THE PRIMEVAL FORESTS OF TROPICAL AMERICA.

    Their peculiar Charms and Terrors—Disappointments and Difficulties of the Botanist—The Bush-ropes—Variety of Trees and Plants—Trees with Buttresses—Numberless parasites—Character of the Primitive Forest according to its Site—Its Aspect during the Rainy Season—A Hurricane in the Forest—Beauty of the Forest after the Rainy Season—Our Home Scenes equally beautiful—Bird Life on the rivers of Guiana—Morning Concert—Repose of Nature at Noon—Nocturnal Voices of the Forest.

The peculiar charms of a tropical primeval forest are enhanced by the mystery of its impenetrable thickets; for however grand its lofty vaults, or lovely its ever-changing forms of leaf or blossom, fancy paints scenes still more beautiful beyond, where the eye cannot penetrate, and where, as yet, no wanderer has ever strayed. But imagination also peoples the forest with peculiar terrors; for man feels himself here surrounded by an alien, or even hostile, nature: the solitude and silence of the woods weigh heavily on his mind; in every rustling of the falling leaves a venomous snake seems ready to dart forth; and who knows what ravenous animal may not be lurking in the dense underwood that skirts the tangled path?

In Europe there is no room for such feelings; for in our part of the world there are no woods that may not be visited, even in their deepest recesses: no thorny bush-ropes stretch their intricate cordage before the wanderer; no masses of matted shrubs block up his way. But it is very different in the boundless forests of tropical America. Here the jaguar sometimes loses himself in such impenetrable thickets that, unable to hunt upon the ground, he lives for a long time on the trees, a terror to the monkeys; here the padres of the mission-stations, which are not many miles apart in a direct line, often require more54 than a day’s navigation to visit each other, following the windings of small rivulets in their courses, as the forest renders communication by land impossible.

Even the more open parts of the forest are full of mysteries. In our woods the summits of the highest trees are accessible; there is no blossom that we are not able to pluck—no plant that we are not able to examine, from its root to its topmost branches; but in the Brazilian forest, where the matted bush-ropes wind round the trunks like immense serpents waiting for their prey or stretch like the rigging of a ship from one tree to another, and blossom at a giddy height, it is frequently as impossible to reach their flowers as it is to distinguish to which of the many interlacing stems they may belong.

If any one should be inclined to tax this description with exaggeration, let him try to pluck the flowers of the lianas, or to ascend by climbing their flexible cordage. The tiger-cat and the monkey, perhaps also the agile Indian, may be able to accomplish the feat; but it would be utterly hopeless for the European to undertake it. Nor is it possible to drag down these inaccessible creepers; for, owing to their strength and toughness, it would be easier to pull down the tree to which they attach themselves than to force them from their hold. Here two or three together twisting spirally round each other form a complete living cable as if to bind securely the monarchs of the forest; there they form tangled festoons, and covered themselves with smaller creepers and parasitic plants, hide the parent stem from sight.

No botanist ever entered a primitive forest without envying the bird to whom no blossom is inaccessible, who, high above the loftiest trees, looks down upon the sea of verdure, and enjoys prospects whose beauty can hardly be imagined by man.

A majestic uniformity is the character of our woods, which often consist but of one species of tree, while in the tropical forests an immense variety of families strive for existence, and even in a small space one neighbour scarcely ever resembles the other. Even at a distance this difference becomes apparent in the irregular outlines of the forest, as here a dome-shaped crown, there a pointed pyramid, rises above the broad flat masses of green, in ever-varying succession. On approaching, the differences of colour are added to the irregularities of form; for55 while our forests are deprived of the ornament of flowers, many tropical trees have large blossoms, mixing in thick bunches with the leaves, and often entirely overpowering the verdure of the foliage by their gaudy tints. Thus splendid white, yellow, or red-coloured crowns are mingled with those of darker or more humble hue. At length when, on entering the forest, the single leaves become distinguishable, even the last traces of harmony disappear. Here they are delicately feathered, there lobed—here narrow, there broad—here pointed, there obtuse—here lustrous and fleshy, as if in the full luxuriance of youth, there dark and arid, as if decayed with age. In many the inferior surface is covered with hair; and as the wind plays with the foliage, it appears now silvery, now dark green—now of a lively, now of a sombre hue. Thus the foliage exhibits an endless variety of form and colour; and where plants of the same species unite in a small group, they are mostly shoots from the roots of an old stem. This is chiefly the case with the palms; but the species of the larger trees are generally so isolated in the wood, that one rarely sees two alike on the same spot. Each is surrounded by strangers that begrudge it the necessary space and air; and where so many thousand forms of equal pretensions vie for the possession of the soil, none is able to expand its crown or extend its branches at full liberty. Hence there is a universal tendency upwards; for it is only by overtopping its neighbours that each tree can attain the region of freedom and of light; and hence also the crowns borne aloft on those high columnar trunks are comparatively small. Shooting up straight and tall in this general struggle, they present no fantastic branches, no projecting limbs, like the sturdy oaks of our forests, and each, supported by the surrounding crowd, loses depth and tenacity of root. They may partly be compared to a body of military: the storm may rage, the lightning blast, the earthquake shake, and though many fall, the body at large scarcely feels the loss. Separate them and they will be found far inferior in power to the wild warrior, who, accustomed to stand alone, trusts to his own strength and dexterity to bear him through the worst storms of fate.

Among the trees the various kinds that have buttresses projecting around their base are the most striking and peculiar.56 Some of these buttresses are much longer than they are high, springing from a distance of eight or ten feet from the base, and reaching only four or five feet high on the trunk; while others rise to the height of twenty or thirty feet, and can even be distinguished as ribs on the stem to forty or fifty. They are complete wooden walls from six inches to a foot thick, sometimes branching into two or three, and extending straight out to such a distance as to afford room for a comfortable hut in the angle between them. Other trees again appear as if they were formed by a number of slender stems growing together. They are deeply furrowed for their whole height, like the pillars in a cathedral, and in places these furrows reach quite through them, like windows in a narrow tower, yet they run up as high as their loftiest neighbours, with a straight stem of uniform diameter. Another most curious form is presented by those which have many of their roots high above the ground, appearing to stand on many legs, and often forming archways large enough for a man to walk beneath.

The stems of all these trees, and the climbers that wind or wave around them, support a multitude of dependants. Tillandsias and other Bromeliaceæ, resembling wild pine-apples, large climbing Arums, with their dark green, arrowhead-shaped leaves, peppers in great variety, and large-leaved ferns, shoot out at intervals all up the stem to the very topmost branches. Between these, creeping ferns and delicate little species like our Hymenophyllum abound, and in moist dark places the leaves of these are again covered with minute creeping mosses and Jungermannias, so that we have parasites on parasites, and on these parasites again. On looking upwards the infinite variety of foliage, strongly defined against the clear sky, is a striking characteristic of the tropical forest, and the bright sunshine lighting up all above, while a sombre gloom reigns below, adds to the grandeur and solemnity of the scene.

As these vast woods occupy sites of a very different character,—here extending along low river-banks, there climbing the slopes of gigantic mountains,—here under the equator, there on the verge of the tropics, where many of the trees, annually casting their foliage, remind one of the winter of the temperate57 zone—it is of course quite impossible to embrace all their varieties of form and aspect in one general description.

On descending from the heights of the Andes to the plains of the Marañon, the eye is attracted, in the more elevated forests (the region of the quinquina trees), by a variety of fantastically flowering orchids—and of arborescent ferns, with their lacelike giant leaves—by large dendritic urticeas—by wonderful bignonias, banisterias, passifloras, and many other inextricably tangled bush-ropes and creepers. Farther downwards, though the lianas still appear in large numbers, the eye delights in palms of every variety of form, in terebinthinaceas, in leguminosas, whose sap is rich with many a costly balsam; in laurels, bearing an abundance of aromatic fruit; or it admires the broad-leaved heliconias, the large blossoms of the solaneas, and thousands of other flowers, remarkable for the beauty of their colour, the strangeness of their form, or their exquisite aroma.

In the deep lowlands the forest assumes a severe and dismal character: dense crowns of foliage form lofty vaults almost impenetrable to the light of day; no underwood thrives on the swampy ground; no parasite puts forth its delicate blossoms under the shade of the mighty trees and only mushrooms sprout abundantly from the humid soil.

Nothing can equal the gloom of these forests during the rainy season. Thick fogs obscure the damp and sultry air, and clouds of mosquitos whirl about in the mist. The trees are dripping with moisture; the flowers expand their petals only during the few dry hours of the day, and every animal seeks shelter in the thicket. No bird, no butterfly comes forth; the snorting of the capybaras, and the monotonous croaking of frogs and toads, are the only sounds that break the dull silence. Night darkens with increasing sadness over these dismal solitudes; no star is visible; the moon disappears behind thick clouds; and the roar of the jaguar, or the howling of the stentor-monkey, issue like notes of distress from the depth of the melancholy woods.

A hurricane bursting over the primeval forest is one of the most terrific scenes of nature. A hollow uproar in the higher regions of the air, as if the wild huntsman of the German legends were sweeping along with his whole pack of phantom hounds, precedes the explosion of the storm, while the lower58 atmosphere still lies in deep repose. The roaring and rushing descends lower and lower; the higher branches of the trees strike wildly against each other; the forked lightning flashes through the night-like darkness; the thunder, repeated by a hundred echoes, rolls through the thicket; and trees, uprooted by the fury of the storm, fall with a loud crash, bearing down every stem of minor growth in their sweeping ruin. The howlings and wailings of terrified animals accompany the wild sounds of the tempest.

After the wet season the woods appear in their full beauty. Before the first showers, the long-continued drought had withered their leaves, and dried up many of the more delicate parasites, and during its continuance the torrents of rain despoiled them of all ornament; but when the clouds disperse and the animals come forth from their retreats to stretch their stiffened limbs in the warm sunshine, then also the vegetable world awakens to new life; and where, a few days before, the eye met only with green in every variety of shade, it now revels in the luxuriance of beautiful flowers, which embalm the air with exquisite fragrance.

At this time of the year the banks of the rivers of Guiana winding through the primitive woods are of magical beauty. Through the underwood which often overhangs wide spaces of the stream, the large white blossoms of the inga shine forth, along with the scarlet brushes of the magnificent combretia. Elegant palms, armed with a panoply of thorns, and bearing a profusion of red fruit, rise above this lovely foreground; and farther on, noble forest trees are seen festooned with creepers and parasites covered with flowers.

These fairy bowers are enlivened by birds of splendid plumage, particularly in the early morning, when the luscious green of the high palm-fronds or the burning yellow of the lofty leopoldinias, touched by the first rays of the sun, suddenly shines forth. Then hundreds of gaudy parrots fly across the river; numberless colibris dart like winged gems through the air; whole herds of cotingas flutter among the blossoms; ducks of brilliant plumage cackle on the branches of submerged trees; on the highest tree-tops the toucan yelps his loud pia-po-ko! while, peeping from his nest, the oriole endeavours to imitate the sound; and the scarlet ibis flies in troops to the coast, while59 the white egrette flutters along before the boat, rests, and then again rises for a new career.

Yet pick out even the loveliest of these privileged spots where the most gorgeous flowers of the tropics expand their glowing petals, and for every scene of this kind we may find another at home of equal beauty and with an equal amount of brilliant colour.

‘Look at a field of buttercups and daisies,’ says Mr. Wallace, a very competent judge, ‘a hill-side covered with gorse and broom, a mountain rich with purple heather, or a forest glade azure with a carpet of wild hyacinths, and they will bear a comparison with any scene the tropics can produce. I have never seen anything more glorious than an old crab-tree in full blossom, and the horse-chestnut, lilac, and laburnum will vie with the choicest tropical trees and shrubs. In the tropical waters are no more beautiful plants than our white and yellow water lilies, our irises and flowering rush, for I cannot consider the flower of the Victoria Regia more beautiful than that of the Nymphæa alba, though it may be larger, nor is it so abundant an ornament of the tropical waters as the latter is of ours.’

Let us, therefore, unseduced by the highly coloured statements of travellers, learn to be contented with the beauties which Nature has lavished on our woods and fields, nor deem that England—
‘Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide’—

has received but a step-motherly share in the distribution of her gifts.

Like the ocean, the forest has its voices, now swelling into uproar, now subsiding into silence; but while the wind and the breaker are the only musicians of the sea, the woods resound with animal voices.

In general, the morning hours are the loudest; for the creatures that delight in daylight, though not more numerous than the nocturnal species, have generally a louder voice. Their full concert, however, does not begin immediately after sunrise; for they are mostly so chilled by the colder night, that they need to be warmed for some time before awakening to the60 complete use of their faculties. First, single tones ring from the higher tree-crowns, and gradually thousands of voices join in various modulation—now approaching, now melting into distance. Pre-eminent in loudness is the roar of the howling monkeys, though without being able fully to stifle the discordant cries and chattering of the noisy parrots. But the sun rapidly ascends towards the zenith, and one musician after the other grows mute and seeks the cool forest shade, until finally the whole morning concert ceases. Where the rays of light break through the foliage and play upon the underwood, or on the damp ground, gaudy butterflies flutter about, beetles of metallic brilliancy warm themselves, and richly-robed or dark-vested snakes creep forth; for these indolent creatures are also fond of basking in the sun.
IVORY-BILLED WOODPECKER.

As the heat grows more intense, the stillness of the forest is only interrupted at intervals by single animal voices. Sometimes it is the note of the ivory-billed woodpecker, resounding like the distant axe of the forester, or the wail of the sloth breaking forth from the dense thicket. Sometimes human voices seem to issue from the depth of the forest, and the astonished huntsman fancies himself close to his comrades of the chase, or in the more dangerous neighbourhood of a wild tribe of Indians. With deep attention he listens to the sounds, until he discovers them to be the melancholy cry of the wood-pigeon.

The deepest silence reigns at noon, when the sun becomes too powerful even for the children of the torrid zone; and many creatures, particularly the birds, sink into a profound sleep. Then all the warm-blooded animals seek the shade, and only the cold reptiles—alligators, lizards, salamanders—stretch themselves upon the glowing rocks in the bed of the forest streams, or on sunny slopes, and, with raised head and distended jaws, seem to inhale with delight the sultry air.

As the evening approaches, the noise of the morning begins to re-awaken. With loud cries the parrots return from their distant feeding-grounds to the trees on which they are61 accustomed to rest at night; and, as the monkeys saluted the rising sun, so, chattering or howling, they now watch him sinking in the west.

With twilight a new world of animals—which, as long as the day lasted, remained concealed in the recesses of the forest—awakens from its mid-day torpor, and prepares to enjoy its nightly revels. Then bats of hideous size wing their noiseless flight through the wood, chasing the giant hawk-moths and beetles, which have also waited for the evening hour, while the felidæ quit their lairs, ready to spring on the red stag near some solitary pool, or on the unwieldy tapir, who, having slept during the heat of the day, seeks, as soon as evening approaches, the low-banked river, where he loves to wallow in the mud. Then also the shy opossum quits his nest in hollow trees, or under some arch-like vaulted root, to search for insects or fruits, and the cautious agouti sallies from the bush.

In our forests scarcely a single tone is heard after sunset; but in the tropical zone many loud voices celebrate the night, where for hours after the sun has disappeared, the cicadæ, toads, frogs, owls, and goatsuckers chirrup, cry, croak, howl, and wail. The quietest hours are from midnight until about three in the morning. Complete silence, however, occurs only during very short intervals; for there is always some cause or other that prompts some animal to break the stillness. Sometimes the din grows so loud that one might fancy a legion of evil spirits were celebrating their orgies in the darkness of the forest. The howling of the aluates, the whine of the little sapajous, the snarl of the duruculi, the roaring of the jaguar, the grunt of the pecari, the cry of the sloth, and the shrill voices of birds, join in dreadful discord. Humboldt supposes the first cause of these tumults to be a conflict among animals, which, arising by chance, gradually swells to larger dimensions. The jaguar pursues a herd of pecaris or tapirs, which break wildly through the bushes. Terrified by the noise, the monkeys howl, awakening parrots and toucans from their slumber; and thus the din spreads through the wood. A long time passes before the forest returns to its stillness. Towards the approach of day the owls, the goatsuckers, the toads, the frogs, howl, groan, and croak for the last time; and as soon as the first beams of morning purple the sky, the shrill notes of the cicadæ mix with their expiring cries.