The Polar World

Populousness of the Arctic Seas.—The Greenland Whale.—The Fin Whales.—The Narwhal.—The Beluga, or White Dolphin.—The Black Dolphin.—His wholesale Massacre on the Faeroe Islands.—The Orc, or Grampus.—The Seals.—The Walrus.—Its acute Smell.—History of a young Walrus.—Parental Affection.—The Polar Bear.—His Sagacity.—Hibernation of the She-bear.—Sea-birds.

The vast multitudes of animated beings which people the Polar Seas form a remarkable contrast to the nakedness of their bleak and desolate shores. The colder surface-waters almost perpetually exposed to a chilly air, and frequently covered, even in summer, with floating ice, are indeed unfavorable to the development of organic life; but this adverse influence is modified by the higher temperature which constantly prevails at a greater depth; for, contrary to what takes place in the equatorial seas, we find in the Polar Ocean an increase of temperature from the surface downward, in consequence of the warmer under-currents, flowing from the south northward, and passing beneath the cold waters of the superficial Arctic current.

Thus the severity of the Polar winter remains unfelt at a greater depth of the sea, where myriads of creatures find a secure retreat against the frost, and whence they emerge during the long summer’s day, either to line the shores or to ascend the broad rivers of the Arctic world. Between the parallels of 74° and 80° Scoresby observed that the color of the Greenland sea varies from the purest ultramarine to olive green, and from crystalline transparency to striking opacity—appearances which are not transitory, but permanent. This green semi-opaque water, whose position varies with the currents, often forming isolated stripes, and sometimes spreading over two or three degrees of latitude, mainly owes its singular aspect to small medusæ and nudibranchiate molluscs. It is calculated to form one-fourth part of the surface of the sea between the above-mentioned parallels, so that many thousands of square miles are absolutely teeming with life.

On the coast of Greenland, where the waters are so exceedingly clear that the bottom and every object upon it are plainly visible even at a depth of eighty fathoms, the ground is seen covered with gigantic tangles, which, together with the animal world circulating among their fronds, remind the spectator of the coral-reefs of the tropical ocean. Nullipores, mussels, alcyonians, sertularians, ascidians, and a variety of other sessile animals, incrust every stone or fill every hollow or crevice of the rocky ground. A dead seal or fish thrown into the sea is soon converted into a skeleton by the myriads of small crustaceans which infest these northern waters, and, like the ants in the equatorial forests, perform the part of scavengers of the deep.

Thus we find an exuberance of life, in its smaller and smallest forms, peopling the Arctic waters, and affording nourishment to a variety of strange and bulky creatures—cetaceans, walruses, and seals—which annually attract thousands of adventurous seamen to the icy ocean.

Of these sea-mammalians, the most important to civilized man is undoubtedly the Greenland whale (Balæna mysticetus), or smooth-back, thus called from its having no dorsal fin. Formerly these whales were harpooned in considerable numbers in the Icelandic waters, or in the fiords of Spitzbergen and Danish Greenland; then Davis’s Straits became the favorite fishing-grounds; and more recently the inlets and various channels to the east of Baffin’s Bay have been invaded; while, on the opposite side of America, several hundreds of whalers penetrate every year through Bering’s Straits into the icy sea beyond, where previously they lived and multiplied, unmolested except by the Esquimaux.

More fortunate than the smooth-back, the rorquals, or fin-whales (Balænoptera boops, musculus, physalis, and rostratus), still remain in their ancient seats, from which they are not likely to be dislodged, as the agility of their movements makes their capture more difficult and dangerous; while at the same time the small quantity of their fat and the shortness of their baleen render it far less remunerative. They are of a more slender form of body, and with a more pointed muzzle than the Greenland whale; and while the latter attains a length of only sixty feet, the Balænoptera boops grows to the vast length of 100 feet and more. There is also a difference in their food, for the Greenland whale chiefly feeds upon the minute animals that crowd the olive-colored waters above described, or on the hosts of little pteropods that are found in many parts of the Arctic seas, while the rorquals frequently accompany the herring-shoals, and carry death and destruction into their ranks.

The seas of Novaja Zemlya, Spitzbergen, and Greenland are the domain of the narwhal, or sea-unicorn, a cetacean quite as strange, but not so fabulous as the terrestrial animal which figures in the arms of England. The use of the enormous spirally wound tusk projecting from its upper jaw, and from which it derives its popular name, has not yet been clearly ascertained, some holding it to be an instrument of defense, while others suppose it to be only an ornament or mark of the superior dignity of the sex to which it has been awarded.

Among the numerous dolphins which people the Arctic and Subarctic seas, the beluga (Delphinus leucas), improperly called the white whale, is one of the most interesting. When young it has a brown color, which gradually changes into a perfect white. It attains a length of from twelve to twenty feet, has no dorsal fin, a strong tail three feet broad, and a round head with a broad truncated snout. Beyond 56° of latitude it is frequently seen in large shoals, particularly near the estuaries of the large Siberian and North American rivers, which it often ascends to a considerable distance in pursuit of the salmon. A troop of belugas diving out of the dark waves of the Arctic Sea is said to afford a magnificent spectacle. Their white color appears dazzling, from the contrast of the sombre background, as they dart about with arrow-like velocity.

The black dolphin (Globicephalus globiceps) is likewise very common in the Arctic seas, both beyond Bering’s Straits and between Greenland and Spitzbergen, whence it frequently makes excursions to the south. It grows to the length of twenty-four feet, and is about ten feet in circumference. The skin, like that of the dolphin tribe in general, is smooth, resembling oiled silk; the color a bluish-black on the back, and generally whitish on the belly; the blubber is three or four inches thick.

The full-grown have generally twenty-two or twenty-four teeth in each jaw; and when the mouth is shut, the teeth lock between one another, like the teeth of a trap. The dorsal fin is about fifteen inches high, the tail five feet broad; the pectoral fins are as many, long and comparatively narrow; so that, armed with such excellent paddles, the black dolphin is inferior to none of his relatives in swiftness. Of an eminently social disposition, these dolphins sometimes congregate in herds of many hundreds, under the guidance of several old experienced males, whom the rest follow like a flock of sheep—a property from which the animal is called in Shetland the “ca’ing whale.” No cetacean strands more frequently than the black dolphin, and occasionally large herds have been driven on the shores of Iceland, Norway, and the Orkney, Shetland and Faeroe islands, where their capture is hailed as a godsend. The intelligence that a shoal of ca’ing whales or grinds has been seen approaching the coast, creates great excitement among the otherwise phlegmatic inhabitants of the Faeroe Islands. The whole neighborhood, old and young, is instantly in motion, and soon numerous boats shoot off from shore to intercept the retreat of the dolphins. Slowly and steadily they are driven toward the coast; the phalanx of their enemies draws closer and closer together; terrified by stones and blows, they run ashore, and lie gasping as the flood recedes. Then begins the work of death, amid the loud shouts of the executioners and the furious splashings of the victims. In this manner more than 800 grinds were massacred on August 16, 1776; and during the four summer months that Langbye sojourned on the island in 1817, 623 were driven on shore, and served to pay one-half of the imported corn. But, on the other hand, many years frequently pass without yielding one single black whale to the tender mercies of the islanders.

The ferocious orc, or grampus (Delphinus orca), is the tiger of the Arctic seas. Black above, white beneath, it is distinguished by its large dorsal fin, which curves backward toward the tail, and rises to the height of two feet or more. Measuring no less than twenty-five feet in length and twelve or thirteen in girth, of a courage equal to its strength, and armed with formidable teeth, thirty in each jaw, the grampus is the dread of the seals, whom it overtakes in spite of their rapid flight; and the whale himself would consider it as his most formidable enemy, were it not for the persecutions of man. The grampus generally ploughs the seas in small troops of four or five, following each other in close single file, and alternately disappearing and rising so as to resemble the undulatory motions of one large serpentiform animal.

The family of the seals has also numerous and mighty representatives in the Arctic waters. In the sea of Bering we meet with the formidable sea-lion and the valuable sea-bear, while the harp-seal, the bearded seal, and the hispid seals (Phoca grœnlandica, barbata, hispida), spreading from the Parry Islands to Novaja Zemlya, yield the tribute of their flesh to numerous wild tribes, and that of their skins to the European hunter.

Few Arctic animals are more valuable to man, or more frequently mentioned in Polar voyages than the walrus or morse (Trichechus rosmarus), which, though allied to the seals, differs greatly from them by the development of the canines of the upper jaw, which form two enormous tusks projecting downward to the length of two feet. The morse is one of the largest quadrupeds existing, as it attains a length of twenty feet, and a weight of from fifteen hundred to two thousand pounds. In uncouthness of form it surpasses even the ungainly hippopotamus. It has a small head with a remarkably thick upper lip, covered with large pellucid whiskers or bristles; the neck is thick and short; the naked gray or red-brown skin hangs loosely on the ponderous and elongated trunk; and the short feet terminate in broad fin-like paddles, resembling large ill-fashioned flaps of leather. Its movements on land are extremely slow and awkward, resembling those of a huge caterpillar, but in the water it has all the activity of the seals, or even surpasses them in speed.

Gregarious, like the seals and many of the dolphins, the walruses love to lie on the ice or on the sand-banks, closely huddled together. On the spot where a walrus lands, others are sure to follow; and when the first comers block the shore, those which arrive later, instead of landing on a free spot farther on, prefer giving their friends who are in the way a gentle push with their tusks so as to induce them to make room.

Timorous and almost helpless on land, where, in spite of its formidable tusks, it falls an easy prey to the attacks of man, the walrus evinces a greater degree of courage in the water, where it is able to make a better use of the strength and weapons bestowed upon it by nature. Many instances are known where walruses, which never attack but when provoked, have turned upon their assailants, or have even assembled from a distance to assist a wounded comrade.

Like the seals, the walrus is easily tamed, and of a most affectionate temper. This was shown in a remarkable manner by a young walrus brought alive from Archangel to St. Petersburg in 1829. Its keeper, Madame Dennebecq, having tended it with the greatest care, the grateful animal expressed its pleasure whenever she came near it by an affectionate grunt. It not only followed her with its eyes, but was never happier than when allowed to lay its head in her lap. The tenderness was reciprocal, and Madame Dennebecq used to talk of her walrus with the same warmth of affection as if it had been a pet lapdog.

That parental love should be highly developed in animals thus susceptible of friendship may easily be imagined. Mr. Lamont, an English gentleman whom the love of sport led a few years since to Spitzbergen, relates the case of a wounded walrus who held a very young calf under her right arm. Whenever the harpoon was raised against it, the mother carefully shielded it with her own body. The countenance of this poor animal was never to be forgotten: that of the calf expressive of abject terror, and yet of such a boundless confidence in its mother’s power of protecting it, as it swam along under her wing, and the old cow’s face showing such reckless defiance for all that could be done to herself, and yet such terrible anxiety as to the safety of her calf. This parental affection is shamefully misused by man, for it is a common artifice of the walrus-hunters to catch a young animal and make it grunt, in order to attract a herd.

The walrus is confined to the coasts of the Arctic regions, unless when drift-ice, or some other accident, carries it away into the open sea. Its chief resorts are Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, North Greenland, the shores of Hudson’s and Baffin’s bays; and on the opposite side of the Polar Ocean, the coasts of Bering’s Sea, and to the north of Bering’s Straits, the American and Asiatic shores from Point Barrow to Cape North. It has nowhere been found on the coasts of Siberia from the mouth of the Jenisei to the last-mentioned promontory, and on those of America from Point Barrow to Lancaster Sound; so that it inhabits two distinct regions, separated from each other by vast extents of coast. Its food seems to consist principally of marine plants and shell-fish, though Scoresby relates that he found the remains of fishes, or even of seals, in its stomach.

As the Polar bear is frequently found above a hundred miles from the nearest land, upon loose ice steadily drifting into the sea, it seems but fair to assign him a place among the marine animals of the Arctic zone. He hunts by scent, and is constantly running across and against the wind, which prevails from the northward, so that the same instinct which directs his search for prey also serves the important purpose of guiding him in the direction of the land and more solid ice. His favorite food is the seal, which he surprises crouching down with his fore paws doubled underneath, and pushing himself noiselessly forward with his hinder legs until within a few yards, when he springs upon his victim, whether in the water or upon the ice. He can swim at the rate of three miles an hour, and can dive to a considerable distance. Though he attacks man when hungry, wounded, or provoked, he will not injure him when food more to his liking is at hand. Sir Francis M’Clintock relates an anecdote of a native of Upernavik who was out one dark winter’s day visiting his seal-nets. He found a seal entangled, and whilst kneeling down over it upon the ice to get it clear, he received a slap on the back—from his companion as he supposed; but a second and heavier blow made him look smartly round. He was horror-stricken to see a peculiarly grim old bear instead of his comrade. Without taking further notice of the man, Bruin tore the seal out of the net, and began his supper. He was not interrupted, nor did the man wait to see the meal finished, fearing, no doubt, that his uninvited and unceremonious guest might keep a corner for him.

Many instances have been observed of the peculiar sagacity of the Polar bear. Scoresby relates that the captain of a whaler, being anxious to procure a bear without wounding the skin, made trial of the stratagem of laying the noose of a rope in the snow, and placing a piece of kreng, or whale’s carcass, within it. A bear, ranging the neighboring ice, was soon enticed to the spot. Approaching the bait, he seized it in his mouth; but his foot, at the same moment, by a jerk of the rope, being entangled in the noose, he pushed it off with the adjoining paw, and deliberately retired. After having eaten the piece he carried away with him, he returned. The noose, with another piece of kreng, being then replaced, he pushed the rope aside, and again walked triumphantly off with the kreng. A third time the noose was laid, and this time the rope was buried in the snow, and the bait laid in a deep hole dug in the centre. But Bruin, after snuffing about the place for a few minutes, scraped the snow away with his paw, threw the rope aside, and escaped unhurt with his prize.

The she-bear is taught by a wonderful instinct to shelter her young under the snow. Towards the month of December she retreats to the side of a rock, where, by dint of scraping and allowing the snow to fall upon her, she forms a cell in which to reside during the winter. There is no fear that she should be stifled for want of air, for the warmth of her breath always keeps a small passage open, and the snow, instead of forming a thick uniform sheet, is broken by a little hole, round which is collected a mass of glittering hoar-frost, caused by the congelation of the breath. Within this strange nursery she produces her young, and remains with them beneath the snow until the month of March, when she emerges into the open air with her baby bears. As the time passes on, the breath of the family, together with the warmth exhaled from their bodies, serves to enlarge the cell, so that with their increasing dimensions the accommodation is increased to suit them. As the only use of the snow-burrow is to shelter the young, the male bears do not hibernate like the females, but roam freely about during the winter months. Before retiring under the snow, the bear eats enormously, and, driven by an unfailing instinct, resorts to the most nutritious diet, so that she becomes prodigiously fat, thus laying in an internal store of alimentary matter which enables her not only to support her own life, but to suckle her young during her long seclusion, without taking a morsel of food. By an admirable provision of nature, the young are of wonderfully small dimensions when compared with the parent; and as their growth, as long as they remain confined in their crystal nursery, is remarkably slow, they consequently need but little food and space.

The Polar bear is armed with formidable weapons, and a proportionate power to use them. His claws are two inches in length, and his canine teeth, exclusive of the part in the jaw, about an inch and a half. Thus the hoards of provisions which are frequently deposited by Arctic voyagers to provide for some future want, have no greater enemy than the Polar bear. “The final cache,” says Kane, “which I relied so much upon, was entirely destroyed. It had been built with extreme care, of rocks which had been assembled by very heavy labor, and adjusted with much aid, often, from capstan-bars as levers. The entire construction was, so far as our means permitted, most effective and resisting. Yet these tigers of the ice seemed hardly to have encountered an obstacle. Not a morsel of pemmican remained, except in the iron cases, which being round, with conical ends, defied both claws and teeth. They had rolled and pawed them in every direction, tossing them about like footballs, although over eighty pounds in weight. An alcohol can, strongly iron-bound, was dashed into small fragments, and a tin can of liquor smashed and twisted almost into a ball. The claws of the beast had perforated the metal and torn it up as with a chisel. They were too dainty for salt meats; ground coffee they had an evident relish for; old canvas was a favorite, for some reason or other; even our flag, which had been reared ‘to take possession’ of the waste, was gnawed down to the very staff. They had made a regular frolic of it; rolling our bread-barrels over the ice; and, unable to masticate our heavy India-rubber cloth, they had tied it up in unimaginable hard knots.”

Numbers of sea-birds are found breeding along the Arctic shores as far as man has hitherto penetrated; some even keep the sea in the high latitudes all the winter, wherever open water exists. On the most northern rocks the razorbill rears its young, and the fulmar and Ross’s gull have been seen in lanes of water beyond 82° lat. As the sun gains in power, enormous troops of puffins, looms, dovekies, rotges, skuas, burgermasters, Sabine’s gulls, kittiwakes, ivory gulls, and Arctic terns, return to the north. There they enjoy the long summer day, and revel in the abundance of the fish-teeming waters, bringing life and animation into solitudes seldom or perhaps never disturbed by the presence of man, and mingling their wild screams with the hoarse-resounding surge or the howling of the storm. In many localities they breed in such abundance, that it may be said, almost without exaggeration, that they darken the sun when they fly, and hide the waters when they swim.

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Skalholt.—Reykjavik.—The Fair.—The Peasant and the Merchant.—A Clergyman in his Cups.—Hay-making.—The Icelander’s Hut.—Churches.—Poverty of the Clergy.—Jon Thorlaksen.—The Seminary of Reykjavik.—Beneficial Influence of the Clergy.—Home Education.—The Icelander’s Winter’s Evening.—Taste for Literature.—The Language.—The Public Library at Reykjavik.—The Icelandic Literary Society.—Icelandic Newspapers.—Longevity.—Leprosy.—Travelling in Iceland.—Fording the Rivers.—Crossing of the Skeidara by Mr. Holland.—A Night’s Bivouac.

Next to Thingvalla, there is no place in Iceland so replete with historical interest as Skalholt, its ancient capital. Here in the eleventh century was founded the first school in the island; here was the seat of its first bishops; here flourished a succession of great orators, historians, and poets; Isleif, the oldest chronicler of the North; Gissur, who in the beginning of the twelfth century had visited all the countries of Europe and spoke all their languages; the philologian Thorlak, and Finnur Johnson, the learned author of the “Ecclesiastical History of Iceland.” The Cathedral of Skalholt was renowned far and wide for its size, and in the year 1100, Latin, poetry, music, and rhetoric, the four liberal arts, were taught in its school, more than they were at that time in many of the large European cities. As a proof how early the study of the ancients flourished in Skalholt, we find it recorded that in the twelfth century a bishop once caught a scholar reading Ovid’s “Art of Love;” and as the story relates that the venerable pastor flew into a violent passion at the sight of the unholy book, we may without injustice conclude that he must have read it himself in some of his leisure hours, to know its character so well.

Of all its past glories, Skalholt has retained nothing but its name. The school and the bishopric have been removed, the old church has disappeared, and been replaced by a small wooden building, in which divine service is held once a month; three cottages contain all the inhabitants of the once celebrated city, and the extensive churchyard is the only memorial of its former importance. Close by are the ruins of the old school-house, and on the spot where the bishop resided a peasant has erected his miserable hovel.

But the ever-changing tide of human affairs has not bereft the now lonely place of its natural charms, for the meadow-lands of Skalholt are beautifully imbedded in an undulating range of hills, overlooking the junction of the Bruara and Huita, and backed by a magnificent theatre of mountains, among which Hecla and the Eyjafialla are the most prominent.

Reykjavik, the present capital of the island, has risen into importance at the expense both of Skalholt and Thingvalla. At the beginning of the present century the courts of justice were transferred from the ancient seat of legislature to the new metropolis, and in 1797 the bishoprics of Hoolum and Skalholt, united into one, had their seats likewise transferred to Reykjavik. The ancient school of Skalholt, after having first migrated to Bessestadt, has also been obliged to follow the centralizing tendency, so powerful in our times, and now contributes to the rising fortunes of the small sea-port town.

But in spite of all these accessions, the first aspect of Reykjavik by no means corresponds to our ideas of a capital. “The town,” says Lord Dufferin, “consists of a collection of wooden sheds, one story high—rising here and there into a gable end of greater pretensions—built along the lava-track, and flanked at either end by a suburb of turf huts. On every side of it extends a desolate plain of lava that once must have boiled up red-hot from some distant gateway of hell, and fallen hissing into the sea. No tree or bush relieves the dreariness of the landscape, and the mountains are too distant to serve as a background to the buildings; but before the door of each merchant’s house facing the sea there flies a gay little pennon; and as you walk along the silent streets, whose dust no carriage-wheel has ever desecrated, the rows of flower-pots that peep out of the windows, between curtains of white muslin, at once convince you that, notwithstanding their unpretending appearance, within each dwelling reign the elegance and comfort of a woman-tended home.”

Twenty years since, Reykjavik was no better than a wretched fishing-village, now it already numbers 1400 inhabitants, and free-trade promises it a still greater increase for the future. It owes its prosperity chiefly to its excellent port, and to the abundance of fish-banks in its neighborhood, which have induced the Danish merchants to make it their principal settlement. Most of them, however, merely visit it in summer like birds of passage, arriving in May with small cargoes of foreign goods, and leaving it again in August, after having disposed of their wares. Thus Reykjavik must be lonely and dreary enough in winter, when no trade animates its port, and no traveller stays at its solitary inn; but the joy of the inhabitants is all the greater when the return of spring re-opens their intercourse with the rest of the world, and the delight may be imagined with which they hail the first ship that brings them the long-expected news from Europe, and perhaps some wealthy tourist, eager to admire the wonders of the Geysirs.

The most busy time of the town is, however, the beginning of July, when the annual fair attracts a great number of fishermen and peasants within its walls. From a distance of forty and fifty leagues around, they come with long trains of pack-horses; their stock-fish slung freely across the animals’ backs, their more damageable articles close pressed and packed in boxes or skin bags.

The greater part of the trade in this and other small sea-ports—such as Akreyri, Hafnafjord, Eyrarbacki, Berufjord, Vapnafjord, Isafjord, Grafaros, Budenstadt, which, taken all together, do not equal Reykjavik in traffic and population—is carried on by barter.2

Sometimes the Icelander desires to be paid in specie for part of his produce, but then he is obliged to bargain for a long time with the merchant, who of course derives a double profit by an exchange of goods, and is loth to part with his hard cash. The dollars thus acquired are either melted down, and worked into silver massive girdles, which in point of execution as well as design are said, on good authority,3 to be equal to any thing of the kind fashioned by English jewellers, or else deposited in a strong-box, as taxes and wages are all paid in produce, and no Icelander ever thinks of investing his money in stocks, shares, or debentures.

He is, however, by no means so ignorant of mercantile affairs as to strike at once a bargain with the Danish traders. Pitching his tent before the town, he first pays a visit to all the merchants of the place. After carefully noting their several offers (for as each of them invariably treats him to a dram, he with some justice mistrusts his memory), he returns to his caravan and makes his calculations as well as his somewhat confused brain allows him. If he is accompanied by his wife, her opinion of course is decisive, and the following morning he repairs with all his goods to the merchant who has succeeded in gaining his confidence.

After the business has been concluded, the peasant empties one glass to the merchant’s health, another to a happy meeting next year, a third to the king, a fourth because three have been drunk already. At length, after many embraces and protestations of eternal friendship, he takes his leave of the merchant. Fortunately there is no thief to be found in all Iceland; but in consequence of these repeated libations, one parcel has not been well packed, another negligently attached to the horse, and thus it happens that the poor peasant’s track is not unfrequently marked with sugar, coffee-beans, salt, or flour, and that when he reaches home, he finds some valuable article or other missing.

It would, however, be doing the Icelanders an injustice to regard them as generally intemperate; for though within the last twelve years the population has increased only ten per cent., and the importation of brandy thirty, yet the whole quantity of spirits consumed in the island amounts to less than three bottles per annum for each individual, and, of this allowance, the people of Reykjavik and of the other small sea-ports have more than their share, while many of the clergy and peasantry in the remoter districts hardly ever taste spirituous liquors. Dr. Hooker mentions the extraordinary effect which a small portion of rum produced on the good old incumbent of Middalr, whose stomach had been accustomed only to a milk-diet and a little coffee. “He begged me,” says the doctor,4 “to give him some rum to bathe his wife’s breast; but having applied a portion of it to that purpose, he drank the rest without being at all aware of its strength, which, however, had no other effect than in causing this clerical blacksmith,5 with his lame hip, to dance in the most ridiculous manner in front of the house. The scene afforded a great source of merriment to all his family except his old wife, who was very desirous of getting him to bed, while he was no less anxious that she should join him in the dance.”

Dr. Hooker justly remarks that this very circumstance is a convincing proof how unaccustomed this priest was to spirituous liquors, as the quantity taken could not have exceeded a wine-glass full.

After his visit to the fair, the peasant sets about hay-making, which is to him the great business of the year, for he is most anxious to secure winter fodder for his cattle, on which his whole prosperity depends. The few potatoes and turnips about the size of marbles, or the cabbage and parsley, which he may chance to cultivate, are not worth mentioning; grass is the chief, nay, the only produce of his farm, and that Heaven may grant clear sunshiny days for hay-making is now his daily prayer.

Every person capable of wielding a scythe or rake is pressed into the work. The best hay is cut from the “tún,” a sort of paddock comprising the lands adjoining the farm-house, and the only part of his grounds on which the peasant bestows any attention, for, in spite of the paramount importance of his pasture-land, he does but little for its improvement, and a meadow is rarely seen, where the useless or less nutritious herbs are not at least as abundant as those of a better quality. The “tún” is encircled by a turf or stone wall, and is seldom more than ten acres in extent, and generally not more than two or three. Its surface is usually a series of closely-packed mounds, like graves, most unpleasant to walk over, the gutter, in some places, being two feet in depth between the mounds. After having finished with the “tún,” the farmer subjects to a process of cutting all the broken hillsides and boggy undrained swamps that lie near his dwelling. The blades of the scythes are very short. It would be impossible to use a long-bladed scythe, owing to the unevenness of the ground.

The cutting and making of hay is carried on, when the weather will permit, through all the twenty-four hours of the day. When the hay is made it is tied in bundles by cords and thongs, and carried away by ponies to the earthen houses prepared for it, which are similar to and adjoin those in which the cattle are stalled. “It is a very curious sight,” says Mr. Shepherd, “to see a string of hay-laden ponies returning home. Each pony’s halter is made fast to the tail of the preceding one, and the little animals are so enveloped in their burdens that nothing but their hoofs and the connecting ropes are visible, and they look as though a dozen huge haycocks, feeling themselves sufficiently made, were crawling off to their resting-places.”

When the harvest is finished the farmer treats his family and laborers to a substantial supper, consisting of mutton, and a soup of milk and flour; and although the serious and taciturn Icelander has perhaps of all men the least taste for music and dancing, yet these simple feasts are distinguished by a placid serenity, no less pleasing than the more boisterous mirth displayed at a southern vintage.

Almost all labor out-of-doors now ceases for the rest of the year. A thick mantle of snow soon covers mountain and vale, meadow and moor; with every returning day, the sun pays the cold earth a decreasing visit, until, finally, he hardly appears above the horizon at noon; the wintry storm howls over the waste, and for months the life of the Icelander is confined to his hut, which frequently is but a few degrees better than that of the filthy Lap.

Its lower part is built of rude stones to about the height of four feet, and between each row layers of turf are placed with great regularity, to serve instead of mortar, and keep out the wind. A roof of such wood as can be procured rests upon these walls, and is covered with turf and sods. On one side (generally facing the south) are several gable ends and doors, each surmounted with a weather-cock. These are the entrances to the dwelling-house proper, to the smithy, store-room, cow-shed, etc. A long narrow passage, dark as pitch, and redolent of unsavory odors, leads to the several apartments, which are separated from each other by thick walls of turf, each having also its own roof, so that the peasant’s dwelling is in fact a conglomeration of low huts, which sometimes receive their light through small windows in the front, but more frequently through holes in the roof, covered with a piece of glass or skin. The floors are of stamped earth; the hearth is made of a few stones clumsily piled together; a cask or barrel, with the two ends knocked out, answers the purpose of a chimney, or else the smoke is allowed to escape through a mere hole in the roof.

The thick turf walls, the dirty floor, the personal uncleanliness of the inhabitants, all contribute to the pollution of the atmosphere. No piece of furniture seems ever to have been cleaned since it was first put into use; all is disorder and confusion. Ventilation is utterly impossible, and the whole family, frequently consisting of twenty persons or more, sleep in the same dormitory, as well as any strangers who may happen to drop in. On either side of this apartment are bunks three or four feet in width, on which the sleepers range themselves.

Such are in general the dwellings of the farmers and clergy, for but very few of the more wealthy inhabitants live in any way according to our notions of comfort, while the cots of the poor fisherman are so wretched that one can hardly believe them to be tenanted by human beings.

The farm-houses are frequently isolated, and, on account of their grass-covered roofs and their low construction, are not easily distinguished from the neighboring pasture-grounds; where four or five of them are congregated in a grassy plain, they are dignified with the name of a village, and become the residence of a Hrepstior, or parish constable.

Then also a church is seldom wanting, which however is distinguished from the low huts around merely by the cross planted on its roof. An Icelandic house of prayer is generally from eight to ten feet wide, and from eighteen to twenty-four long; but of this about eight feet are devoted to the altar, which is divided off by a partition stretching across the church, and against which stands the pulpit. A small wooden chest or cupboard, placed at the end of the building, between two very small square windows not larger than a common-sized pane of glass, constitutes the communion-table, over which is generally a miserable representation of the Lord’s Supper painted on wood. The height of the walls, which are wainscoted, is about six feet, and from them large wooden beams stretch across from side to side. On these beams are placed in great disorder a quantity of old Bibles, psalters, and fragments of dirty manuscripts. The interior of the roof, the rafters of which rest on the walls, is also lined with wood. On the right of the door, under which one is obliged to stoop considerably on entering, is suspended a bell, large enough to make an intolerable noise in so small a space. A few benches on each side the aisle, so crowded together as almost to touch one another, and affording accommodation to thirty or forty persons when squeezed very tight, leave room for a narrow passage.

These churches, besides their proper use, are also made to answer the purpose of the caravanseras of the East, by affording a night’s lodging to foreign tourists. They are indeed neither free from dirt, nor from bad smells; but the stranger is still far better off than in the intolerable atmosphere of a peasant’s hut.

Mr. Ross Browne thus describes the church and parsonage at Thingvalla; “The church is of modern construction, and, like all I saw in the interior, is made of wood, painted a dark color, and roofed with boards covered with sheets of tarred canvas. It is a very primitive little affair, only one story high, and not more than fifteen by twenty feet in dimensions. From the date on the weather-cock it appears to have been built in 1858. The congregation is supplied by the few sheep-ranches in the neighborhood, consisting at most of half a dozen families. These unpretending little churches are to be seen in the vicinity of every settlement throughout the whole island. Simple and homely as they are, they speak well for the pious character of the people.

“The pastor of Thingvalla and his family reside in a group of sod-covered huts close by the church. These cheerless little hovels are really a curiosity, none of them being over ten or fifteen feet high, and all huddled together without the slightest regard to latitude or longitude, like a parcel of sheep in a storm. Some have windows in the roof, and some have chimneys; grass and weeds grow all over them, and crooked by-ways and dark alleys run among them and through them. At the base they are walled up with big lumps of lava, and two of them have board fronts, painted black, while the remainder are patched up with turf and rubbish of all sorts, very much in the style of a stork’s nest. A low stone wall encircles the premises, but seems to be of little use as a barrier against the encroachments of live-stock, being broken up in gaps every few yards. In front of the group some attempt has been made at a pavement, which, however, must have been abandoned soon after the work was commenced. It is now littered all over with old tubs, pots, dish-cloths, and other articles of domestic use.

“The interior of this strange abode is even more complicated than one would be led to expect from the exterior. Passing through a dilapidated doorway in one of the smaller cabins, which you would hardly suppose to be the main entrance, you find yourself in a long dark passage-way, built of rough stone, and roofed with wooden rafters and brushwood covered with sod. The sides are ornamented with pegs stuck in the crevices between the stones, upon which hang saddles, bridles, horse-shoes, bunches of herbs, dried fish, and various articles of cast-off clothing, including old shoes and sheepskins. Wide or narrow, straight or crooked, to suit the sinuosities of the different cabins into which it forms the entrance, it seems to have been originally located upon the track of a blind boa-constrictor. The best room, or rather house—for every room is a house—is set apart for the accommodation of travellers. Another cabin is occupied by some members of the pastor’s family, who bundle about like a lot of rabbits. The kitchen is also the dog-kennel, and occasionally the sheep-house. A pile of stones in one corner of it, upon which a few twigs or scraps of sheep-manure serve to make the fire, constitute the cooking apartment. The floor consists of the original lava-bed, and artificial puddles composed of slops and offal of diverse unctuous kinds. Smoke fills all the cavities in the air not already occupied by foul odors, and the beams, and posts, and rickety old bits of furniture are dyed to the core with the dense and variegated atmosphere around them. This is a fair specimen of the whole establishment, with the exception of the travellers’ room. The beds in these cabins are the chief articles of luxury.”

The poverty of the clergy corresponds with the meanness of their churches. The best living in the island is that of Breide’-Bolstadr, where the nominal stipend amounts to 180 specie dollars, or about £40 a year; and Mr. Holland states that the average livings do not amount to more than £10 for each parish in the island. The clergymen must therefore depend almost entirely for subsistence on their glebe land, and a small pittance to which they are entitled for the few baptisms, marriages, and funerals that occur among their parishioners. The bishop himself has only 2000 rix-dollars, or £200, a year, a miserable pittance to make a decent appearance, and to exercise hospitality to the clergy who visit Reykjavik from distant parts.

It can not be wondered at that pastors thus miserably paid are generally obliged to perform the hardest work of day laborers to preserve their families from starving, and that their external appearance corresponds less with the dignity of their office than with their penury. Besides hay-making and tending the cattle, they may be frequently seen leading a train of pack-horses from a fishing-station to their distant hut. They are all blacksmiths also from necessity, and the best shoers of horses on the island. The feet of an Iceland horse would be cut to pieces over the sharp rock and lava, if not well shod. The great resort of the peasantry is the church; and should any of the numerous horses have lost a shoe, or be likely to do so, the priest puts on his apron, lights his little charcoal fire in his smithy (one of which is always attached to every parsonage), and sets the animal on his legs again. The task of getting the necessary charcoal is not the least of his labors, for whatever the distance may be to the nearest thicket of dwarf-birch, he must go thither to burn the wood, and to bring it home when charred across his horse’s back. His hut is scarcely better than that of the meanest fisherman; a bed, a rickety table, a few chairs, and a chest or two, are all his furniture. This is, as long as he lives, the condition of the Icelandic clergyman, and learning, virtue, and even genius are but too frequently buried under this squalid poverty.

But few of my readers have probably ever heard of the poet Jon Thorlakson, but who can withhold the tribute of his admiration from the poor priest of Backa, who with a fixed income of less than £6 a year, and condemned to all the drudgery which I have described, finished at seventy years of age a translation of Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” having previously translated Pope’s “Essay on Man.”

Three of the first books only of the “Paradise Lost” were printed by the Icelandic Literary Society, when it was dissolved in 1796, and to print the rest at his own expense was of course impossible. In a few Icelandic verses, Thorlakson touchingly alludes to his penury:—“Ever since I came into this world I have been wedded to Poverty, who has now hugged me to her bosom these seventy winters, all but two; and whether we shall ever be separated here below is only known to Him who joined us together.”

As if Providence had intended to teach the old man that we must hope to the last, he soon after received the unexpected visit of Mr. Henderson, an agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society, who thus relates his interview:

“Like most of his brethren at this season of the year, we found him in the meadow assisting his people in hay-making. On hearing of our arrival, he made all the haste home which his age and infirmity would allow, and bidding us welcome to his lowly abode, ushered us into the humble apartment where he translated my countrymen into Icelandic. The door is not quite four feet in height, and the room may be about eight feet in length by six in breadth. At the inner end is the poet’s bed, and close to the door, over against a small window, not exceeding two feet square, is a table where he commits to paper the effusions of his Muse. On my telling him that my countrymen would not have forgiven me, nor could I have forgiven myself, had I passed through this part of the island without paying him a visit, he replied that the translation of Milton had yielded him many a pleasant hour, and often given him occasion to think of England.”

This visit was followed by agreeable consequences for the venerable bard. The Literary Fund soon afterwards sent him a present of £30, a modest sum according to our ideas, but a mine of wealth in the eyes of the poor Icelandic priest. His life, however, was now near its close, as it is stated in a short view “Of the Origin, Progress, and Operations of the Society,” dated March 3d, 1821, that “the poet of Iceland is now in his grave; but it is satisfactory to know that the attention, in this instance, of a foreign and remote society to his gains and his fortunes was highly gratifying to his feelings, and contributed not immaterially to the comfort of his concluding days.”

He wrote a letter in very elegant Latin, expressing his heartfelt gratitude for the kindness and generosity of the Society, so accordant with the character of the British nation, and accompanied it with a MS. copy of his translation. The latter was first printed in Iceland in 1828, but his own original poems did not appear before 1842.

The school where most of the Icelandic clergymen, so poor and yet generally so respectable in their poverty, are educated, is that of Reykjavik, as few only enjoy stipends which enable them to study at Copenhagen. There they live several years under a milder sky, they become acquainted with the splendor of a large capital, and thus it might be supposed that the idea of returning to the dreary wastes of their own land must be intolerable. Yet this is their ardent desire, and, like banished exiles, they long for their beloved Iceland, where privation and penury await them.

In no Christian country, perhaps with the sole exception of Lapland, are the clergy so poor as in Iceland, but in none do they exert a more beneficial influence.

Though the island has but the one public school at Reykjavik, yet perhaps in no country is elementary education more generally diffused. Every mother teaches her children to read and write, and a peasant, after providing for the wants of his family by the labor of his hands, loses no opportunity, in his leisure hours, of inculcating a sound morality. In these praiseworthy efforts the parents are supported by the pastor.

He who, judging from the sordid condition of an Icelandic hut, might imagine its inhabitants to be no better than savages, would soon change his opinion were he introduced on a winter evening into the low, ill-ventilated room where the family of a peasant or a small landholder is assembled. Vainly would he seek a single idler in the whole company. The women and girls spin or knit; the men and boys are all busy mending their agricultural implements and household utensils, or else chiselling or cutting with admirable skill ornaments or snuff-boxes in silver, ivory, or wood. By the dubious light of a tallow lamp, just making obscurity visible, sits one of the family, who reads with a loud voice an old “saga” or chronicle, or maybe the newest number of the “Northurfari,” an Iceland literary almanac, published during the last few years by Mr. Gisle Brinjulfsson. Sometimes poems or whole sagas are repeated from memory, and there are even itinerant story-tellers, who, like the troubadours and trouvères of the Middle Ages, wander from one farm to another, and thus gain a scanty livelihood. In this manner the deeds of the ancient Icelanders remain fixed in the memory of their descendants, and Snorre Sturleson, Sämund, Frodi, and Eric Rauda are unforgotten. Nine centuries have elapsed; but every Icelander still knows the names of the proud yarls who first peopled the fiords of the island; and the exploits of the brave vikings who spread terror and desolation along all the coasts of Europe still fill the hearts of the peaceful islanders of our days with a glow of patriotic pride.

Where education is so general, one may naturally expect to find a high degree of intellectual cultivation among the clergy, the public functionaries, and the wealthier part of the population. Their classical knowledge is one of the first things that strike the stranger with astonishment. He sees men whose appearance too frequently denotes an abject poverty conversant with the great authors of antiquity, and keenly alive to their beauties. Travelling to the Geysirs, he is not seldom accosted in Latin by his guide, and stopping at a farm, his host greets him in the same language.

I have specially named Jon Thorlakson, but Iceland has produced and still produces many other men who, without the hope of any other reward but that which proceeds from the pure love of literature, devote their days and nights to laborious studies, and live with Virgil and Homer under the sunny skies of Italy and Greece. In the study of the modern languages, the Icelanders are as far advanced as can be expected from their limited intercourse with the rest of the world.

The English language, in which they find so many words of their own and so many borrowed from the Latin, is cultivated by many of the clergy. The German they find still more easy; and as all the Scandinavian languages proceed from the same root, they have no difficulty in understanding the Danish and the Norwegian tongues. Of all the modern languages or dialects which have sprung from the ancient Norse, spoken a thousand years ago all over Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, none has undergone fewer changes than the Icelandic. In the sea-ports it is mixed up with many Danish words and phrases, but in the interior of the island it is still spoken as it was in the times of Ingolfr and Eric the Red, and in the whole island there is no fisherman or day laborer who does not perfectly understand the oldest writings.

It may easily be imagined that among a people so fond of literature, books must be in great request. Too poor to be constantly increasing their small collections of modern publications, or of old “sagas” or chronicles, by new acquisitions, one assists the other. When the peasant goes on Sundays to church, he takes a few volumes with him, ready to lend his treasures to his neighbors, and, on his part, selects from among those which they have brought for the same purpose. When he is particularly pleased with a work, he has it copied at home, and it may be here remarked that the Icelanders are frequently most excellent calligraphists.

The foundation of a public library at Reykjavik in 1821, at the instigation of the learned Professor Rafn of Copenhagen, was a great boon to the people. It is said to contain about 12,000 volumes, which are kept under the roof of the cathedral. Books are freely lent for months, or even for a whole year, to the inhabitants of remote districts. This liberality is, of course, attended with some inconvenience, but it has the inestimable advantage of rendering a number of good works accessible to numerous families too poor to purchase them.

Another excellent institution is the New Icelandic Literary Society, founded in 1816. It has two seats, one in Copenhagen, the other in Reykjavik, and its chief object is the publication of useful works in the language of the country. Besides an annual grant of 100 specie dollars (£24) awarded to it by the Danish Government, its income is confined to the yearly contributions of its members,6 and with this scanty means it has already published many excellent works.

Though remote from the busy scenes of the world, Iceland has three newspapers, the Thyodtholfr and the Islendingur, which appear at Reykjavik, and the Northri, which is published at Akreyri, on the borders of the Polar Ocean. The Islendingur is said to contain many excellent articles, but it would sorely task the patience of those who are accustomed to the regular enjoyment of the “Times” at breakfast; as it sometimes appears but once in three weeks, and then again, as if to make up for lost time, twice in eight days.

In spite of their ill-ventilated dwellings and the hardships entailed upon them by the severity of the climate, the Icelanders frequently attain a good old age. Of the 2019 persons who died in 1858, 25 had passed the age of ninety, and of these 20 belonged to the fair sex. The mortality among the children is, however, very considerable; 993, or nearly one-half of the entire number having died before the age of five in the year above-mentioned. Cutaneous affections are very common among Icelanders, as may easily be supposed from their sordid woollen apparel and the uncleanliness of their huts; and the northern leprosy, or “likthra,” is constantly seeking out its victims among them. This dreadful disease, which is also found among the fishermen in Norway, in Greenland, in the Faeroes, in Lapland, and, in short, wherever the same mode of life exists, begins with a swelling of the hands and feet. The hair falls off; the senses become obtuse. Tumors appear on the arms and legs, and on the face, which soon loses the semblance of humanity. Severe pains shoot through the joints, an eruption covers the whole body, and finally changes into open sores, ending with death. He whom the leprosy has once attacked is doomed, for it mocks all the efforts of medical art. Fortunately the victims of this shocking complaint are rather objects of pity than of disgust, and as it is not supposed to be contagious, they are not so cruelly forsaken by their relations as their fellow-sufferers in the East. In the hut of the priest of Thingvalla, Marmier saw a leper busy grinding corn. Some of the poorest and most helpless of these unfortunate creatures find a refuge in four small hospitals, where they are provided for at the public expense.

Since a regular steam-boat communication has been opened between Iceland, Denmark, and Scotland, the number of tourists desirous of viewing the matchless natural wonders of the island has considerably increased. But travelling in the island itself is still attended with considerable difficulties and no trifling expense, to say nothing of the want of all comforts; so that most of its visitors are content with a trip to Thingvalla and the Geysir, which are but a couple of days’ journey from Reykjavik, and very few, like Mr. Holland, make the entire circuit of the island, or, like Mr. Shepherd, plunge into the terra incognita of its north-western peninsula. The only mode of travelling is on horseback, as there are no roads, and therefore no carriages in Iceland. The distances between the places are too great, the rivers are too furious, and the bogs too extensive to allow of a walking tour being made. Even the tourist with the most modest pretensions requires at least two riding horses for himself, two for his guide, and two packhorses; and when a larger company travels, it always forms a cavalcade of from twenty to thirty horses, tied head to tail, the chief guide mounted on the first and leading the string, the other accelerating its motions by gesticulation, sundry oaths, and the timely application of the whip. The way, or the path, lies either over beds of lava, so rugged that the horses are allowed to pick their way, or over boggy ground, where it is equally necessary to avoid those places into which the animals might sink up to their belly, but which, when left to themselves, they are remarkably skillful in detecting. With the solitary exception of a few planks thrown across the Bruera, and a kind of swing bridge, or kláfr, contrived for passing the rapid Jökulsa, there are no bridges over the rivers, so that the only way to get across is to ride through them—a feat which, considering the usual velocity of their current, is not seldom attended with considerable danger, as will be seen by the following account of the crossing of the Skeidara by Mr. Holland.

“Our guide,” says this intrepid traveller, “urged on his horse through the stream, and led the way towards the mid-channel. We followed in his wake, and soon were all stemming the impetuous and swollen torrent. In the course of our journey we had before this crossed a good many rivers more or less deep, but all of them had been mere child’s play compared to that which we were now fording. The angry water rose high against our horses’ sides, at times almost coming over the tops of their shoulders. The spray from their broken crests was dashed up into our faces. The stream was so swift that it was impossible to follow the individual waves as they rushed past us, and it almost made us dizzy to look down at it. Now, if ever, is the time for firm hand or rein, sure seat, and steady eye; not only is the stream so strong, but the bottom is full of large stones, that the horse can not see through the murky waters; if he should fall, the torrent will sweep you down to the sea—its white breakers are plainly visible as they run along the shore at scarcely a mile’s distance, and they lap the beach as if they waited for their prey. Happily, they will be disappointed. Swimming would be of no use, but an Icelandic water-horse seldom makes a blunder or a false step. Not the least of the risks we ran in crossing the Skeidara was from the masses of ice carried down by the stream from the Jökul, many of them being large enough to knock a horse over.

“Fortunately we found much less ice in the centre and swiftest part of the river, where we where able to see and avoid it, than in the side channels. How the horses were able to stand against such a stream was marvellous; they could not do so unless they were constantly in the habit of crossing swift rivers. The Icelanders who live in this part of the island keep horses known for their qualities in fording difficult rivers, and they never venture to cross a dangerous stream unless mounted on a tried water-horse. The action of the Icelandic horses when crossing a swift river is very peculiar. They lean all their weight against the stream, so as to resist it as much as possible, and move onward with a peculiar side-step. This motion is not agreeable. It feels as if your horse were marking time without gaining ground, and the progress made being really very slow, the shore from which you started seems to recede from you, whilst that for which you are making appears as far as ever.

“When we reached the middle of the stream, the roar of the waters was so great that we could scarcely make our voices audible to one another; they were overpowered by the crunching sound of the ice, and the bumping of large stones against the bottom. Up to this point a diagonal line, rather down stream, had been cautiously followed; but when we came to the middle, we turned our horses’ heads a little against the stream. As we thus altered our course, the long line of baggage-horses appeared to be swung round altogether, as if swept off their legs. None of them, however, broke away, and they continued their advance without accident, and at length we all reached the shore in safety.”

After a day’s journey in Iceland, rest, as may well be supposed, is highly acceptable. Instead of passing the night in the peasant’s hut, the traveller, when no church is at hand, generally prefers pitching his tent near a running stream on a grassy plain; but sometimes, in consequence of the great distance from one habitable place to another, he is obliged to encamp in the midst of a bog where the poor horses find either bad herbs, scarcely fit to satisfy their hunger, or no food at all. After they have been unloaded, their fore legs are bound together above their hoofs, so as to prevent them straying too far, while their masters arrange themselves in the tent as comfortably as they can.

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The Sea of Kara.—Loschkin.—Rosmysslow.—Lütke.—Krotow.—Pachtussow.—Sails along the eastern Coast of the Southern Island to Matoschkin Schar.—His second Voyage and Death.—Meteorological Observations of Ziwolka.—The cold Summer of Nova Zembla.—Von Baer’s scientific Voyage to Nova Zembla.—His Adventures in Matoschkin Schar.—Storm in Kostin Schar.—Sea Bath and votive Cross.—Botanical Observations.—A natural Garden.—Solitude and Silence.—A Bird Bazar.—Hunting Expeditions of the Russians to Nova Zembla.

The sea of Kara, bounded on the west by Nova Zembla, and on the east by the vast peninsula of Tajmurland, is one of the most inhospitable parts of the inhospitable Polar Ocean. For all the ice which the east-westerly marine currents drift during the summer along the Siberian coasts accumulates in that immense land-locked bay, and almost constantly blocks the gate of Kara, as the straits have been named that separate Nova Zembla from the island of Waigatz.

The rivers Jenissei and Obi, which remain frozen over until late in June, likewise discharge their vast masses of ice into the gulf of Kara, so that we can not wonder that the eastern coast of Nova Zembla, fronting a sea which opposes almost insuperable obstacles to the Arctic navigator, has remained almost totally unknown until 1833, while the western coast, exposed to the Gulf Stream, and bathed, in summer at least, by a vast open ocean, has long been traced in all its chief outlines on the map.

The walrus-hunter Loschkin is indeed said to have sailed along the whole eastern coast of Nova Zembla in the last century, but we have no authentic records of his voyage, and at a later period Rosmysslow, who, penetrating through Mathew’s Straits, or Matoschkin Schar, found Nova Zembla to consist of two large islands, investigated but a small part of those unknown shores. From 1819 to 1824 the Russian Government sent out no less than five expeditions to the sea of Kara; the famous circumnavigator Admiral Lütke endeavored no less than four times to advance along the eastern coast of Nova Zembla, but all these efforts proved fruitless against the superior power of a stormy and ice-blocked sea. Yet in spite of these repeated failures, two enterprising men—Klokow, a chief inspector of forests, and Brandt, a rich merchant of Archangel—fitted out three ships in 1832 for the purpose of solving the mysteries of the sea of Kara.

One of these vessels, commanded by Lieutenant Krotow, was to penetrate through Mathew’s Straits, and, having reached their eastern outlet, to sail thence across the sea to the mouth of the Obi and the Jenissei; but nothing more was heard of the ill-fated ship after her first separation from her companions at Kanin Nos.

The second ship, which was to sail along the western coast of Nova Zembla, and, if possible, to round its northern extremity, was more fortunate, for though it never reached that point, it returned home with a rich cargo of walrus-teeth.

The third ship, finally, under Pachtussow’s command, was to penetrate through the gate of Kara, and from thence to proceed along the eastern coast. When Pachtussow, according to his instructions, had reached the straits, all his efforts to effect a passage proved ineffectual. It was in vain he more than once steered to the east; the stormy weather and large masses of drift ice constantly threw him back, the short summer approached its end, and thus he was obliged to put off all further attempts to the next year, and to settle for the winter in Rocky Bay within the gate of Kara. A small hut was built out of the drift-wood found on the spot, and joined by means of a gallery of sail-cloth to a bathing-room, that indispensable comfort of a Russian. The laying of traps, in which many Arctic foxes were caught, and the carrying of the wood, which had sometimes to be fetched from a distance of ten versts, occupied the crew during fair weather. In April a party under Pachtussow’s command set out for the purpose of exploring the western coast. On this expedition they were overtaken on the twenty-fourth day of the month by a terrible snowstorm, which obliged them to throw themselves flat upon the ground to avoid being swept away by the wind. They remained three days without food under the snow, as it was impossible for them to reach the dépôt of provisions buried a few versts off.

On June 24 the gate of Kara was at length open, and Pachtussow would gladly have sailed through the passage, but his ship was fast in the ice. He therefore resolved, in order to make the best use of his time, to examine the eastern coast in a boat, and reached in this manner the small Sawina River, where he found a wooden cross with the date of 1742. Most likely it had been placed there by Loschkin, his predecessor on the path of discovery. He now returned with his boat to the ship, which, after an imprisonment of 297 days, was at length, July 11, able to leave the bay.

On Stadolski Island, near Cape Menschikoff, they found a wretched hut, which proved that they were not the first to penetrate into these deserts. But the hut was tenantless, and a number of human bones were strewn over the ground. One of Pachtussow’s companions now related that in 1822 a Samojede, named Mawei, had gone with his wife and children to Nova Zembla, and had never returned. On gathering the bones, they were found to compose the skeletons of two children and of a woman, but no remains could be discovered of the man. Most likely the unfortunate savage had been surprised by a snowstorm, or had fallen a prey to a hungry ice-bear, on one of his excursions, and his family, deprived of their support, had died of hunger in the hut.

On July 19 they reached the river Stawinen, and on the 21st Lütke’s Bay, where a number of white dolphins and seals of an unknown species were found. Here contrary winds arrested the progress of the navigators during eighteen days. On August 13 Pachtussow entered Matoschkin Schar, and reached its western mouth on the 19th. Thus he succeeded at least in circumnavigating the southern island, which no one had achieved before him, and as his exhausted provisions did not allow him to spend a second winter in Nova Zembla, he resolved to return at once to Archangel. But contrary winds drove him to the island of Kolgujew, and thence to the mouth of the Petschora, where, on September 3, a dreadful storm at length shattered his crazy vessel. The crew found refuge in a hut, but this also was filled by the water; so that they had to wade several versts before they could reach the dry land.

Pachtussow now travelled by way of Archangel and Onega to St. Petersburg, where he communicated the results of his journey to the Minister of Marine, who gave him a most flattering reception, well merited by his ability and courage. The success he had already obtained encouraged the hope that a second expedition would be able to complete the undertaking, and consequently, by an imperial order, the schooner Krotow and a transport were fitted out, with which Pachtussow once more sailed from the port of Archangel on August 5. His instructions were to winter in Mathew’s Straits, and thence to attempt in the following summer the exploration of the eastern coast of the northern island. The winter hut he built at the western entrance of the straits was ready for his reception by October 20. It was of stately dimensions, for a Nova Zembla residence—25 feet long, 21 broad, 8 feet high in the centre, 5 at the sides, and consisted of two compartments, one for the officers and the other for the crew. They found the cold very endurable, but were rather incommoded by the smoke, which did not always find a ready passage through the opening in the roof. Sometimes the snow accumulated in such masses, or the storm raged so furiously round the hut, that they could not leave it for eight days running, and frequently the hole in the roof had to serve them for a door.

Eleven white bears were killed about the hut during the winter; one on the roof, another in the passage. Pachtussow, well aware that occupation is the best remedy against melancholy, kept his crew in constant activity. They were obliged to fetch wood from distances of ten or eleven versts, not seldom during a cold of -36°, which, thanks to their thick fur dresses, they bore remarkably well, particularly as a temperature lower than -25° never occurred, unless during perfectly calm weather. He also made them lay fox-traps at considerable distances from the hut, and amused them with shooting at a mark and gymnastic exercises. By this means he succeeded in preserving their health, and warding off the attacks of the scurvy.

As early as April the indefatigable Pachtussow fitted out two sledge-parties, for the exploration of the eastern coast. The one, consisting of seven men, he commanded in person; the other was led by the steersman Ziwolka. Both parties travelled in company as far as the eastern entrance of the straits, where one of the huts in which Rosmysslow had wintered seventy years before was still found in a good condition.

Pachtussow now returned for the purpose of accurately surveying the straits, while Ziwolka proceeded along the east coast, with a small tent and provisions for a month. All his men had Samojede dresses, but they were already so hardened that they did not wear the upper coat with the hood even during the night, although snow-storms not seldom occurred. Once their boots were frozen so hard that they could not pull them off before they had been previously thawed, and as drift-wood was nowhere to be found, they were obliged to burn the poles of their tent, and to keep their feet over the fire until the leather became soft. On May 18, the thirty-fourth day of his journey, Ziwolka returned to his commander, after having explored the east coast northward to a distance of 150 versts.

Meanwhile Pachtussow had been busy building a boat eighteen feet long, with which he intended to proceed along the western coast to the northern extremity of the island, and, the elements permitting, to return to the straits along its eastern shores. About the beginning of June the migratory birds made their appearance, and introduced a very agreeable change in the monotonous fare of the navigators, who, a few weeks later, enjoyed the sight of blooming flowers, and gathered antiscorbutic herbs in large quantities.

Thus the high northern land had assumed its most friendly aspect, and looked as cheerfully as it possibly could, when, on July 11, Pachtussow and Ziwolka set out for the north with the boat and the transport, the schooner being left behind in the straits with the surgeon and a few invalids. At first the wind and weather favored their course, but on July 21 the boat was smashed between two pieces of ice, so that they had hardly time to escape upon the land with the nautical instruments, a sack of flour, and some butter.

In this unpleasant situation they were obliged to remain for thirteen days, until at last a walrus-hunter appeared, who took the shipwrecked explorers on board, and brought them safely back to their winter-quarters on August 22.

Thus this first attempt ended in complete disappointment, and the season was already too far advanced to permit of its renewal. Yet Pachtussow, resolving with praiseworthy zeal to make the most of the last days of the short summer, set out again on August 26 for the eastern entrance of the straits, and proceeded along the coast, until he was stopped by the ice at some distance beyond the small islands which bear his name.

Convinced of the fruitlessness of all further efforts, Pachtussow bade adieu with a sorrowful heart to the coast, which still stretched out before him in undiscovered mystery, and sailed back again to Archangel on September 20. Soon after his return he fell ill, and four weeks later his mourning friends carried him to his grave.

The Arctic Ocean is so capricious that in the following year the walrus-hunter Issakow, of Kem, who had no discoveries in view, was able to round without difficulty the north-eastern extremity of Nova Zembla, but, fearful of encountering the dangers of that dreadful coast, he almost immediately returned.

During the two winters he spent in Nova Zembla, the steersman Ziwolka had daily consulted the thermometer, and the result of his observations gave to the western entrance of Mathew’s Straits a mean annual temperature of +17°.

Thus Nova Zembla is colder than the west coast of Spitzbergen, which, although still farther to the north, is more favorably situated with regard to the winds and currents, and from five to ten degrees warmer than the high northern parts of Siberia and continental America, which sustain a comparatively numerous population, while Nova Zembla is uninhabited. Hence this want, and the circumstance that the vegetation of these islands scarcely rises a span above the ground, while the forest region still penetrates far within the confines of the colder continental regions above mentioned, are to be ascribed not to the low mean annual temperature of Nova Zembla, but to the unfavorable distribution of warmth over the various seasons of the year. For although high Northern Siberia and America have a far colder winter, they enjoy a considerably warmer summer, and this it is which in the higher latitudes determines the existence or the development of life on the dry land. During the winter the organic world is partly sheltered under the snow, or else it migrates, or it produces within itself sufficient warmth to defy the cold—and thus a few degrees more or less at that time of the year are of no material consequence, while the warmth of summer is absolutely indispensable to awaken life and determine its development.

The comparatively mild winter of Nova Zembla (no less than thirty-three degrees warmer than that of Jakutsk) is therefore of but little benefit to vegetable life, which on the other hand suffers considerably from a summer inferior even to that of Melville Island and Boothia Felix. A coast where the sun, in spite of a day of several months’ continuance, generates so small a quantity of heat, and where yet some vegetation is able to flourish, must necessarily be well worthy the attention of botanists, or rather of all those who take an interest in the geographical distribution of plants. For if in the primitive forests of Brazil the naturalist admires the effects of a tropical sun and an excessive humidity in producing the utmost exuberance of vegetation, it is no less interesting for him to observe how Flora under the most adverse circumstances still wages a successful war against death and destruction.

Thus a few years after Pachtussow’s expedition, the desire to explore a land so remarkable in a botanical point of view, and to gather new fruits for science in the wilderness, induced Herr von Baer, though already advanced in years, to undertake the journey to Nova Zembla.

Accompanied by two younger naturalists, Mr. Lehmann and Mr. Röder, the celebrated Petersburg academician arrived on July 29, 1837, at the western entrance of Mathew’s Straits, sailed through them the next day in a boat, and reached the sea of Kara, where he admired a prodigious number of jelly-fishes (Pleurobrachia pileus) swimming about in the ice-cold waters, and displaying a marvellous beauty of coloring in their ciliated ribs. This excursion might, however, have had very disagreeable consequences, for a dreadful storm, blowing from the west, prevented their boat from returning, and forced them to pass the night with some walrus-hunters, whom they had the good-fortune to meet with. On the following day the storm abated, so that the return could be attempted; they were, however, obliged to land on a small island in the Beluga Bay, where, wet to the skin, and their limbs shaking with cold, they fortunately found a refuge in the ruins of a hut in which Rosmysslow had wintered in 1767. Meanwhile the wind had veered to the east, accompanied by a very disagreeable cold rain, which on the mountains took the form of snow; they were now, however, able to make use of their sail, and arrived late at night at the spot where their ship lay at anchor, completely wet, but in good health and spirits.

“We could esteem ourselves happy,” says Von Baer, “in having paid so slight a penalty for neglecting the precaution, so necessary to all travellers in Nova Zembla, of providing for a week when you set out for a day’s excursion.”

On August 4, after a thorough botanical examination of the straits, the party proceeded along the west coast. The wind, blowing from the north, brought them to the Kostin Schar, a maze of passages between numerous islets, where the walrus-hunters in Nova Zembla chiefly assemble.

On August 9 an excursion was made up the river Nechwatowa, where they rested in a hut which had been erected by some fisherman employed in catching “golzi,” or Arctic salmon. On returning to the ship, a dreadful storm arose from the north-east, which lasted nine days, and, very fortunately for the botanists, caught them in the Kostin Schar, and not on the high sea. Although they were anchored in a sheltered bay, the waves frequently swept over the deck of their vessel, and compelled them to remain all the time in their small, low cabin. Only once they made an attempt to land, but the wind was so strong that they could hardly stand. Their situation was rendered still more terrible and anxious, as part of the crew which had been sent out hunting before the storm began had not yet returned.

When at last the storm ceased, winter seemed about to begin in good earnest. Every night ice formed in the river, and the land was covered with snow, which had surprised the scanty vegetation in its full bloom. At length the hunters returned, after having endured terrible hardships, and now preparations were made for a definitive departure. A general bath was taken, without which no anchorage in Nova Zembla is ever left, and, according to ancient custom, a votive cross was likewise erected on the strand, as a memorial of the expedition.

On August 28 the anchors were weighed, but they were soon dropped again in the Schar, to examine on a small island the vegetable and animal products of the land and of the shore. The former offered but few objects of interest, but they were astonished at the exuberance of marine life. After having been detained by a thick fog in this place for several days, they at length sailed towards the White Sea, where they were obliged by contrary winds to run into Tri Ostrowa. Dreary and desolate as the tundras at this extreme point of Lapland had appeared to them on their journey outward, they were now charmed with their green slopes, a sight of which they had been deprived in Nova Zembla.

On September 11 they at length reached the port of Archangel, with the agreeable prospect of passing the winter in a comfortable study at St. Petersburg instead of spending it, like Barentz and his associates, as might easily have happened, in a wretched hut beyond the 70th degree of northern latitude.

Having thus briefly sketched Von Baer’s adventures, I will now notice some of the most interesting scientific results of his journey.

The rocky west coast of Nova Zembla has about the same appearance as the analogous part of Spitzbergen, for here also the mountains, particularly in the northern island, rise abruptly to a height of three or four thousand feet from the sea, while the eastern coast is generally flat. In both countries, angular blocks of stone, precipitated from the summits, cover the sides of the hills, and frequently make it impossible to ascend them. In fact, no rock, however hard or finely grained, is able to withstand the effects of a climate where the summer is so wet and the winter so severe. Nowhere in Nova Zembla is a grass-covered spot to be found deserving the name of a meadow. Even the foliaceous lichens, which grow so luxuriantly in Lapland, have here a stunted appearance; but, as Von Baer remarks, this is owing less to the climate than to the nature of the soil, as plants of this description thrive best on chalky ground. The crustaceous lichens, however, cover the blocks of augite and porphyry with a motley vesture, and the dingy carpet with which Dryas octopetala invests here and there the dry slopes, formed of rocky detritus, reminds one of the tundras of Lapland.

The scanty vegetable covering which this only true social plant of Nova Zembla affords is, however, but an inch thick, and can easily be detached like a cap from the rock beneath.

On a clayey ground in moist and low situations, the mosses afford a protection to the polar willow (Salix polaris), which raises but two leaves and a catkin over the surface of its covering.

Even the most sparing sheet of humus has great difficulty to form in Nova Zembla, as in a great number of the plants which grow there the discolored leaf dries on the stalk, and is then swept away by the winds, so that the land would appear still more naked if many plants, such as the snow ranunculus (Ranunculus nivalis), were not so extremely abstemious as to require no humus at all, but merely a rocky crevice or some loose gravel capable of retaining moisture in its interstices.

But even in Nova Zembla there are some more favored spots. Thus when Von Baer landed at the foot of a high slate mountain fronting the south-west, and reflecting the rays of the sun, he was astonished and delighted to see a gay mixture of purple silenes, golden ranunculuses, peach-colored parryas, white cerastias, and blue palemones, and was particularly pleased at finding the well-known forget-me-not among the ornaments of this Arctic pasture. Between these various flowers the soil was everywhere visible, for the dicotyledonous plants of the high latitudes produce no more foliage than is necessary to set off the colors of the blossoms, and have generally more flowers than leaves.

The entire vegetation of the island is confined to the superficial layer of the soil and to the lower stratum of the air. Even those plants which in warm climates have a descending or vertical root have here a horizontal one, and none, whether grasses or shrubs, grow higher than a span above the ground.

In the polar willow, a single pair of leaves sits on a stem about as thick as a straw, although the whole plant forms an extensive shrub with numerous ramifications. Another species of willow (Salix lanata) attains the considerable height of a span, and is a perfect giant among the Nova Zembla plants, for the thick subterranean trunk sometimes measures two inches in diameter, and can be laid bare for a length of ten or twelve feet without finding the end. Thus in this country the forests are more in than above the earth.

This horizontal development of vegetation is caused by the sun principally heating the superficial sheet of earth, which imparts its warmth to the stratum of air immediately above it, and thus confines the plants within the narrow limits which best suit their growth. Hence also the influence of position on vegetation is so great that, while a plain open to the winds is a complete desert, a gentle mountain slope not seldom resembles a garden.

The absence of all trees or shrubs, or even of all vigorous herbage, imparts a character of the deepest solitude to the Nova Zembla landscape, and inspires even the rough sailor with a kind of religious awe. “It is,” says Von Baer, “as if the dawn of creation had but just begun, and life were still to be called into existence.” The universal silence is but rarely broken by the noise of an animal. But neither the cry of the sea-mew, wheeling in the air, nor the rustling of the lemming in the stunted herbage are able to animate the scene. No voice is heard in calm weather. The rare land-birds are silent as well as the insects, which are comparatively still fewer in number. This tranquillity of nature, particularly during serene days, reminds the spectator of the quiet of the grave; and the lemmings seem like phantoms as they glide noiselessly from burrow to burrow. In our fields even a slight motion of the air becomes visible in the foliage of the trees or in the waving of the corn; here the low plants are so stiff and immovable that one might suppose them to be painted. The rare sand-bee (Andrena), which on sunny days and in warm places flies about with languid wings, has scarcely the spirit to hum, and the flies and gnats, though more frequent, are equally feeble and inoffensive.

As a proof of the rarity of insects in Nova Zembla, Von Baer mentions that not a single larva was to be found in a dead walrus which had been lying at least fourteen days on the shore. The hackneyed phrase of our funeral sermons can not therefore be applied to these high latitudes, where even above the earth the decay of bodies is extremely slow.

However poor the vegetation of Nova Zembla may be, it still suffices to nourish a number of lemmings, which live on leaves, stems, and buds, but not on roots. The slopes of the mountains are often undermined in all directions by their burrows. Next to these lemmings, the Arctic foxes are the most numerous quadrupeds, as they find plenty of food in the above-mentioned little rodents, as well as in the young birds, and in the bodies of the marine animals which are cast ashore by the tides. White bears are scarcely ever seen during the summer, and the reindeer seems to have decreased in numbers, at least on the west coast, where they are frequently shot by the Russian morse-hunters.

The hosts of sea-birds in some parts of the coast prove that the waters are far more prolific than the land. The foolish guillemots (Uria troile), closely congregated in rows, one above the other, on the narrow ledges of vertical rock-walls, make the black stone appear striped with white. Such a breeding-place is called by the Russians a bazar. On the summit of isolated cliffs, and suffering no other bird in his vicinity, nestles the large gray sea-mew (Larus glaucus), to whom the Dutch whale-catchers have given the name of “burghermaster.” While the ice-bear is monarch of the land animals, this gull appears as the sovereign lord of all the sea-birds around, and no guillemot would venture to dispute the possession of a dainty morsel claimed by the imperious burghermaster.

This abundance of the sea has also attracted man to the desert shores of Nova Zembla. Long before Barentz made Western Europe acquainted with the existence of Nova Zembla (1594–96), the land was known to the Russians as a valuable hunting or fishing ground; for the Dutch discoverer met with a large number of their vessels on its coast. Burrough, who visited the port of Kola in 1556, in search of the unfortunate Willoughby, and thence sailed as far as the mouth of the Petschora, likewise saw in the gulf of Kola no less than thirty lodjes, all destined for walrus-hunting in Nova Zembla.

Whether, before the Russians, the adventurous Norsemen ever visited these desolate islands, is unknown, but so much is certain, that ever since the times of Barentz the expeditions of the Muscovites to its western coast have been uninterruptedly continued. As is the case with all fishing speculations, their success very much depends upon chance. The year 1834 was very lucrative, so that in the following season about eighty ships, with at least 1000 men on board, sailed for Nova Zembla from the ports of the White Sea, but this time the results were so unsatisfactory that in 1836 scarce half the number were fitted out. In 1837 no more than twenty vessels were employed, and Von Baer relates that but one of them which penetrated into the sea of Kara made a considerable profit, while all the rest, with but few exceptions, did not pay one-half of their expenses.

The most valuable animals are the walrus and the white dolphin, or beluga. Among the seals, the Phoca albigena of Pallas distinguishes itself by its size, the thickness of its skin, and its quantity of fat; Phoca grœnlandica and Phoca hispida rank next in estimation. The Greenland whale never extends his excursions to the waters of Nova Zembla, but the fin-back and the grampus are frequently seen.

The Alpine salmon (Salmo alpinus), which towards autumn ascends into the mountain-lakes, is caught in incredible numbers; and, finally, the bean-goose (Anser segetum) breeds so frequently, at least upon the southern island, that the gathering of its quill-feathers is an object of some importance.

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Their ancient History and Conversion to Christianity.—Self-denial and Poverty of the Lapland Clergy.—Their singular Mode of Preaching.—Gross Superstition of the Lapps.—The Evil Spirit of the Woods.—The Lapland Witches.—Physical Constitution of the Lapps.—Their Dress.—The Fjälllappars.—Their Dwellings.—Store-houses.—Reindeer Pens.—Milking the Reindeer.—Migration.—The Lapland Dog.—Skiders, or Skates.—The Sledge, or Pulka.—Natural Beauties of Lapland.—Attachment of the Lapps to their Country.—Bear-hunting.—Wolf-hunting.—Mode of Living of the wealthy Lapps.—How they kill the Reindeer.—Visiting the Fair.—Mammon Worship.—Treasure-hiding.—“Tabak, or Braende.”—Affectionate Disposition of the Lapps.—The Skogslapp.—The Fisherlapp.

The nation of the Lapps spreads over the northern parts of Scandinavia and Finland from about the 63d degree of latitude to the confines of the Polar Ocean; but their number, hardly amounting to more than twenty thousand, bears no proportion to the extent of the vast regions in which they are found. Although now subject to the crowns of Russia, Sweden, and Norway, they anciently possessed the whole Scandinavian peninsula, until the sons of Odin drove them farther and farther to the north, and, taking possession of the coasts and valleys, left them nothing but the bleak mountain and the desolate tundra. In the thirteenth century, under the reign of Magnus Ladislas, King of Sweden, their subjugation was completed by the Birkarls, a race dwelling on the borders of the Bothnian Gulf. These Birkarls had to pay the crown a slight tribute, which they wrung more than a hundred-fold from the Lapps, until at length Gustavus I. granted the persecuted savages the protection of more equitable laws, and sent missionaries among them to relieve them at the same time from the yoke of their ancient superstitions. In 1600 Charles IX. ordered churches to be built in their country, and, some years after, his son and successor, the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, founded a school for the Lapps at Pitea, and ordered several elementary works to be translated into their language. In the year 1602, Christian IV., King of Denmark and Norway, while on a visit to the province of Finmark, was so incensed at the gross idolatry of the Lapps that he ordered their priests or sorcerers to be persecuted with bloody severity. A worthy clergyman, Eric Bredal, of Drontheim, used means more consonant with the spirit of the Gospel, and, having instructed several young Lapps, sent them back again as missionaries to their families. These interpreters of a purer faith were, however, received as apostates and traitors by their suspicious countrymen, and cruelly murdered, most likely at the instigation of the sorcerers. In 1707 Frederic IV. founded the Finmark mission, and in 1716 Thomas Westen, a man of rare zeal and perseverance, preached the Gospel in the wildest districts of the province. Other missionaries and teachers followed his example, and at length succeeded in converting the Lapps, and in some measure conquering their ancient barbarism. Nothing can be more admirable than the self-denial and heroic fortitude of these ministers of Christ, for to renounce all that is precious in the eyes of the world to follow nomads little better than savages through the wilds of an Arctic country surely requires a courage not inferior to that of the soldier

The Lapland schoolmaster enjoys an annual salary of twenty-five dollars, and receives besides half a dollar for every child instructed. But the priest is not much better off, as his stipend amounts to no more than thirty dollars in money, and to about 150 dollars in produce. Among this miserably paid clergy there are, as in Iceland, men worthy of a better lot. The famous Löstadius was priest at Karesuando, seventy-five leagues from Tromsö, the nearest town, and a hundred leagues from Tornea. His family lived upon rye bread and fishes, and but rarely tasted reindeer flesh. Chamisso mentions another Lapland priest who had spent seven years in his parish, which lay beyond the limits of the forest region. In the summer he was completely isolated, as then the Lapps wandered with their herds to the cool shores of the icy sea; and in the winter, when the moon afforded light, he travelled about in his sledge, frequently bivouacking at the temperature of freezing mercury, to visit his Lapps. During all that time his solitude had been but twice broken by civilized man; a brother had come to see him, and a botanist had strayed to his dwelling. He well knew how to appreciate the pleasure of such meetings, but neither this pleasure nor any other, he said, was equal to that of seeing the sun rise again above the horizon after the long winter’s night.

It is a singular custom that the pastors preaching to the Lapps deliver their harangues in a tone of voice as elevated as if their audience, instead of being assembled in a small chapel, were stationed upon the top of a distant mountain, and labor as if they were going to burst a bloodvessel. Dr. Clarke, who listened to one of these sermons, which lasted one hour and twenty minutes, ventured to ask the reason of the very loud tone of voice used in preaching. The minister said he was aware that it must appear extraordinary to a stranger, but that, if he were to address the Laplanders in a lower key, they would consider him as a feeble and impotent missionary, wholly unfit for his office, and would never come to church; that the merit and abilities of the preacher, like that of many a popular politician, are always estimated by the strength and power of his lungs.

Though the Lapps (thanks to the efforts of their spiritual guides) hardly even remember by name the gods of their fathers—Aija, Akka, Tuona—they still pay a secret homage to the Saidas, or idols of wood or stone, to whom they were accustomed to sacrifice the bones and horns of the reindeer. They are in fact an extremely superstitious race, faithfully believing in ghosts, witchcraft, and above all in Stallo, or Troller, the evil spirit of the woods.

Many of them, when about to go hunting, throw a stick into the air, and then take their way in the direction to which it points. The appearance of the Aurora borealis fills them with terror, as they believe it to be a sign of divine wrath, and generally shout and howl during the whole duration of the grand phenomenon, which their ignorance connects with their own petty existence.

The pretended gift of being able to predict future events is common among the Laplanders. The sorcerers fall into a magic sleep, during which their soul wanders. In this state, like the somnambules of more polished nations, they reveal things to come or see what passes at a distance. Men and women affect the power of fortune-telling by the common trick of palmistry, or by the inspection of a cup of liquor; and this, to insure the greatest possible certainty, must be a cup of brandy, which at once explains the whole business of the prophecy. The Lapland witches pretended, or perhaps still pretend, to the power of stilling the wind or causing the rain to cease, and such was their reputation that English seamen trading to Archangel made it a point to land and buy a wind from these poor creatures.

The Lapps are a dwarfish race. On an average, the men do not exceed five feet in height, many not even reaching four, and the women are considerably less. Most of them are, however, very robust, the circumference of their chest nearly equalling their height. Their complexion is more or less tawny and copper-colored, their hair dark, straight, and lank, its dangling masses adding much to the wildness of their aspect. They have very little beard, and as its want is considered a beauty, the young men carefully eradicate the scanty supply given them by nature.

Their dark piercing eyes are generally deep sunk in their heads, widely separated from each other, and, like those of the Tartars or Chinese, obliquely slit towards the temples. The cheek-bones are high, the mouth pinched close, but wide, the nose flat. The eyes are generally sore, either in consequence of the biting smoke of their huts or of the refraction from the snow, so that a Lapp seldom attains a high age without becoming blind. Their countenances generally present a repulsive combination of stolidity, low cunning, and obstinacy. Hogguer, who dwelt several months among them, and saw during this time at least 800 Lapps, found not twenty who were not decidedly ugly; and Dr. Clarke says that many of them, when more advanced in years, might, if exhibited in a menagerie of wild beasts, be considered as the long-lost link between man and ape.

Their legs are extremely thick and clumsy, but their hands are as small and finely shaped as those of any aristocrat. The reason for this is that from generation to generation they never perform any manual labor, and the very trifling work which they do is necessarily of the lightest kind. Their limbs are singularly flexible, easily falling into any posture, like all the Oriental nations, and their hands are constantly occupied in the beginning of conversation with filling a short tobacco-pipe, the head being turned over one shoulder to the person addressed. Such are the traits by which the whole tribe is distinguished from the other inhabitants of Europe, and in which they differ from the other natives of the land in which they live.

The summer garb of the men consists of the “poesk,” a sort of tunic, generally made of a very coarse light-colored woollen cloth, reaching to the knees, and fastened round the waist with a belt or girdle. Their woollen caps are shaped precisely like a night-cap, or a Turkish fez, with a red tassel and red worsted band round the rim, for they are fond of lively hues strongly contrasted. Their boots or shoes are made of the raw skin of the reindeer, with the hair outward, and have a peaked shape. Though these shoes are very thin, and the Lapp wears no stockings, yet he is never annoyed by the cold or by striking against stones, as he stuffs them with the broad leaves of the Carex vesicaria, or cyperus grass, which he cuts in summer and dries. This he first combs and rubs in his hands, and then places it in such a manner that it covers not only his feet but his legs also, and, being thus guarded, he is quite secure against the intense cold. With this grass, which is an admirable non-conductor of heat, he likewise stuffs his gloves in order to preserve his hands. But as it wards off the cold in winter, so in summer it keeps the feet cool, and is consequently used at all seasons. The women’s apparel differs very little from that of the other sex, but their girdles are more ornamented with rings and chains. In winter both sexes are so packed up in skins as to look more like bears than human beings, and, when squatting according to the fashion of their country, exhibit a mound of furs, with the head resting upon the top of it.

According to their different mode of life, the Lapps may be aptly subdivided into Fjälllappars, or Mountain Lapps; Skogslappars, or Wood Lapps; and Fisherlapps.

The Fjälllappars, who form the greater and most characteristic part of the nation, lead an exclusively pastoral life, and are constantly wandering with their herds of reindeer from place to place, for the lichen which forms the chief food of these animals during the greater part of the year is soon cropped from the niggard soil, and requires years for its reproduction. For this reason, also, this people do not herd together, and never more than three or four families pitch their huts, or tuguria, upon the same spot. Of course the dwelling of the nomad Lapp harmonizes with his vagrant habits; a rude tent, which can easily be taken to pieces, and as easily erected, is all he requires to shelter his family and chattels. It consists of flexible stems of trees, placed together in a conical form, like a stack of poles for hops, and covered in the summer with a coarse cloth, in winter with additional skins, to be better fenced against the inclemencies of the climate. To form the entrance, a part of the hanging, about eighteen inches wide at the bottom, and terminating upward in a point, is made to turn back as upon hinges. The hearth, consisting of several large stones, is in the centre, and in the roof immediately above it is a square opening for the escape of smoke and the admission of rain, snow, and air. All the light which the den receives when the door is closed comes from this hole. The diameter of one of these conical huts generally measures at its base no more than six feet; its whole circumference, of course, does not exceed eighteen feet, and its extreme height may be about ten feet. The floor is very nearly covered with reindeer skins, on which the inmates squat during the day and sleep at nights, contracting their limbs together and huddling round their hearth, so that each individual of this pigmy race occupies scarcely more space than a dog. On the side of the tent are suspended a number of pots, wooden bowls, and other household utensils; and a small chest contains the holiday apparel of the family. Such are the dwellings of those among the Laplanders who are called wealthy, and who sometimes possess very considerable property.

Near the tent is the dairy or store-house of the establishment. It consists of nothing more than a shelf or platform, raised between two trees, so as to be out of the reach of the dogs or wolves. The means of ascent to this treasury of curds, cheese, and dried reindeer flesh, is simply a tree stripped of its branches, but presenting at every foot or so knobs, which serve the same purpose as staves on a ladder, the tree being obliquely reared against the platform.

Another characteristic feature of a Lapp encampment is found in the inclosures in which the reindeer are penned during the night or for the purpose of milking. These are circus-like open places, each of a diameter of about one hundred and fifty feet, and are formed by stumps of trees and poles set upright on the ground, and linked together by horizontal poles. Against the latter are reared birch poles and branches of trees, varying from six to ten feet in height, without the slightest attempt at neatness, the whole being as rude as well can be—a sufficient security against the wolves being all that its builders desire. The milking of a herd of reindeer presents a most animated scene. When they have been driven within the inclosure, and all outlets are secured, a Lapp, selecting a long thong or cord, takes a turn of both ends round his left hand, and then gathers what sailors call the bight in loose folds, held in his right. He now singles out a reindeer, and throws the bight with unerring aim over the antlers of the victim. Sometimes the latter makes no resistance, but in general the moment it feels the touch of the thong it breaks away from the spot, and is only secured by the most strenuous exertions. Every minute may be seen an unusually powerful deer furiously dragging a Lapp round and round the inclosure, and sometimes it fairly overcomes the restraint of the thong, and leaves its antagonist prostrate on the sod. This part of the scene is highly exciting, and it is impossible not to admire the trained skill evinced by all the Lapps, women as well as men. The resistance of the deer being overcome, the Lapp takes a dexterous hitch of the thong round his muzzle and head, and then fastens him to the trunk of a prostrate tree, many of which have been brought within the level inclosure for that especial purpose. Men and women are indiscriminately engaged both in singling out milch reins and in milking them. Every one is fully occupied, for even the little children are practising the throwing of the lasso, in which they evince great dexterity, although their strength is insufficient to hold the smallest doe.

When the pasture in the neighborhood is fully exhausted, which generally takes place in about a fortnight, the encampment is broken up, to be erected again on some other spot. In less than half an hour the tent is taken to pieces, and packed with all the household furniture upon the backs of reindeer, who by long training acquire the capacity of serving as beasts of burden. On the journey they are bound together, five and five, with thongs of leather, and led by the women over the mountains, while the father of the family precedes the march to select a proper place for the new encampment, and his sons or servants follow with the remainder of the herd.

Towards the end of spring the Lapps descend from the mountains to the sea. When they approach its borders, the reindeer, sniffing the sea air from a distance, rush tumultuously to the fjord, where they take long draughts of the salted water. This, as the Lapps believe, is essential to their health. As the summer advances, and the snow melts, they ascend higher and higher into the mountains. At the approach of winter they retreat into the woods, where, with the assistance of their dogs and servants, they have enough to do to keep off the attacks of the wolves. The reindeer dog is about the size of a Scotch terrier, but his head bears a wonderful resemblance to that of the lynx. His color varies considerably, but the hair is always long and shaggy. Invaluable as are his services, he is nevertheless treated with great cruelty.

For their winter journeys the Lapps use sledges or skates. One of their skates, or “skiders,” is usually as long as the person who wears it; the other is about a foot shorter. The feet stand in the middle, and to them the skates are fastened by thongs or withes. The skiders are made of fir-wood, and covered with the skins of young reindeer, which obstruct a retrograde movement by acting like bristles against the snow—the roots pointing towards the fore part of the skate, and thus preventing their slipping back. With these skiders, the Lapp flies like a bird over the snow, now scaling the mountains by a tortuous ascent, and now darting down into the valley:

Such is the rapidity of his course that he will overtake the swiftest wild beasts; and so violent the exercise that, during the most rigorous season of the year, when earnestly engaged in the chase, he will divest himself of his furs. A long pole with a round ball of wood near the end, to prevent its piercing too deep in the snow, serves to stop the skater’s course when he wishes to rest. The Laplander is no less expert in the use of the sledge, or “pulka,” which is made in the form of a small boat with a convex bottom, that it may slide all the more easily over the snow; the prow is sharp and pointed, but the sledge is flat behind. The traveller is swathed in this carriage like an infant in a cradle, with a stick in his hand to steer the vessel, and disengage it from the stones or stumps of trees which it may chance to encounter in the route. He must also balance the sledge with his body, to avoid the danger of being overturned. The traces by which this carriage is fastened to the reindeer are fixed to a collar about the animal’s neck, and run down over the breast between the fore and hind legs, to be connected with the prow of the sledge; the reins managed by the traveller are tied to the horns, and the trappings are furnished with little bells, the sound of which the animal likes. With this draught at his tail, the reindeer will travel sixty or seventy English miles in a day; often persevering fifty miles without intermission, and without taking any refreshment, except occasionally moistening his mouth with the snow. His Lapland driver knows how to find his way through the wilderness with a surprising certainty; here a rock, there a fir-tree, is impressed as a landmark on his faithful memory, and thus, like the best pilot, he steers his sledge to the distant end of his journey. Frequently the Aurora lights him on his way, illumining the snow-covered landscape with a magic brilliancy, and investing every object with a dream-like, supernatural beauty.

But even without the aid of this mysterious coruscation, Lapland is rich in grand and picturesque features, and has all the romance of the mountain and the forest. In summer countless rivulets meander through valleys of alpine verdure, and broad pellucid rivers rush down the slopes in thundering cataracts, embracing islands clothed with pine-trees of incomparable dignity and grace. Whoever has grown up in scenes like these, and been accustomed from infancy to the uncontrolled freedom of the nomad state, receives impressions never to be erased; and thus we can not wonder that the wild Laplander believes his country to be a terrestrial paradise, and feels nowhere happy but at home.

In the year 1819 a Scotch gentleman attempted to acclimatize the reindeer in Scotland, and induced two young Laplanders to accompany the herd which he had bought for that purpose. The reindeer soon perished, and the Laplanders would have died of nostalgia if they had not been sent home by the first opportunity. Prince Jablonowsky, a Polish nobleman, who travelled about thirty years since through a part of Russian Lapland, took a Lapp girl with him to St. Petersburg. He gave her a superior education, and she was well treated in every respect. She made rapid progress, and seemed to be perfectly reconciled to her new home. About two years after her arrival, it happened that a Russian gentleman, who possessed extensive estates near the capital, bought a small herd of reindeer, which arrived under the guidance of a Lapp family. As it was winter-time, and these people had brought with them their tents, their sledges, and their snow-shoes, they soon became objects of curiosity, and crowds of fashionable visitors flocked to their encampment; among others, the good-natured prince, who imprudently conducted his pupil, the young Lapland girl, to see her countrymen, an interview which he supposed would give her great pleasure. But from that moment she became an altered being; she lost her spirits and her appetite, and, in spite of every care and attention, her health declined from day to day. One morning she disappeared, and it was found on inquiry that she had returned to her family, where she remained ever after.

Another very remarkable instance of the Laplanders’ love of their country is related by Hogström. During the war of Gustavus III. with Russia, a young Laplander enlisted in a regiment which was passing through Tornea. He served in several campaigns as a common soldier, was made a sergeant in consequence of his good conduct and courage; and having given himself the greatest trouble to improve his education and acquire military knowledge, at length, after twenty years of service, attained the rank of captain in the Swedish army. After this long time spent in the civilized world, and having become accustomed to all its enjoyments and comforts, he felt a strong desire to revisit his family and his country. Scarcely had he seen his native mountains, and spent a few days among his countrymen and the reindeer, than he at once quitted the service, and resumed the nomad life of his youth.

The Laplander’s chief desire is for peace and tranquillity. Exposed to all the privations of a vagrant life, and to every inclemency of weather, he endures the greatest hardships with equanimity, desiring only not to be disturbed in the enjoyment of the little that is his—not to be interfered with in his old customs and habits.

Yet this same peaceful Laplander, who has so easily submitted to a foreign yoke, is one of the boldest hunters, and not only pursues the elk or the wild reindeer, but engages in single combat with the bear. Like all the other Arctic nations of Russia and Siberia, he has strange notions about this animal, which in his opinion is the most cunning and gifted of all created beings. Thus he supposes that the bear knows and hears all that is said about him, and for this reason he takes good care never to speak of him disrespectfully. It may seem strange that he should venture to slay an animal which ranks so high in his esteem; but the temptation is too strong, as its flesh has an excellent flavor, and its fur, though not near so valuable as that of the American black bear, is still worth from fifteen to twenty dollars.

At the beginning of winter, the bear, as is well known, retires either into a rocky cave, or under a cover of branches, leaves, and moss, and remains there without food, and plunged in sleep until the next spring recalls him to a more active existence. After the first fall of snow, the Lapp hunters go into the forest and look out for traces of the bear. Having found them, they carefully mark the spot, and returning after a few weeks disturb the slumbering brute, and excite him to an attack. It is not considered honorable to shoot him while sleeping; and in many parts of Lapland the hunter who would kill a bear with any other weapon but a lance would be universally despised. Hogguer accompanied two Lapps, well-armed with axes and stout lances with barbed points, on one of these bear-hunts. When about a hundred paces from the lair the company halted, while one of the Lapps advanced shouting, telling his comrades to make as much noise as they could. When about twenty paces from the cavern, he stood still and flung several stones into it. For some time all was quiet, so that Hogguer began to fear that the lair was deserted, when suddenly an angry growl was heard. The hunters now redoubled their clamor, until slowly, like an honest citizen disturbed in his noonday slumbers, the bear came out of his cavern. But this tranquillity did not last long, for the brute, as soon as he perceived his nearest enemy, uttered a short roar and rushed upon him. The Lapp coolly awaited the onset with his lance in rest, until the bear, coming quite near, raised himself on his haunches and began to strike at him with his fore paws. The hunter bent down to avoid the strokes, and then suddenly rising, with a sure eye and with all his might, plunged his lance into the heart of the bear. During this short conflict the Lapp had received a slight wound on the hand, but the marks of the bear’s teeth were found deeply impressed upon the iron of the lance. According to an ancient custom, the wives of the hunters assemble in the hut of one of them; and as soon as they hear the returning sportsmen, begin chanting or howling a song in praise of the bear. When the men, laden with the skin and flesh of the animal, approach, they are received by the women with opprobrious epithets, and forbidden ingress through the door; so that they are obliged to make a hole in the wall, through which they enter with their spoils. This comedy, which is meant to pacify the manes of the victim, is still acted, though not so frequently as formerly; but the custom of begging the bear’s pardon with many tears is completely out of date. The animal’s interment, however, still takes place with all the ancient honors and ceremonies. After having been skinned, and its flesh cut off, the body is buried in anatomical order—the head first, then the neck, the fore paw, etc. This is done from a belief in the resurrection of the bear, who having been decently buried, will, it is hoped, allow himself to be killed a second time by the same Lapp; while a neglect of the honors due to him would exasperate the whole race of bears, and cause them to wreak a bloody vengeance on the disrespectful hunter.

The wolf is treated with much less ceremony. Many a wealthy Lapp, the owner of a thousand reindeer, has been reduced to poverty by the ravages of this savage beast, which is constantly prowling about the herds. Hence one of the first questions they put to each other when they meet is, “Lekor rauhe?” “Is it peace?”—which means nothing more than, “Have the wolves molested you?” Such is their detestation of these animals that they believe them to be creatures of the devil, contaminating all that touches them while alive. Thus they will never shoot a wolf, as the gun that killed him would ever after be accursed.

At the first alarm that wolves have appeared, the neighbors assemble, and the chase begins. For miles they pursue him over hills and valleys on their “skiders,” and kill him with clubs, which they afterwards burn. They will not even defile themselves with skinning him, but leave his hide to the Finnish or Russian colonists, who, being less scrupulous or superstitious, make a warm cloak of it, or sell it for a few dollars at the fair.

Among the Fjall Lapps there are many rich owners of 1000 or 1500 reindeer, 300 of which fully suffice for the maintenance of a family. In this case the owner is able to kill as many as are necessary for providing his household with food and raiment, while the sale of the superfluous skins and horns enables him to purchase cloth, flour, hardware, and other necessary articles—not to forget the tobacco or the brandy in which he delights. The price of the entire carcass of a reindeer, skin and all, varies from one to three dollars Norsk (four shillings and sixpence to thirteen shillings and sixpence). A fine skin will always sell for one dollar in any part of the North. It will thus be seen that a Lapp possessing a herd of 500 or 1000 deer is virtually a capitalist in every sense of the word, far richer than the vast majority of his Norwegian, Swedish, or Russian fellow-subjects, although they all affect to look upon him with supreme contempt.

The daily food of the mountain Laplanders consists of the fattest reindeer venison, which they boil, and eat with the broth in which it has been cooked. Their summer diet consists of cheese and reindeer-milk. The rich also eat bread baked upon hot iron plates.

Their mode of killing the reindeer is the method used by the butchers in the South of Italy—the most ancient and best method of slaying cattle, because it is attended with the least pain to the animal, and the greatest profit to its possessor. They thrust a sharp-pointed knife into the back part of the head between the horns, so as to divide the spinal marrow from the brain. The beast instantly drops, and dies without a groan or struggle. As soon as it falls, and appears to be dead, the Laplander plunges the knife dexterously behind the off-shoulder into the heart; then opening the animal, its blood is found in the stomach, and ladled out into a pot. Boiled with fat and flour, it is a favorite dish.

An important epoch in the life of the Fjall Lapp is his annual visit to one of the winter fairs held in the chief towns or villages which the more industrious Swedes, Norwegians, or Fins have founded on the coasts here and there, or in the well-watered valleys of his fatherland, and which he attends frequently from an immense distance. After a slight duty to Government has been paid, business begins; but as every bargain is ratified with a full glass of brandy, his thoughts get confused before the day is half over—a circumstance which the cunning merchant does not fail to turn to account. On awaking the next morning, the vexation of the nomad at his bad bargains is so much the greater, as no people are more avowed mammon-worshippers than the Lapps, or more inclined to sing, with our Burns:—

Their sole object seems to be the amassing of treasure for the sole purpose of hoarding it. The avarice of a Lapp is gratified in collecting a number of silver vessels or pieces of silver coin; and being unable to carry this treasure with him on his journeys, he buries the whole, not even making his wife acquainted with the secret of its deposit, so that when he dies the members of his family are often unable to discover where he has hidden it. Some of the Lapps possess a hundred-weight of silver, and those who own 1500 or 1000 reindeer have much more; in short, an astonishing quantity of specie is dispersed among them. Silver plate, when offered to them for sale, must be in a polished state, or they will not buy it; for such is their ignorance, that when the metal, by being kept buried, becomes tarnished, they conceive that its value is impaired, and exchange it for other silver, which being repolished, they believe to be new. The merchants derive great benefit from this traffic.

Brandy and tobacco are the chief luxuries of the Lapps. The tobacco-pipe is never laid aside except during meals; it is even used by the women, who also swallow spirits as greedily as the men; in fact, both sexes will almost part with life itself for the gratification of dram-drinking. If you walk up to a Lapp, uncouthly squatted before his tent, his very first salutation is made by stretching forth a tawny hand and demanding, in a whining tone, “Tabak” or “Braendi.” Dr. Clarke relates an amusing instance of their propensity for spirituous liquors. On his very first visit to one of their tents, he gave the father of the family about a pint of brandy, thinking he would husband it with great care, as he had seen him place it behind him upon his bed near the skirting of the tent. The daughter now entered, and begged for a taste of the brandy, as she had lost her share by being absent. The old man made no answer, but when the request was repeated, he slyly crept round the outside of the tent until he came to the spot where the brandy was, when, thrusting his arm beneath the skirting, he drew it out, and swallowed the whole contents of the bottle at a draught.

The practice of dram-drinking is so general that mothers pour the horrid dose down the throats of their infants. Their christenings and funerals become mere pretexts for indulging in brandy. But their mild and pacific disposition shows itself in their drunkenness, which is manifested only in howling, jumping, and laughing, and in a craving for more drams with hysteric screams until they fall senseless on the ground—while at the same time they will suffer kicks, cuffs, blows, and provocations of any kind without the smallest irascibility. When sober they are as gentle as lambs, and the softness of their language, added to their effeminate shrill tone of voice, remarkably corresponds with their placable disposition. An amiable trait in the character of the Lapp is the warmth of his affection towards his wife, his children, and his dependents. Nothing can exceed the cordiality of their mutual greetings after separations, and it is to be feared that but few married men in England could match the Lapp husband who assured Castrén that during thirty years of wedlock no worse word had passed between himself and his wife than “Loddad-sham,” or “My little bird.”

In spite of his fatiguing life, and the insufficient shelter afforded him by his hut, the Fjall Lapp is generally vigorous and healthy, and not seldom lives to a hundred years age. Continual exercise in the open air braces his constitution, his warm clothing protects him against the cold of winter, and his generous meat diet maintains his strength. To prevent the scurvy, he eats the berries of the Empetrum nigrum or Rubus chamæmorus, and mixes the stems of the Angelica among his food. But his chief remedy against this and every other bodily evil is warm reindeer-blood, which he drinks with delight as a universal panacea.

The Skogs Lapp, or Forest Lapp, occupies an intermediate grade between the Fjall Lapp and the Fisher Lapp, as fishing is his summer occupation, and hunting and the tending of his reindeer that of the winter months. His herds not being so numerous as those of the Fjall Lapp, he is not driven to constant migration to procure them food; but they require more care than his divided pursuits allow him to bestow upon them, and hence he inevitably descends to the condition of the Fisher Lapp. Lästadius describes his life as one of the happiest on earth—as a constant change between the agreeable pastime of fishing and the noble amusement of the chase. He is not, like the Mountain Lapp, exposed to all the severity of the Arctic winter, nor so poor as the Fisher Lapp. He is often heard to sing under the green canopy of the firs.

The villages of the Fisher Lapps—as they are found, for instance, on the banks of Lake Enara—afford a by no means pleasing spectacle.

About the miserable huts, which are shapeless masses of mingled earth, stones, and branches of trees, and scarcely equal to the dwellings of the wretched Fuegians, heaps of stinking fish and other offal taint the air with their pestilential odors. When a stranger approaches, the inmates come pouring out of their narrow doorway so covered with dirt and vermin as to make him recoil with disgust. Not in the least ashamed, however, of their appearance, they approach the stranger and shake his hand according to the code of Lapp politeness. After this preliminary, he may expect the following questions: “Is peace in the land? How is the emperor, the bishop, and the captain of the district?” The more inquisitive of the filthy troop then ask after the home of the stranger, and being told that it is beyond the mountains, they further inquire if he comes from the land where tobacco grows. For as our imagination loves to wander to the sunny regions,

so the fancy of the Lapp conceives no greater paradise than that which produces the weed that, along with the brandy-bottle, affords him his highest luxury.

---

His Birthplace and first Studies.—Journey in Lapland, 1838.—The Iwalojoki.—The Lake of Enara.—The Pastor of Utzjoki.—From Rowaniémi to Kemi.—Second Voyage, 1841–44.—Storm on the White Sea.—Return to Archangel.—The Tundras of the European Samojedes.—Mesen.—Universal Drunkenness.—Sledge Journey to Pustosersk.—A Samojede Teacher.—Tundra Storms.—Abandoned and alone in the Wilderness.—Pustosersk.—Our Traveller’s Persecutions at Ustsylmsk and Ishemsk.—The Uusa.—Crossing the Ural.—Obdorsk.—Second Siberian Journey, 1845–48.—Overflowing of the Obi.—Surgut.—Krasnojarsk.—Agreeable Surprise.—Turuchansk.—Voyage down the Jenissei.—Castrén’s Study at Plachina.—From Dudinka to Tolstoi Noss.—Frozen Feet.—Return Voyage to the South.—Frozen fast on the Jenissei.—Wonderful Preservation.—Journey across the Chinese Frontiers, and to Transbaikalia.—Return to Finland.—Professorship at Helsingfors.—Death of Castrén, 1855.

Matthias Alexander Castrén, whose interesting journeys form the subject of the present chapter, was born in the year 1813, at Rowanièmi, a Finland village situated about forty miles from the head of the Gulf of Bothnia, immediately under the Arctic Circle; so that, of all men who have attained celebrity, probably none can boast of a more northern birthplace. While still a scholar at the Alexander’s College of Helsingfors, he resolved to devote his life to the study of the nations of Finnish origin (Fins, Laplanders, Samojedes, Ostjaks, etc.); and as books gave but an insufficient account of them, each passing year strengthened his desire to visit these tribes in their own haunts, and to learn from themselves their languages, their habits, and their history.

We may imagine, therefore, the joy of the enthusiastic student, whom poverty alone had hitherto prevented from carrying out the schemes of his youth, when Dr. Ehrström, a friend and medical fellow-student, proposed to take him as a companion, free of expense, on a tour in Lapland. No artist that ever crossed the Alps on his way to sunny Italy could feel happier than Castrén at the prospect of plunging into the wildernesses of the Arctic zone.

On June 25, 1838, the friends set out, and arrived on the 30th at the small town of Muonioniska, where they remained six weeks—a delay which Castrén put to good account in learning the Lapp language from a native catechist. At length the decreasing sun warned the travellers that it was high time to continue their journey, if they wished to see more of Lapland before the winter set in; and after having, with great difficulty, crossed the mountain ridge which forms the water-shed between the Gulf of Bothnia and the Polar Sea, they embarked on the romantic Iwalojoki, where for three days and nights the rushing waters roared around them. In spite of these dangerous rapids, they were obliged to trust themselves to the stream, which every now and then threatened to dash their frail boat to pieces against the rocks. Armed with long oars, they were continually at work during the daytime to guard against this peril; the nights were spent near a large fire kindled in the open air, without any shelter against the rain and wind.

The Iwalo River is, during the greater part of its course, encased between high rocks; but a few miles before it discharges itself into the large Lake of Enara, its valley improves into a fine grassy plain. Small islands covered with trees divide the waters, which now flow more tranquilly; soon also traces of culture appear, and the astonished traveller finds in the village of Kyrö, not wretched Lapland huts, but well-built houses of Finnish settlers, with green meadows and cornfields.

The beautiful Lake of Enara, sixty miles long and forty miles broad, is so thickly studded with islands that they have never yet been counted. After the travellers had spent a few days among the Fisher Lapps who sojourn on its borders, they proceeded northward to Utzjoki, the limit of their expedition, and one of the centres of Lapland civilization, as it boasts of a church, which is served by a man of high character and of no little ability. On accepting his charge, this self-denying priest had performed the journey from Tornea in the depth of winter, accompanied by a young wife and a female relation of the latter, fifteen years of age. He had found the parsonage, vacated by his predecessor, a wretched building, distant some fifteen miles from the nearest Lapp habitation. After establishing himself and his family in this dreary tenement, he had returned from a pastoral excursion to find his home destroyed by a fire, from which its inmates had escaped with the loss of all that they possessed. A miserable hut, built for the temporary shelter of the Lapps who resorted thither for divine service, afforded the family a refuge for the winter. He had since contrived to build himself another dwelling, in which our party found him, after five years’ residence, the father of a family, and the chief of a happy household. Gladly would the travellers have remained some time longer under his hospitable roof, but the birds of passage were moving to the south, warning them to follow their example.

Thus they set out, on August 15, for their homeward voyage, which proved no less difficult and laborious than the former. At length, after wandering through deserts and swamps—frequently wet to the skin, and often without food for many hours—they arrived at Rowanièmi, where they embarked on the Kemi River.

“With conflicting feelings,” says Castrén, “I descended its stream; for every cataract was not only well-known to me from the days of my earliest childhood, but the cataracts were even the only acquaintances which death had left me in the place of my birth. Along with the mournful impressions which the loss of beloved relations made upon my mind, it was delightful to renew my intercourse with the rapid stream and its waterfalls—those boisterous playfellows, which had often brought me into peril when a boy. Now, as before, it was a pleasant sport to me to be hurried along by their tumultuous waters, and to be wetted by their spray. The boatmen often tried to persuade me to land before passing the most dangerous waterfalls, and declared that they could not be answerable for my safety. But, in spite of all their remonstrances, I remained in the boat, nor had I reason to repent of my boldness, for He who is the steersman of all boats granted us a safe arrival at Kemi, where our Lapland journey terminated.”9

In 1841 Castrén published a metrical translation, into the Swedish language, of the “Kalewala,” a cycle of the oldest poems of the Fins; and at the end of the same year proceeded on his first great journey to the land of the European Samoïedes, and from thence across the northern Ural Mountains to Siberia. In the famous convent of Solovetskoi, situated on a small island in the White Sea, he hoped to find a friendly teacher of the Samoïede language in the Archimandrite Wenjamin, who had labored as a missionary among that savage people, but the churlish dignitary jealously refused him all assistance; and as the tundras of the Samoïedes are only accessible during the winter, he resolved to turn the interval to account by a journey among the Terski Lapps, who inhabit the western shores of the White Sea. With this view, in an evil hour of the 27th June, 1842, though suffering at this time from illness severe enough to have detained any less persevering traveller, he embarked at Archangel in a large corn-laden vessel, with a reasonable prospect of being landed at Tri Ostrowa in some twenty-four hours; but a dead calm detained him eight days, during which he had no choice but to endure the horrible stench of Russian sea-stores in the cabin or the scorching sun on deck. At length a favorable wind arose, and after a few hours’ sailing nothing was to be seen but water and sky. Soon the Terski coast came in view, with its white ice-capped shore, and Castrén hoped soon to be released from his floating prison, when suddenly the wind changed, and, increasing to a storm, threatened to dash them on the cliffs of the Solovetskoi Islands.

“Both the captain and the ship’s company began to despair of their lives; and prayers having been resorted to in vain, to conjure the danger, general drunkenness was the next resource. The captain, finding his own brandy too weak to procure the stupefaction he desired, left me no peace till I had given him a bottle of rum. After having by degrees emptied its contents, he at length obtained his end, and fell asleep in the cabin. The crew, following his example, dropped down one by one into their cribs, and the ship was left without guidance to the mercy of the winds and waves. I alone remained on deck, and gloomily awaited the decisive moment. But I soon discovered that the wind was veering to the east, and, awaking the captain from his drunken lethargy, sent him on deck, and took possession of his bed. Exhausted by the dreadful scenes of the day, I soon fell into a deep slumber; and when I awoke the following morning, I found myself again on the eastern coast of the White Sea, at the foot of a high sheltering rock-wall.”

Continued bad weather and increasing illness now forced Castrén to give up his projected visit to the Lapps, and when he returned to Archangel, both his health and his purse were in a sad condition. He had but fifteen roubles in his pocket, but fortunately found some Samoïede beggars still poorer than himself, one of whom, for the reward of an occasional glass of brandy, consented to become at once his host, his servant, and his private tutor in the Samoïede language. In the hut and society of this savage he passed the remainder of the summer, his health improved, and soon also his finances changed wonderfully for the better—the Government of Finland having granted him a thousand silver roubles for the prosecution of his travels. With a light heart he continued his linguistic studies until the end of November, when he started with renewed enthusiasm for the land of the European Samoïedes. These immense tundras extend from the White Sea to the Ural Mountains, and are bounded on the north by the Polar Sea, and on the south by the region of forests, which here reaches as high as the latitudes of 66° and 67°.

The large river Petschora divides these dreary wastes into two unequal halves, whose scanty population, as may easily be imagined, is sunk in the deepest barbarism. It consists of nomadic Samoïedes, and of a few Russians, who inhabit some miserable settlements along the great stream and its tributary rivers.

To bury himself for a whole year in these melancholy deserts, Castrén left Archangel in November, 1842. As far as Mesen, 345 versts north of Archangel, the scanty population is Russ and Christian. At Mesen civilization ceases, and farther north the Samoïede retains for the most part, with his primitive habits and language, his heathen faith—having, in fact, borrowed nothing from occasional intercourse with civilized man but the means and practice of drunkenness. Castrén’s first care, on his arrival at Mesen, was to look for a Samoïede interpreter and teacher; but he was as unsuccessful here as at Somsha, a village some forty versts farther on, where drunkenness was the order of the day. He took the most temperate person he could find in all Somsha into his service, but even this moderate man would, according to our ideas, have been accounted a perfect drunkard. He now resolved to try the fair sex, and engaged a female teacher, but she also could not remain sober. At length a man was introduced to him as the most learned person of the tundra, and at first it seemed as if he had at length found what he wanted; but after a few hours the Samoïede began to get tired of his numerous questions, and declared himself ill. He threw himself upon the floor, wailed and lamented, and begged Castrén to have pity on him, until at length the incensed philologist turned him out-of-doors. Soon after he found him lying dead drunk in the snow before the “Elephant and Castle” of the place.

Thus obliged to look for instruction elsewhere, Castrén resolved to travel, in the middle of winter, to the Russian village of Pustosersk, at the mouth of the Petschora, where the fair annually attracts a number of Samoïedes. During this sledge-journey of 700 versts, he had to rest sometimes in the open air on the storm-beaten tundra, and sometimes in the rickety tent of the Samoïede, or in the scarcely less wretched hut of the Russian colonist—where the snow penetrated through the crevices of the wall, where the flame of the light flickered in the wind, and a thick cloak of wolf-skin afforded the only protection against the piercing cold of the Arctic winter.

For this arduous tour, two sledges, with four reindeer attached to each, were employed—the traveller’s sledge, which was covered, being attached to an uncovered one occupied by the guide. The Kanin Tundra stretched out before them, as they flew along, almost as naked as the sea, of which they saw the margin in the east; and had not the wind here and there driven away the snow which Heaven in its mercy strews over this gloomy land, they might have been in doubt on which element they were travelling. Daily, from time to time, some dwarf firs made their appearance, or clumps of low willows, which generally denote the presence of some little brook slowly winding through the flat tundra.

The village of Ness, on the north coast, was the first halting-place, and here Castrén flattered himself he had at length found what his heart desired, in the person of a Samoïede teacher who knew Russian, and was gifted with a clearer head than is usually possessed by his race.

“The man was conscious of his superiority, and while acting as a professor looked down with contempt upon his weaker brethren. Once, some other Samoïedes venturing to correct one of his translations, he commanded them to be silent, telling them they were not learned. I tried by all possible means to secure the services of this Samoïede phenomenon. I spoke kindly with him, I paid him well, gave him every day his allowance of brandy, and never once forbade him to get drunk when he felt inclined to do so. Yet, in spite of all my endeavors to please, he felt unhappy, and sighed for the liberty of the tundra. ‘Thou art kind, and I love thee,’ said he one day to me, ‘but I can not endure confinement. Be therefore merciful, and give me my freedom.’

“I now increased his daily pay and his rations of brandy, sent for his wife and child, treated his wife also with brandy, and did all I could to dispel the melancholy of the Samoïede. By these means I induced him to remain a few days longer with me.

“While I was constantly occupying him, the wife was busy sewing Samoïede dresses, and sometimes assisted her husband in his translations. I often heard her sighing deeply, and having asked for the reason, she burst into tears, and answered that she grieved for her husband, who was thus imprisoned in a room. ‘Thy husband,’ was my reply, ‘is not worse off than thyself. Tell me, what do you think of your own position?’ ‘I do not think of myself—I am sorrowful for my husband,’ was her ingenuous reply. At length both the husband and the wife begged me so earnestly to set them at liberty that I allowed them to depart.”

On the way from Pjoscha to Pustosersk, after Castrén had once more vainly endeavored to discover that rara avis, a Samoïede teacher, he became thoroughly acquainted with the January snow-storms of the tundra: “The wind arose about noon, and blew so violently that we could not see the reindeer before our sledges. The roof of my vehicle, which at first had afforded me some protection, was soon carried away by the gale. Anxious about my fate, I questioned my guides, whenever they stopped to brush off the snow which had accumulated upon me, and received the invariable answer, ‘We do not know where we are, and see nothing.’ We proceeded step by step, now following one direction, now another, until at length we reached a river well known to the guides. The leader of the first sledge hurried his reindeer down the precipitous bank, and drove away upon the ice to seek a more convenient descent; but as he did not return, the other guide likewise left me to look after his companion, and thus I was kept waiting for several hours on the tundra, without knowing where my guides had gone to.

“At first I did not even know that they had left me, and when I became aware of the fact, I thought that they had abandoned me to my fate. I will not attempt to describe my sensations; but my bodily condition was such, that when the cold increased with the approach of night, I was seized with a violent fever. I thought my last hour was come, and prepared for my journey to another world.”

The re-appearance of the guides relieved Castrén of his anxiety, and when the little party reached some Samoïede huts, the eldest of the guides knelt down at the side of our traveller’s sledge and expressed his joy in a prayer to God, begging Castrén to join him in his thanksgivings, “for He, and not I, has this night saved thee.”

The next morning, as the weather seemed to improve, and the road (along the Indiga River) to the next Russian settlement was easy to find, Castrén resolved to pursue his journey. “But the storm once more arose, and became so dreadfully violent that I could neither breathe nor keep my eyes open against the wind. The roaring of the gale stupefied my senses. The moist snow wetted me during the day, and the night converted it into ice. Half frozen, I arrived after midnight at the settlement. The fatigues of the journey had been such that I could scarcely stand; I had almost lost my consciousness, and my sight had suffered so much from the wind that I repeatedly ran with my forehead against the wall. The roaring of the storm continually resounded in my ears for many hours after.”

A few days later Castrén arrived at Pustosersk, undoubtedly one of the dreariest places in the world. With scarcely a trace of arboreal vegetation, the eye, during the greater part of the year, rests on an interminable waste of snow, where the cold winds are almost perpetually raging. The storms are so violent as not seldom to carry away the roofs of the huts, and to prevent the wretched inhabitants from fetching water and fuel. In this Northern Eden our indefatigable ethnologist tarried several months, as it afforded him an excellent opportunity for continuing his studies of the language, manners, and religion of the Samoïedes, who come to the fair of Pustosersk during the winter, to barter their reindeer skins for flour and other commodities, and at the same time to indulge in their favorite beverage—brandy. At length the Samoïedes retired, the busy season of the place was evidently at an end, and Castrén, having no further inducement to remain at Pustosersk, left it for the village of Ustsylmsk, situated 150 versts higher up the Petschora, where he hoped still to find some straggling Samoïedes. The road to Ustsylmsk leads through so desolate a region, that, according to the priests of the neighborhood, it can not have been originally created by God with the rest of the world, but must have been formed after the Deluge. Near Ustsylmsk (65° 30´ N. lat.) the country improves, as most of the northern trees grow about the place; but, unfortunately, a similar praise can not be awarded to its inhabitants, whom Castrén found to be the most brutal and obstinate Raskolniks (or sectarians) he had ever seen. Without in the least caring for the Ten Commandments, and indulging in every vice, these absurd fanatics fancied themselves better than the rest of mankind, because they made the sign of the cross with the thumb and the two last fingers, and stood for hours together before an image in stupid contemplation. Our homeless traveller soon became the object of their persecutions; they called him “wizard,” “a poisoner of rivers and wells,” and insulted him during his walks. At length they even attempted to take his life, so that he thought best to retreat to Ishemsk, on the Ishma, a hundred versts farther to the south. But, unfortunately, his bad reputation had preceded him, and although the Isprawnik (or parish official) and his wife warmly took his part, the people continued to regard him with suspicion.

Towards the end of June Castrén ascended the Petschora and its chief tributary, the Uusa, as far as the village of Kolwa, where he spent the remainder of the summer, deeply buried as usual in Samoïede studies. Beyond Kolwa, which he left on September 16 for Obdorsk, there is not a single settlement along the Uusa and its tributaries.

As he ascended the river, the meadows on its low banks appeared colored with the gray tints of autumn. Sometimes a wild animal started from its lair, but no vestige of man was to be seen. Countless flocks of wild ducks and geese passed over the traveller’s head, on their way southward.

After many a tedious delay, caused by storms and contrary winds, Castrén reached (on September 27) a wretched hut, about forty versts from the Ural, where he was obliged to wait a whole month, with fourteen other persons, until the snow-track over the mountains became practicable for sledges.

The total want of every comfort, the bad company, the perpetual rain, and the dreary aspect of the country, made his prolonged stay in this miserable tenement almost unbearable. At length, on October 25, he was able to depart, and on November 3 he saw the Ural Mountains raising their snow-capped summits to the skies. “The weather is mild,” said his Samoïede driver, “and thou art fortunate, but the Ural can be very different.” He then described the dreadful storms that rage over the boundary-chain which separates Europe from Asia, and how they precipitate stones and rocks from the mountain-tops.

This time the dreaded pass was crossed in safety, and on November 9, 1843, Castrén arrived at Obdorsk, on the Obi, exhausted in strength and shattered in health, but yet delighted to find himself in Asia, the land of his early dreams. Obdorsk—the most northerly colony in Western Siberia, and, as may easily be imagined, utterly deficient in all that can be interesting to an ordinary traveller—was as much as a university to the zealous student, for several thousands of Samoïedes and Ostiaks congregate to its fair from hundreds of versts around.

No better place could possibly be found for the prosecution of his researches; but the deplorable condition of his health did not allow him to remain as long as he would have desired at this fountain-head of knowledge. He was thus obliged to leave for Tobolsk, and to return in March, 1844, by the shortest road to Finland.

In the following summer (1845) we again find him on the banks of the Irtysch and the Obi, plunged in Ostiak studies with renewed energy and enthusiasm. After having sojourned for several weeks at Toropkowa, a small island at the confluence of these two mighty streams, he ascended the Obi in July as far as Surgut, where he arrived in the beginning of August.

In consequence of the overflowing of its waters, the river had spread into a boundless lake, whose monotony was only relieved, from time to time, by some small wooded island or some inundated village. The rising of the stream had spread misery far and wide, for many Ostiak families had been obliged to abandon their huts, and to seek a refuge in the forests. Those who had horses and cows had the greatest difficulty to keep them alive; and as all the meadows were under water, and the autumn, with its night-frosts, was already approaching, there was scarcely any hope of making hay for the winter.

As Castrén proceeded on his journey, the low banks of the river rose above the waters, and appeared in all their wild and gloomy desolation. The number of inhabitants along the Obi is utterly insignificant when compared with the wide extent of the country; and as hunting and fishing are their chief occupations, nothing is done to subdue the wilderness. The weary eye sees but a dull succession of moors, willow bushes, dry heaths, and firs on the higher grounds. Near every flourishing tree stands another bearing the marks of decay. The young grass is hemmed in its growth by that of the previous year, which even in July gives the meadow a dull ash-gray color. Cranes, wild ducks, and geese are almost the only living creatures to be seen. From Siljarski to Surgut, a distance of 200 versts, there are but three Russian villages; and the Ostiaks, who form the main part of the population, generally live along the tributary rivers, or erect their summer huts on the smaller arms of the Obi, where they can make a better use of their very imperfect fishing implements than on the principal stream.

Surgut, once a fortress, and the chief town of the Cossack conquerors of Siberia, is now reduced to a few miserable huts, scattered among the ruins of repeated conflagrations.

Here Castrén remained till September 24, occupied with the study of the various dialects of the neighboring Ostiak tribes, and then ascended the Obi as far as Narym, a distance of 800 versts. Most of the fishermen had already retired from the banks of the river, and a death-like stillness, rarely interrupted by an Ostiak boat rapidly shooting through the stream, reigned over its waters.

Fortunately the weather was fine, at least during the first days of the journey; and the green river-banks, the birds singing in the trees, and the sunbeams glancing over the wide mirror of the Obi, somewhat enlivened the monotony of the scene.

After having enjoyed at Narym a remarkably mild Siberian winter, as no crows had been frozen to death, and having increased his knowledge of the Ostiak dialects, Castrén proceeded in the following spring, by way of Tomsk, to Krasnojarsk, on the Jenissei, where he arrived in April, 1846, and was welcomed in a most agreeable and unexpected manner. It will be remembered that during his stay at Ishemsk, in the tundra of the Samoïedes, he found warm-hearted friends and protectors against the insane bigotry of the Raskolniks in the Isprawnik and his young and amiable wife. Of the latter it might truly be said that she was like a flower born to blush unseen in the desert. Remarkably eloquent, she was no less talented in expressing her thoughts by writing; and yet she was only the daughter of a serf who had been exiled to Krasnojarsk, and had spent a great part of a small property, acquired by industry and economy, in the education of his gifted daughter. The Isprawnik, a young Pole of insinuating manners, having gained her affections, she had accompanied him to Ishemsk as his wife.

From what Castrén had told her three years since about his future plans, she knew that he would probably arrive about this time at Krasnojarsk, and had written a letter, which reached its destination only a few hours before him. It was to her father, earnestly begging him to pay every attention to the homeless stranger. The feelings of Castrén may easily be imagined when the old man knocked at his door, and brought him these friendly greetings from a distance of 6000 versts.10

But his stay at Krasnojarsk was not of long duration, for he was impatient to proceed northward, for the purpose of becoming acquainted with the tribes dwelling along the Jenissei, after having studied their brethren of the Obi. From June till the end of July, his literary pursuits detained him at Turuchansk, where, in the vicinity of the Arctic Circle, he had much to suffer from the heat and the mosquitoes. In the beginning of August the signs of approaching winter made their appearance, the cold north wind swept away the leaves from the trees, the fishermen retired to the woods, and the ducks and geese prepared to migrate to the south. And now Castrén also took leave of Turuchansk—not however, like the birds, for a more sunny region, but to bury himself still deeper in the northern wilds of the Jenissei. Below Turuchansk the river begins to flow so languidly, that when the wind is contrary, the boat must be dragged along by dogs, and advances no more than from five to ten versts during a whole day. Thus the traveller has full time to notice the willows on the left bank, and the firs on the right; the ice-blocks, surviving memorials of the last winter, which the spring inundations have left here and there on the banks of the vast stream; and the countless troops of wild birds that fly with loud clamor over his head.

About 365 versts below Turuchansk is situated Plachina, the fishing-station of a small tribe of Samoïedes, among whom Castrén tarried three weeks. He had taken possession of the best of the three huts of which the place consisted, but even this would have been perfectly intolerable to any one but our zealous ethnologist. Into his study the daylight penetrated so sparingly through a small hole in the wall, that he was often obliged to write by the light of a resinous torch in the middle of the day.

The flame flickering in the wind, which blew through a thousand crevices, affected his eyes no less severely than the smoke, which at the same time rendered respiration difficult. Although the roof had been repaired, yet during every strong rain—and it rained almost perpetually—he was obliged to pack up his papers, and to protect himself from the wet as if he had been in the open air. From this delightful residence, Castrén, still pursuing his study of the Samoïede dialects, proceeded down the river to Dudinka, and finally, in November, to Tolstoi Noss, whose pleasant climate may be judged of by the fact that it is situated in the latitude of 71°. This last voyage was performed in a “balok,” or close sledge, covered with reindeer skins. The tediousness of being conveyed like a corpse in a dark and narrow box, induced him to exchange the “balok” for an open sledge; but the freezing of his feet, of his fingers, and of part of his face, soon caused him to repent of his temerity. As soon as this accident was discovered at the next station, Castrén crept back again into his prison, and was heartily glad when, after a nine days’ confinement, he at length arrived at Tolstoi Noss, which he found to consist of four wretched huts. Here again he spent several weeks studying by torchlight, for the sun had made his last appearance in November, and the day was reduced to a faint glimmering at noon. In January we find him on his return-voyage to Turuchansk, a place which, though not very charming in itself, appeared delightful to Castrén after a six months’ residence in the tundras beyond the Arctic Circle.

Turuchansk can boast at least of seeing some daylight at all seasons of the year, and this may be enjoyed even within-doors, for Turuchansk possesses no less than four houses with glass windows. Longing to reach this comparatively sunny place, Castrén, against his usual custom, resolved to travel day and night without stopping, but his impatience well-nigh proved fatal to him. His Samoïede guide had not perceived in the dark that the waters of the Jenissei, over which they were travelling, had oozed through fissures in the ice, and inundated the surface of the river far and wide. Thus he drove into the water, which of course was rapidly congealing; the reindeer were unable to drag the sledge back again upon the land, and Castrén stuck fast on the river, with the agreeable prospect of being frozen to death. From this imminent danger he was rescued by a wonderful circumstance. Letters having arrived from the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg, a courier had been dispatched from Turuchansk to convey them to Castrén. This courier fortunately reached him while he was in this perilous situation, helped him on land, and conducted him to a Samoïede hut, where he was able to warm his stiffened limbs.

After such a journey, we can not wonder that, on arriving at Turuchansk, he was so tormented with rheumatism and toothache as to be obliged to rest there several days. With sore joints and an aching body, he slowly proceeded to Jeniseisk, where he arrived on April 3, 1847, in a wretched state of health, which however had not interrupted his Ostiak studies on the way. I rapidly glance over his subsequent travels, as they are but a repetition of the same privations and the same hardships, all cheerfully sustained for the love of knowledge. Having somewhat recruited his strength at Jeniseisk, he crossed the Sajan Mountains to visit some Samoïedes beyond the Russian frontier—a journey which, besides the usual fatigues, involved the additional risk of being arrested as a spy by the Chinese authorities; and the year after he visited Transbaikalia, to make inquiries among the Buriat priests about the ancient history of Siberia.

Having thus accomplished his task, and thoroughly investigated the wild nations of the Finnish race from the confines of the Arctic Sea to the Altai—a task which cost him his health, and the best part of his energies—he longed to breathe the air of his native country. But neither the pleasures of home, nor a professorship at the University of Helsingfors, richly earned by almost super-human exertions, were able to arrest the germs of disease, which journeys such as these could scarcely fail to plant even in his originally robust constitution. After lingering some years, he died in 1855, universally lamented by his countrymen, who justly mourned his early death as a national loss.

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For what Purpose was Middendorff’s Voyage to Taimurland undertaken?—Difficulties and Obstacles.—Expedition down the Taimur River to the Polar Sea.—Storm on Taimur Lake.—Loss of the Boat.—Middendorff ill and alone in 75° N. Lat.—Saved by a grateful Samoïede.—Climate and Vegetation of Taimurland.

On following the contours of the Siberian coast, we find to the east of Nova Zembla a vast tract of territory projecting towards the Pole, and extending its promontories far into the icy sea. This country—which, from its principal river, may be called Taimurland—is the most northern, and, I need hardly add, the most inhospitable part of the Old World. The last huts of the Russian fishermen are situated about the mouth of the Jenissei, but the whole territory of the Taimur River, and the regions traversed by the lower course of the Chatanga and the Päsina, are completely uninhabited.

Even along the upper course of these two last-named rivers, the population is exceedingly scanty and scattered; and the few Samoïedes who migrate during the summer to the banks of the Taimur, gladly leave them at the approach of winter, the cold of which no thermometer has ever measured. As may easily be imagined, Taimurland has but few attractions for the trader or the fur-hunter, but for the naturalist it is by no means without interest.

We have seen in a former chapter how Von Baer, prompted by the disinterested love of science, travelled to Nova Zembla to examine the productions of a cold insular summer beyond the 70th degree of latitude. The instructive results of his journey rendered it doubly desirable to obtain information about the effects of summer in a continental climate, situated if possible still farther to the north; and as no region could be better suited to this purpose than the interior of the broad mass of Taimurland, the Academy of Sciences of St. Petersburg resolved to send thither a scientific expedition. Fortunately for the success of the undertaking, Von Middendorff, the eminent naturalist, whose offer of service was gladly accepted, was in every respect the right man in the right place; for to the most untiring scientific zeal, and an unwavering determination, he joined a physical strength and a manual dexterity rarely found united with learning. In the Lapland moors he had learned to bivouac for nights together, while chasing the waterfowl, and on foot he was able to tire the best-trained walrus-hunter. He understood how to construct a boat, and to steer it with his own hand, and every beast or bird was doomed that came within reach of his unerring ball. In one word, no traveller ever plunged into the Arctic wilds more independent of baggage, followers, or the means of transport.

On April 4 we find Middendorff, accompanied by Mr. Brandt, a Danish forester, and a single servant, on the ice of the Jenissei between Turuchansk and Dudino. Here his companions were attacked by measles; but as it was high time to reach the Chatanga before the melting of the snow, the patients were carefully packed up in boxes lined with skins, and the whole party—whose numbers, meanwhile, had been increased by the addition of a topographer and of three Cossacks—emerged from the region of forests on April 13, having to face a cold of -36°, and a storm that almost overturned their sledges. With Tunguse guides they traversed the tundra in a north-easterly direction as far as the Päsina, and thence passing on from one Samoïede horde to another, at length reached Koronnoie Filippowskoi (71° 5´ lat.) on the Boganida, an affluent of the Cheta, which is itself a tributary of the Chatanga. Here a halt was made, partly because all the party except Middendorff were by this time attacked with the reigning epidemic, and partly to wait for the Samoïedes, whom they intended to join on their summer migration to the north. During this interval Middendorff made an excursion to the Chatanga, for the purpose of gathering information about the voyage down that river, and to make the necessary preparations. In the village of Chatangsk, however, he found nearly all the inhabitants suffering from the measles; and as no assistance was to be expected from them, he resolved to alter his route, and to proceed as soon as possible to the River Taimur, which would in all probability afford him the best means for penetrating to the extreme confines of continental Asia. As this most northerly river of the Old World lies far beyond the boundaries of arboreal growth, a boat-frame of twelve feet on the keel had to be made at Koronnoie before setting out. Brandt was left behind with part of the company, to make a prolonged series of meteorological observations, and to gather as complete a collection as possible of the animals and plants of the country, while Middendorff started on his adventurous tour (May 19) with sixty-eight reindeer, under the guidance of a few Samoïedes on their progress to the north, and accompanied only by the topographer, an interpreter, and two Cossacks. The difficulties of this journey, since a boat-frame, fuel, provisions, physical instruments, apparatuses for the preservation of objects of natural history, forming altogether a load for many sledges, had to be transported along with the travellers, would have been great at all times, but were now considerably increased by the epidemic having also seized the tribe of Samoïedes which Middendorff expected to find near the small River Nowaia, and which was to guide him farther on to the Taimur. At length, after a search of three days, he found the remnant of the horde, which had been decimated and reduced to a deplorable condition by the epidemic. In vain he sought for the well-known faces of the chief personages of the horde, with whom he had negotiated on the Boganida—“they were all dead.” Of thirty-five persons, one only was completely healthy; a second could hardly crawl about; but the others lay prostrate in their tents, coughing and groaning under their skin coverings. Leaving seven corpses on the road, they had advanced by slow journeys to join Middendorff, until they broke down, so that instead of receiving aid at their hands, he was now obliged to help them in their distress—an assistance which they amply repaid, as we shall see in the sequel.

Unfortunately the illness had prevented the Samoïede women from sewing together, as they had promised, the skins that were necessary to complete the covering of the travellers’ tent, so that they had much to suffer during a violent snow-storm, which raged from May 27 to 30. Thus after another long delay and an irreparable loss of time, considering the extreme shortness of the summer, Middendorff was not able to start from the Nowaia before May 31. The softening of the snow rendered the advance of the sledges extremely difficult, so that it was not before June 14 that he reached the Taimur at a considerable distance above the point where the river discharges its waters into the lake. Encamping on a steep declivity of its bank, Middendorff now set about building his boat. On June 30 the ice on the river began to break up, and on July 5 the navigation of the stream was free. By the light of the midnight sun the boat was launched, and christened “The Tundra,” to commemorate the difficulties of its construction in the deserts of 74° N. lat. Constant north winds retarded the voyage down the river and over the lake, beyond which the Taimur, traversing a hilly country, is inclosed within steep and picturesque rocks. The increasing rapidity of the stream now favored the travellers, and the storms were less troublesome between the mighty rock-walls; but unfortunately Middendorff, instead of being able, as he had expected, to fill his nets with fish as he advanced, and to establish dépôts for his return journey, found himself obliged to consume the provisions he had taken with him in the boat. On August 6 the first night-frost took place, and from that time was regularly repeated. Yet in spite of these warnings, Middendorff continued his journey down the river, and reached the sea on August 24, in 76° N. lat. But now it was high time to return.

“The fear of leaving my undertaking half unfinished,” says Middendorff, “had hitherto encouraged me to persevere. The great distance from any human habitation, the rapid stream, against which we had now to contend, and the advanced season, with its approaching dark nights and frosts, made our return an imperative necessity, and I could have but little reliance on our remaining strength. The insufficient food and the fatigues of our journey, often prolonged to extreme exhaustion, had reduced our vigor, and we all began to feel the effects of our frequent wading through cold water, when, as often happened, our boat had grounded upon a shallow, or when the flat mud-banks of the river gave us no other alternative for reaching the dry land. It was now also the second month since we had not slept under a tent, having all the time passed the nights behind a screen erected on the oars of the boat, as a shelter against the wind. Provided with a good load of drift-wood, collected on the shore of the Polar Ocean, we began our return voyage on August 26. The borders of the river were already incrusted with ice. Wading became extremely irksome, the river having meanwhile fallen above six feet, and the shallows frequently forcing us to step into the water and pull the boat along.

“Fortunately the wind remained favorable, and thus by rowing to the utmost of our strength, and with the assistance of the broad sails of our ‘Tundra,’ we surmounted two rapids which, encased between abrupt rocks, seemed to defy our utmost efforts.

“On the 31st, a malicious gust of wind, bursting out of a narrow gorge, threw our boat against the rocks and broke the rudder. The frost and wet, together with the shortness of our provisions, tried us sorely. Not a day passed without sleet and snow.

“On September 5, while endeavoring to double during a violent storm a rocky island at the northern extremity of Lake Taimur, one wave after another dashed into the boat, which I could only save by letting her run upon a sand-bank. The violent wind, with a temperature of only +27° at noon, covered our clothes with solid ice-crusts. We were obliged to halt four days till the storm ceased; our nets and my double-barrelled gun proved daily more and more unsuccessful, so that hunger combined with cold to render our situation almost intolerable. On the 8th, while on the lookout for ptarmigan, I saw through my telescope a long stripe of silver stretching over the lake, and, returning to my comrades, informed them that we must absolutely set off again the next morning, regardless of wind and weather.

“On the following day the ominous indications of the telescope rendered it necessary to approach the more open west side of the lake; which I followed until stopped by the ice, along whose borders I then sailed in order to reach the river, which must still be open. Meanwhile the wind had completely fallen, and, to our astonishment, we saw the water in our wake cover itself with a thin crust of ice as soon as we passed. The danger of freezing fast in the middle of the lake was evident.”

Unfortunately, while endeavoring to reach the river, the boat was crushed between two ice floes, and was with great difficulty dragged on shore. The only chance of rescue now was to meet with some Samoïedes on the upper course of the river, for these nomads never wander northward beyond the southern extremity of the lake, and from this our travellers were still at a great distance.

“We made a large hand-sledge,” continues Middendorff, “and set off without loss of time on the 10th, in spite of the rainy weather, which had completely dissolved the sparing snow upon the hills. The sharp stones cut into our sledge-runners like knives, and after having scarcely made three versts, the vehicle fell to pieces. The bad weather forced us to stop for the night. The fatigues of our boat-journey, the want of proper food, and mental anxiety, had for several weeks been undermining my health: a total want of sleep destroyed the remainder of my strength, so that, early on the 11th, I felt myself quite unable to proceed.”

In this extremity Middendorff adopted with heroic self-denial the best and only means for his own preservation and that of his comrades. If, by departing without loss of time, they were fortunate enough to reach the Samoïedes before these nomads had left the Taimur country for the south, he also might be rescued; if they found them very late, they at least might expect to save their lives; if the Samoïedes could not be found, then of course the whole party was doomed. Thus Middendorff resolved to separate at once from his comrades. A remnant of flesh extract, reserved for extreme cases, was divided into five equal portions; the naturalist’s dog, the faithful companion of all his previous journeys, was killed, though reduced to a mere skeleton, and his scanty flesh similarly distributed among the party. The blood and a soup made of the bones served for the parting repast. Thus of his own free-will, the winter having already set in, Middendorff, ill and exhausted, remained quite alone in the icy desert, behind a sheltering rock, in 75° N. lat., several hundred versts from all human dwellings, almost without fuel, and with a miserable supply of food. The three first days he was still able to move. He saw the lake cover itself completely with ice, and the last birds depart for the south. Then his strength utterly failed him, and for the next three days he was unable to stir. When he was again able to move, he felt an excessive thirst. He crawled to the lake, broke the ice, and the water refreshed him. But he was not yet free from disease, and this was fortunate, as want of appetite did not make him feel the necessity of food. Now followed a succession of terrible snow-storms, which completely imprisoned the solitary traveller, but at the same time afforded him a better shelter against the wind.

“My companions,” he writes in a letter to a relation, “had now left me twelve days; human assistance could no longer be expected; I was convinced that I had only myself to rely upon, that I was doomed, and as good as numbered with, the dead. And yet my courage did not forsake me. Like our squirrels, I turned myself according to the changes of the wind. During the long sleepless nights fancy opened her domains, and I forgot even hunger and thirst. Then Boreas broke roaring out of the gullies as if he intended to sweep me away into the skies, and in a short time I was covered with a comfortable snow-mantle. Thus I lay three days, thinking of wretches who had been immured alive, and grown mad in their dreadful prison. An overwhelming fear of insanity befell me—it oppressed my heart—it became insupportable. In vain I attempted to cast it off—my weakened brain could grasp no other idea. And now suddenly—like a ray of light from heaven—the saving thought flashed upon me.

“My last pieces of wood were quickly lighted—some water was thawed and warmed—I poured into it the spirits from a flask containing a specimen of natural history, and drank. A new life seemed to awaken in me; my thoughts returned again to my family, to the happy days I had spent with the friends of my youth. Soon I fell into a profound sleep—how long it lasted I know not—but on awakening I felt like another man, and my breast was filled with gratitude. Appetite returned with recovery, and I was reduced to eat leather and birch-bark, when a ptarmigan fortunately came within reach of my gun. Having thus obtained some food for the journey, I resolved, although still very feeble, to set out and seek the provisions we had buried. Packing some articles of dress, my gun and ammunition, my journal, etc., on my small hand-sledge, I proceeded slowly, and frequently resting. At noon I saw, on a well-known declivity of the hills, three black spots which I had not previously noticed, and as they changed their position, I at once altered my route to join them. We approached each other—and, judge of my delight, it was Trischun, the Samoïede chieftain, whom I had previously assisted in the prevailing epidemic, and who now, guided by one of my companions, had set out with three sledges to seek me. Eager to serve his benefactor, the grateful savage had made his reindeer wander without food over a space of 150 versts where no moss grew.

“I now heard that my companions had fortunately reached the Samoïedes four days after our separation; but the dreadful snow-storms had prevented the nomads from coming sooner to my assistance, and had even forced them twice to retrace their steps.

“On September 30 the Samoïedes brought me to my tent, and on October 9 we bade the Taimur an eternal farewell. After five months we hailed with delight, on October 20, the verge of the forest, and on the following day we reached the smoky hut on the Boganida, where we had left our friends.”

Having thus accompanied Middendorff on his adventurous wanderings through Taimuria, I will now give a brief account of his observations on the climate and natural productions of this northern land.

The remark of Saussure that the difference of temperature between light and shade is greatest in summer, and in the high latitudes, was fully confirmed by Middendorff. While the thermometer marked -37° in the shade, the hillsides exposed to the sun were dripping with wet, and towards the end of June, though the mean temperature of the air was still below the freezing-point of water, the snow had already entirely disappeared on the sunny side of the Taimur River. Torrents came brawling down the hills; the swollen rivers rose forty or sixty feet above their winter level, and carried their icy covering along with them to the sea.

On August 3, in the very middle of the short Taimurian summer, in 74° 15´ of latitude, Middendorff hunted butterflies under the shelter of a hill, bare-footed and in light under-clothes. The thermometer rose in the sun to +68°, and close to the ground to +86°, while at a short distance on a spot exposed to the north-eastern air-current it fell at once to +27°.

The moisture of the air was very remarkable. In May thick snow-fogs almost perpetually obscured the atmosphere, so that it was impossible to ascertain the position of the sun. It appeared only in the evening, or about midnight, and then regularly a perpendicular column of luminous whiteness descended from its orb to the earth, and, widening as it approached the horizon, took the form and the appearance of a colossal lamp-flame, such as the latter appears when seen through the mists of a vapor bath. From the same cause parhelia and halos were very frequent.

During the daytime the snow-fogs, in perpetual motion, either entirely veiled the nearest objects, or magnified their size, or exhibited them in a dancing motion. In June the snow-fog became a vapor-fog, which daily from time to time precipitated its surplus of moisture in form of a light rain, but even then the nights, particularly after eleven o’clock, were mostly serene.

Experience proved, contrary to Arago’s opinion, that thunder-storms take place within the Arctic zone. The perpetual motion of the air was very remarkable. The sun had merely to disappear behind a cloud to produce at once a gust of wind. Towards the end of August, the southern and the northern air-currents, like two contending giants, began to strive for the mastery, until finally the storms raged with extreme violence. But in these treeless deserts their fury finds nothing to destroy.

It is impossible to form any thing like a correct estimate of the quantity of snow which annually falls in the highest latitudes. So much is certain that it can not be small, to judge by the violence and swelling of the rivers in spring. The summits of the hills, and the declivities exposed to the reigning winds, are constantly deprived of snow, which, however, fills up the bottom of the valleys to a considerable height. Great was Middendorff’s astonishment, while travelling over the tundra at the end of winter, to find it covered with no more than two inches, or at the very utmost half a foot, of snow; the dried stems of the Arctic plants everywhere peeping forth above its surface. This was the natural consequence of the north-easterly storms, which, sweeping over the naked plain, carry the snow along with them, and form the snow-waves, the compass of the northern nomads.

It is extremely probable that, on advancing towards the pole, the fall of snow gradually diminishes, as in the Alps, where its quantity likewise decreases on ascending above a certain height.

On measuring the thickness of the ice, Middendorff was very much surprised to find it nowhere, both in the lakes and on the river, thicker than eight feet, and sometimes only four and a half; its thickness being constantly proportionate to the quantity of snow with which it was covered. At first he could hardly believe that this simple covering could afford so efficacious a protection against the extreme cold of winter in the 74th degree of latitude, but the fact is well known to the Samoïedes, who, whenever they require water, always make the hole where the snow lies deepest.

The tundras of Taimuria were found to consist principally of arid plateaux and undulating heights, where the vegetation can not conceal the boulders and the sand of which the crust of the earth is formed.

The withered tips of the grasses scarcely differ in color from the dirty yellow-brown moss, and the green of the lower part of the stalks appears as through a veil. Nothing can be of a more dreary monotony than this vegetation when spread over a wide surface; but in the hardly perceptible depressions of the plains where the spring water is able to collect, a fresher green gains the upper hand, the stalks are not only longer, but stand closer together, and the grass, growing to a height of three or even four inches, usurps the place of the moss. Here and there small patches of Dryas octopetala, or Cassiope tetragona, and much more rarely a dwarf ranunculus, diversify the dingy carpet, yet without being able to relieve its wearisome character. But very different, and indeed truly surprising, is the aspect of the slopes which, facing the Taimur lake or river, are protected against the late and early frosts. Here considerable patches of ground are covered with a lively green, intermingled with gayly-colored flowers, such as the brilliant yellow Sieversia, the elegant Oxytropis, the blue and white Saxifragas, the red Armeria alpina, and a beautiful new species of Delphinium. All these various flowers are not dwarfs of stunted growth, for Polemones, Sisymbrias, Polygonums, and Papavers above a foot high decorate the slopes, and Middendorff found an islet in the Taimur covered like a field with a Senecio, of which some of the most conspicuous specimens were more than a foot and a half high, and bore no less than forty flowers above an inch in diameter.

The progress of vegetation is uncommonly rapid, so that, as Middendorff remarks, if any one wishes to see the grass grow, he must travel to the Taimur. Scarcely do the first leaves peep forth when the blossoms also appear, as if, conscious of the early approach of autumn, they felt the necessity of bringing their seeds to a rapid maturity under this wintry sky.

With regard to the animal creation, the general law of polar uniformity was fully confirmed in Taimurland. The same lemmings were found which people the whole north of Asia and America, and as high as 75° N. lat. they found the traces of the snow-hare, which inhabits the complete circle of the Arctic regions of the globe. The Arctic fox, everywhere at home in the treeless wastes, is here also pursued by the northern glutton; and following the herds of the reindeer, the wolves, and the Samoïedes, roams up and down the tundra. The ptarmigan, which in Scandinavia and on Melville Island feeds on berries and buds, appears also as a summer visitor at the mouth of the Taimur in 75° 4´ N. lat., and the ivory gull of the northern European seas likewise builds its nest on the rocks of that distant shore.

The more vigorous vegetation on the sheltered declivities of the Taimur provides food for a comparatively greater number of insects than is found on the coasts of Nova Zembla. Bees, hornets, and three different species of butterflies, buzzed or hovered round the flowers, and caterpillars could be gathered by dozens on the tundra, but their mortal enemies had pursued them even here; and ichneumon flies crept out of most of them. Two spiders, several flies, gnats, and tipulæ, a curculio, and half a dozen carabi completed Middendorff’s entomological list, to which, no doubt, further researches would have considerably added.

Thus, at the northern extremity of Asia, as in every other part of the world, the naturalist finds the confirmation of the general law that, where the means of life are given, life is sure to come forth.

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Their energetic Nationality.—Their Descent.—Their gloomy Character.—Summer and Winter Dwellings.—The Jakut Horse.—Incredible Powers of Endurance of the Jakuts.—Their Sharpness of Vision.—Surprising local Memory.—Their manual Dexterity.—Leather, Poniards, Carpets.—Jakut Gluttons.—Superstitious Fear of the Mountain-spirit Ljeschei.—Offerings of Horse-hair.—Improvised Songs.—The River Jakut.

The Jakuts are a remarkably energetic race, for though subject to the Muscovite yoke, they not only successfully maintain their language and manners, but even impose their own tongue and customs upon the Russians who have settled in their country. Thus in Jakutsk, or the “capital of the Jakuts,” as with not a little of national pride and self-complacency they style that dreary city, their language is much more frequently spoken than the Russian, for almost all the artisans are Jakuts, and even the rich fur-merchant has not seldom a Jakut wife, as no Russian now disdains an alliance with one of that nation.

At Amginskoie, an originally Russian settlement, Middendorff found the greatest difficulty in procuring a guide able to speak the Russian language, and all the Tunguse whom he met with between Jakutsk and Ochotsk understood and spoke Jakut, which is thus the dominant language from the basin of the Lena to the extreme eastern confines of Siberia. In truth, no Russian workman can compete with the Jakuts, whose cunning and effrontery would make it difficult even for a Jew to prosper among them.

Though of a Mongolian physiognomy, their language, which is said to be intelligible at Constantinople, distinctly points to a Turk extraction, and their traditions speak of their original seats as situated on the Baikal and Angora, whence, retreating before more powerful hordes, they advanced to the Lena, where in their turn they dispossessed the weaker tribes which they found in possession of the country. At present their chief abode is along the banks of that immense river, which they occupy at least as far southward as the Aldan. Eastward they are found on the Kolyma, and westward as far as the Jenissei. Their total number amounts to about 200,000, and they form the chief part of the population of the vast but almost desert province of Jakutsk.

They are essentially a pastoral people, and their chief wealth consists in horses and cattle, though the northern portion of their nation is reduced to the reindeer and the dog. Besides the breeding of horses, the Russian fur-trade has developed an industrial form of the hunter’s state, so that among the Jakuts property accumulates, and we have a higher civilization than will be found elsewhere in the same latitude, Iceland, Finland, and Norway alone excepted. Of an unsocial and reserved disposition, they prefer a solitary settlement, but at the same time they are very hospitable, and give the stranger who claims their assistance a friendly welcome. Villages consisting of several huts, or yourts, are rare, and found only between Jakutsk and the Aldan, where the population is somewhat denser. Beyond the Werchojansk ridge the solitary huts are frequently several hundred versts apart, so that the nearest neighbors sometimes do not see each other for years.

In summer the Jakut herdsmen live in urossy, light conical tents fixed on poles and covered with birch rind, and during the whole season they are perpetually employed in making hay for the long winter.

In 62° N. lat., and in a climate of an almost unparalleled severity, the rearing of their cattle causes them far more trouble than is the case with any other pastoral people. Their supply of hay is frequently exhausted before the end of the winter, and from March to May their oxen must generally be content with willow and birch twigs or saplings.

At the beginning of the cold season the Jackut exchanges his summer tent for his warm winter residence, or yourt, a hut built of beams or logs, in the form of a truncated pyramid, and thickly covered with turf and clay. Plates of ice serve as windows, and are replaced by fish-bladders or paper steeped in oil, as soon as the thaw begins. The earthen floor, for it is but rarely boarded, is generally sunk two or three feet below the surface of the ground. The seats and sleeping berths are ranged along the sides, and the centre is occupied by the tschuwal, or hearth, the smoke of which finds its exit through an aperture in the roof. Clothes and arms are suspended from the walls, and the whole premises exhibit a sad picture of disorder and filth. Near the yourt are stables for the cows, but when the cold is very severe, these useful animals are received into the family room. As for the horses, they remain night and day without a shelter, at a temperature when mercury freezes, and are obliged to feed on the withered autumnal grass which they find under the snow. These creatures, whose powers of endurance are almost incredible, change their hair in summer like the other quadrupeds of the Arctic regions. They keep their strength, though travelling perhaps for months through the wilderness without any other food than the parched, half-rotten grass met with on the way. They retain their teeth to old age, and remain young much longer than our horses. “He who thinks of improving the Jakut horse,” says Von Middendorff, “aims at something like perfection. Fancy the worst conceivable roads, and for nourishment the bark of the larch and willow, with hard grass-stalks instead of oats; or merely travel on the post-road to Jakutsk, and see the horses that have just run forty versts without stopping, and are covered with perspiration and foam, eating their hay in the open air without the slightest covering, at a temperature of -40°.”

But the Jakut himself is no less hardened against the cold than his faithful horse. “On December 9,” says Wrangell, “we bivouacked round a fire, at a temperature of -28°, on an open pasture-ground, which afforded no shelter against the northern blast. Here I had an excellent opportunity for admiring the unparalleled powers of endurance of our Jakut attendants. On the longest winter journey they take neither tents nor extra covering along with them, not even one of the larger fur-dresses. While travelling, the Jakut contents himself with his usual dress; in this he generally sleeps in the open air; a horse rug stretched out upon the snow is his bed, a wooden saddle his pillow. With the same fur jacket, which serves him by daytime as a dress, and which he pulls off when he lies down for the night, he decks his back and shoulders, while the front part of his body is turned towards the fire almost without any covering. He then stops his nose and ears with small pieces of skin, and covers his face so as to leave but a small opening for breathing—these are all the precautions he takes against the severest cold. Even in Siberia the Jakuts are called ‘men of iron.’ Often have I seen them sleeping at a temperature of -4° in the open air, near an extinguished bivouac fire, and with a thick ice-rind covering their almost unprotected body.”

Most of the Jakuts have an incredible sharpness of vision. One of them told Lieutenant Anjou, pointing to the planet Jupiter, that he had often seen yonder blue star devour a smaller one, and then after a time cast it out again.13 Their local memory is no less astonishing; a pool of water, a large stone, a solitary bush imprints itself deeply into their remembrance, and guides them after a lapse of years through the boundless wilderness. In manual dexterity they surpass all other Siberian nations, and some of their articles, such as their poniards and their leather, might figure with credit in any European exhibition. Long before the Russian conquest they made use of the iron ore on the Wilui to manufacture their own knives and axes, which, either from the excellence of the material or of the workmanship, rarely break, even in the severest cold—a perfection which the best Sheffield ware does not attain. Since time immemorial they have been acquainted with the art of striking fire with flint and steel, an invention unknown even to the ancient Greeks and Romans. Their leather is perfectly water-tight, and the women make carpets of white and colored skins, which are even exported to Europe. It is almost superfluous to mention that a people so capable of bearing hardships, so sharp-witted, and so eager for gain as the Jakuts must needs pursue the fur-bearing animals with which their forests abound with untiring zeal and a wonderful dexterity.

The horse renders the Jakut services not less important than those of the reindeer to the Samoïede or the Lapp. Besides using it for carrying or riding, the Jakut makes articles of dress out of its skin, and fishing-nets of its hair; boiled horse-meat is his favorite food, and sour mare’s milk, or kumyss, his chief beverage. Of the latter he also makes a thick porridge, or salamat, by mixing it with rye-flour, or the inner rind of the larch or fir tree, to which he frequently adds dried fish and berries, and, to render it perfect, a quantity of rancid fat, of which he is immoderately fond. He is in fact a gross feeder, and some professional gluttons are capable of consuming such astonishing masses as to shame the appetite even of an Esquimaux. During his stay at Jakutsk, Sir George Simpson put the abilities of two distinguished artists to the test, by setting two pouds of boiled beef and a poud of melted butter before them. Each of them got a poud of meat for his share; the butter they were allowed to ladle out and drink ad libitum. The one was old and experienced, the other young and full of zeal. At first the latter had the advantage. “His teeth are good,” said the elder champion, “but with the assistance of my saint (crossing himself), I will soon come up to him.”

When about half of their task was finished, Sir George left his noble guests to the care and inspection of his secretary, but when he returned a few hours after, he was informed that all was consumed, while the champions, stretched out on the floor, confirmed the secretary’s report, and expressed their thanks for the exorbitant meal they had enjoyed by respectfully kissing the ground. After one of these disgusting feats, the gorged gluttons generally remain for three or four days plunged in a torpid state like boa snakes, without eating or drinking, and are frequently rolled about on the ground to promote digestion. It may also be noticed, as a proof of the low state of intellectual culture among the Jakuts, that at every wedding among the richer class two professed virtuosi in the art of gormandizing are regularly invited for the entertainment of the guests. One of them is treated at the bridegroom’s expense, the other at that of the bride, and the party whose champion gains the victory considers it as a good omen for the future.

The Jakuts, besides being a pre-eminently pastoral people, are also the universal carriers to the east of the Lena. For beyond Jakutsk, the only roads are narrow paths leading through swamps, dense forests, or tangled bushes, so that the horse affords the only means of reaching the more even and lower countries where reindeer or dogs can be attached to sledges. Without the Jakut and his horse, the Russian would never have been able to penetrate to the Sea of Ochotsk, and from thence to the Aleutian chain; but for him, they never would have settled on the Kolyma, nor have opened a commercial intercourse with the Tchuktchi and the western Esquimaux.

Before the possession of the Amoor had opened a new road to commerce, thousands of pack-horses used annually to cross the Stanowoi hills on the way to Ochotsk; and when we consider the dreadful hardships of the journey, we can not wonder that the road was more thickly strewn with the skeletons of fallen horses than the caravan routes through the desert with the bones of famished camels. But the Jakut fears neither the icy cold of the bivouac nor the pangs of hunger, which, in spite of his wolfish voracity, he is able to support with stoical fortitude. He fears neither the storm on the naked hill, nor the gloom of the forest, nor the depth of the morass; and, bidding defiance to every thing else, fears only the invisible power of “Ljeschei,” the spirit of the mountain and the wood. The traveller wonders when he sees on an eminence crowned with firs an old tree from whose branches hang bunches of horse-hair. The Jakut who leads the caravan soon explains the mystery. He dismounts, and plucking a few hairs from the mane of his horse, attaches them with a great show of respect to a branch, as an offering to propitiate the favor of Ljeschei on the journey. Even those Jakuts who pass for Christians still pay this mark of respect to the dethroned divinity of their fathers; and there can be no doubt that they still retain the old belief in Schamanism, and an abject fear of all sorts of evil spirits.

While travelling they sing almost perpetually melancholy tunes, corresponding with the habitual gloom of their national character. The text has more variety and poetry, and generally celebrates the beauties of nature, the stately growth of the pine, the murmuring of the brook, or the grandeur of the mountain. The singers are mostly improvisatores, and to conciliate the favor of Ljeschei, they praise the desert through which they pass as if it were a paradise.

Like the impoverished Samoïede or Lapp, the indigent Jakut, who possesses neither cattle nor horses, settles near some stream. His only domestic animal is his dog, who carries the fish on a light sledge from the river-bank to his hut, or follows him into the woods on his hunting expeditions. With the skins of fur-bearing animals he pays his jassak, and is glad if the surplus allows him to indulge from time to time in the luxury of a pipe of Circassian tobacco.

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His distinguished Services as an Arctic Explorer.—From Petersburg to Jakutsk in 1820.—Trade of Jakutsk.—From Jakutsk to Nishne-Kolymsk.—The Badarany.—Dreadful Climate of Nishne-Kolymsk.—Summer Plagues.—Vegetation.—Animal Life.—Reindeer-hunting.—Famine.—Inundations.—The Siberian Dog.—First Journeys over the Ice of the Polar Sea, and Exploration of the Coast beyond Cape Shelagskoi in 1821.—Dreadful Dangers and Hardships.—Matiuschkin’s Sledge-journey over the Polar Sea in 1822.—Last Adventures on the Polar Sea.—A Run for Life.—Return to St. Petersburg.

The expeditions which had been sent out during the reign of the Empress Anna for the exploration of the Arctic shores of Eastern Siberia, had performed their task so badly as to leave them still almost totally unknown. To fill up this blank in geography, the Emperor Alexander ordered two new expeditions to be fitted out in 1820 for the purpose of accurately ascertaining the limits of these extreme frontiers of his immense empire. Of the one which, under Lieutenant Anjou, commenced its operations from the mouth of the Jana, and comprised within its range New Siberia and the other islands of the Lächow group, but little has been communicated to the public, all his papers having been accidentally burned; but the travels of Lieutenant von Wrangell, the commander of the second expedition, have obtained a world-wide celebrity. Starting from the mouths of the Kolyma, he not only rectified the errors of the coast-line of Siberia, from the Indigirka in the west to Koliutschin Island in the east, but more than once ventured in a sledge upon the Polar Ocean, in the hopes of discovering a large country supposed to be situated to the northward of Kotelnoi and New Siberia.

Wrangell left St. Petersburg on March 23, 1820, and experiencing in his journey of 3500 miles repeated alternations of spring and winter, arrived at Irkutsk, where the gardens were in full flower, on May 20.

After a month’s rest, a short journey brought him to the banks of the Lena, on which he embarked on June 27, to descend to Jakutsk, which he reached on July 27. This small town of 4000 inhabitants bears the gloomy stamp of the frigid north, for though it has a few good houses, its dwellings chiefly consist of the winter yourts of the Jakuts, with turf-covered roofs, doors of skins, and windows of talc or ice. The only “sight” of this dreary place is the old ruinous ostrog or wooden fort built by the Cossacks, the conquerors of the country, in 1647. Jakutsk is the centre of the interior trade of Siberia. To this place are brought, in enormous quantities, furs of all kinds, walrus-teeth, and mammoth-tusks, from distances of many thousand versts, to an amount of half a million pounds.

The commercial sphere of the Jakutsk merchants is of an immense extent. During a cold of ten and twenty degrees they set out for the Lächow Isles, for the fair of Ostrownoje, for Ochotsk, or Kjachta. Jakutsk merchants were the first who ventured in crazy ships across the Sea of Kamchatka, and discovered the island of Kadjiak, eighty degrees of longitude from their home.

On September 12 Wrangell left Jakutsk, where regular travelling ends, as from thence to Kolymsk, and generally throughout Northern Siberia, there are no beaten roads. The utmost that can be looked for are foot or horse tracks leading through morasses or tangled forests, and over rocks and mountains. Travellers proceed on horseback through the hilly country, and, on reaching the plains, use sledges drawn either by reindeer or dogs.

In this manner Wrangell crossed from the basin of the Lena to that of the Yana, never experiencing a higher temperature than +2°, and frequently enduring a cold of more than -12°, during the journey over the intervening hills, and then turning eastward, traversed the Badarany, a completely uninhabited desert, chiefly consisting of swamps. These Badarany never entirely dry up, even after the longest summer-drought. At that time a solid crust is formed, through which the horses frequently break, but they are preserved from totally sinking in the mire by the perpetually frozen underground. Nothing can be more dismal and dreary than the Badarany. As far as the eye reaches, nothing is to be seen but a covering of dingy moss, relieved here and there on some more elevated spots by wretched specimens of dwarf-larches. The winter is the only season for traversing this treacherous waste, but woe to the traveller should he be overtaken by a snow-storm, as for miles and miles there is no shelter to be found but that of some ruinous powarni, or post-station.

At length, fifty-two days after leaving Jakutsk, Wrangell arrived on November 2 at Nishne-Kolymsk, the appointed head-quarters of the expedition, where he was welcomed with a cold of -40°, or 72° below the freezing-point of water.

Even in Siberia the climate of this place is ill-reputed for its severity, which is as much due to its unfavorable position as to its high latitude (68° N.). The town stands on a low swampy island of the Kolyma, having on the west the barren tundra, and on the north the Arctic Ocean, so that the almost constant north-west winds have full scope for their violence, and cause frequent snow-storms even in summer.

The mean temperature of the whole year is only +14°. The river at Nishne-Kolymsk freezes early in September, but lower down, where the current is less rapid, loaded horses can sometimes cross on the ice as early as August 20, nor does the ice ever melt before June.

Although the sun remains fifty-two days above the horizon, the light, obscured by almost perpetual mists, is accompanied with little heat, and the solar disc, compressed by refraction into an elliptical form, may be looked at with the naked eye without inconvenience. In spite of the constant light, the common order of the parts of the day is plainly discernible. When the sun sinks down to the horizon, all nature is mute; but when, after a few hours, it rises in the skies, every thing awakens, the few little birds break out in feeble twitter, and the shrivelled flowers venture to open their petals.

Although winter and summer are in reality the only seasons, yet the inhabitants fancy they have spring when about noon the rays of the sun begin to make themselves felt, which generally takes place about the middle of March, but this so-called spring has frequent night-frosts of twenty degrees. Their autumn is reckoned from the time when the rivers begin to freeze over, that is, from the first days of September, when a cold of thirty degrees is already by no means uncommon. As may easily be supposed in a climate like this, the vegetation of summer is scarcely more than a struggle for existence.

In the latter end of May the stunted willow-bushes put out little wrinkled leaves, and those banks which slope towards the south become clothed with a semi-verdant hue; in June the temperature at noon attains 72°; the flowers show themselves, and the berry-bearing plants blossom, when sometimes an icy blast from the sea destroys the bloom. The air is clearest in July, and the temperature is usually mild, but then a new plague arises for the torment of man. Millions and millions of mosquitoes issue from the swamps of the tundra, and compel the inhabitants to seek refuge in the dense and pungent smoke of the “dymokury,” or large heaps of fallen leaves and damp wood, which are kindled near the dwellings and on the pasture-grounds, as the only means of keeping off those abominable insects.

These tormentors, however, are not without use, for they compel the reindeer to migrate from the forests to the sea-shore and the ice, thus exposing them to the attack of the hunters, and they also prevent the horses from straying in the plains, and wandering beyond the protection of the smoke.

Scarcely is the mosquito plague at an end, when the dense autumn fogs rising from the sea spoil the enjoyment of the last mild hours which precede the nine months’ winter. In January the cold increases to -45°; breathing then becomes difficult; the wild reindeer, the indigenous inhabitant of the Polar region, withdraws to the thickest part of the forest, and stands there motionless, as if deprived of life.

With the 22d November begins a night of thirty-eight days, relieved in some degree by the strong refraction and the white of the snow, as well as by the moon and the aurora. On the 28th December the first pale glimmering of dawn appears, which even at noon does not obscure the stars. With the re-appearance of the sun the cold increases, and is most intense in February and March at the rising of the sun. Even in winter completely clear days are very rare, as the cold sea-wind covers the land with mists and fogs.

The character of the vegetation corresponds with that of the climate. Moss, stunted grass, dwarfish willow-shrubs, are all that the place produces. The neighboring valleys of the Aniuj, protected by mountains against the sea-wind, have a somewhat richer flora, for here grow berry-bearing plants, the birch, the poplar, absinthe, thyme, and the low-creeping cedar. This poverty, however, of the vegetable world is strongly contrasted with the profusion of animal life over these shores and on the Polar Sea. Reindeer, elks, bears, foxes, sables, and gray squirrels fill the upland forests, while stone-foxes burrow in the low grounds. Enormous flights of swans, geese, and ducks arrive in spring, and seek deserts where they may moult and build their nests in safety. Eagles, owls, and gulls pursue their prey along the sea-coast; ptarmigan run in troops among the bushes; little snipes are busy among the brooks. In the morasses the crows gather round the huts of the natives; and when the sun shines in spring, the traveller may even sometimes hear the note of the finch, and in autumn that of the thrush. But the landscape remains dreary and dead; all denotes that here the limits of the habitable earth are passed, and one asks with astonishment what could induce human beings to take up their abode in so comfortless a region?

In the district of Kolymsk, which surpasses in size many a European kingdom, the population, at the time of Wrangell’s visit, consisted of 325 Russians, 1034 Jakuts, and 1139 Jukahires of the male sex, of whom 2173 had to pay the jassak, consisting of 803 fox and 28 sable skins, worth 6704 roubles, besides which they were taxed to the amount of 10,847 roubles in money. Thus the Russian double-eagle made, and no doubt still makes, the poor people of Kolymsk pay rather dear for the honor of living under the protection of its talons.

The Cossacks, in virtue of their descent from the original conquerors of the country, enjoy the enviable privilege of being tax free; they are, however, obliged to render military service when required. They form the small garrison of Nishne-Kolymsk, and every year twenty-five of them repair to the fair of Ostrownoje, to keep the wild Tchuktchi in check. The Russians are chiefly the descendants of fur-hunters or of exiles; and though they have adopted the native clothing and mode of life, they are still distinguishable by their more muscular frame. The women, who are somewhat better-looking than the female Jakuts and Jukahires, are fond of music, and their traditional songs dwell on the beauties of nature—the rustling brook, the flowery mead, the nightingale’s note—all things belonging to a world of which they have no idea.

The dwellings of the Russians are hardly to be distinguished from the yourts of the native tribes. They are made of drift-wood, and, as may easily be imagined, are very small and low. The interstices are carefully stopped up with moss, and the outside is covered with a thick layer of clay. An external mud wall rises to the height of the roof to keep off the wind. In a hut like this Wrangell spent many a winter month, but when the cold was very intense, he was not able to lay aside any part of his fur clothing, though sitting close to a large fire. When he wanted to write he had to keep the inkstand in hot water; and at night, when the fire was allowed to go out for a short time, his bedclothes were always covered with a thick snow-like rime.

The existence of the people of Kolymsk depends upon fishing and hunting, in which they are assisted by their dogs. These faithful, but cruelly-treated animals, are said to resemble the wolf, having long, pointed, projecting noses, sharp and upright ears, and long bushy tails. Their color is black, brown, reddish-brown, white, and spotted, their howling that of a wolf. In summer they dig holes in the ground for coolness, or lie in the water to escape the mosquitoes; in winter they burrow in the snow, and lie curled up, with their noses covered with their bushy tails. The preparation of these animals for a journey must be carefully attended to; for a fortnight at least they should be put on a small allowance of hard food, to convert their superfluous fat into firm flesh; they must also be driven from ten to twenty miles daily, after which they have been known to travel a hundred miles a day without being injured by it. A team consists commonly of twelve dogs, and it is of importance that they should be accustomed to draw together. The quick and steady going of the team, as well as the safety of the traveller, mainly depends on the docility and sagacity of the foremost dog or leader. No pains are therefore spared in his education, so that he may understand and obey his master’s orders, and prevent the rest from starting off in pursuit of the stone-foxes or other animals that may chance to cross their path. Their usual food is frozen fish, and ten good herrings are said to be a proper daily allowance for each dog while on duty. When not actively employed, they are obliged to content themselves with offal, and towards spring, when the winter’s provisions are generally exhausted, they suffer the keenest hunger.

This season is also a hard time for the wandering tribes of the neighborhood. Then they flock to Nishne-Kolymsk, and to the other Russian settlements on the Kolyma, but here also famine stares them in the face. There is, indeed, a public corn magazine, but the price of flour is raised by the cost of transport to such an exorbitant height, as to be completely beyond the reach of the majority of the people. Three such dreadful springs did Wrangell pass at Kolymsk, witnessing scenes of misery never to be forgotten.

But when the distress of the people has reached its highest point, relief is generally at hand. Troops of migratory birds come from the south, and furnish some food for the despairing population. The supply is increased in June, when the ice breaks on the Kolyma, for in spite of the faultiness of the nets and the want of skill of the fishermen, the river is the principal source of plenty during the summer, and supplies, moreover, the chief provisions for the following winter. But with these gifts the Kolyma brings the plague of inundations, so that during the summer of 1822 Wrangell was obliged to spend a whole week on the flat roof of his hut.

The chief resource of the Jukahires of the River Aniuj is the reindeer chase, the success of which mainly decides whether famine or some degree of comfort is to be their lot during the coming winter. The passage of the reindeer takes place twice a year; in spring, when the mosquitoes compel them to seek the sea-shore, where they feed on the moss of the tundra, and in autumn, when the increasing cold forces them to retire from the coast. The spring migration, which begins about the middle of May, is not very profitable, partly because the animals are meagre, and their furs in bad condition, and partly because it is more difficult to kill them as they pass the frozen rivers. The chief hunting is in August and September, when the herds, consisting each of several thousand deer, return to the forests. They invariably cross the river at a particular spot, where a flat sandy bank makes their landing easier; and here they press more closely together, under the guidance of the strongest animals of the herd.

The passage takes place after some hesitation, and in a few minutes the river is covered with swimming reindeer. The hunters, hidden in creeks or behind stones and bushes, now shoot forth in their small boats and wound as many as they can. While they are thus busy, they run some risk of being overturned in the turmoil, for the bucks defend themselves with their horns, their teeth, and their hind legs, while the roes generally attempt to spring with their fore feet upon the edge of the boat. When the hunter is thus overset, his only chance of safety is to cling to a strong animal, which safely brings him to the shore. But the dexterity of the hunters renders such accidents rare. A good hunter will kill a hundred reindeer and more in half an hour. In the mean time the other boats seize the killed animals, which become their property, while those that are merely wounded and swim ashore belong to the hunters, who, in the midst of the tumult, where all their energies are taxed to the utmost, direct their strokes in such a manner as only severely to wound the larger animals. The noise of the horns striking against each other, the waters tinged with blood, the cries of the hunters, the snorting of the affrighted animals, form a scene not to be described.

The people of the Aniuj were already suffering great distress when, on September 12, 1821, the eagerly-expected reindeer herds made their appearance on the right bank of the river. Never had such a multitude been seen; they covered the hills, and their horns might have been mistaken at a distance for a moving forest. In a short time numbers of the Siberian tribes had assembled, ready to destroy them. But the wary animals, alarmed by some circumstance or other, took another road, and, leaving the banks of the river, vanished on the mountains. The despair of the people may be imagined; some lamented aloud and wrung their hands, others threw themselves upon the ground and scratched up the snow, others stood motionless like statues—a dreadful image of the universal misery. The later fishing-season likewise failed in this deplorable year, and many hundreds died in the following winter.

While the men of Kolymsk are busily employed during the short summer in hunting, fishing, and hay-making, the women wander over the country, particularly in the mountains, to gather edible roots, aromatic herbs, and berries of various kinds, which latter, however, do not every year arrive at maturity. The berry-gathering here, like the vintage elsewhere, is a time of merriment. The younger women and girls go together in large parties, passing whole days and nights in the open air. When the berries are collected, cold water is poured over them, and they are preserved in a frozen state for a winter treat. Social parties are not unknown at Kolymsk, and are perhaps not less entertaining than in more refined communities. Floods of weak tea (for the aromatic leaves “which cheer, but not inebriate,” are very dear at Kolymsk) form the staple of the entertainment; and as sugar is also an expensive article, every guest takes a lump of candy in his mouth, lets the tea which he sips flow by, and then replaces it upon the saucer. It would be considered very unmannerly were he to consume the whole piece, which thus is able to do duty at more than one soirée. Next to tea, brandy is a chief requisite of a Kolymsk party.

The busiest time at Kolymsk is in February, when the caravan from Jakutsk arrives on its way to the fair of Ostrownoje. It consists of about twenty merchants, each of whom leads from ten to forty sumpter horses. This is the time not only for sale and purchase, but also for hearing the last news from the provincial capital Jakutsk, and receiving intelligence six months old from Moscow and St. Petersburg.

From this short account of Kolymsk life it may well be imagined what a sensation it must have made in so secluded a place when Wrangell arrived there in November, and informed the people that he was come to spend the better part of the next three years among them.

The winter was passed in preparation for the next spring expeditions, for during the long Arctic night the darkness prevents travelling, and the snow acquires a peculiar hardness or sharpness from the extreme cold, so that then four times the number of dogs would be needed. But as in summer the thawing is likewise a hindrance, Wrangell had in reality only about ten weeks every year, from March till the end of May, for the accomplishment of his task.

As may easily be supposed, it was no easy matter to make the necessary arrangements for an expedition requiring some hundreds of dogs, and provisions for several weeks; but such was the energy displayed by Wrangell and his colleagues, that on February 19, 1821, they were able to start on their first journey over the ice of the Polar Sea, which they reached on the 25th. Nine sledges, with the usual team of twelve dogs to each, were provided for the present excursion, six of which were to carry provisions and stores, to be distributed in different dépôts, and then to return. The provisions for the dogs consisted of 2400 fresh herrings, and as much “jukola” as was equivalent to 8150 dried herrings. The increasing cold and the violence of the wind made travelling very difficult. To guard the dogs from being frozen, the drivers were obliged to put clothing on their bodies, and a kind of boots on their feet, which greatly impeded their running. At times the frost was so intense that the mercury congealed while Wrangell was making his observations. He thus describes the manner in which he passed the nights on the Polar Sea in his tent:—

“Between tea and supper the sledge-drivers went out to attend and feed their dogs, which were always tied up for the night, lest they should be tempted away by the scent of some wild animal. Meanwhile, we were engaged in comparing our observations, and in laying down on the map the ground which we had gone over in the course of the day; the severe cold, and the smoke which usually filled the tent, sometimes made this no easy task. Supper always consisted of a single dish of fish or meat soup, which was boiled for us all in the same kettle, out of which it was eaten. Soon after we had finished our meal, the whole party lay down to sleep. On account of the cold we could not lay aside any part of our travelling-dress, but we regularly changed our boots and stockings every evening, and hung those we had taken off, with our fur caps and gloves, on the tent-poles to dry. This is an essential precaution, particularly in respect to stockings, for with damp clothing there is the greatest risk of the part being frozen. We always spread the bear-skins between the frozen ground and ourselves, and the fur coverings over us, and, being well tired, we usually slept very soundly. As long as all the sledge-drivers continued with us, we were so crowded that we had to place ourselves like the spokes of a wheel, with our feet towards the fire and our heads against the tent wall. In the morning we generally rose at six, lit the fire, and washed ourselves before it with fresh snow; we then took tea, and immediately afterwards dinner (which was similar to the supper of the night before). The tent was then struck, and every thing packed and stowed on the sledges, and at nine we usually took our departure.”

The chief impediments to journeying on the ice were found to be the hummocks, often eighty feet high, which lie in ridges at certain distances, parallel perhaps to the shore. Along the line or lines where the ice is periodically broken, it is forced by pressure and the tossing of a tempestuous sea into those irregular ridges through which Wrangell had sometimes to make a way with crowbars for half a mile. The “polinyas,” or spaces of open water in the midst of the ice, offered less hindrance, as they might be avoided; but in this neighborhood, and sometimes even where no hole in the ice was visible, layers of salt were met with, which cut the dogs’ feet, and at the same time increased the labor of the draft, the sledges moving over the salt with as much difficulty as they would over gravel.

In spite of all these hindrances, Wrangell extended his exploration of the coast fifty versts beyond Cape Shelagskoi, where the want of fuel and provisions compelled him to return. The dépôts which he had made as he advanced, were found partly devoured by the stone-foxes and gluttons, so that the party was compelled to fast during the two last days of the journey. After an absence of three weeks Nishne-Kolymsk appeared like a second Capua to Wrangell, but time being precious he allowed himself but a few days’ rest, and started afresh, on March 26, for Cape Shelagskoi, with the intention of penetrating as far as possible to the north on the ice of the Polar Sea. The caravan consisted of twenty-two sledges, laden with fuel and provisions for thirty days, including food for 240 dogs. So imposing a train had certainly never been seen before in these desolate regions, for the part of the coast between the Kolyma and Cape Shelagskoi is wholly uninhabited; on one side the occasional excursions of the Russians terminate at the Baranow rocks, and on the other the Tchuktchi do not cross the larger Baranow River. The intervening eighty versts of coast are never visited by either party, but considered as neutral ground. On April 1 Wrangell reached the borders of the Polar Sea, and proceeding northward to 71° 31´, found the thickness of the ice, which he measured by means of a hole, to be about a foot, very rotten, and full of salt; the soundings, twelve fathoms, with a bottom of soft green mud. The wind increasing in violence, he heard the sound of the water beneath, and felt the undulatory motion of the thin crust of ice.

“Our position,” says the bold explorer, “was at least an anxious one; the more so as we could take no step to avoid the impending danger. I believe few of our party slept, except the dogs, who alone were unconscious of the great probability of the ice being broken up by the force of the waves. Next day, the wind having fallen, I had two of the best sledges emptied, and placed in them provisions for twenty-four hours, with the boat and oars, some poles and boards, and proceeded northward to examine the state of the ice; directing M. von Matiuschkin, in case of danger, to retire with the whole party as far as might be needful, without awaiting my return. After driving through the thick brine with much difficulty for seven versts, we came to a number of large fissures, which we passed with some trouble by the aid of the boards which we had brought with us. At last the fissures became so numerous and so wide that it was hard to say whether the sea beneath us was really still covered by a connected coat of ice, or only by a number of detached floating fragments, having everywhere two or more feet of water between them. A single gust of wind would have been sufficient to drive these fragments against each other, and being already thoroughly saturated with water, they would have sunk in a few minutes, leaving nothing but sea on the spot where we were standing. It was manifestly useless to attempt going farther; we hastened to rejoin our companions, and to seek with them a place of greater security. Our most northern latitude was 71° 43´ at a distance of 215 versts in a straight line from the lesser Baranow rock.” After rejoining his companions, and while still on the frozen sea, so thick a snow-storm came on that those in the hindmost sledge could not see the leading ones. Unable either to pitch their tent or to light a fire, they were exposed during the night to the whole fury of the storm, with a temperature of +7°, without tea or soup, and with nothing to quench their thirst or satisfy their hunger but a few mouthfuls of snow, a little rye biscuit, and a half-spoilt fish. On April 28 they arrived at Nishne-Kolymsk, after an absence of thirty-six days, during which they had travelled above 800 miles with the same dogs, men and animals having equally suffered from cold, hunger, and fatigue.

Neither discomfort, however, nor danger prevented Wrangell from undertaking a third excursion in the following spring. He had great difficulty in procuring the necessary dogs, a disease which raged among them during the winter having carried off more than four-fifths of these useful animals. At length his wants were supplied by the people of the Indigirka, where the sickness had not extended, and on March 14, 1822, he again set out for the borders of the Polar Sea. During this expedition a large extent of coast was accurately surveyed by Wrangell, who sent out his worthy assistant Matiuschkin, with two companions, in an unloaded sledge, to see if any farther advance could be made to the north. Having accomplished ten versts, Matiuschkin was stopped by the breaking up of the ice. Enormous masses, raised by the waves into an almost vertical position, were driven against each other with a dreadful crash, and pressed downward by the force of the billows to re-appear again on the surface covered with the torn-up green mud which here forms the bottom of the sea. It would tire the reader were I to relate all the miseries of their return voyage; suffice it to say that, worn out with hunger and fatigue, they reached Nishne-Kolymsk on May 5, after an absence of fifty-seven days. Such sufferings and perils might have excused all further attempts to discover the supposed land in the Polar Sea, but nothing daunted by his repeated failures, Wrangell determined on a fourth expedition in 1823, on which he resolved to start from a more easterly point. On reaching the coast, the obstacles were found still greater than on his previous visits to that fearful sea. The weather was tempestuous, the ice thin and broken. It was necessary at times to cross wide lanes of water on pieces of ice; at times the thin ice bent beneath the weight of the sledges, which were then saved only by the sagacity of the dogs, who, aware of the danger, ran at their greatest speed until they found a solid footing. At length, about sixty miles from shore, they arrived at the edge of an immense break in the ice, extending east and west farther than the eye could reach.

“We climbed one of the loftiest hummocks,” says Wrangell, “whence we obtained an extensive view towards the north, and whence we beheld the wide ocean spread before our gaze. It was a fearful and magnificent, but to us a melancholy spectacle! Fragments of ice of enormous size floated on the surface of the water, and were thrown by the waves with awful violence against the edge of the ice-field on the farther side of the channel before us. The collisions were so tremendous that large masses were every instant broken away, and it was evident that the portion of ice which still divided the channel from the open ocean would soon be completely destroyed. Had we attempted to ferry ourselves across upon one of the floating pieces of ice, we should not have found firm footing upon our arrival. Even on our own side fresh lines of water were continually forming, and extending in every direction in the field of ice behind us. We could go no farther. With a painful feeling of the impossibility of overcoming the obstacles which nature opposed to us, our last hope vanished of discovering the land, which we yet believed to exist. We saw ourselves compelled to renounce the object for which we had striven through three years of hardships, toil, and danger. We had done what honor and duty demanded; further attempts would have been absolutely hopeless, and I decided to return.”

They turned, but already the track of their advance was scarcely discernible, as new lanes of water had been formed, and fresh hummocks raised by the sea. To add to their distress, a storm arose, which threatened every moment to swallow up the ice island, on which they hoped to cross a wide space of water which separated them from a firmer ground.

“We had been three long hours in this position, and still the mass of ice beneath us held together, when suddenly it was caught by the storm, and hurled against a large field of ice; the crash was terrific, and the mass beneath us was shattered into fragments. At that dreadful moment, when escape seemed impossible, the impulse of self-preservation, implanted in every living being, saved us. Instinctively we all sprang at once on the sledges, and urged the dogs to their full speed. They flew across the yielding fragments to the field on which we had been stranded, and safely reached a part of it of firmer character, on which were several hummocks, where the dogs immediately ceased running, conscious, apparently, that the danger was past. We were saved! We joyfully embraced each other, and united in thanks to God for our preservation from such imminent peril.”

But their misfortunes did not end here; they were cut off from the deposit of their provisions; they were 360 versts from their nearest magazines, and the food for the dogs was now barely sufficient for three days. Their joy may be imagined when, after a few versts’ travelling, they fell in with Matiuschkin and his party, bringing with them an abundant supply of provisions of all kinds.

To leave nothing undone which could possibly be effected, Wrangell advanced to the eastward along the coast, past Cape North, seen in Cook’s last voyage, and proceeded as far as Koliutschin Island, where he found some Tchuktchi, who had come over from Bering’s Straits to trade.

With this journey terminated Wrangell’s labors on the coasts, or on the surface of the Polar Sea, and, at the beginning of the following winter, we find him taking a final leave of Nishne-Kolymsk. On January 10, 1824, he arrived at Jakutsk, and a few months later at Petersburg. If we consider the difficulties he had to encounter, and his untiring zeal and courage in the midst of privations and dangers, it is only fair to admit that his name deserves to be ranked among the most distinguished explorers of the Arctic world.

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Their Relationship to the Mantchou.—Dreadful Condition of the outcast Nomads.—Character of the Tungusi.—Their Outfit for the Chase.—Bear-hunting.—Dwellings.—Diet.—A Night’s Halt with Tungusi in the Forest.—Ochotsk.

Though both belonging to the same stock, the fate of the Tungusi and Mantchou has been very different; for at the same time when the latter conquered the vast Chinese Empire, the former, after having spread over the greatest part of East Siberia, and driven before them the Jakuts, the Jukahiri, the Tchuktchi, and many other aboriginal tribes, were in their turn subjugated by the mightier Russians. In the year 1640 the Cossacks first encountered the Tungusi, and in 1644 the first Mantchou emperor mounted the Chinese throne. The same race which here imposes its yoke upon millions of subjects, there falls a prey to a small number of adventurers. However strange the fact, it is, however, easily explained, for the Chinese were worse armed and less disciplined than the Mantchou, while the Tungusi had nothing but bows and arrows to oppose to the Cossack fire-arms; and history (from Alexander the Great to Sadowa) teaches us that victory constantly sides with the best weapons.

In their intellectual development we find the same difference as in their fortunes between the Mantchou and the Siberian Tungusi. Two hundred and fifty years ago the former were still nomads, like their northern kinsfolk, and could neither read nor write, and already they have a rich literature, and their language is spoken at the court of Peking; while the Tungusi, oppressed and sunk in poverty, are still as ignorant as when they first encountered the Cossacks.

According to their occupations, and the various domestic animals employed by them, they are distinguished by the names of Reindeer, Horse, Dog, Forest, and River Tungusi; but although they are found from the basins of the Upper, Middle, and Lower Tunguska to the western shores of the Sea of Ochotsk, and from the Chinese frontiers and the Baikal to the Polar Ocean, their whole number does not amount to more than 30,000, and diminishes from year to year, in consequence of the ravages of the small-pox and other epidemic disorders transmitted to them by the Russians. Only a few rear horses and cattle, the reindeer being generally their domestic animal; and the impoverished Tunguse, who has been deprived of his herd by some contagious disorder or the ravages of the wolves, lives as a fisherman on the borders of a river, assisted by his dog, or retires into the forests as a promyschlenik, or hunter. Of the miseries which here await him, Wrangell relates a melancholy instance. In a solitary hut in one of the dreariest wildernesses imaginable, he found a Tunguse and his daughter. While the father, with his long snow-shoes, was pursuing a reindeer for several days together, this unfortunate girl remained alone and helpless in the hut—which even in summer afforded but an imperfect shelter against the rain and wind—exposed to the cold, and frequently to hunger, and without the least occupation. No wonder that the impoverished Tungusi not seldom sink into cannibalism. Neither the reindeer nor the dogs, nor the wives and children of their more fortunate countrymen, are secure from the attacks and voracity of these outcasts, who, in their turn, are treated like wild beasts, and destroyed without mercy. A bartering trade is, however, carried on with them, but only at a distance, and by signs; each party depositing its goods, and following every motion of the other with a suspicious eye.

The Russian Government, anxious to relieve the misery of the impoverished nomads, has given orders to settle them along the river-banks, and to provide them with the necessary fishing implements; but only extreme wretchedness can induce the Tunguse to relinquish the free life of the forest. His careless temper, his ready wit, and sprightly manner, distinguish him from the other Siberian tribes—the gloomy Samoïede, the uncouth Ostiak, the reserved Jakut—but he is said to be full of deceit and malice. His vanity shows itself in the quantity of glass beads with which he decorates his dress of reindeer leather, from his small Tartar cap to the tips of his shoes. When chasing or travelling on his reindeer through the woods, he of course lays aside most of his finery, and puts on large water-tight boots, or sari, well greased with fat, to keep off the wet of the morass. His hunting apparatus is extremely simple. A small axe, a kettle, a leathern bag containing some dried fish, a dog, a short gun, or merely a bow and a sling, is all he requires for his expeditions into the forest. With the assistance of his long and narrow snow-shoes, he flies over the dazzling plain, and protects his eyes, like the Jakut, with a net made of black horse-hair. He never hesitates to attack the bear single-handed, and generally masters him. The nomad Tunguse naturally requires a movable dwelling. His tent is covered with leather, or large pieces of pliable bark, which are easily rolled up and transported from place to place. The yourt of the sedentary Tunguse resembles that of the Jakut, and is so small that it can be very quickly and thoroughly warmed by a fire kindled on the stone hearth in the centre. In his food the Tunguse is by no means dainty. One of his favorite dishes consists of the contents of a reindeer’s stomach mixed with wild berries, and spread out in thin cakes on the rind of trees, to be dried in the air or in the sun. Those who have settled on the Wiluj and in the neighborhood of Nertschinsk, likewise consume large quantities of brick tea, which they boil with fat and berries into a thick porridge, and this unwholesome food adds no doubt to the yellowness of their complexion.

But few of the Tungusi have been converted to Christianity, the majority being still addicted to Shamanism. They do not like to bury their dead, but place them, in their holiday dresses, in large chests, which they hang up between two trees. The hunting apparatus of the deceased is buried beneath the chest. No ceremonies are used on the occasion, except when a Shaman happens to be in the neighborhood, when a reindeer is sacrificed, on whose flesh the sorcerer and the relations regale themselves, while the spirits to whom the animal is supposed to be offered are obliged to content themselves with the smell of the burnt fat. As among the Samoïedes or the Ostiaks, woman is a marketable ware among the Tungusi. The father gives his daughter in marriage for twenty or a hundred reindeer, or the bridegroom is obliged to earn her hand by a long period of service.

In East Siberia the Tungusi divide with the Jakuts the task of conveying goods or travellers through the forests, and afford the stranger frequent opportunities for admiring their agility and good-humor. On halting after a day’s journey, the reindeer are unpacked in an instant, the saddles and the goods ranged orderly on the ground, and the bridles collected and hung on branches of trees. The hungry animals soon disappear in the thicket, where they are left to provide for themselves. The men, who meanwhile have been busy with their axes, drag a larch-tree or two to the place of encampment. The smaller branches are lopped off and collected to serve as beds or seats upon the snow, while the resinous wood of the larger trunks is soon kindled into a lively fire. The kettle, filled with snow, is suspended from a strong forked branch placed obliquely in the ground over the fire, and in a few minutes the tea is ready—for the Tungusi proceed every evening according to the same method, and are consequently as expert as long and invariable practice can make them. Comfortably seated on his reindeer saddle, the traveller may now amuse himself with the dances, which the Tungusi accompany with an agreeable song; or if he choose to witness their agility in athletic exercises, it only costs him a word of encouragement, and a small donation of brandy. Two of the Tungusi hold a rope, and swing it with all their might, so that it does not touch the ground. Meanwhile a third Tunguse skips over the rope, picks up a bow and arrow, spans the bow and shoots the arrow, without once touching the rope. Some particularly bold and expert Tungusi will dance over a sword which a person lying on his back on the ground is swinging about with the greatest rapidity. Should our traveller be a friend of chess, the Tungusi are equally at his service, as they are passionately fond of this noblest of games, especially in the Kolymsk district. Like all other Siberian nomads, they visit at least once a year the various fairs which are held in the small towns scattered here and there over their immense territory—such as Kirensk, Olekminsk, Bargusin, Tschita, and Ochotsk, which, before the opening of the Amoor to trade, was the chief port of East Siberia.

Ochotsk is one of the dreariest places imaginable; at least no traveller who ever visited it has a word to say in its favor. Not a single tree grows for miles and miles around, and the wretched huts of which the town is composed lie in the midst of a swamp, which in summer is a fruitful source of malaria and pestilence. The River Ochota, at whose mouth Ochotsk is situated, does not break up before the end of May, and the ice-masses continue to pass the town till the 15th or 20th of June. Soon after begins the most unpleasant time of all the year, or “buss” of the Siberians, characterized by thick fog and a perpetual drizzling rain. The weather clears up in July, but as early as August the night-frosts cover the earth with rime. Salmon, of which no less than fourteen different species live in the Sea of Ochotsk, are the only food which the neighborhood affords; all other necessaries of life come from Jakutsk, and are of course enormously dear. Meat appears only from time to time on the tables of the wealthier merchants, and bread is an article of luxury. No wonder that the scurvy ravages every winter a place so ill-provisioned, and that at the time when the first caravan of pack-horses is expected to cross the Aldan Mountains, the people of Ochotsk, unable to restrain their impatience, go out a long way to meet it. As the former trade of the place has now no doubt been transferred to the settlements on the Amoor, it may well be supposed that Ochotsk has lost most of its former inhabitants, who can only be congratulated on their change of residence.

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Their wide Extension.—Climate of the Regions they inhabit.—Their physical Appearance.—Their Dress.—Snow Huts.—The Kayak, or the Baidar.—Hunting Apparatus and Weapons.—Enmity between the Esquimaux and the Red Indian.—The “Bloody Falls.”—Chase of the Reindeer.—Bird-catching.—Whale-hunting.—Various Stratagems employed to catch the Seal.—The “Keep-kuttuk.”—Bear-hunting.—Walrus-hunting.—Awaklok and Myouk.—The Esquimaux Dog.—Games and Sports.—Angekoks.—Moral Character.—Self-reliance.—Intelligence.—Iligliuk.—Commercial Eagerness of the Esquimaux.—Their Voracity.—Seasons of Distress.

Of all the uncivilized nations of the globe none range over a wider space than the Esquimaux, whose various tribes extend from Greenland and Labrador, over all the coasts of Arctic America, to the Aleutic chain and the extreme north-eastern point of Asia. Many are independent, others subject to the Russian, Danish, or British rule. In Baffin’s Bay and Lancaster Sound they accost the whale-fisher; they meet him in the Icy Sea beyond Bering’s Straits; and while their most southerly tribes dwell as low as the latitude of Vienna, others sojourn as high as the 80th degree of northern latitude, and probably roam even still higher on the still undiscovered coasts beyond—a nearness to the pole no other race is known to reach.

The old Scandinavian settlers in Greenland expressed their dislike for them in the contemptuous name of Skraelingers (screamers or wretches); the seamen of the Hudson’s Bay ships, who trade annually with the natives of Northern Labrador and the Savage Islands, have long called them “Seymos” or “Suckemos,” names evidently derived from the cries of “Seymo,” or “Teymo,” with which they greet the arrival of the ships; they speak of themselves simply as “Inuit,” or men.

With few exceptions the whole of the vast region they inhabit lies beyond the extremest limits of forest growth, in the most desolate and inhospitable countries of the globe. The rough winds of the Polar Sea almost perpetually blow over their bleak domains, and thus only a few plants of the hardest nature—lichens and mosses, grasses, saxifragas, and willows—are able to subsist there, and to afford a scanty supply of food to a few land animals and birds. Ill indeed would it fare with the Esquimaux, if they were reduced to live upon the niggardly produce of the soil; but the sea, with its cetaceans and fishes, amply provides for their wants. Thus they are never found at any considerable distance from the ocean, and they line a considerable part of the coasts of the Arctic seas without ever visiting the interior.

It may easily be supposed that a race whose eastern branches have for several centuries been under the influence of the Danes and English, while in the extreme west it has long been forced to submit to Russian tyranny, and whose central and northern tribes rarely come into contact with Europeans, must show some variety in its manners and mode of life, and that the same description is not applicable in all points to the disciples of the Moravian brothers in Labrador or Greenland, to the Greek-Catholic Aleuts, and to the far more numerous heathen Esquimaux of continental America, or of the vast archipelago beyond its northern shores. Upon the whole, however, it is curious to observe how exactly, amidst all diversity of time and place, these people have preserved unaltered their habits and manners. The broad, flat face, widest just below the eyes, the forehead generally narrow and tapering upward; the eyes narrow and more or less oblique; all indicate a Mongol or Tartar type, differing greatly from the features of the conterminous Red Indian tribes. Their complexion, when relieved from smoke and dirt, also approaches more nearly to white than that of their copper-colored neighbors. Most of the men are rather under the medium English size, but they can not be said to be a dwarfish race. Thus Simpson saw in Camden Bay three Esquimaux who measured from five feet ten inches to six feet; and among the natives of Smith Strait, Kane, a rather short man, met with one a foot taller than himself. The females, however, are all comparatively short. The Esquimaux are all remarkably broad-shouldered, and though their muscles are not so firm as those of the European seamen, yet they surpass in bodily strength all the other natives of America. In both sexes the hands and feet are remarkably small and well-formed. From exercise in hunting the seal and walrus, the muscles of the arms and back are much developed in the men, who are moreover powerful wrestlers. When young, the Esquimaux looks cheerful and good-humored, and the females exhibit, when laughing, a set of very white teeth. Could they be induced to wash their faces, many of these savage beauties would be found to possess a complexion scarcely a shade darker than that of a deep brunette; but though disinclined to ablutions, for which the severity of their climate may serve as an excuse, they are far from neglecting the arts of the toilette.

Unlike the Hare Indian and Dog-Rib females, in whom the hard rule of their lords and masters has obliterated every trace of female vanity, the Esquimaux women tastefully plait their straight, black, and glossy hair; and hence we may infer that greater deference is paid to them by the men. They also generally tattoo their chin, forehead, and cheeks, not, however, as in the South Sea Islands, with elaborate patterns, but with a few simple lines, which have a not unpleasing effect.

From Bering’s Straits eastward as far as the Mackenzie, the males pierce the lower lip near each angle of the mouth, and fill the apertures with labrets of blue or green quartz, or of ivory resembling buttons. Many also pierce the septum of the nose, and insert a dentalium shell or ivory needle. Like the Red Indians, they are fond of beads, but their most common ornament consists in strings of teeth of the fox, wolf, or musk-ox—sometimes many hundreds in number—which are either attached to the lower part of the jacket, or fastened as a belt round the waist.

Their dress is admirably adapted to the severity of their climate. With their two pair of breeches made of reindeer or seal skin, the outer one having the hair outside and the inner one next the body, and their two jackets—of which the upper one is provided with a great hood—with their water-tight seal-skin boots, lined with the downy skins of birds, and their enormous gloves, they bid defiance to the severest cold, and even in the hardest weather pursue their occupations in the open air whenever the moon is in the sky, or during the doubtful meridian twilight. The women are perfect in the art of making water-tight shirts, or “kamleikas,” of the entrails of the seal or walrus, which in summer serve to replace their heavy skin jackets. They also sew their boots so tight that not the slightest wet can penetrate, and with a neatness of which the best shoemaker in Europe might be proud. The dress of the two sexes is much alike, the outer jacket having a pointed skirt before and behind, but that of the females is a little longer. The women also wear larger hoods, in which they carry their children; and sometimes (as in Labrador) the inner boot has in front a long, pointed flap, to answer the same purpose.

The Esquimaux are equally expert in the construction of their huts. As soon as the lengthening days induce the tribes about Cape Bathurst and the mouth of the Mackenzie to move seaward on the ice to the seal-hunt, a marvellous system of architecture comes into use, unknown among any other American nations. The fine pure snow has by that time acquired, under the action of the winds and frosts, sufficient coherence to form an admirable light building material, which the Esquimaux skillfully employ for the erection of most comfortable dome-shaped houses. A circle is first traced on the smooth surface of the snow, and slabs for raising the walls cut from within, so as to clear a space down to the ice, which is to form the floor of the dwelling, and whose evenness was previously ascertained by probing. The slabs for the dome are cut from some neighboring spot. The crevices between the slabs are plugged up, and the seams closed, by throwing a few shovelfuls of loose snow over the fabric. Two men generally work together, and when the dome is completed the one within cuts a low door and creeps out. The walls being only three or four inches thick, admit a very agreeable light, which serves for ordinary purposes; if more is required, a window of transparent ice is introduced. The proper thickness of the walls is of some importance; one of a few inches excludes the wind, yet keeps down the damp so as to prevent dripping from the interior. The furniture of this crystal hut is also formed of snow (the seats, the table, the sleeping-places), and, when covered with skins, is very comfortable. By means of antechambers and porches, with the opening turned to leeward, warmth is insured, and social intercourse facilitated by contiguous building, doors of communication, and covered passages. By constant practice the Esquimaux can raise such huts almost as quickly as we could pitch a tent. When M’Clintock for a few nails hired four Esquimaux to build a hut for his party, they completed it in an hour, though it was eight feet in diameter and five and a half feet high.

In spite of its fragile materials, this snow-house is durable, for the wind has little effect on its dome-like form, and it resists the thaw until the sun acquires a very considerable power. Of course a strong fire could not possibly be made within, but such is not needed by the Esquimaux. The train-oil lamp suffices to dry his wet clothes and boots when he returns from hunting; and the crowding of the inmates engenders a sufficiently high temperature to keep him warm. Having also a decided predilection for raw flesh and fat, he requires no great expenditure of fuel to cook his dinner. The lower part of his dwelling being under the surface of the snow, likewise promotes its warmth.

But of whatever materials the hut of the Esquimaux may be constructed—of snow, as I have just described, or, as is frequently the case, of stones, or earth, or drift-wood—everywhere, from Bering’s Straits to Smith Sound, it is equally well adapted to the climate and to circumstances. Thus when Dr. Scoresby landed in 1822 on the eastern coast of Greenland, he discovered some deserted Esquimaux huts, which gave proof both of the severity of the climate, and of the ingenuity evinced in counteracting its rigors. A horizontal tunnel about fifteen feet long, and so low as to render it necessary to creep through on hands and feet, opens with one end to the south, and leads through the other into the interior of the hut. This rises but little above the surface of the earth, and, as it is generally overgrown with moss or grass, is scarcely to be distinguished from the neighboring soil. The floor of the tunnel is frequently on a level with that of the hut, but often also it is made to slant downward and upward, so that the colder, and consequently heavier, air without is still more effectually kept off from the warmer air within; and thus the Esquimaux, without ever having studied physics, make a practical use of one of its fundamental laws. But their most ingenious invention is unquestionably that of the one-seated boat, the “kayak,” or the “baidar.” A light, long, and narrow frame of wood, or seal or walrus bone, is covered water-tight with seal-skin, leaving but one circular hole in the middle. In this the Esquimaux sits with outstretched legs, and binds a sack (which is formed of the intestines of the whale, or of the skins of young seals, and fits in the opening) so tightly round his middle, that even in a heavy sea not a drop of water can penetrate into the boat. Striking with his light oar (which is paddled at each extremity) alternately to the right and to the left, his spear or harpoon before him, and maintaining his equilibrium with all the dexterity of a rope-dancer, he flies like an arrow over the water; and should a wave upset him, he knows how to right himself by the action of the paddle. The “oomiak,” or women’s boat, likewise consists of a frame-work covered with seal-skins, and is roomy enough to hold ten or twelve people, with benches for the women who row or paddle. The mast supports a triangular sail made of the entrails of seals, and easily distended by the wind. The men would consider it beneath their dignity to row in one of these omnibus boats; they leave this labor entirely to the women, who, to the tact of a monotonous song, slowly propel the oomiak through the water. Judging of foreign customs by their own, the Esquimaux between the Mackenzie and Coppermine rivers made the strange mistake, as Sir John Richardson relates, of supposing that the English sailors whom they saw rowing in company were women. One of them even asked whether all white females had beards.

The weapons of the Esquimaux, and their various fishing and hunting implements, likewise show great ingenuity and skill. Their oars are tastefully inlaid with walrus-teeth; they have several kinds of spears or darts, adapted to the size of the various animals which they hunt; and their elastic bows, strongly bound with strings of seal-gut, drive a six-foot arrow with unerring certainty to a distant mark. To bring down a larger animal, the shaft is armed with a sharp flint or a pointed bone; if intended to strike a bird, it is smaller, and blunted.

The harpoons and lances used in killing whales or seals have long shafts of wood or of the narwhal’s tooth, and the barbed point is so constructed that, when the blow takes effect, it is left sticking in the body of the animal, while the shaft attached to it by a string is disengaged from the socket, and becomes a buoy of wood. Seal-skins, blown up like bladders, are likewise used as buoys for the whale-spears, being adroitly stripped from the animal so that all the natural apertures are easily made air-tight.

With equal industry and skill the Esquimaux put to use almost every part of the land and marine animals which they chase. Knives, spear-points, and fish-hooks are made of the horns and bones of the deer. The ribs of the whale are used in roofing huts or in the construction of sledges, where drift-timber is scarce. Strong cord is made from strips of seal-skin hide, and the sinews of musk-oxen and deer furnish bow-strings, or cord to make nets or snares. In default of drift-wood, the bones of the whale are employed for the construction of their sledges, in pieces fitted to each other with neatness, and firmly sewed together.

During the long confinement to their huts or “igloos” in the dark winter months, the men execute some very fair figures in bone, and in walrus or fossil ivory, besides making fish-hooks, knife-handles, and other instruments neatly of these materials, or of metal or wood.

Thus in all these respects the Esquimaux are as superior to the Red Indians as they are in strength and personal courage; and yet no Norwegian can more utterly despise the filthy Lapp, and no orthodox Mussulman look down with greater contempt upon a “giaour,” than the Loucheux or Cheppewayan upon the Esquimaux, who in his eyes is no better than a brute, and whom he approaches only to kill.

In his “Voyage to the Coppermine River” Hearne relates a dreadful instance of this bloodthirsty hatred. The Indians who accompanied him having heard that some Esquimaux had erected their summer huts near the mouth of that river, were at once seized with a tiger-like fury. Hearne, the only European of the party, had not the power to restrain them, and he might as well have attempted to touch the heart of an ice-bear as to move the murderous band to pity. As craftily and noiselessly as serpents they drew nigh, and, when the midnight sun verged on the horizon, with a dreadful yell they burst on the huts of their unsuspecting victims. Not one of them escaped, and the monsters delighted to prolong the misery of their death-struggle by repeated wounds. An old woman had both her eyes torn out before she received the mortal blow. A young girl fled to Hearne for protection, who used every effort to save her, but in vain. In 1821 some human skulls lying on the spot still bore testimony to this cruel slaughter, and the name of the “Bloody Falls,” given by Hearne to the scene of the massacre, will convey its memory to distant ages. No wonder that the hate of the Esquimaux is no less intense, and that they also pursue the Indians, wherever they can, with their spears and arrows, like wild beasts.

“Year after year,” says Sir John Richardson, “sees the Esquimaux on the Polar coast of America occupied in a uniform circle of pursuits. When the rivers open in spring, they proceed to the rapids and falls to spear the salmon, which at that season come swimming stream upward. At the same time, or earlier in more southern localities, they hunt the reindeer, which drop their young on the coasts and islands while the snow is only partially melted. Where the open country affords the huntsman no opportunity of approaching his game unperceived, deep pits are dug in the snowy ravines, and superficially covered with snow-tablets. The wind soon effaces the traces of the human hand, and thus many reindeer are snared.”

In summer the reindeer are killed partly by driving them from islands or narrow necks of land into the sea, and then spearing them from their kayaks, and partly by shooting them from behind heaps of stones raised for the purpose of watching them, and imitating their peculiar bellow or grunt. Among the various artifices which they employ for this purpose, one of the most ingenious consists in two men walking directly from the deer they wish to kill, when the animal almost always follows them. As soon as they arrive at a large stone, one of the men hides behind it with his bow, while the other, continuing to walk on, soon leads the deer within range of his companion’s arrows.

The multitudes of swans, ducks, and geese resorting to the morasses of the northern coasts to breed, likewise aid in supplying the Esquimaux with food during their short but busy summer of two months. For their destruction a very ingenious instrument has been invented. Six or eight small balls made of walrus-tooth and pierced in the middle are separately attached to as many thongs of animal sinew, which are tied together at the opposite end. When cast into the air the diverging balls describe circles—like the spokes of a wheel—and woe to the unfortunate bird that comes within their reach.

On the coasts frequented by whales, the month of August is devoted to the pursuit of these animals; a successful chase insuring a comfortable winter to a whole community. Their capture requires an association of labor; hence along the coasts of the Polar Sea the Esquimaux unite their huts into villages, for whose site a bold point of coast is generally chosen, where the water is deep enough to float a whale.

When one of these huge creatures is seen lying on the water, a dozen kayaks or more cautiously paddle up astern of him, till a single canoe, preceding the rest, comes close to him on one quarter, so as to enable the men to drive the spear into the animal with all the force of both arms. This spear has a long line of thong and an inflated seal-skin attached to it. The stricken whale immediately dives; but when he re-appears after some time, all the canoes again paddle towards him, some warning being given by the seal-skin buoy floating on the surface. Each man being furnished like the first, they repeat the blow as often as they find an opportunity, till perhaps every line has been thus employed. After chasing him in this manner sometimes for half a day, he is at length so wearied by the resistance of the buoys and exhausted by loss of blood as to be obliged to rise more and more often to the surface, and is finally killed and towed ashore.

Though in many parts seals are caught at every season of the year, yet the great hunt takes place in spring, when they play in the open lanes near the coasts, or come out on the ice to bask in the sun. In spite of their wariness, they are no match for the Esquimaux, who have carefully studied all their habits from infancy. Sometimes the hunter approaches them by imitating their forms and motions so perfectly that the poor animals are not undeceived until one of them is struck with his lance; or else, by means of a white screen pushed forward on a sledge, the hunter comes within range and picks out the best-conditioned of the band. As the season draws near midsummer, the seals are more approachable; their eyes being so congested by the glare of the sun that they are sometimes nearly blind. In winter they are assaulted while working at their breathing-holes or when coming up for respiration.

If an Esquimaux has any reason to suppose that a seal is busy gnawing beneath the ice, he immediately attaches himself to the place, and seldom leaves it, even in the severest frost, till he has succeeded in killing the animal. For this purpose he first builds a snow-wall about four feet in height, to shelter him from the wind, and seating himself under the lee of it, deposits his spears, lines, and other implements upon several little forked sticks inserted into the snow, in order to prevent the smallest noise being made in moving them when wanted. But the most curious precaution consists in tying his own knees together with a thong so securely as to prevent any rustling of his clothes, which might otherwise alarm the animal. In this situation a man will sit quietly sometimes for hours together, attentively listening to any noise made by the seal, and sometimes using the “keep-kuttuk” in order to ascertain whether the animal is still at work below. This simple little instrument—which affords another striking proof of Esquimaux ingenuity—is merely a slender rod of bone (as delicate as a fine wire, that the seal may not see it), nicely rounded, and having a point at one end and a knob at the other. It is inserted into the ice, and the knob remaining above the surface, informs the fisherman by its motion whether the seal is employed in making his hole; if not, it remains undisturbed, and the attempt is given up in that place. When the hunter supposes the hole to be nearly completed, he cautiously lifts his spear (to which the line has been previously attached), and as soon as the blowing of the seal is distinctly heard—and the ice consequently very thin—he drives it into him with the force of both arms, and then cuts away with his “panna,” or well-sharpened knife, the remaining crust of ice, to enable him to repeat the wounds and get him out. The “neituk” (Phoca hispida), being the smallest seal, is held, while struggling, either simply by hand, or by putting the line round a spear with the point stuck into the ice. For the “oguke” (Phoca barbata), the line is passed round the man’s leg or arm; and for a walrus, round his body, his feet being at the same time firmly set against a hummock of ice, in which position these people can, from habit, hold against a very heavy strain. A boy of fifteen is equal to the killing of a “neituk,” but it requires a full-grown person to master either of the larger animals. This sport is not without the danger which adds to the excitement of success, particularly if the creature struck by the hunter be a large seal or walrus; for woe betide him if he does not instantly plant his feet firmly in the ice, and throw himself in such a position that the strain on the line is as nearly as possible brought into the direction of the length of the spine of his back and axis of his lower limbs. A transverse pull from one of these powerful animals would double him up across the air-hole, and perhaps break his back; or if the opening be large, as it often is when the spring is advanced, he would be dragged under water and drowned.

As the Polar bear is as great a seal-hunter as the Esquimaux, one of the usual methods employed by the latter to catch these bears is to imitate the motions of the seal by lying flat on the ice until the bear approaches sufficiently near to insure a good aim; but a gun is necessary to practise this stratagem with success. Seeman (“Voyage of the Herald”) mentions another ingenious mode of capturing the bear by taking advantage of the well-known voracity of the animal, which generally swallows its food without much mastication. A thick and strong piece of whalebone, about four inches broad and two feet long, is rolled up into a small compass, and carefully enveloped in blubber, forming a round ball. It is then placed in the open air at a low temperature, where it soon becomes hard and frozen. The natives, armed with their knives, bows, and arrows, together with this frozen bait, proceed in quest of the bear. As soon as the animal is seen, one of the natives discharges an arrow at it; the monster, smarting from this assault, chases the party, then in full retreat, until, meeting with the frozen blubber dropped in his path, he greedily swallows it, and continues the pursuit—doubtless fancying that there must be more where that came from. The natural heat of the body soon causes the blubber to thaw, when the whalebone, thus freed, springs back, and frightfully lacerates the stomach. The writhing brute falls down in helpless agony, and the Esquimaux, hurrying to the spot, soon put an end to his sufferings.

The Esquimaux of Smith Sound hunt the bear with the assistance of their dogs, which are carefully trained not to engage in contest with the bear, but to retard his flight. While one engrosses his attention ahead, a second attacks him in the rear, always alert, and each protecting the other; and thus it rarely happens that they are seriously injured, or that they fail to delay the animal until their masters come up. If there be two hunters, the bear is killed easily; for one makes a feint of thrusting a spear at the right side, and as the animal turns with his arms towards the threatened attack, the left is unprotected, and receives the death-wound. But if the hunter is alone, he grasps the lance firmly in his hands, and provokes the animal to pursue him by moving rapidly across its path, and then running as if to escape. But hardly is its long, unwieldy body extended for the chase, than, with a rapid jump, the hunter doubles on his track, and runs back towards his first position. The bear is in the act of turning after him again, when the lance is plunged into the left side below the shoulder. So dexterously has this thrust to be made, that an unpractised hunter has often to leave his spear in the side of his prey and run for his life; but even then, if well-aided by the dogs, a cool, skillful man seldom fails to kill his adversary.

While the seal, narwhal, and white whale furnish the staple food of the more southern Greenlander, the walrus is the chief resource of the Smith Sound Esquimaux. The manner of hunting this animal depends much on the season of the year. In spring, or the breeding-season, when the walrus is in his glory, he is taken in two ways. Sometimes he has risen by the side of an iceberg, where the currents have worn away the floe, or through a tide crack, and, enjoying the sunshine too long, finds his retreat cut off by the freezing up of the opening; for like the seal, the walrus can only work from below at his breathing-hole. When thus caught, the Esquimaux, who with keen hunter-craft are scouring the floes, scent him out by their dogs and spear him. Frequently the female and her calf, accompanied by the grim-visaged father, are seen surging, in loving trios, from crack to crack, and sporting in the openings. While thus on their tour, they invite their vigilant enemies to the second method of capture. This also is by the lance and harpoon; but it often becomes a regular battle, the male gallantly fronting the assault, and charging the hunters with furious bravery. In the fall, when the pack is but partially closed, the walrus are found in numbers, hanging around the neutral region of mixed ice and water, and, as this becomes solid with the advance of winter, following it more and more to the south.

The Esquimaux at this season approach them over the young ice, and assail them in cracks and holes with harpoon and line. This fishery, as the season grows colder, darker, and more tempestuous, is fearfully hazardous. Kane relates how, during a time of famine, two of his Esquimaux friends, Awaklok and Myouk, determined to seek the walrus on the open ice. They succeeded in killing a large male, and were returning to their village, when a north wind broke up the ice, and they found themselves afloat. The impulse of a European would have been to seek the land; but they knew that the drift was always most dangerous on the coast, and urged their dogs towards the nearest iceberg. They reached it after a struggle, and, by great efforts, made good their landing, with their dogs and the half-butchered carcass of the walrus. It was at the close of the last moonlight of December, and a complete darkness settled around them. They tied the dogs down to knobs of ice, to prevent their losing their foothold, and prostrated themselves, to escape being blown off by the violence of the wind. At first the sea broke over them, but they gained a higher level, and built a sort of screen of ice. On the fifth night afterwards, so far as they could judge, one of Myouk’s feet was frozen, and Awaklok lost his great toe by frost bite. But they did not lose courage, and ate their walrus-meat as they floated slowly to the south. It was towards the close of the second moonlight, after a month’s imprisonment, such as only these iron men could endure, that they found the berg had grounded. They liberated their dogs as soon as the young ice could bear their weight, and attaching long lines to them, which they cut from the hide of the dead walrus, they succeeded in hauling themselves through the water-space which always surrounds an iceberg, and reaching safe ice. They returned to their village like men raised from the dead, to meet a welcome, but to meet famine along with it.

In the form of their bodies, their short pricked ears, thick furry coat, and bushy tail, the dogs of the Esquimaux so nearly resemble the wolf of these regions, that when of a light or brindled color, they may easily at a little distance be mistaken for that animal; but an eye accustomed to both, perceives that the wolf always keeps his head down and his tail between his legs in running, whereas the dogs almost always carry their tails handsomely curled over the back. Their hair in the winter is from three to four inches long; but besides this nature furnishes them during this rigorous season with a thick under-coating of close, soft wool, which enables them to brave the most inclement weather. They do not bark, but have a long melancholy howl, like that of the wolf. When drawing a sledge, they have a simple harness of deer or seal skin going round the neck by one bight, and another for each of the fore legs, with a single thong leading over the back, and attached to the sledge as a trace. Though they appear at first sight to be huddled together without regard to regularity, considerable attention is really paid to their arrangement, particularly in the selection of a dog of peculiar spirit and sagacity, who is allowed by a longer trace to precede the rest as leader, and to whom, in turning to the right or left, the driver usually addresses himself, using certain words as the carters do with us. To these a good leader attends with admirable precision (especially if his own name be repeated at the same time), looking behind over his shoulder with great earnestness, as if listening to the directions of the driver, who sits quite low on the fore part of the sledge, his whip in hand, and his feet overhanging the snow on one side.

On rough ground, as among hummocks of ice, the sledge would be frequently overturned if the driver did not repeatedly get off, and, by lifting or drawing it to one side, steer it clear of those obstacles. At all times, indeed, except on a smooth and well-made road, he is pretty constantly employed thus with his feet, and this, together with his never-ceasing vociferations and frequent use of the whip, renders the driving of one of these vehicles by no means a pleasant or easy task.

“The whip,” says Kane, who from assiduous practice at length attained a considerable proficiency in its use, “is six yards long, and the handle but sixteen inches—a short lever to throw out such a length of seal-hide. Learn to do it, however, with a masterly sweep, or else make up your mind to forego driving sledges; for the dogs are guided solely by the lash, and you must be able to hit not only any particular dog of a team of twelve, but to accompany the feat also with a resounding crack. After this you find that, to get your lash back, involves another difficulty; for it is apt to entangle itself among the dogs and lines, or to fasten itself cunningly round bits of ice, so as to drag you head over heels into the snow. The secret by which this complicated set of requirements is fulfilled consists in properly describing an arc from the shoulder with a stiff elbow, giving the jerk to the whip-handle from the hand and wrist alone. The lash trails behind as you travel, and when thrown forward is allowed to extend itself without an effort to bring it back. You wait patiently, after giving the projectile impulse, until it unwinds its slow length, reaches the end of its tether, and cracks to tell you that it is at its journey’s end. Such a crack on the ear or fore foot of an unfortunate dog is signalized by a howl quite unmistakable in its import.”

The mere labor of using this whip is such that the Esquimaux travel in couples, one sledge after the other. The hinder dogs follow mechanically, and thus require no whip; and the drivers change about so as to rest each other.

In the summer, when the absence of snow prevents the use of sledges, the dogs are still made useful, on journeys and hunting excursions, by being employed to carry burdens in a kind of saddle-bags laid across their shoulders. A stout dog thus accoutred will accompany his master laden with a weight of about twenty or twenty-five pounds.

The scent of the Esquimaux dog is excellent, and this property is turned to account in finding the seal-holes, which they will discover entirely by the smell at a very great distance. The track of a single deer upon the snow will in like manner set them off at full gallop at least a quarter of a mile before they arrive at it, and with the same alacrity they pursue the bear or the musk-ox. Indeed, the only animal which they are not eager to chase is the wolf, of which they seem to have an instinctive dread, giving notice at night of their approach to the huts by a loud and continued howl.

In spite of their invaluable services, they are treated with great severity by their masters, who never caress them, and, indeed, scarcely ever take any notice of them except to punish them. But notwithstanding this rough treatment, the attachment of the dogs to their masters is very great, and this they display, after a short absence, by jumping up and licking their faces all over with extreme delight.

It may be supposed that among so cheerful a people as the Esquimaux there are many games or sports practised. One of their exhibitions consists in making hideous faces by drawing both lips into the mouth, poking forward the chin, squinting frightfully, occasionally shutting one eye, and moving the head from side to side as if the neck had been dislocated.

Another performance consists in repeating certain words with a guttural tone resembling ventriloquism, staring at the same time in such a manner as to make their eyes appear ready to burst out of their sockets with the exertion. Two or more will sometimes stand up face to face, and, with great quickness and regularity, respond to each other, keeping such exact time that the sound appears to come from one throat instead of several. They are fond of music, both vocal and instrumental, but their singing is not much better than a howl.

The Esquimaux have neither magistrates nor laws, yet they are orderly in their conduct towards each other. The constitution of their society is patriarchal, but there is no recognition of mastership except such as may be claimed by superior prowess. The rule of the head of a family lasts only as long as he has vigor enough to secure success in hunting. When his powers of mind and body are impaired by age, he at once sinks in the social scale, associates with the women, and takes his seat in the oomiak. They rarely quarrel among themselves, and settle their disputes either by boxing, the parties sitting down and striking blows alternately until one of them gives in, or before a court of honor, where, after the accuser and the accused have richly abused and ridiculed each other, the case is decided by the priests or “angekoks.” These wonder-workers, who enjoy a great reputation as sorcerers, soothsayers, or medicine-men, employ ventriloquism, swallow knives, extract stones from various parts of their bodies, and use other deceptions to impress their dupes with a high opinion of their supernatural powers. Like the members of the learned professions elsewhere, they have a certain language or jargon of their own, in which they communicate with each other. The heathen Esquimaux do not appear to have any idea of the existence of one Supreme Being, but believe in a number of spirits, with whom on certain occasions the angekoks pretend to hold mysterious intercourse. Even in Old Greenland the influence and teachings of the missionaries have not entirely obliterated the old superstitions, and the mysteries of the angekok, though not openly recognized near the Danish settlements, still hold their secret power over many a native who is professedly a Christian.

Captain Hall highly praises the good-nature of the Esquimaux; but in their behavior to the old and infirm they betray the insensibility, or rather inhumanity, commonly found among savage nations, frequently abandoning them to their fate on their journeys, and allowing them to perish in the wilderness.

Among themselves “Tiglikpok” (he is a thief) is a term of reproach, but they steal without scruple from strangers, and are not ashamed when detected, nor do they blush when reproved. Parry taxes them with want of gratitude; and though they have no doubt rendered good services to many of our Arctic navigators, yet sometimes, when they fancied themselves the stronger party, they have not hesitated to attack or to murder the strangers, and their good behavior can only be relied upon as long as there is the power of enforcing it.

One of the most amiable traits of their character is the kindness with which they treat their children, whose gentleness and docility are such as to occasion their parents little trouble, and to render severity towards them quite unnecessary. Even from their earliest infancy they possess that quiet disposition, gentleness of demeanor, and uncommon evenness of temper for which, in mature age, they are for the most part distinguished. “They are just as fond of play,” says Parry, “as any other young people, and of the same kind, only that while an English child draws a cart of wood, an Esquimaux of the same age has a sledge of whalebone; and for the superb baby-house of the former, the latter builds a miniature hut of snow, and begs a lighted wick from her mother’s lamp to illuminate the little dwelling.”

When not more than eight years old, the boys are taken by their fathers on their sealing excursions, where they begin to learn their future business; and even at that early age they are occasionally intrusted to bring home a sledge and dogs from a distance of several miles over the ice. At the age of eleven we see a boy with his water-tight boots, a spear in his hand, and a small coil of line at his back, accompanying the men to the fishery under every circumstance; and from this time his services daily increase in value to the whole tribe.

In intelligence and susceptibility of civilization the Esquimaux are far superior to the neighboring Indians. They have such a good idea of the hydrography and bearings of the sea-coasts which they frequent as to draw accurate charts of them. Thus Parry, in his second voyage, was guided in his operations by the sketches of the talented Iligliuk; and while Beechey was at Kotzebue Sound, the natives constructed a chart of the coast upon the sand, first marking out the coast-line with a stick, and regulating the distance by the day’s journey. The hills and ranges of mountains were next shown by elevations of sand or stone, and the islands represented by heaps of pebbles, their proportions being duly attended to. When the mountains and islands were erected, the villages and fishing-stations were marked by a number of sticks placed upright, in imitation of those which are put up on the coast wherever these people fix their abode. In this manner a complete hydrographical plan was drawn from Cape Derby to Cape Krusenstern.

The Esquimaux have a decided predilection for commercial pursuits, and undertake long voyages for the purposes of trade. Thus on the continental line of coast west of the Mackenzie, the Point Barrow Esquimaux proceed every summer, with sledges laden with whale or seal oil, whalebone, walrus-tusks, thongs of walrus hide, and seal-skins, to the Colville River, where they meet the Esquimaux from Kotzebue Sound, who offer them in exchange articles procured from the Tchuktchi in the previous summer, such as iron and copper kettles, knives, tobacco, beads, and tin for making pipes. About ten days are spent in bartering, dancing, and revelry, on the flat ground between the tents of each party, pitched a bow-shot apart. The time is one of pleasant excitement, and is passed nearly without sleep. About July 20 this friendly meeting is at an end: the Kotzebue Sound Esquimaux ascend the Colville on their way homeward, while those from Point Barrow descend to the sea, to pursue their voyage eastward to Barter Reef, where they obtain in traffic from the eastern Esquimaux various skins, stone lamps, English knives, small white beads, and, lately, guns and ammunition, which in the year following they exchange for the Kotzebue Sound articles at the Colville, along with the produce of their own sea-hunts.

In this manner, articles of Russian manufacture, originally purchased at the fair of Ostrownoje by the Tchuktchi, or from the factors of the Russian Fur Company on Sledge Island, in Bering’s Straits, find their way from tribe to tribe along the American coast as far as Repulse Bay, and compete among the tribes of the Mackenzie with articles from Sheffield or Birmingham.

A hunter’s life is always precarious—a constant alternation between abundance and want; and though the Esquimaux strikes many a seal, white-fish, or walrus in the course of the year, yet these animals do not abound at all seasons, and there are other causes, besides improvidence, which soon exhaust the stores laid by in times of abundance. Active exercise and constant exposure to cold are remarkable promoters of atomic change in the human body, and a very large supply of food is absolutely necessary to counterbalance the effects of a rapid organic combustion. As a matter of curiosity, Parry once tried how much an Esquimaux lad would, if freely supplied, consume in the course of a day. The following articles were weighed before being given to him: he was twenty hours in getting through them, and certainly did not consider the quantity extraordinary.

	lbs.	oz.
Sea-horse flesh, hard frozen	4	4
” ” boiled	4	4
Bread and bread-dust	1	12
Total of solids	10	4

The fluids were in fair proportion, viz., rich gravy soup, 1¼ pint; raw spirits, 3 wine-glasses; strong grog, 1 tumbler; water, 1 gallon 1 pint.15

Kane averages the Esquimaux ration in a season of plenty at eight or ten pounds a day, with soup and water to the extent of half a gallon, and finds in this excessive consumption—which is rather a necessity of their peculiar life and organization than the result of gluttony—the true explanation of the scarcity from which they frequently suffer. In times of abundance they hunt indomitably without the loss of a day, and stow away large quantities of meat. An excavation is made either on the mainland—or, what is preferred, on an island inaccessible to foxes—and the flesh is stacked inside and covered with heavy stones. One such cache which Kane met on a small island contained the flesh of ten walruses, and he knew of others equally large. But by their ancient custom, all share with all; and as they migrate in numbers as their necessities prompt, the tax on each particular settlement is not seldom so excessive that even considerable stores are unable to withstand the drain, and soon make way for pinching hunger, and even famine.

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The Coureur des Bois.—The Voyageur.—The Birch-bark Canoe.—The Canadian Fur-trade in the last Century.—The Hudson’s Bay Company.—Bloody Feuds between the North-west Company of Canada and the Hudson’s Bay Company.—Their Amalgamation into a new Company in 1821.—Reconstruction of the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1863.—Forts or Houses.—The Attihawmeg.—Influence of the Company on its savage Dependents.—The Black Bear, or Baribal.—The Brown Bear.—The Grizzly Bear.—The Raccoon.—The American Glutton.—The Pine Marten.—The Pekan, or Woodshock.—The Chinga.—The Mink.—The Canadian Fish-otter.—The Crossed Fox.—The Black or Silvery Fox.—The Canadian Lynx, or Pishu.—The Ice-hare.—The Beaver.—The Musquash.

As the desire to reach India by the shortest road first made the civilized world acquainted with the eastern coast of North America, so the extension of the fur-trade has been the chief, or rather the only, motive which originally led the footsteps of the white man from the Canadian Lakes and the borders of Hudson’s Bay into the remote interior of that vast continent.

The first European fur-traders in North America were French Canadians—coureurs des bois—a fitting surname for men habituated to an Indian forest-life. Three or four of these “irregular spirits” agreeing to make an expedition into the backwoods would set out in their birch-bark canoe, laden with goods received on trust from a merchant, for a voyage of great danger and hardship, it might be of several years, into the wilderness.

On their return the merchant who had given them credit of course received the lion’s share of the skins gathered among the Hurons or the Iroquois; the small portion left as a recompense for their own labor was soon spent, as sailors spend their hard-earned wages on their arrival in port; and then they started on some new adventure, until finally old age, infirmities, or death prevented their revisiting the forest.

The modern “voyageur,” who has usurped the place of the old “coureurs,” is so like them in manners and mode of life, that to know the one is to become acquainted with the other. In short, the voyageur is merely a coureur subject to strict law and serving for a fixed pay; while the coureur was a voyageur trading at his own risk and peril, and acknowledging no control when once beyond the pale of European colonization.

The camel is frequently called the “ship of the desert,” and with equal justice the birch-bark canoe might be named the “camel of the North American wilds.” For if we consider the rivers which, covering the land like a net-work, are the only arteries of communication; the frequent rapids and cataracts; the shallow waters flowing over a stony ground whose sharp angles would infallibly cut to pieces any boat made of wood; and finally the surrounding deserts, where, in case of an accident, the traveller is left to his own resources, we must come to the conclusion that in such a country no intercourse could possibly be carried on without a boat made of materials at once flexible and tough, and capable moreover of being easily repaired without the aid of hammer and nails, of saw and plane. This invaluable material is supplied by the rind of the paper-birch, a tree whose uses in the Hudson’s Bay territories are almost as manifold as those of the palm-trees of the tropical zone. Where the skins of animals are rare, the pliant bark, peeled off in large pieces, serves to cover the Indian’s tent. Carefully sewn together, and ornamented with the quills of the porcupine, it is made into baskets, sacks, dishes, plates, and drinking-cups, and in fact is, in one word, the chief material of which the household articles of the Crees are formed. The wood serves for the manufacture of oars, snow-shoes, and sledges; and in spring the sap of the tree furnishes an agreeable beverage, which, by boiling, may be inspissated into a sweet syrup. Beyond the Arctic Circle the paper-birch is a rare and crooked tree, but it is met with as a shrub as far as 69° N. lat. It grows to perfection on the northern shores of Lake Superior, near Fort William, where the canoes of the Hudson’s Bay Company are chiefly manufactured.

A birch-bark canoe is between thirty and forty feet long, and the rinds of which it is built are sewn together with filaments of the root of the Canadian fir. In case of a hole being knocked into it during the journey, it can be patched like an old coat, and is then as good as new. As it has a flat bottom, it does not sink deep into the water; and the river must be almost dried up which could not carry such a boat. The cargo is divided into bales or parcels of from 90 to 100 pounds; and although it frequently amounts to more than four tons, yet the canoe itself is so light that the crew can easily transport it upon their shoulders. This crew generally consists of eight or ten men, two of whom must be experienced boatmen, who receive double pay, and are placed one at the helm, the other at the poop. When the wind is fair, a sail is unfurled, and serves to lighten the toil.

The Canadian voyageur combines the light-heartedness of the Frenchman with the apathy of the Indian, and his dress is also a mixture of that of the Red-skins and of the European colonists. Frequently he is himself a mixture of Gallic and Indian blood—a so-called “bois-brûlé,” and in this case doubly light-hearted and unruly. With his woollen blanket as a surcoat, his shirt of striped cotton, his pantaloons of cloth, or his Indian stockings of leather, his moccasins of deer-skin, and his sash of gaudily-dyed wool, in which his knife, his tobacco-bag, and various other utensils are stuck, he stands high in his own esteem. His language is a French jargon, richly interlarded with Indian and English words—a jumble fit to drive a grammarian mad, but which he thinks so euphonious that his tongue is scarcely ever at rest. His supply of songs and anecdotes is inexhaustible, and he is always ready for a dance. His politeness is exemplary: he never calls his comrades otherwise than “mon frère,” and “mon cousin.” It is hardly necessary to remark that he is able to handle his boat with the same ease as an expert rider manages his horse.

When after a hard day’s work they rest for the night, the axe is immediately at work in the nearest forest, and in less than ten minutes the tent is erected and the kettle simmering on the fire. “While the passengers—perhaps some chief trader on a voyage to some distant fort, or a Back or a Richardson on his way to the Polar Ocean—are warming or drying themselves, the indefatigable “voyageurs” drag the unloaded canoe ashore, turn it over, and examine it carefully, either to fasten again some loose stitches, or to paint over some damaged part with fresh resin. Under the cover of their boat, which they turn against the wind, and with a flaming fire in the foreground, they then bid defiance to the weather. At one o’clock in the morning “Lève! lève! lève!” is called; in half an hour the encampment is broken up, and the boat reladen and launched. At eight in the morning a halt is made for breakfast, for which three-quarters of an hour are allowed. About two in the afternoon half an hour’s rest suffices for a cold dinner. Eighteen hours’ work and six hours’ rest make out the day. The labor is incredible; yet the “voyageur” not only supports it without a murmur, but with the utmost cheerfulness. Such a life requires, of course, an iron constitution. In rowing, the arms and breast of the “voyageur” are exerted to the utmost; and in shallow places he drags the boat after him, wading up to the knees and thighs in the water. Where he is obliged to force his way against a rapid, the drag-rope must be pulled over rocks and stumps of trees, through swamps and thickets; and at the portages the cargo and the boat have to be carried over execrable roads to the next navigable water. Then the “voyageur” takes upon his back two packages, each weighing 90 pounds, and attached by a leathern belt running over the forehead, that his hands may be free to clear the way; and such portages sometimes occur ten or eleven times in one day.

For these toils of his wandering life he has many compensations, in the keen appetite, the genial sensation of muscular strength, and the flow of spirits engendered by labor in the pure and bracing air. Surely many would rather breathe with the “voyageur” the fragrance of the pine forest, or share his rest upon the borders of the stream, than lead the monotonous life of an artisan, pent up in the impure atmosphere of a city.

During the first period of the American fur-trade the “coureurs des bois” used to set out on their adventurous expeditions from the village “La Chine,” one of the oldest and most famous settlements in Canada, whose name points to a time when the St. Lawrence was still supposed to be the nearest way to China. How far some of them may have penetrated into the interior of the continent is unknown; but so much is certain, that their regular expeditions extended as far as the Saskatchewan, 2500 miles beyond the remotest European settlements. Several factories or forts protected their interests on the banks of that noble river; and the French would no doubt have extended their dominion to the Rocky Mountains or to the Pacific if the conquest of Canada by England, in 1761, had not completely revolutionized the fur-trade. The change of dominion laid it prostrate for several years, but our enterprising countrymen soon opened a profitable intercourse with the Indian tribes of the west, as their predecessors had done before them. Now, however, the adventurous “coureur des bois,” who had entered the wilds as a semi-independent trader, was obliged to serve in the pay of the British merchant, and to follow him, as his “voyageur,” deeper and deeper into the wilderness, until finally they reached on the Athabasca and the Churchill River the Indian hunters who used to sell their skins in the settlements of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

This company was founded in the year 1670 by a body of adventurers and merchants under the patronage of Prince Rupert, second cousin of Charles II. The charter obtained from the Crown was wonderfully liberal, comprising not only the grant of the exclusive trade, but also of full territorial possession to all perpetuity of the vast lands within the watershed of Hudson’s Bay. The Company at once established some forts along the shores of the great inland sea from which it derived its name, and opened a very lucrative trade with the Indians, so that it never ceased paying rich dividends to the fortunate shareholders until towards the close of the last century, when, as I have already mentioned, its prosperity began to be seriously affected by the energetic competition of the Canadian fur-traders.

In spite of the flourishing state of its affairs, or rather because the monopoly which it enjoyed allowed it to prosper without exertion, the Company, as long as Canada remained in French hands, had conducted its affairs in a very indolent manner, waiting for the Indians to bring the produce of their chase to the Hudson’s Bay settlements, instead of following them into the interior and stimulating them by offering greater facilities for exchange.

For eighty years after its foundation the Company possessed no more than four small forts on the shores of Hudson’s Bay; and only when the encroachments of the Canadians at length roused it from its torpor, did it resolve likewise to advance into the interior, and to establish a fort on the eastern shore of Sturgeon Lake, in the year 1774. Up to this time, with the exception of the voyage of discovery which Hearne (1770–71) made under its auspices to the mouth of the Coppermine River, it had done but little for the promotion of geographical discovery in its vast territory.

Meanwhile the Canadian fur-traders had become so hateful to the Indians that these savages formed a conspiracy for their total extirpation.

Fortunately for the white men, the small-pox broke out about this time among the Redskins, and swept them away as the fire consumes the parched grass of the prairies. Their unburied corpses were torn by the wolves and wild dogs, and the survivors were too weak and dispirited to be able to undertake any thing against the foreign intruders. The Canadian fur-traders now also saw the necessity of combining their efforts for their mutual benefit, instead of ruining each other by an insane competition; and consequently formed, in 1783, a society which, under the name of the North-west Company of Canada, at first consisted of sixteen, later of twenty partners or shareholders, some of whom lived in Canada, while the others were scattered among the various stations in the interior. The whole Canadian fur-trade was now greatly developed; for while previously each of the associates had blindly striven to do as much harm as possible to his present partners, and thus indirectly damaged his own interests, they now all vigorously united to beat the rival Hudson’s Bay Company out of the field. The agents of this North-west Company, in defiance of their charter, were indefatigable in exploring the lakes and woods, the plains and the mountains, for the purpose of establishing new trading-stations at all convenient points.

The most celebrated of these pioneers of commerce, Alexander Mackenzie, reached, in the year 1789, the mouth of the great river which bears his name, and saw the white dolphins gambol about in the Arctic Sea. In a second voyage he crossed the Rocky Mountains, and followed the course of the Fraser River until it discharges its waters into the Georgian Gulf opposite to Vancouver’s Island. Here he wrote with perishable vermilion the following inscription on a rock-wall fronting the gulf:—

A. Mackenzie
arrived from Canada by land,
22 July, 1792.

The words were soon effaced by wind and weather, but the fame of the explorer will last as long as the English language is spoken in America.

The energetic North-west Company thus ruled over the whole continent from the Canadian Lakes to the Rocky Mountains, and in 1806 it even crossed that barrier and established its forts on the northern tributaries of the Columbia River. To the north it likewise extended its operations, encroaching more and more upon the privileges of the Hudson’s Bay Company, which, roused to energy, now also pushed on its posts farther and farther into the interior, and established in 1812 a colony on the Red River to the south of Winipeg Lake, thus driving, as it were, a sharp thorn into the side of its rival. But a power like the North-west Company, which had no less than 50 agents, 70 interpreters, and 1120 voyageurs in its pay, and whose chief managers used to appear at their annual meetings at Fort William, on the banks of Lake Superior, with all the pomp and pride of feudal barons, was not inclined to tolerate this encroachment; and thus, after many quarrels, a regular war broke out between the two parties, which, after two years’ duration, led to the expulsion of the Red River colonists and the murder of their governor, Semple. This event took place in the year 1816, and is but one episode of the bloody feuds which continued to reign between the two rival companies until 1821. At first sight it may seem strange that such acts of violence should take place between British subjects and on British soil, but then we must consider that at that time European law had little power in the American wilderness.

The dissensions of the fur-traders had most deplorable consequences for the Redskins; for both companies, to swell the number of their adherents, lavishly distributed spirituous liquors—a temptation which no Indian can resist.

The whole of the hunting-grounds of the Saskatchewan and Athabasca were but one scene of revelry and bloodshed. Already decimated by the small-pox, the Indians now became the victims of drunkenness and discord, and it was to be feared that if the war and its consequent demoralization continued, the most important tribes would soon be utterly swept away.

The finances of the belligerent companies were in an equally deplorable state; the produce of the chase diminished from year to year with the increase of their expenditure; and thus the Hudson’s Bay Company, which used to gratify its shareholders with dividends of 50 and 25 per cent., was unable, from 1808 to 1814, to distribute a single shilling among them. At length wisdom prevailed over passion, and the enemies came to a resolution which, if taken from the very beginning, would have saved them both a great deal of treasure and many crimes. Instead of continuing to swing the tomahawk, they now smoked the calumet, and amalgamated in 1821, under the name of the “Hudson’s Bay Company,” and under the wing of the charter. The British Government, as a dowry to the impoverished couple, presented them with a license of exclusive trade throughout the whole of that territory which, under the name of the Hudson’s Bay and North-west territories, extends from Labrador to the Pacific, and from the Red River to the Polar Ocean. This license was terminable in 21 years, but in 1838 it was renewed again for the same period. The good effects of peace and union soon became apparent, for after a few years the Company was enabled to pay half-yearly dividends of five per cent., and the Indians, to whom brandy was now no longer supplied unless as a medicine, enjoyed the advantages of a more sober life.

About 1848 the Imperial Government, fearing that Vancouver’s Island might be annexed by the United States, resolved to place it under the management of the Hudson’s Bay Company. This was accordingly done in 1849. A license of exclusive trade and management was granted for ten years, terminable therefore in 1859 (the time of expiration of the similar license over the Indian territory).

These were the palmy days of the Hudson’s Bay Company. They held Rupert’s Land by the royal charter, which was perpetual; they held Vancouver’s Island and the whole Indian territory to the Pacific by exclusive licenses, terminable in 1859; and thus maintained under their sole sway about 4,000,000 square miles—a realm larger than the whole of Europe.

For the ten years ending May 31, 1862, the average net annual profits of the Company amounted to £81,000 on a paid-up capital of £400,000, but a portion only of this income was distributed as dividend.

In 1863 the Company was reconstructed, with a capital of £2,000,000, for the purpose of enlarging its operations—such as opening the southern and more fruitful districts of the Saskatchewan or the Winipeg to European colonization; but the northern, and by far the larger portion of the vast domains over which, after the dismemberment of British Columbia and the Stikine territory, it still holds sway, have too severe a climate ever to be cultivated, and, unless their mineral wealth be made available, must ever be what they are now—a fur-bearing region of gloomy pine-forests, naked barren-grounds, lakes, and morasses.

Over this vast extent of desert the Company has established about 150 trading-posts, called “houses,” or “forts,” which, however, consist merely of a few magazines and dwelling-houses, protected by a simple wall, stockade, or palisade sufficiently strong to resist any sudden attack of the Indians. Among the tribes, with whom a friendly intercourse has long subsisted, and whose fidelity may implicitly be trusted, no guard is ever kept, and it is only in forts more recently built in remote parts that precautions are taken.

These forts are always situated on the borders of a lake or river, both for facility of transport and for the purpose of catching fish, particularly the species of Coregonus, or white-fish, which, from its importance to all the natives of Rupert’s Land between the great Canada lakes and the Arctic Sea, the Crees call Attihawmeg, or the “reindeer of the waters.” In many of the trading-posts it forms the chief food of the white residents; and it is asserted that though deprived of bread and vegetables, a man may live upon it for months or even years without tiring. According to Sir John Richardson, no fish in any country or sea excels the white-fish in flavor and wholesomeness, and it is the most beneficial article of diet to the Red Indians near the Arctic Circle, being obtained with more certainty than the reindeer, and with less change of abode in summer and winter.

Each of the principal forts is the seat of a chief factor, or general administrator of a district, and of a chief trader, who transacts the business with the Indians.

Besides these principal functionaries—out of whom the governor is chosen—the Company employed, in 1860, 5 surgeons, 87 clerks, 67 postmasters, 1200 permanent servants, and 500 voyageurs, besides temporary employés of different ranks, so that the total number of persons in its pay was at least 3000. Besides this little army of immediate dependents, the whole male Indian population of its vast territory, amounting to about 100,000 hunters and trappers, may be considered as actively employed in the service of the Company. Armed vessels, both sailing and steam, are employed on the north-west coast to carry on the fur-trade with the warlike natives of that distant region. More than twenty years ago this trade alone gave employment to about 1000 men, occupying 21 permanent establishments, or engaged in navigating five armed sailing vessels and one armed steamer, varying from 100 to 300 tons in burden.

The influence of the Company over its savage dependents may justly be called beneficial. Both from motives of humanity and self-interest, every effort is made to civilize them. No expense is spared to preserve them from the want into which their improvidence too often plunges them; and the example of an inflexible straightforwardness serves to gain their confidence. This moral preponderance, and the admiration of the Indian for the superior knowledge and arts of the Europeans, explain how a mere handful of white men, scattered over an enormous territory, not only lead a life of perfect security, but exercise an almost absolute power over a native population outnumbering them at least several hundred times. The Indians have in course of time acquired many new wants, and have thus become more and more dependent on the white traders. The savage hunter is no longer the free, self-dependent man, who, without any foreign assistance, was able to make and manufacture, with his own hands, all the weapons and articles needed for his maintenance. Without English firearms and fishing-gear, without iron-ware and woollen blankets, he could no longer exist, and the unfortunate tribe on which the Company should close its stores would soon perish for want. “History,” says Professor Hind, “does not furnish another example of an association of private individuals exerting a powerful influence over so large an extent of the earth’s surface, and administering their affairs with such consummate skill and unwavering devotion to the original objects of their incorporation.”

The standard of exchange in all mercantile transactions with the natives is a beaver skin, the relative value of which, as originally established by the traders, differs considerably from the present worth of the articles represented by it; but the Indians are averse to change. They receive their principal outfit of clothing and ammunition on credit in the autumn, to be repaid by their winter hunts; the amount intrusted to each of the hunters varying with their reputations for industry and skill.

The furs which, in the course of the year, are accumulated in the various forts or trading-stations, are transported in the short time during which the rivers and lakes are navigable, and in the manner described at the beginning of the chapter, to York Factory, or Moose Factory, on Hudson’s Bay, to Montreal or Vancouver, and shipped from thence mostly to London. From the more distant posts in the interior, the transport often requires several seasons; for travelling is necessarily very slow when rapids and portages continually interrupt navigation, and the long winter puts a stop to all intercourse whatever.

The goods from Europe, consisting (besides those mentioned above) of printed cotton or silk handkerchiefs, or neck-cloths, of beads, and the universal favorite tobacco, require at least as much time to find their way into the distant interior; and thus the Company is not seldom obliged to wait for four, five, or six years before it receives its returns for the articles sent from London. It must, however, be confessed, that it amply repays itself for the tediousness of delay, for Dr. Armstrong was told by the Esquimaux of Cape Bathurst—a tribe in the habit of trading with the Indians from the Mackenzie, who are in direct communication with the Hudson’s Bay Company’s agents—that for three silver-fox skins—which sometimes fetch as high a price as twenty-five or thirty guineas apiece at the annual sale of the Company—they had got from the traders cooking utensils which might be worth eight shillings and sixpence!

The value of the skins annually imported into England by the Company amounts to about £150,000 or £200,000. Besides, many of its furs are bartered for Russian-American peltry, and a large quantity is exported direct to China.

After this brief account of one of the most remarkable mercantile associations of any age, some remark on the chief fur-bearing animals of the Hudson’s Bay territory may not be without interest. Among these, the black bear, muskwa, or baribal (Ursus americanus), is one of the most valuable, as his long hair—unlike that of the brown or the white bear—is beautifully smooth and glossy. He inhabits the forest regions of North America, but migrates according to the seasons. In spring he seeks his food in the thickets along the banks of the rivers or lakes; in summer he retreats into the forests; in winter he either wanders farther to the south, or hollows out a kind of lair beneath the root of an overthrown tree, where, as the cold is more or less severe, he either finds a retreat after his excursions, or hibernates buried in the snow. He feeds chiefly on berries, grain, acorns, roots, eggs, and honey; though, when pressed by hunger, he will attack other quadrupeds. He climbs upon trees or rocks with great agility, and, being very watchful, is not easily got at in summer. Sometimes, however, his caution brings about his destruction; for, from fear of some possible danger, or at the slightest noise, he rises on his hind legs to look over the bushes under which he lies concealed, and thus offers a mark to the bullet of the hunter. In the winter, when the snow betrays his traces, he is more easily shot, and his skin and flesh are then also in the best condition. In spite of his apparent clumsiness and stolidity, the muskwa is more alert than the brown bear, whom he nearly approaches in size; he runs so fast that no man can overtake him, and is an excellent swimmer and climber. When attacked, he generally retreats as fast as possible into the forest; but if escape is impossible, he turns furiously upon his pursuers, and becomes exceedingly dangerous. Dogs alone are incapable of mastering him, as he is always ready to receive them with a stroke of his fore paw; but they are very useful in driving him up a tree, and thus giving the hunter an opportunity of hitting him in the right spot. When in a state of captivity, the baribal, in his mild and good-humored disposition, is distinguished, from the brown and white bear. His fur is also much more valuable than that of the brown bear.

It is not yet fully ascertained whether the American brown bear is identical with that of Europe; the resemblance, however, is close. In summer he wanders to the shores of the Polar Sea, and indulges more frequently in animal food than the baribal. He is even said to attack man when pressed by hunger; but all those whom Sir John Richardson met with ran away as soon as they saw him.

As the grizzly bear (Ursus ferox) is found on the Rocky Mountains up to the latitude of 61°, he undoubtedly deserves a place among the sub-arctic animals. The skin of this most formidable of the ursine race, who is about nine feet long, and is said to attain the weight of eight hundred pounds, is but little prized in the fur-trade. He is the undoubted monarch of his native wilds, for even the savage bison flies at his approach.

Although the raccoon (Procyon lotor) is more commonly found in Canada and the United States, yet he is also an inhabitant of the Hudson’s Bay territories, where he is met with up to 56° N. lat. This interesting little animal, which, like the bears, applies the sole of its foot to the ground in walking, has an average length of two feet from the nose to the tail, which is about ten inches long. Its color is grayish-brown, with a dusky line running from the top of the head down the middle of the face, and ending below the eyes. The tail is very thickly covered with hair, and is annulated with several black bars on a yellowish-white ground. Its face is very like that of the fox, whom it equals in cunning, while its active and playful habits resemble those of the monkey. Its favorite haunts are the woods, near streams or lakes, for one of its most marked peculiarities, from which it has received its specific name of lotor, or the washer, is its habit of plunging its dry food into water before eating it. The raccoon devours almost any thing that comes in his way—fruits and grain of all sorts, birds’ nests, mice, grasshoppers, beetles: while the waters yield him fishes, crabs, and oysters, which he is very expert in opening. His fur forms no inconsiderable article of commerce, and is very fashionable in Russia. In 1841, 111,316 raccoon skins were imported into St. Petersburg, and more than half a million were stapled in Leipzig, intended, no doubt, for smuggling across the frontier.

The fur of the American glutton, or wolverine, is much used for muffs and linings; yet, from its being a notorious robber of their traps, the animal is as much hated by the Indian hunters as the dog-fish by the northern fishermen.

The Hudson’s Bay territories can not boast of the sable, but the American pine marten (Martes abietum) is not much inferior in value, as its dark-brown fur is remarkably fine, thick, and glossy. It frequents the woody districts, where it preys on birds, and all the smaller quadrupeds from the hare to the mouse. Even the squirrel is incapable of escaping the pine marten, and after having vaulted and climbed from tree to tree, sinks at last exhausted into its gripe.

The pekan, or woodshock (Martes canadensis), the largest of the marten family, is also the one which most richly supplies the fur-market. It is found over the whole of North America, and generally lives in burrows near the banks of rivers, as it principally feeds on the small quadrupeds that frequent the water.

Several species of ermine inhabit the Hudson’s Bay territories, but their skins are of no great importance in the fur-trade. Like many other species of the marten family, they eject, when irritated or alarmed, a fluid of a fetid odor; but in this respect they are far surpassed by the chinga (Mephitis chinga), whose secretion has so intolerable a smell that the least quantity suffices to produce nausea and a sense of suffocation. This animal is frequently found near Hudson’s Bay, whence it extends farther to the north. In spite of the formidable means of defense with which it has been armed by nature, it is of use to man, for its black and white striped fur (which, as may easily be supposed, never appears in the European market) provides the Indians with coverings or tobacco-pouches. Before seizing the chinga, they irritate it with a long switch until it has repeatedly emptied the glands from which the noxious vapor issues; then suddenly springing upon it, they hold it up by the tail and dispatch it.

The mink (Vison americanus), another member of the weasel family, is one of the most important fur-bearing animals of the Hudson’s Bay territories. It resembles the small European fish-otter (Vison lutreola), but its skin is far more valuable—the brown hair with which it is covered being much softer and thicker. As its toes are connected by a small web, it is an excellent swimmer, and as formidable to the salmon or trout in the water as to the hare on land.

The Canadian fish-otter (Lutra canadensis) far surpasses the European species, both in size and in the beauty of its glossy brown skin. It occurs as far northward as 66° or 67° lat., and is generally taken by sinking a steel trap near the mouth of its burrow. It has the habit of sliding or climbing to the top of a ridge of snow in winter, or of a sloping moist bank in summer, where, lying on the belly, with the fore feet bent backward, it gives itself with the hind legs an impulse which sends it swiftly down the eminence. This schoolboy sport it continues for a long time.

The red fox (Vulpes fulvus), which is found throughout the Hudson’s Bay territories, has likewise a much finer fur than our common fox. It is of a bright ferruginous red on the head, back, and sides; beneath the chin it is white, while the throat and neck are of a dark gray, and the under parts of the body, toward the tail, are of a very pale red. The crossed fox (Canis decussatus), thus named from the black cross on its shoulders, is still more valuable; its skin—the color of which is a sort of gray, resulting from the mixture of black and white hair—being worth four or five guineas. Peltry still more costly is furnished by the black or silvery fox (Canis argentatus), whose copious and beautiful fur is of a rich and shining black or deep brown color, with the longer or exterior hairs of a silvery white. Unfortunately it is of such rare occurrence that not more than four or five are annually brought to a trading-post.

The Canada lynx, or pishu (Lynx canadensis), is smaller than the European species, but has a finer fur, those skins being most valued which approach to a pale or whitish color, and on which the spots are most distinct. It chiefly feeds on the hare (Lepus americanus), which is not much larger than a rabbit, and is found on the banks of the Mackenzie as far north as 68° or 69°.

Still nearer to the Pole, the ice-hare (Lepus glacialis) ranges as far as the Parry Islands (75° N. lat.), where it feeds on the arctic willow, and other high northern plants. Its favorite resorts are the stony districts, where it easily finds a refuge; in winter it burrows in the snow. In summer its back is grayish white, but as the cold increases, it becomes white, with the exception of the tips of the ears, which remain constantly black.

Formerly the beaver (Castor fiber) was the most important of the fur-bearing animals of the Hudson’s Bay territories. In the year 1743, 127,000 beaver skins were exported from Montreal to La Rochelle, and 26,700 by the Hudson’s Bay Company to London. At present, the exportation hardly amounts to one-third of this quantity. As the beaver chiefly lives on the barks of the willow, the beech, and the poplar, it is not found beyond the forest region; but along the banks of the Mackenzie it reaches a very high latitude.

The musk-rat, ondatra or musquash (Fiber zibethicus)—which is about the size of a small rabbit, and of a reddish-brown color—is called by the Indians the younger brother of the beaver, as it has similar instincts. Essentially a bank-haunting animal, it is never to be seen at any great distance from the water, where it swims and dives with consummate ease, aided greatly by the webs which connect the hinder toes. It drives a large series of tunnels into the bank, branching out in various directions, and having several entrances, all of which open under the surface of the water. If the animal happens to live upon a marshy and uniformly wet soil, it becomes a builder, and lives in curiously-constructed huts, from three to four feet in height, plastered with great neatness in the inside, and strengthened externally with a kind of basket-work of rushes, carefully interlaced together. The judgment of the animal shows itself in the selection of the site, invariably choosing some ground above the reach of inundation, or else raising its hut on an artificial foundation; for, though obliged to reside near flat, submerged banks, where the soft soil is full of nourishing roots, it requires a dry home to rest in.

In winter the musquash villages—for the huts are sometimes built in such numbers together as to deserve that name—are generally covered with thick snow, under which this rodent is able to procure water, or to reach the provisions laid up in its storehouse. Thus it lives in ease and plenty, for the marten is too averse to the water, and the otter too bulky to penetrate into its tunnels. But when the snow melts, and the huts of the musquash appear above the ground, the Indian, taking in his hand a large four-barbed spear, steals up to the house, and driving his weapon through the walls, is sure to pierce the animals inside. Holding the spear firmly with one hand, he takes his tomahawk from his belt, dashes the house to pieces, and secures the inmates. Another method employed by the Indians to capture the musquash is to block up the different entrances to their tunnels, and then to intercept the animals as they try to escape. Sometimes the gun is used, but not very frequently, as the musquash is so wary that it dives at the least alarm, and darts into one of its holes. The trap, however, is the ordinary means of destruction. The soft and glossy fur of the musquash, though worth no more than from 6d. to 9d., is still a not inconsiderable article of trade, as no less than half a million skins are annually imported into England for hat-making; nor is there any fear of the musquash being extirpated, in spite of its many enemies, as it multiplies very fast, and is found near every swamp or lake with grassy banks as far as the confines of the Polar Sea.

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The various Tribes of the Tinné Indians.—The Dog-ribs.—Clothing.—The Hare Indians.—Degraded State of the Women.—Practical Socialists.—Character.—Cruelty to the Aged and Infirm.

The Tinné Indians, whose various tribes range from the Lower Mackenzie to the Upper Saskatchewan, and from New Caledonia to the head of Chesterfield Inlet, occupy a considerable part of the territories of the Hudson’s Bay Company. To their race belong the Strongbows of the Rocky Mountains; the Beaver Indians, between Peace River and the west branch of the Mackenzie; the Red-knives, thus named from the copper knives of which their native ores furnish the materials, and who roam between the Great Fish River and the Coppermine; the Hare Indians, who inhabit the thickly wooded district of the Mackenzie from Slave Lake downward; the Dog-ribs, who occupy the inland country on the east from Martin Lake to the Coppermine; the Athabascans, who frequent the Elk and Slave Rivers, and many other tribes of inferior note.

The Tinné, in general, have more regular features than the Esquimaux, and, taken on the whole, exhibit all the characteristics of the red races dwelling farther south; but their utter disregard of cleanliness and their abject behavior (for when in the company of white people they exhibit the whine and air of inveterate mendicants) give them a wretched appearance. Mackenzie, the first European who became acquainted with the Dog-ribs, describes them as an ugly emaciated tribe, covered with dirt and besmeared with grease from head to foot. More than sixty years have passed since Mackenzie’s journey, but his account of them is true to the present day. The women are even uglier and more filthy than the men, for the latter at least paint their unwashed faces and wear trinkets on festive occasions, while the females leave even their hair without any other dressing than wiping their greasy hands on the matted locks, when they have been rubbing their bodies with marrow. The clothing of the men in summer consists of reindeer leather dressed like shammy, which, when newly made, is beautifully white and soft. “A shirt of this material,” says Sir John Richardson, to whom we are indebted for the best account of the various nations inhabiting the Hudson’s Bay territory, “cut evenly below, reaches to the middle; the ends of a piece of cloth secured to a waist-band hang down before and behind; the hose, or Indian stockings, descend from the top of the thigh to the ankle, and a pair of moccasins or shoes of the same soft leather with tops which fold round the ankle, complete the costume. When the hunter is equipped for the chase he wears, in addition, a stripe of white hare-skin, or of the belly part of a deer-skin, in a bandana round the head, with his lank, black elf-locks streaming from beneath; a shot-pouch suspended by an embroidered belt, a fire-bag or tobacco-pouch tucked into the girdle, and a long fowling-piece thrown carelessly across the arm, or balanced on the back of the neck. The several articles here enumerated are ornamented at the seams and hems with leather thongs wound round with porcupine quills, or more or less embroidered with bead-work, according to the industry of the wife or wives. One of the young men, even of the slovenly Dog-ribs, when newly equipped, and tripping jauntily over the mossy ground with an elastic step, displays his slim and not ungraceful figure to advantage. But this fine dress once donned is neither laid aside nor cleaned while it lasts, and soon acquires a dingy look, and an odor which betrays its owner at some distance. In the camp a greasy blanket of English manufacture is worn over the shoulders by day, and forms with the clothes the bedding by night.”

In winter they clothe themselves with moose or reindeer skins, retaining the hair, while a large robe of the same material is thrown over the shoulders, and hangs down to the feet in place of the blanket. The women’s dress resembles the men’s, but the skirt is somewhat longer, and generally accompanied by a petticoat which reaches nearly to the knee. The form of dress here described is common to the whole Tinné nation, and also to the Crees, but the material varies with the district. Thus moose-deer, red-deer, and bison leather are in use among the more southern and western tribes, and the Hare Indians make their skirts of the skins of the animal from which they derive their surname. As this, however, is too tender to be used in the ordinary way, it is torn into narrow strips, twisted slightly, and plaited or worked into the required shape. Such is the closeness and fineness of the fur that these hare-skin dresses are exceedingly warm, notwithstanding the closeness of their texture.

The Hare Indian and Dog-rib women are certainly at the bottom of the scale of humanity in North America. Not that they are treated with cruelty, but that they are looked upon as inferior beings, and in this belief they themselves acquiesce. In early infancy the boy discovers that he may show any amount of arrogance towards his sisters, who, as soon as they can walk, are harnessed to a sledge, while the tiny hunter struts in his snow-shoes after the men and apes their contempt of the women. All the work, except hunting and fishing, falls to their share; yet they are in general not discontented with their lot.

It would be vain to look among the Dog-ribs for the stoicism popularly attributed to the Indians, for they shrink from pain, shed tears readily, and are very timorous; but all, young and old, enjoy a joke heartily, and when young are lively and cheerful. When bands of their nation meet each other after a long absence, they perform a kind of dance. A piece of ground is cleared for the purpose, and the dance frequently lasts for two or three days, the parties relieving each other as they get tired. The two bands commence the dance with their backs turned to each other, the individuals following one another in Indian file, and holding the bow in the left hand and an arrow in the right. They approach obliquely after many turns, and when the two bands are closely back to back, they feign to see each other for the first time, and the bow is instantly transferred to the right hand and the arrow to the left, signifying that it is not their intention to use them against their friends. Their dancing, which they accompany by a chorus of groans, compared by Sir John Richardson to the deep sigh of a pavior as he brings his rammer down upon the pavement, has not the least pretensions to grace; their knees and body are half bent, and, from their heavy stamping, they appear as if desirous of sinking into the ground.

The Dog-ribs are practical socialists, and their wretched condition results in a great measure from this cause. All may avail themselves of the produce of a hunter’s energy or skill, and do not even leave him the distribution of his own game. When it becomes known in a camp that deer have been killed, the old men and women of each family sally forth with their sledges and divide the quarry, leaving the owner nothing but the ribs and tongue—all he can claim of right. Unable to restrain their appetite, all the community feast in times of abundance, however little many of the men (and there are not a few idle ones) may have contributed to the common good. Taught by frequent sufferings, the more active hunters frequently withdraw from the worthless drones, leaving them at some fishing-station, where, with proper industry, they may subsist comfortably. Fish-diet is, however, not agreeable to their taste, and as soon as reports of a successful chase arrive, a general movement to the hunting-ground ensues. If on their march the craving multitude discover a hoard of meat, it is devoured on the spot; but they are not always so fortunate. The deer and the hunters may have gone off, and then they are obliged to retrace their steps, many perishing by the way.

The Dog-ribs are not conspicuous for hospitality. When a stranger enters a tent he receives no welcome and proffer of food, though he may help himself from a piece of meat hanging on the wall or join the repast. Though great liars, they do not steal the white man’s property like the Esquimaux and Crees, and when visiting a fort, they may be trusted in any of the rooms. As to their religious belief, the majority of the nation recognize a Great Spirit, while others doubt his existence, assigning as a reason their miserable condition. They are in great fear of evil spirits, which, as they imagine, assume the forms of the bear, wolf, and wolverine, and in the woods, waters, and desert places they fancy they hear them howling in the winds or moaning by the graves of the dead. They never make offerings to the Great Spirit, but deprecate the wrath of an evil being by the promise of a sacrifice, or by scattering a handful of deer-hair or a few feathers. They believe in a state of future happiness or torment. The soul, after death, crosses a broad river in a boat, and thus endeavors to reach the opposite shore, which is adorned with all the beauties of paradise. If laden with crime, the boat sinks under the weight, and the unfortunate soul, immersed in water, strives in vain to reach the blissful abode from which it is forever banished.

Formerly when a Tinné warrior died, it was customary for the family to abandon every article they possessed, and betake themselves, in a perfectly destitute condition, to the nearest body of their own people or trading-post. The advice of traders is gradually breaking down this absurd practice, which would alone suffice to keep this people in a state of perpetual poverty. In other respects also, European influence begins to make itself felt. Since 1846 Roman Catholic missionaries are at work among the Chepewyans, and have taught many of their converts to read and write. The Athabascans had formerly but a small breed of dogs, now a stouter race has, in some respects, ameliorated the condition of the females, and the introduction of the horse, which has more recently taken place, holds out prospects of a still greater improvement. The Tinné are as giddy and thoughtless as children. When accompanied by a white man they will perform a long journey carefully, but can not be depended upon to carry letters, however high the reward may be that has been promised them on reaching their destination, as the least whim suffices to make them forget their commission.

They are generally content with one wife at a time, and none but the chiefs have more than two. The successful wrestler takes the wife of his weaker countryman, who consoles himself for his loss by endeavoring to find one weaker than himself.

Tender and affectionate parents, the Tinné are totally indifferent to the sorrows of helpless age. During the stay of Sir George Back at Fort Reliance, an old woman arrived there on Easter Sunday, clothed in ragged reindeer skins, worn down to a skeleton, and grasping with both her hands a stick to support her body, bent double by age and want. The story of the poor creature was soon told. She had become a burden to her family; her former services had all been forgotten, and she had been told “that though she still seemed to live, she was in reality dead, and must be abandoned to her fate. In the new fort she might find assistance, for the white strangers were powerful medicine-men.” This had happened a month before, and all this time she had slowly crept along, appeasing her hunger with the berries she found here and there on the way. When she reached the fort it was too late; she died a few days after her arrival.

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The Countries they inhabit.—Their Appearance and Dress.—Their Love of Finery.—Condition of the Women.—Strange Customs.—Character.—Feuds with the Esquimaux.—Their suspicious and timorous Lives.—Pounds for catching Reindeer.—Their Lodges.

On the banks of the Lower Mackenzie, to the west of Great Bear Lake, in the territories drained by the Peel River and by the Upper Yukon, dwell the Loucheux, or Kutchin Indians, whose language is totally different from that of the other North American tribes, and whose customs and manners also vary considerably from those of all their neighbors, both Red-skins and Esquimaux.

They are an athletic and fine-looking people, with regular features and a complexion of a lighter copper color than that of the other Red Indians, so that many of their women would be reckoned handsome in any country. The females tattoo their chins and use a black pigment when they paint their faces, while the men employ both red and black on all occasions of ceremony, and always to be ready, each carries a small bag with red clay and black lead suspended to his neck. Most commonly the eyes are encircled with black, a stripe of the same runs down the middle of the nose, and a blotch is daubed on the upper part of each cheek. The forehead is crossed by many narrow red stripes, and the skin is streaked alternately with red and black.

The outer shirt of the Kutchin is made of the skins of fawn reindeer, dressed with the hair on after the manner of the Hare, Dog-rib, and other Chepewyan tribes, but resembles in form the analogous garment of the Esquimaux, being furnished with peaked skirts, though of smaller size. The men wear these skirts before and behind; the women have larger back skirts, but none in front. In winter shirts of hare-skin are worn, and the pantaloons of deer-skin have the fur next the skin.

None of the neighboring nations pay so much attention to personal cleanliness, or are so studious in adorning their persons. A broad band of beads is worn across the shoulders and breast of the shirt, and the hinder part of the dress is fringed with tassels wound round with dyed porcupine quills and strung with the silvery fruit of the oleaster (Elæagnus argentea); a stripe of beads, strung in alternate red and white squares, ornament the seams of the trowsers, and bands of beads encircle the ankles. The poorer sort, or the less fortunate hunters, who are unable to procure these costly trinkets in the same enviable abundance as the rich, strive to wear at least a string of beads, and look down with contemptuous pity upon the still more needy class, which is reduced to adorn itself with porcupine quills only.

In consequence of this passionate fondness for beads, these ornaments serve as a medium of exchange among the Kutchin, and Sir John Richardson remarks that no such near approach to money has been invented by the nations to the eastward of the Rocky Mountains. The standard bead, and one of the most value, is a large one of white enamel, manufactured in Italy only, and is with difficulty procured in sufficient quantity to satisfy the demand, as beads are more prized than English cloth and blankets.

Another article very much in request among the Kutchin is the large ribbed dentalium shell which is collected in the archipelago between Oregon and Cape Fairweather, and passes by trade from tribe to tribe until it finds its way at length to the Yukon. With this shell they adorn their mittens, and even attach it to their guns, which have been lately introduced, and are in great demand. All men carry powder and ball, whether they own a gun or not, and obtain for it a share of the game.

The tribes on the Yukon tie their hair behind in a cue, or “chignon,” and daub it with grease, and the down of geese and ducks, until, by the repetition of the process continued from infancy, it swells to an enormous thickness, so that the weight of the accumulated load of hair, dirt, and ornaments causes the wearer to stoop forward habitually. The tail-feathers of the eagle and fishing-hawk are stuck into the hair on the back of the head, and are removed only when the owner retires to sleep, or when he wishes to wave them to and fro in a dance.

The principal men have two or three wives each, while the bad hunters are obliged to remain bachelors. A good wrestler, however, even though poor, can always obtain a wife.

The women do all the drudgery in winter except cooking, and do not eat till the husband is satisfied. In summer they labor little, except in drying meat or fish for its preservation. The men alone paddle while the women sit as passengers, and husbands even carry their wives to the shore on their arms, that they may not wet their feet—an instance of gallantry almost unparalleled in savage life. The Esquimaux women row their own “oomiaks,” and the Chepewyan women assist the men in paddling their canoes. On the whole, the social condition of the Kutchin women is far superior to that of the Tinné women, but scarcely equal to that of the Esquimaux dames.

They do not carry their children in their hoods or boots like the Esquimaux, nor do they stuff them into a bag with moss like the Tinné and Crees, but they place them in a seat of birch-bark, with a back and sides like those of an armchair, and a pommel in front resembling the peak of a Spanish saddle, by which they hang it from their back. The child’s feet are bandaged to prevent them growing, small feet being thought handsome, and consequently short unshapely feet are characteristic of the people of both sexes. A more ridiculous or insane custom can hardly be imagined among a nation of hunters.

The Kutchin are a lively, cheerful people, fond of dancing and singing, in which they excel all other Indians; leaping, wrestling, and other athletic exercises are likewise favorite amusements. They are inveterate talkers. Every new-comer arriving at a trading-post makes a long speech, which must not be interrupted. The belief in Shamanism is still in full vigor among them.

Though a treacherous people, they have never yet imbrued their hands in European blood, but there are frequent feuds among their various tribes, by which one-half of the population of the banks of the Yukon has been cut off within the last twenty years. From a constant dread of ambuscade, they do not travel except in large parties; and thus a perpetual feeling of insecurity embitters their lives, which are already rendered sufficiently hard by the severity of an Arctic climate. The agents of the Hudson’s Bay Company have endeavored by good advice, and the distribution of large presents, to establish peace, but have only met with partial success.

Like the Tinné, the Kutchin are in a state of perpetual warfare with the Esquimaux; and though they always charge the latter with treachery, yet there can be no doubt that the accusation might, with full justice, be retorted upon themselves. One of the hostile encounters, mentioned by Sir J. Richardson, deserves notice, on account of its resemblance in some particulars to the meeting of Joab and Abner, recorded in the Second Book of Samuel. A party of each of the two nations having met on the banks of a river, the young men of both parties rose up as if for a friendly dance. The stream glides peacefully along, the setting sun gilds the pine forest and sparkles in the waters; all nature breathes peace. But the Esquimaux having, according to their custom, concealed their long knives in the sleeves of their deer-skin shirts, suddenly draw them in one of the evolutions of the dance and plunge them into their opponents. A general conflict ensues, in which the Kutchin, thanks to their guns, ultimately prove victorious. “Another incident,” says Sir John Richardson, “which occurred on the banks of the Yukon in 1845, gives us a farther insight into the suspicious and timorous lives of these people. One night four strangers from the lower part of the river arrived at the tent of an old man who was sick, and who had with him only two sons, one of them a mere boy. The newcomers entered in a friendly manner, and when the hour of repose came, lay down; but as they did not sleep, the sons, suspecting from their conduct that they meditated evil, feigned a desire of visiting their moose-deer snares. They intimated their purpose aloud to their father and went out, taking with them their bows and arrows. Instead, however, of continuing their way into the wood, they stole back quietly to the tent, and listening on the outside, discovered, as they fancied, from the conversation of the strangers, that their father’s life was in danger. Knowing the exact position of the inmates, they thereupon shot their arrows through the skin covering of the tent and killed two of the strange Indians; and the other two, in endeavoring to make their escape by the door, shared the fate of their companions. This is spoken of in the tribe as an exceedingly brave action.”

During the summer the Yukon Kutchin dry, for their winter use, the white-fish (Coregonus albus), which they catch by planting stakes across the smaller rivers and narrow parts of the lakes and closing the openings with wicker-baskets. They take the moose-deer in snares, and towards spring mostly resort to the mountains to hunt reindeer and lay in a stock of dried venison. On the open pasture-grounds frequented by this animal they construct large pounds. Two rows of posts firmly planted in the ground, and united by the addition of strong horizontal bars into a regular fence, extend their arms for nearly the length of a mile in the form of a Roman V. The extremity of the avenue is closed by stakes with sharp points sloping towards the entrance, on which the reindeer, driven together and hotly pursued by the Indians, may impale themselves in their desperate flight. The structure is erected with great labor, as the timber has to be transported into the open country from a considerable distance. Some of these may be a century old, and they are the hereditary possession of the families or tribes by whom they were originally constructed.

But in spite of all their contrivances and the use of fire-arms, the Kutchin, whose numbers on the banks of the Yukon are estimated at about a thousand men and boys able to hunt, are frequently reduced to great distress. Hence the old and infirm are mercilessly left to their fate when game is scarce, and famine makes itself felt. Attempts have been vainly made to better the condition of the northern Indians by inducing them to tame the reindeer. Their superstition is one of the obstacles against this useful innovation, for they fear that were they to make some of the reindeer their captives, the remainder would immediately leave the country. “And why,” they add, “should we follow like slaves a herd of tame animals, when the forest and the barren ground provide us with the elk, the wild reindeer, and the musk-ox, and our rivers and lakes are filled with fishes that cost us nothing but the trouble of catching them?”

Each family possesses a deer-skin tent or lodge, which in summer, when in quest of game, is rarely erected. The winter encampment is usually in a grove of spruce-firs; the ground being cleared of snow, the skins, which are prepared with the hair, are extended over flexible willow poles which take a semicircular form. This hemispherical shape of lodges is not altogether unknown among the Chepewyans and Crees, being that generally adapted for their vapor baths, framed of willow poles, but their dwelling-places are conical, as stiff poles are used for their construction.

When the tent is erected the snow is packed on outside to half its height, and it is lined equally high within with the young spray of the spruce-fir, that the bodies of the inmates may not rest against the cold wall. The doorway is filled up by a double fold of skin, and the apartment has the closeness and warmth but not the elegance of the Esquimaux snow hut, which it resembles in shape. Though only a very small fire is kept in the centre of the lodge, yet the warmth is as great as in a log-house. The provisions are stored on the outside under fir branches and snow, and further protected from the dogs by sledges being placed on top.

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First Scandinavian Discoverer of America.—The Cabots.—Willoughby and Chancellor (1553–1554).—Stephen Burrough (1556).—Frobisher (1576–1578).—Davis (1585–1587).—Barentz, Cornelis, and Brant (1594).—Wintering of the Dutch Navigators in Nova Zembla (1596–1597).—John Knight (1606).—Murdered by the Esquimaux.—Henry Hudson (1607–1609).—Baffin (1616).

Long before Columbus sailed from the port of Palos (1492) on that ever-memorable voyage which changed the geography of the world, the Scandinavians had already found the way to North America. From Greenland, which was known to them as early as the ninth century, and which they began to colonize in the year 985, they sailed farther to the west, and gradually extended their discoveries from the coasts of Labrador, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland, to those of the present State of Rhode Island, which, from the wild vines they there found growing in abundance, they called the “good Vinland.”

But a long series of disasters destroyed their Greenland colonies about the end of the fourteenth century, and as Scandinavia itself had at that time but very little intercourse with the more civilized nations of Southern Europe, it is not to be wondered at that, despite the discoveries of Günnbjorn and Eric the Red, the great western continent remained unknown to the world in general.

One of the first consequences of the achievements of Columbus was the rediscovery of the northern part of America, for the English merchants longed to have a share of the commerce of India; and as the Pope had assigned the eastern route to the Portuguese and the western one to the Spaniards, they resolved to ascertain whether a third and shorter way to the Spice Islands, or to the fabulous golden regions of the east, might not be found by steering to the north-west. In pursuance of these views John and Sebastian Cabot sailed in 1497 from Bristol, at that time our first commercial port, and discovered the whole American coast from Labrador to Virginia. They failed indeed in the object of their mission, but they laid the first foundations of the future colonial greatness of England.

A second voyage, in 1498, by Sebastian Cabot alone, without the companionship of his father, had no important results, but in a third voyage which he undertook in search of a north-west passage, at Henry VIII.’s expense, in 1516 or 1517, it is tolerably certain that that great navigator discovered the two straits which now bear the names of Davis and Hudson.

The French expeditions of Verazzani (1523) and Jacques Cartier (1524), however memorable in other respects, having been as unsuccessful as those of Cortereal (1500) or Gomez (1524) in discovering the desired north-western passage, Sebastian Cabot, who in 1549 was created Grand Pilot of England, started in his old age another idea, which has become almost equally momentous in the history of Arctic discovery—the search for a north-eastern route to China. Accordingly, in the year 1553, a squadron of three small vessels, under the command of Sir Hugh Willoughby, Chancellor, and Durfoorth, set sail from Ratcliffe, with the vain hope of reaching India by sailing round North Asia, the formation and vast extent of which were at that time totally unknown.

Off Senjan, an island on the Norwegian coast in lat. 69½°, the ships parted company in a stormy night, never to meet again. Willoughby and Durfoorth reached the coast of Nova Zembla, and ultimately sought a harbor in Lapland on the west side of the entrance into the White Sea, where the captain-general, officers, and crews of both ships were miserably frozen to death, as some Russian fishermen ascertained in the following spring. How long they sustained the severity of the weather is not known, but the journals and a will found on board the “Admiral” proved that Sir Hugh Willoughby and most of that ship’s company were alive in January, 1554. They died the victims of inexperience; for had they, as Sir John Richardson remarks, been skilled in hunting and clothing themselves, and taken the precaution moreover of laying in at the beginning of the winter a stock of mossy turf such as the country produces for fuel, and above all had they secured a few of the very many seals and belugæ which abounded in the sea around them, they might have preserved their lives and passed an endurable winter.

Chancellor was either more fortunate or more skillful, for after having long been buffeted about by stormy weather, he eventually reached St. Nicholas, in the White Sea. From thence he proceeded overland to Moscow, and delivered his credentials to the Czar, Ivan Vasilovitch, from whom he obtained many privileges for the company of merchants who had fitted out the expedition. In 1554 he returned to England, and shortly afterwards was sent back to Russia by Queen Mary for the purpose of negotiating a treaty of commerce between the two nations. Having satisfactorily accomplished his mission, he once more set sail from the White Sea, accompanied by a Muscovite ambassador. But this time the return voyage was extremely unfortunate, for Chancellor, after losing two of his vessels off the coast of Norway, was carried by a violent tempest into the Bay of Pitsligo, in Scotland, where his ship was wrecked. He endeavored to save the ambassador and himself in a boat, but the small pinnace was upset; and although the Russian safely reached the strand, the Englishman, after having escaped so many dangers in the Arctic Ocean, was drowned within sight of his native shores.

In 1556 the Muscovy Company fitted out the Serchthrift pinnace, under the command of Stephen Burrough, for discovery towards the River Obi and farther search for a north-east passage. This small vessel reached the strait between Nova Zembla and Vaigats, called by the Russians the Kara Gate, but the enormous masses of ice that came floating through the channel compelled it to return.

In spite of these repeated disappointments, the desire to discover a northern route to India was too great to allow an enterprising nation like the English to abandon the scheme as hopeless.

Thus in the days of Elizabeth the question of the north-west passage was again revived, and Martin Frobisher, who had solicited merchants and nobles during fifteen years for means to undertake “the only great thing left undone in the world,” sailed in the year 1576 with three small vessels of 35, 30, and 10 tons, on no less an errand than the circumnavigation of Northern America. The reader may smile at the ignorance which encouraged such efforts, but he can not fail to admire the iron-hearted man who ventured in such wretched nutshells to face the Arctic seas. The expedition safely reached the coasts of Greenland and Labrador, and brought home some glittering stones, the lustre of which was erroneously attributed to gold. This belief so inflamed the zeal for new expeditions to “Meta Incognita,” as Frobisher had named the coasts he had discovered, that he found no difficulty in equipping three ships of a much larger size, that they might be able to hold more of the anticipated treasure. At the entrance of the straits which still bear his name, he was prevented by the gales and drift-ice from forcing a passage to the sea beyond, but having secured about 200 tons of the supposed golden ore, the expedition was considered eminently successful. A large squadron of fifteen vessels was consequently fitted out in 1578 for a third voyage, and commissioned not only to bring back an untold amount of treasure, but also to take out materials and men to establish a colony on those desolate shores. But this grand expedition, which sailed with such extravagant hopes, was to end in disappointment. One of the largest vessels was crushed by an iceberg at the entrance of the strait, and the others were so beaten about by storms and obstructed by fogs that they were at length glad to return to England without having done any thing for the advancement of geographical knowledge. The utter worthlessness of the glittering stones having meanwhile been discovered, Frobisher relinquished all further attempts to push his fortunes in the northern regions, and sought new laurels in a sunnier clime. He accompanied Drake to the West Indies, commanded subsequently one of the largest vessels opposed to the Spanish Armada, and ended his heroic life while attacking a small French fort in behalf of Henry IV. during the war with the League.

The discovery of the North-western Passage was, however, still the great enterprise of the day, and thus sundry London merchants again “cast in their adventure,” and sent out John Davis, in 1585, with his two ships, “Sunshine” and “Moonshine,” carrying, besides their more necessary equipments, a band of music “to cheer and recreate the spirits of the natives.” Davis arrived in sight of the south-western coast of Greenland, where he saw a high mountain (Sukkertoppen) towering like a cone of silver over the fog which veiled the dismal shore. The voyagers were glad to turn from the gloomy scene, and to steer through the open water to the north-west, where, on August 6, they discovered land in latitude 66° 40´ altogether free from “the pesters of ice, and ankered in a very fair rode.” A friendly understanding was established with the Esquimaux, and a lively traffic opened, the natives eagerly giving their skins and furs for beads and knives, until a brisk wind separated the strange visitants from their simple-minded friends. The remainder of the season was spent in exploring Cumberland Sound and the entrance to Frobisher’s and Hudson’s Straits.

In the following year Davis undertook a second voyage to the north-west, for which the “Sunshine” and “Moonshine” were again engaged, with two other vessels. On June 29, 1586, he landed on the coast of Greenland, in latitude 64°, and soon after steered to the west. The enormous ice-floes which, as is well known, come drifting from Baffin’s Bay until the season is far advanced, opposed his progress. For some days he coasted these floating islands, when a fog came on, during which ropes, sails, and cordage were alike fast frozen, and the seamen, hopeless of accomplishing the passage, warned their commander that “by his over-boldness he might cause their widows and fatherless children to give him bitter curses.”

Touched by this appeal, Davis ordered two of his ships to return home, and pushing on in the “Moonshine” with the boldest of his followers, he reached the American shore, which he coasted from 67° to 57° of latitude. Off the coast of Labrador two of his sailors were killed by the natives, and September being ushered in by violent gales, he gave up further attempts for the year, and returned to England.

On June 16, 1587, we once more find him on the coast of Greenland, in his old tried bark the “Sunshine,” in company with the “Elizabeth” and a pinnace. The supplies for this third voyage being furnished under the express condition that the expenses should be lightened as much as possible by fishing at all suitable times, the two larger ships were stationed for the purpose near the part of the coast which they had formerly visited, while Davis steered forward in the small and ill-conditioned vessel which alone remained at his disposal. He first sailed along the Greenland coast as far as 72° lat., where, having fairly entered Baffin’s Bay, he named the point at which he touched Sanderson’s Hope, in honor of his chief patron, and then steered to the west, until he once more fell in with the ice-barrier which had prevented his progress the year before. Time and perseverance, however, overcame all obstacles, and by July 19 he had crossed to the opposite side of the strait which bears his name. He then sailed for two days up Cumberland Strait—which, it will be remembered, he discovered on his first expedition—but believing this passage to be an inclosed gulf, he returned, and again passing the entrance to Hudson’s Bay without an effort to investigate it, repaired to the rendezvous appointed for the two whaling-vessels to meet him on their way to England. But who can paint his astonishment and consternation when he found that his companions had sailed away, leaving him to find his way home in his miserable pinnace, which, however, landed him safely on his native shores? This was the last of the Arctic voyages of that great navigator, for the spirit of the nation was chilled by his three successive disappointments; and all the zeal with which he pleaded for a fourth expedition proved fruitless.

He subsequently made five voyages to the East Indies, and was killed on December 27, 1605, on the coast of Malacca, in a fight with the Malays.

Seven years after Davis’s last Arctic voyage the Dutch made their first appearance on the scene of northern discovery. This persevering people had just then succeeded in casting off the Spanish yoke, and was now striving to gain, by the development of his maritime trade, a position among the neighboring states, which the smallness of its territory seemed to deny to it. All the known avenues to the treasures of the south were at that time too well guarded by the fleets of Portugal and Spain to admit of any rivalry; but if fortune favored them in finding the yet unexplored northern passage to India, they might still hope to secure a lion’s share in that most lucrative of trades.

Animated by this laudable spirit of enterprise, the merchants of Amsterdam, Enkhuizen, and Middelburg fitted out in 1594 an expedition in quest of the north-eastern passage, which they intrusted to the command of Cornelius Corneliszoon, Brant Ysbrantzoon, and William Barentz, one of the most experienced seamen of the day. The three vessels sailed from the Texel on June 6, and having reached the coast of Lapland, separated into two divisions; Barentz choosing the bolder course of coasting the west side of Nova Zembla as far as the islands of Orange, the most northerly points of the archipelago; while his less adventurous comrades were contented to sail along the Russian coast until they reached a strait, to which they gave the very appropriate name of Vaigats, or “Wind-hole.” Forcing their way through the ice, which almost constantly blocks up the entrance to the Kara Sea, they saw, on rounding a promontory at the other end of the strait, a clear expanse of blue open sea, stretching onward as far as the eye could reach, while the continent trended away rapidly towards the south-east. They now no longer doubted that they had sailed round the famous Cape Tabin—a fabulous headland, which, according to Pliny (an indisputable authority in those times of geographical ignorance), formed the northern extremity of Asia, from whence the voyage was supposed to be easy to its eastern and southern shores. Little did Brant and Cornelius dream that within the Arctic Circle the Asiatic coast still stretched 120° to the east; and fully trusting their erroneous impressions, they started in full sail for Holland, eager to bring to their countrymen the news of their imaginary success. Off Russian Lapland they fell in with Barentz, who, having arrived at the northern extremity of Nova Zembla—a higher latitude than any navigator is recorded to have reached before—had turned back before strong opposing winds and floating ice, and the three vessels returned together to Texel.

Such were the hopes raised by the discovery of the imaginary Cape Tabin that, losing sight of their habitual caution, the merchants of Middelburg, Enkhuizen, Rotterdam, and Amsterdam immediately fitted out a fleet of six ships, laden with all sorts of merchandise fit for the Indian market. A little yacht was added, which was to accompany the fleet as far as that promontory, and thence to return with the good news that the squadron had been left steering with a favorable wind right off to India. But, as may well be supposed, these sanguine hopes, built on the unsubstantial fabric of a vision, were doomed to a woful disappointment, for the “Wind-hole Strait,” doing full justice to its name, did not allow the vessels to pass; and after fruitless efforts to force their way through the ice-blocks which obstructed that inhospitable channel, they returned crestfallen to the port whence they had sailed a few months before with such brilliant expectations.

Although great disappointment was felt at this failure, the scheme of sailing round Cape Tabin to India was, however, not abandoned by the persevering Amsterdamers; and, on May 16, 1596, Heemskerk, Barentz, and Cornelis Ryp once more started for the north-east. Bear Island and Spitzbergen were discovered, whereupon the ships separated, Cornelis and Heemskerk returning to Holland, while Barentz, slowly making his way through the fog and ice, advanced to the most northern point of Nova Zembla, the crew being encouraged by the tidings that from the high cliffs of Orange Island clear open water had been seen to the south-east. The effort to reach this inviting channel was frustrated by the ice, which gathered about the ship as it lay near shore, and gradually collecting under and around it, raised it far above the level of the sea. All hope of return before the next summer now vanished, but these brave sailors submitted with resignation to their fate, “though much grieved,” says Gerrit de Veer, who was himself an eye-witness of all the incidents he relates, “to live there all that cold winter, which we knew would fall out to be extremely bitter.” Fortunately a quantity of drift-wood was found on the strand, which served the Dutchmen both for the construction of a small hut and for fuel.

As early as September the ground was frozen so hard that they tried in vain to dig a grave for a dead comrade, and their cramped fingers could hardly build the hut, which was the more necessary, as the vessel, cracking under the pressure of the ice, gave signs of speedily breaking up altogether. By the middle of October the rude dwelling was completed, and though its accommodation was scanty, they were glad to take up their abode in it at once. The best place by the central fire was assigned to a sick comrade, while all the rest arranged their beds as best they could on shelves which had been built round the walls. An examination into the state of their provisions showed the necessity of reducing their daily rations of bread, cheese, and wine, but by setting traps they caught a good many Arctic foxes, which gave them an occasional supply of fresh food. The sun had now entirely taken his departure, and the long winter night of the 75° 43´ of latitude set in, during which snowdrifts and impetuous winds confined them to their miserable hut.

“We looked pitifully one upon the other,” says De Veer, “being in great fear that if the extremity of the cold grew to be more and more, we should all die there of cold, for that what fire soever we made would not warm us.”

The ice was now two inches thick upon the walls, and even on the sides of their sleeping cots and the very clothes they wore were whitened with frost. Yet in the midst of all their sufferings these brave men maintained cheerful hearts; and so great was their elasticity of spirit that, remembering January 5 was Twelfth Eve, they resolved to celebrate it as best they might. “And then,” says the old chronicler, “we prayed our Maister that we might be merry that night, and said that we were content to spend some of the wine that night which we had spared, and which was our share (one glass) every second day, and whereof for certaine days we had not dranke, and so that night we made merry and drew for king. And therewith we had two pounds of meal, whereof we made pancakes with oyle, and every man had a white biscuit which we sopt in the wine. And so supposing that we were in our owne country and amongst our friends, it comforted us well as if we had made a great banquet in our owne house. And we also made trinkets, and our gunner was king of Novaya Zemlya, which is at least 800 miles long and lyeth between two seas.”

On January 24 the edge of the sun appeared above the horizon, and the sight was a joyful one indeed. Now also the furious snow-storm ceased, and though the severity of the cold continued unabated, they were better able to brave the outer air and to recruit their strength by exercise. With the return of daylight the bears came again about the house, and some being shot, afforded a very seasonable supply of grease, so that they were able to burn lamps and pass the time in reading.

When summer returned it was found impossible to disengage the ice-bound vessel, and the only hopes of escaping from this dreary prison now rested on two small boats, in which they finally quitted the scene of so much suffering on June 14, 1596. On the fourth day of their voyage their barks became surrounded by enormous masses of floating ice, which so crushed and injured them that the crews, giving up all hope, took a solemn leave of each other. But in this desperate crisis they owed their preservation to the presence of mind and agility of De Veer, who, with a well-secured rope, leaped from one ice-block to another till he reached a larger floe, on which first the sick, then the stores, the crews, and finally the boats themselves were fairly landed. Here they were obliged to remain while the boats underwent the necessary repairs, and during this detention upon a floating ice raft the gallant Barentz closed the eventful voyage of his life. He died as he had lived, calmly and bravely, thinking less of himself than of the welfare of his fellow-sufferers, for his last words were directions as to the course in which they were to steer. His death was bitterly mourned by the rough men under his command, and even the prospect of a return to their homes could not console them for the loss of their beloved leader. After a most tedious passage (for by July 28 they had only reached the southern extremity of Nova Zembla) they at length, at the end of August, arrived at Kola, in Russian Lapland, where, to their glad surprise, they found their old comrade, John Cornelison Ryp, with whom they returned to Amsterdam.

Meanwhile the spirit of discovery had once more recovered in England from the chill thrown upon it by so many previous disappointments. In 1602, Weymouth, while attempting to sail up the promising inlet, now so well-known as the entrance to Hudson’s Bay, was repulsed by a violent storm, and in 1606 a melancholy issue awaited the next expedition to the north-west, which sailed under the command of John Knight, a brave and experienced sailor. Driven by stormy weather among the drift-ice on the coast of Labrador, Knight was fain to take shelter in the first cove that presented itself, and lost no time in ordering his damaged ship of forty tons to be drawn high up on the dry sand beyond the tide mark, where she might undergo the necessary repairs.

This position, however, not proving satisfactory, he manned his boat next day, and while the rest of the crew were busy at work, sailed across to the other side of the inlet to seek for some more convenient anchorage. Leaving two men in charge of the boat, he landed with his mate and three of his men to explore the strange coast. They climbed the steep acclivity of the shore, lingered for a moment on the summit of the cliffs, and before disappearing on the other side exchanged greetings of farewell with their messmates in the boat, who little imagined that it was a parting forever. Evening came on, and then darkened into night; muskets were fired and trumpets sounded, but no answer was made, and eleven o’clock arriving without any sign or signal of the missing party, the men who had tarried on shore mournfully returned to the ship with the dismal tidings of the loss of their brave commander and his comrades.

During this melancholy night, passed in alternate lamentations and plans for search and rescue, the ice had so accumulated in the channel which the unfortunate Knight crossed the day before, that though the boat was speedily rigged for the expedition, and the party who occupied it were one and all uncontrollably eager to start, the morning light convinced the most sanguine of the utter impossibility of forcing their way across the gulf. Thus passed two wretched days of uncertainty, rendered doubly miserable by the inactivity to which they were condemned, when on the night of the second day the little encampment was attacked by a large party of natives, whose hostility left no doubt about the fate which had befallen their missing friends. A volley of musketry soon dispersed the savages, but fearing future attacks, the crew, now only eight in number, at once resolved to put to sea in their crazy bark, which, though deprived of its rudder, and so leaky that the pumps were obliged to be constantly at work, safely carried them to Newfoundland.

In the year 1607 Henry Hudson made the first attempt to sail across the North Pole, a plan started in 1527 by Robert Thorne, but not yet acted upon by any one during the eighty years that had since passed. He reached the east coast of Greenland in 73° of latitude, and then proceeded to the northern extremity of Spitzbergen, but all his efforts to launch forth into the unknown ocean beyond were baffled by the ice-fields that opposed his progress.

In his next voyage (1608) he vainly tried for the north-east passage, but his third voyage (1609), which he performed in the service of the Dutch, led to the discovery of the magnificent river which still bears his name, and at whose mouth the “Empire City” of the great American republic has arisen.

In April, 1610, we find him setting sail on the last and most celebrated of his voyages. In all but its commander, this expedition was miserably inadequate to the object of its mission, for it consisted only of one vessel of fifty-five tons provisioned for six months, and manned by a crew who speedily proved themselves to be utterly unworthy of their leader. On entering Hudson’s Straits, the large masses of ice which encumbered the surface of the water and the thickness of the constant fogs made them lose all courage, and they earnestly begged their commander to return at once to England. But Hudson pressed on until at last his little bark emerged into a vast open water rippling and sparkling in the morning sunshine. Hudson’s Bay expanded before him, and the enraptured discoverer was fully convinced that the north-western route to India now lay open to the mariners of England.

It was the beginning of August, and the dastardly crew considering the passage effected, urged an immediate return; but Hudson was determined on completing the adventure, and wintering, if possible, on the sunny shores of India. For three months he continued tracking the south coasts of that vast northern Mediterranean, but all his hopes of finding a new channel opening to the south proved vain, until at length the ship was frozen in on November 10 in the south-east corner of James’s Bay. A dreary winter awaited the ice-bound seamen, with almost exhausted provisions, and unfortunately without that heroic patience and concord which had sustained the courage of Barentz and his companions under trials far more severe. But spring came at last, and revived the spirits of their leader. His ship was once more afloat, once more his fancy indulged in visions of the sunny East, when, as he stepped on deck on the morning of June 21, his arms were suddenly pinioned, and he found himself in the power of three of his men.

Inquiry, remonstrance, entreaty, command, all failed to draw a word from the stubborn mutineers, and Hudson resigned himself bravely to his fate, and, with the quiet dignity of a noble nature, looked on calmly at the ominous preparations going forward. A small open boat was in waiting, and into this Hudson—his hands being previously tied behind his back—was lowered; some powder and shot and the carpenter’s box came next, followed by the carpenter himself, John King, whose name ought to be held in honorable remembrance, as he alone among the crew remained true to his master. Six invalids were also forced into the boat, which was then cut adrift, and the vessel sailed onward on its homeward course. Nothing more was ever heard of Hudson; but the ringleaders of that dark conspiracy soon paid a terrible penalty. Some fell in a fight with the Esquimaux, and others died on the homeward voyage, during which they suffered from the extremest famine.

The account of the great expanse of sea which had been reached gave new vigor to the spirit of discovery, and new expeditions sallied forth (Sir Thomas Button, 1612, Gibbons, 1614, Bylot, 1615), to seek along the western shores of Hudson’s Bay the passage which was to open the way to India. All efforts in this direction were of course doomed to disappointment, but Baffin, who sailed in 1616, with directions to try his fortune beyond Davis’s Straits, enriched geography with a new and important conquest by sailing round the enormous bay which still bears his name. During this voyage he discovered the entrances of Smith’s, Jones’s, and Lancaster Sounds, without attempting to investigate these broad highways to fields of later exploration. He believed them to be mere inclosed gulfs, and this belief became so firmly grounded in the public mind that two full centuries elapsed before any new attempt was made to seek for a western passage in this direction, while Jens Munk, a Dane, sent out in 1619 with two good vessels, under the patronage of his king, Christian IV.; Fox and James (1631–1632), Knight and Barlow (1719), Middleton (1741), Moor and Smith (1746), confined their efforts to Hudson’s Bay, and, by their repeated disappointments, made all expeditions in quest of a north-western passage appear well-nigh as chimerical as those of the knight-errants of romance.

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Buchan and Franklin.—Ross and Parry (1818).—Discovery of Melville Island.—Winter Harbor (1819–1820).—Franklin’s first land Journey.—Dreadful Sufferings.—Parry’s second Voyage (1821–1823).—Higliuk.—Lyon (1824).—Parry’s third Voyage (1824).—Franklin’s second land Journey to the Shores of the Polar Sea.—Beechey.—Parry’s sledge Journey towards the Pole.—Sir John Ross’s second Journey.—Five Years in the Arctic Ocean.—Back’s Discovery of Great Fish River.—Dease and Simpson (1837–1839).—Franklin and Crozier’s last Voyage (1845).—Searching Expeditions.—Richardson and Rae.—Sir James Ross.—Austin.—Penny.—De Haven.—Franklin’s first Winter-quarters discovered by Ommaney.—Kennedy and Bellot.—Inglefield.—Sir E. Belcher.—Kellett.—M’Clure’s Discovery of the North-west Passage.—Collinson.—Bellot’s Death.—Dr. Rae learns the Death of the Crews of the “Erebus” and “Terror.”—Sir Leopold M’Clintock.

The failure of Captain Phipps (afterwards Lord Mulgrave) in the Spitzbergen seas (1773), and that of the illustrious Cook (1776), in his attempt to circumnavigate the northern shores of America or Asia by way of the Straits of Bering, entirely damped, for the next forty years, the spirit of Arctic discovery; but hope revived when it became known that Captain Scoresby, on a whaling expedition in the Greenland seas (1806), had attained 81° 30´ N. lat., and thus approached the pole to within 540 miles. No previous navigator had ever reached so far to the north; an open sea lay temptingly before him, and the absence of the ice-blink proved that for miles beyond the visible horizon no ice-field or snow-covered land opposed his onward course; but as the object of Scoresby’s voyage was strictly commercial, and he himself answerable to the owners of his vessel, he felt obliged to sacrifice his inclinations to his duty, and to steer again to the south.

During the Continental war, indeed, England had but little leisure to prosecute discoveries in the Arctic Ocean; but not long after the conclusion of peace, four stout vessels (1818) were sent out on that mission by Government. Two of these, the “Dorothea,” Captain Buchan, and the “Trent,” Commander Lieutenant John Franklin, were destined to proceed northward by way of Spitzbergen, and to endeavor to cross the Polar Sea. After unnumbered difficulties, the expedition was battling with the ice to the north-west of that wintry archipelago, when, on July 30, a sudden gale compelled the commander, as the only chance of safety, to “take the ice”—that is, to thrust the ships into an opening among the moving masses that could be perceived. In this very hazardous operation, the “Dorothea”—having received so much injury that she was in danger of sinking—was therefore turned homeward as soon as the storm subsided, and the “Trent” of necessity accompanied her.

The other two ships, which sailed in the same year, the “Isabella,” commanded by Captain John Ross, and the “Alexander,” by Lieutenant William Edward Parry, had been ordered to proceed up the middle of Davis’s Strait to a high northern latitude, and then to stretch across to the westward, in the hope of being able to pass the northern extremity of America, and reach Bering’s Strait by that route. As respects the purposes for which it was sent out, this expedition likewise ended in disappointment; for though Ross defined more clearly the Greenland coast to the north of the Danish possessions between Cape Melville and Smith’s Sound, he was satisfied with making a very cursory examination of all the great channels leading from Baffin’s Bay into the Polar Sea. After sailing for some little distance up Lancaster Sound, he was arrested by the atmospheric deception of a range of mountains, extending right across the passage, and concluding it useless to persevere, he at once—to the great astonishment and mortification of his officers—abandoned a course which was to render his successor illustrious. As may easily be imagined, the manner in which Ross had conducted this expedition failed to satisfy the authorities at home; and thus, in the following year, the “Hecla” and “Griper” were commissioned for the purpose of exploring the sound, whose entrance only had been seen by Baffin and Ross. The former ship was placed under the Command of Parry, and the latter under that of Lieutenant Matthew Liddon.

With this brilliant voyage, the epoch of modern discoveries in the Arctic Ocean may properly be said to begin. Sailing right through Lancaster Sound, over the site of Ross’s imaginary Croker Mountains, Parry passed Barrow’s Strait, and after exploring Prince Regent Inlet, whence the ice compelled him to return to the main channel, he discovered Wellington Channel (August 22), and soon after had the satisfaction of announcing to his men that, having reached 110° W. long., they were entitled to the king’s bounty of £5000, secured by order of council to “such of His Majesty’s subjects as might succeed in penetrating thus far to the west within the Arctic Circle.” After passing and naming Melville Island, a little progress was still made westward; but the ice was now rapidly gathering, the vessels were soon beset, and, after getting free with great difficulty, Parry was only too glad to turn back and settle down in Winter Harbor. It was no easy task to attain this dreary port, as a canal, two miles and a third in length, had first to be cut through solid ice of seven inches average thickness; yet such was the energy of the men that the herculean labor was executed in three days. The two vessels were immediately unrigged, the decks housed over, a heating apparatus arranged, and every thing made as comfortable as possible. To relieve the monotony of the long winter’s night, plays were acted every fortnight, a school established, and a newspaper set on foot—certainly the first periodical ever issued in so high a latitude. During the day the men were employed for exercise in banking up the ships with snow or making excursions within a certain distance; and when the weather forbade their leaving shelter, they were obliged to run round the decks to the tune of a barrel-organ.

In January the cold became more and more intense. On the 12th it was 51° below zero in the open air, and on the 14th the thermometer fell to 54°. On February 24 a fire broke out in a small house which had been built near the ships, to serve as an observatory for Captain Sabine, who accompanied the expedition as astronomer. All hands rushed to the spot to endeavor to subdue the flames, but having only snow to throw on it, it was found impossible to extinguish it. The snow, however, covered the astronomical instruments, and secured them from the fire. The thermometer was at the time 44° below zero, and the faces of nearly the whole party grew white and frost-bitten after five minutes’ exposure, so that the surgeon and two or three assistants were busily employed in rubbing the faces of their comrades with snow, while the latter were working might and main to extinguish the flames. One poor fellow, in his anxiety to save the dipping-needle, carried it out without putting on his gloves; his hands were so benumbed in consequence, that when plunged into a basin of cold water it instantly froze, from the intense coldness imparted to it, and it was found necessary to resort, some time after, to the amputation of a part of four fingers on one hand and three on the other.

February 3 was a memorable day—the sun being visible from the maintop of the “Hecla,” from whence it was last seen on November 11. The weather got considerably milder in March; on the 6th the thermometer rose to zero, for the first time since December 17, and on April 30 it stood at the freezing-point, which it had not done since September 12.

At length May appeared, bringing the long summer’s day of the high northern latitudes; but as many a week must still pass before the vessels could move out of their ice-bound harbor, Parry started on June 1 to explore the interior of the island, which at this early period of the season still wore a very dreary aspect. But such was the rapidity of vegetation, that by the end of the month the land, now completely clear of snow, was covered with the purple-colored saxifrage in blossom, with mosses, and with sorrel, and the grass was from two to three inches long. The pasturage appeared to be excellent in the valleys, and, to judge by the numerous tracks of musk-oxen and reindeer, there was no lack of animals to enjoy its abundance.

It was not before August 1 that the ships were released from their ten months’ blockade in Winter Harbor, when Parry once more stood boldly for the west; but no amount of skill or patience could penetrate the obstinate masses of ice that blocked the passage, or insure the safety of the vessels under the repeated shocks sustained from them. Finding the barriers insuperable, he gave way, and steering homeward, reached London on November 3, 1820, where, as may well be imagined, his reception was most enthusiastic.

While Parry was engaged on this wonderful voyage, Lieutenant Franklin and Dr. Richardson, accompanied by two midshipmen, George Back and Robert Hood, and a sailor, John Hepburn, to whom were added during the course of the journey a troop of Canadians and Indians, were penetrating by land to the mouth of the Coppermine River for the purpose of examining the unexplored shores of the Polar Sea to the east. An idea of the difficulties of this undertaking may be formed, when I mention that the travellers started from Fort York, Hudson’s Bay, on August 30, 1819, and after a boat voyage of 700 miles up the Saskatchewan arrived before winter at Fort Cumberland. The next winter found them 700 miles farther on their journey, established during the extreme cold at Fort Enterprise, as they called a log-house built by them on Winter Lake, where they spent ten months, depending upon fishing and the success of their Indian hunters. During the summer of 1821 they accomplished the remaining 334 miles to the mouth of the Coppermine, and on July 21 Franklin and his party embarked in two birch-bark canoes on their voyage of exploration. In these frail shallops they skirted the desolate coast of the American continent 555 miles to the east of the Coppermine as far as Point Turnagain, when the rapid decrease of their provisions and the shattered state of the canoes imperatively compelled their return (August 22). And now began a dreadful land-journey of two months, accompanied by all the horrors of cold, famine, and fatigue. An esculent lichen (tripe de roche), with an occasional ptarmigan, formed their scanty food, but on very many days even this poor supply could not be obtained, and their appetites became ravenous. Sometimes they had the good-fortune to pick up pieces of skin, and a few bones of deer which had been devoured by the wolves in the previous spring. The bones were rendered friable by burning, and now and then their old shoes were added to the repast. On reaching the Coppermine, a raft had to be framed, a task accomplished with the utmost difficulty by the exhausted party. One or two of the Canadians had already fallen behind, and never rejoined their comrades, and now Hood and three or four more of the party broke down and could proceed no farther, Dr. Richardson kindly volunteering to remain with them, while Back, with the most vigorous of the men, pushed on to send succor from Fort Enterprise, and Franklin followed more slowly with the others. On reaching the log house this last party found that wretched tenement desolate, with no deposit of provisions and no trace of the Indians whom they had expected to meet there. “It would be impossible,” says Franklin, “to describe our sensations after entering this miserable abode and discovering how we had been neglected; the whole party shed tears, not so much for our own fate as for that of our friends in the rear, whose lives depended entirely on our sending immediate relief from this place.” Their only consolation was a gleam of hope afforded them by a note from Back, stating that he had reached the deserted hut two days before, and was going in search of the Indians. The fortunate discovery of some cast-off deer-skins and of a heap of acrid bones, a provision worthy of the place, sustained their flickering life-flame, and after eighteen miserable days they were joined by Dr. Richardson and Hepburn, the sole survivors of their party, Lieutenant Hood, a young officer of great promise, having been murdered by a treacherous Canadian, whom Richardson was afterwards obliged to shoot through the head in self-defense.

“Upon entering the desolate dwelling,” says Richardson, “we had the satisfaction of embracing Captain Franklin, but no words can convey an idea of the filth and wretchedness that met our eyes on looking around. Our own misery had stolen upon us by degrees, and we were accustomed to the contemplation of each other’s emaciated figures; but the ghastly countenances, dilated eyeballs, and sepulchral voices of Captain Franklin and those with him were more than we could at first bear.” At length, on November 7, when the few survivors of the ill-fated expedition (for most of the voyagers died from sheer exhaustion) were on the point of sinking under their sufferings, three Indians sent by Back, whose exertions to procure them relief had been beyond all praise, brought them the succor they had so long been waiting for. The eagerness with which they feasted on dried meat and excellent tongues may well be imagined; but severe pains in the stomach soon warned them that after so long an abstinence they must be exceedingly careful in the quantity of food taken. In a fortnight’s time they had sufficiently recruited their strength to be able to join Back at Moose Deer Island, and in the following year they returned to England.

Parry’s second voyage of discovery (1821–1823) was undertaken for the purpose of ascertaining whether a communication might be found between Regent’s Inlet and Rowe’s Welcome, or through Repulse Bay and thence to the north-western shores of America. The first summer (1821) was spent in the vain attempt of forcing a way through Frozen Strait, Repulse Bay, the large masses of ice in these waters holding the ships helplessly in their grasp, and often carrying them back in a few days to the very spot which they had left a month before. Owing to these rebuffs, the season came to an end while their enterprise was yet scarcely begun, and the ships took up their quarters in an open roadstead at Winter Island to the south of Melville Peninsula. Besides the winter amusements and occupations of the first voyage, the monotony of the winter was pleasantly broken during February by friendly visits from a party of Esquimaux. Among these a young woman, Higliuk, distinguished herself by her talents. Her love for music amounted to a passion, and her quickness of comprehension was such that she soon became an established interpreter between her own people and the English. The nature of a map having been explained to her, she readily sketched with chalk upon the deck the outlines of the adjoining coast, and continuing it farther, delineated the whole eastern shore of Melville Peninsula, rounding its northern extremity by a large island and a strait of sufficient magnitude to afford a safe passage for the ships. This information greatly encouraged the whole party, whose sanguine anticipations already fancied the worst part of their voyage overcome, and its truth was eagerly tested as soon as the ships could once more be set afloat, which was not till July 2.

After running the greatest dangers from the ice, they at length reached the small island of Igloolik, near the entrance of the channel, the situation of which had been accurately laid down by the Esquimaux woman. But all their efforts to force a passage through the narrow strait proved vain, for after struggling sixty-five days to get forward, they had only in that time reached forty miles to the westward of Igloolik. The vessels were therefore again placed in winter-quarters in a channel between Igloolik and the land; but having ascertained by boat excursions the termination of the strait, Parry thought it so promising for the ensuing summer that he at once named it the “Hecla and Fury Strait.” But his hopes were once more doomed to disappointment by the ice-obstructed channel, and he found it utterly impossible to pass through it with his ships. His return to England with his crews in health, after two winters in the high latitudes, was another triumph of judgment and discipline.

In the following year two new expeditions set sail for Polar America. Captain Lyon was sent out in the “Griper,” with orders to land at Wager River off Repulse Bay, and thence to cross Melville Peninsula, and proceed overland to Point Turnagain, where Franklin’s journey ended. But a succession of dreadful storms so crippled the “Griper,” while endeavoring to proceed onward up Rowe’s Welcome, that it became necessary to return at once to England.

Such was the esteem and affection Parry had acquired among the companions of his two former voyages, that when he took the command of a third expedition, with the intention of seeking a passage through Prince Regent’s Inlet, they all volunteered to accompany him. From the middle of July till nearly the middle of September (1824), the “Hecla” and the “Fury” had to contend with the enormous ice-masses of Baffin’s Bay, which would infallibly have crushed vessels less stoutly ribbed; and thus it was not before September 10 that they entered Lancaster Sound, which they found clear of ice, except here and there a solitary berg. But new ice now began to form, which, increasing daily in thickness, beset the ship, and carried them once more back again into Baffin’s Bay. By perseverance, however, and the aid of a strong easterly breeze, Parry regained the lost ground, and on September 27 reached the entrance of Port Bowen, on the eastern shore of Prince Regent’s Inlet, where he passed the winter. By July 19 the vessels were again free, and Parry now sailed across the inlet to examine the coast of North Somerset; but the floating ice so injured the “Fury” that it was found necessary to abandon her. Her crew and valuables were therefore received on board the “Hecla;” the provisions, stores, and boats were landed, and safely housed on Fury Point, off North Somerset, for the relief of any wandering Esquimaux, or future Arctic explorers who might chance to visit the spot, and the crippled ship was given up to the mercy of the relentless ice, while her companion made the best of her way to England.

In spite of the dreadful sufferings of Franklin, Richardson, and Back during their first land journey, we find these heroes once more setting forth in 1825, determined to resume the survey of the Arctic coasts of the American continent. A far more adequate preparation was made for the necessities of their journey than before; and before they settled down for the winter at “Fort Franklin,” on the shores of Great Bear Lake, a journey of investigation down the Mackenzie River to the sea had been brought to a successful end. As soon as the ice broke in the following summer, they set out in four boats, and separated at the point where the river divides into two main branches, Franklin and Back proposing to survey the coast-line to the westward, while Richardson set out in an easterly direction to the mouth of the Coppermine River. Franklin arrived at the mouth of the Mackenzie on July 7, where a large tribe of Esquimaux pillaged his boats, and it was only by great prudence and forbearance that the whole party were not massacred. A full month was now spent in the tedious survey of 374 miles of coast, as far as Return Reef, more than 1000 miles distant from their winter-quarters on Great Bear Lake. The return journey to Fort Franklin was safely accomplished, and they arrived at their house on September 21, where they had the pleasure of finding Dr. Richardson and Lieutenant Kendall, who, on their part, had reached the Coppermine, thus connecting Sir John Franklin’s former discoveries to the eastward in Coronation Gulf with those made by him on this occasion to the westward of the Mackenzie. The cold during the second winter at Fort Franklin was intense, the thermometer standing at one time at 58° below zero; but the comfort they now enjoyed formed a most pleasing contrast to the squalid misery of Fort Enterprise.

When Franklin left England to proceed on this expedition, his first wife was then lying at the point of death, and indeed expired the day after his departure. But with heroic fortitude she urged him to set out on the very day appointed, entreating him, as he valued her peace and his own glory, not to delay a moment on her account. His feelings may be imagined when he raised on Garry Island a silk flag which she had made and given him as a parting gift, with the instruction that he was only to hoist it on reaching the Polar Sea.

While Parry and Franklin were thus severally employed in searching for a western passage, a sea expedition under the command of Captain Beechey had been sent to Bering’s Straits to co-operate with them, so as to furnish provisions to the former and a conveyance home to the latter—a task more easily planned than executed; and thus we can not wonder that when the “Blossom” reached the appointed place of rendezvous at Chamisso Island, in Kotzebue Sound (July 25, 1826), she found neither Parry (who had long since returned to England) nor Franklin. Yet the barge of the “Blossom”—which was dispatched to the eastward under charge of Mr. Elson—narrowly missed meeting the latter; for when she was stopped by the ice at Point Barrow, she was only about 150 miles from Return Reef, the limit of his discoveries to the westward of the Mackenzie.

In the year 1827 the indefatigable Parry undertook one of the most extraordinary voyages ever performed by man; being no less than an attempt to reach the North Pole by boat and sledge travelling over the ice. His hopes of success were founded on Crosby’s authority, who reports having seen ice-fields so free from either fissure or hummock, that had they not been covered with snow, a coach might have been driven many leagues over them in a direct line; but when Parry reached the ice-fields to the north of Spitzbergen, he found them of a very different nature, composed of loose, rugged masses, intermixed with pools of water, which rendered travelling over them extremely arduous and slow. The strong flat-bottomed boats, specially prepared for an amphibious journey, with a runner attached to each side of the keel, so as to adapt them for sledging, had thus frequently to be laden and unladen, in order to be raised over the hummocks, and repeated journeys backward and forward over the same ground were the necessary consequence. Frequently the crew had to go on hands and knees to secure a footing. Heavy showers of rain often rendered the surface of the ice a mass of slush, and in some places the ice took the form of sharp-pointed crystals, which cut the boots like penknives. But in spite of all these obstacles, they toiled cheerfully on, until at length, after thirty-five days of incessant drudgery, the discovery was made that, while they were apparently advancing towards the pole, the ice-field on which they were travelling was drifting to the south, and thus rendering all their exertions fruitless. Yet, though disappointed in his hope of planting his country’s standard on the northern axis of the globe, Parry had the glory of reaching the highest authenticated latitude ever yet attained (82° 40´ 30´´). On their return to the “Hecla,” which awaited them under Captain Forester in Treurenberg Bay, on the northern coast of Spitzbergen, the boats encountered a dreadful storm on the open sea, which obliged them to bear up for Walden Island—one of the most northerly rocks of the archipelago—where, fortunately, a reserve supply of provisions had been deposited. “Every thing belonging to us,” says Sir Edward Parry, “was now completely drenched by the spray and snow; we had been fifty-six hours without rest, and forty-eight at work in the boats, so that by the time they were unloaded we had barely strength to haul them up on the rocks. However, by dint of great exertion, we managed to get the boats above the surf, after which, a hot supper, a blazing fire of drift-wood, and a few hours’ quiet rest restored us.” He who laments over the degeneracy of the human race, and supposes it to have been more vigorous or endowed with greater powers of endurance in ancient times, may perhaps come to a different opinion when reading of Parry and his companions.

Thus ended the last of this great navigator’s Arctic voyages. Born in the year 1790, of a family of seamen, Parry at an early age devoted himself, heart and soul, to the profession in which his father had grown old. In his twenty-eighth year he discovered Melville Island, and his subsequent expedition confirmed the excellent reputation he had acquired by his first brilliant success. From the years 1829 to 1834 we find him in New South Wales, as Resident Commissioner of the Australian Agricultural Company. In the year 1837 he was appointed to organize the mail-packet service, then transferred to the Admiralty, and after filling the post of Captain Superintendent of the Royal Naval Hospital at Haslar, was finally appointed Governor of Greenwich Hospital. He died in the summer of 1855 at Ems.

Ten years had elapsed since Captain John Ross’s first unsuccessful voyage, when the veteran seaman, anxious to obliterate the reproach of former failure by some worthy achievement, was enabled, through the munificence of Sir Felix Booth, to accomplish his wishes. A small Liverpool steamer, bearing the rather presumptuous name of the “Victory,” was purchased for the voyage, a rather unfortunate selection, for surely nothing can be more unpractical than paddle-boxes among ice-blocks; but to make amends for this error, the commander of the expedition was fortunate in being accompanied by his nephew, Commander James Ross, who, with every quality of the seaman, united the zeal of an able naturalist. He it was who, by his well-executed sledge journeys, made the chief discoveries of the expedition; but the voyage of the “Victory” is far less remarkable for successes achieved than for its unexampled protraction during a period of five years.

The first season ended well. On August 10, 1829, the “Victory” entered Prince Regent’s Inlet, and reached on the 13th the spot where Parry, on his third voyage, had been obliged to abandon the “Fury.” The ship itself had been swept away; but all her sails, stores, and provisions on land were found untouched. The hermetically sealed tin canisters in which the flour, meat, bread, wine, spirits, sugar, etc., were packed had preserved them from the attacks of the white bears, and they were found as good after four years as they had been on the day when the “Fury” started on her voyage. It was to this discovery that the crew of the “Victory” owed their subsequent preservation, for how else could they have passed four winters in the Arctic wastes?

On August 15 Cape Garry was attained, the most southern point of the inlet which Parry had reached on his third voyage. Fogs and drift-ice greatly retarded the progress of the expedition, but Ross moved on, though slowly, so that about the middle of September the map of the northern regions was enriched by some 500 miles of newly-discovered coast. But now, at the beginning of winter, the “Victory” was obliged to take refuge in Felix Harbor, where the useless steam-engine was thrown overboard as a nuisance, and the usual preparations made for spending the cold season as pleasantly as possible.

The following spring (from May 17 to June 13) was employed by James Ross on a sledge journey, which led to the discovery of King William’s Sound and King William’s Land, and during which that courageous mariner penetrated so far to the west that he had only ten days’ provisions—scantily measured out—for a return voyage of 200 miles through an empty wilderness.

After twelve months’ imprisonment, the “Victory” was released from the ice on September 17, and proceeded once more on her discoveries. But the period of her liberty was short, for, after advancing three miles in one continual battle against the currents and the drift-ice, she again froze fast on the 27th of the same month.

In the following spring we again see the indefatigable James Ross extending the circle of his sledge excursions, and planting the British flag on the site of the Northern Magnetic Pole—which, however, is not invariably fixed to one spot, as was then believed, but moves from place to place within the glacial zone.

On August 28, 1831, the “Victory”—after a second imprisonment of eleven months—was warped into open water; but after spending a whole month to advance four miles, she was encompassed by the ice on September 27, and once more fettered in the dreary wilderness.

As there seemed no prospect of extricating her next summer, they resolved to abandon her and travel over the ice to Fury Beach, there to avail themselves of the boats, provisions, and stores, which would assist them in reaching Davis’s Straits. Accordingly, on May 29, 1832, the colors of the “Victory” were hoisted and nailed to the mast, and after drinking a parting glass to the ship with the crew, and having seen every man out in the evening, the captain took his own leave of her. “It was the first vessel,” says Ross, “that I had ever been obliged to abandon, after having served in thirty-six, during a period of forty-two years. It was like the last parting with an old friend, and I did not pass the point where she ceased to be visible without stopping to take a sketch of this melancholy desert, rendered more melancholy by the solitary, abandoned, helpless home of our past years, fixed in immovable ice, till time should perform on her his usual work.”

After having, with incredible difficulty, reached Fury Beach, where, thanks to the forethought of Sir Edward Parry, they fortunately found a sufficient number of boats left for their purpose, and all the provisions in good condition, they set out on August 1—a considerable extent of open sea being visible—and after much buffeting among the ice, reached the north of the inlet by the end of the month. But here they were doomed to disappointment, for, after several fruitless attempts to run along Barrow’s Strait, the ice obliged them to haul their boats on shore and pitch their tents. Day after day they lingered till the third week in September, but the strait continuing one impenetrable mass of ice, it was unanimously agreed that their only resource was to fall back again on the stores at Fury Beach, and there spend a fourth long winter within the Arctic Circle. They were only able to get half the distance in the boats, which were hauled on shore in Batty Bay on September 24, and performed the rest of their journey on foot, the provisions being dragged in sledges. On October 7 they once more reached the canvas hut, dignified with the name of “Somerset House,” which they had erected in July on the scene of the “Fury’s” wreck, and which they had vainly hoped never to see again.

They now set about building a snow-wall four feet thick round their dwelling, and strengthening the roof with spars, for the purpose of covering it with snow, and by means of this shelter, and an additional stove, made themselves tolerably comfortable, until the increasing severity of the cold and the furious gales confined them within-doors, and sorely tried their patience. Scurvy now began to appear, and several of the men fell victims to the scourge. At the same time, cares for the future darkened the gloom of their situation; for, should they be disappointed in their hopes of escaping in the ensuing summer, their failing strength and diminishing stores gave them but little hope of surviving another year.

It may easily be imagined how anxiously the movements of the ice were watched when the next season opened, and with what beating hearts they embarked at Batty Bay on August 15. Making their way slowly among the masses of ice with which the inlet was encumbered, they to their great joy found, on the 17th, the wide expanse of Barrow’s Strait open to navigation.

Pushing on with renewed spirits, Cape York soon lay behind them, and, alternately rowing and sailing, on the night of the 25th they rested in a good harbor on the eastern shore of Navy Board Inlet. At 4 o’clock on the following morning they were roused from their slumber by the joyful intelligence of a ship being in sight, and never did men more hurriedly and energetically set out; but the elements were against them, and the ship disappeared in the distant haze.

After a few hours’ suspense, the sight of another vessel lying to in a calm relieved their despair. This time their exertions were successful, and, strange to say, the ship which took them on board was the same “Isabella”—now reduced to the rank of a private whaler—in which Ross had made his first voyage to the Arctic Seas.

The seamen of the “Isabella” told him of his own death—of which all England was persuaded—and could hardly believe that it was really he and his party who now stood before them. But when all doubts were cleared away, the rigging was instantly manned to do them honor, and thundering cheers welcomed Ross and his gallant band on board! The scene that now followed can not be better told than in Ross’s own words.

“Though we had not been supported by our names and characters, we should not the less have claimed from charity the attentions that we received; for never was seen a more miserable set of wretches. Unshaven since I know not when, dirty, dressed in rags of wild beasts, and starved to the very bones, our gaunt and grim looks, when contrasted with those of the well-dressed and well-fed men around us, made us all feel (I believe for the first time) what we really were, as well as what we seemed to others. But the ludicrous soon took the place of all other feelings; in such a crowd and such confusion, all serious thought was impossible, while the new buoyancy of our spirits made us abundantly willing to be amused by the scene which now opened. Every man was hungry, and was to be fed; all were ragged, and were to be clothed; there was not one to whom washing was not indispensable, nor one whom his beard did not deprive of all human semblance. All, every thing too, was to be done at once: it was washing, dressing, shaving, eating, all intermingled: it was all the materials of each jumbled together, while in the midst of all there were interminable questions to be asked and answered on both sides; the adventures of the ‘Victory,’ our own escapes, the politics of England, and the news, which was now four years old. But all subsided into peace at last. The sick were accommodated, the seamen disposed of, and all was done for us which care and kindness could perform. Night at length brought quiet and serious thoughts, and I trust there was not a man among us who did not then express where it was due his gratitude for that interposition which had raised us all from a despair which none could now forget, and had brought us from the borders of a most distant grave to life, and friends, and civilization. Long accustomed, however, to a cold bed on the hard snow or the bare rocks, few could sleep amidst the comfort of our new accommodations. I was myself compelled to leave the bed which had been kindly assigned me, and take my abode in a chair for the night; nor did it fare much better with the rest. It was for time to reconcile us to this sudden and violent change, to break through what had become habit, and to inure us once more to the usages of our former days.”

The “Isabella” remained some time longer in Baffin’s Bay to prosecute the fishery, and thus our Arctic voyagers did not return to England before October 15, 1833, when they were received as men risen from the grave. Wherever Ross appeared, he was met and escorted by a crowd of sympathizers; orders, medals, and diplomas from foreign states and learned societies rained down upon him. London, Liverpool, Bristol, and Hull presented him with the freedom of their respective cities; he received the honor of knighthood; and, though last, not least, Parliament granted him £5000 as a remuneration for his pecuniary outlay and privations.

It may easily be imagined that his long-protracted absence had not been allowed to pass without awakening a strong desire to bring him aid and assistance. Thus, when Captain (afterwards Rear-admiral Sir George) Back, that noble Paladin of Arctic research, volunteered to lead a land expedition in quest of Ross to the northern shore of America, £4000 were immediately raised by public subscription to defray expenses. While deep in the American wilds, Back was gratified with the intelligence that the object of his search had safely arrived in England; but, instead of returning home, the indefatigable explorer resolved to trace the unknown course of the Thlu-it-scho, or Great Fish River, down to the distant outlet where it pours its waters into the Polar Seas.

It would take a volume to relate his adventures in this expedition, the numberless falls, cascades, and rapids that obstructed his progress; the storms and snow-drifts, the horrors of the deserts through which he forced his way, until he finally (July 28) reached the mouth of the Thlu-it-scho, or, rather, the broad estuary through which it disembogues itself into the Polar Sea. His intention was to proceed to Point Turnagain, but the obstacles were insurmountable, even by him. For ten days the exploring party had a continuation of wet, chilly, foggy weather, and the only vegetation (fern and moss) was so damp that it would not burn; being thus without fuel, they had only during this time one hot meal. Almost without water, without any means of warmth, and sinking knee-deep as they proceeded on land, in the soft slush and snow, no wonder that some of the best men, benumbed in their limbs, and dispirited by the prospect before them, broke out for a moment in murmuring at the hardness of their duty.

On August 15, seeing the impossibility of proceeding even a single mile farther, Back assembled the men around him, and unfurling the British flag, which was saluted with three cheers, he announced to them his determination to return. The difficulties of the river were of course doubled in the ascent, from having to go against the stream. All the obstacles of rocks, rapids, sand-banks, and long portages had to be faced. They found, as they went on, that many of the deposits of provisions, on which they relied, had been destroyed by wolves. After thus toiling on for six weeks, they were ultimately stopped by one most formidable perpendicular fall, which obliged them to abandon their boat; and proceeding on foot—each laden with a pack of about 75 lbs. weight—they ultimately arrived at their old habitation, Fort Reliance, after an absence of nearly four months, exhausted and worn out, but justly proud of having accomplished so difficult and dangerous a voyage.

The Fish River has since been named Back’s River, in honor of its discoverer; and surely no geographical distinction has ever been more justly merited.

This indefatigable explorer had scarcely returned to England (Sept. 8, 1835), when he once more set out on his way to the Arctic regions; but his ship, the “Terror,” was so disabled by the ice that she was scarcely able to accomplish the return voyage across the Atlantic, without allowing her to make any new discoveries.

The land expedition sent out by the Hudson’s Bay Company (1837–39), under the direction of Peter Warren Dease, one of their chief factors, and Mr. Thomas Simpson, proved far more successful. Descending the Mackenzie to the sea, they surveyed, in July, 1837, that part of the northern coast of America which had been left unexamined by Franklin and Elson in 1825, from Return Reef to Cape Barrow.

Although it was the height of summer, the ground was found frozen several inches below the surface, and the spray froze on the oars and rigging of their boats, which the drift-ice along the shore ultimately obliged them to leave behind.

As they went onward on foot, heavily laden, the frequent necessity of wading up to the middle in the ice-cold water of the inlets, together with the constant fogs and the sharp north wind, tried their powers of endurance to the utmost; but Simpson, the hero of the expedition, was not to be deterred by any thing short of absolute impossibility; nor did he stop till he had reached Point Barrow. Indeed, no man could be more fit than he to lead an expedition like this, for he had once before travelled 2000 miles on foot in the middle of winter from York Factory to Athabasca, walking sometimes not less than fifty miles in one day, and without any protection against the cold but an ordinary cloth mantle.

After wintering at Fort Confidence, on Great Bear Lake, the next season was profitably employed in descending the Coppermine River, and tracing nearly 140 miles of new coast beyond Cape Turnagain, the limit of Franklin’s survey in 1821. The third season (1839) was still more favored by fortune, for Simpson succeeded in discovering the whole coast beyond Cape Turnagain as far as Castor and Pollux River (August 20, 1839), on the eastern side of the vast arm of the sea which receives the waters of the Great Fish River. On his return voyage, he traced sixty miles of the south coast of King William’s Island, and a considerable part of the high, bold shores of Victoria Land, and reached Fort Confidence on September 24, after one of the longest and most successful boat voyages ever performed in the Polar waters, having traversed more than 1600 miles of sea.

Unfortunately he was not destined to reap the rewards of his labor, for in the following year, while travelling from the Red River to the Mississippi, where he intended to embark for England, he was assassinated by his Indian guides; and thus died, in the thirty-sixth year of his age, one of the best men that have ever served the cause of science in the frozen north.

On May 26, 1845, Sir John Franklin, now in the sixtieth year of his age, and Captain Crozier, sailed from England, to make a new attempt at the north-west passage. Never did stouter vessels than the “Erebus” and “Terror,” well-tried in the Antarctic Seas, carry a finer or more ably commanded crew; never before had human foresight so strained all her resources to insure success; and thus, when the commander’s last dispatches from the Whalefish Islands, Baffin’s Bay (July 12), previous to his sailing to Lancaster Sound, arrived in England no one doubted but that he was about to add a new and brilliant chapter to the history of Arctic discovery.

His return was confidently expected towards the end of 1847; but when the winter passed and still no tidings came, the anxiety at his prolonged absence became general, and the early part of 1848 witnessed the beginning of a series of searching expeditions fitted out at the public cost or by private munificence, on a scale exceeding all former examples. The “Plover” and the “Herald” (1848) were sent to Bering’s Straits to meet Franklin with supplies, should he succeed in getting thither. In spring Sir John Richardson hurried to the shores of the Polar Sea, anxious to find the traces of his lost friend. He was accompanied by Dr. Rae, who had just returned from the memorable land expedition (1846–47), during which, after crossing the isthmus which joins Melville Peninsula to the mainland, he traced the shores of Committee Bay and the east coast of Boothia as far as the Lord Mayor’s Bay of Sir John Ross, thus proving that desolate land to be likewise a vast peninsula.

But in vain did Rae and Richardson explore all the coasts between the Mackenzie and the Coppermine. The desert remained mute; and Sir James Ross (“Enterprise”) and Captain Bird (“Investigator”), who set sail in June, 1848, three months after Dr. Richardson’s departure, and minutely examined all the shores near Barrow Strait, proved equally unsuccessful.

Three years had now passed since Franklin had been expected home, and even the most sanguine began to despair; but to remove all doubts, it was resolved to explore once more all the gulfs and channels of the Polar Sea. Thus in the year 1850 no less than twelve ships sailed forth, some to Bering’s Straits, some to the sounds leading from Baffin’s Bay.16 Other expeditions followed in 1852 and 1853, and though none of them succeeded in the object of their search, yet they enriched the geography of the Arctic World with many interesting discoveries, the most important of which I will now briefly mention.

Overcoming the ice of Baffin’s Bay by the aid of their powerful steam-tugs, Austin, Ommaney, and Penny reached the entrance of Lancaster Sound. Here they separated, and while the “Resolute” remained behind to examine the neighborhood of Pond’s Bay, Ommaney found at Cape Riley (North Devon) the first traces of the lost expedition. He was soon joined by Ross, Austin, Penny, and the Americans, and a minute investigation soon proved that Cape Spencer and Beechey Island, at the entrance of Wellington Channel, had been the site of Franklin’s first winter-quarters, distinctly marked by the remains of a large storehouse, staves of casks, empty pemmican-tins, and, most touching relic of all, a little garden shaped into a neat oval by some flower-loving sailor, and filled with the few hardy plants which that bleak clime can nourish. Meanwhile winter approached, and little more could be done that season; so all the vessels which had entered Barrow’s Strait now took up their winter-quarters at the southern extremity of Cornwallis Land; with the exception of the “Prince Albert,” which set sail for England before winter set in, and of the Americans, who, perceiving the impolicy of so many ships pressing to the westward on one parallel, turned back, but were soon shut up in the pack-ice, which for eight long months kept them prisoners. The “Rescue” and “Advance” were drifted backward and forward in Wellington Channel until in December a terrific storm drove them into Barrow’s Strait, and still farther on into Lancaster Sound. Several times during this dreadful passage they were in danger from the ice opening round them and closing suddenly again, and only escaped being “nipped” by their small size and strong build, which enabled them to rise above the opposing edges instead of being crushed between them. Even on their arrival in Baffin’s Bay the ice did not release them from its hold, and it was not till June 9, 1851, that they reached the Danish settlement at Disco. After recruiting his exhausted crew, the gallant De Haven determined to return and prosecute the search during the remainder of the season; but the discouraging reports of the whalers induced him to change his purpose, and the ships and crews reached New York at the beginning of October, having passed through perils such as few have endured and still fewer have lived to recount.

Meanwhile the English searching expeditions had not remained inactive. As soon as spring came, well-organized sledge expeditions were dispatched in all directions, but they all returned with the same invariable tale of disappointment.

As soon as Wellington Channel opened, Penny boldly entered the ice-lanes with a boat, and, after a series of adventures and difficulties, penetrated up Queen’s Channel as far as Baring Island and Cape Beecher, where, most reluctantly, he was compelled to turn back.

A fine open sea stretched invitingly away to the north, but his fragile boat was ill-equipped for a voyage of discovery. Fully persuaded that Franklin must have followed this route, he failed, however, in convincing Captain Austin of the truth of his theory, and as, without that officer’s co-operation, nothing could be effected, he was compelled to follow the course pointed out by the Admiralty squadron, which, after two ineffectual attempts to enter Smith’s and Jones’s Sounds, returned to England.

The “Prince Albert” having brought home in 1850 the intelligence of the discoveries at Beechey Island, it was resolved to prosecute the search during the next season, and no time was lost to refit the little vessel and send her once more on her noble errand, under the command of William Kennedy (1851–52), to examine Prince Regent’s Inlet, on the coast of North Somerset. Finding the passage obstructed by a barrier of ice, Kennedy was obliged to take a temporary refuge in Port Bowen, on the eastern shore of the inlet. As it was very undesirable, however, to winter on the opposite coast to that along which lay their line of search, Kennedy, with four of his men, crossed to Port Leopold, amid masses of ice, to ascertain whether any documents had been left at this point by previous searching parties. None having been found, they prepared to return; but to their dismay they now found the inlet so blocked with ice as to render it absolutely impossible to reach the vessel either by boat or on foot. Darkness was fast closing round them, the ice-floe on which they stood threatened every instant to be shivered in fragments by the contending ice-blocks which crashed furiously against it: unless they instantly returned to shore, any moment might prove their last. A bitter cold night (September 10, 1851), with no shelter but their boat, under which each man in turn took an hour’s rest—the others, fatigued as they were, seeking safety in brisk exercise—was spent on this inhospitable shore, and on the following morning they discovered that the ship had disappeared. The drift-ice had carried her away, leaving Kennedy and his companions to brave the winter as well as they could, and to endeavor in the spring to rejoin their vessel, which must have drifted down the inlet, and was most likely by this time imprisoned by the ice. Fortunately a dépôt of provisions, left by Sir James Ross at Whaler Point, was tolerably near, and finding all in good preservation, they began to fit up a launch, which had been left at the same place as the stores, for a temporary abode. Here they sat, on October 17, round a cheerful fire, manufacturing winter garments and completely resigned to their lot, when suddenly, to their inexpressible joy, they heard the sound of well-known voices, and Lieutenant Bellot, the second in command of the “Prince Albert,” appeared with a party of seven men. Twice before had this gallant French volunteer made unavailing attempts to reach the deserted party, who soon forgot their past misery as they accompanied their friends back to the ship. In the following spring Kennedy and Bellot explored North Somerset and Prince of Wales’ Land, traversing with their sledge 1100 miles of desert, but without discovering the least traces of Franklin or his comrades. Yet in spite of these frequent disappointments the searching expeditions were not given over, and as Wellington Channel and the sounds to the north of Baffin’s Bay appeared to offer the best chances, the spring of 1852 witnessed the departure of Sir Edward Belcher and Captain Inglefield17 for those still unknown regions.

The voyage of the latter proved one of the most successful in the annals of Arctic navigation. Boldly pushing up Smith’s Sound, which had hitherto baffled every research, Inglefield examined this noble channel as far as 78° 30´; N. lat., when stormy weather drove him back. He next attempted Jones’s Sound, and entered it sufficiently to see it expand into a wide channel to the northward.

The squadron which sailed under the command of Sir Edward Belcher was charged with the double mission of prosecuting the discoveries in Wellington Channel, and of affording assistance to Collinson and M’Clure, who, it will be remembered, had sailed in 1850 to Bering’s Straits.

At Beechey Island, where the “North Star” was stationed as dépôt-ship, the squadron separated, Belcher proceeding with the “Assistance” and the “Pioneer” up Wellington Channel, while Kellett, with the “Resolute” and “Intrepid,” steered to the west. Scarcely had the latter reached his winter-quarters (September 7, 1852) at Dealy Island, on the south coast of Melville Island, when parties were sent out to deposit provisions at various points of the coast, for the sledge parties in the ensuing spring.

The difficulties of transport over the broken surface of the desert when denuded of snow may be estimated from the fact, that though the distance from the north to the south coast of Melville Island is no more than thirty-six miles in a direct line, Lieutenant M’Clintock required no less than nineteen days to reach the Hecla and Griper Gulf. Similar difficulties awaited Lieutenant Mecham on his way to Liddon Gulf, but he was amply rewarded by finding at Winter Harbor dispatches from M’Clure, showing that, in April, 1851, the “Investigator” was lying in Mercy Bay, on the opposite side of Banks’s Strait, and that consequently the north-west passage, the object of so many heroic efforts, was at last discovered.

On March 9, 1853, the “Resolute” opened her spring campaign with Lieutenant Pym’s sledge journey to Mercy Bay, to bring assistance to M’Clure, or to follow his traces in case he should no longer be there.

A month later three other sledge expeditions left the ship. The one under M’Clintock proceeded from the Hecla and Griper Gulf to the west, and returned after one hundred and six days, having explored 1200 miles of coast—a sledge journey without a parallel in the history of Arctic research, though nearly equalled by the second party under Lieutenant Mecham, which likewise started to the west from Liddon Gulf, and travelled over a thousand miles in ninety-three days. The third party, under Lieutenant Hamilton, which proceeded to the north-east towards the rendezvous appointed by Sir Edward Belcher the preceding summer, was the first that returned to the ship, but before its arrival another party had found its way to the “Resolute”—pale, worn, emaciated figures, slowly creeping along over the uneven ice. A stranger might have been surprised at the thundering hurrahs which hailed the ragged troop from a distance, or at the warm and cordial greetings which welcomed them on deck, but no wonder that M’Clure and his heroic crew were thus received by their fellow-seamen after a three years’ imprisonment in the ice of the Polar Sea.

On August 1, 1850, the “Investigator,” long since separated from her consort, the “Enterprise,” had met the “Herald” and “Plover”18 at Cape Lisburne, beyond Bering’s Straits, and now plunged alone into the unknown wildernesses of the Arctic Ocean. She reached the coast of Banks’s Land on September 6, discovered Prince Albert Land on the 9th, and then sailed up Prince of Wales’ Strait, where, on October 9, she froze in for the winter. In the same month, however, a sledge expedition was sent to the northern extremity of the strait, which established the fact of its communication with Parry Sound and Barrow’s Strait. In the following July the “Investigator,” though set free, was prevented from penetrating into the sound by impassable barriers of ice. Nothing now remained but to return to the southern extremity of the strait, and then to advance along the west coast of Banks’s Land to the north. This course was followed with tolerable ease till August 20, when the ship was driven between the ice and the beach a little north of Prince Albert Cape. Here she lay in comparative safety till the 29th, when the immense floe to which she was attached was raised edgeways out of the water, from the pressure of surrounding ice, and lifted perpendicularly some twenty-five feet. The slightest additional pressure would have thrown the delicately-poised vessel entirely over, but fortunately a large piece from underneath was rent away, and after one or two frightful oscillations the floe righted itself and drifted onward, bearing the ship unharmed upon its course.

During the succeeding month, every day brought its perils. Now forced ashore by the pressure of the ice, now hurried along amidst its inclosing masses, the adventurers, slowly working their way along the north coast of Banks’s Land, at length found refuge in a harbor to which the appropriate name of Mercy Bay was thankfully given. Here they spent two winters—the intervening summer having failed to release the ship. In the spring of 1853 Lieutenant Pym brought them the joyful news that the “Resolute” was not far off. Such had been the adventures of M’Clure up to the moment when Kellett welcomed him on board.

Meanwhile neither the sledge parties of the “Resolute,” nor those which Sir Edward Belcher had sent out in all directions from his first winter-quarters in Northumberland Sound (76° 52´ N. lat.), on the west side of Grinnell Peninsula, had been able to discover the least traces of Franklin. The winter (1853–54) passed, and in the following April Lieutenant Mecham found in Prince of Wales’ Strait, and later on Ramsay Island, at its southern outlet, documents from Collinson, bearing date August 27, 1852, and giving full intelligence of his proceedings since his separation from the “Investigator.” While M’Clure was achieving in 1850 the discovery of the north-west passage, Collinson, having arrived in Bering’s Straits later in the season, was unable to double Point Barrow. In 1851, however, he succeeded in getting round that projection, and pursuing the continental channel as easily as his precursor had done, followed him through Prince of Wales’ Strait; but, though he penetrated a few miles farther into Melville Sound, he found no passage, and returning to the south end of the strait passed the winter of 1851–52 in Walker Bay. Next summer he carried his ship through Dolphin and Union Straits and Dease Strait to Cambridge Bay, where he spent his second winter (1852–53). His sledge parties explored the west side of Victoria Strait, but a deficiency of coals compelled him to return the way he came, instead of attempting to force a passage through the channel. He did not, however, get round Barrow Point on his return without passing a third winter on the northern coast of America.

On returning to the “Resolute,” Lieutenant Mecham found all hands busy preparing to leave the ship, Sir E. Belcher having given orders to abandon her, as well as the “Assistance,” “Pioneer,” and “Intrepid,” which had now been blocked up above a year in the ice, and had no chance of escaping.

Thus the summer of 1854 witnessed the return to England of the “North Star,” with all those brave crews which had spent so many unavailing efforts, and in numerous boat and sledge excursions had explored so many known and unknown coasts in search of Franklin; and thus also M’Clure and his comrades, abandoning the “Investigator” in Mercy Bay, returned home through Davis’s Straits, after having entered the Polar Ocean at the Strait of Bering. He had, however, been preceded by Lieutenant Cresswell and Mr. Wynniat, who, on an excursion to Beechey Island in the summer of 1858, had there met with and joined the “Phœnix,” Captain Inglefield, who, accompanied by his friend Lieutenant Bellot, had conveyed provisions to Sir E. Belcher’s squadron, and was about to return to England. During this expedition Bellot, whose many excellent qualities had made him a universal favorite, was unfortunately drowned by a fall into an ice-crevice during a sledge excursion. A stone monument erected before Greenwich Hospital reminds England of the gallant volunteer whose name is gloriously linked with that of Franklin in Arctic history.

Years had thus passed without bringing any tidings of the “Erebus” and “Terror” since the discovery of their first winter-quarters, until at last, in the spring of 1854, Dr. Rae, of the Hudson’s Bay Company, while engaged in the survey of the Boothian isthmus, fell in with a party of Esquimaux, who informed him that in the spring of 1850 some of their countrymen on King William’s Island had seen a party of white men making their way to the mainland. None of them could speak the Esquimaux language intelligibly, but by signs they gave them to understand that their ships had been crushed by ice, and that they were now going to where they expected to find deer to shoot. At a later date of the same season, but before the breaking up of the ice, the bodies of some thirty men were discovered on the continent a day’s journey from Back’s Great Fish River, and five on an island near it. Some of the bodies had been buried (probably those of the first victims of famine), some were in a tent, others under the boat which had been turned over to form a shelter, and several lay scattered about in different directions. Of those found on the island, one was supposed to have been an officer, as he had a telescope strapped over his shoulder, and his double-barrelled gun lay underneath him. The mutilated condition of several of the corpses and the contents of the kettles left no doubt that our wretched countrymen had been driven to the last resource of cannibalism, as a means of prolonging existence. Some silver spoons and forks, a round silver plate, engraved “Sir John Franklin, K.C.B.,” a star or order, with the motto, “Nec aspera terrent,” which Dr. Rae purchased of the Esquimaux, corroborated the truth of their narrative.

Thus it was now known how part of the unfortunate mariners had perished, but the fate of the expedition was still enveloped in mystery. What had become of the ships and of the greater part of their crews? And was Franklin one of the party seen by the Esquimaux, or had an earlier death shortened his sufferings?

To solve at least this mournful secret—for every hope that he might still be alive had long since vanished—his noble widow resolved to spend all her available means—since Government would no longer prosecute the search—and with the assistance of her friends, but mostly at her own expense, fitted out a small screw steamer, the “Fox,” which the gallant M’Clintock, already distinguished in perilous Polar voyages, volunteered to command. Another Arctic officer, Lieutenant Hobson, likewise came forward to serve without pay.

At first it seemed as if all the elements had conspired against the success of this work of piety, for in the summer of 1857 the floating ice off Melville Bay, on the coast of Greenland, seized the “Fox,” and after a dreary winter, various narrow escapes, and eight months of imprisonment, carried her back nearly 1200 geographical miles, even to 63½° N. lat. in the Atlantic.

At length, on April 25, 1858, the “Fox” got free, and, having availed herself of the scanty stores and provisions which the small Danish settlement of Holstenburg afforded, sailed into Barrow Strait. Finding Franklin Channel obstructed with ice, she then turned back, and steaming up Prince Regent’s Inlet, arrived at the eastern opening of Bellot’s Strait. Here the passage to the west was again found blocked with ice, and after five ineffectual attempts to pass, the “Fox” at length took up her winter-quarters in Port Kennedy, on the northern side of the strait.

On his first sledge excursion in the following spring, M’Clintock met at Cape Victoria, on the south-west coast of Boothia, with a party of Esquimaux, who informed him that some years back a large ship had been crushed by the ice out in the sea to the west of King William’s Island, but that all the people landed safely.

Meeting with the same Esquimaux on April 20, he learned, after much anxious inquiry, that besides the ship which had been seen to sink in deep water, a second one had been forced on shore by the ice, where they supposed it still remained, but much broken. They added that it was in the fall of the year—that is, August or September—when the ships were destroyed; that all the white people went away to the Great Fish River, taking a boat or boats with them, and that in the following winter their bones were found there.

These first indications of the fate of Franklin’s expedition were soon followed by others. On May 7 M’Clintock heard from an old Esquimaux woman on King William’s Island that many of the white men dropped by the way as they went to the Great River; that some were buried, and some were not. They did not themselves witness this, but discovered their bodies during the winter following.

Visiting the shore along which the retreating crews must have marched, he came, shortly after midnight of May 25, when slowly walking along a gravel ridge near the beach, which the winds kept partially bare of snow, upon a human skeleton, partly exposed, with here and there a few fragments of clothing appearing through the snow.

“A most careful examination of the spot,” says M’Clintock, “was of course made, the snow removed, and every scrap of clothing gathered up. A pocket-book, which being frozen hard could not be examined on the spot, afforded strong grounds for hope that some information might be subsequently obtained respecting the owner, and the march of the lost crews. The victim was a young man, slightly built, and perhaps above the common height; the dress appeared to be that of a steward. The poor man seems to have selected the bare ridge top, as affording the least tiresome walking, and to have fallen upon his face in the position in which we found him. It was a melancholy truth that the old woman spake when she said, ‘They fell down and died as they walked along.’”

Meanwhile Lieutenant Hobson, who was exploring with another sledge party the north-western coast of King William’s Land, had made the still more important discovery of a record giving a laconic account of the Franklin expedition up to the time when the ships were lost and abandoned. It was found on May 6 in a large cairn at Point Victory. It stated briefly that in 1845 the “Erebus” and “Terror” had ascended Wellington Channel to lat. 77°, and returned by the west side of Cornwallis Island to Beechey Island, where they spent the first winter. In 1846 they proceeded to the south-west, through Peel Sound and Franklin Sound, and eventually reached within twelve miles of the north extremity of King William’s Land, when their progress was arrested by the ice. Sir John Franklin died on June 11, 1847, having completed—two months before his death—the sixty-first year of an active, eventful, and honorable life. On April 22, 1848, the ships were deserted, having been beset since September 12, 1846. The officers and crew, consisting of 105 souls, under the command of Captain Crozier, landed with the intention of starting for Back’s Fish River, which, as we have seen, they were never destined to reach.

Quantities of clothing and articles of all kinds were found lying about the cairn, as if these men, aware that they were retreating for their lives, had then abandoned every thing which they considered superfluous.

Thus all doubts about Sir John Franklin’s fate were at length removed. He at least had died on board his ship, and been spared the miserable end of his comrades as they fell one by one in the dreary wilderness.

The two wrecks have disappeared without leaving a trace behind. A single document, some coins and pieces of plate—this is all that remains of the gallant ships which so hopefully sailed forth under one of the noblest seamen that ever served in the navy of Great Britain.

It is a curious circumstance that Franklin’s ships perished within sight of the headlands named Cape Franklin and Cape Jane Franklin by their discoverer, Sir James Ross, eighteen years before.

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Kane sails up Smith’s Sound in the “Advance” (1853).—Winters in Rensselaer Bay.—Sledge Journey along the Coast of Greenland.—The Three-brother Turrets.—Tennyson’s Monument.—The Great Humboldt Glacier.—Dr. Hayes crosses Kennedy Channel.—Morton’s Discovery of Washington Land.—Mount Parry.—Kane resolves upon a second Wintering in Rensselaer Bay.—Departure and Return of Part of the Crew.—Sufferings of the Winter.—The Ship abandoned.—Boat Journey to Upernavik.—Kane’s Death in the Havana (1857).—Dr. Hayes’s Voyage in 1860.—He winters at Port Foulke.—Crosses Kennedy Channel.—Reaches Cape Union, the most northern known Land upon the Globe.—Koldewey.—Plans for future Voyages to the North Pole.

In point of dramatic interest, few of the Arctic expeditions can rival the second and last voyage of Dr. Kane, which, to avoid interrupting the narrative of the discovery of Franklin’s fate by Dr. Rae and Sir James M’Clintock, I have refrained from mentioning in chronological order.

Weak in body, but great in mind, this remarkable man, who had accompanied the first Grinnell expedition in the capacity of surgeon, sailed from Boston in 1853, as commander of the “Advance,” with a crew of 17 officers and men, to which two Greenlanders were subsequently added. His plan was to pass up Baffin’s Bay to its most northern attainable point, and thence pressing on towards the pole as far as boats or sledges could reach, to examine the coast-lines for vestiges of Franklin.

Battling with storms and icebergs, he passed, on August 7, 1853, the rocky portals of Smith’s Sound, Cape Isabella and Cape Alexander, which had been discovered the year before by Inglefield; left Cape Hatherton—the extreme point attained by that navigator—behind, and after many narrow escapes from shipwreck, secured the “Advance” in Rensselaer Bay, from which she Avas destined never to emerge. His diary gives us a vivid account of the first winter he spent in this haven, in lat. 78° 38´, almost as far to the north as the most northern extremity of Spitzbergen, and in a far more rigorous climate.

“Sept. 10, +14° F.—The birds have left. The sea-swallows, which abounded when we first reached here, and even the young burgomasters that lingered after them, have all taken their departure for the south. The long “night in which no man can work” is close at hand; in another month we shall lose the sun. Astronomically, he should disappear on October 24, if our horizon were free; but it is obstructed by a mountain ridge; and, making all allowance for refraction, we can not count on seeing him after the 10th.

“Sept. 11.—The long staring day, which has clung to us for more than two months, to the exclusion of the stars, has begun to intermit its brightness. Even Aldebaran, the red eye of the bull, flared out into familiar recollection as early as ten o’clock; and the heavens, though still somewhat reddened by the gaudy tints of midnight, gave us Capella and Arcturus, and even that lesser light of home memories, the polar star. Stretching my neck to look uncomfortably at the indication of our extreme northernness, it was hard to realize that he was not directly overhead; and it made me sigh as I measured the few degrees of distance that separated our zenith from the pole over which he hung.

“Oct. 28.—The moon has reached her greatest northern declination of about 25° 35´. She is a glorious object; sweeping around the heavens, at the lowest part of her curve, she is still 14° above the horizon. For eight days she has been making her circuit with nearly unvarying brightness. It is one of those sparkling nights that bring back the memory of sleigh-bells and songs, and glad communings of hearts in lands that are far away.

“Nov. 7.—The darkness is coming on with insidious steadiness, and its advances can only be perceived by comparing one day with its fellow of some time back. We still read the thermometer at noonday without a light, and the black masses of the hills are plain for about five hours, with their glaring patches of snow; but all the rest is darkness. The stars of the sixth magnitude shine out at noonday. Except upon the island of Spitzbergen, which has the advantages of an insular climate, and tempered by ocean currents, no Christians have wintered in so high a latitude as this.19 They are Russian sailors who made the encounter there—men inured to hardships and cold. Our darkness has ninety days to run before we shall get back again even to the contested twilight of to-day. Altogether our winter will have been sunless for one hundred and forty days.

“Nov. 9.—Wishing to get the altitude of the cliffs on the south-west cape of our bay before the darkness set in thoroughly, I started in time to reach them with my Newfoundlanders at noonday, the thermometer indicating 23° below zero. Fireside astronomers can hardly realize the difficulties in the way of observations at such low temperatures. The breath, and even the warmth of the face and body, cloud the sextant-arc and glasses with a fine hoar-frost. It is, moreover, an unusual feat to measure a base-line in the snow at 55° below freezing.

“Nov. 21.—We have schemes innumerable to cheat the monotonous solitude of our winter—a fancy ball; a newspaper,’The Ice Blink;’ a fox-chase round the decks.

“Dec. 15.—We have lost the last vestige of our midday twilight. We can not see print, and hardly paper; the fingers can not be counted a foot from the eyes. Noonday and midnight are alike; and, except a vague glimmer in the sky that seems to define the hill outlines to the south, we have nothing to tell us that this Arctic world of ours has a sun. In the darkness, and consequent inaction, it is almost in vain that we seek to create topics of thought, and, by a forced excitement, to ward off the encroachments of disease.

“Jan. 21.—First traces of returning light, the southern horizon having for a short time a distinct orange tinge.

“Feb. 21.—We have had the sun for some days silvering the ice between the headlands of the bay, and to-day, towards noon, I started out to be the first of my party to welcome him back. It was the longest walk and toughest climb that I have had since our imprisonment, and scurvy and general debility have made me ‘short o’ wind.’ But I managed to attain my object. I saw him once more, and upon a projecting crag nestled in the sunshine. It was like bathing in perfumed water.”

Thus this terrible winter night drew to its end, and the time came for undertaking the sledge journeys, on which the success of the expedition mainly depended. Unfortunately, of the nine magnificent Newfoundlanders and the thirty-five Esquimaux dogs originally possessed by Kane, only six had survived an epizootic malady which raged among them during the winter: their number was, however, increased by some new purchases from the Esquimaux who visited the ship at the beginning of April.

Thus scantily provided with the means of transport, Kane, though in a very weak condition, set out on April 25, 1854, to force his way to the north. He found the Greenland coast beyond Rensselaer Bay extremely picturesque, the cliffs rising boldly from the shore-line to a height of sometimes more than a thousand feet, and exhibiting every freak and caprice of architectural ruin. In one spot the sloping rubbish at the foot of the coast-wall led up, like an artificial causeway, to a gorge that was streaming at noonday with the southern sun, while everywhere else the rock stood out in the blackest shadow. Just at the edge of this bright opening rose the dreamy semblance of a castle, flanked with triple towers, completely isolated and defined. These were called the “Three-brother Turrets.”

“Farther on, to the north of latitude 79°, a single cliff of greenstone rears itself from a crumbled base of sandstone, like the boldly-chiselled rampart of an ancient city. At its northern extremity, at the brink of a deep ravine which has worn its way among the ruins, there stands a solitary column or minaret tower, as sharply finished as if it had been cast for the Place Vendôme. Yet the length of the shaft alone is 480 feet, and it rises on a pedestal, itself 280 feet high. I remember well the emotions of my party, as it first broke upon our view. Cold and sick as I was, I brought back a sketch of it which may have interest for the reader, though it scarcely suggests the imposing dignity of this magnificent landmark. Those who are happily familiar with the writings of Tennyson, and have communed with his spirit in the solitudes of a wilderness, will apprehend the impulse that inscribed the scene with his name.”

But no rock formation, however striking or impressive, equalled in grandeur the magnificent glacier to which Kane has given the name of Humboldt. Its solid glassy wall, diminishing to a well-pointed wedge in the perspective, rises 300 feet above the water-level, with an unknown, unfathomable depth below it and its curved face sixty miles in length—from Cape Agassiz to Cape Forbes—vanishes into unknown space at not more than a single day’s railroad travel from the pole.

In spite of the snow, which had so accumulated in drifts that the travellers were forced to unload their sledges and carry forward the cargo on their backs, beating a path for the dogs to follow in, Kane came in sight of the Great Glacier on May 4; but this progress was dearly earned, as it cost him the last remnant of his strength.

“I was seized with a sudden pain,” says the intrepid explorer, “and fainted. My limbs became rigid, and certain obscure tetanoid symptoms of our winter enemy, the scurvy, disclosed themselves. I was strapped upon the sledge, and the march continued as usual, but my powers diminished so rapidly that I could not resist the otherwise comfortable temperature of 5° below zero. My left foot becoming frozen caused a vexatious delay, and the same night it became evident that the immovability of my limbs was due to dropsical effusion. On the 5th, becoming delirious and fainting every time that I was taken from the tent to the sledge, I succumbed entirely. My comrades would kindly persuade me that, even had I continued sound, we could not have proceeded on our journey. The snows were very heavy, and increasing as we went; some of the drifts perfectly impassable, and the level floes often four feet deep in yielding snow.

“The scurvy had already broken out among the men, with symptoms like my own, and Morton, our strongest man, was beginning to give way. It is the reverse of comfort to me that they shared my weakness. All that I should remember with pleasurable feeling is that to my brave companions, themselves scarcely able to travel, I owe my preservation.

“They carried me back by forced marches. I was taken into the brig on the 14th, where for a week I lay fluctuating between life and death. Dr. Hayes regards my attack as one of scurvy, complicated by typhoid fever.”

Fortunately summer was now fast approaching, with his cheering sunbeams and his genial warmth. The seals began to appear on the coast in large numbers, and there was now no want of fresh meat, the chief panacea against the scurvy. The snow-buntings returned to the ice-crusted rocks, and the gulls and eider-ducks came winging their way to their northern breeding-places.

Vegetation likewise sprang into life with marvellous rapidity, and the green sloping banks not only refreshed the eye, but yielded juicy, anti-scorbutic herbs.

Kane’s health slowly but steadily improved. He was, however, obliged to give up all further sledge excursions for the season, and to leave the execution of his plans to his more able-bodied companions.

Thus Dr. Hayes, crossing the sound in a north-easterly direction, reached the opposite coast of Grinnell Land, which he surveyed as far as Cape Frazer in lat. 70° 45´.

This journey was rendered uncommonly slow and tedious by the excessively broken and rugged character of the ice. Deep cavities filled with snow intervened between lines of hummocks frequently exceeding twenty or thirty feet in height. Over these the sledge had to be lifted by main strength, and it required the most painful efforts of the whole party to liberate it from the snow between them. Dr. Hayes returned on June 1, and a few days later Morton left the brig, to survey the Greenland coast beyond the Great Glacier. The difficulties were great, for, besides the usual impediments of hummocks, the lateness of the season had in many places rendered the ice extremely unsafe, or even entirely destroyed the ice-ledge along the shore. Thus for the last days of his onward journey he was obliged to toil over the rocks and along the beach of a sea which, like the familiar waters of the south, dashed in waves at his feet. Morton and his companion Hans, the Esquimaux, reached on June 26, 1854, Cape Constitution, a bold headland, where the surf rolled furiously against high overhanging cliffs, which it was found impossible to pass. Climbing from rock to rock, in hopes of doubling the promontory, Morton stood at this termination of his journey, and from a height of 300 feet looked out upon a great waste of waters, stretching to the unknown north. Numerous birds—sea-swallows, kittiwakes, brent-geese—mixed their discordant notes with the novel music of dashing waves; and among the flowering plants growing on the rocks was found a crucifer (Hesperis pygmæa), the dried pods of which, still containing seed, had survived the wear and tear of winter. From Cape Constitution the coast of Washington Land trended to the east, but far to the north-west, beyond the open waters of the channel, a peak, terminating a range of mountains similar in their features to those of Spitzbergen, was seen towering to a height of from 2500 to 3000 feet. This peak, the most remote northern land at that time known upon our globe, received the name of Mount Parry.

Meanwhile the short summer was wearing on, and, as far as the eye could reach, the ice remained inflexibly solid. It was evident that many days must still elapse before the vessel could possibly be liberated—but then most likely winter would almost have returned—a dismal prospect for men who knew by experience the long fearful night of the 79° of latitude, and who, broken in health and with very insufficient supplies of provisions and fuel, were but ill armed for a second encounter. No wonder that many of Kane’s companions thought it better to abandon the vessel than to tarry any longer in those frozen solitudes.

But though it was horrible to look another winter in the face, the resolution of Kane could not be shaken. On August 24, when the last hope of seeing the vessel once more afloat had vanished, he called the officers and crew together, and explained to them frankly the considerations which determined him to remain. To abandon the vessel earlier would have been unseemly, and to reach Upernavik so late in the season was next to impossible. To such of them, however, as were desirous of making the attempt, he freely gave his permission so to do, assuring them of a brother’s welcome should they be driven back. He then directed the roll to be called, and each man to answer for himself. In result, eight out of the seventeen survivors of the party resolved to stand by the brig. The others left on the 28th, with every appliance which the narrow circumstances of the brig could furnish to speed and guard them. When they disappeared among the hummocks, the stern realities of their condition pressed themselves with double force on those whom they left behind.

The reduced numbers of the party, the helplessness of many, the waning efficiency of all, the impending winter, with its cold, dark nights, the penury of their resources, the dreary sense of increased isolation—all combined to depress them. But their energetic leader, leaving them no time for these gloomy thoughts, set them actively to work to make the best possible preparations they could for the long cold night to come.

He had carefully studied the Esquimaux, and determined that their form of habitations and their mode of diet, without their unthrift and filth, were the safest and best that could be adopted. The deck was well padded with moss and turf, so as to form a nearly cold-proof covering, and, down below, a space some eighteen feet square—the apartment of all uses—was inclosed and packed from floor to ceiling with inner walls of the same non-conducting material. The floor itself, after having been carefully caulked, was covered with Manilla oakum a couple of inches deep and a canvas carpet. The entrance was from the hold, by a low moss-lined tunnel, with as many doors and curtains to close it up as ingenuity could devise. Large banks of snow were also thrown up along the brig’s sides to keep off the cold wind.

All these labors in the open air wonderfully improved the health of the exiles, and their strength increased from day to day. A friendly intercourse was opened with the Esquimaux of the winter settlements of Etah and Anoatok, distant some thirty and seventy miles from the ship, who, for presents of needles, pins, and knives, engaged to furnish walrus and fresh seal meat, and to show the white men where to find the game. Common hunting-parties were organized, visits of courtesy and necessity paid, and even some personal attachments established deserving of the name. As long as the Americans remained prisoners of the ice, they were indebted to their savage friends for invaluable counsel in relation to their hunting expeditions, and in the joint hunt they shared alike.

The Esquimaux gave them supplies of meat at critical periods, and they were able to do as much for them. In one word, without the natives, Kane and his companions would most likely have succumbed to the winter, and the Esquimaux on their part learned to look on the strangers as benefactors, and mourned their departure bitterly.

On December 12 the party which had abandoned the ship returned, having been unable to penetrate to the south, and was received, as had been promised, with a brotherly welcome. They had suffered bitterly from the cold, want of food, and the fatigues of their march among the hummocks.

“The thermometer,” says Kane, “was at -50°; they were covered with rime and snow, and were fainting with hunger. It was necessary to use caution in taking them below; for, after an exposure of such fearful intensity and duration as they had gone through, the warmth of the cabin would have prostrated them completely. They had journeyed three hundred and fifty miles; and their last run from the bay near Etah, some seventy miles in a right line, was through the hummocks at this appalling temperature. One by one they all came in and were housed. Poor fellows! as they threw open their Esquimaux garments by the stove, how they relished the scanty luxuries which we had to offer them! The coffee, and the meat-biscuit soup, and the molasses, and the wheat bread, even the salt pork, which our scurvy forbade the rest of us to touch—how they relished it all! For more than two months they had lived on frozen seal and walrus meat.”

Thus Kane, by his determination not to abandon the ship, proved the saviour of all his comrades; for what would have become of them had he been less firm in his resolution, or if his courage had failed him during the trials of that dreadful winter?

“February closes,” says the heroic explorer; “thank God for the lapse of its twenty-eight days! Should the thirty-one of the coming March not drag us farther downward, we may hope for a successful close to this dreary drama. By April 10 we should have seals; and when they come, if we remain to welcome them, we can call ourselves saved. But a fair review of our prospects tells me that I must look the lion in the face. The scurvy is steadily gaining on us. I do my best to sustain the more desperate cases, but as fast as I partially build up one, another is stricken down. Of the six workers of our party, as I counted them a month ago, two are unable to do out-door work, and the remaining four divide the duty of the ship among them. Hans musters his remaining energies to conduct the hunt. Petersen is his disheartened, moping assistant. The other two, Bonsall and myself, have all the daily offices of household and hospital. We chop five large sacks of ice, cut six fathoms of eight-inch hawser into junks of a foot each, serve out the meat when we have it, hack at the molasses, and hew out with crowbar and axe the pork and dried apples; pass up the foul slop and cleansings of our dormitory, and, in a word, cook, scullionize, and attend the sick. Added to this, for five nights running I have kept watch from 8 P.M. to 4 A.M., catching such naps as I could in the day without changing my clothes, but carefully waking every hour to note thermometers.”

With March came an increase of sufferings. Every man on board was tainted with scurvy, and there were seldom more than three who could assist in caring for the rest. The greater number were in their bunks, absolutely unable to stir. Had Kane’s health given way, the whole party, deprived of its leading spirit, must inevitably have perished.

To abandon the ship was now an absolute necessity, for a third winter in Rensselaer Bay would have been certain death to all; but before the boats could be transported to the open water, many preparations had to be made, and most of the party were still too weak to move. The interval was employed by Kane in an excursion with his faithful Esquimaux to the Great Glacier.

At length on May 20, 1855, the entire ship’s company bade farewell to the “Advance,” and set out slowly on their homeward journey. It was in the soft, subdued light of a Sunday evening, June 17, that after hauling their boats with much hard labor through the hummocks, they stood beside the open sea-way. But fifty-six days had still to pass before they could reach the port of Upernavik. Neither storms nor drift-ice rendered this long boat-journey dangerous, but they had to contend with famine, when they at length reached the open bay, and found themselves in the full line of the great ice-drift to the Atlantic, in boats so unseaworthy as to require constant bailing to keep them afloat. Their strength had decreased to an alarming degree; they breathed heavily; their feet were so swollen that they were obliged to cut open their canvas boots; they were utterly unable to sleep, and the rowing and bailing became hourly more difficult.

It was at this crisis of their fortunes that they saw a large seal floating—as is the custom of these animals—on a small patch of ice, and seemingly asleep. “Trembling with anxiety,” says Kane, “we prepared to crawl down upon him. Petersen, with a large English rifle, was stationed in the bow, and stockings were drawn over the oars as mufflers. As we neared the animal, our excitement became so intense that the men could hardly keep stroke. He was not asleep, for he reared his head when we were almost within rifle-shot; and to this day I can remember the hard, careworn, almost despairing expression of the men’s thin faces as they saw him move; their lives depended on his capture. I depressed my hand nervously, as a signal for Petersen to fire. M’Gary hung upon his oar, and the boat slowly, but noiselessly surging ahead, seemed to me within certain range. Looking at Petersen, I saw that the poor fellow was paralyzed by his anxiety, trying vainly to obtain a rest for his gun against the cut-water of the boat. The seal rose on his fore flippers, gazed at us for a moment with frightened curiosity, and coiled himself for a plunge. At that instant, simultaneously with the crack of our rifle, he relaxed his long length on the ice, and, at the very brink of the water, his head fell helpless to one side. I would have ordered another shot, but no discipline could have controlled the men. With a wild yell, each vociferating according to his own impulse, they urged their boats upon the floes. A crowd of hands seized the seal and bore him up to safer ice. The men seemed half crazy. I had not realized how much we were reduced by absolute famine. They ran over the floe, crying and laughing, and brandishing their knives. It was not five minutes before every man was sucking his bloody fingers, or mouthing long strips of raw blubber. Not an ounce of this seal was lost.”

Within a day or two another seal was shot, and from that time forward they had a full supply of food.

When Kane, after an absence of thirty months, returned on October 11, 1855, to New York, he was enthusiastically received. Well-deserved honors of all sorts awaited him on both sides of the Atlantic; but his health, originally weak, was completely broken by the trials of his journey, and on February 16, 1857, he died at the Havana, in the thirty-seventh year of his age. In him the United States lost one of her noblest sons, a true hero, whose name will ever shine among the most famous navigators of all times and of all nations.

In 1860, Dr. Hayes, who had accompanied Kane on his journey, once more sailed from America for the purpose of completing the survey of Kennedy’s Channel, and, if possible, of pushing on to the pole itself. After several narrow escapes from ice-fields and icebergs, his schooner, the “United States,” was at length compelled to take up her winter-quarters at Port Foulke, on the Greenland coast, about twenty miles in latitude to the south of Rensselaer Harbor. Thanks to an abundant supply of fresh meat (for the neighborhood abounded with reindeer), and also no doubt to the inexhaustible fund of good-humor which prevailed in the ship’s company, they passed the winter without suffering from the scurvy; but most of the dogs on which Dr. Hayes relied for his sledge expeditions in the ensuing spring were destroyed by the same epidemic which had been so fatal to the teams of Dr. Kane. Fortunately some fresh dogs could be purchased and borrowed of the friendly Esquimaux, and thus, early in April, 1861, Dr. Hayes left the schooner, to plunge into the icy wilderness. Having previously ascertained that an advance along the Greenland shore was utterly impossible, he resolved to cross the sound, and to try his fortunes along the coast of Grinnell Land. Of the difficulties which he had to encounter his own words will give the best idea.

“By winding to the right and left, and by occasionally retracing our steps when we had selected an impracticable route, we managed to get over the first few miles without much embarrassment, but farther on the tract was rough past description. I can compare it to nothing but a promiscuous accumulation of rocks closely packed together and piled up over a vast plain in great heaps and endless ridges, leaving scarcely a foot of level surface. The interstices between these closely accumulated ice-masses are filled up, to some extent, with drifted snow. The reader will readily imagine the rest. He will see the sledges winding through the tangled wilderness of broken ice-tables, the men and dogs pulling and pushing up their respective loads. He will see them clambering over the very summit of lofty ridges, through which there is no opening, and again descending on the other side, the sledge often plunging over a precipice, sometimes capsizing and frequently breaking. Again he will see the party baffled in their attempt to cross or find a pass, breaking a track with shovel and handspike, or again, unable even with these appliances to accomplish their end, they retreat to seek a better track; and they may be lucky enough to find a sort of gap or gateway, upon the winding and uneven surface of which they will make a mile or so with comparative ease. The snow-drifts are sometimes a help, and sometimes a hinderance. Their surface is uniformly hard, but not always firm to the foot. The crust frequently gives way, and in a most tiresome and provoking manner. It will not quite bear the weight, and the foot sinks at the very moment when the other is lifted. But, worse than this, the chasms between the hummocks are frequently bridged over with snow in such a manner as to leave a considerable space at the bottom quite unfilled; and at the very moment when all looks promising, down sinks one man to his middle, another to the neck, another is buried out of sight; the sledge gives way, and to extricate the whole from this unhappy predicament is probably the labor of hours. It would be difficult to imagine any kind of labor more disheartening, or which would sooner sap the energies of both men and animals. The strength gave way gradually; and when, as often happened after a long and hard day’s work, we could look back from our eminence and almost fire a rifle-ball into our last snow-hut, it was truly discouraging.”

No wonder that after thus toiling on for twenty-five days they had not yet reached half-way across the sound, and that they were all broken down. But their bold leader was fully determined not to abandon his enterprise while still the faintest hope of success remained, and, sending the main party back to the schooner, he continued to plunge into the hummocks with three picked companions—Jensen, M’Donald, Knorr—and fourteen dogs. After fourteen days of almost superhuman exertion the sound was at length crossed, and now began a scarcely less harassing journey along the coast. On the fifth day Jensen, the strongest man of the party, completely broke down, and leaving him to the charge of M’Donald, Dr. Hayes now pushed on with Knorr alone, until, on May 18, he reached the border of a deep bay, where farther progress to the north was stopped by rotten ice and cracks. Right before him, on the opposite side of the frith, rose Mount Parry, the lofty peak first seen by Morton in 1854 from the shores of Washington Land; and farther on, a noble headland, Cape Union—the most northern known land upon the globe—stood in faint outline against the dark sky of the open sea. Thus Dr. Hayes divides the honor of extreme northern travel with Parry.

On July 12 the “United States” was released from her icy trammels, and Dr. Hayes once more attempted to reach the opposite coast and continue his discoveries in Grinnell Land, but the schooner was in too crippled a state to force her way through the pack-ice which lay in her course, and compelled her commander to return to Boston.

Thus ended this remarkable voyage; but having done so much, Dr. Hayes is eager, and resolved, to do still more. Fully convinced by his own experience that men may subsist in Smith’s Sound independent of support from home, he proposes to establish a self-sustaining colony at Port Foulke, which may be made the basis of an extended exploration. Without any second party in the field to co-operate with him, and under the most adverse circumstances, he, by dint of indomitable perseverance, pushed his discoveries a hundred miles farther to the north and west than his predecessors; and it is surely not over-sanguine to expect that a party better provided with the means of travel may be able to traverse the 480 miles at least which intervene between Mount Parry and the pole. The open sea which both Morton and himself found beyond Kennedy Channel gives fair promise of success to a strong vessel that may reach it after having forced the ice-blocked passage of Smith’s Sound, or, should this be impracticable, to a boat transported across the sound and then launched upon its waters.

Captain Sherard Osborne, who is likewise a warm partisan of this route, has been endeavoring to interest Government in its favor; but in the opinion of other scientific authorities an easier passage seems open to the navigator who may attempt to reach the pole by way of Spitzbergen. To the east of this archipelago the Gulf Stream rolls its volume of comparatively warm water far on to the north-east, and possibly sweeps round the pole itself. It was to the north of Spitzbergen that Parry reached the latitude of 82° 45´; and in 1837 the “Truelove,” of Hull,20 sailed through a perfectly open sea in 82° 30´ N., 15° E., and, had she continued her course, might possibly have reached the pole as easily as the high latitude which she had already attained.

The distinguished geographer, Dr. Augustus Petermann, who warmly advocates the route between Spitzbergen and Greenland, has, by dint of perseverance, succeeded in collecting among his countrymen the necessary funds for a reconnoitring voyage in this direction. Thanks to his exertions, May 24, 1868, witnessed the departure of a small ship of eighty tons, the “Germania,” Captain Koldewey, from the port of Bergen, for Shannon Island (75° 14´ N. lat.), the highest point on the east coast of Greenland attained by Sabine in 1823. Here the attempt to explore the unknown Arctic seas beyond was to begin; but, meeting with enormous masses of drift-ice on her repeated endeavors to penetrate to the north-east, the “Germania” has been obliged to return, after reaching the high latitude of 81° 5´, and accurately surveying a small part of the Greenland coast hitherto but imperfectly explored. An expedition on a more extensive scale is to renew the attempt in 1869.

A third route to the pole is no less strenuously recommended by M. Gustave Lambert, a French hydrographer, who, having sailed through Bering’s Strait in a whaler in 1865, is persuaded that this is the right way to reach the problematical open North Sea, which, once attained, promises a free passage to the navigator. Liberal subscriptions have been raised in Paris for the accomplishment of his plan, and an expedition under his command will most probably set out in 1869.

Thus, after so many illustrious navigators have vainly endeavored to reach the pole, sanguine projectors are still as eager as ever to attain the goal; nor is it probable that man will ever rest in his efforts until every attainable region of the Arctic Ocean shall have been fully explored.

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Its desolate Aspect.—Forests.—Marshes.—Barrens.—Ponds.—Fur-bearing Animals.—Severity of Climate.—St. John’s.—Discovery of Newfoundland by the Scandinavians.—Sir Humphrey Gilbert.—Rivalry of the English and French.—Importance of the Fisheries.—The Banks of Newfoundland.—Mode of Fishing.—Throaters, Headers, Splitters, Salters, and Packers.—Fogs and Storms.—Seal-catching.

Generally veiled with mists, Newfoundland appears at first sight gloomy and repulsive. Abrupt cliffs, showing here and there traces of a scanty vegetation, rise steep and bare from the sea, and for miles and miles the eye sees nothing but brown hills or higher mountains, desolate and wild as they appeared in the eleventh century to the bold Norwegian navigators who first landed on its desert shore. The waves of the ocean have everywhere corroded the rocky coast into fantastic pinnacles or excavated deep grottoes in its flanks. In one of these cavities the action of the surge has produced a remarkable phenomenon, known under the name of “The Spout.” In stormy weather the waves penetrate into the hollow and force their way with a dreadful noise from an aperture in the rock as a gigantic fountain visible at a distance of several miles.21

The interior of the country corresponds with the forbidding appearance of the coasts, and offers nothing but a succession of forests, marshes, and barrens. The forests, if they may thus be called, generally grow on the declivities of the hills or on the sides of the valleys, where the superfluous waters find a natural drain. The trees consist for the most part of fir, spruce, birch, pine, and juniper or larch; and in certain districts the wych-hazel, the mountain-ash, the elder, the aspen, and some others are found. The character of the timber varies greatly according to the nature of the subsoil and the situation. In some parts, more especially where the woods have been undisturbed by the axe, trees of fair height and girth may be found; but most of the wood is of stunted growth, consisting chiefly of fir-trees about twenty or thirty feet high, and not more than three or four inches in diameter. These commonly grow so closely together that their twigs and branches interlace from top to bottom, while among them may be seen innumerable old and rotten stumps and branches, or newly-fallen trees, which, with the young shoots and brushwood, form a tangled and often impenetrable thicket. The trees are often covered with lichens, and tufts of white dry moss are entangled about the branches. Other green and softer mosses spread over the ground, concealing alike the twisted roots of the standing trees and the pointed stumps of those which have fallen, the sharp edges or slippery surface of the numerous rocks and boulders, and the holes and pitfalls between them. Every step through these woods is consequently a matter of great toil and anxiety. In the heat of summer, while the woods are so thick as to shut out every breath of air, they are at the same time too low and too thinly leaved at top to exclude the rays of the sun, the atmosphere being further rendered close and stifling by the smell of the turpentine which exudes from the trees.

Inclosed in these gloomy woods, large open tracts, called marshes, are found covering the valleys and lower lands, and frequently also at a considerable height above the sea on the undulating backs of the mountains. These tracts are covered to a depth sometimes of several feet with a green, soft, and spongy moss, bound together by straggling grass and various marsh-plants. The surface abounds in hillocks and holes, the tops of the hillocks having often dry crisp moss like that on the trees. A boulder or small crag of rock occasionally protrudes, covered with red or white lichens, and here and there is a bank on which the moss has become dry and yellow. The contrast of these colors with the dark velvety green of the wet moss frequently gives a peculiarly rich appearance to the marshes, so that when seen from a little distance they might easily be mistaken for luxuriant meadow-grounds, but a closer inspection soon destroys the illusion, and shows, instead of nutritious grass and aromatic flowers, nothing but a carpet of useless cryptogamic plants. Except in long-continued droughts or hard frosts, these marshes are so wet as to be unable to bear the weight of a person walking over them. A march of three miles, sinking at every step into the moss, sometimes knee-deep, and always as far as the ankle, is, it may well be supposed, toilsome and fatiguing, especially when, as must always be the case in attempting to penetrate the country, a heavy load is carried on the shoulders. This thick coating of moss is precisely like a great sponge spread over the country, and becomes at the melting of the snow in the spring thoroughly saturated with water, which it long retains, and which every shower of rain continually renews.

The “barrens” of Newfoundland are those districts which occupy the summits of the hills and ridges, and other elevated and exposed tracts. They are covered with a thin and scrubby vegetation, consisting of berry-bearing plants and dwarf bushes of various species, resembling the moorlands of the north of England, and differing only in the kind of vegetation and its scantier quantity. Bare patches of gravel and boulders and crumbling fragments of rock are frequently met with upon the barrens, and they are generally altogether destitute of vegetable soil. But only on the barrens is it possible to explore the interior of the country with any kind of ease or expedition. These different tracts are none of them of any great extent; woods, marshes, and barrens frequently alternating with each other in the course of a day’s journey.

Another remarkable feature of Newfoundland is the almost incredible number of lakes of all sizes, all of which are indiscriminately called ponds. They are scattered over the whole country, not only in the valleys but on the higher lands; and even in the hollows of the summits of the ridges and the very tops of the hills. They vary in size from pools of fifty yards in diameter to lakes upward of thirty miles long and four or five miles across. The number of those which exceed a couple of miles in extent must on the whole amount to several hundreds, while those of a smaller size are absolutely countless. It is supposed that a full third of the surface of the island is covered by fresh water, and this reckoning is rather below than above the mark. In a country so abundantly provided with lakes or ponds, it seems strange to find no navigable rivers. The undulating surface of the land, with its abrupt hills and deep gullies, is, without all doubt, one cause of this absence of larger streams.

Each pond or small set of ponds communicates with a valley of its own, down which it sends an insignificant brook, which takes the nearest course to the sea. The chief cause, however, both of the vast abundance of ponds and the comparative scantiness of the brooks, is to be found in the great coating of moss which spreads over the country, and retains the water like a sponge, allowing it to drain off but slowly and gradually.

The wilds of Newfoundland are tenanted by numerous fur-bearing animals, affording a great source of gain to some of the fishermen, who in winter turn furriers. Arctic foxes are here in all their variety. Beavers, once nearly extirpated, but now unmolested owing to the low value of their fur, are increasing in numbers. Brown bears are pretty numerous, and Polar bears sometimes find their way to the northern promontory of the island upon the ice which comes drifting down in spring from Davis’s Straits. By way of contrast, in hot summers the tropical humming-bird has been known to visit the southern shores of Newfoundland. Reindeer are abundant, but unfortunately their enemies the wolves have likewise increased in number, since the reward given by the Colonial Government for their destruction has ceased to be paid.

Although in the same latitude as Central France and the south of Germany, Newfoundland has a long and severe winter, owing to the two vast streams of Arctic water, the Davis’s Straits and East Greenland currents, which combine and run by its shores; and the summer, though sometimes intensely hot, is so short and so frequently obscured by fogs that, even were the soil less sterile, agriculture must necessarily be confined to narrow limits. The little wheat and barley, cultivated on the inside lands far above the sea-shore, is often cut green, and carrots, turnips, potatoes, and cabbages are nearly all the esculent vegetables which the land has been proved capable of producing.

Hence we can not wonder that the whole island, which is considerably larger than Scotland, has only about 90,000 inhabitants, and even these would have had no inducement to settle on so unpromising a soil if the riches of the sea did not amply compensate for the deficiencies of the land. Fish is the staple produce of Newfoundland, and the bulk of its population consists of poor fishermen, who have established themselves along the deep bays by which the coast is indented, and catch near the coast vast quantities of cod, which they bring in and cure at their leisure, in order to have it ready for the ships when they arrive. With the outer world they have little communication, and a visit to St. John’s, the capital of the island, forms an epoch in their solitary lives.

This town lies at the head of a wide and secure bay, and consists of a main street fronting the water, from which narrow, dirty lanes and alleys branch out towards the land. The dingy, unpainted houses are built of wood, the Government edifices only being constructed of brick or stone. The long rows of fish-stages along the shore attract the stranger’s attention, but he is still more astonished at the countless gin and beer shops, which at once tell him he is in a place where thirsty sailors and fishermen form the mass of the population. In the winter St. John’s is comparatively deserted, as it then has no more than about 10,000 inhabitants, but their number is doubled or trebled during the fishing-season.

The island of Newfoundland, first seen and visited in the eleventh century by the Norse colonists of Greenland, and then utterly forgotten, was rediscovered in 1497 or 1498 by John and Sebastian Cabot.

The richness of its cod-fisheries soon attracted attention, and fishermen from Spain, France, Portugal, and England annually visited its banks. The best harbors along the coast were occupied by the first comers in spring—a circumstance which gave rise to frequent quarrels. To obviate this lawless state of affairs, Sir Humphrey Gilbert was sent out by Queen Elizabeth in 1583 to take possession of the land. He divided the coast about St. John’s into districts, and the British settlers willingly agreed to pay a tax to Government in the expectation of seeing their interests better protected. The new arrangement had a beneficial effect on the trade of Newfoundland, for in 1615 more than 250 English vessels visited St. John’s, and gradually the whole of the eastern coast of the island was occupied by English fishermen.

The French on their part colonized the north and south sides of the island, and founded the town of Placentia, once a very considerable place, but now reduced to insignificance. The rivalry of the French was naturally a great source of jealousy to a nation ill-accustomed to brook any foreign intrusion into its commercial interests. Thus, after the war of the Spanish succession, Great Britain demanded and obtained by the Treaty of Utrecht the sole possession of Newfoundland; and Louis XIV., anxious for peace on any terms, willingly acceded to this sacrifice, merely reserving for his subjects the right to dry on the shores of the island the fish they had caught on the banks. By the subsequent treaties of Paris the French were restricted to the small islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, but not allowed to erect fortifications of any kind.

Besides the English and the French, the Americans also have the right to fish on the banks of Newfoundland; for when England acknowledged the independence of the United States, a formal article of the treaty of peace secured to the latter the fishing privileges which they had previously enjoyed as colonies.

The value of the dry codfish alone exported every year from Newfoundland is on an average about £400,000, while the total value of the exported productions in fish, oil, and skins is upward of £700,000. This, from a population of 80,000 or 90,000, proves that the people of the island ought to be happy and prosperous; but unfortunately a system of credit renders the bulk of the fishermen entirely dependent on the merchants, and want of education is a further source of evil.

Though vast quantities of cod are taken along the shores of Newfoundland, yet the most important fishery is carried on on the banks at some distance from the island.

The Great Bank lies twenty leagues from the nearest point of land from latitude 41° to 49°, and extends 300 miles in length and 75 in breadth. To the east of this lies the False Bank; the next is styled the Green Bank, about 240 miles long and 120 broad; then Banquero, about the same size, with several other shoals of less note, all abounding with fish, but chiefly with cod, the great magnet which sets whole fleets in motion. In winter the cod retire to the deeper waters, but they re-appear in March and April, when their pursuers hasten to the spot, not only from the bays and coves of Newfoundland, but from Great Britain, the United States, and France.

While fishing, each man has a space three feet and a half wide allotted to him on deck, so as not to interfere with his neighbor. The lines are from thirty to forty fathoms long—for the cod generally swims at that depth. The chief baits used are the squid, a species of cuttle-fish, and the capelin, a small salmon abounding on the North American coasts. The herring and the launce, and a shell-fish called clam, which is found in the belly of the cod, are likewise used. In spring particularly the cod rushes so eagerly upon the bait, that in the course of a single day a good fisherman is able to haul up four hundred, one after another. This is no easy task, considering the size of the fish, which on an average weighs fourteen pounds, but has been taken four feet three inches long, and forty-six pounds in weight. When a large fish, too heavy for the line, has been caught, the fisherman calls on his neighbor, who strikes a hook attached to a long pole into the fish, and then safely hauls it on board.

Mindful of the proverb which recommends us all to strike while the iron is hot, the fishermen continue to catch cod for hours, until so many are heaped on the deck that to make room it becomes necessary to “dress them down.” This is done on long planks made to rest with both ends on two casks, and thus forming a narrow table. First, each man cuts out the tongues of the fish he has caught, as his wages are reckoned by their number, and then the whole crew divide themselves into throaters, headers, splitters, salters, and packers. The throater begins the operation of “dressing” by drawing his knife across the throat of the cod to the bone and ripping open the bowels. He then passes it to the header, who with a strong wrench pulls off the head and tears out the entrails, which he casts overboard, passing the fish at the same time to the splitter, who with one cut lays it open from head to tail, and almost in the twinkling of an eye with another cut takes out the backbone. After separating the sounds, which are placed with the tongues and packed in barrels as a delicacy, the backbone follows the entrails overboard, while the fish at the same moment is passed with the other hand to the salter. Such is the amazing quickness of the operations of heading and splitting, that a good workman will often decapitate and take out the entrails and backbone of six fish in a minute. Every fisherman is supposed to know something of each of these operations, and no rivals at cricket ever entered with more ardor into their work than do some athletic champions for the palm of “dressing down” after a “day’s catch.”

Generally the fog is so dense that one ship does not see the other, although both may be so near that the crews distinctly hear each other’s voices. Frequently one is hardly able to see to the distance of a few feet, and the large drops of the condensed mist fall like rain from the yards. During calm weather the aspect of the sea is so dismal that it requires all the buoyant spirits of a seaman to resist its depressing influence. For days the calm remains unbroken, and no sound is heard but that of a fish darting out of the water, or the screech of a sea-bird flitting over the sea. But sometimes a storm breaks this awful silence of nature. At such times the fishing-ships, hidden in mists, run the greatest danger of striking against each other, although signal-lanterns and alarm-trumpets are used to give warning. A tremendous wave bursting on the deck often strikes them with such force as to sink them or dash them to pieces against the rocky coast. Thus many a widow and orphan has a mournful tale to relate of the dangers of the cod-fishery on the banks of Newfoundland.

In some parts of the coast where the water is sufficiently shallow the codfish are now caught in sieves or nets. This operation requires more capital to commence with than the mere boat and hooks and lines of the common fishermen, and, like all improvements, met at first with much opposition, on the plea that it must interfere with the interests of the poorer class. It is obvious, however, that the use of the net is advantageous to the trade at large, for shoals, or, as they are termed, “schools,” of fish may sometimes be seen sweeping along shore, which but for the net would escape altogether. Besides, there seems such an incalculable abundance of the fish that there will always be enough to hook, enough to jig, enough to net, and more than enough to go away.

“One calm July evening,” says Mr. Jukes,22 “I was in a boat just outside St. John’s harbor, when the sea was pretty still, and the fish were ‘breaching,’ as it is termed. For several miles around us the calm sea was alive with fish. They were sporting on the surface of the water, flirting their tails occasionally into the air, and as far as could be seen the water was rippled and broken by their movements. Looking down into its clear depths, codfish under codfish of all sizes appeared swimming about as if in sport. Some boats were fishing, but not a bite could they get, the fish being already gorged with food. Had the ground been shallow enough to use nets, the harbor might have been filled with fish.”

Besides the cod-fishery, seal-catching is also carried on with considerable success on the eastern coast, which intercepts many immense fields and islands of ice as they move southward in the spring from the Arctic Sea. The interior parts of these drifting shoals, with the lakes or openings interspersed, remain unbroken, and on them myriads of seals maybe found. In the month of March or April, as soon as the ice-fields descend with the currents from Davis’s Straits, many small ships, not only from the harbors of the east coast of Newfoundland, but even from the distant Scotch ports, particularly Aberdeen, put out to sea, and boldly plunge into all the openings of the ice-fields to make war upon the seals. Armed with firelocks and heavy bludgeons, the crews surprise the animals on the ice. In this way thousands are killed yearly from the north, but their numbers have latterly decreased, and the seal-catchers pay the penalty of their heedless and indiscriminate slaughter.

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A mysterious Region.—Ancient Scandinavian Colonists.—Their Decline and Fall.—Hans Egede.—His Trials and Success.—Foundation of Godthaab.—Herrenhuth Missionaries.—Lindenow.—The Scoresbys.—Clavering.—The Danish Settlements in Greenland.—The Greenland Esquimaux.—Seal-catching.—The White Dolphin.—The Narwhal.—Shark-fishery.—Fiskernasset.—Birds.—Reindeer-hunting.—Indigenous Plants.—Drift-wood.—Mineral Kingdom.—Mode of Life of the Greenland Esquimaux.—The Danes in Greenland.—Beautiful Scenery.—Ice Caves.

In many respects Greenland is one of the most remarkable countries of the Arctic zone. The whole of the northern coast of continental America from Cape Lisburne to Belle Isle Straits is known; the borders of Siberia fronting the icy ocean have been thoroughly explored by water and by land; the distance of Spitzbergen and Nova Zembla from the pole has long since been determined; but how far Greenland may reach to the north we know not—though nearly a thousand years have passed since the Icelander Günnbjorn (970 A.D.) first saw its high mountain coast, and in spite of all the attempts made since that time to circumnavigate it. The interior of the island—or continent as it may perhaps more justly be called, for it has a surface of at least 750,000 square miles, and is probably larger than Australia—is also unknown; for of this vast extent of territory only the narrow shores of the coast-line seemed to be inhabitable, or even accessible to man. On penetrating into the deeper fjords, all the valleys are found blocked with glaciers, which, on climbing the heights, are seen to pass into a monotonous plateau of ice, or névé, which seems to cover and conceal the whole interior. Thus, from its physical configuration, Greenland may well be called a mysterious region; and, strange to say, the history of the decline and fall of its first colonists is as little known as its geography.

We have seen in a previous chapter that Iceland, so peaceful in the present day, was peopled in the ninth century with a highly turbulent race of jarls and vikings. One of these worthies, called Erik Rauda, or the Red, having twice dyed his hands with blood, was banished by the Althing (982) for a term of years, and resolved to pass the time of his compulsory absence in exploring the land discovered by Günnbjorn. After spending three years on its western coasts, he returned to Iceland, and made so favorable a report of the new country, which—knowing the advantages of a good name—he called Greenland, that in 986 he induced a large body of colonists to sail with him and settle there. Other emigrants followed, and in a few years all the habitable places of Southern Greenland were occupied.

The colony, which soon after its foundation adopted the Christian religion, was divided into two districts, or “bygds” (from the Icelandic “byggia,” to inhabit), by an intervening tract of land named Ubygd, the “uninhabitable” or “uninhabited.” The West Bygd reached from lat. 66° down to 62°, and contained, in its best days, ninety farms and four churches. South of it lay the desert, “Ubygd,” of seventy geographical miles, terminated by the East Bygd, consisting of 190 farms, and having two towns, Gardar and Alba, one cathedral, and eleven churches. The whole population may probably have amounted to 6000 souls. The country was governed by Icelandic laws, and the first of its eighteen bishops, Arnold, was elected in 1121, the last being Endride Andreason, who was consecrated in 1406. In spite of its poverty and distance, Greenland was obliged to contribute its mite to the revenues of the Papal chair, for we read in the ancient annalists that in 1326 its tribute, consisting of walrus-teeth, was sold by the Pope’s agent, Bertram of Ortolis, to a merchant of Flanders for the sum of twelve livres and fourteen sous.

The time, however, was now fast approaching when the Greenland colony was not only to cease paying tithes and Peter’s pence, but to be swept away. During the course of the fourteenth century it was visited by one misfortune after another. The black death, which carried off twenty-five millions of Europeans, did not spare its distant fjords (1348–9); the Esquimaux harassed the survivors with repeated attacks, killing some, and carrying away others captive. A hostile fleet, suspected to be English, laid waste the country in 1418; and, finally, the revolutions and wars which broke out in Scandinavia after the death of Queen Margaret of Waldemar caused Greenland to be entirely neglected and forgotten. The last colonists either retreated to Iceland, or were destroyed by the Esquimaux, and many years elapsed before Greenland was again thought of as a place where Scandinavians had once been living. At length King Frederick II. of Denmark sent out Mogens Heineson, a famous “sea-cock,” as the chroniclers style him, to the south-eastern coast of Greenland (1581), to see if men of a Norse origin still dwelt along those ice-bound fjords. Heineson reached the coast, but the great transparency of the air, which in the Polar regions frequently causes strange optical delusions, led him into a singular error. After having sailed for many hours in the same direction, and still seeing the mountains which seemed quite near recede as he advanced, he fancied himself fettered by an invisible power, and thus the famous “sea-cock” returned home with the report that, detained by a magnetic rock, he had not been able to reach the land.

In 1605 King Christian IV. of Denmark sent out a new Greenland expedition, consisting of three ships, under the command of Godske Lindenow, and the guidance of James Hall, an English pilot. This time no magnetic rocks intervened; but the ships having separated, Hall landed on the west coast, which had already been rediscovered and visited by Davis, Hudson, Baffin, and other Arctic navigators; while Lindenow, anchoring off Cape Farewell, kidnapped two Esquimaux, who afterwards died of nostalgia in Denmark. But neither Lindenow, who the year after again made his appearance on the western coast of Greenland, nor two later expeditions under Carsten Richardson and Dannell, were able to effect a landing on any part of the eastern coast. It was in sight, but the drift-ice made it inaccessible. They were equally unsuccessful in finding any traces of the lost colony, which came at length to be regarded as a mere Scandinavian myth. But while no one else cared about its existence, the ardent Hans Egede (born in Norway, January 31, 1686), pastor of Vaage, in the Lofoten Islands, still continued to cherish its memory. He had read in the ancient chronicles about the old Christian communities in Greenland, and could not believe in their total extinction. He felt the deepest concern in the fate of their descendants, and the thought that after so long a separation from the mother-country they must needs be plunged in barbarism and heathen darkness, left him no rest by night or day. At length he resolved to devote his life to their spiritual welfare, and to become the apostle of rediscovered or regenerated Greenland. His zeal and perseverance overcame a thousand difficulties. Neither the public ridicule, nor the coldness of the authorities to whom he vainly applied for assistance, nor the exhortations of his friends, could damp his ardor. At length, after years of fruitless endeavors, after having given up his living and sacrificed his little fortune in the prosecution of his plans, he succeeded in forming a Greenland Company, with a capital of 9000 dollars, and in obtaining an annual stipend from the Danish Missionary Fund of 300 dollars, to which King Frederic IV. added a gift of 200 dollars. With three ships, the largest of which “The Hope,” had forty colonists on board, Egede, accompanied by his wife and four children, set sail from the port of Bergen on May 12, 1721, and reached Greenland on July 3, after a long and tedious passage. The winds had driven him to the western coast, in latitude 64°, and here he resolved at once to begin his evangelical labors with the Esquimaux. A wooden chapel was speedily erected, which formed the first nucleus of the still existing settlement of Godthaab.

But if the life of worthy Egede had for many a year been full of trouble before he went to Greenland, trials still more severe awaited him during his apostolical career. He had not merely the suspicions of the Esquimaux, the enmity of their medicine-men, the severity of the climate, and not seldom even famine to contend with. His own countrymen, disappointed in their hopes of carrying on a lucrative trade with the Greenlanders, resolved to abandon it altogether, and, after ten laborious years, the Government not only withdrew all further assistance from the mission, but even ordered the colony to be broken up. All his companions, with the exception of a few volunteers who engaged to share his fortunes, now returned to Denmark; but Egede, though his health had been so shattered by almost superhuman exertions that he had long since been obliged to leave all active duties to his son, resolved, like a faithful soldier, to die at his post. In 1733 his perseverance was at length rewarded by the grateful news that the king, at the entreaty of Count Zinzendorf, the founder of Herrenhuth, had consented to bestow an annual grant of 2000 dollars on the Greenland mission, and that three Moravian brothers had arrived to assist him in his work. Thus he could at length (1735) return with a quiet heart to his native country, where he died, universally regretted, in 1758, at the age of seventy-two.

It may easily be supposed that, during his long stay in Greenland, he anxiously sought the traces of his lost countrymen, for the desire to help them had first led him to that Arctic country. Nothing in the physiognomy of the Esquimaux or in their language pointed in any way to a European origin, and even their traditions said not a word of the old Norse settlers who had once inhabited the land. The ruins of some churches, and other buildings scattered here and there along the west coast, alone attested their existence, and formed a link between the past and the present. Thus if Greenland still had inhabitants of Scandinavian origin, they must necessarily be confined to the eastern coast beyond Cape Farewell. But Egede was as little able as his predecessors to penetrate through the ice-belt which, both by land and sea, completely separated it from the rest of the world.

For many years after his death it remained unknown and inaccessible; and Löwenorn, who was sent out in 1786–87 to renew the attempts of Heineson and Lindenow, had no better success. No doubt many a whaler may have admired its distant mountain peaks glowing in the evening sun, or may have been driven by the storm against its shores, but the Scoresbys were the first to determine accurately the position of part of its well-fenced coast. In the year 1817, Captain Scoresby the elder, deviating from the usual course of the whalers, steered through the western ice, and reached the east coast of Greenland beyond 70°. He could easily have landed; the coast which had so frequently baffled the attempts of previous navigators lay invitingly before him, but he could not sacrifice his duty as the commander of a whaler to curiosity or renown. And thus, without having set his foot on shore, he sailed back into the open sea. On a later visit, however, he landed in the sound which bears his name. In the year 1822 Scoresby the younger succeeded in more closely examining the land. Leaving the usual track of the whalers, he had steered to the west, and threaded his way through the drift-ice until, between 70° 33´ and 71° 12´ N. lat., the coast of Greenland lay before him. No coast that he had ever seen before had so majestic a character. The mountains, on which he bestowed the name of Roscoe, consisted of numberless jagged stones or pyramids, rising in individual peaks to a height of 3000 feet, and a chaos of sharp needles covered their rough declivities.

On July 24 he landed on a rocky promontory, which he named Cape Lister (70° 30´), and, climbing its summit, continued his excursion along its back, which was between three and four hundred feet high. Here and there between the stones, which were either naked or thinly clothed with lichens, bloomed Andromeda tetragona, a Saxifraga oppositifolia, a Papaver nudicanle, or a Ranunculus nivalis. At Cape Swainson he again descended to the shore, which here formed a flat strand about 600 feet broad. Some deserted Esquimaux huts soon arrested his attention. Charred drift-wood and a quantity of ashes lay scattered about the hearths, and proved that these dwellings had not been long forsaken. Scarcely a bird was to be seen on land, but countless auks and divers animated the waters. A great number of winged insects—butterflies, bees, mosquitoes—flew or buzzed about, particularly on the hillocks between the stones. On July 25 he once more landed on Cape Hope, where he again found traces of inhabitants. Bones of hares and fragments of reindeer horns lay scattered about on the ground. The skull of a dog was planted on a small mound of earth, for it is a belief of the Greenland Esquimaux that the dog, who finds his way everywhere, must necessarily be the best guide of the innocent children to the land of souls. The heat, which soon put an end to this excursion, was so great that many of the plants had shed their seeds, and some were already completely dried up and shrivelled.

The part of the coast of East Greenland discovered by Scoresby, and that which was visited the year after by Clavering, lay, however, too far to the north to afford any clue about the extinct Scandinavian settlements, even supposing them, as was then still believed, to have been partly situated to the east of Cape Farewell. At length in the year 1829, Captain Graah, who had been sent out by King Frederick VI. of Denmark, succeeded in exploring the south-eastern coast of Greenland, from its southern extremity to the latitude of 65° 18´, beyond which no colony could ever have existed; and as he nowhere found either the most insignificant ruins or the least traces of an ancient Christian settlement in the language and customs of the natives, it was now fully proved that the east bygd of the old chroniclers was, in reality, situated on the south-western coast of Greenland, in the present districts of Julianshaab and Lichtenau, a coast which, in comparison with the more northern colonies of Frederikshaab and Fiskernäs, distinctly trends to the east.

The present Danish settlements, which are confined to the more sheltered fjords of its western coast, are divided into a north and south inspectorate, the former extending from lat. 67° to 72°, and comprising the districts of Upernavik, Omenak, Jakobshavn, Christianshaab, Egedesminde, and Godhavn, on Disco Island; while the latter contains the districts of Holsteensborg, Sukkertoppen, Godthaab, Fiskernasset, Frederikshaab, and Julianshaab.

In the year 1855 the population of the South Inspectorate consisted of 6128 aboriginal Greenlanders, or Esquimaux, and 120 Europeans; that of the North Inspectorate, of 3516 of the former, and 128 of the latter; a very small number if we consider that it is scattered over a space of 12° of latitude. In a country like this, such towns as Godhavn, with 150 inhabitants, or Godthaab, the most populous of all, with 330, pass for considerable cities.

But, in spite of its scanty population, Greenland is a valuable possession of the Danish crown, or rather of the Danish company, which entirely monopolizes the trade, and manages its affairs so well that the Greenlander receives for his produce only about the sixth part of its price at Copenhagen. According to the average of six years (1850–1855), the total value of the exports from Greenland amounted to 378,588 rix-dollars; that of the importations from Denmark, to 164,215; but in the latter sum was included not only the price paid to the Greenlanders for their goods, but all the stores and provisions necessary for the agents and servants of the company, the missionaries, and the administration of the colony. The trifling amount which, after all deductions and charges, the poor Greenlander receives for his seal-skins or his blubber, he generally spends in tobacco, candy-sugar, coffee, and sea-biscuits, for his real wants are amply supplied by his own country, and he has not yet learned to invest his gains more profitably. Like all other Esquimaux, he depends chiefly upon the sea for his subsistence. Of the various species of Phocæ found in the Greenland waters the most valuable is the hispid seal (Phoca hispida), both from its numbers and from its frequenting the fjords during the whole year; while the larger Greenland seal (Phoca grœnlandica) is not stationary like the former, but leaves the coast from March to May, and from July to September. The Cystophora cristata, or hooded seal, remarkable for a globular sac, capable of inflation, on the head of the male, appears in the fjords only from April till June. It is the most pugnacious of all the seals. In the southern districts, where the seal-hunting must be chiefly carried on in open water, the Greenlander relies upon his boat, the kayak. When the animal is struck, the barbed point of the harpoon detaches itself, by an ingenious mechanism, from the shaft, which otherwise would be broken by its violent contortions; and as the line is attached to a bladder, it can easily be recovered.

Among the cetaceans, the white dolphin (Delphinopterus leucas) and the narwhal (Monodon monoceros) are the most valuable to the Greenlanders of the North Inspectorate, from 500 to 600 of these huge animals being annually caught. The former makes its appearance a short time after the breaking up of the ice, and again in autumn; in summer it seeks the open sea. Sometimes large herds of the white dolphins are cut off from the sea by the closing in of the ice in the neighborhood of the land, so that several hundred may be killed in the course of a few days. The narwhal is caught only in the Omenak fjord, which it visits regularly in November. As its chase is both difficult and dangerous, the Greenlanders generally hunt it in company, so that after a narwhal has been struck with the first harpoon or lance, others are ready to follow up the advantage. The larger whales are now seldom caught, but the dead body of a fin-back is not seldom cast ashore, and affords a rich harvest to the neighborhood. Sometimes masses of oil, evidently proceeding from dead whales, are found floating in the fjords. In 1854 ninety-five tons of this matter were collected near Holsteinburg.

The fishes likewise amply contribute to supply the Greenlander’s wants. The shark-fishery (Scymnus microcephalus) is of considerable importance. The entrails of seals and other offal are placed in the openings of the ice to attract these sharks to the spot, where they are caught in various ways, particularly by torch-light, which brings them to the surface. The fishermen, watching the moment, strike them with a sharp hook, and then drag them upon the ice. They are also caught with strong iron angles attached to chains. They are captured for the sake of their livers, which yield a good deal of oil. It has very recently been ascertained that a valuable substance resembling spermaceti may be expressed from the carcass which was formerly wasted, and for this purpose powerful screw presses are now employed. About 30,000 of these gluttonous animals are caught every year, and the fishery may be greatly extended, as the bottom of the ice-fjords absolutely swarms with them. Their capture is attended with far less trouble and danger than in Iceland, where they are pursued in boats, and in a capricious and tempestuous sea. Improving upon the old Esquimaux methods of fishing or hunting, the Danish residents set nets for the white whale or the seal; for the former, they are attached to the shore, and extend off at right angles, so as to intercept them in their autumnal southern migration, when they swim close along the rocks to avoid the grampus. When the white whale is stopped by the net, it often appears at first to be unconscious of the fact, and continues to swim against it, and then allows the boat to approach it from behind. If entangled in the net, it is soon drowned, as, like all the whale tribe, it is obliged to come to the surface to breathe.

A large quantity of cod are caught in various parts of the South Inspectorate, particularly at Fiskernasset, which, being less subject to fogs and more exposed to the sea-wind, offers peculiar advantages for the drying of the fish. The capelin (Mallotus villosus), which in May and June visits the coasts of Greenland in great numbers, is eaten both fresh or laid upon the rocks to dry for the winter. The sea-wolf, the lump-fish, the bull-head, the Norway haddock, the salmon-trout, are likewise important articles of food. The halibut grows to a huge size, and a smaller species (Hippoglossus pinguis) is fished for at the depth of 180 or even 380 fathoms. The banks frequented by this fish are most valuable to the neighboring Greenlanders. Many are no doubt still undiscovered, others may be known by the dead fish floating on the surface, or by the seals diving out of the water with a flat fish in their mouth. Long-tailed crabs are easily caught in many parts, and the common mussel may be gathered almost everywhere at ebb tide.

Crowds of birds nestle during the summer on the rocky shores, particularly at Upernavik, where the largest breeding-places are found. They are generally killed with small blunted arrows. In the ice-fjord of Jacobshavn the gulls are caught ingeniously by floating traps on which something brilliant or resembling a fish is fixed. The eggs of the sea-birds are gathered in vast numbers, and the feathers and skins of the eider-duck and auk are both exported and used for the lining of boots.

Compared with the wealth of the seas, the land is very poor. The chase of the reindeer is, however, important, as its skin affords both a warmer and a softer clothing than that of the seal, and serves moreover as a bed-cover or a sledge-carpet. Reindeer-hunting is a favorite summer occupation of the Greenlanders, who annually kill from 10,000 to 20,000, and export about one-half of the skins. Only a few cows, sheep, and goats are kept at Julianshaab. For want of hay they are fed with fish during the winter. In South Greenland the potato is cultivated by the European residents as a luxury. The plant never flowers, and even buds are rare. Turnips, cabbages, salad, and spinach likewise grow in South Greenland, but barley sown in the gardens scarcely ever comes to ear. In summer the windows of the houses are gay with geraniums and fuchsias and other flowers of a more temperate zone.

Among the indigenous plants, the berries of the Empetrum nigrum, Vaccinium uliginosum, and Vaccinium vitis idæa furnish the Greenlanders with their only vegetable food. While the coasts exposed to the bleak sea-winds afford scanty traces of vegetation, the valleys and hill slopes of the more sheltered fjords are green during the summer, and justify the name bestowed by Erick on the land of his adoption. Forests are of course out of the question in Greenland, though in some places the birch attains a not inconsiderable size. Thus in a dell at the upper end of Lichtenau Fjord a thicket of these trees, fifteen feet high, surrounds a little lake fed by a waterfall, the largest hitherto known in Greenland. More generally, however, the trees, such as the beech, the willow, the elder, etc., merely creep along the ground, where the dense matting of their roots and branches, mingled with bushes of the empetrum, or with mosses, lichens, and fallen leaves, forms a kind of turf which is used as fuel by the Danes.

In some measure the sea makes up for the want of timber by casting on the shore a quantity of drift-wood, the origin of which is still a matter of doubt, some tracing it to the North American rivers, others to those of Siberia. It consists mostly of the uprooted trunks of coniferous trees. Sometimes also large pieces of bark, such as those of which the Indians make their canoes, and sewn together with threads of hair, and drifted into the fjords.

The mineral kingdom, though it has within the last few years attracted the attention of speculators, will hardly ever realize their hopes. Several attempts to work the lead and copper ores at Nanursoak and in the Arksak fjord have miserably failed. The cost of transport is immense, and the difficulty of obtaining the necessary workmen presents an insuperable obstacle to all mining operations in Greenland.

Though the Greenlanders have now been for more than a century under the influence of Christian teachers, yet their mode of life is still much the same as that of their relatives the wild Esquimaux on the opposite continent of North America. Like them, they use the “kayak,” the “oomiak,” and the sledge; like them, they live in small winter huts of stone (the snow-house is unknown to them) or in summer tents hung with skins, and they are equally improvident in times of abundance. Their constant intercourse with Europeans has, however, taught them the use of many luxuries unknown to the wild Esquimaux, and they are now great consumers of coffee. They are fond of instruction, but the immense space over which the population is scattered, and their vagrant life during a great part of the year, are great hinderances to their improvement. They are also very good-natured, and live on the best terms with the Danes who reside among them. The latter, who, with the exception of the Moravian missionaries, are all in the service of the Company, soon get attached to the country, and leave it with regret; sometimes even returning to close their days in Greenland.

The climate, though severe, is very healthy, and the lover of sport finds ample opportunities for gratifying his favorite passion. In September, or at the beginning of October, the last ships leave for Europe; and then, till the next April or May—when the first English whalers appear in the ports of Godhavn or Upernavik—all communication with the civilized world is totally cut off. Towards the end of January or the beginning of February, when the days begin rapidly to lengthen, frequent sledge-parties keep up a constant interchange of visits between the various settlements. This mode of travelling over the lakes and inclosed fjords is very agreeable in May, as then the sun is pleasantly warm at noon; and though he hardly disappears below the horizon, the nights are sufficiently cold to convert the melted snow into ice hard enough to bear the weight of a sledge. This is the best time for visiting many interesting spots inaccessible at other seasons of the year, and for enjoying many a scene unsurpassed in Switzerland itself. Here, as on the Alps, the glacier and the snow-clad peak appear in all their grandeur; here also, in the valleys, the summer brooks flow between well-clothed banks, and the Helvetian lakes are worthily rivalled by the magnificent fjords of Greenland.

In many parts, the waves, beating against the steep coasts of the islands and fjords, render access difficult, if not impossible during the summer, but in winter or spring they may easily be visited across the ice. The surf has worn many caves in these precipitous rock-walls, which are no less remarkable for their picturesque basaltic forms than for the huge masses of ice on their sides, which, in their tints and grouping, far surpass the stalactites of the most renowned European grottoes.

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Comparative View of the Antarctic and Arctic Regions.—Inferiority of Climate of the former.—Its Causes.—The New Shetland Islands.—South Georgia.—The Peruvian Stream.—Sea-birds.—The Giant Petrel.—The Albatross.—The Penguin.—The Austral Whale.—The Hunchback.—The Fin-back.—The Grampus.—Battle with a Whale.—The Sea-elephant.—The Southern Sea-bear.—The Sea-leopard.—Antarctic Fishes.

The Antarctic regions are far more desolate and barren than the Arctic. Here we have no energetic hunters, like the Esquimaux, chasing the seal or the walrus; no herdsmen following, like the Samoïedes or the Lapps, their reindeer to the brink of the icy ocean; but all is one dreary, uninhabitable waste. While within the Arctic Circle the musk-ox enjoys an abundance of food, and the lemming is still found thriving on the bleakest islands, not a single land quadruped exists beyond 56° of southern latitude.

Summer flowers gladden the sight of the Arctic navigator in the most northern lands yet reached; but no plant of any description—not even a moss or a lichen—has been observed beyond Cockburn Island in 64° 12´ S. lat.; and while even in Spitzbergen vegetation ascends the mountain slopes to a height of 3000 feet the snow-line descends to the water’s edge in every land within or near the Antarctic Circle.

An open sea, extending towards the northern pole as far as the eye can reach, points out the path to future discovery; but the Antarctic navigators, with one single exception, have invariably seen their progress arrested by barriers of ice, and none have ever penetrated beyond the comparatively low latitude of 78° 10´.

Even in Spitzbergen and East Greenland, Scoresby sometimes found the heat of summer very great; but the annals of Antarctic navigation invariably speak of a frigid temperature. In 1773, when Captain Phipps visited Spitzbergen, the thermometer once rose to +58½°; and on July 15, 1820, when the “Hecla” left her winter-quarters in Melville Island (74° 47´ N.), she enjoyed a warmth of +56°. But during the summer months spent by Sir James Ross in the Antarctic Polar area, the temperature of the air never once exceeded +41° 5´. In Northumberland Sound (76° 42´ N.), probably the coldest spot hitherto visited in the north, the mean of the three summer months was found to be +30° 8´, while within the Antarctic Circle it only amounted to +27° 3´.

The reader may possibly wonder why the climate of the southern polar regions is so much more severe than that of the high northern latitudes; or why coasts and valleys, at equal distances from the equator, should in one case be found green with vegetation, and in another mere wastes of snow and ice; but the predominance of land in the north, and of sea in the south, fully answers the question. Within the Arctic Circle we see vast continental masses projecting far to the north, so as to form an almost continuous belt round the icy sea; while in the southern hemisphere, the continents taper down in a vast extent of open ocean. In the north, the plains of Siberia and of the Hudson’s Bay territories, warmed by the sunbeams of summer, become at that season centres of radiating heat, so that in many parts the growth of forests, or even the culture of the cereals, advances as high as 70° of latitude; while the Antarctic lands are of a comparatively small extent, and isolated in the midst of frigid waters, whose temperature scarcely varies from +29° 2´ even in the height of summer. Mostly situated within the Antarctic Circle, and constantly chilled by cold sea-winds, they act at every season as refrigerators of the atmosphere.

In the north, the formation of icebergs is confined to a few mountainous countries, such as the west coast of Greenland or Spitzbergen; but the Antarctic coast-lands generally tower to a considerable height above the level of the sea, and the vast fragments which are constantly detaching themselves from their glaciers keep up the low temperature of the seas.

In the north, the cold currents of the Polar Ocean, with their drift-ice and bergs, have but the two wide gates of the Greenland Sea and Davis’s Strait through which they can emerge to the south, so that their influence is confined within comparatively narrow limits, while the gelid streams of the Antarctic seas branch out freely on all sides, and convey their floating ice-masses far and wide within the temperate seas. It is only to the west of Newfoundland that single icebergs have ever been known to descend as low as 39° of latitude; but in the southern hemisphere they have been met with in the vicinity of the Cape of Good Hope (35° S. lat.), near Tristan d’Acunha, opposite to the mouth of the Rio de la Plata, and within a hundred leagues of Tasmania. In the north, finally, we find the Gulf Stream conveying warmth even to the shores of Spitzbergen and Nova Zembla; while in the opposite regions of the globe, no traces of warm currents have been observed beyond 55° of latitude.

Thus the predominance of vast tracts of flat land in the boreal hemisphere, and of an immense expanse of ocean in the Antarctic regions, sufficiently accounts for the æstival warmth of the former, and the comparatively low summer temperature of the latter.

It is unnecessary to describe in detail each of the desolate lands which modern navigators have discovered among the Antarctic ice-fields, but it may not be uninteresting to compare one or two of these dreary wastes with the lands of the north, situated in analogous latitudes.

The New Shetland Islands, situated between 61° and 63° of Southern latitude, were originally discovered by Dirck Gheritz, a Dutch navigator, who, in attempting to round Cape Horn, was carried by tempestuous weather within sight of their mountainous coasts. Long forgotten, they were re-discovered in 1819 by Mr. Smith, a master in the royal navy—whom a storm had likewise carried thither—and in the following year more accurately examined by Edward Bransfield, whose name survives in the strait which separates them from D’Urville’s Louis Philippe Land.

In 1829, the “Chanticleer,” Captain Forster, was sent to New Shetland for the purpose of making magnetic and other physical observations, and remained for several months at Deception Island, which was selected as a station from its affording the best harbor in South Shetland.

Though these islands are situated at about the same distance from the pole as the Faroe Islands which boast of numerous flocks of sheep, and where the sea never freezes, yet, when the “Chanticleer” approached Deception Island, on January 5 (a month corresponding to our July), so many icebergs were scattered about, that Forster counted at one time no fewer than eighty-one. A gale having arisen, accompanied by a thick fog, great care was needed to avoid running foul of these floating cliffs. After entering the harbor—a work of no slight difficulty, from the violence of the wind—the fogs were so frequent that, for the first ten days, neither sun nor stars were seen; and it was withal so raw and cold, that Lieutenant Kendal, to whom we owe a short narrative of the expedition, did not recollect having suffered more at any time in the Arctic regions, even at the lowest range of the thermometer. In this desolate land, frozen water becomes an integral portion of the soil; for this volcanic island is composed chiefly of alternate layers of ashes and ice, as if the snow of each winter, during a series of years, had been prevented from melting in the following summer, by the ejection of cinders and ashes from some part where volcanic action still goes on. Early in March (the September of the north) the freezing over of the cove in which the ship was secured gave warning that it was high time for her to quit this desolate port. With much difficulty and severe labor, from the fury of the gales, they managed to get away, and we may fully credit Lieutenant Kendal’s assertion, that it was a day of rejoicing to all on board when the shores of Deception faded from their view.

In 1775 Cook, on his second voyage, discovered the large island of South Georgia, situated in latitude 54° and 55°, a situation corresponding to that of Scarborough or Durham. But what a difference in the climate, for “we saw not a river or stream of water,” says the great navigator, “on all the coast of Georgia. The head of the bay, as well as two places on each side, was terminated by perpendicular icebergs of considerable height. Pieces were continually breaking off and floating out to sea, and a great fall happened while we were in the bay, which made a noise like a cannon. The inner parts of the country were not less savage and horrible. The wild rocks raised their lofty summits till they were lost in the clouds, and the valley lay covered with everlasting snow. Not a tree was to be seen, not a shrub even big enough to make a toothpick. The only vegetation was a coarse strong-bladed grass growing in tufts, wild burnet, and a plant like moss, which sprang from the rocks. The lands, or rather rocks, bordering on the sea-coast were not covered with snow like the inland parts, but all the vegetation we could see on the clear places was the grass above mentioned.” To find scenes of a similar wintry desolation, we must travel in the north as far as Nova Zembla or Spitzbergen, which are 20° or 24° nearer to the pole!

Thus the influence of the cold Antarctic waters extends far within the temperate zone. We can trace their chilling effects in Kerguelen Land (50° S. lat.), which when visited by Cook in the height of summer was found covered with snow, and where only five plants in flower were collected; in Tierra del Fuego (53° S. lat.), where the mean summer temperature is fully 9½° lower than that of Dublin (53° 21´ N. lat.); in the Falkland Islands (51° 30´), which, though flat and low and near Patagonia, have, according to Mr. Darwin, a climate similar to that which is experienced at the height of between one and two thousand feet on the mountains of North Wales, with less sunshine and less frost, but more wind and rain; and finally along the south-west coast of America, where the Peruvian current and the cold sea-winds so considerably depress the snow-line, that while in Europe the most southern glacier which comes down to the sea is met with, according to Von Buch, on the coast of Norway in lat. 67°; the “Beagle” found a glacier fifteen miles long and in one part seven miles broad descending to the sea-coast in the gulf of Penas, in a latitude (46° 50´) nearly corresponding with that of the Lake of Geneva.

“The position of this glacier,” says Mr. Darwin, “may be put even in a more striking point of view, for it descends to the sea-coast within less than 9° from where palms grow; within 4½° of a region where the jaguar and puma range over the plains, less than 2½° from arborescent grasses, and (looking to the westward in the same hemisphere) less than 2° from orchideous parasites, and within a single degree of tree-ferns!” As the influence of the tropical gulf stream reaches as far as Spitzbergen, so that of the cold Peruvian stream, which issues from the Antarctic Seas, extends even to the equator, and not seldom reduces the temperature of the waters about the Galapagos to less than +58½°, so that reef-building corals, which require a minimum warmth of +60°, are unable to grow near islands situated directly under the line.

Though the Antarctic lands are so bleak and inclement that not a single quadruped is to be found within 60° of latitude, yet they are the resort of innumerable sea-birds which, belonging to the same families as those of the north, generally form distinct genera or species, for with rare exceptions no bird is found to inhabit both the Arctic and the Antarctic regions.

Thus in the petrel family we find the fulmar (Procellaria glacialis) and the glacial petrel (P. gelida) of the high north represented in the Antarctic Seas by the giant petrel (Procellaria gigantea), which extends its flight from Patagonia to the ice-banks of the south, where the Antarctic and the snowy petrels (P. antarctica et nivea) first appear, cold-loving birds which never leave those dreary waters, and are often seen in vast flocks floating upon the drift-ice.

The giant petrel, which has received from the Spaniards the significant appellation of “quebranta huesos,” or “break-bones,” is a more powerful bird than the fulmar. It is larger than a goose, with a strong beak 4½ inches long. Its color is a dirty black, white below, and with white spots on the neck and back. In its habits and manner of flight it closely resembles the albatross, and, as with the albatross, a spectator may watch it for hours together without seeing on what it feeds. Like the fulmar it feasts upon fishes, or the carcasses of seals and cetaceans, but it also chases other birds. At Port Saint Antonio it was seen by some of the officers of the “Beagle” pursuing a diver, which tried to escape by diving and flying, but was continually struck down, and at last killed by a blow on its head. Such is its voracity that it does not even spare its own kind, for a gigantic petrel having been badly wounded by a shot from the “Terror,” and falling at too great a distance for a boat to be sent after it, was immediately attacked by two others of the same kind and torn to pieces. It is a common bird both in the open sea and in the inland channels of Tierra del Fuego, and the south-west coast of America.

The wandering albatross (Diomedea exulans), closely allied to the petrels, and rivalling the condor in size and strength of wing, may truly be ranked among the Antarctic birds, as it is seldom seen in a lower latitude than 36°, and increases in numbers towards the south. Freyssinet saw it most frequently between 55° and 59° S. lat., and it probably knows no other limits than those of the Polar ice. It is found in every meridian of this enormous zone, but the regions of storms—the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn—are its favorite resorts. Here it may frequently be seen in the full majesty of its flight.

The auks of the northern hemisphere are represented, in the austral regions, by the penguins, who, as Buffon remarks, are the least bird-like of all birds. Their small wing-stumps, covered with short rigid scale-like feathers, are altogether incapable of raising the body in the air, but serve as admirable paddles in the water, and on land as fore feet, with whose help they so alertly scale the grassy cliffs that they might easily be mistaken for quadrupeds. Their feet, like those of the auks, are placed so far back that the body is quite upright when the bird is standing on the ground, a position which renders their gait uncommonly slow and awkward, but greatly facilitates their movements in the water. When at sea and fishing, the penguin comes to the surface for the purpose of breathing with such a spring, and dives again so instantaneously, that at first sight no one can be sure that it is not a fish leaping for sport. Other sea-birds generally keep a considerable part of their body out of the water while swimming, but this is not the case with the penguin, whose head alone appears above the surface, and thus rowing at the same time with its wings and feet, it swims so quickly that many fishes would fail to keep up with it. Sir James Ross once saw two penguins paddling away a thousand miles from the nearest land. Protected against the cold by a thick layer of fat and a warm great-coat of feathers, it remains for months on the high seas, and seeks land only in the summer for the purpose of breeding. At this time it is found in vast numbers on the Falkland Islands, Kerguelen’s Land, New Shetland, or wherever in the Antarctic Seas, perhaps even to the pole itself, a convenient coast invites its stay. On Possession Island, for instance, a desolate rock, discovered by Sir James Ross in lat. 71° 56´, myriads of penguins covered the whole surface of the land, along the ledges of the precipices, and even to the summit of the hills. Undaunted by the presence of beings whom they had never seen before, the birds vigorously attacked the British seamen as they waded through their ranks, and pecked at them with their sharp beaks, a reception which, together with their loud coarse notes, and the insupportable stench of their guano, made our countrymen but too happy to depart, after having loaded their boat with geological specimens and penguins. There are several species of this singular bird. The largest and rarest (Aptenodytes Forsteri) is generally found singly, while the smaller species always associate in vast numbers. Several were caught in lat. 77° by Sir James Ross and brought on board alive; indeed it was a very difficult and a cruel operation to kill them, until hydrocyanic acid was resorted to, of which a tablespoonful effectually accomplished the purpose in less than a minute. These enormous birds varied in weight from sixty to seventy-five pounds. They are remarkably stupid, and allow a man to approach them so near as to strike them on the head with a bludgeon, and sometimes, if knocked off the ice into the water, they will almost immediately leap upon it again as if eager for a fight, though without the smallest means either of offense or defense. They were first discovered during Captain Cook’s voyage to the Antarctic regions, but Sir James Ross was fortunate in bringing the first perfect specimens to England, some of which were preserved entire in casks of strong pickle, that the physiologist and comparative anatomist might have an opportunity of thoroughly examining their structure. The principal food of the great penguin consists of various species of crustaceous animals, and in its stomach are frequently found from two to ten pounds’ weight of pebbles, swallowed no doubt to promote digestion. “Its capture,” says Sir James Ross, “afforded great amusement to our people, for when alarmed and endeavoring to escape, it makes its way over deep snow faster than they could follow it: by lying down on its belly and impelling itself by its powerful feet, it slides along upon the surface of the snow at a great pace, steadying itself by extending its fin-like wings, which alternately touch the ground on the side opposite to the propelling leg.”

Though the Antarctic Seas possess neither the narwhal nor the morse, they abound, perhaps even more than the Arctic waters, in whales, dolphins, and seals, at least in the higher latitudes.

The austral smooth-backed whale (Balæna australis) differs from his Greenland relative in many respects: the head is comparatively smaller, being only about one-fourth of the total length, the mouth is broader, the baleen shorter, the pectoral fins are larger and pointed, and the color is almost totally black, the white on the lower surface being confined to a small part of the abdomen. The skull is also differently formed; and while the Greenland whale has only thirteen pairs of ribs, the austral smooth-back has fifteen.

According to Mr. Bennett, the austral smooth-back seldom attains a greater length than fifty feet; but as it yields on an average from eighty to ninety barrels of oil, its capture amply rewards the whaler’s trouble. Though met with in the highest latitudes, and roaming over the whole extent of the Antarctic Seas, it resorts in spring to the sheltered bays of New Zealand, Australia, Kerguelen’s Land, Chili, the Falkland Islands, Algoa Bay, etc., for the purpose of bringing forth its young. This of course makes its capture easier, but must at the same time lead to its extirpation, or drive it to the most inaccessible regions of the Polar Ocean. Even now the whale-fishery of the southern seas, which twenty or thirty years ago employed hundreds of vessels, has much diminished in importance: it is chiefly carried on by the Americans, the French, and our Australian colonies, which have the advantage of being more conveniently situated than the mother-country.

In the higher latitudes of the Antarctic zone the hunch-back and fin-back whales abound; but as the former is meagre and hardly worth the boiling, and the latter, like the rorquals of the north, dives with such rapidity that he snaps the harpoon-line or drags the boat along with him into the water, they are seldom hunted. Hence they will most likely continue to prosper in their native seas, unless the improved missiles recently introduced in the whale-fishery can be made to conquer them. The hunch-back is distinguished by the great length of his pectoral fins, which extend to full eighteen feet, while these organs are comparatively small in the fin-back. A kind of broad-nosed whale likewise makes its appearance in the Antarctic Seas, but it is not yet determined whether all these fin-backed whales of the south are distinct species from those of the Arctic waters. A circumstance which seems to speak for their identity is that fin-backs are met with in the intervening temperate and tropical seas, so that no limits appear to have been set to their excursions.

The sperm whale, or cachalot, though partial to the equinoctial ocean, is also found in the cold Antarctic waters. It was met with by Sir James Ross among the icebergs in 63° 20´ S. lat.; and near Possession Island (71° 50´ S. lat.), where the hunch-backs were so abundant that thirty were counted at one time in various directions, and during the whole day wherever the eyes turned their blasts were to be seen. A few sperm whales were also distinguished among them by their peculiar manner of blowing or spouting.

Among the dolphins of the Antarctic Ocean we find a species of grampus no less formidable and voracious than that of the northern seas. On January 20, 1840, the American ship “Peacock,” while cruising in the Antarctic waters, witnessed a conflict between one of them and a whale. The sea was perfectly smooth, so that the whole combat could be distinctly seen. At first the whale was perceived at some distance from the ship lashing the water into foam, and apparently making desperate efforts to shake off some invisible enemy. On approaching, they found that an enormous grampus had seized it with its jaws. The whale vainly turned and twisted itself in every direction, and its blood tinged the water far around. The grampus had evidently the advantage, and the other whales, of which there were many in sight, instead of assisting their comrade, seemed only intent on their own safety. The grampus had a brown back, a white abdomen, and a large fin on its back. The speed at which the monstrous animals shot through the water prevented the Americans from witnessing the issue of the fight. The classical dolphin of the ancients has been seen near the Cape of Good Hope, and most likely wanders far to the south, as he is proverbial for his arrow-like rapidity, and can easily traverse a couple of hundred miles in a single day. In the Strait of Magellan and about Cape Horn are frequently seen the Delphinus superciliosus, whose turned-up mouth-corners give his countenance a peculiarly benevolent and friendly expression, belied by his ravenous propensities, and the Delphinus leucoramphus, who, like the bjeluga of the north, has no dorsal fin, and by the liveliness of his movements emulates the classical dolphin of the Mediterranean.

The seal family plays a no less important part in the zoology of the Antarctic Seas than in that of the northern waters. Here we find the monstrous sea-elephant (Macrorhinus elephantinus), so called not only from his size attaining a length of twenty-five feet, and a girth at the largest part of the body of from fifteen to eighteen, but also from the singular structure of his elongated nostrils, which hang down when he is in a state of repose, but swell out to a proboscis a foot long when he is enraged. This gives the animal a very formidable appearance, which, along with his bellowing and his widely-gaping jaws armed with tusk-like canines, might strike terror into the boldest heart. But in reality the sea-elephant is a most defenseless creature, for on land it moves its unwieldy carcass with the utmost difficulty, and a single blow upon the snout with a club suffices to stretch it lifeless on the ground. It used to be met with in considerable numbers on all the flat shores or islands between 35° and 62° S. lat., but as it yields a large quantity of excellent oil, and as its skin, though merely covered with thick short bristles, is of some value from its great strength and thickness, incessant persecution has greatly thinned its ranks, and in some parts extirpated it. Thus Sir James Ross relates that the sea-elephant and several other species of seals, which were formerly in great abundance at Kerguelen’s Land, annually drew a number of fishing-vessels to its shores. But at the time of his visit (1840), after so many years of slaughter, they had quite deserted the place. The flesh of the sea-elephant is black, and of an oily taste, but Anson and his companions, after having been tossed about for several months on a tempestuous sea and reduced to great distress by scurvy, relished it at Juan Fernandez. The tongue is said to be a great delicacy.

As the soft jet-black fur of the young southern sea-bear (Arctocephalus falclandicus) is no less valuable than that of its northern relative, the eagerness with which it is pursued may easily be imagined. Formerly vast herds of sea-bears used to resort every summer to the New Shetland Islands, but soon after the rediscovery of the group the American and English sealers made their appearance on its desolate shores, and in the short time of four years extirpated the ursine seals, thus destroying by wasteful destruction what might have been a permanent source of profit.

The southern sea-lion (Otaria jubata) is a larger animal than his northern namesake; and while the latter is furnished only with an erect and curly hair-tuft at the neck, a complete mane flows round his breast. The remainder of the tawny body is covered with short smooth hairs or bristles. The sea-lioness, who is much smaller than her mate, has no mane; and as she is of a darker color and has a differently shaped head, is frequently mistaken for another species, and called wolf, or lobo, by the inhabitants of the south-western coast of America. The fore flippers of the sea-lion have the appearance of large pieces of black tough leather, showing, instead of nails, slight horny elevations; the hind fins, which are likewise black, have a closer resemblance to feet, and the five toes are furnished with small nails. It is a formidable-looking beast, particularly when full grown to a length of ten feet and more. The sea-leopard (Leptonyx Weddelli), which owes its name to its spotted skin, is peculiar to the southern seas. This large seal is from eight to nine feet long; the hind feet have no nails, and greatly resemble the tail of a fish.

The Antarctic seals, dolphins, and petrels chiefly prey upon a genus of fish discovered at Kerguelen’s Land, and named Notothenia by Dr. Richardson. These fish, which are of an elongated eel-like shape, conceal themselves from the persecutions of their enemies in the small cracks and cavities of the pack-ice, and were frequently noticed by Sir James Ross when driven from shelter by the ship as it struck and passed over their protecting pieces of ice. They in their turn live upon the smaller cancri and limacinæ, and these again upon creatures of a still more diminutive size, until finally the chain of created beings terminates in the diatoms,23 which are found filling these seas with the minutest forms of organic life.

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Cook’s Discoveries in the Antarctic Ocean.—Bellinghausen.—Weddell.—Biscoe.—Balleny.—Dumont d’Urville.—Wilkes.—Sir James Ross crosses the Antarctic Circle on New Year’s Day, 1841.—Discovers Victoria Land.—Dangerous Landing on Franklin Island.—An Eruption of Mount Erebus.—The Great Ice Barrier.—Providential Escape.—Dreadful Gale.—Collision.—Hazardous Passage between two Icebergs.—Termination of the Voyage.

Before Cook, no navigator had left Europe with the clear design of penetrating into the Antarctic regions. Dirk Gheritz indeed had been driven by a furious storm far to the south of Cape Horn, and became the involuntary discoverer of the New Shetland Islands in 1600; but his voyage was soon forgotten, and in an age when the love of gold or the desire of conquest were the sole promoters of maritime enterprise, no mariner felt inclined to follow on his track, and to plunge into a sea where most probably he would find nothing but ice-fields and icebergs to reward his efforts. Nearly two centuries later a more scientific age directed its attention to the unknown regions of the distant south, and Cook sailed forth to probe the secrets of the Antarctic Seas. This dangerous task he executed with an intrepidity unparalleled in the annals of navigation. Beyond 60° of southern latitude, he cruised over a space of more than 100° of longitude, and on January 30, 1774, penetrated as far as 71° of southern latitude, where he was stopped by impenetrable masses of ice. Such were the difficulties encountered from dense fogs, snow-storms, intense cold, and every thing that can render navigation dangerous, that in his opinion the lands situated to the southward of his discoveries must forever remain unknown.

Again for many a year no one attempted to enter a field where the most celebrated of modern mariners had found but a few desert islands (South Georgia, Sandwich’s Land, Southern Thule) until Smith’s casual rediscovery of New South Shetland in 1819 once more turned the current of maritime exploration to the Antarctic Seas.

Soon afterwards a Russian expedition under Lazareff and Bellinghausen discovered (January, 1821), in 69° 3´ S. lat., the islands Paul the First and Alexander, the most southern lands that had ever been visited by man.

The year after Captain Weddell, a sealer, penetrated into the icy ocean as far as 74° 15´ S. lat., 3° nearer to the pole than had been attained by Cook. The sea lay invitingly open, but as the season was far advanced, and Weddell apprehended the dangers of the return voyage, he steered again to the north.

In 1831 Biscoe discovered Enderby Land, and soon afterwards Graham’s Land, to which the gratitude of geographers has since given the discoverer’s name. In 1839 Balleny revealed the existence of the group of islands called after him, and of Sabrina Land (69° S. lat.). About the same time three considerable expeditions, fitted out by the governments of France, the United States, and England, made their appearance in the Antarctic Seas.

Dumont d’Urville discovered Terre Louis Philippe (63° 31´ S. lat.) in February, 1838, and Terre Adélie (66° 67´ S. lat.) on January 21, 1840. Almost on the same day, Wilkes, the commander of the United States Exploring Expedition, reached an ice-bound coast, which he followed for a length of 1500 miles, and which has been called Wilkes’s Land, to commemorate the discoverer’s name.

But of all the explorers of the southern frozen ocean, the palm unquestionably belongs to Sir James Ross who penetrated farther towards the pole than any other navigator before or after, and made the only discoveries of extensive land within the area bounded by the Antarctic Circle.

On New Year’s Day, 1841, the “Erebus,” Captain James Clark Ross, and the “Terror,” commanded by Francis Crozier, who died with Franklin in the Arctic Sea, crossed the Antarctic Circle, and after sustaining many severe shocks in breaking through the pack-ice, emerged on January 9 into a clear sea of great extent; but the fog and snow-showers were so thick that the navigators could seldom see more than half a mile before them. On the following day the fog began to disperse, and on the 11th, Victoria Land, rising in lofty peaks entirely covered with perennial snow, was seen at a distance of more than one hundred miles. On steering towards Mount Sabine, the highest mountain of the range, new chains of hills were seen extending to the right and left. After sailing for a few days to the south along the ice-bound coast, a gale forced the ships to stand out to sea; but on the morning of January 15, the weather becoming beautifully clear, allowed a full view of a magnificent chain of mountains stretching far away to the southward. Ross was most anxious to find a harbor in which to secure the ships, but every indentation of the coast was found filled with snow drifted from the mountains, and forming a mass of ice several hundred feet thick. It was thus impossible to enter any of the valleys or breaks in the coast where harbors in other lands usually occur. Yet these inhospitable shores (72° 73´ S. lat.) are situated but one or two degrees nearer to the pole than Hammerfest, the seat of an active commerce on the Norwegian coast.

Favored by northerly winds and an open sea, the ships reached on January 22 a higher southern latitude (74° 20´ S.) than that which had been attained by Weddell. Pursuing their way to the southward along the edge of the pack-ice, which now compelled them to keep at a considerable distance from the coast, they came on the 27th within two or three miles of a small island connected by a vast ice-field with the extreme point of the mainland. Eager to set his foot on the most southerly soil (76° 8´ S.) he had as yet discovered, Ross left the “Erebus,” accompanied by several officers, and, followed by Crozier and a party from the “Terror,” pulled towards the shore. A high southerly swell broke so heavily against the cliffs and on the only piece of beach which they could see as they rowed from one end of the island to the other, as almost to forbid their landing.

By great skill and management Ross succeeded in jumping on to the rocks. By means of a rope some of the officers landed somewhat more easily, but not without getting thoroughly wetted, and one of them nearly lost his life in this difficult affair. The thermometer being at 22°, every part of the rocks washed by the waves was covered with a coating of ice, so that in jumping from the boat he slipped from them into the water between her stern and the almost perpendicular rock on which his companions had landed. But for the promptitude of the men in the boat in instantly pulling off, he must have been crushed between it and the rock. He was taken into the boat without having suffered any other injury than being benumbed by the cold.

The island, which received the name of Franklin, bore not the smallest trace of vegetation, not even a lichen or piece of sea-weed growing on the rocks; but the white petrel and the skua-gull had their nests on the ledges of the cliffs, and seals were seen sporting in the water.

The following day was memorable for the discovery of the southernmost known land of the globe, a magnificent mountain chain, to which the name of Parry was given, in grateful remembrance of the honor which that illustrious navigator had conferred on Ross, by calling the most northern land at that time known by his name. It is not often that men are able to reciprocate such compliments as these! The most conspicuous object of the chain was Mount Erebus (77° 5´ S.), an active volcano, of which Ross had the good-fortune to witness a magnificent eruption. The enormous columns of flame and smoke rising two thousand feet above the mouth of the crater, which is elevated 12,400 feet above the level of the sea, combined with the snow-white mountain chain and the deep-blue ocean to form a magnificent scene. An extinct volcano to the eastward of Mount Erebus, and a little inferior in height, being by measurement 10,900 feet high, was called “Mount Terror.” A brilliant mantle of snow swept down the sides of both these giants of the south, and projected a perpendicular icy cliff several miles into the sea.

Gladly would Ross have penetrated still farther to the south, but all his efforts were baffled by a vast barrier of ice, forming an uninterrupted wall, 450 miles in length, and rising in some parts to a height of 180 feet above the sea-level. While sailing along this barrier, the ships were frequently obliged by the wind and the closely-packed ice to keep at a considerable distance; but on February 9, having entered the only indentation which they had perceived throughout its whole extent, they had an excellent opportunity of getting quite close to it, though at no little hazard. This bay was formed by a projecting peninsula of ice, terminated by a cape 170 feet high; but at the narrow isthmus which connected it with the great barrier it was not more than fifty feet high, affording Ross the only opportunity he had of seeing its upper surface from the mast-head. It appeared to be quite smooth, and conveyed to the mind the idea of an immense plain of frosted silver. Gigantic icicles depended from every projecting point of its perpendicular cliffs, proving that it sometimes thawed, which otherwise could not have been believed; for at a season of the year equivalent to August in England, the thermometer at noon did not rise above 14°, and the young ice formed so quickly in the sheltered bay as to warn them of the necessity of a speedy retreat. Favored by the breeze, and by dint of great exertion, they ultimately emerged from their dangerous position, but scarcely had they escaped when the wind came directly against them, so that had they lingered but half an hour longer near the barrier they would certainly have been frozen up.

On February 13 the approach of winter convinced Ross that it was high time to relinquish the further examination of the barrier to the eastward; and as no place of security where it was possible to winter could be found upon any part of the land hitherto discovered, he reluctantly resolved to recross the Antarctic Circle, and postpone all attempts to reach the pole to the next season. The return voyage was difficult and dangerous. On March 7, the ships, while endeavoring to find a way through the pack-ice in lat. 65°, had a narrow escape from imminent destruction. The wind having ceased, they found themselves at the mercy of a heavy easterly swell, which was driving them down upon the pack, in which were counted from the mast-head eighty-four large bergs, and some hundreds of smaller size. As they rapidly approached this formidable chain, no opening could be discovered through which the ships could pass; the waves were beating violently against the bergs, and dashing huge masses of pack-ice against their precipitous faces, now lifting them nearly to their summit, then forcing them again far beneath their water-line, and sometimes rending them in a multitude of brilliant fragments against their projecting points. “Sublime and magnificent,” says Ross, “as such a scene must have appeared under different circumstances, to us it was awful, if not appalling. For eight hours we had been gradually drifting towards what to human eyes appeared inevitable destruction; the high waves and deep rolling of our ships rendered towing with the boats impossible, and our situation the more painful and embarrassing from our inability to make any effort to avoid the dreadful calamity that seemed to await us.... We were now within half a mile of the range of bergs. The roar of the surf, which extended each way as far as we could see, and the crashing of the ice, fell upon the ear with fearful distinctness, whilst the frequently averted eye as immediately returned to contemplate the awful destruction that threatened in one short hour to close the world, and all its hopes, and joys, and sorrows upon us forever. In this our deep distress ‘we called upon the Lord, and He heard our voices out of His temple, and our cry came before Him.’ A gentle air of wind filled our sails; hope again revived, and the greatest activity prevailed to make the best use of the feeble breeze; as it gradually freshened, our heavy ships began to feel its influence, slowly at first, but more rapidly afterwards, and before dark we found ourselves far removed from every danger.”

After passing the winter at Hobarton, the capital of Tasmania, Sir James Ross, in the following year, once more crossed the Antarctic Circle to examine the icy barrier which in his previous voyage had blocked his progress to the south, and to renew his attempts to pass round or through it. But there were new dangers to be encountered. On January 17, 1842, a fearful storm came on as the “Erebus” and “Terror” were making their way through the pack-ice, which was this time met with in a more northern latitude than the year before. The sea broke all the hawsers which held them to a large piece of floe, and drove them helplessly along into the heavy pack. They were now involved in an ocean of rolling fragments of ice, which were dashed against them by the waves with so much violence that their masts quivered as if they would fall at every successive blow. The loud crashing noise of the straining and working of the timbers and decks, as they were driven against some of the heavier pieces, might well appall the stoutest heart, and thus hour passed away after hour. During this terrible scene the ships were at one time so close together that when the “Terror” rose to the top of one wave, the “Erebus” was on the top of the wave next to leeward of her, the deep chasm between them being filled with heavy rolling masses; and as the ships descended into the hollow between the waves, the maintopsail-yard of each could be seen, just level with the crest of the intervening wave, from the deck of the other. The night, which now began to draw in, rendered their condition, if possible, more hopeless and helpless than before; but at midnight the snow, which had been falling thickly for several hours, cleared away, as the wind suddenly shifted to the westward; the swell began to subside, and the shocks which the ships still sustained, though strong enough to shatter any vessel less strongly ribbed, were feeble compared with those to which they had been exposed. On the following day, the wind having moderated to a fresh breeze, the crippled ships, whose rudders had been sorely shattered, were securely moored to a large floe-piece in the now almost motionless pack, where, by dint of unceasing labor, the damages were repaired in the course of a week, and the vessels once more fitted to fight their way to the south.

On February 22 the great barrier was seen from the mast-head, just before midnight, and the following day, the wind blowing directly on to its cliffs, they approached it within a mile and a half, in lat. 78° 11´, the highest ever attained in the southern hemisphere. From this point, situated about 5° of longitude farther to the east than the indentation where the ships had so narrowly escaped being frozen fast in the preceding year, the barrier trended considerably to the northward of east, so that Ross was obliged to give up all hope of rounding it, and extending his explorations towards the pole, as the season was already considerably advanced. On his return voyage to the Falklands, where he intended to pass the winter, he had already reached the latitude of 60°, and thought himself out of danger of meeting with bergs, when, in the afternoon of March 12, the southerly wind changed to a strong north-westerly breeze. In the evening the wind increased so much, and the snow-showers became so incessant, that he was obliged to proceed under more moderate sail. Small pieces of ice were also met with, warning him of the presence of bergs, concealed by the thickly-falling snow, so that before midnight he directed the topsails of the “Erebus” to be close-reefed, and every arrangement made for rounding to until daylight, deeming it too hazardous to run any longer. “Our people,” says the gallant explorer, “had hardly completed these operations, when a large berg was seen ahead and quite close; the ship was immediately hauled to the wind on the port tack, with the expectation of being able to weather it; but just at this moment the ‘Terror’ was observed running down upon us, under her topsail and foresail; and as it was impossible for her to clear both the berg and the ‘Erebus,’ collision was inevitable. We instantly hove all aback to diminish the violence of the shock; but the concussion when she struck us was such as to throw almost every one off his feet; our bowsprit, foretopmast, and other smaller spars, were carried away, and the ships hanging together entangled by their rigging, and dashing against each other with fearful violence, were falling down upon the weather face of the lofty berg under our lee, against which the waves were breaking and foaming to near the summit of its perpendicular cliffs. Sometimes the ‘Terror’ rose high above us, almost exposing her keel to view, and again descended, as we in our turn rose to the top of the wave, threatening to bury her beneath us, whilst the crashing of the breaking upper-works and boats increased the horror of the scene. Providentially the ships gradually separated before we drifted down amongst the foaming breakers, and we had the gratification of seeing the ‘Terror’ clear the end of the berg, and of feeling that she was safe. But she left us completely disabled; the wreck of the spars so encumbered the lower yard that we were unable to make sail so as to get headway on the ship; nor had we room to wear round, being by this time so close to the berg that the waves, when they struck against it, threw back their spray into the ship. The only way left to us to extricate ourselves from this awful and appalling situation was by resorting to the hazardous expedient of a stern board, which nothing could justify during such a gale but to avert the danger which every moment threatened us of being dashed to pieces. The heavy rolling of the vessel, and the probability of the masts giving away each time the lower yard-arms struck against the cliffs, which were towering high above our mast-heads, rendered it a service of extreme danger to loose the mainsail; but no sooner was the order given, than the daring spirit of the British seaman manifested itself—the men ran up the rigging with as much alacrity as on any ordinary occasion; and, although more than once driven off the yard, they after a short time succeeded in loosing the sail. Amidst the roar of the wind and sea, it was difficult both to hear and to execute the orders that were given, so that it was three-quarters of an hour before we could get the yards braced by; and the main tack hauled on board sharp aback—an expedient that perhaps had never before been resorted to by seamen in such weather; but it had the desired effect; the ship gathered sternway, plunging her stern into the sea, and with her lower yard-arms scraping the rugged face of the berg, we in a few minutes reached its western termination; the ‘under-tow,’ as it is called, or the reaction of the water from its vertical cliffs, alone preventing us being driven to atoms against it. No sooner had we cleared it than another was seen directly astern of us, against which we were running; and the difficulty now was to get the ship’s head turned round and pointed fairly through between the two bergs, the breadth of the intervening space not exceeding three times her own breadth. This, however, we happily accomplished; and in a few minutes, after getting before the wind, she dashed through the narrow channel between two perpendicular walls of ice, and the foaming breakers which stretched across it, and the next moment we were in smooth water under its lee. The ‘Terror’s’ light was immediately seen and answered; she had rounded to, waiting for us..., and, as soon as day broke, we had the gratification of learning that she had not suffered any serious damage.”

On December 17 Sir James Ross sailed from the Falkland Islands, with the intention of following the track of Weddell, as, from the account of that daring navigator, he had every reason to expect to find a clear sea, which would enable him considerably to extend the limits of geographical knowledge towards the pole. He was disappointed, for though he discovered some new land (63°-64° 30´ S. lat., 55°-57° W. long.) to the south of D’Urville’s Terre Louis Philippe, yet the pack-ice so blocked his progress that the farthest point he could attain was in lat. 71° 30´ S., long. 14° 51´ W. On March 1 he recrossed the Antarctic Circle, and on the 28th of the same month dropped his anchors at the Cape. Thus ended this most remarkable voyage, so honorable to all engaged in it, for, as Sir John Richardson justly remarks, “the perseverance, daring, and coolness of the commanding officer, of the other officers, and of the crews of the ‘Erebus’ and ‘Terror,’ was never surpassed, and have been rarely, if ever, equalled by seamen of any nation.”

Since then the “Pagoda,” which had been sent out by the Admiralty for the purpose of observing magnetic phenomena in a quarter of the Antarctic Seas that had not been visited by Sir James Ross, attained the 73d parallel, but no more recent expedition has been fitted out to prosecute his discoveries, and no man after him has seen Mount Erebus vomiting forth its torrents of flame, or traced the stupendous barrier which stopped his progress to the pole.

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