Chapter XII: Part 12

Let us approach nearer; let us steal into this water-village—for it would not be always safe to enter it, except by stealth—and see how its singular habitations are constructed, as also in what way their occupants manage to get their living. The village under our observation is now,—at the period of inundation,—nearly a hundred miles from shore, or from any dry land: it will be months before the waters can subside; and, even then, the country around will partake more of the nature of a quagmire, than of firm soil; impassable to any human being,—though _not_ to a Guaraon, as we shall presently see. It is true, the canoes, already mentioned, might enable their owners to reach the firm shores beyond the delta; and so they do at times; but it would be a voyage too long and too arduous to be made often,—as for the supply of food and other daily wants,—and it is not for this purpose the canoes are kept. No these Guaraons visit terra firma only at intervals; and then for purposes of trade with a portion of their own and other tribes who dwell there; but they permanently reside within the area of the inundated forests; where they are independent, not only of foreign aggression, but also for their supply of all the necessaries of life. In these forests, whether flooded or not, they procure everything of which they stand in need,—they there find, to use an old-fashioned phrase, “meat, drink, washing, and lodging.” In other words: were the inundation to continue forever, and were the Guaraons entirely prohibited from intercourse with the dry land, they could still find subsistence in this, their home upon the waters.

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 oft times 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 Latinized designation borrowed from the name of Prince Maurice of Nassau, in whose honor 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 leafstalk 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 color, 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 _diœcious_,—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 fertilizing 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 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 labor. 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 neighboring 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 leafstalks,—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,—“ßmurichi 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 favorite 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 “spathe” 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 color,—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 all,—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 civilization,—in this savage security he will long remain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE LAPLANDERS.

One of the oldest “odd” people with which we are acquainted are the Laps or Laplanders. For many centuries the more civilized 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 endeavored 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 how. 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 civilization 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 neighbors. 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 colonize 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 gad-flies, 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 sea-shore 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 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 favorite 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 every-day _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 colored cloth,—even scarlet being sometimes worn. No matter what the quality of the cloth, however, the trimmings are always of rich, bright-colored 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 he 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 organization. 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 ofi 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 gad-fly (_Æstrus 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 larvæ, 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 the 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.