Patagonians, if they possessed one half the pedestrian stretch
attributed to the giants of old, might have stepped from shore to shore
without wetting their great feet!
Perhaps there are no two people on earth, living so near each other as
the Patagonians and Fuegians, who are more unlike. Except in the color
of the skin and hair, there is hardly a point of resemblance between
them. The former seems to hate the sea: at all events he never goes out
upon, nor even approaches its shore, except in pursuit of such game as
may wander that way. He neither dwells near, nor does he draw any
portion of his subsistence from the waters of the great deep,—fish
constituting no part of his food.
All this is directly the reverse with the Fuegian. The beach is the
situation _he_ chooses for his dwelling-place, and the sea or its shore
is his proper element. He is more than half his time, either on it, or
_in_ it,—on it in his canoe, and in it, while wading among the tidal
shoals in search of fish, muscles, and limpets, which constitute very
nearly the whole of his subsistence.
It is very curious, therefore, while noting the difference between these
two tribes of Indians, to observe how each confines its range to that
part of the Magellanic land that appears best adapted to their own
peculiar habits,—those of the Patagonian being altogether _terrestrial_,
while those of the Fuegian are essentially _aquatic_.
We have stated elsewhere the limits of the Patagonian territory; and
shown that, ethnologically speaking, they do not occupy the whole
northern shore of the Magellan Straits, but only the eastern half of it.
Westward towards the Pacific the aspect of the land, on both sides of
this famous channel, may be regarded as of the same character, though
altogether different from that which is seen at the entrance, or eastern
end.
West of Cape Negro on one side, and the Sebastian passage on the other,
bleak mountain summits, with narrow wooded valleys intervening, become
the characteristic features. There we behold an incongruous labyrinth of
peaks and ridges, of singular and fantastic forms,—many of them reaching
above the limits of perpetual snow,—which, in this cold climate descends
to the height of four thousand feet. We have seen that these mountains
are separated from each other,—not by plains, nor even valleys, in the
ordinary understanding of the term; but by _ravines_, the steep sides of
which are covered with sombre forests up to a height of one thousand
five hundred feet above the level of the sea: at which point vegetation
terminates with a uniformity as exact as that of the snow-line itself!
These forests grow out of a wet, peaty soil,—in many places impassable
on account of its boggy nature; and of this character is almost the
whole surface of the different islands. The trees composing the forests
are few in species,—those of the greatest size and numbers being the
“winter’s bark” (_drymys_), of the order _magnoliacæ_, a birch, and,
more abundantly, a species of beech-tree, the _fagus betuloides_. These
last-named trees are many of them of great size; and might almost be
called evergreens: since they retain part of their foliage throughout
the whole year; but it would be more appropriate to style them
_ever-yellows_: since at no period do they exhibit a verdure, anything
like the forests of other countries. They are always clad in the same
sombre livery of dull yellow, rendering the mountain landscape around
them, if possible, more dreary and desolate.
The forests of Tierra del Fuego are essentially worthless forests; their
timber offering but a limited contribution to the necessities of man,
and producing scarce any food for his subsistence.
Many of the ravines are so deep as to end, as already stated, in
becoming arms or inlets of the sea; while others again are filled up
with stupendous glaciers, that appear like cataracts suddenly arrested
in their fall, by being frozen into solid ice! Most of these inlets are
of great depth,—so deep that the largest ship may plough through them
with safety. They intersect the islands in every direction,—cutting them
up into numerous peninsulas of the most fantastic forms; while some of
the channels are narrow _sounds_, and stretch across the land of Tierra
del Fuego from ocean to ocean.
The “Land of Fire” is therefore not an island,—as it was long
regarded,—but rather a collection of islands, terminated by precipitous
cliffs that frown within gun-shot of each other. Ofttimes vast masses of
rock, or still larger masses of glacier ice, fall from these cliffs into
the profound abysses of the inlets below; the concussion, as they strike
the water, reverberating to the distance of miles; while the water
itself, stirred to its lowest depths, rises in grand surging waves, that
often engulf the canoe of the unwary savage.
“Tierra del Fuego” is simply the Spanish phrase for “Land of Fire.” It
was so called by Magellan on account of the numerous fires seen at night
upon its shores,—while he and his people were passing through the
Straits. These were signal fires, kindled by the natives,—no doubt to
telegraph to one another the arrival of those strange leviathans, the
Spanish ships, then seen by them for the first time.
The name is inappropriate. A more fit appellation would be the “land of
water;” for, certainly, in no part of the earth is water more abundant:
both rain and snow supplying it almost continually. Water is the very
plague of the island; it lies stagnant or runs everywhere,—forming
swamps, wherever there is a spot of level ground, and rendering even the
declivities of the mountains as spongy as a peat-bog.
The climate throughout the whole year is excessively cold; for, though
the winter is perhaps not more rigorous than in the same latitude of a
northern land, yet the summer is almost as severe as the winter; and it
would be a misnomer to call it summer at all. Snow falls throughout the
whole year; and even in the midsummer of Tierra del Fuego men have
actually perished from cold, at no great elevation above the level of
the sea!
Under these circumstances, it would scarce be expected that Tierra del
Fuego should be inhabited,—either by men or animals of any kind; but no
country has yet been reached, too cold for the existence of both. No
part of the earth seems to have been created in vain; and both men and
beasts are found dwelling under the chill skies of Tierra del Fuego.
The land-animals, as well as the birds, are few in species, as in
numbers. The _guanaco_ is found upon the islands; but whether
indigenous, or carried across from the Patagonian shore, can never be
determined: since it was an inhabitant of the islands long anterior to
the arrival of Magellan. It frequents only the eastern side of the
cluster,—where the ground is firmer, and a few level spots appear that
might be termed plains or meadows. A species of deer inhabits the same
districts; and besides these, there are two kinds of fox-wolves (_canis
Megellanicus_ and _canis Azaræ_), three or four kinds of mice, and a
species of bat.
Of water-_mammalia_ there is a greater abundance; these comprising the
whale, seals, sea-lions, and the sea-otter.
But few birds have been observed; only the white-tufted flycatcher, a
large black woodpecker with scarlet crest, a creeper, a wren, a thrush,
a starling, hawks, owls, and four or five kinds of finches.
The water-birds, like the water-_mammalia_, muster in greater numbers.
Of these there are ducks of various kinds, sea-divers, and penguins, the
albatross, and sheer-water, and, more beautiful than all, the “painted”
or “Magellan goose.”
Reptiles do not exist, and insects are exceedingly rare. A few flies and
butterflies are seen; but the mosquito—the plague of other parts of
South America—does not venture into the cold, humid atmosphere of the
Land of Fire.
We now arrive at the _human_ inhabitants of this desolate region.
As might be expected, these exhibit no very high condition of either
physical or mental development but the contrary. The character of their
civilization is in complete correspondence with that of their dreary
dwelling-place,—at the very bottom of the scale. Yes, at the very
bottom, according to most ethnologists; even lower down than that of the
Digger Indian, the Andaman islander, the Bushman of Africa, or the
Esquimaux of the Arctic Ocean: in fact, any comparison of a Fuegian with
the last-mentioned would be ridiculous, as regards either their moral or
physical condition. Below the Esquimaux, the Fuegian certainly is, and
by many a long degree.
In height, the tallest Fuegian stands about five feet,—not in his boots,
for he wears none; but on his naked soles. His wife is just six inches
shorter than himself,—a difference which is not a bad proportion between
the sexes, but in other respects they are much alike. Both have small,
misshapen limbs, with large knee-caps, and but little calf; both have
long masses of coarse tangled hair, hanging like bunches of black snakes
over their shoulders; and both are as naked as the hour in which they
were born,—unless we call _that_ a dress,—that bit of stinking seal-skin
which is slung at the back, and covers about a fifth part of the whole
body! Hairy side turned inward, it extends only from the nape of the
neck to a few inches below the hollow of the back; and is fastened in
front by means of a thong or skewer passing over the breast. It is
rarely so ample as to admit of being “skewered;” and with this scanty
covering, in rain and snow, frost and blow,—some one of which is
continuously going on,—the shivering wretch is contented. Nay, more; if
there should happen an interval of mild weather, or the wearer be at
work in paddling his canoe, he flings this unique garment aside, as if
its warmth were an incumbrance! When the weather is particularly cold,
he shifts the seal-skin to that side of his body which may chance to be
exposed to the blast!
The Fuegian wears neither hat, nor shirt, waistcoat, nor breeches,—no
shoes, no stockings,—nothing intended for clothing but the bit of
stinking skin. His vanity, however, is exhibited, if not in his dress,
to some extent in his adornments. Like all savages and many civilized
people, he _paints_ certain portions of his person; and his “escutcheon”
is peculiar. It would be difficult detail its complicated labyrinth of
“crossings” and “quarterings.” We shall content ourselves by stating
that black lines and blotches upon a white ground constitute its chief
characteristic. Red, too, is sometimes seen, of a dark or “bricky”
color. The black is simply charcoal; while the white-ground coat is
obtained from a species of infusorial clay, which he finds at the bottom
of the peaty streams, that pour down the ravines of the mountains. As
additional ornaments, he wears strings of fish-teeth, or pieces of bone,
about his wrists and ankles. His wife carries the same upon her neck;
and both, when they can procure it, tie a plain band around the head, of
a reddish-brown color,—the material of which is the long hair of the
guanaco. The “cloak,” already described, is sometimes of sea-otter
instead of seal-skin; and on some of the islands, where the deer dwells,
the hide of that animal affords a more ample covering. In most cases,
however, the size of the garment is that of a pocket handkerchief; and
affords about as much protection against the weather as a kerchief
would.
Though the Fuegian has abundance of hair upon his head, there is none,
or almost none on any part of his body. He is beardless and whiskerless
as an Esquimaux; though his features,—without the adornment of hair,—are
sufficiently fierce in their expression.
He not only looks ferocious, but in reality is so,—deformed in mind, as
he is hideous in person. He is not only ungrateful for kindness done,
but unwilling to remember it; and he is cruel and vindictive in the
extreme. Beyond a doubt he is a _cannibal_; not habitually perhaps, but
in times of scarcity and famine,—a true cannibal, for he does not
confine himself to eating his _enemies_, but his _friends_, if need
be,—and especially the old women of his tribe, who fall the first
victims, in those crises produced by the terrible requirements of an
impending starvation. Unfortunately the fact is too well authenticated
to admit of either doubt or denial; and, even while we write, the
account of a massacre of a ship’s crew by these hostile savages is going
the rounds of the press,—that ship, too, a missionary vessel, that had
landed on their shores with the humane object of ameliorating their
condition.
Of course such unnatural food is only partaken of at long and rare
intervals,—by many communities never,—and there is no proof that the
wretched Fuegian has acquired an appetite for it: like the Feegee and
some other savage tribes. It is to be hoped that he indulges in the
horrid habit, only when forced to it by the necessities of extreme
hunger.
His ordinary subsistence is shell-fish; though he eats also the flesh of
the seal and sea-otter; of birds, especially the penguin and Magellanic
goose, when he can capture them. His stomach will not “turn” at the
blubber of a whale,—when by good chance one of these leviathans gets
stranded on his coast,—even though the great carcass be far gone in the
stages of decomposition! The only vegetable diet in which he indulges is
the berry of a shrub—a species of arbutus—which grows abundantly on the
peaty soil; and a fungus of a very curious kind, that is produced upon
the trunks of the beech-tree. This fungus is of a globular form, and
pale-yellow color. When young, it is elastic and turgid, with a smooth
surface; but as it matures it becomes shrunken, grows tougher in its
texture, and presents the pitted appearance of a honeycomb. When fully
ripe, the Fuegians collect it in large quantities, eating it without
cooking or other preparation. It is tough between the teeth; but soon
changes into pulp, with a sweetish taste and flavor,—somewhat resembling
that of our common mushroom.
These two vegetables—a berry and a cryptogamic plant—are almost the only
ones eaten by the natives of Tierra del Fuego. There are others upon the
island that might enable them to eke out their miserable existence:
there are two especially sought after by such Europeans as visit this
dreary land,—the “wild celery” (_apium antarcticum_), and the “scurvy
grass” (_cardamine antiscorbutica_); but for these the Fuegian cares
not. He even knows not their uses.
In speaking of other “odd people,” I have usually described the mode of
building their house; but about the house of the Fuegian I have almost
“no story to tell.” It would be idle to call that a house, which far
more resembles the lair of a wild beast; and is, in reality, little
better than the den made by the orang-outang in the forests of Borneo.
Such as it is, however I shall describe it.
Having procured a number of long saplings or branches,—not always
straight ones,—the Fuegian sharpens them at one end by means of his
muscle-shell knife; and then sticking the sharpened ends into the ground
in a kind of circle, he brings the tops all together, and ties them in a
bunch,—so as to form a rude hemispherical frame. Upon this he lays some
smaller branches; and over these a few armfuls of long coarse grass, and
the house is “built.” One side—that to leeward of the prevailing wind—is
left open, to allow for an entrance and the escape of smoke. As this
opening is usually about an eighth part of the whole circumference, the
house is, in reality, nothing more than a shed or lair. Its furniture
does not contradict the idea; but, on the contrary, only strengthens the
comparison. There is no table, no chair, no bedstead: a “shake-down” of
damp grass answers for all. There are no implements or utensils,—if we
except a rude basket used for holding the arbutus berries, and a
seal-skin bag, in which the shell-fish are collected. A bladder, filled
with water, hangs upon some forking stuck against the side: in the top
of this bladder is a hole, from which each member of the family takes a
“suck,” when thirst inclines them to drink!
The “tools” observable are a bow and arrow, the latter headed with
flint; a fish spear with a forked point, made from a bone of the
sea-lion; a short stick,—a woman’s implement for knocking the limpets
from the rocks; and some knives, the blades of which are sharpened
shells of the muscle,—a very large species of which is found along the
coast. These knives are simply manufactured. The brittle edge of the
shell—which is five or six inches in length—is first chipped off, and a
new edge formed by grinding the shell upon the rocks. When thus
prepared, it will cut not only the hardest wood, but even the bones of
fish; and serves the Fuegian for all purposes.
Outside the hut, you may see the canoe,—near at hand too,—for the
shieling of the Fuegian universally stands upon the beach. He never
dwells in the interior of his island; and but rarely roams there,—the
women only making such excursions as are necessary to procure the berry
and the mushroom. The woods have no charms for him, except to afford him
a little fuel; they are difficult to be traversed on account of the miry
soil out of which the trees grow; and, otherwise, there is absolutely
nothing to be found amidst their gloomy depths, that would in any way
contribute to his comfort or sustenance. He is therefore essentially a
dweller on the shore; and even there he is not free to come and go as he
might choose. From the bold character of his coast, there are here and
there long reaches, where the beach cannot be followed by land,—places
where the water’s edge can only be reached, and the shell-fish
collected, by means of some sort of navigable craft. For this purpose
the Fuegian requires a canoe; and the necessity of his life makes him a
waterman. His skill, however, both in the construction of his craft, and
the management of it, is of a very inferior order,—infinitely inferior
to that exhibited either by the Esquimaux or the Water-Indians of the
North.
His canoe is usually made of the bark of a tree,—the birch already
mentioned. Sometimes it is so rudely shaped, as to be merely a large
piece of bark shelled from a single trunk, closed at each end, and tied
tightly with thong of seal-skin. A few cross-sticks prevent the sides
from pressing inward; while as many stays of thong keep them from
“bulging” in the contrary direction. If there are cracks in the bark,
these are calked with rushes and a species of resin, which the woods
furnish.
With this rude vessel the Fuegian ventures forth, upon the numerous
straits and inlets that intersect his land; but he rarely trusts himself
to a tempestuous sea.
If rich or industrious, he sometimes becomes the possessor of a craft
superior to this. It is also a bark canoe, but not made of a single
“flitch.” On the contrary, there are many choice pieces used in its
construction: for it is fifteen feet in length and three in width
amidships. Its “build” also is better,—with a high prow and stern, and
cross-pieces regularly set and secured at the ends. The pieces of bark
are united by a stitching of thongs; and the seams carefully calked, so
that no water can enter. In this vessel, the Fuegian may embark with his
whole family,—and his whole furniture to boot,—and voyage to any part of
his coast And this in reality he does; for the “shanty” above described,
is to him only a temporary home. The necessities of his life require him
to be continually changing it; and a “removal,” with the building of a
new domicile, is a circumstance of frequent recurrence.
Not unfrequently, in removing from one part of the coast to another, he
finds it safer making a land-journey, to avoid the dangers of the deep.
In times of high wind, it is necessary for him to adopt this
course,—else his frail bark might be dashed against the rocks and riven
to pieces. In the land-journey he carries the canoe along with him; and
in order to do this with convenience, he has so contrived it, that the
planks composing the little vessel can be taken apart, and put together
again without much difficulty,—the seams only requiring to be freshly
calked. In the transport across land, each member of the family carries
a part of the canoe: the stronger individuals taking the heavier
pieces,—as the side and bottom planks,—while the ribs and light beams
are borne by the younger and weaker.
The necessity of removal arises from a very natural cause. A few days
spent at a particular place,—on a creek or bay,—even though the
community be a small one, soon exhausts the chief store of food,—the
muscle-bank upon the beach,—and, of course, another must be sought for.
This may lie at some distance; perhaps can only be reached by a tedious,
and sometimes perilous water-journey; and under these circumstances the
Fuegian deems it less trouble to carry the mountain to Mahomet, than
carry Mahomet so often to the mountain. The transporting his whole
_ménage_, is just as easy as bringing home a load of limpets; and as to
the building of a new house, that is a mere bagatelle, which takes
little labor, and no more time than the erection of a tent. Some
Fuegians actually possess a tent, covered with the skins of animals; but
this is a rare and exceptional advantage; and the tent itself of the
rudest kind The Fuegian has his own mode of procuring fire. He is
provided with a piece of “mundic,” or iron pyrites which he finds high
up upon the sides of his mountains. This struck by a pebble will produce
sparks. These he catches upon a tinder of moss, or the “punk” of a dead
tree, which he knows how to prepare. The tinder once ignited, is placed
within a roundish ball of dry grass; and, this being waved about in
circles, sets the grass in a blaze. It is then only necessary to
communicate the flame to a bundle of sticks; and the work is complete.
The process, though easy enough in a climate where “punk” is plenty, and
dry grass and sticks can be readily procured, is nevertheless difficult
enough in the humid atmosphere of Tierra del Fuego,—where moss is like a
wet sponge, and grass, sticks, and logs, can hardly be found dry enough
to burn. Well knowing this, the Fuegian is habitually careful of his
fire: scarce ever permitting it to go out; and even while travelling in
his canoe, in search of a “new home,” side by side with his other
“penates” he carries the fire along with him.
Notwithstanding the abundance of fuel with which his country provides
him, he seems never to be thoroughly warm. Having no close walls to
surround him, and no clothing to cover his body, he suffers almost
incessantly from cold. Wherever met, he presents himself with a
shivering aspect, like one undergoing a severe fit of the ague!
The Fuegians live in small communities, which scarce deserve the name of
“tribes:” since they have no political leader, nor chief of any
description. The conjuror—and they have him—is the only individual that
differs in any degree from the other members of the community; but his
power is very slight and limited; nor does it extend to the exercise of
any physical force. Religion they have none,—at least, none more sacred
or sanctified than a vague belief in devils and other evil spirits.
Although without leaders, they are far from being a peaceful people. The
various communities often quarrel and wage cruel and vindictive war
against one another; and were it not that the boundaries of each
association are well defined, by deep ravines and inlets of the sea, as
well as by the impassable barriers of snow-covered mountains, these
warlike dwarfs would thin one another’s numbers to a far greater extent
than they now do,—perhaps to a mutual extermination. Fortunately the
peculiar nature of their country hinders them from coming very often
within fighting distance.