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Updated: June 10, 2025
I suppose I shall not have the chance in these degenerate days to see any long-pig eaten, but at least I am already the possessor of a duly certified Marquesan calabash, oblong in shape, curiously carved, over a century old, from which has been drunk the blood of two shipmasters. One of those captains was a mean man.
This was a queen of cannibals; she was tattooed from hand to foot, and perhaps the greatest masterpiece of that art now extant, so that a while ago, before she was grown prim, her leg was one of the sights of Tai-o- hae; she had been passed from chief to chief; she had been fought for and taken in war; perhaps, being so great a lady, she had sat on the high place, and throned it there, alone of her sex, while the drums were going twenty strong and the priests carried up the blood-stained baskets of long-pig.
"We will not let a living man touch our shore," said Ongoloo to Wapoota, who chanced to be near his leader, when he marshalled his men. "Oh! yes, we will, chief," replied the brown humorist. "We will let some of them touch it, and then we will take them up carefully, and have them baked. A long-pig supper will do us good. The rest of them we will drive back to their big canoe."
Surely never was there a more charming and happy folk even if long-pig did occasionally in their feasts alternate with wild-pig. Think of the Chinese that extraordinary people coming down from the remotest ages of history, with their habits and institutions apparently but little changed so kindly, so "all there," so bent on making the best of this world.
We had been but three days in Anaho when we received the visit of the chief of Hatiheu, a man of weight and fame, late leader of a war upon the French, late prisoner in Tahiti, and the last eater of long-pig in Nuka-hiva. Not many years have elapsed since he was seen striding on the beach of Anaho, a dead man's arm across his shoulder.
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