Man is the Only Animal that Blushes. Or needs
to.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
The universal brotherhood of man is
our most precious possession, what there is of it.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
From diary:
November 1—noon. A fine day, a brilliant
sun. Warm in the sun, cold in the shade—an
icy breeze blowing out of the south. A solemn
long swell rolling up northward. It comes from
the South Pole, with nothing in the way to obstruct
its march and tone its energy down. I have read
somewhere that an acute observer among the early explorers—Cook?
or Tasman?—accepted this majestic swell
as trustworthy circumstantial evidence that no important
land lay to the southward, and so did not waste time
on a useless quest in that direction, but changed his
course and went searching elsewhere.
Afternoon. Passing between Tasmania (formerly
Van Diemen’s Land) and neighboring islands—islands
whence the poor exiled Tasmanian savages used to gaze
at their lost homeland and cry; and die of broken hearts.
How glad I am that all these native races are dead
and gone, or nearly so. The work was mercifully
swift and horrible in some portions of Australia.
As far as Tasmania is concerned, the extermination
was complete: not a native is left. It
was a strife of years, and decades of years.
The Whites and the Blacks hunted each other, ambushed
each other, butchered each other. The Blacks
were not numerous. But they were wary, alert,
cunning, and they knew their country well. They
lasted a long time, few as they were, and inflicted
much slaughter upon the Whites.
The Government wanted to save the Blacks from ultimate
extermination, if possible. One of its schemes
was to capture them and coop them up, on a neighboring
island, under guard. Bodies of Whites volunteered
for the hunt, for the pay was good—L5 for
each Black captured and delivered, but the success
achieved was not very satisfactory. The Black
was naked, and his body was greased. It was
hard to get a grip on him that would hold. The
Whites moved about in armed bodies, and surprised little
families of natives, and did make captures; but it
was suspected that in these surprises half a dozen
natives were killed to one caught—and that
was not what the Government desired.
Another scheme was to drive the natives into a corner
of the island and fence them in by a cordon of men
placed in line across the country; but the natives
managed to slip through, constantly, and continue their
murders and arsons.
The governor warned these unlettered savages by printed
proclamation that they must stay in the desolate region
officially appointed for them! The proclamation
was a dead letter; the savages could not read it.
Afterward a picture-proclamation was issued.
It was painted up on boards, and these were nailed
to trees in the forest. Herewith is a photographic
reproduction of this fashion-plate. Substantially
it means:
