Notwithstanding the frowning aspect of nature, animal life in the Arctic regions is most abundant. The ocean swarms with every species of fish and sea-mammal; the land abounds in reindeer, moose, musk-oxen; in black, grizzly, and Arctic bears; in wolves, foxes, beavers, mink, ermine, martin, otters, raccoons, and water-fowl. Immense herds of buffalo roam over the bleak grassy plains of the eastern Tinneh, but seldom venture far to the west of the Rocky Mountains. Myriads of birds migrate to and fro between their breeding-places in the interior of Alaska, the open Arctic Sea, and the warmer latitudes of the south. From the Gulf of Mexico, from the islands of the Pacific, from the lakes of California, of Oregon, and of Washington they come, fluttering and feasting, to rear their young during the sparkling Arctic summer-day.
MAN AND NATURE.
The whole occupation of man throughout this region, is a struggle for life. So long as the organism is plentifully supplied with heat-producing food, all is well. Once let the internal fire go down, and all is ill. Unlike the inhabitants of equatorial latitudes, where, Eden-like, the sheltering tree drops food, and the little nourishment essential to life may be obtained by only stretching forth the hand and plucking it, the Hyperborean man must maintain a constant warfare with nature, or die. His daily food depends upon the success of his daily battle with beasts, birds, and fishes, which dispute with him possession of sea and land. Unfortunate in his search for game, or foiled in his attempt at capture, he must fast. The associate of beasts, governed by the same emergencies, preying upon animals as animals prey upon each other, the victim supplying all the necessities of the victor, occupying territory in common, both alike drawing supplies directly from the storehouse of nature—primitive man derives his very quality from the brute with which he struggles. The idiosyncrasies of the animal fasten upon him, and that upon which he feeds becomes a part of him.
Thus, in a nation of hunters inhabiting a rigorous climate, we may look for wiry, keen-scented men, who in their war upon wild beasts put forth strength and endurance in order to overtake and capture the strong; cunning is opposed by superior cunning; a stealthy watchfulness governs every movement, while the intelligence of the man contends with the instincts of the brute. Fishermen, on the other hand, who obtain their food with comparatively little effort, are more sluggish in their natures and less noble in their development. In the icy regions of the north, the animal creation supplies man with food, clothing, and caloric; with all the requisites of an existence under circumstances apparently the most adverse to comfort; and when he digs his dwelling beneath the ground, or walls out the piercing winds with snow, his ultimate is attained.
The chief differences in tribes occupying the interior and the seaboard—the elevated, treeless, grassy plains east of the Rocky Mountains, and the humid islands and shores of the great Northwest—grow out of necessities arising from their methods of procuring food. Even causes so slight as the sheltering bend of a coast-line; the guarding of a shore by islands; the breaking of a seaboard by inlets and covering of the strand with sea-weed and polyps, requiring only the labor of gathering; or the presence of a bluff coast or windy promontory, whose occupants are obliged to put forth more vigorous action for sustenance—all govern man in his development. Turn now to the most northern division of our most northern group.
THE ESKIMOS.
The Eskimos, Esquimaux, or as they call themselves, Innuit, 'the people,' from inuk, 'man,'2 occupy the Arctic seaboard from eastern Greenland along the entire continent of America, and across Bering3 Strait to the Asiatic shore. Formerly the inhabitants of our whole Hyperborean sea-coast, from the Mackenzie River to Queen Charlotte Island—the interior being entirely unknown—were denominated Eskimos, and were of supposed Asiatic origin.4 The tribes of southern Alaska were then found to differ essentially from those of the northern coast. Under the name Eskimos, therefore, I include only the Western Eskimos of certain writers, whose southern boundary terminates at Kotzebue Sound.5
ESKIMO LAND.
Eskimo-land is thinly peopled, and but little is known of tribal divisions. At the Coppermine River, the Eskimos are called Naggeuktormutes, or deer-horns; at the eastern outlet of the Mackenzie, their tribal name is Kittegarute; between the Mackenzie River and Barter Reef, they go by the name of Kangmali Innuit; at Point Barrow they call themselves Nuwungmutes; while on the Nunatok River, in the vicinity of Kotzebue Sound, they are known as Nunatangmutes. Their villages, consisting of five or six families each,6 are scattered along the coast. A village site is usually selected upon some good landing-place, where there is sufficient depth of water to float a whale. Between tribes is left a spot of unoccupied or neutral ground, upon which small parties meet during the summer for purposes of trade.7
The Eskimos are essentially a peculiar people. Their character and their condition, the one of necessity growing out of the other, are peculiar. First, it is claimed for them that they are the anomalous race of America—the only people of the new world clearly identical with any race of the old. Then they are the most littoral people in the world. The linear extent of their occupancy, all of it a narrow seaboard averaging scarcely one hundred miles in width, is estimated at not less than five thousand miles. Before them is a vast, unknown, icy ocean, upon which they scarcely dare venture beyond sight of land; behind them, hostile mountaineers ever ready to dispute encroachment. Their very mother-earth, upon whose cold bosom they have been borne, age after age through countless generations,8 is almost impenetrable, thawless ice. Their days and nights, and seasons and years, are not like those of other men. Six months of day succeed six months of night. Three months of sunless winter; three months of nightless summer; six months of glimmering twilight.
About the middle of October9 commences the long night of winter. The earth and sea put on an icy covering; beasts and birds depart for regions sheltered or more congenial; humanity huddles in subterraneous dens; all nature sinks into repose. The little heat left by the retreating sun soon radiates out into the deep blue realms of space; the temperature sinks rapidly to forty or fifty degrees below freezing; the air is hushed, the ocean calm, the sky cloudless. An awful, painful stillness pervades the dreary solitude. Not a sound is heard; the distant din of busy man, and the noiseless hum of the wilderness alike are wanting. Whispers become audible at a considerable distance, and an insupportable sense of loneliness oppresses the inexperienced visitor.10 Occasionally the aurora borealis flashes out in prismatic coruscations, throwing a brilliant arch from east to west—now in variegated oscillations, graduating through all the various tints of blue, and green, and violet, and crimson; darting, flashing, or streaming in yellow columns, upwards, downwards; now blazing steadily, now in wavy undulations, sometimes up to the very zenith; momentarily lighting up in majestic grandeur the cheerless frozen scenery, but only to fall back with exhausted force, leaving a denser obscurity. Nature's electric lantern, suspended for a time in the frosty vault of heaven;—munificent nature's