Part 1

=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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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PAGE MAN-EATERS OF THE FEEGEE ISLANDS 5

MUNDRUCUS, OR BEHEADERS 30

THE CENTAURS OF THE “GRAN CHACO” 57

BOSJESMEN, OR BUSHMEN 81

THE AMAZONIAN INDIANS 111

THE WATER-DWELLERS OF MARACAIBO 137

THE ESQUIMAUX 161

THE TONGANS, OR FRIENDLY ISLANDERS 194

THE TURCOMANS 218

THE OTTOMACS, OR DIRT-EATERS 244

THE COMANCHES, OR PRAIRIE INDIANS 268

THE PEHUENCHES, OR PAMPAS INDIANS 290

THE YAMPARICOS, OR ROOT-DIGGERS 309

THE GUARAONS, OR PALM-DWELLERS 341

THE LAPLANDERS 359

THE ANDAMANERS, OR MUD-BEDAUBERS 388

THE PATAGONIAN GIANTS 411

THE FUEGIAN DWARFS 439

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.”