Chambers' Edinburgh Journal by Various
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Various >> Chambers\' Edinburgh Journal
STEEPLE JACK.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] See article, 'A Child's Toy,' in No. 418.
FOOD OF THE ARCTIC REGIONS--FRANKLIN'S EXPEDITION.
A certain class of reasoners have argued themselves into the belief
that, setting all other considerations aside, Sir John Franklin and
his companions must have necessarily perished ere now from _lack of
food_. When the four years, or so, of provisions he took out with him
for the large crews of the vessels were all consumed, how, say they,
would it be possible for so great a number of men to obtain food
sufficient to support life in those awfully desolate regions? Let us
examine the question a little.
Men in very cold climates certainly require a much larger amount of
gross animal food than in southern latitudes--varying, of course, with
their particular physical constitutions. Now, let us grant--though we
do not positively admit it--that, however the provisions taken from
England may have been economised, they have, nevertheless, all been
consumed a couple of years ago, with the exception of a small quantity
of preserved meats, vegetables, lemon-juice, &c. kept in reserve for
the sick, or as a resource in the last extremity. As to spirits, we
have the testimony of all arctic explorers, that their regular
supply and use, so far from being beneficial, is directly the
reverse--weakening the constitution, and predisposing it to scurvy and
other diseases; and that, consequently, spirits should not be given at
all, except on extraordinary occasions, or as a medicine. Sir John
Ross, in his search of the North-West Passage in 1829, and following
years, early stopped the issue of spirits to his men, and with a most
beneficial result. Therefore, the entire consumption of the stock of
spirits on board Sir John Franklin's ships must not be regarded as a
deficiency of any serious moment.
We shall then presume, that for upwards of two years the adventurers
have been wholly dependent on wild animals, birds, and fish for their
support. Here it becomes an essential element of consideration to form
some approximate idea of the particular locality in which the missing
expedition is probably frozen. Captain Penny tracked it up Wellington
Strait and thence into Victoria Channel--a newly-discovered lake or
sea of unknown extent, which reaches, for anything that can be
demonstrated to the contrary, to the pole. It has long been noticed,
that the mere latitude in the arctic regions is far from being a
certain indication of the degree of cold which might naturally be
expected from a nearer approach to the pole. For instance, cold is
more intense in some parts of latitude 60 degrees than in 70 or 77
degrees; but this varies very much in different districts of the
coast, and in different seasons; and we may remark in passing, that
whenever there is a particularly mild winter in Britain, it is the
reverse in the arctic regions; and so _vice versa_. The astonishment
of Captain Penny on discovering the new polar sea in question was
heightened by the fact, that it possessed a much warmer climate than
more southern latitudes, and that it swarmed with fish, while its
shores were enlivened with animals and flocks of birds. Moreover,
_trees_ were actually floating about: how they got there, and whence
they came, is a mysterious and deeply-interesting problem. Somewhere
in this sea Sir John Franklin's ships are undoubtedly at this moment.
We say the ships are; for we do not for one moment believe that they
have been sunk or annihilated. It is not very likely that any icebergs
of great magnitude would be tossing about this inland sea in the
summer season--in winter its waters would be frozen--and in navigating
it, the ships would, under their experienced and judicious commander,
pursue their unknown way with extreme caution and prudence. It is more
probable that they were at length fast frozen up in some inlet, or
that small floating fields of ice have conglomerated around them, and
bound them in icy fetters to the mainland. Or it may be that Franklin
sailed slowly along this mystic polar sea, until he reached its
extremity and could get no farther; and that extremity would actually
seem to be towards the Siberian coasts. One thing is quite
certain--namely, that so far as Captain Penny's people were able to
penetrate the channel--several hundred miles--there was no indication
whatever that up to that point Franklin had met with any serious
calamity, or that he had suffered from a fatal deficiency of the
necessaries of life.
Wherever his exact position may be, there is every reason to suppose
that the country around him produces a supply of food at least equal
to any other part of the arctic regions; and probably much more than
equal, owing to the greater mildness of the climate. But we will only
base our opinion on the fair average supply of food obtainable in the
arctic regions generally; and now let us see what result we shall
fairly arrive at.
The first consideration that strikes us, is the fact that all over
these icy regions isolated tribes of natives are to be met with; and
they do not exist in a starved and almost famished condition, like the
miserable dwellers in Terra del Fuego, but in absolute abundance--such
as it is. When Sir John Ross's ship was frozen up during the
remarkably severe winter of 1829-30, in latitude 69 degrees 58
minutes, and longitude 90 degrees, he made the following remarks
concerning a tribe of Esquimaux in his vicinity, which we quote as
being peculiarly applicable to our view of the subject:--'It was for
philosophers to interest themselves in speculating on a horde so
small and so secluded, occupying so apparently hopeless a country--so
barren, so wild, and so repulsive, and yet enjoying the most perfect
vigour, the most _well-fed health_, and all else that here constitutes
not merely wealth, but the opulence of luxury, since they were as
amply furnished with provisions as with every other thing that could
be here necessary to their wants.'
'Yes,' exclaims our friend the reasoner, 'but the constitution of an
Esquimaux is peculiarly adapted to the climate and food: what he
enjoys would poison a European; and he also possesses skill to capture
wild animals and fish, which the civilised man cannot exercise.' Is
this true? We answer to the first objection: only partially true; and
the second, we utterly deny. The constitution of vigorous men--and all
Franklin's crew were fine, picked young fellows--has a marvellous
adaptability. It is incredible how soon a man becomes reconciled to,
and healthful under, a totally different diet from that to which he
has been all his life accustomed, so long as that change is suitable
to his new home. We ourselves have personally experienced this to some
extent, and were quite amazed at the rapid and easy way in which
nature enabled us to enjoy and thrive on food at which our stomach
would have revolted in England or any southern land. In every country
in the world, 'from Indus to the pole,' the food eaten by the natives
is that which is incomparably best suited to the climate. In the
frozen regions, and every cold country, the best of all nourishment is
that which contains a large proportion of fat and oil. In Britain, we
read with disgust of the Greenlander eagerly swallowing whale-oil and
blubber; but in his country, it is precisely what is best adapted to
sustain vital energy. Europeans in the position of Franklin's crew
would become acclimatised, and gradually accustomed to the food of the
natives, even before their own provisions were exhausted; and after
that, we may be very sure their appetites would lose all delicacy, and
they would necessarily and easily conform to the usages, as regards
food, of the natives around them. We may strengthen our opinion by the
direct and decisive testimony of Sir John Boss himself, who says: 'I
have little doubt, indeed, that many of the unhappy men who have
perished from wintering in these climates, and whose histories are
well known, might have been saved had they conformed, as is so
generally prudent, to the usages and the experience of the natives.'
Undoubtedly they might!
Secondly, as to the Europeans being unable to capture the beasts,
birds, and fishes so dexterously as the natives, we have reason to
know that the reverse is the case. It is true that the latter know the
habits and haunts of wild creatures by long experience, and also know
the best way to capture some of them; but a very little communication
with natives enables the European to learn the secret; and he soon far
excels his simple instructors in the art, being aided by vastly
superior reasoning faculties, and also by incomparably better
appliances for the chase. Firearms for shooting beasts and birds, and
seines for catching fish, render the Esquimaux spears, and arrows, and
traps mere children's toys in comparison. Moreover, a ship is never
frozen up many weeks, before some wandering tribe is sure to visit it;
and all navigators have found the natives a mild, friendly, grateful
people, with fewer vices than almost any other savages in the World.
They will thankfully barter as many salmon as will feed a ship's crew
one day for a file or two, or needles, or a tin-canister, or piece of
old iron-hoop, or any trifling article of hardware; and so long as the
vessel remains, they and other tribes of their kindred will frequently
visit it, and bring animals and fish to barter for what is literally
almost valueless to European adventurers.
An important consideration, is the _variety_ of food obtainable in the
arctic regions. We need not particularly classify the creatures found
in the two seasons of summer and winter, but may enumerate the
principal together. Of animals fit for food are musk-oxen, bears,
reindeer, hares, foxes, &c. Of fish, there is considerable variety,
salmon and trout being the chief and never-failing supply. Of birds,
there are ducks, geese, cranes, ptarmigan, grouse, plovers,
partridges, sand-larks, shear-waters, gannets, gulls, mollemokes,
dovekies, and a score of other species. We personally know that the
flesh of bears, reindeer, and some of the other animals, is most
excellent: we have partaken of them with hearty relish. As to foxes,
Ross informs us that, although his men did not like them at first,
they eventually preferred fox-flesh to any other meat! And as to such
birds as gannets and shear-waters, which are generally condemned as
unpalatable, on account of their fishy taste, we would observe that
the rancid flavour exists only in the fat. Separate it, and, as we
ourselves can testify, the flesh of these birds is little inferior to
that of the domestic pigeon, when either boiled or roasted. The
majority of the creatures named may be captured in considerable
numbers, in their several seasons, with only ordinary skill. But
necessity sharpens the faculties of men to an inconceivable degree;
and when the life of a crew depends on their success in the chase,
they will speedily become expert hunters. It is true that the wild
animals habitually existing in a small tract of country may soon be
thinned, if not altogether exterminated; but bears, foxes, &c.
continue to visit it with little average diminution in numbers. The
fish never fail. The quantity of salmon is said to be immense, and
they can be preserved in stock a very long period by being simply
buried in snow-pits. The birds also regularly make their periodical
appearance. Besides, parties of hunters would be despatched to scour
the country at considerable distances, and their skill and success
would improve with each coming season. In regard to fuel, the
Esquimaux plan of burning the oil and blubber of seals, the fat of
bears, &c. would be quite effective. In the brief but fervid summer
season, every inch of ground is covered with intensely green verdure,
and even with flowers; and there is a great variety of wild plants,
including abundance of Angelica, sorrel, and scurvy-grass, also
lichens and mosses, all of antiscorbutic qualities. We have ourselves
seen the Laplanders eat great quantities of the sorrel-grass; and the
Nordlanders told us that they boiled it in lieu of greens at table.
These vegetables might be gathered each summer, and preserved for
winter use.
We repeat, that since the poor, ignorant natives live in rude
abundance, and lack nothing for mere animal enjoyment of life, it is
impossible to doubt that Europeans, who in intelligence and resources
are a superior race of beings, can fail to participate equally in all
things which the Creator has provided for the support of man in this
extremity of the habitable globe; also let it be borne in mind, that
half-a-dozen Esquimaux devour almost as much food every day as will
suffice for a ship's crew. Sir John Ross declares, that if they only
ate moderately, any given district would support 'double their number,
and with scarcely the hazard of want.' He says that an Esquimaux eats
twenty pounds of flesh and oil a day, and, in fact, never ceases from
devouring until compelled to desist from sheer repletion. Speaking
of one meal taken in their company, we have this edifying
observation:--'While we found that one salmon and half of another were
more than enough for all us English, these voracious animals (the
Esquimaux) had devoured two each. At this rate of feeding, it is not
wonderful that their whole time is occupied in procuring food: each
man had eaten fourteen pounds of this raw salmon, and it was probably
but a luncheon after all, of a superfluous meal for the sake of our
society!.... The glutton bear--scandalised as it may be by its
name--might even be deemed a creature of moderate appetite in
comparison: with their human reason in addition, these people, could
they always command the means, would doubtless outrival a glutton and
a boa-constrictor together.'
Finally, we expressly deny that the Esquimaux can or do bear extreme
cold and privations better than Englishmen who have been a season or
two in their country. Arctic explorers testify that the natives always
appeared to suffer from cold quite as much as Europeans; and what
little we have ourselves seen of northern countries, induces us to
give ample credence to this.
The conclusion, then, at which we arrive is this: that under such
experienced and energetic leaders as Sir John Franklin and his chief
officers, the gallant crews of the missing expedition have _not_
perished for lack of food, and will be enabled, if God so wills, to
support life for years to come. Great, indeed, their sufferings must
be; for civilised men do not merely eat to sleep, and sleep to eat,
like the Esquimaux; but they will be upheld under every suffering by a
firm conviction that their countrymen are making almost superhuman
exertions to rescue them from their fearful isolation. What the final
issue will be, is known only to Him who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb, and can, if He deems meet, provide a way of deliverance when
hope itself has died in every breast. Our individual opinion is, that
it is not improbable the lost crews will, sooner or later, achieve
their own deliverance by arriving at some coast whence they may be
taken off, even as Ross was, after sojourning during four years of
unparalleled severity. But it is the bounden duty of our country never
to relax its efforts to save Franklin, until there is an absolute
certainty that all further human exertions are in vain.
[We give the above as a paper on the food of the arctic regions, and
can only hope that our correspondent's cheering views as to the fate
of the missing expedition may prove to be correct.--ED.]
THE ARTIST'S SACRIFICE.
On a cold evening in January--one of those dark and gloomy evenings
which fill one with sadness--there sat watching by the bed of a sick
man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and
two pretty children--a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight. The
exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness:
everything announced order and economy, but at the same time great
poverty. A painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean
calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a
high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves,
composed the entire furniture of the room. And yet the man who lay on
that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough,
foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of
our literature. His historical works had won for him a European
celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern
languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to
science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his
time to productive labour.
An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near
the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to
be intended for the use of this poor family, shewed that his wife and
daughter--this gentle child whose large dark eyes were so full of
sadness--endeavoured by the work of their hands to make up for the
unproductiveness of his efforts. The sick man slept, and the mother,
taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her
children into the adjoining room, which served both as antechamber and
dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work
with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter
doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously colouring
some prints destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and
raising her tearful eyes towards heaven, she seemed to be thanking the
Almighty, and in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with
gratitude to Him who had blessed her with such children.
Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a
young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired
for the invalid. 'Just the same, doctor,' said Mme G----.
The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments
attentively on the sleeper, whilst the poor wife fixed her eyes on the
doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate.
'Is there no hope, doctor?' she asked in a choking voice, as she
conducted him to the other room. The doctor was silent, and the
afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. After a pause she
said: 'There is one idea which haunts me continually: I should wish so
much to have my husband's likeness. Do you know of any generous and
clever artist, doctor? Oh, how much this would add to the many
obligations you have already laid me under!'
'Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with a single artist,' replied the
young doctor.
'I must then renounce this desire,' said Mme G---- sighing.
The next morning Henry--so the little boy was called--having assisted
his mother and his sister Marie in their household labours, dressed
himself carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to go out.
'Go, my child,' said his mother; 'go and breathe a little fresh air:
your continual work is injurious to you.'
The boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and
sister, and went out, at once sad and pleased. When he reached the
street he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps towards the
drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at
the door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this
academy. A servant opened the door, and conducted him into an
elegantly-furnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the
richest and most distinguished painters of the day. He was
breakfasting alone with his wife, when Henry entered.
'There, my dear,' He said to her, as he perceived Henry; 'there is the
cleverest pupil in the academy. This little fellow really promises to
do me great credit one day. Well, my little friend, what do you wish
to say to me?'
'Sir, my father is very ill--the doctor fears that he may die: poor
mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. Would
you, sir, be kind enough to take it? O do not, pray, sir, do not
refuse me!' said Henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on
the artist.
'Impossible, Henry--impossible!' replied the painter. 'I am paid three
thousand francs for every portrait I paint, and I have five or six at
present to finish.'
'But, my dear,' interposed his wife, 'it seems to me that this
portrait would take you but little time: think of the poor mother,
whose husband will so soon be lost to her for ever.'
'It grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my
battle-piece, which is destined for Versailles, must be sent to the
Louvre in a fortnight, for I cannot miss the Exposition this year. But
stay, my little friend, I will give you the address of several of my
pupils: tell them I sent you, and you will certainly find some one of
them who will do what you wish. Good-morning, Henry!'
'Good-by, my little friend,' added the lady. 'I hope you may be
successful.' The boy took his leave with a bursting heart.
Henry wandered through the gardens of the Luxembourg, debating with
himself if he should apply to the young artists whose addresses he
held in his hand. Fearing that his new efforts might be equally
unsuccessful, he was trying to nerve himself to encounter fresh
refusals, when he was accosted by a boy of his own age, his
fellow-student at the drawing-school. Jules proposed that they should
walk together; then observing Henry's sadness, he asked him the cause.
Henry told him of his mother's desire; their master's refusal to take
the portrait; and of his own dislike to apply to those young artists,
who were strangers to him.
'Come with me,' cried Jules, when his friend had ceased speaking. 'My
sister is also an artist: she has always taken care of me, for our
father and mother died when we were both very young. She is so kind
and so fond of me that I am very sure she will not refuse.'
The two boys traversed the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the merry, joyous
face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other.
When they got to the end of the avenue they entered the Rue de
l'Ouest, and went into a quiet-looking house, up to the fourth storey
of which Jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor Henry with him.
He tapped gaily at a little door, which a young servant opened: he
passed through the antechamber, and the two boys found themselves in
the presence of Emily d'Orbe, the sister of Jules.
She appeared to be about twenty-five: she was not tall, and her face
was rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated
cultivation and amiability. Her dress was simple, but exquisitely
neat; her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her
linen cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted
in front, and fastened up behind _a l'antique_: but she wore no
ribbon, no ornament--nothing but what was necessary. The furniture of
the room, which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio,
was equally simple: a little divan, some chairs and two arm-chairs
covered with gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of
the simplest form; two engravings, the 'Spasimo di Sicilia' and the
'Three Maries,' alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed
over the windows, not for ornament, but to moderate the light,
according to the desire of the artist; finally, three easels, on which
rested some unfinished portraits, and a large painting representing
Anna Boleyn embracing her daughter before going to execution.
When he entered, little Jules went first to embrace his sister; she
tenderly returned his caresses, then said to him in a gentle voice, as
she returned to her easel: 'Now, my dear child, let me go on with my
painting;' not, however, without addressing a friendly 'Good-morning'
to Henry, who she thought had come to play with Jules.
Henry had been looking at the unfinished pictures with a sort of
terror, because they appeared to him as obstacles between him and his
request. He dared not speak, fearing to hear again the terrible word
'impossible!' and he was going away, when Jules took him by the hand
and drew him towards Emily. 'Sister,' he said, 'I have brought my
friend Henry to see you; he wishes to ask you something; do speak to
him.'
'Jules,' she replied, 'let me paint; you know I have very little time.
You are playing the spoiled child: you abuse my indulgence.'
'Indeed, Emily, I am not jesting; you must really speak to Henry. If
you knew how unhappy he is!'
Mlle d'Orbe, raising her eyes to the boy, was struck with his pale
and anxious face, and said to him in a kind voice, as she continued
her painting: 'Forgive my rudeness, my little friend; this picture is
to be sent to the Exposition, and I have not a moment to lose,
because, both for my brother's sake and my own, I wish it to do me
credit. But speak, my child; speak without fear, and be assured that I
will not refuse you anything that is in the power of a poor artist.'