We now arrive at the human inhabitants of this desolate region.
As might be expected, these exhibit no very high condition of either physical or mental development, but the contrary. The character of their civilisation is in complete correspondence with that of their dreary dwelling-place,—at the very bottom of the scale. Yes, at the very bottom, according to most ethnologists; even lower down than that of the Digger Indian, the Andaman islander, the Bushman of Africa, or the Esquimaux of the Arctic Ocean: in fact, any comparison of a Fuegian with the last-mentioned would be ridiculous, as regards either their moral or physical condition. Below the Esquimaux, the Fuegian certainly is, and by many a long degree.
In height, the tallest Fuegian stands about five feet,—not in his boots, for he wears none; but on his naked soles. His wife is just six inches shorter than himself—a difference which is not a bad proportion between the sexes, but in other respects they are much alike. Both have small, misshapen limbs, with large knee-caps, and but little calf; both have long masses of coarse tangled hair, hanging like bunches of black snakes over their shoulders; and both are as naked as the hour in which they were born,—unless we call that a dress,—that bit of stinking sealskin which is slung at the back, and covers about a fifth part of the whole body! Hairy side turned inward, it extends only from the nape of the neck to a few inches below the hollow of the back; and is fastened in front by means of a thong or skewer passing over the breast. It is rarely so ample as to admit of being “skewered;” and with this scanty covering, in rain and snow, frost and blow,—some one of which is continuously going on,—the shivering wretch is contented. Nay, more; if there should happen an interval of mild weather, or the wearer be at work in paddling his canoe, he flings this unique garment aside, as if its warmth were an incumbrance! When the weather is particularly cold, he shifts the sealskin to that side of his body which may chance to be exposed to the blast!
The Fuegian wears neither hat, nor shirt, waistcoat, nor breeches,—no shoes, no stockings,—nothing intended for clothing but the bit of stinking skin. His vanity, however, is exhibited, not in his dress, to some extent in his adornments. Like all savages and many civilised people, he paints certain portions of his person; and his “escutcheon” is peculiar. It would be difficult to detail its complicated labyrinth of “crossings” and “quarterings.” We shall content ourselves by stating that black lines and blotches upon a white ground constitute its chief characteristic. Red, too, is sometimes seen, of a dark or “bricky” colour. The black is simply charcoal; while the white-ground coat is obtained from a species of infusorial clay, which he finds at the bottom of the peaty streams, that pour down the ravines of the mountains. As additional ornaments, he wears strings of fish-teeth, or pieces of bone, about his wrists and ankles. His wife carries the same upon her neck; and both, when they can procure it, tie a plain band around the head, of a reddish-brown colour,—the material of which is the long hair of the guanaco. The “cloak,” already described, is sometimes of sea-otter instead of sealskin; and on some of the islands, where the deer dwells, the hide of that animal affords a more ample covering. In most cases, however, the size of the garment is that of a pocket handkerchief; and affords about as much protection against the weather as a kerchief would.
Though the Fuegian has abundance of hair upon his head, there is none, or almost none on any part of his body. He is beardless and whiskerless as an Esquimaux; though his features,—without the adornment of hair,—are sufficiently fierce in their expression.
He not only looks ferocious, but in reality is so,—deformed in mind, as he is hideous in person. He is not only ungrateful for kindness done, but unwilling to remember it; and he is cruel and vindictive in the extreme. Beyond a doubt he is a cannibal; not habitually perhaps, but in times of scarcity and famine,—a true cannibal, for he does not confine himself to eating his enemies, but his friends if need be,—and especially the old women of his tribe, who fall the first victims, in those crises produced by the terrible requirements of an impending starvation. Unfortunately the fact is too well authenticated to admit of either doubt or denial; and, even while we write, the account of a massacre of a ship’s crew by these hostile savages is going the rounds of the press,—that ship, too, a missionary vessel, that had landed on their shores with the humane object of ameliorating their condition.
Of course such unnatural food is only partaken of at long and rare intervals,—by many communities never,—and there is no proof that the wretched Fuegian has acquired an appetite for it: like the Feegee and some other savage tribes. It is to be hoped that he indulges in the horrid habit, only when forced to it by the necessities of extreme hunger.
His ordinary subsistence is shell-fish; though he eats also the flesh of the seal and sea-otter; of birds, especially the penguin and Magellanic goose, when he can capture them. His stomach will not “turn” at the blubber of a whale,—when by good chance one of these leviathans gets stranded on his coast,—even though the great carcass be far gone in the stages of decomposition! The only vegetable diet in which he indulges is the berry of a shrub—a species of arbutus—which grows abundantly on the peaty soil; and a fungus of a very curious kind, that is produced upon the trunks of the beech-tree. This fungus is of a globular form, and pale-yellow colour. When young, it is elastic and turgid, with a smooth surface; but as it matures it becomes shrunken, grows tougher in its texture, and presents the pitted appearance of a honeycomb. When fully ripe, the Fuegians collect it in large quantities, eating it without cooking or other preparation. It is tough between the teeth; but soon changes into pulp, with a sweetish taste and flavour,—somewhat resembling that of our common mushroom.
These two vegetables—a berry and a cryptogamic plant—are almost the only ones eaten by the natives of Tierra del Fuego. There are others upon the island that might enable them to eke out their miserable existence: there are two especially sought after by such Europeans as visit this dreary land,—the “wild celery” (opium antarcticum), and the “scurvy grass” (cardamine antiscorbutica); but for these the Fuegian cares not. He even knows not their uses.
In speaking of other “odd people,” I have usually described the mode of building their house; but about the house of the Fuegian I have almost “no story to tell.” It would be idle to call that a house, which far more resembles the lair of a wild beast; and is, in reality, little better than the den made by the orang-outang in the forests of Borneo. Such as it is, however, I shall describe it.