Each boat—which, by the way, is painted white, so as to resemble the ice amongst which it moves—is usually provided with three harpoon-heads inside the bow, on each side: these fit into little racks of painted canvas, so that their keen points and edges may not be blunted, and to prevent them from injuring the men. The harpoons serve equally well for seal and walrus, and, simple as they seem and are, answer admirably the purpose for which they are designed. The weapon is thrust into the animal; its struggles tighten the line; the large outer barb then catches up a loop of its tenacious hide, or the tough reticulated fibres containing its blubber; while the small inner barb, like that of a fish-hook, prevents it from being detached or loosened. When a walrus has been properly struck, and the line hauled taut, it rarely escapes. To each harpoon a line of twelve or fifteen fathoms long is attached: a sufficient length, as the walrus is seldom found in water more than fifteen fathoms deep; and even if the water should exceed that depth, it cannot drag the boat under, because it is unable to exert its full strength when subjected to the pressure of twelve or fifteen fathoms of water.

Besides the harpoons, each boat is provided with four or five enormous lances; the shaft being made of pine-wood, nine feet long, and one inch and a half thick at the handle, increasing upwards to a thickness of two inches and a half where it enters the iron socket. This would seem a formidable weapon, and formidable it is in the stout hands of a Norse harpooneer; yet, frequently, the iron shank is bent double, or the strong shaft snapped like a reed, in the violent resistance of the sea-horse; and, therefore, to prevent the head being lost, it is fastened to the shaft by a double thong of raw seal-skin, tied round the shank and nailed to the handle for about three feet up. The shaft may seem of disproportionate length, but it is necessary to give the buoyancy sufficient for floating the heavy iron spear if it should fall into the water. This spear, or lance, is not used for seals, because it would spoil the skins.

Notwithstanding the destruction effected by the yearly expeditions of the walrus-hunters, the sea-horses are still found in large herds in many parts of the Polar world. Mr. Lamont describes a curious and exciting spectacle, where four large flat icebergs were seen to be so closely packed with these animals that they were sunk almost level with the water, and presented the appearance of “solid islands of walrus!” The walrus lay with their heads reclining on one another’s backs and hind-quarters, just as rhinoceroses lie asleep in the dense shade of the African forests, or, to use a more commonplace but familiar comparison, as hogs slumber and wallow in a British farmyard.

Such a sight was a temptation not to be withstood by a walrus-hunter, and Mr. Lamont and his harpooneer speedily disturbed the repose of the monsters, which chiefly consisted of cows and young bulls. After slaying their victims, and getting them on board, came the disagreeable but necessary task of separating the blubber from the skins to stow it in the barrels; a process which is performed in the following manner:—

Across the ship’s deck, immediately aft the hatchway, is erected a kind of framework or stage of stout timber, about four feet in height, but sloping down at an angle of about sixty degrees, with the deck at the forward side: on the other side it is perpendicular, and there the two specksioneers (or “blubber-cutters”) post themselves, clad, not in armour, but in oil-skin from top to toe, and armed with large keen knives, curved on the edge. Then the skins are hoisted out of the hold, and, two at a time, are suspended across the frame, with the blubber side uppermost: the fat, or blubber, is next removed by a kind of mowing motion of the knife, which is held in both hands, and swayed from left to right. Only long practice, and great steadiness of wrist, can give the dexterity requisite for the due performance of this difficult operation. Even in skinning a walrus, skill is imperative.

As the blubber is mown off, it is divided into slabs, weighing twenty or thirty pounds each, and flung down the hatchway, where two men are stationed to receive it, and pack it into the casks, which when full are securely fastened up.

The skin, which is taken off the animal in two longitudinal halves, is a valuable commodity, and sells at the rate of from two to four dollars per half skin. The principal purchasers are the Russian and Swedish merchants, and its principal uses are for harness and sole leather. It is also twisted into tiller ropes, and employed to protect the rigging of ships from friction. The blubber is valued on account of the oil; but neither has the walrus so much blubber, in proportion to its size, as the seal, nor does the blubber afford so good an oil. A seal of 600 lbs. will carry 200 to 250 lbs. weight of fat; an ordinary walrus, weighing 2000 lbs., will not carry any more.

The most profitable portion of the unfortunate sea-horse is its tusks, which are composed of very hard, dense, and white ivory. This ivory is not so good, and consequently does not command so high a price, as elephant ivory, but is in high repute for the manufacture of false teeth, chessmen, umbrella handles, whistles, and other small articles.

The tusks are not an extra pair of teeth, but a development and modification of the canines. For about six or seven inches of their length they are solidly set in the mass of hard bone which forms the animal’s upper jaw. So far as they are imbedded in the head they are hollow, but mostly filled up with a cellular osseous substance containing much oil; the remainder of the tusk is hard and solid throughout.

The young walrus, or calf, has no tusks in its first year of existence; but in its second, when it is about the size of a large seal, it has a pair of much the same size as the canines of a lion. In the third year the tusks measure about six inches in length.

In size and shape they vary greatly, according to the animal’s age and sex. A good pair of bull’s tusks, says Mr. Lamont, will be twenty-four inches each in length, and four pounds each in weight; but larger and heavier specimens are of frequent occurrence. Cows’ tusks, it is said, will average fully as long as those of the bulls, because less liable to be broken, but seldom weigh more than three pounds. They are generally set much closer together than the bull’s tusks, sometimes even overlapping one another at the points; while those of the bull will often diverge as much as fifteen inches.

In scientific language the walrus, morse, or sea-horse (Trichecus), belongs to a genus of amphibious mammals of the family Phocidæ, a family including the well-known seals. It agrees with the other members of that family in the general configuration of the body and limbs, but distinctly differs from them in the head, which is remarkable,—as we have seen,—for the extraordinary development of the canine teeth of the upper jaw, as also for the protuberant or swollen appearance of the muzzle,—due to the size of their sockets and the thickness of the upper lip. This upper lip is thickly set with strong, transparent, bristly hairs, which measure about six inches in length, and are as thick as a crow-quill. The terrific moustache, with the long white curving tusks, the thick projecting muzzle, and the fierce and bloodshot eyes, give Rosmarus trichecus a weird and almost demoniacal aspect as it rears its head above the waves, and goes far to account for some of the legends of sea-monsters which embellish the Scandinavian mythology.

The walrus has no canine teeth in the lower jaw. Its incisors are small, and ten in number; six in the upper and four in the lower jaw. The molars, at first five on each side in each jaw, but fewer in the adult, are simple and not large; their crowns are obliquely worn. The nostrils would seem to be displaced by the sockets of the tusks; at least they both open almost directly upwards at some distance from the muzzle. The eyes are small, but savage; there are no external ears.

The Arctic walrus is the sole known species of the genus. It is a gregarious animal, always assembling in large herds, which occasionally leave the water to take their rest upon the shore or on the ice; and it is at such times the hunters chiefly attack them, since their movements out of the water are very laborious and awkward.

They defend themselves against their enemies, of which the Polar bear is chief, with their formidable tusks; and these they also use in their fierce combats with one another. They fight with great determination and ferocity, using their tusks much in the same manner as game-cocks use their beaks. From the unwieldy appearance of the animal, and the position of its tusks, an inexperienced spectator would suppose that the latter could be employed only in a downward stroke; but, on the contrary, it turns its neck with so much ease and rapidity that it can strike in all directions with equal force...

Old bulls very frequently have one or both of their tusks broken; which may arise either from fighting or from using them to assist in scaling the rocks and ice-floes. But these broken tusks are soon worn down again and sharpened to a point by the action of the sand, as the walrus, like the elephant, employs its tusks in digging its food out of the ground,—that is, out of the ocean-bed. Its food principally consists of starfish, shrimps, sandworms, clams, cockles, and algæ; and Scoresby relates that he has found the remains of young seals in its stomach.

In reference to the gradual decay, or, more correctly speaking, extermination of the walrus, the following particulars seem to be authentic.

When the pursuit of the walrus was first systematically organized from Tromsöe and Hammerfest, much larger vessels were employed than are now in vogue; and it was usual for them to obtain their first cargo about Bear Island early in the season, and two additional cargoes at Spitzbergen before the summer passed away. This regular and wholesale slaughter drove away the sea-horse herds from their haunts about Bear Island; but even afterwards it was not a rare occurrence to procure three cargoes in a season at Spitzbergen, and less than two full cargoes was regarded as a lamentable mishap. Now, however, more than one cargo in a season is very seldom obtained, and many vessels return, after four months’ absence, only half full.

It is estimated that about one thousand walrus and twice that number of bearded seals (Phoca barbata) are annually captured in the seas about Spitzbergen, exclusive of those which sink or may die of their wounds. Some idea, therefore, may be formed of the number of sea-horses which still ride the waves of the Polar seas. But it is quite clear that they are undergoing a rapid diminution of numbers, and also that they are gradually withdrawing into the inaccessible solitudes of the remotest North.

We learn from the voyage of Ohthere, which was undertaken ten centuries ago, that the walrus then abounded even on the very coast of Finmarken. They have abandoned that region, however, for some centuries, though individual stragglers were captured up to within the last forty years. After their desertion of Finmarken, they retreated to Bear Island; thence they were driven to the Thousand Islands, Hope Island, and Ryk-Yse Island; and thence, again, to the banks and skerries to the north of Spitzbergen. It is fortunate for the persecuted walrus that the latter districts are accessible only in open seasons, or perhaps once in every three or four summers; so that they obtain a respite and time to breed and replenish their numbers. Otherwise the end of the present century would mark also the total extinction of the walrus on the island-shores of Northern Europe.

We agree with Dr. Kane that the resemblance of the walrus to man has been absurdly overstated. Yet the notion is put forward in some of our systematic treatises, and accompanied by the suggestion that we are to look for the type of the merman and mermaid in this animal. If we look we shall not find. The walrus has a square-shaped head, with a frontal bone presenting a steep descent to the eyes, and any likeness to humanity must exist in the imagination of the spectator. Some of the seals exhibit a much greater resemblance: the size of the head, the regularity of the facial oval, the drooping shoulders, even the movements of the seal, remind us impressively of man. And certainly, when seen at a distance, with head raised above the waves, it affords some justification for the fanciful conception of the nymphs of ocean, the mermaids who figure so attractively in song and legend.

Dr. Kane remarks that the instinct of attack, which is strong in the walrus, though so feeble in the seal, and is a well-known characteristic of the pachyderms, is interesting to the naturalist, as assisting to establish the affinity of the walrus to the latter. When wounded, it rears its body high out of the water, plunges heavily against the ice, and strives to raise itself upon the surface by means of its fore-flippers. As the ice gives way under its weight, its countenance assumes a truly ferocious expression, its bark changes to a roar, and the foam pours out from its jaws till it froths its beard.

Even when not excited, the walrus manages its tusks bravely. So strong are they that they serve as grappling-irons with which to hold on to the surface of the steep rocks and ice-banks it loves to climb; and thus it can ascend rocky islands that are sixty and a hundred feet above the sea-level. It can deal an opponent a fearful blow, but it prefers to charge, like a veteran warrior; and man, unless well armed, often comes off second best in the contest.

Governor Flaischer told Dr. Kane that, in 1830, a brown walrus—and the Eskimos say that the brown walrus are the fiercest—after being speared and wounded near Upernavik, put to flight its numerous assailants, and drove them in fear to seek help from the Danish settlement. So violent were its movements as to jerk out the harpoons that were launched into its body. The governor slew it with much difficulty after it had received several rifle-shots and lance-wounds from his whale-boat.

On another occasion, a young and adventurous Innuit plunged his nalegeit into a brown walrus; but, alarmed by the savage demeanour of the beast, called for help before using the lance. In vain the older and more wary hunters advised him to forbear. “It is a brown walrus!” they cried; “Aúvok-Kaiok! Hold back!” Finding the caution disregarded, his only brother rowed forward, and hurled the second harpoon. Almost instantaneously the infuriated beast charged, like the wild boar, on the unfortunate young Innuit, and ripped open his body.

Here is a description of a walrus-hunt:—

On first setting out, the hunters listen eagerly for some sounds by which to discover the habitat of the animal. The walrus, like amateur vocalists, is partial to its own music, and will lie for hours enjoying the monotonous vocalization in which it is accustomed to indulge. This is described as something between the mooing of a cow and the deepest baying of a mastiff; very round and full, with its “barks” or “detached notes” repeated seven to nine times in rather quick succession.

The hunters hear the bellow, and press forward in single file; winding behind ice-hummocks and ridges in a serpentine approach towards a group of “pond-like discolorations,” recently frozen ice-spots, which are surrounded by older and firmer ice.

In a few minutes they come in sight of the walrus. There they are, five in number, rising at intervals through the ice in a body, and breaking it up with an explosion which sounds like the report of heavy ordnance. Conspicuous as the leaders of the herd are two large and fierce-looking males.

Now for a display of dexterity and skill. While the walrus remains above water, the hunter lies flat and motionless; when it begins to sink, behold, the hunter is alert and ready to spring. In fact, scarcely is the tusked head below the water-line before every man is in a rapid run; while, as if by instinct, before it returns all are prone behind protecting knolls of ice. They seem to guess intuitively, not only how long it will be absent, but the very point at which it will reappear. And, in this way, hiding and advancing by turns, they reach a plate of thin ice, scarcely strong enough to bear a man’s weight, on the very brink of the dark pool in which the walrus are gambolling.

The phlegmatic Eskimo harpooneer now wakens into a novel condition of excitement. His coil of walrus-hide, a well-trimmed line of many fathoms length, lies at his side. He attaches one end to an iron barb, and this he fastens loosely, by a socket, to a shaft of unicorn’s horn; the other end is already loosed. It is the work of a second! He has grasped the harpoon. The water eddies and whirls; puffing and panting, up comes the unwieldy sea-horse. The Eskimo rises slowly; his right arm thrown back, his left hanging close to his side. The walrus looks about him, and throws the water off his crest; the Eskimo launches the fatal weapon, and it sinks deep into the animal’s side.

Down goes the wounded awak, but the Eskimo is already speeding with winged feet from the scene of combat, letting his coil run out freely, but clutching the final loop with a desperate grip. As he runs, he seizes a small stick of bone, roughly pointed with iron, and by a swift strong movement thrusts it into the ice; he twists his line around it, and prepares for a struggle.

The wounded walrus plunges desperately, and churns the ice-pool into foam; meantime, the line is hauled tight at one moment, and loosened the next; for the hunter has kept his station. But the ice crashes; and a couple of walrus rear up through it, not many yards from the spot where he stands. One of them, a male, is excited, angry, partly alarmed; the other, a female, looks calm, but bent on revenge. Down, after a rapid survey of the field, they go again into the ocean-depths; and immediately the harpooneer has chosen his position, carrying with him his coil, and fixing it anew.

Scarcely is the manœuvre accomplished before the pair have once more risen, breaking up an area of ten feet in diameter about the very spot he left. They sink for a second time, and a second time he changes his place. And thus continues the battle between the strength of the beast and the address of the man, till the former, half exhausted, receives a second wound, and gives up the contest.

The Eskimos regard the walrus with a certain degree of superstitious reverence, and it is their belief that it is under the guardianship of a special representative or prototype, who does not, indeed, interfere to protect it from being hunted, but is careful that it shall be hunted under tolerably fair conditions. They assert that near a remarkable conical peak, which rises in the solitudes of Force Bay, a great walrus lives all alone, and when the moon is absent, creeps out to the brink of a ravine, where he bellows with a voice of tremendous power.

The walrus-hunter, unless he keeps to the sea-shore, and the ice-floes within reach of a boat, must be prepared to undergo many hardships, and to confront with a calm heart the most baffling and terrible dangers. He may be overtaken by a gale; and a gale in the wild remote North, far from any shelter,—a gale which drives before it the blinding snow and pitiless icicles,—a gale which sweeps unresisted and irresistible over leagues of frozen snow,—a gale which comes down from the mountain-recesses where the glaciers take their rise,—is something so dread, so ghastly, that the dweller in temperate regions can form no idea of it.

We remember that one of the gallant seekers after Franklin describes an Arctic gale, and its effects. He says that the ice, at a short distance from the shore, had in many places been swept bare of snow by the driving blast; and over the glassy sheet he and his companions were helplessly carried along before the gale. The dogs, seldom stretching their traces, ran howling in front of the sledges, which pressed upon their heels.

Wild was the scene, and dark. The moon had sunk far behind the snow-shrouded mountains, and the travellers had no other light than the shimmer of stars. The deep shadows of the cliffs, towering a thousand feet above their heads, lay heavily upon them, and enhanced the midnight gloom. The patches of snow clinging to the sharp angles of the colossal wall; the white shroud lying on its lofty summit; the glaciers which here and there protruded through its clefts, brought out into striking relief the blackness of its cavernous recesses. The air was filled with clouds of drift, which sometimes completely hid the land, and swept relentlessly before the explorers, as they tottered across the frozen plain.

Suddenly a dark line became visible across their path; its true nature revealed by circling wreaths of “frost-smoke.” “Emerk! emerk!” (Water! water!) shouted the drivers, checking as suddenly as possible the headway of the sledges, but not until the party were within a few feet of a recently opened and rapidly widening crack,—a fissure in the ice-crust, already twenty feet across.

Some of the travellers now clambered to the summit of a pile of hummocks, and endeavoured to pierce the obscurity. A headland, laid down on the map as Cape Alexander, lay only a few miles in advance. The ice in the shallow bay on its southern side was rent in all directions; while beyond, from the foot of the cape, a broad sheet of water extended westward. The wind diversified its dark surface with ridges of snowy spray; while here and there a frosty surf tumbled in breakers over a small berg or drifting floe. The pieces of ice lying along its margin were in motion, and the crash of their hard surfaces could be heard as they came into constant collision. Their strident clamour, the ceaseless washing of the surface, the moaning of the wind, the steely rush of the drift, the piteous wail of the dogs, and all the strange noises and voices of the storm, added to the gloom and awful melancholy of that moonless night.

We need not wonder that the Eskimos of the Arctic wilderness are as fearful of a tempest as are the Bedouins of the African desert. It overwhelms the one with a cloud of snow, and it buries the other in a cloud of sand; and each demands and receives its quota of victims.

That seal-hunting should be more extensively pursued than walrus-hunting is natural; for if less exciting, it is also less dangerous; and the seal is not only a more valuable prey than the walrus, but is more easily captured.

The Phocidæ are well represented in the Arctic waters. In Behring Sea we encounter the sea-lion and the sea-bear; while from the Parry Islands to Novaia Zemlaia extends the range of the harp seal (Phoca Grœnlandica), the bearded seal (Phoca barbata), and the hispid seal (Phoca hispida). The skins of all these species are more or less valuable; their oil is much esteemed; and their flesh supplies the wild northern tribes with one of their principal articles of subsistence.

The structure of the seal is admirably adapted in every detail to an aquatic life. It lives chiefly in the water, where its motions are always easy and graceful; but it spends a part of its time in enjoying the sunshine on ice-fields, open shores, rocks, and sandy beaches; and the female brings forth her young on land.

The body of the seal is elongated, and tapers considerably from the chest to the tail. The head has been compared to that of the dog; the brain is generally voluminous. The feet are short, and little more than the paw extends beyond the integument of the body; they are webbed, and pentadactylous, or five-toed: the fore feet are set like those of other quadrupeds; but the hind feet are directed backwards, with toes which can be spread out widely to act as paddles. The tail is short.

The motions of the seal on land are constrained and peculiar. The fore feet are but little used, and the body is thrown forward in a succession of jerks produced by a contraction of the spine. Awkward as this mode of progression seems, it is, nevertheless, exceedingly rapid. The seal, however, never ventures far from the shore, and the moment it is disturbed or alarmed it plunges into the water.

The physiognomy of the animal is in perfect accord with its character, and expresses a considerable degree of intelligence combined with much mildness of disposition. The eyes are large, black, and brilliant; the nose is broad, with oblong nostrils; and there are large whiskers. The seal has no external ears, but in the auricular orifices exists a valve which can be closed at will, and protects the internal organism from the water; the nostrils possess a similar valve. The body is thickly garnished with stiff glossy hairs, very closely set against the skin, and plentifully lubricated with an oily secretion, so that the surface is always smooth, and unaffected by water. The teeth differ in different genera, but in all are specially adapted for the seizure of fish and other slippery prey, though the seals are omnivorous in their habits, and will partake both of vegetable and animal food. There are either six or four incisors in the upper, and four or two in the lower jaw; the canines are invariably large and strong; and the molars, usually five or six on either side, in each jaw, are sharp-edged or conical, and bristle with points. The seal is fond of swallowing large stones; for what purpose is not certain, but, probably, to assist digestion.

Seals live in herds, more or less numerous, along the frozen shores of the Arctic seas; and on the lonely deserted coasts they bring forth their young, over which they watch with singular affection. They swim with much rapidity, and can remain a considerable time under water. They are migratory in their habits, and at least four species visit our British waters. On the northern coasts of Greenland they are observed to take their departure in July and to return again in September. They produce two or three young at a time, and suckle them for six or seven weeks in remote caverns and sequestered recesses; after which they take to the sea. The young exhibit a remarkable degree of tractability; will recognize and obey the maternal summons; and assist each other in distress or danger. Many, if not all, of the species are polygamous, and the males frequently contend with desperate courage for the possession of a favourite female.

There is not much difference in the habits of the different genera or species of the Phocidæ; but while the great Arctic seal dives like the walrus, making a kind of semi-revolution as it goes down, the common seal (Phoca vitulina), called by the hunters the stein-cobbe, from its custom of basking on the rocks, dives by suddenly dropping under water, its nose being the last part of its body which disappears, instead of its tail.

The common seal has a very fine spotted skin, and weighs about sixty or seventy pounds. It is much fatter, in proportion to its size, than the bearded seal, and its carcass, consequently, having less specific gravity, floats much longer on the water after death.

A third kind of seal found in the Spitzbergen seas is, probably, the Phoca hispida, though the hunters know it only by the names of the “springer,” and Jan Mayen seal. In the spring months it is killed in large numbers by the whalers among the vast ice-fields which encircle the solitary rocks of Jan Mayen Island.

Mr. Lamont observes that these seals, though existing in such enormous numbers to the west, are not nearly so numerous in Spitzbergen as the great, or even as the much less abundant common seal. They are gregarious, which neither of the other varieties are, and generally consort in bands of fifty to five hundred. They are extremely difficult to kill, as during the summer months they very seldom go upon the ice; they seem much less curious than the other seals, and go at such a rapid pace through the water as to defy pursuit from a boat. On coming up to breathe, these seals do not, like their congeners, take a deliberate breath and a leisurely survey, but the whole troop make a sort of simultaneous flying leap through the air like a shoal of porpoises, as they go along, and reappear again at an incredible distance from their preceding breathing-place. Hence the name of “springers” given to them by the whalers.

The Jan Mayen seal weighs from 200 to 300 lbs., and is described as the fattest and most buoyant of the Arctic mammals.

We have spoken of seal’s flesh as an important article of subsistence to the Eskimo tribes. Our Arctic voyagers and explorers have frequently been glad to nourish themselves upon it, and speak of it as somewhat resembling veal in flavour. Not once or twice, but several times, it has saved the hardy pioneer of civilization from destruction, and the discovery of a stray seal has been the means of preserving a whole expedition.

There is a very striking incident of this kind in the narrative of Dr. Kane. He and his party had reached Cape York on their way to the Danish settlements, after their long but fruitless search for Sir John Franklin. They were spent with fatigue, and half-dead from hunger. A kind of low fever crippled their energies, and they were unable to sleep. In their frail and unseaworthy boats, which were scarcely kept afloat by constant bailing, they made but slow progress across the open bay; when, at this crisis of their fortunes, they descried a large seal floating, as is the wont of these animals, on a small patch of ice, and apparently asleep,—a seal so large that at first they mistook it for a walrus.

Trembling with anxiety, Kane and his companions prepared to creep down upon the monster.

One of the men, Petersen, with a large English rifle, was stationed in the bow of the boat, and stockings were drawn over the oars as mufflers. As they approached the animal, their excitement became so intense that the men could hardly keep stroke. That no sound might be heard, Dr. Kane communicated his orders by signal; and when about three hundred yards off the oars were taken in, and they moved on, stealthily and silently, with a single scull astern.

The seal was not asleep, for he reared his head when his enemies were almost within rifle-shot; and long afterwards Dr. Kane could remember the hard, careworn, almost despairing expression of the men’s haggard faces as they saw him move; their lives depended on his capture. Dr. Kane lowered his hand, as a signal for Petersen to fire. M’Gorry, who was rowing, hung, he says, upon his oar, and the boat slowly but noiselessly forging ahead, did not seem within range. Looking at Petersen, he saw that the poor fellow was paralyzed by his anxiety, and was vainly seeking to find a rest for his gun against the cut-water of the boat. The seal rose on his flippers, gazed at his antagonists for a moment with mingled curiosity and alarm, and coiled himself for a plunge. At that moment, simultaneously with the crack of the rifle, he relaxed his huge bulk on the ice, and, at the very brink of the water, his head fell helplessly on one side.

Dr. Kane would have ordered another shot, but no discipline could have controlled his men. With a wild yell, each vociferating according to his own impulse, they urged both boats upon the floes. A crowd of hands seized the precious booty, and bore it up to safer ice. The men seemed half crazy, they had been so reduced by famine. They ran over the floe, crying and laughing, and brandishing their knives. Before five minutes had elapsed, each man was sucking his streaming fingers or mouthing long strips of raw blubber.

Not an ounce of this seal was wasted!

The intestines found their way into the soup-kettles without any observance of the preliminary home-processes. The cartilaginous parts of the fore-flippers were cut off in the mêlée, and passed round for the operation of chewing; and even the liver, warm and raw as it was, bade fair to be eaten before it had seen the pot. That night, on the large halting-floe to which, in contempt of the dangers of drifting, the happy adventurers had hauled their boats, two entire planks of the Red Eric were devoted to the kindling of a large cooking-fire, and they enjoyed a bountiful and savage feast.

Such is an experience of Arctic life; of the hardships endured by the heroic men who go forth to do the work of Science and Civilization.

Returning to the seals, we may remark that, according to a scientific authority, the angle of weedy rock on which a phoca is accustomed to rest with his family comes to be regarded as his property, and no other individuals of his species are entitled to lay claim to it. Although in the water these animals congregate together in numerous herds, and protect and courageously defend one another, yet, when they have once emerged from their favourite element, they regard themselves on their own space of rock as in a sacred domicile, where no comrade has a right to intrude on their domestic tranquillity. If any stranger approach this family centre, the chief—or shall we call him the father?—prepares to repel by force what he considers an unwarrantable encroachment; and a terrible combat invariably ensues, which terminates only with the death of the lord of the rock, or the compulsory retreat of the intruder.

But a family never seizes upon a larger tract than it absolutely requires, and lives peaceably with neighbouring families, from which it is seldom separated by a greater interval than forty or fifty paces. If compelled by necessity, they will even live on amicable terms at much closer quarters. Three or four families will share a rock, a cavern, or an ice-floe; but each occupies the place allotted to it at the original apportionment, and shuts himself within it, so to speak, nor ever meddles with individuals of another family.

Our modern naturalists divide the Phocidæ into two distinct orders: the Phocæ properly so called, which have no external ears, but only an auditory orifice on the surface of the head; and the Otariæ, which are provided with external organs.

The remarks we have been making apply more particularly to the common seal (Phoca vitulina), or small Spitzbergen seal, which measures from four to five feet in length. The Greenland or harp seal (Phoca Grœnlandica), to which we have already alluded, is larger and fatter, and is distinguished by the changes of colour it undergoes before it reaches maturity. We have also spoken of the bearded seal (Phoca barbata), which sometimes attains a length of ten feet, and is known, not only by its size, but its thick and strong moustaches. The hooded seal (Stemmatopus cristatus) is distinguished by the globular and expansible sac situated on the summit of the head of the males. This species grows to the length of seven or eight feet, and inhabits the waters of Newfoundland and Greenland.

The value of the seal to the Eskimo tribes will best be understood from a description of the uses to which various parts of the animal are applied in an Eskimo hut.

We will suppose this hut to measure about five or five and a half feet in height, and about ten feet in diameter. The walls are made of stones, moss, and the bones of seals, narwhals, whales, and other ocean-creatures. They are not arched, but recede inward gradually from the foundation, and are capped by long oblong slabs of slate-stone extending from side to side. We enter: the flooring consists of thin flat stones. At the back part of the hut the floor rises about a foot, and this breck, as the elevation is called, serves both as couch and seat, being covered with a thick layer of dried moss and grass, under seal-skins, dog-skins, and bear-skins. Similar elevations are placed at the corners in front; under one of which will lie, perhaps, a litter of pups, with their mother, and under the other a portion of seal’s meat. In the square front of the hut, above the passage-way, a window is inserted; the light being admitted through a square sheet of strips of dried intestines, sewed together. The entrance is in the floor, close to the front wall, and is covered with a piece of seal-skin. Seal-skins are hung about the walls to dry. At the edge of the breck, on either side, sits a woman, each busily engaged in attending to a smoky lamp, fed with seal’s oil. These lamps are made of soapstone, and in shape resemble a clam-shell, being about eight inches in diameter. The cavity is filled with oil obtained from seal’s blubber; and on the straight edge the flame burns quite vividly, the wick which furnishes it being made of moss. The business of the women is apparently to prevent the lamps from smoking, and to keep them supplied with blubber, large pieces of which are placed in the cavity, the heat drawing out the oil. About three inches above this flame hangs, suspended from the ceiling, an oblong square pot made of the same material as the lamp, in which a joint of seal is simmering slowly. Above this hangs a rack, made of bare rib-bones, bound together crosswise, on which stockings and mittens, and various garments made of seal-skin, are laid to dry. No other fire can be seen than that which the lamps supply, nor is any other needed. So many persons are crowded into the confined interior that it is insufferably hot, while the whole place reeks with the smell of seal-flesh, seal-oil, and seal-skin!

It is natural enough that we should here introduce an account of the Eskimo mode of catching seals. The great season of the seal-hunt is the spring, when the inoffensive phocæ gambol and sport in the open water-ways near the coasts, or clamber on the ice-floes to enjoy the rays of the tardy sun. They are of a wary and timid disposition, and we may suppose that their traditions have taught them to be on their guard against man; but as all their habits and ways are well known to the Eskimo, they do not succeed in eluding his dexterous perseverance. Sometimes the hunter attires himself in a seal-skin, and so exactly imitates their appearance and movements that he approaches within spear-range of them before the disguise is detected; or else he creeps into their haunts behind a white screen, which is propelled in front of him by means of a sledge. As the season verges upon midsummer less precaution becomes necessary; the eyes of the seals being so congested by the fierce radiance of the sun that they are often nearly blind. In winter they are assailed while labouring at their breathing-holes, or when they rise for the purpose of respiration.

If an Eskimo satisfies himself that a seal is working away beneath the ice, he takes up his station at the suspected point, and seldom quits it, however severe the weather, until he has captured the animal. To protect himself from the freezing blast, he throws up a snow-wall four feet in height, and seating himself in its shade, he rests his spears, lines, and other appliances on a number of little forked sticks inserted into the snow, in order that he may move them, when wanted, without making the slightest noise. He carries his caution to such an excess, that he even ties his own knees together with a thong to prevent his garments from rustling! about

To discover whether the seal is still gnawing at the ice, our patient watcher makes use of his keep-kuttuk; a slender rod of bone, no thicker than ordinary bell-wire, cleverly rounded, with a knob at one end and a sharp point at the other.

This implement he thrusts into the ice, and the knob, which remains above the surface, informs him by its motion whether the animal is still engaged in making his hole; if it does not move, the attempt is given up in that place, and the hunter betakes himself elsewhere. When he supposes the hole to be nearly completed, he stealthily raises his spear, and as soon as he can hear the blowing of the seal, and knows therefore that the ice-crust is very thin, he drives it into the unsuspecting animal with all his might; and then hacks away with his sharp-edged knife, or panna, the intervening ice, so as to repeat his blows, and secure his victim. The neituk, or Phoca hispida, being the smallest seal, is held while struggling, either by the hand, or by a line one end of which is twisted round a spear driven into the ice. In the case of the bearded seal, or oguka, the line is coiled round the hunter’s leg or arm; for a walrus, round his body, the feet being at the same time firmly planted against a hummock of ice, so as to increase the capability of resistance. A boy of fifteen can kill a neituk, but the larger animals can be mastered only by a robust and experienced adult.

We come now to speak of the Whale, which, in size, is the sovereign of the Arctic seas, and the grandest type of marine life.

Whales (Cetacea) are, as most persons now-a-days know, an order of aquatic mammals, distinguished by their fin-like anterior extremities, and by the peculiarity that the place of the posterior extremities is supplied by a large horizontal caudal fin, or tail; while the cervical bones are so compressed that the animal, externally at least, seems to have no neck.

The general form of the whale, notwithstanding its position among the Mammalia, is similar to that of the fishes, and the horizontal elongation of the body, the smooth and rounded surface, the gradual attenuation of the extremities of the trunk, and the magnitude of the fins and tail, are specially adapted to easy and swift motion in the water. The arrangement of the bones composing the anterior limb is very curious. The whole of the fin consists of exactly the same parts as those which we find in the human hand and arm; but they are so concealed beneath the thick cutaneous or integumentary envelope, that not a trace of bone is visible. In this respect an intermediate organization is shown by the fore limbs of the seal.

The posterior extremity, in all the Cetacea, is either absolutely deficient, or else rudimentary. If rudimentary, its sole vestige consists of certain small bones, the imperfect representation of a pelvis, suspended, as it were, in the flesh, and unconnected with the spinal column. Here we may observe a remarkable difference between the whale and the seal: in the latter, as we have seen, there is a short tail, and the posterior extremities perform the office of a true caudal fin; in the former this important organ of progression consists, to use Mr. Bell’s words, of “an extremely broad and powerful horizontal disc, varying in figure in the different genera, but in all constituting the principal instrument of locomotion.” In fishes the tail is set vertically, but in whales horizontally; and it has been well said that the admirable adaptation of such a peculiarity in its position to the requirements of the animal forms a fresh and beautiful illustration of the infinite resource and foresight of the Creative Wisdom.

Thus: the fishes, respiring only the air contained in the dense liquid medium in which they live, require no access to the atmosphere; and, therefore, their progression is chiefly confined to the same region. But the whales, breathing atmospheric air, must necessarily come to the surface for each respiration; and hence they need a powerful instrument or lever, the position of which shall apply its impulse in a vertical direction, so as to impel their colossal bulk from the lowest depths of ocean to the surface every time the lungs require to receive a fresh supply of atmospheric air. The greatest rapidity of motion is effected by alternate strokes of the tail against the water, upwards and downwards; but the usual progression is accomplished by an oblique lateral and downward impulse, first on one side and then on the other, just as a boat is propelled by a man with a single oar in the art of “sculling.” The extent of the tail in some of the larger species is really immense; the superficies being no less than about a hundred square feet, and its breadth considerably exceeding twenty feet.

The common, right, or Greenland whale (Balæna mysticetus) has been, for centuries, the object of man’s systematic pursuit, on account of its valuable oil and scarcely less valuable baleen.