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 more
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; for 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. 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 temperate 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 lower 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,
while 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 the 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.
[Illustration: 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 are 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.
[Illustration: BOTOCUDO INDIANS ATTACKING A JAGUAR.]