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.