has been able to dwell within its domain; and the attempts at its conquest, by sword and cross, have been alike unsuccessful,—equally and fatally repulsed, throughout a period of more than three hundred years. At this hour, as at the time of the Peruvian conquest,—as on the day when the ships of Mendoza sailed up the waters of the Parana,—the Gran Chaco is an unconquered country, owned by its aboriginal inhabitants, and by them alone. It is true that it is claimed, both by Spaniard and Portuguese; and by no less than four separate claimants belonging to these two nationalities. Brazil and Bolivia, Paraguay and the Argentine Confederation, all assert their title to a slice of this earthly paradise; and even quarrel as to how their boundary lines should intersect it!

There is something extremely ludicrous in these claims,—since neither one nor other of the four powers can show the slightest basis for them. Not one of them can pretend to the claim of conquest; and far less can they rest their rights upon the basis of occupation of possession. So far from possessing the land, not one of them dare set foot over its borders; and they are only too well pleased if its present occupants are contented to remain within them. The claim, therefore, of both Spaniard and Portuguese, has no higher title, than that some three hundred and fifty years ago it was given them by the Pope,—a title not less ludicrous than their kissing the Pope’s toe to obtain it!

In the midst of these four conflicting claimants, there appears a fifth, and that is the real owner,—the “red Indian” himself. His claim has “three points of the law” in his favor,—possession,—and perhaps the fourth, too,—the power to keep possession. At all events, he has held it for three hundred years against all odds and all comers; and who knows that he may not hold it for three hundred years more?—only, it is to be hoped, for a different use, and under the influence of a more progressive civilization.

The Indian, then, is the undoubted lord of the “Gran Chaco.” Let us drop in upon him, and see what sort of an Indian he is, and how he manages this majestic domain.

After having feasted our eyes upon the rich scenery of the land,—upon the verdant plains, mottled with copses of “quebracho” and clumps of the Caranday palm,—upon landscapes that resemble the most lordly parks, we look around for the mansions and the owners. The mansion is not there, but the owner stands before us.

We are at once struck by his appearance: his person tall and straight as a reed, his frame muscular his limbs round and well-proportioned, piercing coal-black eyes, well-formed features, and slightly aquiline nose,—and perhaps we are a little surprised at the light color of his skin. In this we note a decided peculiarity which distinguishes him from most other tribes of his race. It is not a red Indian we behold, nor yet a copper-colored savage; but a man whose complexion is scarce darker than that of the mulatto, and not at all deeper in hue than many a Spaniard of Andalusian descent, who boasts possession of the purest “sangre azul;” not one shade darker than thousands of Portuguese dwelling upon the other side of the Brazilian frontier.

And remember, that it is the true skin of the Chaco Indian we have before our view,—and not a painted one,—for here, almost for the first time, do we encounter the native complexion of the aboriginal, undisfigured by those horrid pigments which in these pages have so often glared before the eyes of our readers.

Of paint, the Chaco Indian scarce knows the use; or, at all events, employs it sparingly, and only at intervals, on very particular and ceremonial occasions. We are spared, therefore, the describing his escutcheon, and a positive relief it is.

It would be an interesting inquiry to trace out the cause of his thus abstaining from a custom almost universal among his race. Why does he abjure the paint?

Is it because he cannot afford it, or that it is not procurable in his country? No; neither of these can be offered as a reason. The “annotto” bush (Bixa orellana), and the wild-indigo, abound in his territory; and he knows how to extract the colors of both,—for his women do extract them, and use them in dying the yarn of their webs. Other dyewoods—a multitude of others—he could easily obtain; and even the cochineal cactus, with its gaudy vermilion parasite, is indigenous to his land. It cannot be the scarcity of the material that prevents him from employing it,—what then?

The cause is unexplained; but may it not be that this romantic savage, otherwise more highly gifted than the rest of his race, is endowed also with a truer sense of the beautiful and becoming? Quien sabe?

Let it not be understood, however, that he is altogether free from the “taint,”—for he does paint sometimes, as already admitted; and it must be remembered, moreover, that the Chaco Indians are not all of one tribe, nor of one community. There are many associations of them scattered over the face of this vast plain, who are not all alike, either in their habits or customs, but, on the contrary, very unlike; who are not even at all times friendly with each other, but occupied with feuds and vendettas of the most deadly description. Some of these tribes paint most frightfully, while others of them go still farther, and scarify their faces with the indelible tattoo,—a custom that in America is almost confined to the Indians of the Chaco and a few tribes on the southern tributaries of the Amazon. Happily this custom is on the decline: the men practise it no longer; but, by a singular perversity of taste, it is still universal among the women, and no Chaco belle would be esteemed beautiful without a cross of bluish-black dots upon her forehead, a line of like points extending from the angle of each eye to the ears, with a variety of similar markings upon her cheeks, arms, and bosom. All this is done with the point of a thorn,—the spine of a mimosa, or of the caraguatay aloe; and the dark purple color is obtained by infusing charcoal into the fresh and bleeding punctures. It is an operation that requires days to complete, and the pain from it is of the most acute and prolonged character, enduring until the poisoned wounds become cicatrized. And yet it is borne without a murmur,—just as people in civilized life bear the painful application of hair-dyes and tweezers.

I need not say that the hair of the Chaco Indian does not need to be dyed,—that is, unless he were to fancy having it of a white, or a red, or yellow color,—not an uncommon fancy among savages.

His taste, however, does not run that way any more than among civilized dandies, and he is contented with its natural hue, which is that of the raven’s wing. But he is not contented to leave it to its natural growth. Only a portion of it,—that which covers the upper part of his head,—is permitted to retain its full length and flowing glories. For the remainder, he has a peculiar tonsure of his own; and the hair immediately over the forehead—and sometimes a stripe running all around above the ears, to the back of the head—is either close shaven with a sharp shell, or plucked entirely out by a pair of horn tweezers of native manufacture. Were it not that the long and luxuriant tresses that still remain,—covering his crown, as with a crest,—the shorn circle would assimilate him to some orders of friars; but, notwithstanding the similarity of tonsure, there is not much resemblance between a Chaco Indian and a brother of the crucifix and cowl.

This mode of “dressing the hair” is not altogether peculiar to the Indian of the Gran Chaco. It is also practised by certain prairie tribes,—the Osage, Pawnee, and two or three others; but all these carry the “razor” a little higher up, leaving a mere patch, or “scalp-lock,” upon the crown.

The Chaco tribes are beardless by nature; and if a few hairs chance to show themselves upon cheek or chin, they are carefully “wed” out. In a like fashion both men and women serve their eyebrows and lashes,—sacrificing these undoubted ornaments, as they say, to a principle of utility, since they allege that they can see better without them! They laugh at white men, who preserve these appendages, calling them “ostrich-eyed,”—from a resemblance which they perceive between hairy brows and the stiff, hair-like feathers that bristle round the eyes of the rhea, or American ostrich,—a well-known denizen of the Gran Chaco.

The costume of the Chaco Indian is one of exceeding simplicity; and in this again we observe a peculiar trait of his mind. Instead of the tawdry and tinsel ornaments, in which most savages delight to array themselves, he is contented with a single strip of cloth, folded tightly around his loins. It is usually either a piece of white cotton, or of wool woven in a tri-color of red, white, and blue, and of hues so brilliant, as to produce altogether a pretty effect. The wear of the women scarce differs from that of the men, and the covering of both, scant as it is, is neither inelegant nor immodest. It is well adapted to their mode of life, and to their climate, which is that of an eternal spring. When cold winds sweep over their grassy plains, they seek protection under the folds of a more ample covering, with which they are provided,—a cloak usually made of the soft fur of the “nutria,” or South-American otter, or a robe of the beautiful spotted skin of the jaguar. They wear neither head-dress nor chaussure,—neither pendants from the nose, nor the hideous lip ornaments seen among other tribes of South America; but many of them pierce the ears; and more especially the women, who split the delicate lobes, and insert into them spiral appendages of rolled palm-leaf, that hang dangling to their very shoulders. It will be observed, therefore, that among the Chaco tribes the women disfigure themselves more than the men, and all, no doubt, in the interest of fashion.

It will be seen that the simple dress we have described leaves the limbs and most part of the body bare. To the superficial observer it might be deemed an inelegant costume, and perhaps so it would be among Europeans, or so-called “whites.” The deformed figures of European people—deformed by ages of toil and monarchical serfdom—would ill bear exposure to the light, neither would the tripe-colored skin, of which they are so commonly conceited. A very different impression is produced by the rich brunette hue,—bronze, if you will,—especially when, as in the case of the Chaco Indian, it covers a body of proper shape, with arms and limbs in symmetrical proportion. Then, and then only, does costly clothing appear superfluous, and the eye at once admits that there is no fashion on earth equal to that of the human form itself.

Above all does it appear graceful on horseback, and almost universally in this attitude does the Chaco Indian exhibit it. Scarce ever may we meet him afoot, but always on the back of his beautiful horse,—the two together presenting the aspect of the Centaur. And probably in the resemblance he approaches nearer to the true ideal of the Grecian myth, than any other horseman in the world; for the Chaco Indians differ not only from other “horse-Indians” in their mode of equitation, but also from every other equestrian people. The absurd high-peaked saddles of Tartar and Arab, with their gaudy trappings, are unknown to him,—unknown, too, the ridiculous paraphernalia, half-hiding the horse, in use among Mexicans, South-American Spaniards, and even the Indians of other tribes,—despised by him the plated bits, the embroidered bridles, and the tinkling spurs, so tickling to the vanity of other New-World equestrians. The Chaco horseman needs no such accessories to his elegance. Saddle he has none, or only the slightest patch of jaguar-skin,—spurs and stirrups are alike absent. Naked he sits upon his naked horse, the beautiful curvature of whose form is interrupted by no extraneous trappings,—even the thong that guides him scarce observable from its slightness. Who then can deny his resemblance to the centaur?

Thus mounted, with no other saddle than that described, no bridle but a thin strip of raw hide looped around the lower jaw of his horse, he will gallop wildly over the plain, wheel in graceful curves to avoid the burrows of the viscacha, pass at full speed through the close-standing and often thorny trunks of the palms, or, if need be, stand erect upon the withers of his horse, like a “star rider” of the Hippodrome. In this attitude he looks abroad for his enemies, or the game of which he may be in search; and, thus elevated above surrounding objects, he discovers the ostrich far off upon the plain, the large deer (cervus campestris), and the beautiful spotted roebucks that browse in countless herds upon the grass-covered savannas.

The dwelling of the Chaco Indian is a tent, not covered with skins, but usually with mats woven from the epidermis of young leaves of a palm-tree. It is set up by two long uprights and a ridge-pole, over which the mat is suspended—very much after the fashion of the tente d’abri used by Zouave soldiers. His bed is a hammock, swung between the upright poles, or oftener, between two palm-trees growing near. He only seeks shelter in his tent when it rains, and he prevents its floor getting wet by digging a trench around the outside. He cares little for exposure to the sun; but his wife is more delicate, and usually carries over her head a large bunch of rhea feathers, à la parasol, which protects her face from the hot scorching beams.

The tent does not stand long in one situation. Ample as is the supply which Nature affords in the wilds of the Chaco, it is not all poured out in any one place. This would be too much convenience, and would result in an evil consequence. The receiver of such a benefit would soon become indolent, from the absence of all necessity for exertion; and not only his health, but his moral nature, would suffer from such abundance.

Fortunately no such fate is likely to befall the Indian of the Chaco. The food upon which he subsists is derived from many varied sources, a few of which only are to be found in any one particular place, and each only at its own season of the year. For instance, upon the dry plains he pursues the rhea and viscacha, the jaguar, puma, and partridges; in woods and marshy places the different species of wild hogs (peccaries). On the banks of rivers he encounters the tapir and capivara, and in their waters, fish, utrias, geese, and ducks. In the denser forest-covered tracts he must look for the various kinds of monkeys, which also constitute a portion of his food. When he would gather the legumes, of the algarobias—of several species—or collects the sugary sap of the caraguatay, he must visit the tracts where the mimosæ and bromelias alone flourish; and then he employs much of his time in searching for the nests of wild bees, from the honey of which and the seeds of the algarobia he distils a pleasant but highly intoxicating drink. To his credit, however, he uses this but sparingly, and only upon grand occasions of ceremony; how different from the bestial chicha-drinking revellers of the Pampas!

These numerous journeys, and the avocations connect with them, hinder the Chaco Indian from falling into habits of idleness, and preserve his health to a longevity that is remarkable: so much so, that “to live as long as a Chaco Indian,” has become a proverbial expression in the settlements of South America.

The old Styrian monk Dobrezhoffer has chronicled the astounding facts, that among these people a man of eighty is reckoned to be in the prime of manhood; that a hundred years is accounted a common age; and that many of them are still hale and hearty at the age of one hundred and twenty! Allowing for a little exaggeration in the statements of the monk, it is nevertheless certain that the Indians of the Gran Chaco, partly owing to their fine climate, and partly to their mode of life and subsistence, enjoy health and strength to a very old age, and to a degree unknown in less-favored regions of the world. Of this there is ample and trustworthy testimony.

The food of the Chaco Indian is of a simple character, and he makes no use either of salt or spices. He is usually the owner of a small herd of cattle and a few sheep, which he has obtained by plundering the neighboring settlements of the Spaniards. It is towards those of the south and west that he generally directs his hostile forays; for he is at peace with the riverine provinces,—Brazilian, Paraguayan, and Correntine.

In these excursions he travels long distances, crossing many a fordless stream and river, and taking along with him wife, children, tents, and utensils, in short, everything which he possesses. He fords the streams by swimming, using one hand to guide his horse. With this hand he can also propel himself, while in the other he carries his long lance, on the top of which he poises any object he does not wish should be wetted. A “balza,” called “pelota,” made of bull’s hide, and more like a square box than a boat, carries over the house utensils and the puppies, of which there are always a large number. The “precious baby” is also a passenger by the balza. The pelota is propelled, or rather, pulled over, by means of a tiller-rope, held in the teeth of a strong swimmer, or tied to the tail of a horse; and thus the crossing is effected.

Returning with his plunder—with herds of horned cattle or flocks of sheep—not unfrequently with human captives, women and children, the crossing becomes more difficult; but he is certain to effect it without loss, and almost without danger of being overtaken in the pursuit.

His freebooting habits should not be censured too gravely. Many extenuating circumstances must be taken into consideration,—his wrongs and sanguinary persecutions. It must be remembered that the hostilities commenced on the opposite side; and with the Indian the habit is not altogether indigenous, but rather the result of the principle of retaliation. He is near kindred to the Incas,—in fact, some of the Chaco tribes are remnants of the scattered Peruvian race, and he still remembers the sanguinary slaughter of his ancestors by the Pizarros and Almagros. Therefore, using the phraseology of the French tribunals, we may say there are “extenuating circumstances in his favor.” One circumstance undoubtedly speaks trumpet-tongued for the Chaco Indian; and that is, he does not torture his captives, even when white men have fallen into his hands! As to the captive women and children, their treatment is rather gentle than otherwise; in fact, they are adopted into the tribe, and share, alike with the rest, the pleasures as well as the hardships of a savage life.

When the Chaco Indian possesses horned cattle and sheep, he eats mutton and beef; but if these are wanting, he must resort to the chase. He captures deer and ostriches by running them down with his swift steed, and piercing them with his long spear; and occasionally he uses the bolas. For smaller game he employs the bow and arrow, and fish are also caught by shooting them with arrows.

The Chaco Indian is the owner of a breed of dogs, and large packs of these animals may be seen around his camping-ground, or following the cavalcade in its removal from place to place. They are small creatures,—supposed to be derived from a European stock, but they are wonderfully prolific, the female often bringing forth twelve puppies at a birth. They burrow in the ground, and subsist on the offal of the camp. They are used in running down the spotted roebuck, in hunting the capivara, the great ant-bear, viscachas, and other small animals. The tapir is taken in traps, and also speared, when the opportunity offers. His flesh is relished by the Chaco Indian, but his hide is of more consequence, as from it bags, whips, and various other articles can be manufactured. The peccary of two species (dicotyles torquatus and collaris) is also pursued by the dogs, and speared by the hunter while pausing to bay the yelping pack; and the great American tiger (jaguar) is killed in a like manner. The slaying of this fierce and powerful quadruped is one of the feats of the Chaco hunter, and both its skin and flesh are articles of eager demand. The latter is particularly sought for; as by eating the flesh of so strong and courageous a creature the Indian fancies his own strength and courage will be increased. When a jaguar is killed, its carcass becomes the common property of all; and each individual of the tribe must have his slice, or “griskin,”—however small the piece may be after such multiplied subdivision! For the same reason, the flesh of the wild boar is relished; also that of the ant-bear—one of the most courageous of animals,—and of the tapir, on account of its great strength.

The bread of the Chaco Indian is derived, as before mentioned, from several species of mimosæ, called indefinitely algarobias, and by the missionary monks known as “St. John’s bread.” Palms of various kinds furnish edible nuts; and there are many trees in the Chaco forests that produce luscious fruits. With these the Indian varies his diet, and also with wild honey,—a most important article, for reasons already assigned. In the Chaco there are stingless bees, of numerous distinct species,—a proof of the many blossoms which bloom as it were “unseen” in that flowery Elysium. The honey of these bees—of some of the species in particular—is known to be of the finest and purest quality. In the Spanish settlements it commands the highest price, and is very difficult to be obtained,—for the Chaco Indian is but little given to commerce, and only occasionally brings it to market. He has but few wants to satisfy, and cares not for the tinsel of the trader: hence it is that most of the honey he gathers is reserved for his own use. He searches for the bees’ nest by observing the flight of the insect, as it passes back and forward over the wild parterre; and his keenness of sight—far surpassing that of a European—enables him to trace its movements in the air, and follow it to its hoard. He alleges that he could not accomplish this so well, were he encumbered with eyebrows and lashes, and offers this as one of his reasons for extracting these hirsute appendages. There may be something in what he says,—strange as it sounds to the ear of one who is not a bee-hunter. He finds the nest at length,—sometimes in a hollow tree, sometimes upon a branch,—the latter kind of nest being a large mass, of a substance like blotting-paper, and hanging suspended from the twigs. Sometimes he traces the insect to a subterranean dwelling; but it must be remarked that all these are different species of bees, that build their nests and construct the cells of their honeycombs each in its own favorite place, and according to its own fashion. The bee-hunter cares not how—so long as he can find the nest; though he would prefer being guided to one built upon a species of thick octagonal cactus, known as the habitat of the bee “tosimi.” This preference is caused by the simple fact—that of all the honey in the Chaco, that of the bee “tosimi” is the sweetest.

It is to be regretted that, with his many virtues, and his fine opportunity of exercising them, the Chaco Indian will not consent to remain in peace and good-will with all men. It seems a necessity of his nature to have an occasional shy at some enemy, whether white or of his own complexion. But, indeed, it would be ridiculous to censure him for this, since it appears also to be a vice universal among mankind; for where is the tribe or nation, savage or civilized, who does not practise it, whenever it feels bold enough or strong enough to do so? The Chaco Indian is not alone in his disregard of the sixth commandment,—not the only being on earth who too frequently goes forth to battle.

He has two distinct kinds of enemies,—one of European, the other of his own race,—almost of his own kindred, you would say. But it must be remembered that there are several distinct tribes dwelling in the Chaco; who, although presenting a certain similitude, are in many respects widely dissimilar; and, so far from forming one nation, or living in harmonious alliance with each other, are more frequently engaged in the most deadly hostilities. Their wars are all conducted on horseback,—all cavalry skirmishes,—the Chaco Indian disdaining to touch the ground with his foot. Dismounted he would feel himself vanquished,—as much out of his element as a fish out of water!

His war weapons are of a primitive kind; they are the bow and lance, and a species of club, known in Spanish phraselogy as the “macana.” This last weapon is also found in the hands of several of the Amazonian tribes, though differing slightly in its construction. The “macana” of the Chaco Indian is a short, stout piece of heavy iron-wood,—usually a species known as the quebracha, or “axe-breaker,” which grows plentifully throughout the Paraguayan countries. Numerous species are termed “quebracha” in Spanish-American countries, as there are numerous “iron-woods.” That of Paraguay, like most others that have obtained this name, is a species of ebony-wood, or lignum-vitæ,—in short, a true guaiacum. The wood is hard, solid, and heavy almost as metal; and therefore just the very stuff for a war-club.

The macana of the Chaco Indian is short,—not much over two feet in length, and is used both for striking in the hand and throwing to a distance. It is thicker, and of course heavier, at both extremities; and the mode of grasping it is round the narrow part in the middle. The Indian youths, while training for war, practise throwing the macana, as other people play at skittles or quoits.

The lazo and bolas are both in the hands of the Chaco tribes, but these contrivances are used sparingly, and more for hunting than war. They rarely trouble themselves with them on a real war expedition.

Their chief weapons against an enemy are their long lances,—for these are far the most effective arms for a man mounted on horseback. Those of the Chaco Indian are of enormous length, their shafts being often fifteen feet from butt to barb. They use them also when mounting on horseback, in a fashion peculiar to themselves. They mount by the right side, contrary to our European mode; nor is there the slightest resemblance in any other respect between the two fashions of getting into the saddle. With the Chaco Indian there is no putting toes into stirrups,—no tugging at the poor steed’s withers,—no clinging or climbing into the seat. He places the butt of his lance upon the ground, grasps it a little above his head with the right hand, and then raising his lithe body with an elastic spring, he drops like a cat upon the spine of his well-trained steed. A word,—a touch of his knee, or other well-understood signal,—and the animal is off like an arrow.

When the Chaco Indian goes to war against the whites, his arms are those already described. He is not yet initiated into the use of guns and gunpowder, though he often experiences their deadly effects. Indeed, the wonder is that he could have maintained his independence so long, with such weapons opposed to him. Gunpowder has often given cowards the victory over brave men; but the Chaco Indian, even without gunpowder, has managed somehow or other to preserve his freedom.

When he makes an expedition against the white settlements, he carries no shield or other defensive armor. He did so at one period of his history; but experience has taught him that these contrivances are of little use against leaden bullets; and he has thrown them away, taking them up again, however, when he goes to war with enemies of his own kind.

In attacking a settlement or village of the whites, one of his favorite strategic plans is to set the houses on fire; and in this he very often succeeds,—almost certainly when the thatch chances to be dry. His plan is to project an arrow with a piece of blazing cotton fastened near the head. For this purpose he uses the strongest kind of bow, and lying upon his back, bends it with his feet. By this means a much longer range is obtained, and the aim is of little consequence, so long as the arrow falls upon the roof of house.

On going to war with a hostile tribe of his own kind and color, he equips himself in a manner altogether different. His face is then painted most frightfully, and in the most hideous designs that his imagination can suggest, while his body is almost entirely covered by a complete suit of mail. The thick hide of the tapir furnishes him with the materials for helmet, cuirass, cuisses, greaves, everything,—and underneath is a lining of jaguar-skin. Thus accoutred he is in little danger from the arrows of the enemy, though he is also sadly encumbered in the management of his horse; and were he upon a plundering expedition against the whites, such an encumbrance would certainly bring him to grief. He knows that very well, and therefore he never goes in such guise upon any foray that is directed towards the settlements.

The Chaco Indian has now been at peace with his eastern neighbors—both Spaniards and Portuguese—for a considerable length of time; but he still keeps up hostility with the settlements on the south,—those of Cordova and San Luis,—and often returns from these wretched provinces laden with booty. If he should chance to bring away anything that is of no use to him, or that may appear superfluous in his savage home,—a harp or guitar, a piece of costly furniture, or even a handsome horse,—he is not required to throw it away he knows that he can find purchasers on the other side of the river,—among the Spanish merchants of Corrientes or Paraguay, who are ready at any time to become the receivers of the property stolen from their kindred of the south!

Such queer three-cornered dealings are also carried on in the northern countries of Spanish America,—in the provinces of Chihuahua, New Leon, and New Mexico. They are there called “cosas de Mexico.” It appears they are equally “cosas de Paraguay.”

BOSJESMEN, OR BUSHMEN.

Perhaps no race of people has more piqued the curiosity of the civilized world than those little yellow savages of South Africa, known as the Bushmen. From the first hour in which European nations became acquainted with their existence, a keen interest was excited by the stories told of their peculiar character and habits; and although they have been visited by many travellers, and many descriptions have been given of them, it is but truth to say, that the interest in them has not yet abated, and the Bushmen of Africa are almost as great a curiosity at this hour as they were when Di Gama first doubled the Cape. Indeed, there is no reason why this should not be, for the habits and personal appearance of these savages are just now as they were then, and our familiarity with them is not much greater. Whatever has been added to our knowledge of their character, has tended rather to increase than diminish our curiosity.

At first the tales related of them were supposed to be filled with wilful exaggerations, and the early travellers were accused of dealing too much in the marvellous. This is a very common accusation brought against the early travellers; and in some instances it is a just one. But in regard to the accounts given of the Bushmen and their habits there has been far less exaggeration than might be supposed; and the more insight we obtain into their peculiar customs and modes of subsistence, the more do we become satisfied that almost everything alleged of them is true. In fact, it would be difficult for the most inventive genius to contrive a fanciful account, that would be much more curious or interesting than the real and bonâ fide truth that can be told about this most peculiar people.

Where do the Bushmen dwell? what is their country? These are questions not so easily answered, as in reality they are not supposed to possess any country at all, any more than the wild animals amidst which they roam, and upon whom they prey. There is no Bushman’s country upon the map, though several spots in Southern Africa have at times received this designation. It is not possible, therefore, to delineate the boundaries of their country, since it has no boundaries, any more than that of the wandering Gypsies of Europe.

If the Bushmen, however, have no country in the proper sense of the word, they have a “range,” and one of the most extensive character—since it covers the whole southern portion of the African continent, from the Cape of Good Hope to the twentieth degree of south latitude, extending east and west from the country of the Caffres to the Atlantic Ocean. Until lately it was believed that the Bushman-range did not extend far to the north of the Orange river; but this has proved an erroneous idea. They have recently “turned up” in the land of the Dammaras, and also in the great Kalahari desert, hundreds of miles north from the Orange river and it is not certain that they do not range still nearer to the equatorial line—though it may be remarked that the country in that direction does not favor the supposition, not being of the peculiar nature of a Bushman’s country. The Bushman requires a desert for his dwelling-place. It is an absolute necessity of his nature, as it is to the ostrich and many species of animals; and north of the twentieth degree of latitude, South Africa does not appear to be of this character. The heroic Livingstone has dispelled the long-cherished illusion of the Geography about the “Great-sanded level” of these interior regions; and, instead, disclosed to the world a fertile land, well watered, and covered with a profuse and luxuriant vegetation. In such a land there will be no Bushmen.

The limits we have allowed them, however, are sufficiently large,—fifteen degrees of latitude, and an equally extensive range from east to west. It must not be supposed, however, that they populate this vast territory. On the contrary, they are only distributed over it in spots, in little communities, that have no relationship or connection with one another, but are separated by wide intervals, sometimes of hundreds of miles in extent. It is only in the desert tracts of South Africa that the Bushmen exist,—in the karoos, and treeless, waterless plains—among the barren ridges and rocky defiles—in the ravines formed by the beds of dried-up rivers—in situations so sterile, so remote, so wild and inhospitable as to offer a home to no other human being save the Bushman himself.

If we state more particularly the localities where the haunts of the Bushman are to be found, we may specify the barren lands on both sides of the Orange River,—including most of its head-waters, and down to its mouth,—and also the Great Kalahari desert. Through all this extensive region the kraals of the Bushmen may be encountered. At one time they were common enough within the limits of the Cape colony itself, and some half-caste remnants still exist in the more remote districts; but the cruel persecution of the boers has had the effect of extirpating these unfortunate savages; and, like the elephant, the ostrich, and the eland, the true wild Bushman is now only to be met with beyond the frontiers of the colony.

About the origin of the Bushmen we can offer no opinion. They are generally considered as a branch of the great Hottentot family; but this theory is far from being an established fact. When South Africa was first discovered and colonized, both Hottentots and Bushmen were found there, differing from each other just as they differ at this day; and though there are some striking points of resemblance between them, there are also points of dissimilarity that are equally as striking, if we regard the two people as one. In personal appearance there is a certain general likeness: that is, both are woolly-haired, and both have a Chinese cast of features, especially in the form and expression of the eye. Their color too is nearly the same; but, on the other hand, the Hottentots are larger than the Bushmen. It is not in their persons, however, that the most essential points of dissimilarity are to be looked for, but rather in their mental characters; and here we observe distinctions so marked and antithetical, that it is difficult to reconcile them with the fact that these two people are of one race. Whether a different habit of life has produced this distinctive character, or whether it has influenced the habits of life, are questions not easily answered. We only know that a strange anomaly exists—the anomaly of two people being personally alike—that is, possessing physical characteristics that seem to prove them of the same race, while intellectually, as we shall presently see, they have scarce one character in common. The slight resemblance that exists between the languages of the two is not to be regarded as a proof of their common origin. It only shows that they have long lived in juxtaposition, or contiguous to each other; a fact which cannot be denied.

In giving a more particular description of the Bushman, it will be seen in what respect he resembles the true Hottentot, and in what he differs from him, both physically and mentally, and this description may now be given.

The Bushman is the smallest man with whom we are acquainted; and if the terms “dwarf” and “pigmy” may be applied to any race of human beings, the South-African Bushmen presents the fairest claim to these titles. He stands only 4 feet 6 inches upon his naked soles—never more than 4 feet 9, and not unfrequently is he encountered of still less height—even so diminutive as 4 feet 2. His wife is of still shorter stature, and this Lilliputian lady is often the mother of children when the crown of her head is just 3 feet 9 inches above the soles of her feet. It has been a very common thing to contradict the assertion that these people are such pigmies in stature, and even Dr. Livingstone has done so in his late magnificent work. The doctor states, very jocosely, that they are “not dwarfish—that the specimens brought to Europe have been selected, like costermongers’ dogs, for their extreme ugliness.”

But the doctor forgets that it is not from “the specimens brought to Europe” that the above standard of the Bushman’s height has been derived, but from the testimony of numerous travellers—many of them as trustworthy as the doctor himself—from actual measurements made by them upon the spot. It is hardly to be believed that such men as Sparmann and Burchell, Barrow and Lichtenstein, Harris, Campbell, Patterson, and a dozen others that might be mentioned, should all give an erroneous testimony on this subject. These travellers have differed notoriously on other points, but in this they all agree, that a Bushman of five feet in height is a tall man in his tribe. Dr. Livingstone speaks of Bushmen “six feet high,” and these are the tribes lately discovered living so far north as the Lake Nagami. It is doubtful whether these are Bushmen at all. Indeed, the description given by the doctor, not only of their height and the color of their skin, but also some hints about their intellectual character, would lead to the belief that he has mistaken some other people for Bushmen. It must be remembered that the experience of this great traveller has been chiefly among the Bechuana tribes, and his knowledge of the Bushman proper does not appear to be either accurate or extensive. No man is expected to know everybody; and amid the profusion of new facts, which the doctor has so liberally laid before the world, it would be strange if a few inaccuracies should not occur. Perhaps we should have more confidence if this was the only one we are enabled to detect; but the doctor also denies that there is anything either terrific or majestic in the “roaring of the lion.” Thus speaks he: “The same feeling which has induced the modern painter to caricature the lion has led the sentimentalist to consider the lion’s roar as the most terrific of all earthly sounds. We hear of the ‘majestic roar of the king of beasts.’ To talk of the majestic roar of the lion is mere majestic twaddle.”

The doctor is certainly in error here. Does he suppose that any one is ignorant of the character of the lion’s roar? Does he fancy that no one has ever heard it but himself? If it be necessary to go to South Africa to take the true measure of a Bushman, it is not necessary to make that long journey in order to obtain a correct idea of the compass of the lion’s voice. We can hear it at home in all its modulations; and any one who has ever visited the Zoölogical Gardens in Regent’s Park—nay, any one who chances to live within half a mile of that magnificent menagerie—will be very much disposed to doubt the correctness of the doctor’s assertion. If there be a sound upon the earth above all others “majestic,” a noise above all others “terrific,” it is certainly the roar of the lion. Ask Albert Terrace and St. John’s Wood!

But let us not be too severe upon the doctor. The World is indebted to him much more than to any other modern traveller, and all great men indulge occasionally in the luxury of an eccentric opinion. We have brought the point forward here for a special purpose,—to illustrate a too much neglected truth. Error is not always on the side of exaggeration; but is sometimes also found in the opposite extreme of a too-squeamish moderation. We find the learned Professor Lichtenstein ridiculing poor old Hernandez, the natural historian of Mexico, for having given a description of certain fabulous animals—fabulous, he terms them, because to him they were odd and unknown. But it turns out that the old author was right, and the animals exist! How many similar misconceptions might be recorded of the Buffons, and other closet philosophers—urged, too, with the most bitter zeal! Incredulity carried too far is but another form of credulity.

But to return to our proper theme, and complete the portrait of the Bushman. We have given his height. It is in tolerable proportion to his other dimensions. When young, he appears stout enough; but this is only when a mere boy. At the age of sixteen he has reached all the manhood he is ever destined to attain; and then his flesh disappears; his body assumes a meagre outline; his arms and limbs grow thin; the calf disappears from his legs; the plumpness from his cheeks; and altogether he becomes as wretched-looking an object as it is possible to conceive in human shape. Older, his skin grows dry, corrugated, and scaly; his bones protrude; and his knee, elbow, and ankle-joints appear like horny knobs placed at the ends of what more resemble long straight sticks than the arms and limbs of a human being.

The color of this creature may be designated a yellow-brown, though it is not easy to determine it to a shade. The Bushman appears darker than he really is; since his skin serves him for a towel, and every species of dirt that discommodes his fingers he gets rid of by wiping it off on his arms, sides, or breast. The result is, that his whole body is usually coated over with a stratum of grease and filth, which has led to the belief that he regularly anoints himself—a custom common among many savage tribes. This, however, the Bushman does not do: the smearing toilet is merely occasional or accidental, and consists simply in the fat of whatever flesh he has been eating being transferred from his fingers to the cuticle of his body. This is never washed off again—for water never touches the Bushman’s hide. Such a use of water is entirely unknown to him, not even for washing his face. Should he have occasion to cleanse his hands—which the handling of gum or some like substance sometimes compels him to do—he performs the operation, not with soap and water, but with the dry dung of cattle or some wild animal. A little rubbing of this upon his skin is all the purification the Bushman believes to be needed.

Of course, the dirt darkens his complexion; but he has the vanity at times to brighten it up—not by making it whiter—but rather a brick-red. A little ochreous earth produces the color he requires; and with this he smears his body all over—not excepting even the crown of his head, and the scant stock of wool that covers it.

Bushmen have been washed. It requires some scrubbing, and a plentiful application either of soda or soap, to reach the true skin and bring out the natural color; but the experiment has been made, and the result proves that the Bushman is not so black as, under ordinary circumstances, he appears. A yellow hue shines through the epidermis, somewhat like the color of the Chinese, or a European in the worst stage of jaundice—the eye only not having that complexion. Indeed, the features of the Bushman, as well as the Hottentot, bear a strong similarity to those of the Chinese, and the Bushman’s eye is essentially of the Mongolian type. His hair, however, is entirely of another character. Instead of being long, straight, and lank, it is short, crisp, and curly,—in reality, wool. Its scantiness is a characteristic; and in this respect the Bushman differs from the woolly-haired tribes both of Africa and Australasia. These generally have “fleeces” in profusion, whereas both Hottentot and Bushman have not enough to half cover their scalps; and between the little knot-like “kinks” there are wide spaces without a single hair upon them. The Bushman’s “wool” is naturally black, but red ochre and the sun soon convert the color into a burnt reddish hue.

The Bushman has no beard or other hairy encumbrances. Were they to grow, he would root them out as useless inconveniences. He has a low-bridged nose, with wide flattened nostrils; an eye that appears a mere slit between the eyelids; a pair of high cheek-bones, and a receding forehead. His lips are not thick, as in the negro, and he is furnished with a set of fine white teeth, which, as he grows older, do not decay, but present the singular phenomenon of being regularly worn down to the stumps—as occurs to the teeth of sheep and other ruminant animals.

Notwithstanding the small stature of the Bushman, his frame is wiry and capable of great endurance. He is also as agile as an antelope.

From the description above given, it will be inferred that the Bushman is no beauty. Neither is the Bushwoman; but, on the contrary, both having passed the period of youth, become absolutely ugly,—the woman, if possible, more so than the man.

And yet, strange to say, many of the Bush-girls, when young, have a cast of prettiness almost amounting to beauty. It is difficult to tell in what this beauty consists. Something, perhaps, in the expression of the oblique almond-shaped eye, and the small well-formed mouth and lips, with the shining white teeth. Their limbs, too, at this early age, are often well rounded; and many of them exhibit forms that might serve as models for a sculptor. Their feet are especially well shaped, and, in point of size, they are by far the smallest in the world. Had the Chinese ladies been gifted by nature with such little feet, they might have been spared the torture of compressing them.

The foot of a Bushwoman rarely measures so much as six inches in length; and full-grown girls have been seen, whose feet, submitted to the test of an actual measurement, proved but a very little over four inches!

Intellectually, the Bushman does not rank so low as is generally believed. He has a quick, cheerful mind, that appears ever on the alert,—as may be judged by the constant play of his little piercing black eye,—and though he does not always display much skill in the manufacture of his weapons, he can do so if he pleases. Some tribes construct their bows, arrows, fish-baskets, and other implements and utensils with admirable ingenuity; but in general the Bushman takes no pride in fancy weapons. He prefers having them effective, and to this end he gives proof of his skill in the manufacture of most deadly poisons with which to anoint his arrows. Furthermore, he is ever active and ready for action; and in this his mind is in complete contrast with that of the Hottentot, with whom indolence is a predominant and well-marked characteristic. The Bushman, on the contrary, is always on the qui vive; always ready to be doing where there is anything to do; and there is not much opportunity for him to be idle, as he rarely ever knows where the next meal is to come from. The ingenuity which he displays in the capture of various kinds of game,—far exceeding that of other hunting tribes of Africa,—as also the cunning exhibited by him while engaged in cattle-stealing and other plundering forays, prove an intellectual capacity more than proportioned to his diminutive body; and, in short, in nearly every mental characteristic does he differ from the supposed cognate race—the Hottentot.

It would be hardly just to give the Bushman a character for high courage; but, on the other hand, it would be as unjust to charge him with cowardice. Small as he is, he shows plenty of “pluck,” and when brought to bay, his motto is, “No surrender.” He will fight to the death, discharging his poisoned arrows as long as he is able to bend a bow. Indeed, he has generally been treated to shooting, or clubbing to death, wherever and whenever caught, and he knows nothing of quarter. Just as a badger he ends his life,—his last struggle being an attempt to do injury to his assailant. Tins trait in his character has, no doubt, been strengthened by the inhuman treatment that, for a century, he has been receiving from the brutal boers of the colonial frontier.

The costume of the Bushman is of the most primitive character,—differing only from that worn by our first parents, in that the fig-leaf used by the men is a patch of jackal-skin, and that of the women a sort of fringe or bunch of leather thongs, suspended around the waist by a strap, and hanging down to the knees. It is in reality a little apron of dressed skin; or, to speak more accurately, two of them, one above the other, both cut into narrow strips or thongs, from below the waist downward. Other clothing than this they have none, if we except a little skin kaross, or cloak, which is worn over their shoulders;—that of the women being provided with a bag or hood at the top, that answers the naked “piccaninny” for a nest or cradle. Sandals protect their feet from the sharp stones, and these are of the rudest description,—merely a piece of the thick hide cut a little longer and broader than the soles of the feet, and fastened at the toes and round the ankles by thongs of sinews. An attempt at ornament is displayed in a leathern skull-cap, or more commonly a circlet around the head, upon which are sewed a number of “cowries,” or small shells of the Cyprea moneta.

It is difficult to say where these shells are procured,—as they are not the product of the Bushman’s country, but are only found on the far shores of the Indian Ocean. Most probably he obtains them by barter, and after they have passed through many hands; but they must cost the Bushman dear, as he sets the highest value upon them. Other ornaments consist of old brass or copper buttons, attached to the little curls of his woolly hair; and, among the women, strings of little pieces of ostrich egg-shells, fashioned to resemble beads; besides a perfect load of leathern bracelets on the arms, and a like profusion of similar circlets on the limbs, often reaching from the knee to the ankle-joint.

Red ochre over the face and hair is the fashionable toilette, and a perfumery is obtained by rubbing the skin with the powdered leaves of the “buku” plant, a species of diosma. According to a quaint old writer, this causes them to “stink like a poppy,” and would be highly objectionable, were it not preferable to the odor which they have without it.

They do not tattoo, nor yet perforate the ears, lips, or nose,—practices so common among savage tribes. Some instances of nose-piercing have been observed, with the usual appendage of a piece of wood or porcupine’s quill inserted in the septum, but this is a custom rather of the Caffres than Bushmen. Among the latter it is rare. A grand ornament is obtained by smearing the face and head with a shining micaceous paste, which is procured from a cave in one particular part of the Bushman’s range; but this, being a “far-fetched” article, is proportionably scarce and dear. It is only a fine belle who can afford to give herself a coat of blink-slip,—as this sparkling pigment is called by the colonists. Many of the women, and men as well, carry in their hands the bushy tail of a jackal. The purpose is to fan off the flies, and serve also as a “wipe,” to disembarrass their bodies of perspiration when the weather chances to be over hot.

The domicile of the Bushman next merits description. It is quite as simple and primitive as his dress, and gives him about equal trouble in its construction. If a cave or cleft can be found in the rocks, of sufficient capacity to admit his own body and those of his family—never a very large one—he builds no house. The cave contents him, be it ever so tight a squeeze. If there be no cave handy, an overhanging rock will answer equally as well. He regards not the open sides, nor the draughts. It is only the rain which he does not relish; and any sort of a shed, that will shelter him from that, will serve him for a dwelling. If neither cave, crevice, nor impending cliff can be found in the neighborhood, he then resorts to the alternative of house-building; and his style of architecture does not differ greatly from that of the orang-outang. A bush is chosen that grows near to two or three others,—the branches of all meeting in a common centre. Of these branches the builder takes advantage, fastening them together at the ends, and wattling some into the others. Over this framework a quantity of grass is scattered in such a fashion as to cast off a good shower of rain, and then the “carcass” of the building is considered complete. The inside work remains yet to be done, and that is next set about. A large roundish or oblong hole is scraped out in the middle of the floor. It is made wide enough and deep enough to hold the bodies of three or four Bush-people, though a single large Caffre or Dutchman would scarcely find room in it. Into this hole is flung a quantity of dry grass, and arranged so as to present the appearance of a gigantic nest. This nest, or lair, becomes the bed of the Bushman, his wife, or wives,—for he frequently keeps two,—and the other members of his family. Coiled together like monkeys, and covered with their skin karosses, they all sleep in it,—whether “sweetly” or “soundly,” I shall not take upon me to determine.

It is supposed to be this fashion of literally “sleeping in the bush,” as also the mode by which he skulks and hides among bushes,—invariably taking to them when pursued,—that has given origin to the name Bushman, or Bosjesman, as it is in the language of the colonial Dutch. This derivation is probable enough, and no better has been offered.

The Bushman sometimes constructs himself a more elaborate dwelling; that is, some Bushmen;—for it should be remarked that there are a great many tribes or communities of these people, and they are not all so very low in the scale of civilization. None, however, ever arrive at the building of a house,—not even a hut. A tent is their highest effort in the building line, and that is of the rudest description, scarce deserving the name. Its covering is a mat, which they weave out of a species of rush that grows along some of the desert streams; and in the fabrication of the covering they display far more ingenuity than in the planning or construction of the tent itself. The mat, in fact, is simply laid over two poles, that are bent into the form of an arch, by having both ends stuck into the ground. A second piece of matting closes up one end; and the other, left open, serves for the entrance. As a door is not deemed necessary, no further construction is required, and the tent is “pitched” complete. It only remains to scoop out the sand, and make the nest as already described.

It is said that the Goths drew their ideas of architecture from the aisles of the oak forest; the Chinese from their Mongolian tents; and the Egyptians from their caves in the rocks. Beyond a doubt, the Bushman has borrowed his from the nest of the ostrich!

It now becomes necessary to inquire how the Bushman spends his time? how he obtains subsistence? and what is the nature of his food? All these questions can be answered, though at first it may appear difficult to answer them. Dwelling, as he always does, in the very heart of the desert, remote from forests that might furnish him with some sort of food—trees that might yield fruit,—far away from a fertile soil, with no knowledge of agriculture, even if it were near,—with no flocks or herds; neither sheep, cattle, horses, nor swine,—no domestic animals but his lean, diminutive dogs,—how does this Bushman procure enough to eat? What are his sources of supply?

We shall see. Being neither a grazier nor a farmer, he has other means of subsistence,—though it must be confessed that they are of a precarious character, and often during his life does the Bushman find himself on the very threshold of starvation. This, however, results less from the parsimony of Nature than the Bushman’s own improvident habits,—a trait in his character which is, perhaps, more strongly developed in him than any other. We shall have occasion to refer to it presently.

His first and chief mode of procuring his food is by the chase: for, although he is surrounded by the sterile wilderness, he is not the only animated being who has chosen the desert for his home. Several species of birds—one the largest of all—and quadrupeds, share with the Bushman the solitude and safety of this desolate region. The rhinoceros can dwell there; and in numerous streams are found the huge hippopotami; whilst quaggas, zebras, and several species of antelope frequent the desert plains as their favorite “stamping” ground. Some of these animals can live almost without water; but when they do require it, what to them is a gallop of fifty miles to some well-known “vley” or pool? It will be seen, therefore, that the desert has its numerous denizens. All these are objects of the Bushman’s pursuit, who follows them with incessant pertinacity—as if he were a beast of prey, furnished by Nature with the most carnivorous propensities.

In the capture of these animals he displays an almost incredible dexterity and cunning. His mode of approaching the sly ostrich, by disguising himself in the skin of one of these birds, is so well known that I need not describe it here; but the ruses he adopts for capturing or killing other sorts of game are many of them equally ingenious. The pit-trap is one of his favorite contrivances; and this, too, has been often described,—but often very erroneously. The pit is not a large hollow,—as is usually asserted,—but rather of dimensions proportioned to the size of the animal that is expected to fall into it. For game like the rhinoceros or eland antelope, it is dug of six feet in length and three in width at the top; gradually narrowing to the bottom, where it ends in a trench of only twelve inches broad. Six or seven feet is considered deep enough; and the animal, once into it, gets so wedged at the narrow bottom part as to be unable to make use of its legs for the purpose of springing out again. Sometimes a sharp stake or two are used, with the view of impaling the victim; but this plan is not always adopted. There is not much danger of a quadruped that drops in ever getting out again, till he is dragged out by the Bushman in the shape of a carcass.

The Bushman’s ingenuity does not end here. Besides the construction of the trap, it is necessary the game should be guided into it. Were this not done, the pit might remain a long time empty, and, as a necessary consequence, so too might the belly of the Bushman. In the wide plain few of the gregarious animals have a path which they follow habitually; only where there is a pool may such beaten trails be found, and of these the Bushman also avails himself; but they are not enough. Some artificial means must be used to make the traps pay—for they are not constructed without much labor and patience. The plan adopted by the Bushman to accomplish this exhibits some points of originality. He first chooses a part of the plain which lies between two mountains. No matter if these be distant from each other: a mile, or even two, will not deter the Bushman from his design. By the help of his whole tribe—men, women, and children—he constructs a fence from one mountain to the other. The material used is whatever may be most ready to the hand: stones, sods, brush, or dead timber, if this be convenient. No matter how rude the fence: it need not either be very high. He leaves several gaps in it; and the wild animals, however easily they might leap over such a puny barrier, will, in their ordinary way, prefer to walk leisurely through the gaps. In each of these, however, there is a dangerous hole—dangerous from its depth as well as from the cunning way in which it is concealed from the view—in short, in each gap there is a pit-fall. No one—at least no animal except the elephant—would ever suspect its presence; the grass seems to grow over it, and the sand lies unturned, just as elsewhere upon the plain What quadruped could detect the cheat? Not any one except the sagacious elephant. The stupid eland tumbles through; the gemsbok goes under; and the rhinoceros rushes into it as if destined to destruction. The Bushman sees this from his elevated perch, glides forward over the ground, and spears the struggling victim with his poisoned assagai.

Besides the above method of capturing game the Bushman also uses the bow and arrows. This is a weapon in which he is greatly skilled; and although both bow and arrows are as tiny as if intended for children’s toys, they are among the deadliest of weapons, their fatal effect lies not in the size of the wound they are capable of inflicting, but in the peculiar mode in which the barbs of the arrows are prepared. I need hardly add that they are dipped in poison;—for who has not heard of the poisoned arrows of the African Bushmen?

Both bow and arrows are usually rude enough in their construction, and would appear but a trumpery affair, were it not for a knowledge of their effects. The bow is a mere round stick, about three feet long, and slightly bent by means of its string of twisted sinews. The arrows are mere reeds, tipped with pieces of bone, with a split ostrich-quill lapped behind the head, and answering for a barb. This arrow the Bushman can shoot with tolerable certainty to a distance of a hundred yards, and he can even project it farther by giving a slight elevation to his aim. It signifies not whether the force with which it strikes the object be ever so slight, if it only makes an entrance. Even a scratch from its point will sometimes prove fatal.

Of course the danger dwells altogether in the poison. Were it not for that, the Bushman, from his dwarfish stature and pigmy strength, would be a harmless creature indeed.

The poison he well knows how to prepare, and he can make it of the most “potent spell,” when the “materials” are within his reach. For this purpose he makes use of both vegetable and animal substances, and a mineral is also employed; but the last is not a poison, and is only used to give consistency to the liquid, so that it may the better adhere to the arrow. The vegetable substances are of various kinds. Some are botanically known: the bulb of Amaryllis disticha,—the gum of a Euphorbia,—the sap of a species of sumac (Rhus),—and the nuts of a shrubby plant, by the colonists called Woolf-gift (Wolf-poison).

The animal substance is the fluid found in the fangs of venomous serpents, several species of which serve the purpose of the Bushman: as the little “Horned Snake,”—so called from the scales rising prominently over its eyes; the “Yellow Snake,” or South-African Cobra (Naga haje); the “Puff Adder,” and others. From all these he obtains the ingredients of his deadly ointment, and mixes them, not all together; for he cannot always procure them all in any one region of the country in which he dwells. He makes his poison, also, of different degrees of potency, according to the purpose for which he intends it; whether for hunting or war. With sixty or seventy little arrows, well imbued with this fatal mixture, and carefully placed in his quiver of tree-bark or skin,—or, what is not uncommon, stuck like a coronet around his head,—he sallies forth, ready to deal destruction either to game, animals, or of human enemies.

Of these last he has no lack. Every man, not a Bushman, he deems his enemy; and he has some reason for thinking so. Truly may it be said of him, as of Ishmael, that his “hand is against every man, and every man’s hand against him;” and such has been his unhappy history for ages. Not alone have the boers been his pursuers and oppressors, but all others upon his borders who are strong enough to attack him,—colonists, Caffres, and Bechuanas, all alike,—not even excepting his supposed kindred, the Hottentots. Not only does no fellow-feeling exist between Bushman and Hottentot, but, strange to say, they hate each other with the most rancorous hatred. The Bushman will plunder a Namaqua Hottentot, a Griqua, or a Gonaqua,—plunder and murder him with as much ruthlessness, or even more, than he would the hated Caffre or boer. All are alike his enemies,—all to be plundered and massacred, whenever met, and the thing appears possible.

We are speaking of plunder. This is another source of supply to the Bushman, though one that is not always to be depended upon. It is his most dangerous method of obtaining a livelihood, and often costs him his life. He only resorts to it when all other resources fail him, and food is no longer to be obtained by the chase.

He makes an expedition into the settlements,—either of the frontier boers, Caffres, or Hottentots,—whichever chance to live most convenient to his haunts. The expedition, of course, is by night, and conducted, not as an open foray but in secret, and by stealth. The cattle are stolen, not reeved, and driven off while the owner and his people are asleep.

In the morning, or as soon as the loss is discovered, a pursuit is at once set on foot. A dozen men, mounted and armed with long muskets (röers), take the spoor of the spoilers, and follow it as fast as their horses will carry them. A dozen boers, or even half that number, is considered a match for a whole tribe of Bushmen, in any fight which may occur in the open plain, as the boers make use of their long-range guns at such a distance that the Bushmen are shot down without being able to use their poisoned arrows; and if the thieves have the fortune to be overtaken before they have got far into the desert, they stand a good chance of being terribly chastised.

There is no quarter shown them. Such a thing as mercy is never dreamt of,—no sparing of lives any more than if they were a pack of hyenas. The Bushmen may escape to the rocks, such of them as are not hit by the bullets; and there the boers know it would be idle to follow them. Like the klipspringer antelope, the little savages can bound from rock to rock, and cliff to cliff, or hide like partridges among crevices, where neither man nor horse can pursue them. Even upon the level plain—if it chance to be stony or intersected with breaks and ravines—a horseman would endeavor to overtake them in vain, for these yellow imps are as swift as ostriches.

When the spoilers scatter thus, the boer may recover his cattle, but in what condition? That he has surmised already, without going among the herd. He does not expect to drive home one half of them; perhaps not one head. On reaching the flock he finds there is not one without a wound of some kind or other: a gash in the flank, the cut of a knife, the stab of an assagai, or a poisoned arrow—intended for the boer himself—sticking between the ribs. This is the sad spectacle that meets his eyes; but he never reflects that it is the result of his own cruelty,—he never regards it in the light of retribution. Had he not first hunted the Bushman to make him a slave, to make bondsmen and bondsmaids of his sons and daughters, to submit them to the caprice and tyranny of his great, strapping frau, perhaps his cattle would have been browsing quietly in his fields. The poor Bushman, in attempting to take them, followed but his instincts of hunger: in yielding them up he obeyed but the promptings of revenge.

It is not always that the Bushman is thus overtaken. He frequently succeeds in carrying the whole herd to his desert fastness; and the skill which he exhibits in getting them there is perfectly surprising. The cattle themselves are more afraid of him than of a wild beast, and run at his approach; but the Bushman, swifter than they, can glide all around them, and keep them moving at a rapid rate.

He uses stratagem also to obstruct or baffle the pursuit. The route he takes is through the driest part of the desert,—if possible, where water does not exist at all. The cattle suffer from thirst, and bellow from the pain; but the Bushman cares not for that, so long as he is himself served. But how is he served? There is no water, and a Bushman can no more go without drinking than a boer: how then does he provide for himself on these long expeditions?

All has been pre-arranged. While off to the settlements, the Bushman’s wife has been busy. The whole kraal of women—young and old—have made an excursion half-way across the desert, each carrying ostrich egg-shells, as much as her kaross will hold, each shell full of water. These have been deposited at intervals along the route in secret spots known by marks to the Bushmen, and this accomplished the women return home again. In this way the plunderer obtains his supply of water, and thus is he enabled to continue his journey over the arid Karroo.

The pursuers become appalled. They are suffering from thirst—their horses sinking under them. Perhaps they have lost their way? It would be madness to proceed further. “Let the cattle go this time!” and with this disheartening reflection they give up the pursuit, turn the heads of their horses, and ride homeward.

There is a feast at the Bushman’s kraal—and such a feast! not one ox is slaughtered, but a score of them all at once. They kill them, as if from very wantonness; and they no longer eat, but raven on the flesh.

For days the feasting is kept up almost continuously,—even at night they must wake up to have a midnight meal! and thus runs the tale, till every ox has been eaten. They have not the slightest idea of a provision for the future; even the lower animals seem wiser in this respect. They do not think of keeping a few of the plundered cattle at pasture to serve them for a subsequent occasion. They give the poor brutes neither food nor drink; but having penned them up in some defile of the rocks, leave them to moan and bellow, to drop down and die.

On goes the feasting, till all are finished; and even if the flesh has turned putrid, this forms not the slightest objection: it is eaten all the same.

The kraal now exhibits an altered spectacle. The starved meagre wretches, who were seen flitting among its tents but a week ago, have all disappeared. Plump bodies and distended abdomens are the order of the day; and the profile of the Bushwoman, taken from the neck to the knees, now exhibits the outline of the letter S. The little imps leap about, tearing raw flesh,—their yellow cheeks besmeared with blood,—and the lean curs seem to have been exchanged for a pack of fat, petted poodles.

But this scene must some time come to an end, and at length it does end. All the flesh is exhausted, and the bones picked clean. A complete reaction comes over the spirit of the Bushman. He falls into a state of languor,—the only time when he knows such a feeling,—and he keeps his kraal, and remains idle for days. Often he sleeps for twenty-four hours at a time, and wakes only to go to sleep again. He need not rouse himself with the idea of getting something to eat: there is not a morsel in the whole kraal, and he knows it. He lies still, therefore,—weakened with hunger, and overcome with the drowsiness of a terrible lassitude.

Fortunate for him, while in this state, if those bold vultures—attracted by the débris of his feast, and now high wheeling in the air—be not perceived from afar; fortunate if they do not discover the whereabouts of his kraal to the vengeful pursuer. If they should do so, he has made his last foray and his last feast.

When the absolute danger of starvation at length compels our Bushman to bestir himself, he seems to recover a little of his energy, and once more takes to hunting, or, if near a stream, endeavors to catch a few fish. Should both these resources fail, he has another,—without which he would most certainly starve,—and perhaps this may be considered his most important source of supply, since it is the most constant, and can be depended on at nearly all seasons of the year. Weakened with hunger, then, and scarce equal to any severer labor, he goes out hunting—this time insects, not quadrupeds. With a stout stick inserted into a stone at one end and pointed at the other, he proceeds to the nests of the white ants (termites), and using the point of the stick,—the stone serving by its weight to aid the force of the blow,—he breaks open the hard, gummy clay of which the hillock is formed. Unless the aard-vark and the pangolin—two very different kinds of ant-eaters—have been there before him, he finds the chambers filled with the eggs of the ants, the insects themselves, and perhaps large quantities of their larvæ. All are equally secured by the Bushman, and either devoured on the spot, or collected into a skin bag, and carried back to his kraal.

He hunts also another species of ants that do not build nests or “hillocks,” but bring forth their young in hollows under the ground. These make long galleries or covered ways just under the surface, and at certain periods—which the Bushman knows by unmistakable signs—they become very active, and traverse these underground galleries in thousands. If the passages were to be opened above, the ants would soon make off to their caves, and but a very few could be captured. The Bushman, knowing this, adopts a stratagem. With the stick already mentioned he pierces holes of a good depth down; and works the stick about, until the sides of the holes are smooth and even. These he intends shall serve him as pitfalls; and they are therefore made in the covered ways along which the insects are passing. The result is, that the little creatures, not suspecting the existence of these deep wells, tumble head foremost into them, and are unable to mount up the steep smooth sides again, so that in a few minutes the hole will be filled with ants, which the Bushman scoops out at his leisure.

Another source of supply which he has, and also a pretty constant one, consists of various roots of the tuberous kind, but more especially bulbous roots, which grow in the desert. They are several species of Ixias and Mesembryanthemums,—some of them producing bulbs of a large size, and deeply buried underground. Half the Bushman’s and Bushwoman’s time is occupied in digging for these roots; and the spade employed is the stone-headed staff already described.

Ostrich eggs also furnish the Bushman with many a meal; and the huge shells of these eggs serve him for water-vessels, cups, and dishes. He is exceedingly expert in tracking up the ostrich, and discovering its nest. Sometimes he finds a nest in the absence of the birds; and in a case of this kind he pursues a course of conduct that is peculiarly Bushman. Having removed all the eggs to a distance, and concealed them under some bush, he returns to the nest and ensconces himself in it. His diminutive body, when close squatted, cannot be perceived from a distance, especially when there are a few bushes around the nest, as there usually are. Thus concealed he awaits the return of the birds, holding his bow and poisoned arrows ready to salute them as soon as they come within range. By this ruse he is almost certain of killing either the cock or hen, and not unfrequently both—when they do not return together.

Lizards and land-tortoises often furnish the Bushman with a meal; and the shell of the latter serves him also for a dish; but his period of greatest plenty is when the locusts appear. Then, indeed, the Bushman is no longer in want of a meal; and while these creatures remain with him, he knows no hunger. He grows fat in a trice, and his curs keep pace with him—for they too greedily devour the locusts. Were the locusts a constant, or even an annual visitor, the Bushman would be a rich man—at all events his wants would be amply supplied. Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for everybody else, these terrible destroyers of vegetation only come now and then—several years often intervening between their visits.

The Bushmen have no religion whatever; no form of marriage—any more than mating together like wild beasts; but they appear to have some respect for the memory of their dead, since they bury them—usually erecting a large pile of stones, or “cairn,” over the body.

They are far from being of a melancholy mood. Though crouching in their dens and caves during the day, in dread of the boers and other enemies, they come forth at night to chatter and make merry. During fine moonlights they dance all night, keeping up the ball till morning; and in their kraals may be seen a circular spot—beaten hard and smooth with their feet—where these dances are performed.

They have no form of government—not so much as a head man or chief. Even the father of the family possesses no authority, except such as superior strength may give him; and when his sons are grown up and become as strong as he is, this of course also ceases.

They have no tribal organization; the small communities in which they live being merely so many individuals accidently brought together, often quarrelling and separating from one another. These communities rarely number over a hundred individuals, since, from the nature of their country, a large number could not find subsistence in any one place. It follows, therefore, that the Bushman race must ever remain widely scattered—so long as they pursue their present mode of life—and no influence has ever been able to win them from it. Missionary efforts made among them have all proved fruitless. The desert seems to have been created for them, as they for the desert; and when transferred elsewhere, to dwell amidst scenes of civilized life, they always yearn to return to their wilderness home.

Truly are these pigmy savages an odd people!

THE AMAZONIAN INDIANS.

In glancing at the map of the American continent, we are struck by a remarkable analogy between the geographical features of its two great divisions—the North and the South,—an analogy amounting almost to a symmetrical parallelism.

Each has its “mighty” mountains—the Cordilleras of the Andes in the south, and the Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre (Rocky Mountains) in the north—with all the varieties of volcano and eternal snow. Each has its secondary chain: in the north, the Nevadas of California and Oregon; in the south, the Sierras of Caraccas and the group of Guiana; and, if you wish to render the parallelism complete, descend to a lower elevation, and set the Alleghanies of the United States against the mountains of Brazil—both alike detached from all the others.

In the comparison we have exhausted the mountain chains of both divisions of the continent. If we proceed further, and carry it into minute detail, we shall find the same correspondence—ridge for ridge, chain for chain, peak for peak;—in short, a most singular equilibrium, as if there had been a design that one half of this great continent should balance the other!

From the mountains let us proceed to the rivers, and see how they will correspond. Here, again, we discover a like parallelism, amounting almost to a rivalry. Each continent (for it is proper to style them so) contains the largest river in the world. If we make length the standard, the north claims precedence for the Mississippi; if volume of water is to be the criterion, the south is entitled to it upon the merits of the Amazon. Each, too, has its numerous branches, spreading into a mighty “tree”; and these, either singly or combined, form a curious equipoise both in length and magnitude. We have only time to set list against list, tributaries of the great northern river against tributaries of its great southern compeer,—the Ohio and Illinois, the Yellowstone and Platte, the Kansas and Osage, the Arkansas and Red, against the Madeira and Purus, the Ucayali and Huallaga, the Japura and Negro, the Xingu and Tapajos.

Of other river systems, the St. Lawrence may be placed against the La Plata, the Oregon against the Orinoco, the Mackenzie against the Magdalena, and the Rio Bravo del Norte against the Tocantins; while the two Colorados—the Brazos and Alabama—find their respective rivals in the Essequibo, the Paranahybo, the Pedro, and the Patagonian Negro; and the San Francisco of California, flowing over sands of gold, is balanced by its homonyme of Brazil, that has its origin in the land of diamonds. To an endless list might the comparison be carried.

We pass to the plains. Prairies in the north, llanos and pampas in the south, almost identical in character. Of the plateaux or table-lands, those of Mexico, La Puebla, Perote, and silver Potosi in the north; those of Quito, Bogota, Cusco, and gold Potosi in the south; of the desert plains, Utah and the Llano Estacado against Atacama and the deserts of Patagonia. Even the Great Salt Lake has its parallel in Titicaca; while the “Salinas” of New Mexico and the upland prairies, are represented by similar deposits in the Gran Chaco and the Pampas.

We arrive finally at the forests. Though unlike in other respects, we have here also a rivalry in magnitude,—between the vast timbered expanse stretching from Arkansas to the Atlantic shores, and that which covers the valley of the Amazon. These were the two greatest forests on the face of the earth. I say were, for one of them no longer exists; at least, it is no longer a continuous tract, but a collection of forests, opened by the axe, and intersected by the clearings of the colonist. The other still stands in all its virgin beauty and primeval vigor, untouched by the axe, undefiled by fire, its path scarce trodden by human feet, its silent depths to this hour unexplored.