Part 14

The fresh-water fish are struck with spears out of the kayaks, or, when there is ice on the water strong enough to bear the weight of a man, the fish are captured in a different manner. A hole is broken in the ice, the broken fragments are skimmed off and cast aside, and then the fisherman lets down a shining bauble—usually the white tooth of some animal—to act as a bait. This he keeps bobbing about until the fish, perceiving it afar off through the translucent water, usually approaches to reconnoitre, partly from curiosity, but more, perhaps, to see if it be anything to eat. When near enough the Esquimaux adroitly pins the victim with his fish-spear, and lands it upon the ice. This species of fishing is usually delivered over to the boys—the time of the hunters being too valuable to be wasted in waiting for the approach of the fish to the decoy, an event of precarious and uncertain occurrence.

In capturing the reindeer, the Esquimaux practises no method very different from that used by “still hunters” in other parts of America. He has to depend alone upon his bow and arrows, but with these poor weapons he contrives to make more havoc among a herd of deer than would a backwoods hunter with his redoubtable rifle. There is no mystery about his superior management. It consists simply in the exhibition of the great strategy and patience with which he makes his approaches, crawling from point to point and using every available cover which the ground may afford.

But all this would be of little avail were it not for a _ruse_ which he puts in practice, and which brings the unsuspecting deer within reach of his deadly arrows. This consists in a close imitation of the cries of the animal, so close that the sharp-eared creature itself cannot detect the counterfeit, but, drawing nearer and nearer to the rock or bush from which the call appears to proceed, falls a victim to the deception. The silent arrow makes no audible sound; the herd, if slightly disturbed at seeing one of their number fall, soon compose themselves, and go on browsing upon the grass or licking up the lichen. Another is attracted by the call, and another, who fall in their turn victims either to their curiosity or the instinct of amorous passions.

For this species of hunting, the bow far excels any other weapon; even the rifle is inferior to it.

Sometimes the Esquimaux take the deer in large numbers, by hunting them with dogs, driving the herd into some defile or _cul de sac_ among the rocks, and then killing them at will with their arrows and javelins. This, however, is an exceptional case, as such natural “pounds” are not always at hand. The Indians farther south construct artificial enclosures; but in the Esquimaux country there is neither time nor material for such elaborate contrivances.

The Esquimaux who dwell in those parts frequented by the musk-oxen, hunt these animals very much as they do the reindeer; but killing a musk bull, or cow either, is a feat of far grander magnitude, and requires more address than shooting a tiny deer.

I have said that the Esquimaux do not, even in these hunting excursions, stray very far into the interior. There is a good reason for their keeping close to the seashore. Were they to penetrate far into the land they would be in danger of meeting with their bitter foemen, the _Tinné_ Indians, who in this region also hunt reindeer and musk-oxen. War to the knife is the practice between these two races of people, and has ever been since the first knowledge of either. They often meet in conflict upon the rivers inland, and these conflicts are of so cruel and sanguinary a nature as to imbue each with a wholesome fear of the other. The Indians, however, dread the Esquimaux more than the latter fear them; and up to a late period took good care never to approach their coasts; but the musket and rifle have now got into the hands of some of the northern tribes, who avail themselves of these superior weapons, not only to keep the Esquimaux at bay, but also to render them more cautious about extending their range towards the interior.

When the dreary winter begins to make its appearance, and the reindeer grow scarce upon the snow-covered plains, the Esquimaux return to their winter villages upon the coast. Quadrupeds and birds no longer occupy their whole attention, for the drift of their thoughts is now turned towards the inhabitants of the great deep. The seal and the walrus are henceforth the main objects of pursuit. Perhaps during the summer, when the water was open, they may have visited the shore for the purpose of capturing that great giant of the icy seas—a whale. If so, and they have been successful in only one or two captures, they may look forward to a winter of plenty—since the flesh of a full-grown whale, or, better still, a brace of such ample creatures, would be sufficient to feed a whole tribe for months.

They have no curing process for this immense carcass; they stand in need of none. Neither salt nor smoking is required in their climate. Jack Frost is their provision curer, and performs the task without putting them either to trouble or expense. It is only necessary for them to hoist the great flitches upon scaffolds, already erected for the purpose, so as to keep the meat from the wolves, wolverines, foxes, and their own half-starved dogs. From their aërial larder they can cut a piece of blubber whenever they feel hungry, or they have a mind to eat, and this _mind_ they are in so long as a morsel is left.

Their mode of capturing a whale is quite different from that practised by the whale-fishers. When the huge creature is discovered near, the whole tribe sally forth, and surround it in their kayaks; they then hurl darts into its body, but instead of these having long lines attached to them, they are provided with seal skins sewed up air-tight and inflated, like bladders. When a number of these become attached to the body of the whale, the animal, powerful though he be, finds great difficulty in sinking far down, or even progressing rapidly through the water. He soon rises to the surface, and the seal-skin buoys indicate his whereabouts to the occupants of the kayaks, who in their swift little crafts, soon dart up to him again, and shoot a fresh volley into his body. In this way the whale is soon “wearied out,” and then falls a victim to their larger spears, just as in the case where a capture is made by regular whalers.

I need scarcely add that a success of this kind is hailed as a jubilee of the tribe, since it not only brings a benefit to the whole community, but is also a piece of fortune of somewhat rare occurrence.

When no whales have been taken, the long, dark winter may justly be looked forward to with some solicitude; and it is then that the Esquimaux requires to put forth all his skill and energies for the capture of the walrus or the seal—the latter of which may be regarded as the staff of his life, furnishing him not only with food, but with light, fuel, and clothing for his body and limbs.

Of the seals that inhabit the Polar Seas there are several species; but the common seal (_Calocephalus vitulina_) and the harp-seal (_C. Grœnlandicus_) are those most numerous, and consequently the principal object of pursuit.

The Esquimaux uses various stratagems for taking these creatures, according to the circumstances in which they may be encountered; and simpletons as the seals may appear, they are by no means easy of capture. They are usually very shy and suspicious, even in places where man has never been seen by them. They have other enemies, especially in the great polar bear; and the dread of this tyrant of the icy seas keeps them ever on the alert. Notwithstanding their watchfulness, however, both the bear and the biped make great havoc among them, and each year hundreds of thousands of them are destroyed.

The bear, in capturing seals, exhibits a skill and cunning scarce excelled by that of the rational being himself. When this great quadruped perceives a seal basking on the edge of an ice-field, he makes his approaches, not by rushing directly towards it, which he well knows would defeat his purpose. If once seen by the seal, the latter has only to betake himself to the water, where it can soon sink or swim beyond the reach of the bear. To prevent this, the bear gets well to leeward, and then diving below the surface, makes his approaches under water, now and then cautiously raising his head to get the true bearings of his intended victim. After a number of these subaqueous “reaches,” he gets close in to the edge of the floe in such a position as to cut off the seal’s retreat to the water. A single spring brings him on the ice, and then, before the poor seal has time to make a brace of flounders, it finds itself locked in the deadly embrace of the bear. When seals are thus detected asleep, the Esquimaux approaches them in his kayak, taking care to paddle cautiously and silently. If he succeed in getting between them and the open water, he kills them in the ordinary way—by simply knocking them on the snout with a club, or piercing them with a spear. Sometimes, however, the seal goes to sleep on the surface of the open water. Then the approach is made in a similar manner by means of the kayak, and the animal is struck with a harpoon. But a single blow does not always kill a seal, especially if it be a large one, and the blow has been ill-directed. In such cases the animal would undoubtedly make his escape, and carry the harpoon along with it, which would be a serious loss to the owner, who does not obtain such weapons without great difficulty. To prevent this, the Esquimaux uses a contrivance similar to that employed in the capture of the whale,—that is, he attaches a float or buoy to his harpoon by means of a cord, and this so impedes the passage of the seal through the water, that it can neither dive nor swim to any very great distance. The float is usually a walrus bladder inflated in the ordinary way, and wherever the seal may go, the float betrays its track, enabling the Esquimaux to follow it in his shuttle-shaped kayak, and pierce it again with a surer aim.

In winter, when the sea is quite covered with ice, you might fancy that the seal-fishery would be at an end, for the seal is essentially a marine animal; and although it can exist upon the ice or on dry land, it could not _subsist_ there. Access to the water it must have, in order to procure its food, which consists of small fish and mollusks. Of course, when the ice forms on the surface, the seal is in its true element—the water underneath—but when this ice becomes, as it often does, a full yard in thickness, extending over hundreds of miles of the sea, how then is the seal to be got at? It could not be reached at all; and at such a season the Esquimaux people would undoubtedly starve, were it not for a habit peculiar to this animal, which, happily for them, brings it within their reach.

Though the seal can live under water like a fish, and probably could pass a whole winter under the ice without much inconvenience, it likes now and then to take a little fresh air, and have a quiet nap upon the upper surface in the open air. With this design it breaks a hole through the ice, while the latter is yet thin, and this hole it keeps carefully open during the whole winter, clearing out each new crust as it forms. No matter to what thickness the ice may attain, this hole always forms a breathing-place for the seal, and a passage by which he may reach the upper surface, and indulge himself in his favorite siesta in the open air. Knowing this habit, the Esquimaux takes advantage of it to make the seal his captive. When the animal is discovered on the ice, the hunter approaches with the greatest stealth and caution. This is absolutely neccessary: for if the enemy is perceived, or makes the slightest noise, the wary seal flounders rapidly into his hole, and is lost beyond redemption. If badly frightened, he will not appear for a long time, denying himself his open air exercise until the patience of his persecutor is quite worn out, and the coast is again clear.

In making his approaches, the hunter uses all his art, not only taking advantage of every inequality—such as snow-drifts and ice-hillocks—to conceal himself; but he also practises an ingenious deception by dressing himself in the skin of a seal of like species, giving his body the figure of the animal, and counterfeiting its motions, by floundering clumsily over the ice, and oscillating his head from side to side, just as seals are seen to do.

This deception often proves successful, when the hunter under any other shape would in vain endeavor to get within striking distance of his prey. When seals are scarce, and the supply greatly needed, the Esquimaux often lies patiently for hours together on the edge of a seal-hole waiting for the animal to come up. In order to give it time to get well out upon the ice, the hunter conceals himself behind a heap of snow, which he has collected and piled up for the purpose. A float-stick, ingeniously placed in the water of the breathing-hole, serves as a signal to tell when the seal is mounting through his trap-like passage, the motion of the stick betraying its ascent. The hunter then gets himself into the right attitude to strike, and summons all his energies for the encounter.

Even during the long, dark night of winter this mode of capturing the seal is practised. The hunter, having discovered a breathing-hole—which its dark color enables him to find—proceeds in the following manner: he scrapes away the snow from around it, and lifting up some water pours it on the ice, so as to make a circle of a darker hue around the orifice. He then makes a sort of cake of pure white snow, and with this covers the hole as with a lid. In the centre of this lid he punches a small opening with the shaft-end of his spear, and then sits down and patiently awaits the issue.

The seal ascends unsuspiciously as before. The dark water, bubbling up through the small central orifice, betrays its approach, which can be perceived even in the darkest night. The hunter does not wait for its climbing out upon the ice. Perhaps if he did so, the suspicious creature might detect the device, and dive down again. But it is not allowed time for reflection. Before it can turn its unwieldly body, the heavy spear of the hunter—struck through the yielding snow—descends upon its skull, and kills it on the instant.

The great “walrus” or “morse” (_Trichecus rosmarus_) is another important product of the Polar Seas, and is hunted by the Esquimaux with great assiduity. This splendid amphibious animal is taken by contrivances very similar to those used for the seal; but the capture of a walrus is an event of importance, second only to the striking of a whale. Its great carcass not only supplies food to a whole village, but an oil superior to that of the whale, besides various other useful articles. Its skin, bones, and intestines are employed by the Esquimaux for many domestic purposes,—and, in addition, there are the huge molar tusks, that furnish one of the most valuable ivories of commerce, from which are manufactured those beautiful sets of teeth, of dazzling whiteness, that, gleaming between vermilion lips, you may often see at a ball or an evening party!

THE TONGANS, OR FRIENDLY ISLANDERS.

It is a pleasure to pass out of the company of the ferocious Feegees into that of another people, which, though near neighbors of the former, are different from them in almost every respect,—I mean the Tongans, or Friendly Islanders. This appellation scarce requires to be explained. Every one knows that it was bestowed upon them by the celebrated navigator Cook,—who although not the actual discoverer of the Tonga group was the first who thoroughly explored these islands, and gave any reliable account of them to the civilized world. Tasman, who might be termed the “Dutch Captain Cook,” is allowed to be their discoverer, so long ago as 1643; though there is reason to believe that some of the Spanish explorers from Peru may have touched at these islands before his time. Tasman, however, has fixed the record of his visit, and is therefore entitled to the credit of the discovery,—as he is also to that of Australia, New Zealand, Van Diemen’s Land, and other now well-known islands of the Southwestern Pacific. Tasman bestowed upon three of the Tonga group the names—Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Middleburgh; but, fortunately, geographers have acted in this matter with better taste than is their wont; and Tasman’s Dutch national titles have fallen into disuse,—while the true native names of the islands have been restored to the map. This is what should be done with other Pacific islands as well; for it is difficult to conceive anything in worse taste than such titles as the Caroline and Loyalty Isles, Prince William’s Land, King George’s Island, and the ten thousand Albert and Victoria Lands which the genius of flattery, or rather flunkeyism, has so liberally distributed over the face of the earth. The title of Friendly Isles, bestowed by Cook upon the Tonga archipelago, deserves to live; since it is not only appropriate, but forms the record of a pleasant fact,—the pacific character of our earliest intercourse with these interesting people.

It may be here remarked, that Mr. Wylde and other superficial map-makers have taken a most unwarrantable liberty with this title. Instead of leaving it as bestowed by the great navigator,—applicable to the Tonga archipelago alone,—they have _stretched_ it to include that of the Samoans, and—would it be believed—that of the _Feegees_? It is hardly necessary to point out the extreme absurdity of such a classification: since it would be difficult to find two nationalities much more unlike than those of Tonga and Feegee. That they have many customs in common, is due (unfortunately for the Tongans) to the intercourse which proximity has produced; but in an ethnological sense, white is not a greater contrast to black, nor good to evil, than that which exists between a Tongan and a Feegeean. Cook never visited the Feegee archipelago,—he only saw some of these people while at Tonga-taboo, and heard of their country as being _a large island_. Had he visited that island,—or rather that group of over two hundred islands,—it is not at all likely he would have seen reason to extend to them the title which the map-makers have thought fit to bestow. Instead of “Friendly Islands,” he might by way of contrast have called them the “Hostile Isles,” or given them that—above all others most appropriate, and which they truly deserve to bear—that old title celebrated in song! the “Cannibal Islands.” An observer so acute as Cook could scarce have overlooked the appropriateness of the appellation.

The situation of the Tonga, or Friendly Isles, is easily registered in the memory. The parallel of 20° south, and the meridian of 175° west, very nearly intersect each other in Tofoa, which may be regarded as the central island of the group. It will thus be seen that their central point is 5° east and 2° south of the centre of the Feegeean archipelago, and the nearest islands of the two groups are about three hundred miles apart.

It is worthy of observation, however, that the Tonga Isles have the advantage, as regards the wind. The _trades_ are in their favor; and from Tonga to Feegee, if we employ a landsman’s phraseology, it is “down hill,” while it is all “up hill” in the contrary direction. The consequence is, that many Tongans are constantly making voyages to the Feegee group,—a large number of them having settled there (as stated elsewhere),—while but a limited number of Feegeeans find their way to the Friendly Islands. There is another reason for this unequally-balanced migration: and that is, that the Tongans are much bolder and better sailors than their western neighbors; for although the Feegees far excel way other South-Sea islanders in the art of _building_ their canoes (or ships as they might reasonably be called), yet they are as far behind many others in the art of _sailing_ them.

Their superiority in ship-building may be attributed, partly, to the excellent materials which these islands abundantly afford; though this is not the sole cause. However much we may deny to the Feegeeans the possession of moral qualities, we are at the same time forced to admit their great intellectual capacity,—as exhibited in the advanced state of their arts and manufactures. In intellectual capacity, however, the Friendly Islanders are their equals; and the superiority of the Feegeeans even in “canoe architecture” is no longer acknowledged. It is true the Tongans go to the Feegee group for most of their large double vessels; but that is for the reasons already stated,—the greater abundance and superior quality of the timber and other materials produced there. In the Feegee “dockyards,” the Tongans build for themselves; and have even improved upon the borrowed pattern.

This intercourse,—partaking somewhat of the character of an alliance,—although in some respects advantageous to the Friendly Islanders, may be regarded, upon the whole, as unfortunate for them. If it has improved their knowledge in arts and manufactures, it has far more than counterbalanced this advantage by the damage done to their moral character. It is always much easier to make proselytes to vice than to virtue,—as is proved in this instance: for his intercourse with the ferocious Feegee has done much to deteriorate the character of the Tongan. From that source he has imbibed a fondness for war and other wicked customs; and in all probability, had this influence been permitted to continue uninterrupted for a few years longer, the horrid habit of cannibalism—though entirely repugnant to the natural disposition of the Tongans—would have become common among them. Indeed, there can be little doubt that this would have been the ultimate consequence of the alliance; for already its precursors—human sacrifices and the vengeful immolation of enemies—had made their appearance upon the Friendly Islands. Happily for the Tongan, another influence—that of the missionaries—came just in time to avert this dire catastrophe; and, although this missionary interference has not been the best of its kind, it is still preferable to the paganism which it has partially succeeded in subduing.