THEIR BARBARISM — NUM, OR JILIBEAMBAERTJE — SHAMANISM — SAMOÏEDE IDOLS — SJADÆI — HAHE — THE TADEBTSIOS, OR SPIRITS — THE TADIBES, OR SORCERERS — THEIR DRESS — THEIR INVOCATIONS — THEIR CONJURING TRICKS — REVERENCE PAID TO THE DEAD — A SAMOÏEDE OATH — APPEARANCE OF THE SAMOÏEDES — THEIR DRESS — A SAMOÏEDE BELLE — CHARACTER OF THE SAMOÏEDES — THEIR DECREASING NUMBERS — TRADITIONS OF ANCIENT HEROES — OSTIAKS — WHAT IS THE OBI? — A SUMMER YOURT — POVERTY OF OSTIAK FISHERMEN — A WINTER YOURT — ATTACHMENT OF OSTIAKS TO THEIR ANCIENT CUSTOMS — ARCHERY — APPEARANCE AND CHARACTER OF THE OSTIAKS.
The Samoïedes, the neighbors of the Laplanders, are still farther removed from civilized society, and plunged in even deeper barbarism. The wildest tundras and woods of Northern Russia and Western Siberia are the home of the Samoïede. With his reindeer herds he wanders over the naked wastes, from the eastern coasts of the White Sea to the banks of the Chatanga, or hunts in the boundless forests between the Obi and the Jenissei. His intercourse with the Russians is confined to his annual visit at the fairs of such miserable settlements as Obdorsk and Pustosersk, where, far from improving by their company, he but too often becomes the prey of their avarice, and learns to know them merely as cheats and oppressors. Protestant missionaries have long since brought instruction to the Laplander’s hut, but the majority of the less fortunate Samoïedes still adhere to the gross superstitions of their fathers. They believe in a Supreme Being,—Num, or Jilibeambaertje,—who resides in the air, and, like the Jupiter of old, sends down thunder and lightning, rain and snow; and as a proof that something of a poetic fancy is to be found even among the most savage nations, they call the rainbow “the hem of his garment.” As this deity, however, is too far removed from them to leave them any hope of gaining his favor, they never think of offering him either prayer or sacrifice. But, besides Num, there are a great many inferior spirits, or idols, who directly interfere in human concerns,—capricious beings, who allow themselves to be influenced by offerings, or yield to magical incantations; and to these, therefore, the Samoïede has recourse when he feels the necessity of invoking the aid or averting the wrath of a higher power.
The chief of all Samoïede idols is in the island of Waygatz,—a cold and melancholy Delos,—where it was already found by old Barentz. This idol is a mere block of stone, with its head tapering to a point. It has thus been fashioned, not by a mortal artist, but by a play of nature. After this original the Samoïedes have formed many idols of stone or wood of various sizes, which they call “Sjadæi,” from their possessing a human physiognomy (sja). These idols they dress in reindeer skins, and ornament them with all sorts of colored rags. But a resemblance to the human form is not the necessary attribute of a Samoïede idol; any irregularly shaped stone or tree may be thus distinguished.
If the object is small, the savage carries it everywhere about with him, carefully wrapped up; if too cumbersome to be transported, it is reserved as a kind of national deity. As with the Ostiaks, each Samoïede tribe has in its train a peculiar sledge,—the Hahengan,—in which the household idols (or Hahe) are placed. One of these Penates protects the reindeer, another watches over the health of his worshippers, a third is the guardian of their connubial happiness, a fourth takes care to fill their nets with fish. Whenever his services are required, the Hahe is taken from his repository, and erected in the tent or on the pasture ground, in the wood or on the river’s bank.
His mouth is then smeared with oil or blood, and a dish with fish or flesh is set before him, in the full expectation that his good offices will amply repay the savory repast. When his aid is no longer necessary, he is put aside without any further ceremony, and as little noticed as the Madonna of the Neapolitan fisherman after the storm has ceased.
The Hahe, or idols, are very convenient objects of reverence to the Samoïede, as he can consult them, or ask their assistance, without being initiated in the secrets of magic; while the Tadebtsios, or invisible spirits, which everywhere hover about in the air, and are more inclined to injure than to benefit man, can only be invoked by a Tadibe, or sorcerer, who, like the Cumæan sibyl, works himself into a state of ecstatic frenzy. When his services are required, the first care of the Tadibe is to invest himself with his magical mantle,—a kind of shirt made of reindeer leather, and hemmed with red cloth. The seams are covered in a similar manner, and the shoulders are decorated with epaulettes of the same gaudy material. A piece of red cloth veils the eyes and face,—for the Tadibe requires no external organs of sight to penetrate into the world of spirits,—and a plate of polished metal shines upon his breast.
Thus accoutred, the Tadibe seizes his magical drum, whose sounds summon the spirits to his will. Its form is round, it has but one bottom, made of reindeer skin, and is more or less decorated with brass rings, and other ornaments, according to the wealth or poverty of its possessor. During the ceremony of invocation, the Tadibe is generally assisted by a disciple, more or less initiated in the magic art. They either sit down, or walk about in a circle. The chief sorcerer beats the drum, at first slowly, then with increasing violence, singing at the same time a few words to a mystic melody. The disciple immediately falls in, and both repeat the same monotonous chant.
At length the spirits appear, and the consultation is supposed to begin; the Tadibe from time to time remaining silent, as if listening to their answers, and but gently beating his drum, while the assistant continues to sing. Finally, this mute conversation ceases, the song changes into a wild howling, the drum is violently struck, the eye of the Tadibe glows with a strange fire, foam issues from his lips, when suddenly the uproar ceases, and the oracular sentence is pronounced. The Tadibes are consulted, not only for the purpose of recovering a strange reindeer, or to preserve the herd from a contagious disorder, or to obtain success in fishing. The Samoïede, when a prey to illness, seeks no other medical advice; and the sorcerer’s drum either scares away the malevolent spirits that cause the malady, or summons other to the assistance of his patient.
Besides dealing with the invisible world, the Tadibe does not neglect the usual arts of an expert conjurer, and knows by this means how to increase his influence over his simple-minded countrymen. One of his commonest tricks is similar to that which has been practised with so much success by the brothers Davenport. He sits down, with his hands and feet bound, on a reindeer skin stretched out upon the floor, and, the light being removed, begins to summon the ministering spirits to his aid. Strange, unearthly noises now begin to be heard; bears growl, snakes hiss, squirrels rustle about the hut. At length the tumult ceases, the audience anxiously awaits the end of the spectacle, when suddenly the Tadibe, freed from his bonds, steps into the hut, no one doubting that the spirits have set him free.
As barbarous as the poor wretches who submit to his guidance, the Tadibe is incapable of improving their moral condition, and has no wish to do so. Under various names,—Schamans among the Tungusi, Angekoks among the Esquimaux, medicine-men among the North American Indians,—we find similar magicians or impostors assuming a spiritual dictatorship over all the Arctic nations of the Old and the New World, wherever their authority has not been broken by Christianity or Buddhism. This dreary faith still extends its influence over at least half a million of souls, from the White Sea to the extremity of Asia, and from the Pacific to Hudson’s Bay.
Like the Ostiaks and other Siberian tribes, the Samoïedes honor the memory of the dead by sacrifices and other ceremonies. They believe that their deceased friends have still the same wants and pursue the same occupations as when in the land of the living; and thus they place in or about their graves a sledge, a spear, a cooking-pot, a knife, an axe, etc., to assist them in procuring and preparing their food. At the funeral, and for several years afterward, the relations sacrifice reindeer over the grave. When a person of note, a prince, a Starschina, the proprietor of numerous herds of reindeer, dies (for even among the miserable Samoïedes we find the social distinctions of rich and poor), the nearest relations make an image, which is placed in the tent of the deceased, and enjoys the respect paid to him during his lifetime. At every meal the image is placed in his former seat, and every evening it is undressed and laid down in his bed. During three years the image is thus honored, and then buried; for by this time the body is supposed to be decayed, and to have lost all sensation of the past. The souls of the Tadibes, and of those who have died a violent death, alone enjoy the privilege of immortality, and after their terrestrial life hover about in the air as unsubstantial spirits.
Like the Ostiaks, the Samoïedes consider the taking of an oath as an action of the highest religious importance. When a crime has been secretly committed against a Samoïede, he has the right to demand an oath from the suspected person.
If no wooden or stone Hahe is at hand, he manufactures one of earth or snow, leads his opponent to the image, sacrifices a dog, breaks the image, and then addresses him with the following words: “If thou hast committed this crime, then must thou perish like this dog.” The ill consequences of perjury are so much dreaded by the Samoïedes,—who, though they have but very faint ideas of a future state, firmly believe that crime will be punished in this life: murder with violent death, or robbery by losses of reindeer,—that the true criminal, when called upon to swear, hardly ever submits to the ceremony, but rather at once confesses his guilt, and pays the penalty.
The most effectual security for an oath is that it should be solemnized over the snout of a bear,—an animal which is highly revered by all the Siberian tribes, from the Kamschatkans to the Samoïedes, as well as by the Laplanders. Like the Laplanders, they believe that the bear conceals under his shaggy coat a human shape with more than human wisdom, and speak of him in terms of the highest reverence. Like the Lapps, also, they will drive an arrow or a bullet through his skin; but they preface the attack with so many compliments that they feel sure of disarming his anger.
The appearance of the Samoïedes is as wild as the country which they inhabit. The dwarfish stature of the Ostiak or the Lapp, thick lips, small eyes, a low forehead, a broad nose, so much flattened that the end is nearly upon a level with the bone of the upper jaw (which is strong and greatly elevated), raven-black, shaggy hair, a thin beard, and a yellow-brown complexion, are their characteristic features, and in general they do nothing to improve a form which has but little natural beauty to boast of. The Samoïede is satisfied if his heavy reindeer dress affords him protection against the cold and rain, and cares little if it be dirty or ill-cut; some dandies, however, wear furs trimmed with cloth of a gaudy color. The women, as long as they are unmarried, take some pains with their persons; and when a Samoïede girl, with her small and lively black eyes, appears in her reindeer jacket tightly fitting round the waist, and trimmed with dog-skin, in her scarlet moccasins, and her long, black tresses, ornamented with pieces of brass or tin, she may well tempt some rich admirer to offer a whole herd of reindeer for her hand. For among the Samoïedes no father ever thinks of bestowing a portion on his daughter; on the contrary, he expects from the bridegroom an equivalent for the services which he is about to lose by her marriage. The consequence of this degrading custom is that the husband treats his consort like a slave, or as an inferior being. A Samoïede, who had murdered his wife, was quite surprised at being summoned before a court of justice, for what he considered a trifling offence; “he had honestly paid for her,” he said, “and could surely do what he liked with his own.”
The senses and faculties of the Samoïedes correspond to their mode of life as nomads and hunters. They have a piercing eye, delicate hearing, and a steady hand; they shoot an arrow with great accuracy, and are swift runners.
The Samoïede is good-natured, melancholy, and phlegmatic. He has, indeed, but indistinct notions of right and wrong, of good and evil; but he possesses a grateful heart, and is ready to divide his last morsel with his friend. Cruelty, revenge, the darker crimes that pollute so many of the savage tribes of the tropical zone, are foreign to his character. Constantly at war with a dreadful climate, a prey to ignorance and poverty, he regards most of the things of this life with supreme indifference.
A common trait in the character of all Samoïedes is the gloomy view which they take of life and its concerns; their internal world is as cheerless as that which surrounds them. True men of ice and snow, they relinquish, without a murmur, a life which they can hardly love, as it imposes upon them many privations, and affords them but few pleasures in return.
The entire number of the European and Asiatic Samoïedes is estimated at no more than about 10,000, and this number, small as it is when compared to the vast territory over which they roam, is still decreasing from year to year. Before their subjugation by the Russians, the Samoïedes were frequently at war with their neighbors, the Ostiaks, the Woguls, and the Tartars, and the rude poems which celebrate the deeds of the heroes of old are still sung in the tents of their peaceful descendants. The minstrel, or troubadour,—if I may be allowed to use these names while speaking of the rudest of mankind,—is seated in the centre of the hut, while the audience squat around. His gesticulations endeavor to express his sympathy with his hero. His body trembles, his voice quivers, and during the more pathetic parts of his story, tears start to his eyes, and he covers his face with his left hand, while the right, holding an arrow, directs its point to the ground. The audience generally keep silence, but their groans accompany the hero’s death; or when he soars upon an eagle to the clouds, and thus escapes the malice of his enemies, they express their delight by a triumphant shout.
What is the Obi? “One of the most melancholy rivers on earth,” say the few European travellers who have ever seen it roll its turbid waters through the wilderness; “its monotonous banks a dreary succession of swamps and dismal pine forests, and hardly a living creature to be seen, but cranes, wild ducks, and geese.” If you address the same question to one of the few Russians who have settled on its banks, he answers, with a devout mien, “Obi is our mother”; but if you ask the Ostiak, he bursts forth in a laconic but energetic phrase, “Obi is the god whom we honor above all other gods.”
To him the Obi is a source of life. With its salmon and sturgeon he pays his taxes and debts, and buys his few luxuries; while the fishes of inferior quality which get entangled in his net he keeps for his own consumption and that of his faithful dog, eating them mostly raw, so that the perch not seldom feels his teeth as soon as it is pulled out of the water. In spring, when the Obi and its tributaries burst their bonds of ice, and the floods sweep over the plains, the Ostiak is frequently driven into the woods, where he finds but little to appease his hunger. At length, however, the waters subside, the flat banks of the river appear above their surface, and the savage erects his summer hut close to its stream. This hovel has generally a quadrangular form, low walls, and a high-pointed roof, made of willow branches covered with large pieces of bark. These, having first been softened by boiling, are sewed together, so as to form large mats or carpets, easily rolled up and transported. The hearth, a mere hole inclosed by a few stones, is in the centre, and the smoke escapes through an aperture at the top. Close to the hut there is also, generally, a small store-house erected on high poles, as in Lapland; for the provisions must be secured against the attacks of the glutton, the wolf, or the owner’s dogs.
At the beginning of winter the Ostiaks retire into the woods, where they find, at least, some protection against the Arctic blasts, and are busy hunting the sable or squirrel; but as fishing affords them at all times their chief food, they take care to establish their winter huts on some eminence above the reach of the spring inundations, near some small river, which, through holes made in the ice, affords their nets and anglers a precarious supply. Their winter yourt is somewhat more solidly constructed than their summer residence, as it is not removed every year. It is low and small, and its walls are plastered with clay. Light is admitted through a piece of ice inserted in the wall or on the roof.
Besides those who live solely upon fishes and birds of passage, there are other Ostiaks who possess reindeer herds, and wander in summer to the border of the Polar Sea, where they also catch seals and fish. When winter approaches, they slowly return to the woods. Finally, in the more southerly districts, there are some Ostiaks who, having entirely adopted the Russian mode of life, cultivate the soil, keep cattle, or earn their livelihood as carriers.
In general, however, the Ostiak, like the Samoïede, obstinately withstands all innovations, and remains true to the customs of his forefathers. He has been so often deceived by the Russians that he is loth to receive the gifts of civilization from their hands. He fears that if his children learn to read and write, they will no longer be satisfied to live like their parents, and that the school will deprive him of the support of his age. He is no less obstinately attached to the religion of his fathers, which in all essential points is identical with that of the Samoïedes. In some of the southern districts, along the Irtysch, at Surgut, he has indeed been baptized, and hangs up the image of a saint in his hut, as his Russian pope or priest has instructed him to do; but his Christianity extends no further. Along the tributaries of the Obi, and below Obdorsk, he is still plunged in Schamanism.
Like the Samoïedes, the Ostiaks, whose entire number amounts to about 25,000, are subdivided into tribes, reminding one of the Highland clans. Each tribe consists of a number of families, of a common descent, and sometimes comprising many hundred individuals, who, however distantly related, consider it a duty to assist each other in distress.
The Ostiaks are excellent archers, and, like all the other hunting tribes of Siberia, use variously constructed arrows for the different objects of their chase.
They are generally of a small stature, and most of them are dark-complexioned, with raven-black hair like the Samoïedes; some of them, however, have a fairer skin and light-colored hair. They are a good-natured, indolent, honest race; and though they are extremely dirty, yet their smoky huts are not more filthy than those of the Norwegian or Icelandic fishermen.
As among the Samoïedes, the women are in a very degraded condition, the father always giving his daughter in marriage to the highest bidder. The price is very different, and rises or falls according to the circumstances of the parent; for while the rich man asks fifty reindeer for his child, the poor fisherman is glad to part with his daughter for a few squirrel-skins and dried sturgeon.