"Being a Popular Description of Singular Races of Man" (continued 7)

Whence comes their subsistence? No doubt you will say that fish is their food; and drink, of course, they have in abundance; but this would not be the true explanation. It is true they eat fish, and turtle, and the flesh of the manatee, or “fish-cow,”—since the capturing of these aquatic creatures is one of the chief occupations of the Guaraons,—but they are ofttimes entirely without such food; for, it is to be observed, that, during the period of the inundations fish are not easily caught, sometimes not at all. At these times the Guaraons would starve—since, like all other savages, they are improvident—were it not that the singular region they inhabit supplies them with another article of food,—one that is inexhaustible.

What is this food, and from whence derived? It will scarce surprise you to hear that it is the produce of the trees already mentioned; but perhaps you will deem it singular when I tell you that the trees of this great water-forest are all of one kind,—all of the same species,—so that here we have the remarkable fact of a single species of vegetable, growing without care or cultivation, and supplying all the wants of man,—his food, clothing, fuel, utensils, ropes, houses, and boats,—not even drink excepted, as will presently be seen.

The name of this wonderful tree? “Itá,” the Guaraons call it; though it is more generally known as “morichi” among the Spanish inhabitants of the Orinoco; but I shall here give my young reader an account of it, from which he will learn something more than its name.

The itá is a true palm-tree, belonging to the genus mauritia; and, I may remark, that notwithstanding the resemblance in sound, the name of the genus is not derived from the words “morichi,” “murichi,” or “muriti,” all of which are different Indian appellations of this tree. Mauritia is simply a Latinised designation borrowed from the name of Prince Maurice of Nassau, in whose honour the genus was named. The resemblance, therefore, is merely accidental. I may add, too, that there are many species of mauritia growing in different parts of tropical America,—some of them palms of large size, and towering height, with straight, smooth trunks; while others are only tiny little trees, scarce taller than a man, and with their trunks thickly covered with conical protuberances or spines.

Some of them, moreover, affect a high, dry soil, beyond the reach of floods; while others do not prosper, except on tracts habitually marshy, or annually covered with inundations. Of these latter, the itá is perhaps the most conspicuous; since we have already stated, that for nearly six months of the year it grows literally out of the water.

Like all its congeners, the itá is a “fan-palm;” that is, its leaves, instead of being pinnately divided, as in most species of palms, or altogether entire, as in some few, radiate from the midrib of the leaf-stalk, into a broad palmated shape, bearing considerable resemblance to a fan when opened to its full extent. At the tips these leaflets droop slightly, but at that end where they spring out of the midrib, they are stiff and rigid. The petiole, or leaf-stalk itself, is long, straight, and thick; and where it clasps the stem or trunk, is swollen out to a foot in width, hollowed, or concave on the upper side. A full-grown leaf, with its petiole, is a wonderful object to look upon. The stalk is a solid beam full twelve feet in length, and the leaf has a diameter of nearly as much. Leaf and stalk together make a load, just as much as one man can carry upon his shoulders!

Set about a dozen of these enormous leaves on the summit of a tall cylindrical column of five feet in circumference, and about one hundred in height,—place them with their stalks clasping or sheathing its top,—so that the spreading fans will point in every direction outwards, inclining slightly upwards; do this, and you will have the great morichi palm. Perhaps, you may see the trunk swollen at its middle or near the top,—so that its lower part is thinner than above,—but more often the huge stem is a perfect cylinder. Perhaps you may see several of the leaves drooping downward, as if threatening to fall from the tree; you may even see them upon the ground where they have fallen, and a splendid ruin they appear. You may see again rising upward out of the very centre of the crown of foliage, a straight, thick-pointed column. This is the young leaf in process of development,—its tender leaflets yet unopened, and closely clasped together. But the fervid tropical sun soon produces expansion; and a new fan takes the place of the one that has served its time and fallen to the earth,—there to decay, or to be swept off by the flood of waters.

Still more may be noticed, while regarding this noble palm. Out of that part of the trunk,—where it is embraced by the sheathing bases of the petioles,—at a certain season of the year, a large spathe will be seen to protrude itself, until it has attained a length of several feet. This spathe is a bract-like sheath, of an imperfect tubular form. It bursts open; and then appears the huge spadix of flowers, of a whitish-green colour, arranged along the flower-stalk in rows,—pinnately. It will be observed, moreover, that these spadices are different upon different trees; for it must be remembered that the mauritia palm is diaecious,—that is, having the female flowers on one tree, and the male or staminiferous flowers upon another. After the former have glowed for a time in the heat of the sun, and received the fertilising pollen wafted to them by the breeze,—carried by bee or bird, or transported by some unknown and mysterious agency of nature,—the fruits take form and ripen. These, when fully ripe, have attained to the size of a small apple, and are of a very similar form. They are covered with small brown, smooth scales,—giving them somewhat the appearance of fir-cones, except that they are roundish instead of being cone-shaped. Underneath the scales there is a thinnish layer of pulp, and then the stone or nut. A single spadix will carry carry several hundreds—thousands, I might say—of these nuts; and the whole bunch is a load equal to the strength of two ordinary men!

Such is the itá palm. Now for its uses,—the uses to which it is put by the Guaraons.

When the Guaraon wishes to build himself a habitation, he does not begin by digging a foundation in the earth. In the spongy soil on which he stands, that would be absurd. At a few inches below the surface he would reach water; and he might dig to a vast depth without finding firm ground. But he has no idea of laying a foundation upon the ground, or of building a house there. He knows that in a few weeks the river will be rising; and would overtop his roof, however high he might make it. His foundation, therefore, instead of being laid in the ground, is placed far above it,—just so far, that when the inundation is at its height the floor of his dwelling will be a foot or two above it. He does not take this height from guesswork. That would be a perilous speculation. He is guided by certain marks upon the trunks of palm-trees,—notches which he has himself made on the preceding year, or the natural watermark, which he is able to distinguish by certain appearances on the trees. This point once determined, he proceeds to the building of his house.

A few trunks are selected, cut down, and then split into beams of sufficient length. Four fine trees, standing in a quadrangle, have already been selected to form the corner-posts. In each of these, just above the watermark, is cut a deep notch with a horizontal base to serve as a rest for the cross-beams that are to form the foundation of the structure. Into these notches the beams are hoisted,—by means of ropes,—and there securely tied. To reach the point where the platform is to be erected—sometimes a very high elevation—ladders are necessary; and these are of native manufacture,—being simply the trunk of a palm-tree, with notches cut in it for the toes of the climber. These afterwards serve as a means of ascending and descending to the surface of the water, during the period of its rise and fall. The main timbers having been firmly secured in their places, cross-beams are laid upon them, the latter being either pieces of the split trunks, or, what is usually easier to obtain, the petioles of the great leaves,—each of which, as already stated, forms of itself a large beam, twelve feet in length and from six to twelves inches in breadth. These are next secured at both ends by ropes of the palm fibre.

Next comes a layer of palm-leaves, the strong, tough leaflets serving admirably as laths to uphold the coating of mud, which is laid thickly over them. The mud is obtained from below, without difficulty, and in any quantity required; and when trowelled smooth, and dry,—which it soon becomes under the hot sun,—constitutes an excellent floor, where a fire may be kindled without danger of burning either the laths or joists underneath.

As yet the Guaraon has completed only the floor of his dwelling, but that is his principal labour. He cares not for walls,—neither sides nor gables. There is no cold, frosty weather to chill him in his tropical home,—no snow to be kept out. The rain alone, usually falling in a vertical direction, has to be guarded against; and from this he secures himself by a second platform of lighter materials, covered with mats, which he has already woven for the purpose, and with palm-leaflets, so placed as to cast off the heaviest shower. This also shelters him against the burning sun,—an enemy which he dreads even more than the rain.

His house is now finished; and, with the exception of the mud floor, is all of itá palm,—beams, cross-timbers, laths, ropes, and mats. The ropes he has obtained by stripping off the epidermis of the full-grown leaflets, and then twisting it into cordage of any thickness required. For this purpose it is equal to hemp. The mats he has made from the same material,—and well does he, or rather his wife—for this is usually the work of the females—know how to plait and weave them.

Having completed the building of his aerial dwelling, the Guaraon would eat. He has fish, which has been caught in the neighbouring caño,—perhaps turtle,—perhaps the flesh of the manatee, or the alligator,—for his palate is by no means of a delicate fineness, and will not refuse a steak from the tail of the American crocodile. But when the flood time is on, fish become scarce, or cannot be had at all,—no more can turtles, or sea-cows, or alligators. Besides, scarce or plenty, something else is wanted to vary the diet. Bread is wanted; and for this the Guaraon has not far to go. The itá again befriends him, for he finds, upon splitting open its trunk, a large deposit of medullary pith or fecula; which, when submitted to the process of bruising or grating, and afterwards stirred in water, forms a sediment at the bottom of the vessel, a substance not only eatable, but equal in excellence to the well-known produce of the sago palm.

This farinaceous pith, formed into cakes and roasted over the fire,—the fuel being supplied by leaves and leaf-stalks,—constitutes the yuruma,—the daily bread of the Guaraon.

The yuruma, or rather the sago out of which it is made, is not obtainable at all times. It is the male palm which produces it; and it must be extracted just as the tree is about to expand its spadix of flowers. The same curious fact is observed with regard to the maguey, or great American aloe, which produces the drink called “pulque.” To procure the sap in any considerable quantity, the maguey must be tapped just on that day when the flower-stalk is about to shoot upward from among the leaves.

The Guaraon, having eaten his yuruma, would drink. Does he have recourse to the water which flows in abundance beneath his dwelling? No. On ordinary occasions he may quench his thirst in that way; but he wishes for some beverage more cheering. Again the itá yields it without stint, and even gives him a choice. He may tap the trunk, and draw forth the sap; which, after being submitted to a process of fermentation, becomes a wine,—“murichi wine,” a beverage which, if the Guaraon be so inclined, and drink to excess, will make him “as drunk as a lord!”

But he may indulge in a less dangerous, and more delicate drink, also furnished by his favourite itá. This he obtains by flinging a few of the nuts into a vessel of water, and leaving them awhile to ferment; then beating them with a pestle, until the scales and pulp are detached; and, lastly, passing the water through a sieve of palm fibre. This done, the drink is ready to be quaffed. For all these purposes tools and utensils are required, but the itá also furnishes them. The trunk can be scooped out into dishes; or cut into spoons, ladles, and trenchers. The flower “spathes” also gives him cups and saucers. Iron tools, such as hatchets and knives, he has obtained from commerce with Europeans; but, before their arrival in the New World, the Guaraon had his hatchet of flint, and his knife-blade of obsidian; and even now, if necessary, he could manage without metal of any kind.

The bow and arrows which he uses are obtained from the tough, sinewy petiole of the leaf; so is the harpoon spear with which he strikes the great manatee, the porpoise, and the alligator; the canoe, light as cork, which carries him through the intricate channels of the delta, is the hollow trunk of a morichi palm. His nets and lines, and the cloth which he wears around his loins, are all plaited or woven from the young leaflets before they have expanded into the fan-like leaf.

Like other beings, the Guaraon must at times sleep. Where does he stretch his body,—on the floor?—on a mat? No. He has already provided himself with a more luxurious couch,—the “rede,” or hammock, which he suspends between two trees; and in this he reclines, not only during the night, but by day, when the sun is too hot to admit of violent exertion. His wife has woven the hammock most ingeniously. She has cut off the column of young leaves, that projects above the crown of the morichi. This she has shaken, until the tender leaflets become detached from each other and fall apart. Each she now strips of its outer covering,—a thin, ribbon-like pellicle of a pale-yellow colour,—which shrivels up almost like a thread. These she ties into bundles, leaving them to dry awhile; after which she spins them into strings, or, if need be, twists them into larger cords. She then places two horizontal rods or poles about six feet apart, and doubles the string over them some forty or fifty times. This constitutes the woof; and the warp is obtained by cross strings twisted or tied to each of the longitudinal ones, at intervals of seven or eight inches. A strong cord, made from the epidermis of the full-grown leaves, is now passed through the loop of all the strings, drawn together at both ends, and the poles are then pulled out. The hammock, being finished and hung up between two trees, provides the naked Indian with a couch, upon which he may repose as luxuriantly as a monarch on his bed of down. Thus, then, does a single tree furnish everything which man, in his primitive simplicity, may require. No wonder that the enthusiastic missionaries have given to the morichi palm the designation of “arbol de vida” (tree of life).

It may be asked why does the Guaraon live in such a strange fashion,—especially when on all sides around him there are vast tracts of terra firma upon which he might make his dwelling, and where he could, with far less difficulty, procure all the necessaries, and many of the luxuries of life? The question is easily answered; and this answer will be best given by asking others in, return. Why do the Esquimaux and Laplanders cling to their inhospitable home upon the icy coasts of the Arctic Sea? Why do tribes of men take to the cold, barren mountains, and dwell there, within sight of lovely and fertile plains? Why do others betake themselves to the arid steppes and dreary recesses of the desert?

No doubt the Guaraon, by powerful enemies forced from his aboriginal home upon the firm soil, first sought refuge in the marshy flats where we now encounter him: there he found security from pursuit and oppression; there—even at the expense of other luxuries—he was enabled to enjoy the sweetest of fill,—the luxury of liberty.

What was only a necessity at first, soon became a habit; and that habit is now an essential part of his nature. Indeed, it is not so long since the necessity itself has been removed.

Even at the present hour, the Guaraon would not be secure, were he to stray too far from his sheltering marshes,—for, sad though it be to say so, the poor Indian, when beyond the protection of his tribe, is in many parts of South America still treated as a slave. In the delta he feels secure. No slave-hunter,—no enemy can follow him there. Even the foeman of his own race cannot compete with him in crossing the wide flats of spongy quagmire,—over which, from long habit, he is enabled to glide with the lightness and fleetness of a bird. During the season of overflow, or when the waters have fallen to their lowest, he is equally secure from aggression or pursuit; and, no doubt, in spite of missionary zeal,—in spite of the general progress of civilisation,—in this savage security he will long remain.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Laplanders.

One of the oldest “odd” people with which we are acquainted are the Laps or Laplanders. For many centuries the more civilised nations of Europe have listened to strange accounts, told by travellers of these strange people; many of these accounts being exaggerated, and others totally untrue. Some of the old travellers, being misled by the deer-skin dresses worn by the Laps, believed, or endeavoured to make others believe, that they were born with hairy skins like wild beasts; and one traveller represented that they had only a single eye, and that in the middle of the breast! This very absurd conception about a one-eyed people gained credit, even so late as the time of Sir Walter Raleigh,—with this difference, that the locality of these gentry with the odd “optic” was South America instead of Northern Europe.

In the case of the poor Laplander, not the slightest exaggeration is needed to render him an interesting study, either to the student of ethnology, or to the merely curious reader. He needs neither the odd eye nor the hairy pelt. In his personal appearance, dress, dwelling, mode of occupation, and subsistence, he is so different from almost every other tribe or nation of people, as to furnish ample matter for a monograph at once unique and amusing.

I shall not stay to inquire whence originated this odd specimen of humanity. Such speculations are more suited to those so-called learned ethnologists, who, resembling the anatomists in other branches of natural history, delight to deal in the mere pedantry of science,—who, from the mere coincidence of a few words, can prove that two peoples utterly unlike have sprung from a common source: precisely as Monsieur Cuvier, by the examination of a single tooth, has proved that a rabbit was a rhinoceros!

I shall not, therefore, waste time in this way, in hunting up the origin of the miserable Laplander; nor does it matter much where he sprang from. He either came from somewhere else, or was created in Lapland,—one of the two; and I defy all the philosophers in creation to say which: since there is no account extant of when he first arrived in that cold northern land,—not a word to contradict the idea of his having been there since the first creation of the human race. We find him there now; and that is all that we have to do with his origin at present. Were we to speculate, as to what races are kindred to him, and to which he bears the greatest resemblance, we should say that he was of either the same or similar origin with the Esquimaux of North America, the Greenlanders of Greenland, and the Samoeids, Tuski, and other tribes dwelling along the northern shores of Asia. Among all these nations of little men, there is a very great similarity, both in personal appearance and habits of life; but it would not be safe to say that they all came from one common stock. The resemblances may be the result of a similarity in the circumstances, by which they are surrounded. As for language,—so much relied upon by the scientific ethnologist,—there could scarce be a more unreliable guide. The black negro of Carolina, the fair blue-eyed Saxon, and the red-skinned, red-polled Hibernian, all speak one language; the descendants of all three, thousands of years hence, will speak the same,—perhaps when they are widely scattered apart,—and the superficial philosopher of those future times will, no doubt, ascribe to them all one common origin!

Language, of itself, is no proof of the natural affinities of two peoples. It is evidence of their once having been in juxtaposition,—not much more. Of course when other points correspond, similarity of speech becomes a valuable corroboration. It is not our purpose, then, to inquire whence the Laplander came,—only where he is now, and what he is now. Where is he now?

If you take your map of Europe, and draw a line from the Gulf of Kandalax, in the White Sea, to the middle of the Loffoden Isles, on the Norwegian coast, you will cut off the country which is now properly called Lapland. The country at present inhabited by the people called Laplanders, will be found north of this line. It is a boundary more imaginary than real: for in truth there is no political division known as Lapland, nor has there been for hundreds of years. It is said there once was a kingdom of Lapland, and a nation of Laplanders; but there is no proof that either one or the other ever existed. There was a peculiar people, whom we now style Laplanders, scattered over the whole northern part of the Scandinavian peninsula, and wandering as far south as the shores of the Gulf of Bothnia; but, that this people had ever any general compact, or union, deserving the name of government or nation, there is no proof. There is no evidence that they ever enjoyed a higher degree of civilisation than they do at present; and that is not one iota higher than exists among the Esquimaux of North America,—notwithstanding the advantage which the Laplander has in the domestication of a ruminating quadruped and a knowledge of the Christian religion.

The tract of country which I have above assigned to the modern Laplander, is to be regarded rather as meaning that portion of Northern Europe, which can scarcely be said to be in the occupation of any other people. True Laplanders may be found dwelling, or rather wandering, much to the south of the line here indicated,—almost to the head of the Bothnian Gulf,—but in these southern districts, he no longer has the range clear to himself. The Finn—a creature of a very different kind—here meets him; constantly encroaching as a colonist on that territory which once belonged to the Laplander alone.

It becomes necessary to say a few words about the names we are using: since a perfect chaos of confusion has arisen among travellers and writers, in relation to the nomenclature of these two people,—the Finns and the Laplanders.

In the first place, then, there is in reality no such a people as Laplanders in Northern Europe. The word is a mere geographical invention, or “synonyme,” if you wish. The people to whom we apply the name, call themselves “Samlash.” The Danes and Norwegians term them “Finns;” and the Swedes and Russians style them “Laps.” The people whom we know as Finns—and who are not Laplanders in any sense—have received the appellation of Finns erroneously. These Finns have for a long period been making progress, as colonists, in the territory once occupied by the true Finns, or Laplanders; and have nothing in common with these last people. They are agriculturists, and dwell in fixed settlements; not pastoral and nomadic, as the Laplanders eminently are. Besides, there are many other essential points of difference between the two,—in mind,—in personal appearance, in habits, in almost everything. I am particular upon this point,—because the wrong application of the name Finns, to this last-mentioned race, has led writers into a world of error; and descriptions given of them and their habits have been applied to the people who are the subjects of the present chapter,—leading, of course, to the most erroneous conclusions. It would be like exhibiting the picture of a Caffre as the likeness of a Hottentot or Bushman!

The Finns, as geography now designates them,—and which also assigns to them a country called Finland,—are, therefore, not Finns at all. Where, they are found in the old Lapland territory as colonists, they are called Qüans; and this name is given them alike by Russians, Swedes, Danes, and Norwegians.

To return to our Laplanders, who are the true Finns. I have said that they are called by different names; by the Danes and Norwegians “Finns,” and by the Russians and Swedes simply “Laps.” No known meaning is attached to either name; nor can it be discovered at what period either came into use. Enough to know that these are the designations by which they are now known to those four nations who have had chiefly to deal with them.

Since these people have received so many appellations,—and especially one that leads to much confusion,—perhaps it is better, for geography’s sake, to accept the error: to leave the new Finns to their usurped title, and to give the old Finns that distinctive name by which they are best known to the world, viz Laplanders. So long as it is remembered, that this is merely a geographical title, no harm can result from employing it; and should the word Finns occur hereafter, it is to be considered as meaning not the Finns of Norwegian Finmark, but the Qüans of Finland, on the Gulf of Bothnia.

I have spoken of the country of the Laplanders, as if they had a country. They have not. There is a territory in which they dwell; but it is not theirs. Long, long ago the lordship of the soil was taken from them; and divided between three powerful neighbours. Russia took her largest slice from the east; Sweden fell in for its southern part; and Norway claimed that northern and western portion, lying along the Atlantic and Arctic Oceans. This afterwards became the property of Denmark: when Norway herself ceased to be independent.

The country, therefore, which I have defined as Lapland, in modern times is so styled, merely because it is almost exclusively occupied by these people: it not being worth the while of their Danish, Swedish, or Russian masters to colonise it. All three, however, claim their share of it,—have their regular boundary lines,—and each mulcts the miserable Laplander of an annual tribute, in the shape of a small poll-tax. Each, too, has forced his own peculiar views of Christianity on those within his borders,—the Russian has shaped the Lap into a Greek Christian; while, under Swedish influence, he is a disciple of Martin Luther. His faith, however, is not very rational, one way or the other; and, in out-of-the-way corners of his chaotic country, he still adheres to some of his old mythic customs of sorcery and witchcraft: in other words, he is a “pagan.”

Before proceeding to describe the Laplander, either personally or intellectually, a word about the country in which he dwells. I have called it a chaotic land. It has been described as a “huge congeries of frightful rocks and stupendous mountains, with many pleasant valleys, watered by an infinite number of rivulets, that run into the rivers and lakes.” Some of the lakes are of large extent, containing a countless number of islands; one alone—the Lake Enaro—having so many, that it has been said no Laplander has lived long enough to visit each particular island. There is a great variety in the surface of the land. In some parts of the country the eye rests only on peaks and ridges of bleak, barren mountains,—on summits covered with never-melting snow,—on bold, rocky cliffs or wooded slopes, where only the firs and birches can flourish. In other parts there are dusky forests of pines, intersected here and there by wide morasses or bogs. Elsewhere, are extensive tracts of treeless champaign, covered with the white reindeer-lichen, as if they were under a fall of snow!

During summer there are many green and beautiful spots, where even the rose sheds its fragrance around, and many berry-bearing bushes blossom brightly; but the summer is of short duration, and in those parts where it is most attractive, the pest of gnats, mosquitoes, and gadflies, renders the country uninhabitable to the Laplander. We shall see presently, that, in the summer months, he flees from such lowland scenes, as from a pestilence; and betakes himself and his herd to the bleak, barren mountains.

Having given this short sketch of the country inhabited by the Laplander, we proceed to a description of himself.

He is short,—not more than five feet five inches, average height,—squat and stoutish,—rarely corpulent,—though there is a difference in all these respects, between those who inhabit different parts of the country. The Laps of Norwegian Lapland are taller than those in the Russian and Swedish territory.

His features are small, his eyes elongated, or slit-like, as among the Mongolian tribes; his cheek-bones prominent,—his mouth large and wide, and his chin sharply-pointed. His hair is black, or sometimes brownish; though among some tribes settled along the coasts light hair is not uncommon. It is probable that this may have originated in some admixture of blood with Norwegian, Russian, and other fishermen who frequent these coasts.

The Laplander has little or no beard; and in this respect he resembles the Greenlander and Esquimaux. His body is ill-made, bony and muscular, and stronger than would be expected from his pigmy stature. He is active, and capable of enduring extreme fatigue and privation; though it is a mistake to suppose that he is the agile creature he has been represented,—this error arising no doubt from the surprising speed with which habit has enabled him to skate over the frozen snow; and which, to a person unused to it, would appear to prove an extraordinary degree of agility. The hands and feet are small,—another point in common with the Esquimaux. The Laplander’s voice is far from being a manly one. On the contrary, it is of small compass, weak, and of a squeaking tone. The complexion of the Laplander is generally regarded as dark. Its natural hue is perhaps not much darker than that of the Norwegian. Certainly not darker than many Portuguese or Spaniards; but, as he is seen, he appears as swarth as an Indian. This, however, arises from the long and almost constant exposure to smoke: in the midst of which the miserable creature spends more than half of his time.

It may again be observed, that those dwelling on the seashore are of lighter complexion; but perhaps that is also due to a foreign admixture.

We have given a picture of the Laplander’s person; now a word or two about his mind.

Both his intellectual and moral man are peculiar,—even more so than his physical,—differing essentially from that of all the other nationalities with which he is brought in contact. He is cold-hearted, selfish, and morose. To love he is almost a stranger; and when such a feeling does exist within his bosom, it is rather as a spark than a passion. His courtship and marriage are pure matters of business,—rarely having any other motive than self-interest. One woman will do for his wife wife as well as another; and better, if she be richer by half a dozen reindeer!

Hospitality is a virtue equally unknown to him. He wishes to see no stranger; and even wonders why a stranger should stray into his wild, bleak country. He is ever suspicious of the traveller through his land; unless that traveller chance to come in the guise of a Russian or Norwegian merchant, to exchange strong brandy for his reindeer-skins, or the furs of the animals he may have trapped. In his dealings he exhibits a sufficient degree of cunning,—much more than might be expected from the low standard of his intellect; and he will take no paper-money or any kind of “scrip” in exchange. This caution, however, he has acquired from a terrible experience, which he once had in dealing with paper-money; and he is determined that the folly shall never again be repeated. Even in his out-of-the-way corner of the globe, there was at one time a bank speculation of the “Anglo-Bengalee” character, of which the poor Lap was made an especial victim.

He has no courage whatever. He will not resist oppression. The stranger—Russ or Norwegian—may strike, kick, or cuff him,—he will not return the blow. Belike he will burst into tears!

And yet, under some circumstances, he shows a feeling akin to courage. He is cool in moments of danger from the elements, or when opposed to fierce animals, as the wolf or the bear. He is also capable of enduring fatigue to an extreme degree; and it is known historically that he was once warlike,—at least much more so than at present. Now, there is not a drop of warrior blood in his veins. On the contrary, he is timid and pacific, and rarely quarrels. He carries constantly upon his person a long ugly knife, of Norwegian manufacture; but he has never been known to draw it,—never known to commit murder with it.

These are certainly virtues; but it is to be feared that with him they owe their origin to timidity and the dread of consequences. Now and then he has a quarrel with one of his fellows; but the knife is never used; and the “punishment” consists in giving and receiving various kicks, scratches, pullings of the hair and ears: genuine blows, however, are not attempted, and the long knife never leaves its sheath.

In the olden time he was a great believer in witches; in fact, noted for his faith in sorcery. Christianity, such as it is, has done much to eradicate this belief; but he is still troubled with a host of superstitions.

Of filial and parental affection his stock is but scanty. The son shifts for himself, as soon as he is able to do so; and but little anxiety is exhibited about him afterwards. The daughter goes to the highest bidder,—to him who is most liberal in presents of brandy to the parent. Jealousy is little known. How could it be felt, where there is no love?

One of the worst vices of the Laplander is his fondness for drink,—amounting almost to a passion. It is one of his costliest, too: since he often consumes the produce of his industry in its indulgence. His favourite beverage is strong, bad brandy,—a staple article kept by the traders, to exchange for the commodities which the country affords. As these men care little for the result, and have a far greater influence over the Laplander than either the government officials, or the lazy, timeserving missionaries, it is not probable that temperance will ever be introduced among these wretched people. Fortunately, only the coast Laplanders are at all times subject to this influence. The mountain people or those who dwell most of their time in the interior, are too distant from the “tap” to be so grievously affected by it. It is only on their short annual visits to the merchant stations on the coast, that they fall extensively into the jaws of this degrading vice.

The dress of the Laplander is now to be described.

The men wear on their heads tall caps, of a conical form, usually of a cloth called wadmal, or some species of kersey furnished by the merchants. This cap has a tassel at top, and around the bottom is turned up several inches,—where it is strengthened by a band of reindeer-skin, or the fur of the otter. The coat is a loose garment or frock: made of the skin of the reindeer, with the hairy side out, and fastened around the waist with a broad leathern belt.

In this belt is stuck the pointed knife, and a pouch or two, for pipe, tobacco, and spoon, are also suspended from it. Breeches of reindeer-skin—the hide of the young fawns—reach to the ankles; and buskins, or rather stockings, of the same material cover the feet. These are gartered over the ends of the breeches, in such a way that no snow can get in; and since there is neither shirt nor drawers worn, we have given every article of a Laplander’s dress. No. There are the gloves, or mittens, which must not be forgotten,—as they are one of the things most essential to his comfort. These are also the universal deer-hide.

Simple as is this dress of the Lapland men, it is not more simple than that of the Lapland women, since both one and the other are exactly alike. A slight difference is observable in the shape of the bonnet; but for the rest, the lady wears the deer-skin frock, the breeches, and boots,—and like her liege lord, she scorns to include linen in her wardrobe. This plain dress, however, is the everyday winter costume. The summer one, and especially upon grand occasions, is somewhat different, and altogether gayer. The shape is much the same; but the tunic or frock is of cloth, sometimes plain, coarse wadmal; but in the case of the richer proprietors, of fine coloured cloth,—even scarlet being sometimes worn. No matter what the quality of the cloth, however, the trimmings are always of rich, bright-coloured stuffs; and consist of bands or cords around the skirt, sleeves, and collar, elaborately stitched by the females,—who are in all cases the tailors. The leathern belt, worn with this dress, is loaded with ornaments,—little square and triangular plates of brass or white metal, and often of heavy, solid silver. The belt is an esteemed article,—as much so as his wampum to a North-American savage,—and it requires a large sum to tempt a Laplander to part with the precious equipment. A finer cap is also worn, on these summer and holiday occasions. Not unfrequently, however, the Laplander—especially the mountain Lap—sticks to his deer-skin coat, the paesk, through all weathers, and throughout all seasons,—when it is too hot simply taking off the belt, and leaving the flaps loose and open. In cold weather, and especially when riding in his sledge, an additional garment is worn. This is a fur “tippet,” which covers his shoulders down to the elbows. It is made from the shaggy skin of the brown bear,—with the claws left on and hanging down in front of the breast.

Before proceeding to describe the mode of life and occupation of the Laplander, it is necessary to state that all of the people known as Laplanders, are not occupied alike. On the contrary, they may be separated into three distinct classes, according to the lives which they lead; and it is absolutely necessary to make this classification in the illustration of their habits. They are all alike in race and national characteristics,—all Laplanders,—and they differ but little in their—style of dressing; but, in other respects, what might be said of one would not be true of the other two. I proceed, therefore, to point out the distinction.

The first to be noticed are those we have already mentioned under the title of “Coast,” or “Shore Laplanders.” The name will give an idea of their habitat,—as also their mode of life and subsistence. They dwell along the Norwegian coasts, round to the North Cape, and even beyond it. They build their gammes, or sod-thatched dwellings, in little villages around the numerous creeks and “fiords” that intersect this rock-bound shore.

Their calling is that of fishermen. They subsist almost entirely upon fish; and live by selling their surplus to the merchants and Russian traders. They keep a few sheep, sometimes a poor cow, but rarely own the reindeer. The life they lead is entirely different from that of their kindred, who dwell habitually in the interior. As it differs little from that of poor fishermen elsewhere, I shall dismiss the coast Laplander without another word.

The second kind of Lap who merits our consideration, is that known as the “Wood Laplander,” or, more commonly, “Wood Lap.” He is less known than either of the two other varieties; but, as already stated, he differs from them principally on account of his occupation. His home is to be found upon the extensive plain country of Russian Lapland, and not near the sea. He is a dweller in the pine and fir-forests; and builds him a rude hut, very similar to the gamme of the coast Lap; but he is in possession of some reindeer,—not enough, however, to support him,—and he ekes out a subsistence by fishing in the rivers and fresh-water lakes of the interior, by shooting the elk and wild reindeer, and trapping the fur-bearing animals,—the ermine, the sable, the miniver-squirrel, the badger, glutton, foxes, and wolves.

As his calling is chiefly that of a hunter and trapper, and therefore very similar to like occupations in many other parts of the world, we need not enter into details of it here. For the present, therefore, we must shelve the Wood Lap along with his kinsman of the coast.

This brings us to the third class,—the “Mountain,” or, as he is often called, the “Reindeer Laplander:” since it is the possession of this animal that chiefly distinguishes him from the other two classes of his countrymen.

His mode of life is altogether different from either,—in fact, resembling theirs in but few particulars. True, he fishes a little, and occasionally does a bit of amateur hunting; but these are mere adjuncts or pastimes. His main support is his antlered flock: it would be more truthful to call it his sole support. By the reindeer lives, by the reindeer he moves, by the reindeer he has his being.

His life is purely pastoral; he is a nomade,—a wanderer. All the world knows this; but all the world does not know why he wanders. Writers have asserted that it was to seek new pasture for his flocks,—the old ground having been eaten bare. Nothing of the sort. He leaves the fertile plains, just as the willows are putting forth their succulent shoots,—just as the rich grass begins to spring fresh and green,—and betakes himself to the bleak sides of the mountains. That does not look like seeking for a better pasture. It has nothing to do with it.

Let us follow him, however, throughout his wanderings,—through the circuit of a single year,—and, perhaps, we shall find out the motive that inducts him into the roving habit.

First, then, to be a “Reindeer Laplander,” he must be the owner of one hundred head of deer; fewer than that will be of no use. If he have only fifty, he must sell out, and betake himself to some settlement of Qüans or Norwegians,—there to give his service for hire,—or else turn Coast Laplander and fisherman,—a calling which he despises. This would be a sinking in the social scale; but, if he has been imprudent or unfortunate, and his flock has got reduced to fifty head, there is no help for it. If he have one hundred, however, he may manage with great economy to rub on; and keep up his character as a free Reindeer Lap. With three hundred he can live comfortably; better with five hundred; but a thousand would render him affluent. With fifteen hundred he would be a grandee; and two thousand would give him the rank of a millionaire! There are very few millionaires in Lapland, and not many grandees. Proprietors of even a thousand head are scarce; there are more whose herds number from three hundred to five hundred each.

And here, I may remark, that there is no government,—no tribal organisation. The owner of each herd is the head of a family; over them he is patriarch, but his power extends no further. It is not even great so far, if there chance to be grown-up unruly sons sharing the common tent.

I have used the word tent. That is the Reindeer Laplander’s home,—winter and summer alike. Notwithstanding the severity of his clime, he builds no house; and even his tent is of the very rudest kind known among tenting tribes. It consists of some birch saplings set up in the snow, bent towards each other, and then covered over with a piece of coarse cloth,—the wadmal. This he prefers to a covering of skins; and obtains it from the Norwegian or Russ trader in exchange for the latter. The tent, when standing, is only six feet high, and not much more in diameter. In this circumscribed space his whole family, wife, daughters, sons, often a retainer or two, and about a dozen dogs find shelter from the piercing blast,—seated, or lying beside, or on top of one another, higgledy-piggledy, any way they can. There is room found besides for a large iron or brass cooking-pot, some dishes and bowls of birch, a rude stone furnace, and a fire in the middle of the floor. Above the fire, a rack forms a shelf for countless tough cheeses, pieces of reindeers’ flesh, bowls of milk, bladders of deer’s blood, and a multiplicity of like objects.

The spring is just opening; the frost has thawed from the trees,—for the winter home is in the midst of a forest,—the ground is bare of snow, and already smiling with a carpet of green, enamelled by many brilliant flowers. It is time, therefore, for the Reindeer Laplander to decamp from the spot, and seek some other scene less inviting to the eye. You will naturally inquire why he does this? and perhaps you will express some surprise at a man showing so little judgment as to take leave of the fertile plain,—just now promising to yield him a rich pasture for his herds,—and transport his whole stock to the cold declivity of a bleak mountain? Yes, it is natural this should astonish you,—not, however, when you have heard the explanation.

Were he to stay in that plain—in that wood where he has wintered—a month longer, he would run the risk of losing half of his precious herd: perhaps in one season find himself reduced to the necessity of becoming a Coast Lap. The reason is simple,—the great gadfly (Aestrus tarandi), with numerous other tormentors, are about to spring forth from the morass; and, as soon as the hot sun has blown them into full strength and vitality, commence their work of desolation upon the deer. In a few short days or hours their eggs would be deposited in the skin,—even in the nostrils of the antlered creature,—there to germinate and produce disease and death. Indeed, the torment of biting gnats and other insects would of itself materially injure the health and condition of the animals; and if not driven to the mountains, they would “stampede,” and go there of their own accord. It becomes a necessity, then, for the Reindeer Lap to remove his habitation; and, having gathered a few necessary utensils, and packed them on his stoutest bucks, he is off to the mountains.

He does not take the whole of his penates along with him. That would be difficult, for the snow is now gone, and he cannot use his proper mode of travelling,—the sledge. This he leaves behind him; as well as all other implements and articles of household use, which he can do without in his summer quarters. The cooking-pot, and a few bowls and dishes, go along with him,—also the tent-cloth, and some skins for bedding. The smaller articles are deposited in panniers of wicker, which are slung over the backs of a number of pack-deer; and, if a balance be required, the infant Lap, in its little boat-like cradle, forms the adjusting medium.

The journey is often of immense length. There may be highlands near, but these are not to the Laplander’s liking. Nothing will satisfy him but the bold mountain range that overlooks the sea, trending along the whole Norwegian coast: only on the declivities of this, or on one of the thousand elevated rocky isles that guard this extensive seaboard, does the Laplander believe that his deer will enjoy proper health. He has a belief, moreover, that at least once every year, the reindeer should drink sea-water to keep them in condition. Certain it is, that on reaching the sea, these animals rush eagerly into the water, and drink the briny fluid; and yet ever after, during the same season, they refuse to taste it! It is the general opinion that the solitary draught thus taken has the effect of destroying such larvae, as may have already formed in their skins.

This journey often costs the Laplander great fatigue and trouble. It is not uncommon for him to go two hundred miles to the Norwegian coast; for although his habitual home may lie much nearer to the shores of the Bothnian gulf, it would not serve his purpose to take his flock there. The forest on that side grows to the water’s edge; and the gadfly is as abundant there, as in the wooded districts of the interior.

On reaching his destination, the Laplander chooses his grazing-ground, sometimes on the mountains of the mainland; but he prefers one of the elevated islets so numerous along the shore. This insures him against all danger from the flies, and also saves him much trouble in herding his deer. The islet may be two miles from the main, or any other land. That does not signify. The reindeer can swim like ducks, and the herd is soon driven over. The wadmal tent is then pitched; and the work of the summer begins. This consists in milking, cheese-making, and looking after the young deer; and a little fishing adds to the keep of the family: for it is at this time that foreign support is most required. The season of summer is with the mountain Lap his season of scarcity! He does not dream of killing his deer at this season,—that would be sheer waste,—nor does he drink their milk, only in very little quantity. It goes to the making of cheese, and the owner of the herd contents himself with the whey. Butter is not made at all by the Reindeer Lap, though the Qüans and Norwegians make some. The Lap would have no use for it,—since he eats no bread,—and it would not keep so well, nor yet be so safe an article of merchandise as the cheese. The latter he regards as his staple article of profit. He sells it to the coast-merchant: receiving in exchange his favourite dram-stuff, and a few pieces of coarse cloth, or utensils. The merchant is near at hand: for just for this very purpose are several small ports and settlements kept in existence along the otherwise desert shores of Norway. Deer-skins and dried fish, oils of the seal, furs and pelts of various kinds, have drawn these little settlements to the coast. Otherwise they would not be there.

When the heat of the summer is over, the reindeer Laplander commences his return to his winter abode,—back to the place whence he came. The gadflies are now gone, and he can drive his deer back with safety; and just as he travelled to the coast, he wends his way home again: for it is to be observed that he regards the winter residence as the real home, and the summer one only as a place of temporary sojourn. He does not look upon it, as we at such a season. To him it is no pleasant excursion: rather is it his period of toil and dearth,—his tightest time.

Once home again, he has nothing to do but erect his wadmal tent and look after his deer,—that now find food upon their favourite lichen. It is buried inches deep under the snow. They care not for that. They can soon uncover the pasture with their broad hoofs; and their keen scent never allows them to scrape up the snow without finding the lichen underneath. Upon it they thrive, and at this season are in the best condition for the knife.

The Laplander now also enjoys life. If rich, he has fresh venison every day; but even if only moderately well off, he “kills” two or three times a week. His mode of slaughtering is original. He sticks his long, knife-blade into the throat of the animal, leaving it there till the creature is dead! This precaution he takes to prevent waste. Were he to pull out the blade, the blood would flow and be lost. The knife acts as a stopper to the wound it has made. The blood is preserved and carefully put away,—the bladder being used as the vessel to contain it.

You must not imagine that the Reindeer Lap remains all the winter in one place; on the contrary, he moves repeatedly, always taking his tent and tent-utensils along with him. The tent is as easily set up as taken down. The ground in all sheltered places is, at this season, covered with snow. It is only necessary to shovel it off, clearing a circular space about the size of the ground-plan of the tent. The snow, thus removed, produces a sort of elevated ring or snow-dyke all round the bare spot; and into this the tent-poles are hammered. They are then bent inward, tied near the tops, and the wadmal being laid on as before, the tent is ready for use.

Fresh branches of evergreen pines, and other trees, are strewed over the floor; and on top of these are laid the deer-skins that serve for beds, chairs, tables, and blankets. These, with the iron cooking-pot, a large iron or brass pail to hold melted snow-water for drinking, and a few other utensils, are the only furniture of the dwelling. I have already stated that the fire is built in the centre of the tent,—on some large stones, forming a rudely-constructed hearth. A hole in the roof is intended for a chimney; but its draught is so bad, that the tent is almost always filled with a cloud of bitter smoke,—so thick as to render objects invisible. In this atmosphere no other European, excepting a Lap, could possibly exist; and travellers, passing through the Lapland country, have often preferred braving the cold frost of the night air, to being half smothered by the smoke; and have consequently taken shelter under a neighbouring tree. The Laplander himself feels but little inconvenienced by the very thickest smoke.

Habit is everything, and to this habit has he been used from his infancy. His eyes, however, are not so indifferent to the annoyance. These suffer from it; and the consequence is that the eyes of the Laplanders are almost universally sore and watery. This is a notable characteristic of the race. Smoke, however, is not the sole cause of it. The Esquimaux equally suffer from sore eyes; and these, burning oil in their houses instead of wood, are seldom troubled with smoke. More likely it is the snow-glare to which the Laplander, as well as the Esquimaux, is much exposed, that brings about this copious watering of the eyes.

The Laplander cooks the reindeer flesh by boiling. A large piece is put into the great family pot, and nothing added but a quantity of water. In this the meat boils and simmers till it is done tender. The oily fat is then skimmed off, and put into a separate vessel; and the meat is “dished” in a large tray or bowl of birch-bark.

A piece is then cut off, for each individual of the family; and handed around the circle. It is eaten without bread, and even salt is dispensed with. A dip in the bowl of skim-fat is all the seasoning it gets; and it is washed down with the “liquor” in which it has been boiled, and which is nothing but greasy water, without vegetables or any other “lining.” It has the flavour of the fat venison, however; and is by no means ill-tasted. The angelica flourishes in the country of the Laplander, and of this vegetable he makes occasional use, not eating the roots, but the stalks and leaves, usually raw and without any preparation. Perhaps he is led to use it, by a knowledge of the antiscorbutic properties of the plant.

Several species of berry-producing bushes also furnish him with an occasional meal of fruit. There are wild currants, the cranberry, whortle, and bilberries. The fruits of these trees do not fall in the autumn, as with us; but remain all winter upon the branches. Buried under the snow, they are preserved in perfect condition, until the thaw of the following spring once more brings them into view. At this time they are sweet and mellow; and are gathered in large quantities by the Lap women. Sometimes they are eaten, as they come from the tree; but it is more usual to make them into a “plum-pudding:” that is, they are mixed with a kind of curdled milk, and stored away in bladders. When wanted, a slice is cut from the mass,—including a piece of the bladder, within which they have now attained to the stiffness and consistence of a “cream-cheese.”

Another great luxury of the Laplander, is the reindeer’s milk frozen into an “ice.” This is easily obtained; and the process consists simply in filling a birchen bowl with milk, and exposing it to the open air during frost. It is soon converted into solid ice; and in this condition will keep perfectly sweet throughout the whole of the winter. As the reindeer are never milked in the depth of the winter season, the Laplander takes care, before that period approaches, to lay in a stock of ice-milk: so that he may have a drink of it at all times, by simply setting one of his birchen bowls within reach of the fire. He even makes a merchandise of this article: for the frozen reindeer milk is highly prized by the foreign merchants; who are ready, at any time, to exchange for the delicious article a dram of their devilish fire-water.

It is at this season that the Laplander moves about, both on foot and in his sledge. He not only travels from place to place, in a circuit of twenty miles,—round the little solitary church which the Swedish missionary has built for him,—but he makes an occasional journey to the distant coast.

In his sledge, or even afoot, a hundred miles are to him as nothing: for the frozen snow enables him to perform such a distance in an incredibly short time. On his “skis,” or snow-skates he could do a hundred miles in a couple of days; even though the paths led him over hills, mountains, lakes, and rivers. All are now alike,—all concealed under the common covering of a deep snow. The lakes and rivers are frozen and bridged for him; and the mountain declivities are rendered smooth and easily traversed,—either by the sledge or the “skis.” With the former he would think little of a hundred miles in a single day; and if the occasion were a “killing” one, and relays could be had upon the route, twice that enormous distance he could easily accomplish.

The mode of sleigh-travelling by the Reindeer Laplander, as also his snow-skimming, or skating, have been both often and elaborately described. I have only space here to present the more salient points of the picture.

This sleigh or sledge is termed by him “pulka;” but he has three varieties of this article,—two for travelling, and the third for carrying luggage. The two first kinds are nearly alike; and, in fact, differ only in a little extra “furniture,” which one of them has upon it,—that is, a covering over the top, to keep more comfortable the feet and legs of the traveller. In other respects it is only the common pulk, being similar to the latter in shape, size, atelage, and everything.

To get an idea of the Laplander’s sledge, you must fancy a little boat, about six feet long, and sixteen inches in breadth of beam. This is the width at the stern, where it is broadest; but from the stern it narrows all the way forward, until, on reaching the stem, it has tapered almost to a point. Its sides are exactly like those of a boat; and it rests upon a “keel” of about four inches breadth, which keel is the one and only “runner.” A strong board boxes up the stern end, in front of which is the seat; and the board itself serves to support the back of the rider. His legs and feet are stretched out longitudinally; filling up the space between the quarter-deck and the “forward” part of the little craft; and, thus fixed, the Laplander is ready for the road.

In the best class of “pulk”—that used by the Russ and Swedish traders and travellers—the forward part is covered with a sort of half-deck of skins or leather; but the Laplander does not often fancy this. It gives him too much trouble to get out and in; as he is often compelled to do to look after his train of deer. His pulk, therefore, is open from stem to stern; and his deer-skin coverings keep his legs warm enough.

Only one deer is used; and the mode of harnessing is of primitive simplicity. A band of skin acts as a collar round the neck of the animal; and from the lowest point of this a piece falls downwards below the animal’s breast,—striking in on the counter like the pendants of a martingale. To this piece is attached the trace,—there is but one,—which, passing between the forelegs, and afterwards the hind ones, is looped into an iron ring upon the stem of the sledge. Upon this trace, which is a strong strap of raw hide or leather, the whole draught-power is exerted. A broad surcingle—usually of cloth, neatly stitched and ornamented—passes round the deer’s body. Its use is to hold up the trace underneath the belly, and prevent it from dragging the ground, or getting among the animal’s feet. A similar band of cloth passes round its neck, giving a fine appearance to the noble creature. A single rein attached to the left horn, or fixed halter-fashion around the deer’s head, is all that is necessary to guide it along; the movements of this, aided by the accents of its master’s voice, are understood by this well-trained animal.

For all that, the deer does not always travel kindly. Frequently he takes a fit of obstinacy or anger; and will then turn upon his trainer,—presenting his antlered front in an attitude of attack. On such occasions the Lap takes shelter behind his “pulk,” raising it in his arms, and holding it as a shield wherewith to defend himself; until he can pacify, or otherwise subdue, the irritated buck.

The tumbling of the sledge, and consequent spilling of its load, is a thing of frequent occurrence, owing to the narrow base upon which the vehicle is supported; but the Laplander thinks nothing of a trifling mishap of this nature. In a trice the “snow-boat” is righted, the voyager in his seat again, and off over the frozen snow with the speed of lightning.

The reindeer can travel nearly twenty English miles an hour! This rate of speed has been proved and tested; and with fresh relays along the route, over four hundred miles might be made in a day. But the same thing could be done with horses,—that is, upon a desperate emergency.

The luggage “pulk” of the Laplander differs only from the other kinds of sledges in being longer, broader, deeper, and consequently of more capacity to carry goods. It is used for transporting the skins, and other merchantable commodities, from the interior to the trading depots on the coast.

The skis or snow-skates require very little description. They are on the same principle as the snow-shoes in use among the North-American Indians; though from these they differ materially in construction. They are merely two long pieces of smooth board, a few inches in breadth, and slightly turned up at the ends. One is full six feet,—the right one; the left is about twelve inches shorter. Near the middle they are lashed firmly to the feet by strong pieces of hide; and by means of these curious appendages, when the snow is crusted over, the Laplander can skim over its surface with great rapidity. He uses a long pole to guide and assist him in his movements; and this pole has a piece of circular board, or a round ball, near its point,—to prevent it from sinking too deeply in the snow. Going up hill upon the skis is not so easy,—but the practised skater can ascend even the steep acclivities of the mountains with less difficulty than might be imagined. This is accomplished in zigzag lines,—each leading to a higher elevation. Down hill, the course upon skis is rapid almost as the flight of an arrow; and, by means of the long pole, rocks, ravines, and precipices, are shunned with a dexterity that is quite surprising. Altogether a Laplander, either in his reindeer sledge, or upon his long wooden “skis,” is as interesting a sight as may be seen anywhere.

After all that has been said, it will appear pretty clearly, that the Laplander, though dwelling so very near to civilised lands, is still very far distant from true civilisation.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Andamaners, or Mud-Bedaubers.

On the eastern side of the Bay of Bengal lies a cluster, or archipelago, of islands known as the “Andamans.” They form a long string running nearly northward and southward; and with the Nicobar group, still further to the south, they appear like a series of stepping-stones connecting Cape Negrais, in the Burmese country, with the island of Sumatra. Independent of the Nicobar Islands, the Andamans themselves have an extent of several hundred miles in length; while their breadth is nowhere over about twenty miles. Until of late the greater portion of the group was supposed to form only one island,—known as the “Great Andaman;” but, in the year 1792, this was discovered to have a channel across it that divided it into two distinct parts.

The discovery of this channel was accidental; and the accident was attended with melancholy consequences. A vessel from Madras had entered between the Great Andaman, and the opposite coast of Burmah. This vessel was laden with provisions, intended for the supply of Port Cornwallis,—a convict settlement, which the British had formed the preceding year on the eastern side of the island. The master of the vessel, not knowing the position of Port Cornwallis, sent a boat to explore an opening which he saw in the land,—fancying that it might be the entrance to the harbour. It was not this, however; but the mouth of the channel above mentioned. The crew of the boat consisted of two Europeans and six Lascars. It was late in the afternoon when they stood into the entrance; and, as it soon fell dark upon them, they lost their way, and found themselves carried along by a rapid current that set towards the Bay of Bengal. The north-east monsoon was blowing at the time with great violence; and this, together with the rapid current, soon carried the boat through the channel; and, in spite of their efforts, they were driven out into the Indian Ocean, far beyond sight of land! Here for eighteen days the unfortunate crew were buffeted about; until they were picked up by a French ship, almost under the equinoctial line, many hundreds of miles from the channel they had thus involuntarily discovered! The sad part of the story remains to be told. When relieved by the French vessel, the two Europeans and three of the Lascars were still living; the other three Lascars had disappeared. Shocking to relate, they had been killed and eaten by their companions!

The convict settlement above mentioned was carried on only for a few years, and then abandoned,—in consequence of the unhealthiness of the climate, by which the Sepoy guards of the establishment perished in great numbers.

Notwithstanding this, the Andaman Islands present a very attractive aspect. A ridge of mountains runs nearly throughout their whole extent, rising in some places to a height of between two and three thousand feet. These mountains are covered to their tops by dense forests, that might be called primeval,—since no trace of clearing or cultivation is to be found on the whole surface of the islands; nor has any ever existed within the memory of man, excepting that of the convict settlement referred to. Some of the forest trees are of great size and height; and numerous species are intermixed. Mangroves line the shores; and prickly ferns and wild rattans form an impenetrable brake on the sides of the hills; bamboos are also common, and the “gambier” or “cutch” tree (Agathis), from which is extracted the Terra Japonica of commerce. There are others that yield dyes, and a curious species of screw-pine (pandanus),—known as the “Nicobar breadfruit.”

Notwithstanding their favourable situation, the zoology of these islands is extremely limited in species. The only quadrupeds known to exist upon them are wild hogs, dogs, and rats; and a variety of the monkey tribe inhabits the forests of the interior. The land-birds are few,—consisting of pigeons, doves, small parrots, and the Indian crow; while hawks are seen occasionally hovering over the trees; and a species of humming-bird flies about at night, uttering a soft cry that resembles the cooing of doves. There are owls of several species; and the cliffs that front the coast are frequented by a singular swallow,—the hirundo esculenta, whose nests are eaten by the wealthy mandarins of China. Along the shores there are gulls, kingfishers, and other aquatic birds. A large lizard of the guana species is common, with several others; and a green snake, of the most venomous description, renders it dangerous to penetrate the jungle thickets that cover the whole surface of the country.

In all these matters there is not much that is remarkable,—if we accept the extreme paucity of the zoology; and this is really a peculiarity,—considering that the Andaman Islands lie within less than eighty leagues of the Burman territory, a country so rich in mammalia; considering, too, that they are covered with immense forests, almost impenetrable to human beings, on account of their thick intertwining of underwood and parasitical plants,—the very home, one would suppose for wild beasts of many kinds! And withal we find only three species of quadrupeds, and these small ones, thinly distributed along the skirts of the forest. In truth, the Andaman Islands and their fauna have long been a puzzle to the zoölogist.

But longer still, and to a far greater extent, have their human inhabitants perplexed the ethnologist; and here we arrive at the true peculiarity of the Andaman Islands,—that is to say, the people who inhabit them. With perhaps no exception, these people are the most truly savage of any on the face of the globe; and this has been their character from the earliest times: for they have been known to the ancients as far back as the time of Ptolemy. Ptolemy mentions them under the title of anthropophagi (man-eaters); and the Arabs of the ninth century, who navigated the Indian Ocean, have given a similar account of them. Marco Polo adopts this statement, and what is still more surprising, one of the most noted ethnologists of our own time—Dr Latham—has given way to a like credulity, and puts the poor Andamaners down as “pagan cannibals.” It is an error: they are not cannibals in any sense of the word; and if they have ever eaten human flesh,—of which there is no proof,—it has been when impelled by famine. Under like circumstances, some of every nation on earth have done the same,—Englishmen, Germans, Frenchmen, Americans,—of late years frequently,—in the mountains of New Mexico and California.

The charge of cannibalism against these miserable beings rests on no other foundation than the allegations of Chinese sailors, and the vague statements of Ptolemy and the Arabs above mentioned.

The Chinese have occasion now and then to visit the Andaman Islands in their junks, to collect the edible nests of the swallow (hirundo esculenta),—which birds have extensive breeding-places on the cliffs that overhang the coast of the Great Andaman. The “trepang,” or sea-slug, is also found in large quantities upon the rocks near the shore; and this is equally an object of commerce, and esteemed an article of the greatest luxury, among the mandarins, and other rich celestials who can afford to indulge in it.

Now and then, a junk has been wrecked among these rocks; and its miserable crew have fallen a victim to the hostility of the natives: just as they might have done on more civilised coasts, where no cannibalism was ever suspected to exist. Crews of junks have been totally destroyed,—murdered, if you please,—but it would not be difficult to show, that this was done more from motives of revenge than from a mere sanguinary instinct or disposition; but there is no proof whatever of, even a single case, of true cannibalism. Indeed there are strong reasons for our disbelief in this horrid custom,—so far as regards the poor savages of the Andamans. An incident, that seems to give a flat contradiction to it, occurred during the occupancy of the island by the East-India Company in the year 1793; and other proofs of non-cannibalism have been obtained at a still more recent period, to which we shall presently allude.

The incident of 1793 was as follows: A party of fishers belonging to the settlement enticed an Andaman woman to come near, by holding out presents of food. The woman was made captive by these treacherous men; who, instead of relieving her hunger, proceeded to behave to her in the most brutal and unfeeling manner. The cries of the poor creature brought a numerous troop of her people to the spot; who, rushing out of the thickets from every side, collected around the fishermen; and, having attacked them with spears and arrows, succeeded in killing two of their number. The rest with difficulty escaped to the settlement; and, having obtained assistance, a large party set out to search for the bodies of their companions. There was but little expectation that these would be recovered: as all were under the belief that the savages must have carried them away for the purpose of making a cannibal feast upon them. There had been ample time for the removing of them: since the scene of the struggle was at a considerable distance from the fort.

The searchers, therefore, were somewhat astonished at finding both bodies on the spot where they had fallen, and the enemy entirely gone from the ground! The bodies were disfigured in the most shocking manner. The flesh was pierced in every part,—by spears, no doubt,—and the bones had been pounded with heavy stones, until they were mashed into fragments; but not a bit of flesh was removed, not even an arm or limb had been severed!

The other instance to which we have promised to allude occurred at a much more recent period,—so late, in fact, as the period of the King of Delhi’s imprisonment. It will be fresh in the memory of my readers, that his Hindoo majesty was carried to the island of Great Andaman, along with a number of “Sepoy” rebels, who had been taken prisoners during the late Indian revolt. The convict settlement was restored, especially for this purpose; and a detachment of “East-India Company’s troops” was sent along with the rebel sepoys to guard them. It was supposed that the troops would have great difficulty in the performance of their duty: since the number of their prisoners was larger than could be fairly looked after; and, it was well-known, that, if a prisoner could once get clear of the walls of the fort, it would be altogether idle to pursue him. The chase after a fugitive through the tangled forests of the Andamans would be emphatically a “wild-goose” chase; and there would be ten chances to one against his being recaptured.

Such, in reality, did it appear, for the first week or two, after the settlement was re-established. Numerous prisoners escaped into the woods, and as it was deemed idle to follow them, they were given up as “lost birds.”

In the end, however, it proved that they were not all lost,—though some of them were. After a week or two had expired, they began to straggle back to the fort, and voluntarily deliver themselves up to their old guards,—now one, now another, or two or three at a time,—but all of them in the most forlorn and deplorable condition. They had enjoyed a little, liberty on the Andaman isles; but a taste of it had proved sufficient to satisfy them that captivity in a well-rationed guard-house was even preferable to freedom with a hungry stomach, added to the risk which they ran every hour of the day of being impaled upon the spears of the savages. Many of them actually met with this fate; and others only escaped half dead from the hostile treatment they had received at the hands of the islanders. There was no account, however, that any of them had been eaten,—no evidence that their implacable enemies were cannibals.

Such are a few arguments that seem to controvert the accusation of Ptolemy and the two Arab merchants,—in whose travels the statement is found, and afterwards copied by the famous Marco Polo. Probably the Arabs obtained their idea from Ptolemy, Marco Polo from the Arabs, and Dr Latham from Marco Polo. Indeed, it is by no means certain that Ptolemy meant the Andaman Islands by his Islae bonae Fortunae, or “Good-luck Isles,”—certainly a most inappropriate appellation. He may have referred to Sumatra and its Battas,—who are cannibals beyond a doubt. And, after all, what could Ptolemy know about the matter except from vague report, or, more likely still, more vague speculation,—a process of reasoning practised in Ptolemy’s time, just as at the present day. We are too ready to adopt the errors of the ancient writers,—as if men were more infallible then than they are now; and, on the other hand, we are equally prone to incredulity,—often rejecting their testimony when it would conduct to truth.

I believe there is no historic testimony—ancient or modern—before us, to prove that the Andaman islanders are cannibals; and yet, with all the testimony to the contrary, there is one fact, or rather a hypothesis, which shall be presently adduced, that would point to the probability of their being so.

If they are not cannibals, however, they are not the less unmitigated savages, of the very lowest grade and degree. They are unacquainted with almost the very humblest arts of social life; and are not even so far advanced in the scale as to have an organisation. In this respect they are upon a par with the Bushmen of Africa and the Diggers of North America: still more do they resemble the wretched starvelings of Tierra del Fuego. They have no tribal tie; but dwell in scattered groups or gangs,—just as monkeys or other animals of a gregarious nature.

In person, the Andaman is one of the very “ugliest” of known savages. He is of short stature, attaining to the height of only five feet; and his wife is a head shorter than himself. Both are as black as pitch, could their natural colour be discovered; but the skin is usually hidden under a mask of rare material, which we shall presently have occasion to describe.

The upper half of the Andamaner’s body is strongly and compactly built, and his arms are muscular enough. It is below, in the limbs, where he is most lacking in development. His legs are osseous and thin; and, only when he is in fine condition, is there the slightest swell on them that would indicate the presence of a calf. His feet are of monstrous length, and without any symmetry,—the heel projecting far backwards, in the fashion usually styled “lark-heeled.” It is just possible that a good deal of practice, by running over mud-banks and quicksands in search of his shell-fish subsistence, may have added to the natural development of his pedal extremities; for there can be no longer any doubt, that like effects have been produced by such causes,—effects that are indeed, after all, more natural than artificial.

The Andamaner exhibits the protuberance of belly noticed among other savages, who lead a starving life; and his countenance is usually marked with an expression that betrays a mixture of ferocity and famine.

It is worthy of remark, however, that though these stunted proportions are generally observable among the natives of the Andaman Islands, they do not appear to be universal. It is chiefly on the island of the Great Andaman that the most wretched of these savages are found. The Little Andaman seems to produce a better breed: since parties have been met with on this last-named island, in which many individuals were observed nearly six feet in height, and stout in proportion. One of these parties, and the incident of meeting with it, are thus described by an officer who was present:—

“We had not gone far, when, at an angle of the jungle, which covers the island to within a few yards of the water’s edge, we came suddenly upon a party of the natives, lying upon their bellies behind the bushes, armed with spears, arrows, and long-bows, which they bent at us in a threatening manner. Our Lascars, as soon as they saw them, fell back in great consternation, levelling their muskets and running into the sea towards the boats. It was with great difficulty we could prevent our cowardly rascals from firing; the tyndal was the only one who stood by the chief mate and myself. We advanced within a few paces of the natives, and made signs of drinking, to intimate the purpose of our visit. The tyndal salaamed to them, according to the different oriental modes of salutation,—he spoke to them in Malay, and other languages; but they returned no answer, and continued in their crouching attitude, pointing their weapons at us whenever we turned. I held out my handkerchief but they would not come from behind the bushes to take it. I placed it upon the ground; and we returned, in order to allow them an opportunity of picking it up: still they would not move.

“I counted sixteen strong and able-bodied men opposite to us, many of them very lusty; and further on, six more. They were very different in appearance from what the natives of the Great Andaman are represented to be,—that is, of a puny race. The whole party was completely naked, with the exception of one,—a stout man nearly six feet in height, who was standing up along with two or three women in the rear. He wore on his head a red cloth with white spots.

“They were the most ferocious and wild-looking beings I ever beheld. Those parts of their bodies that were not besmeared with mud, were of a sooty black colour. Their faces seemed to be painted with a red ochre.”

Notwithstanding the difference in stature and other respects,—the result no doubt of a better condition of existence,—the inhabitants of both islands, Great and Little Andaman, are the same race of people; and in the portrait, the faces of both may be considered as one and the same. This brings us to the strangest fact in the whole history of the Andaman islander. Instead of a Hindoo face, or a Chinese Mongolian face, or that of a Malay,—any of which we might reasonably expect to find in an aboriginal of the Bay of Bengal,—we trace in the Andaman islander the true physiognomy of a negro. Not only have we the flat nose and thick lips, but the curly hair, the sooty complexion, and all the other negro characteristics. And the most ill-favoured variety at that; for, in addition to the ungraceful features already mentioned, we find a head large beyond all proportion, and a pair of small, red eyes deeply sunken in their sockets. Truly the Andaman islander has few pretensions to being a beauty!

Wretched, however, as the Andaman islander may appear, and of little importance as he certainly is in the great social family of the human race, he is, ethnologically speaking, one of its most interesting varieties. From the earliest times he has been a subject of speculation, or rather his presence in that particular part of the world where he is now found: for, since it is the general belief that he is entirely isolated from the two acknowledged negro races, and surrounded by other types of the human family, far different from either, the wonder is how he came to be there.

Perhaps no other two thousand people on earth—for that is about the number of Andaman islanders—have been honoured with a greater amount of speculation in regard to their origin. Some ethnologists assign to them an African origin, and account for their presence upon the Andaman Islands by a singular story: that a Portuguese ship laden with African slaves, and proceeding to the Indian colonies, was wrecked in the Bay of Bengal, and, of course, off the coast of the Andamans: that the crew were murdered by the slaves; who, set free by this circumstance, became the inhabitants of the island. This story is supported by the argument, that the hostility which the natives now so notoriously exhibit, had its origin in a spirit of revenge: that still remembering the cruel treatment received on the “middle passage” at the hands of their Portuguese masters, they have resolved never to be enslaved again; but to retaliate upon the white man, whenever he may fall into their power!

Certainly the circumstances would seem to give some colour to the tale, if it had any foundation; but it has none. Were we to credit it, it would be necessary to throw Ptolemy and the Arab merchants overboard, and Marco Polo to boot. All these have recorded the existence of the Andaman islanders, long before ever a Portuguese keel cleft the waters of the Indian Ocean,—long even before Di Gama doubled the Cape!

But without either the aid of Ptolemy or the testimony of the Arabian explorers, it can be established that the Andaman Islands were inhabited before the era of the Portuguese in India; and by the same race of savages as now dwell upon them.

Another theory is that it was an Arabian slave-ship that was wrecked, and not a Portuguese; and this would place the peopling of the islands at a much earlier period. There is no positive fact, however, to support this theory,—which, like the other, rests only on mere speculation.

The error of these hypotheses lies in their mistaken data; for, although, we have stated that the Andaman islanders are undoubtedly a negro race, they are not that negro race to which the speculation points,—in other words, they are not African negroes. Beyond certain marked features, as the flat nose and thick lips, they have nothing in common with these last. Their hair is more of the kind called “frizzly,” than of the “woolly” texture of that of the Ethiopian negro; and in this respect they assimilate closely to the “Papuan,” or New Guinea “negrillo,” which every one knows is a very different being from the African negro.

Their moral characteristics—such as there has been an opportunity of observing among them—are also an additional proof that they are not of African origin; while these point unmistakably to a kinship with the other side of the Indian Ocean. Even some of their fashions, as we shall presently have occasion to notice, have a like tendency to confirm the belief that the Andaman is a “negrillo,” and not a “negro.” The only obstacle to this belief has hitherto been the fact of their isolated situation: since it is alleged—rather hastily as we shall see—that the whole of the opposite continent of the Burmese and other empires, is peopled by races entirely distinct: that none of the adjacent islands—the Nicobars and Sumatra—have any negro or negrillo inhabitants: and that the Andamaners are thus cut off, as it were, from any possible line of migration which they could have followed in entering the Bay of Bengal. Ethnologists, however, seem to have overlooked the circumstance that this allegation is not strictly true. The Samangs—a tribe inhabiting the mountainous parts of the Malayan peninsula—are also a negro or negrillo race; a fact which at once establishes a link in the chain of a supposed migration from the great Indian archipelago.

This lets the Andaman islander into the Great China Sea; or rather, coming from that sea, it forms the stepping-stone to his present residence in the Bay of Bengal. Who can say that he was not at one time the owner of the Malayan peninsula? How can we account for the strange fact, that figures of Boodh—the Guadma of the Burmese and Siamese—are often seen in India beyond the Ganges, delineated with the curly hair and other characteristic features of the negro?

The theory that the Samang and Andaman islander once ruled the Malay peninsula; that they themselves came from eastward,—from the great islands of the Melanesian group, the centre and source of the negrillo race,—will in some measure account for this singular monumental testimony. The probability, moreover, is always in favour of a migration westward within the tropics. Beyond the tropics, the rule is sometimes reversed.

A coincidence of personal habit, between the Andaman islander and the Melanesian, is also observed. The former dyes his head of a brown or reddish colour,—the very fashion of the Feegee!

Suppose, then, that the Samang and Andaman islander came down the trades, at a period too remote for even tradition to deal with it: suppose they occupied the Malay peninsula, no matter how long; and that at a much more recent period, they were pushed out of place,—the one returning to the Andaman Islands, the other to the mountains of the Quedah: suppose also that the party pushing them off were Malays,—who had themselves been drifted for hundreds of years down the trades from the far shores of America (for this is our “speculation”): suppose all these circumstances to have taken place, and you will be able to account for two facts that have for a long time puzzled the ethnologist. One is the presence of negroes on the islands of Andaman,—and the other of Malays in the south-eastern corner of Asia. We might bring forward many arguments to uphold the probability of these hypotheses, had we space and time. Both, however, compel us to return to the more particular subject of our sketch; and we shall do so after having made a remark, promised above, and which relates to the probability of the Andaman islander being a cannibal. This, then, would lie in the fact of his being a Papuan negro. And yet, again, it is only a seeming; for it might be shown that with the Papuan cannibalism is not a natural instinct. It is only where he has reached a high degree of civilisation, as in the case of the Feegee islander. Call the latter a monster if you will; but, as may be learnt from our account of him, he is anything but a savage, in the usual acceptation of the term. In fact, language has no epithet sufficiently vile to characterise such an anomalous animal as he.

I have endeavoured to clear the Andaman islander of the charge of this guilt; and, since appearances are so much against him, he ought to feel grateful. It is doubtful whether he would, should this fall into his hands, and he be able to read it. The portrait of his face without that stain upon it, he might regard as ugly enough; and that of his habits, which now follows, is not much more flattering.

His house is little better than the den of a wild beast; and far inferior in ingenuity of construction to those which beavers build. A few poles stuck in the ground are leant towards each other, and tied together at the top. Over these a wattle of reeds and rattan-leaves forms the roof; and on the floor a “shake-down” of withered leaves makes his bed, or, perhaps it should rather be called his “lair.” This, it will be perceived, is just the house built by Diggers, Bushmen, and Fuegians. There are no culinary utensils,—only a drinking-cup of the nautilus shell; but implements of war and the chase in plenty: for such are found even amongst the lowest of savages. They consist of bows, arrows, and a species of javelin or dart. The bows are very long, and made of the bamboo cane,—as are also the darts. The arrows are usually pointed with the tusks of the small wild hogs which inhabit the islands. These they occasionally capture in the chase, hanging up the skulls in their huts as trophies and ornaments. With strings of the hog’s teeth also they sometimes ornament their bodies; but they are not very vain in this respect. Sometimes pieces of iron are found among them,—nails flattened to form the blades of knives, or to make an edge for their adzes, the heads of which are of hard wood. These pieces of iron they have no doubt obtained from wrecked vessels, or in the occasional intercourse which they have had with the convict establishment; but there is no regular commerce with them,—in fact, no commerce whatever,—as even the Malay traders, that go everywhere, do not visit the Andamaners, from dread of their well-known Ishmaelitish character. Some of the communities, more forward in civilisation, possess articles of more ingenious construction,—such as baskets to hold fruits and shell-fish, well-made bows, and arrows with several heads, for shooting fish. The only other article they possess of their own manufacture, is a rude kind of canoe, hollowed out of the trunk of a tree, by means of fire and their poor adze. A bamboo raft, of still ruder structure, enables them to cross the narrow bays and creeks by which their coast is indented.