enemy; and he has some reason for thinking so. Truly may it be said of
him, as of Ishmael, that his “hand is against every man, and every man’s
hand against him;” and such has been his unhappy history for ages. Not
alone have the boers been his pursuers and oppressors, but all others
upon his borders who are strong enough to attack him,—colonists,
Caffres, and Bechuanas, all alike,—not even excepting his supposed
kindred, the Hottentots. Not only does no fellow-feeling exist between
Bushman and Hottentot, but, strange to say, they hate each other with
the most rancorous hatred. The Bushman will plunder a Namaqua Hottentot,
a Griqua, or a Gonaqua,—plunder and murder him with as much
ruthlessness, or even more, than he would the hated Caffre or boer. All
are alike his enemies,—all to be plundered and massacred, whenever met,
and the thing appears possible.
We are speaking of plunder. This is another source of supply to the
Bushman, though one that is not always to be depended upon. It is his
most dangerous method of obtaining a livelihood, and often costs him his
life. He only resorts to it when all other resources fail him, and food
is no longer to be obtained by the chase.
He makes an expedition into the settlements,—either of the frontier
boers, Caffres, or Hottentots,—whichever chance to live most convenient
to his haunts. The expedition, of course, is by night, and conducted,
not as an open _foray_ but in secret, and by stealth. The cattle are
stolen, not _reeved_, and driven off while the owner and his people are
asleep.
In the morning, or as soon as the loss is discovered, a pursuit is at
once set on foot. A dozen men, mounted and armed with long muskets
(_röers_), take the _spoor_ of the spoilers, and follow it as fast as
their horses will carry them. A dozen boers, or even half that number,
is considered a match for a whole tribe of Bushmen, in any fight which
may occur in the open plain, as the boers make use of their long-range
guns at such a distance that the Bushmen are shot down without being
able to use their poisoned arrows; and if the thieves have the fortune
to be overtaken before they have got far into the desert, they stand a
good chance of being terribly chastised.
There is no quarter shown them. Such a thing as mercy is never dreamt
of,—no sparing of lives any more than if they were a pack of hyenas. The
Bushmen may escape to the rocks, such of them as are not hit by the
bullets; and there the boers know it would be idle to follow them. Like
the klipspringer antelope, the little savages can bound from rock to
rock, and cliff to cliff, or hide like partridges among crevices, where
neither man nor horse can pursue them. Even upon the level plain—if it
chance to be stony or intersected with breaks and ravines—a horseman
would endeavor to overtake them in vain, for these yellow imps are as
swift as ostriches.
When the spoilers scatter thus, the boer may recover his cattle, but in
what condition? That he has surmised already, without going among the
herd. He does not expect to drive home one half of them; perhaps not one
head. On reaching the flock he finds there is not one without a wound of
some kind or other: a gash in the flank, the cut of a knife, the stab of
an assagai, or a poisoned arrow—intended for the boer himself—sticking
between the ribs. This is the sad spectacle that meets his eyes; but he
never reflects that it is the result of his own cruelty,—he never
regards it in the light of retribution. Had he not first hunted the
Bushman to make him a slave, to make bondsmen and bondsmaids of his sons
and daughters, to submit them to the caprice and tyranny of his great,
strapping _frau_, perhaps his cattle would have been browsing quietly in
his fields. The poor Bushman, in attempting to take them, followed but
his instincts of hunger: in yielding them up he obeyed but the
promptings of revenge.
It is not always that the Bushman is thus overtaken. He frequently
succeeds in carrying the whole herd to his desert fastness; and the
skill which he exhibits in getting them there is perfectly surprising.
The cattle themselves are more afraid of him than of a wild beast, and
run at his approach; but the Bushman, swifter than they, can glide all
around them, and keep them moving at a rapid rate.
He uses stratagem also to obstruct or baffle the pursuit. The route he
takes is through the driest part of the desert,—if possible, where water
does not exist at all. The cattle suffer from thirst, and bellow from
the pain; but the Bushman cares not for that, so long as he is himself
served. But how is he served? There is no water, and a Bushman can no
more go without drinking than a boer: how then does he provide for
himself on these long expeditions?
All has been pre-arranged. While off to the settlements, the Bushman’s
wife has been busy. The whole _kraal_ of women—young and old—have made
an excursion half-way across the desert, each carrying ostrich
egg-shells, as much as her kaross will hold, each shell full of water.
These have been deposited at intervals along the route in secret spots
known by marks to the Bushmen, and this accomplished the women return
home again. In this way the plunderer obtains his supply of water, and
thus is he enabled to continue his journey over the arid _Karroo_.
The pursuers become appalled. They are suffering from thirst—their
horses sinking under them. Perhaps they have lost their way? It would be
madness to proceed further. “Let the cattle go this time!” and with this
disheartening reflection they give up the pursuit, turn the heads of
their horses, and ride homeward.
There is a feast at the Bushman’s kraal—and such a feast! not _one_ ox
is slaughtered, but a score of them all at once. They kill them, as if
from very wantonness; and they no longer eat, but raven on the flesh.
For days the feasting is kept up almost continuously,—even at night they
must wake up to have a midnight meal! and thus runs the tale, till every
ox has been eaten. They have not the slightest idea of a provision for
the future; even the lower animals seem wiser in this respect. They do
not think of keeping a few of the plundered cattle at pasture to serve
them for a subsequent occasion. They give the poor brutes neither food
nor drink; but having penned them up in some defile of the rocks, leave
them to moan and bellow, to drop down and die.
On goes the feasting, till all are finished; and even if the flesh has
turned putrid, this forms not the slightest objection: it is eaten all
the same.
The kraal now exhibits an altered spectacle. The starved meagre
wretches, who were seen flitting among its tents but a week ago, have
all disappeared. Plump bodies and distended abdomens are the order of
the day; and the profile of the Bushwoman, taken from the neck to the
knees, now exhibits the outline of the letter S. The little imps leap
about, tearing raw flesh,—their yellow cheeks besmeared with blood,—and
the lean curs seem to have been exchanged for a pack of fat, petted
poodles.
But this scene must some time come to an end, and at length it does end.
All the flesh is exhausted, and the bones picked clean. A complete
reaction comes over the spirit of the Bushman. He falls into a state of
languor,—the only time when he knows such a feeling,—and he keeps his
kraal, and remains idle for days. Often he sleeps for twenty-four hours
at a time, and wakes only to go to sleep again. He need not rouse
himself with the idea of getting something to eat: there is not a morsel
in the whole kraal, and he knows it. He lies still, therefore,—weakened
with hunger, and overcome with the drowsiness of a terrible lassitude.
Fortunate for him, while in this state, if those bold vultures—attracted
by the _débris_ of his feast, and now high wheeling in the air—be not
perceived from afar; fortunate if they do not discover the whereabouts
of his kraal to the vengeful pursuer. If they should do so, he has made
his last foray and his last feast.
When the absolute danger of starvation at length compels our Bushman to
bestir himself, he seems to recover a little of his energy, and once
more takes to hunting, or, if near a stream, endeavors to catch a few
fish. Should both these resources fail, he has another,—without which he
would most certainly starve,—and perhaps this may be considered his most
important source of supply, since it is the most constant, and can be
depended on at nearly all seasons of the year. Weakened with hunger,
then, and scarce equal to any severer labor, he goes _out hunting—this
time insects, not quadrupeds_. With a stout stick inserted into a stone
at one end and pointed at the other, he proceeds to the nests of the
white ants (_termites_), and using the point of the stick,—the stone
serving by its weight to aid the force of the blow,—he breaks open the
hard, gummy clay of which the hillock is formed. Unless the _aard-vark_
and the _pangolin_—two very different kinds of ant-eaters—have been
there before him, he finds the chambers filled with the eggs of the
ants, the insects themselves, and perhaps large quantities of their
_larvæ_. All are equally secured by the Bushman, and either devoured on
the spot, or collected into a skin bag, and carried back to his kraal.
He hunts also another species of ants that do not build nests or
“hillocks,” but bring forth their young in hollows under the ground.
These make long galleries or covered ways just under the surface, and at
certain periods—which the Bushman knows by unmistakable signs—they
become very active, and traverse these underground galleries in
thousands. If the passages were to be opened above, the ants would soon
make off to their caves, and but a very few could be captured. The
Bushman, knowing this, adopts a stratagem. With the stick already
mentioned he pierces holes of a good depth down; and works the stick
about, until the sides of the holes are smooth and even. These he
intends shall serve him as pitfalls; and they are therefore made in the
covered ways along which the insects are passing. The result is, that
the little creatures, not suspecting the existence of these deep wells,
tumble head foremost into them, and are unable to mount up the steep
smooth sides again, so that in a few minutes the hole will be filled
with ants, which the Bushman scoops out at his leisure.
Another source of supply which he has, and also a pretty constant one,
consists of various roots of the tuberous kind, but more especially
bulbous roots, which grow in the desert. They are several species of
_Ixias_ and _Mesembryanthemums_,—some of them producing bulbs of a large
size, and deeply buried underground. Half the Bushman’s and Bushwoman’s
time is occupied in digging for these roots; and the spade employed is
the stone-headed staff already described.
Ostrich eggs also furnish the Bushman with many a meal; and the huge
shells of these eggs serve him for water-vessels, cups, and dishes. He
is exceedingly expert in tracking up the ostrich, and discovering its
nest. Sometimes he finds a nest in the absence of the birds; and in a
case of this kind he pursues a course of conduct that is _peculiarly
Bushman_. Having removed all the eggs to a distance, and concealed them
under some bush, he returns to the nest and ensconces himself in it. His
diminutive body, when close squatted, cannot be perceived from a
distance, especially when there are a few bushes around the nest, as
there usually are. Thus concealed he awaits the return of the birds,
holding his bow and poisoned arrows ready to salute them as soon as they
come within range. By this _ruse_ he is almost certain of killing either
the cock or hen, and not unfrequently both—when they do not return
together.
Lizards and land-tortoises often furnish the Bushman with a meal; and
the shell of the latter serves him also for a dish; but his period of
greatest plenty is when the _locusts appear_. Then, indeed, the Bushman
is no longer in want of a meal; and while these creatures remain with
him, he knows no hunger. He grows fat in a trice, and his curs keep pace
with him—for they too greedily devour the locusts. Were the locusts a
constant, or even an annual visitor, the Bushman would be a rich man—at
all events his wants would be amply supplied. Unfortunately for him, but
fortunately for everybody else, these terrible destroyers of vegetation
only come now and then—several years often intervening between their
visits.
The Bushmen have no religion whatever; no form of marriage—any more than
mating together like wild beasts; but they appear to have some respect
for the memory of their dead, since they bury them—usually erecting a
large pile of stones, or “cairn,” over the body.
They are far from being of a melancholy mood. Though crouching in their
dens and caves during the day, in dread of the boers and other enemies,
they come forth at night to chatter and make merry. During fine
moonlights they dance all night, keeping up the _ball_ till morning; and
in their kraals may be seen a circular spot—beaten hard and smooth with
their feet—where these dances are performed.
They have no form of government—not so much as a head man or chief. Even
the father of the family possesses no authority, except such as superior
strength may give him; and when his sons are grown up and become as
strong as he is, this of course also ceases.
They have no tribal organization; the small communities in which they
live being merely so many individuals accidently brought together, often
quarrelling and separating from one another. These communities rarely
number over a hundred individuals, since, from the nature of their
country, a large number could not find subsistence in any one place. It
follows, therefore, that the Bushman race must ever remain widely
scattered—so long as they pursue their present mode of life—and no
influence has ever been able to win them from it. Missionary efforts
made among them have all proved fruitless. The desert seems to have been
created for them, as they for the desert; and when transferred
elsewhere, to dwell amidst scenes of civilized life, they always yearn
to return to their wilderness home.
Truly are these pigmy savages an odd people!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE AMAZONIAN INDIANS.
In glancing at the map of the American continent, we are struck by a
remarkable analogy between the geographical features of its two great
divisions—the North and the South,—an analogy amounting almost to a
symmetrical parallelism.
Each has its “mighty” mountains—the _Cordilleras of the Andes_ in the
south, and the _Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre_ (Rocky Mountains) in
the north—with all the varieties of volcano and eternal snow. Each has
its secondary chain: in the north, the _Nevadas_ of California and
Oregon; in the south, the _Sierras_ of Caraccas and the group of Guiana;
and, if you wish to render the parallelism complete, descend to a lower
elevation, and set the Alleghanies of the United States against the
mountains of Brazil—both alike detached from all the others.
In the comparison we have exhausted the mountain chains of both
divisions of the continent. If we proceed further, and carry it into
minute detail, we shall find the same correspondence—ridge for ridge,
chain for chain, peak for peak;—in short, a most singular equilibrium,
as if there had been a design that one half of this great continent
should balance the other!
From the mountains let us proceed to the rivers, and see how _they_ will
correspond. Here, again, we discover a like parallelism, amounting
almost to a rivalry. Each continent (for it is proper to style them so)
contains the largest river in the world. If we make _length_ the
standard, the north claims precedence for the Mississippi; if _volume of
water_ is to be the criterion, the south is entitled to it upon the
merits of the Amazon. Each, too, has its numerous branches, spreading
into a mighty “tree”; and these, either singly or combined, form a
curious equipoise both in length and magnitude. We have only time to set
list against list, tributaries of the great northern river against
tributaries of its great southern compeer,—the Ohio and Illinois, the
Yellowstone and Platte, the Kansas and Osage, the Arkansas and Red,
against the Madeira and Purus, the Ucayali and Huallaga, the Japura and
Negro, the Xingu and Tapajos.
Of other river systems, the St. Lawrence may be placed against the La
Plata, the Oregon against the Orinoco, the Mackenzie against the
Magdalena, and the Rio Bravo del Norte against the Tocantins; while the
two Colorados—the Brazos and Alabama—find their respective rivals in the
Essequibo, the Paranahybo, the Pedro, and the Patagonian Negro; and the
San Francisco of California, flowing over sands of gold, is balanced by
its homonyme of Brazil, that has its origin in the land of diamonds. To
an endless list might the comparison be carried.
We pass to the plains. _Prairies_ in the north, _llanos_ and _pampas_ in
the south, almost identical in character. Of the _plateaux_ or
table-lands, those of Mexico, La Puebla, Perote, and silver Potosi in
the north; those of Quito, Bogota, Cusco, and gold Potosi in the south;
of the desert plains, Utah and the Llano Estacado against Atacama and
the deserts of Patagonia. Even the Great Salt Lake has its parallel in
Titicaca; while the “Salinas” of New Mexico and the upland prairies, are
represented by similar deposits in the Gran Chaco and the Pampas.
We arrive finally at the forests. Though unlike in other respects, we
have here also a rivalry in magnitude,—between the vast timbered expanse
stretching from Arkansas to the Atlantic shores, and that which covers
the valley of the Amazon. These _were_ the two greatest forests on the
face of the earth. I say _were_, for one of them no longer exists; at
least, it is no longer a continuous tract, but a collection of forests,
opened by the axe, and intersected by the clearings of the colonist. The
other still stands in all its virgin beauty and primeval vigor,
untouched by the axe, undefiled by fire, its path scarce trodden by
human feet, its silent depths to this hour unexplored.
It is with this forest and its denizens we have to do. Here then let us
terminate the catalogue of similitudes, and concentrate our attention
upon the particular subject of our sketch.
The whole _valley_ of the Amazon—in other words, the tract watered by
this great river and its tributaries—may be described as one unbroken
forest. We now know the borders of this forest with considerable
exactness, but to trace them here would require a too lengthened detail.
Suffice it to say, that lengthwise it extends from the mouth of the
Amazon to the foot-hills of the Peruvian Andes, a distance of 2,500
miles. In breadth it varies, beginning on the Atlantic coast with a
breadth of 400 miles, which widens towards the central part of the
continent till it attains to 1,500, and again narrowing to about 1,000,
where it touches the eastern slope of the Andes.
That form of leaf known to botanists as “obovate” will give a good idea
of the figure of the great Amazon forest, supposing the small end or
shank to rest on the Atlantic, and the broad end to extend along the
semicircular concavity of the Andes, from Bolivia on the south to New
Granada on the north. In all this vast expanse of territory there is
scarce an acre of open ground, if we except the water-surface of the
rivers and their bordering “lagoons,” which, were they to bear their due
proportions on a map, could scarce be represented by the narrowest
lines, or the most inconspicuous dots. The grass plains which embay the
forest on its southern edge along the banks of some of its Brazilian
tributaries, or those which proceed like spurs from the Llanos of
Venezuela, do not in any place approach the Amazon itself, and there are
many points on the great river which may be taken as centres, and around
which circles may be drawn, having diameters 1,000 miles in length, the
circumferences of which will enclose nothing but timbered land. The main
stream of the Amazon, though it intersects this grand forest, does not
_bisect_ it, speaking with mathematical precision. There is rather more
timbered surface to the southward than that which extends northward,
though the inequality of the two divisions is not great. It would not be
much of an error to say that the Amazon river cuts the forest in halves
At its mouth, however, this would not apply: since for the first 300
miles above the embouchure of the river the country on the northern side
is destitute of timber. This is occasioned by the projecting spurs of
the Guiana mountains, which on that side approach the Amazon in the
shape of naked ridges and grass-covered hills and plains.
It is not necessary to say that the great forest of the Amazon is a
tropical one—since the river itself, throughout its whole course, almost
traces the line of the equator. Its vegetation, therefore, is
emphatically of a tropical character and in this respect it differs
essentially from that of North America, or rather, we should say, of
Canada and the United States. It is necessary to make this limitation,
because the forests of the tropical parts of North America, including
the West-Indian islands, present a great similitude to that of the
Amazon. It is not only in the genera and species of trees that the
_sylva_ of the temperate zone differs from that of the torrid; but there
is a very remarkable difference in the distribution of these genera and
species. In a great forest of the north, it is not uncommon to find a
large tract covered with a single species of trees,—as with pines, oaks,
poplars, or the red cedar (_Juniperus Virginiana_). This arrangement is
rather the rule than the exception; whereas, in the tropical forest, the
rule is reversed, except in the case of two or three species of palms
(_Mauritia_ and _Euterpe_), which sometimes exclusively cover large
tracts of surface. Of other trees, it is rare to find even a clump or
grove standing together—often only two or three trees, and still more
frequently, a single individual is observed, separated from those of its
own kind by hundreds of others, all differing in order, genus, and
species. I note this peculiarity of the tropic forest, because it
exercises, as may easily be imagined, a direct influence upon the
economy of its human occupants—whether these be savage or civilized.
Even the habits of the lower animals—beasts and birds—are subject to a
similar influence.
It would be out of place here to enumerate the different kinds of trees
that compose this mighty wood,—a bare catalogue of their names would
alone fill many pages,—and it would be safe to say that if the list were
given as now known to botanists, it would comprise scarce half the
species that actually exist in the valley of the Amazon. In real truth,
this vast Garden of God is yet unexplored by man. Its border walks and
edges have alone been examined; and the enthusiastic botanist need not
fear that he is too late in the field. A hundred years will elapse
before this grand _parterre_ can be exhausted.