He not only looks ferocious, but in reality is so,—deformed in mind, as he is hideous in person. He is not only ungrateful for kindness done, but unwilling to remember it; and he is cruel and vindictive in the extreme. Beyond a doubt he is a cannibal; not habitually perhaps, but in times of scarcity and famine,—a true cannibal, for he does not confine himself to eating his enemies, but his friends, if need be,—and especially the old women of his tribe, who fall the first victims, in those crises produced by the terrible requirements of an impending starvation. Unfortunately the fact is too well authenticated to admit of either doubt or denial; and, even while we write, the account of a massacre of a ship’s crew by these hostile savages is going the rounds of the press,—that ship, too, a missionary vessel, that had landed on their shores with the humane object of ameliorating their condition.
Of course such unnatural food is only partaken of at long and rare intervals,—by many communities never,—and there is no proof that the wretched Fuegian has acquired an appetite for it: like the Feegee and some other savage tribes. It is to be hoped that he indulges in the horrid habit, only when forced to it by the necessities of extreme hunger.
His ordinary subsistence is shell-fish; though he eats also the flesh of the seal and sea-otter; of birds, especially the penguin and Magellanic goose, when he can capture them. His stomach will not “turn” at the blubber of a whale,—when by good chance one of these leviathans gets stranded on his coast,—even though the great carcass be far gone in the stages of decomposition! The only vegetable diet in which he indulges is the berry of a shrub—a species of arbutus—which grows abundantly on the peaty soil; and a fungus of a very curious kind, that is produced upon the trunks of the beech-tree. This fungus is of a globular form, and pale-yellow color. When young, it is elastic and turgid, with a smooth surface; but as it matures it becomes shrunken, grows tougher in its texture, and presents the pitted appearance of a honeycomb. When fully ripe, the Fuegians collect it in large quantities, eating it without cooking or other preparation. It is tough between the teeth; but soon changes into pulp, with a sweetish taste and flavor,—somewhat resembling that of our common mushroom.
These two vegetables—a berry and a cryptogamic plant—are almost the only ones eaten by the natives of Tierra del Fuego. There are others upon the island that might enable them to eke out their miserable existence: there are two especially sought after by such Europeans as visit this dreary land,—the “wild celery” (apium antarcticum), and the “scurvy grass” (cardamine antiscorbutica); but for these the Fuegian cares not. He even knows not their uses.
In speaking of other “odd people,” I have usually described the mode of building their house; but about the house of the Fuegian I have almost “no story to tell.” It would be idle to call that a house, which far more resembles the lair of a wild beast; and is, in reality, little better than the den made by the orang-outang in the forests of Borneo. Such as it is, however I shall describe it.
Having procured a number of long saplings or branches,—not always straight ones,—the Fuegian sharpens them at one end by means of his muscle-shell knife; and then sticking the sharpened ends into the ground in a kind of circle, he brings the tops all together, and ties them in a bunch,—so as to form a rude hemispherical frame. Upon this he lays some smaller branches; and over these a few armfuls of long coarse grass, and the house is “built.” One side—that to leeward of the prevailing wind—is left open, to allow for an entrance and the escape of smoke. As this opening is usually about an eighth part of the whole circumference, the house is, in reality, nothing more than a shed or lair. Its furniture does not contradict the idea; but, on the contrary, only strengthens the comparison. There is no table, no chair, no bedstead: a “shake-down” of damp grass answers for all. There are no implements or utensils,—if we except a rude basket used for holding the arbutus berries, and a seal-skin bag, in which the shell-fish are collected. A bladder, filled with water, hangs upon some forking stuck against the side: in the top of this bladder is a hole, from which each member of the family takes a “suck,” when thirst inclines them to drink!
The “tools” observable are a bow and arrow, the latter headed with flint; a fish spear with a forked point, made from a bone of the sea-lion; a short stick,—a woman’s implement for knocking the limpets from the rocks; and some knives, the blades of which are sharpened shells of the muscle,—a very large species of which is found along the coast. These knives are simply manufactured. The brittle edge of the shell—which is five or six inches in length—is first chipped off, and a new edge formed by grinding the shell upon the rocks. When thus prepared, it will cut not only the hardest wood, but even the bones of fish; and serves the Fuegian for all purposes.
Outside the hut, you may see the canoe,—near at hand too,—for the shieling of the Fuegian universally stands upon the beach. He never dwells in the interior of his island; and but rarely roams there,—the women only making such excursions as are necessary to procure the berry and the mushroom. The woods have no charms for him, except to afford him a little fuel; they are difficult to be traversed on account of the miry soil out of which the trees grow; and, otherwise, there is absolutely nothing to be found amidst their gloomy depths, that would in any way contribute to his comfort or sustenance. He is therefore essentially a dweller on the shore; and even there he is not free to come and go as he might choose. From the bold character of his coast, there are here and there long reaches, where the beach cannot be followed by land,—places where the water’s edge can only be reached, and the shell-fish collected, by means of some sort of navigable craft. For this purpose the Fuegian requires a canoe; and the necessity of his life makes him a waterman. His skill, however, both in the construction of his craft, and the management of it, is of a very inferior order,—infinitely inferior to that exhibited either by the Esquimaux or the Water-Indians of the North.
His canoe is usually made of the bark of a tree,—the birch already mentioned. Sometimes it is so rudely shaped, as to be merely a large piece of bark shelled from a single trunk, closed at each end, and tied tightly with thong of seal-skin. A few cross-sticks prevent the sides from pressing inward; while as many stays of thong keep them from “bulging” in the contrary direction. If there are cracks in the bark, these are calked with rushes and a species of resin, which the woods furnish.
With this rude vessel the Fuegian ventures forth, upon the numerous straits and inlets that intersect his land; but he rarely trusts himself to a tempestuous sea.