In the year 1816, two days before the vernal equinox, I sailed from
Liverpool for Pernambuco, in the southern hemisphere, on the coast of
Brazil. There is little at this time of the year in the European part of
the Atlantic to engage the attention of the naturalist. As you go down
the Channel you see a few divers and gannets. The middle-sized gulls,
with a black spot at the end of the wings, attend you a little way into
the Bay of Biscay. When it blows a hard gale of wind the stormy petrel
makes its appearance. While the sea runs mountains high, and every wave
threatens destruction to the labouring vessel, this little harbinger of
storms is seen enjoying itself, on rapid pinion, up and down the roaring
billows. When the storm is over it appears no more. It is known to
every English sailor by the name of Mother Carey's chicken. It must have
been hatched in AEolus's cave, amongst a clutch of squalls and tempests;
for whenever they get out upon the ocean it always contrives to be of the
party.
Though the calms and storms and adverse winds in these latitudes are
vexatious, still, when you reach the trade winds, you are amply repaid
for all disappointments and inconveniences. The trade winds prevail
about thirty degrees on each side of the equator. This part of the ocean
may be called the Elysian Fields of Neptune's empire; and the torrid
zone, notwithstanding Ovid's remark, "non est habitabilis aestu," is
rendered healthy and pleasant by these gently-blowing breezes. The ship
glides smoothly on, and you soon find yourself within the northern
tropic. When you are on it, Cancer is just over your head, and betwixt
him and Capricorn is the high road of the Zodiac, forty-seven degrees
wide, famous for Phaeton's misadventure. His father begged and entreated
him not to take it into his head to drive parallel to the five zones, but
to mind and keep on the turnpike which runs obliquely across the equator.
"There you will distinctly see," said he, "the ruts of my chariot wheels,
'manifesta rotae vestigia cernes.' But," added he, "even suppose you
keep on it, and avoid the byroads, nevertheless, my dear boy, believe me,
you will be most sadly put to your shifts; 'ardua prima via est,' the
first part of the road is confoundedly steep! 'ultima via prona est,' and
after that it is all down hill. Moreover, 'per insidias iter est,
formasque ferarum,' the road is full of nooses and bull-dogs,
'Haemoniosque arcus,' and spring guns, 'saevaque circuitu, curvantem
brachia longo, Scorpio,' and steel traps of uncommon size and shape."
These were nothing in the eyes of Phaeton; go he would, so off he set,
full speed, four-in-hand. He had a tough drive of it; and after doing a
prodigious deal of mischief, very luckily for the world, he got thrown
out of the box, and tumbled into the river Po.
Some of our modern bloods have been shallow enough to try to ape this
poor empty-headed coachman, on a little scale, making London their
Zodiac. Well for them if tradesmen's bills, and other trivial
perplexities, have not caused them to be thrown into the King's Bench.
The productions of the torrid zone are uncommonly grand. Its plains, its
swamps, its savannas, and forests abound with the largest serpents and
wild beasts; and its trees are the habitation of the most beautiful of
the feathered race. While the traveller in the Old World is astonished
at the elephant, the tiger, the lion, and the rhinoceros, he who wanders
through the torrid regions of the New is lost in admiration at the
cotingas, the toucans, the humming-birds, and aras.
The ocean, likewise, swarms with curiosities. Probably the flying-fish
may be considered as one of the most singular. This little scaled
inhabitant of water and air seems to have been more favoured than the
rest of its finny brethren. It can rise out of the waves, and on wing
visit the domain of the birds.
After flying two or three hundred yards, the intense heat of the sun has
dried its pellucid wings, and it is obliged to wet them in order to
continue its flight. It just drops into the ocean for a moment, and then
rises again and flies on; and then descends to remoisten them, and then
up again into the air; thus passing its life, sometimes wet, sometimes
dry, sometimes in sunshine, and sometimes in the pale moon's nightly
beam, as pleasure dictates, or as need requires. The additional
assistance of wings is not thrown away upon it. It has full occupation
both for fins and wings, as its life is in perpetual danger.
The bonito and albicore chase it day and night; but the dolphin is its
worst and swiftest foe. If it escape into the air, the dolphin pushes on
with proportional velocity beneath, and is ready to snap it up the moment
it descends to wet its wings.
You will often see above one hundred of these little marine aerial
fugitives on the wing at once. They appear to use every exertion to
prolong their flight, but vain are all their efforts; for when the last
drop of water on their wings is dried up, their flight is at an end, and
they must drop into the ocean. Some are instantly devoured by their
merciless pursuer, part escape by swimming, and others get out again as
quick as possible, and trust once more to their wings.
It often happens that this unfortunate little creature, after alternate
dips and flights, finding all its exertions of no avail, at last drops on
board the vessel, verifying the old remark--
"Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim."
There, stunned by the fall, it beats the deck with its tail, and dies.
When eating it, you would take it for a fresh herring. The largest
measure from fourteen to fifteen inches in length. The dolphin, after
pursuing it to the ship, sometimes forfeits his own life.
In days of yore, the musician used to play in softest, sweetest strain,
and then take an airing amongst the dolphins; "inter delphinas Arion."
But nowadays, our tars have quite capsized the custom; and instead of
riding ashore on the dolphin, they invited the dolphin aboard. While he
is darting and playing around the vessel, a sailor goes out to the
spritsailyard-arm, and with a long staff, leaded at one end, and armed at
the other with five barbed spikes, he heaves it at him. If successful in
his aim, there is a fresh mess for all hands. The dying dolphin affords
a superb and brilliant sight:
"Mille trahit moriens, adverso sole colores."
All the colours of the rainbow pass and repass in rapid succession over
his body, till the dark hand of death closes the scene.
From the Cape de Verd Islands to the coast of Brazil you see several
different kinds of gulls, which probably are bred in the island of St.
Paul. Sometimes the large bird called the frigate pelican soars
majestically over the vessel, and the tropic-bird comes near enough to
let you have a fair view of the long feathers in his tail. On the line
when it is calm sharks of a tremendous size make their appearance. They
are descried from the ship by means of the dorsal fin, which is above the
water.
On entering the Bay of Pernambuco, the frigate pelican is seen watching
the shoals of fish from a prodigious height. It seldom descends without
a successful attack on its numerous prey below.
As you approach the shore the view is charming. The hills are clothed
with wood, gradually rising towards the interior, none of them of any
considerable height. A singular reef of rocks runs parallel to the
coast, and forms the harbour of Pernambuco. The vessels are moored
betwixt it and the town, safe from every storm. You enter the harbour
through a very narrow passage, close by a fort built on the reef. The
hill of Olinda, studded with houses and convents, is on your right hand,
and an island, thickly planted with cocoa-nut trees, adds considerably to
the scene on your left. There are two strong forts on the isthmus,
betwixt Olinda and Pernambuco, and a pillar midway to aid the pilot.
Pernambuco probably contains upwards of fifty thousand souls. It stands
on a flat, and is divided into three parts--a peninsula, an island, and
the continent. Though within a few degrees of the line, its climate is
remarkably salubrious, and rendered almost temperate by the refreshing
sea-breeze. Had art and judgment contributed their portion to its
natural advantages, Pernambuco at this day would have been a stately
ornament to the coast of Brazil. On viewing it, it will strike you that
every one has built his house entirely for himself, and deprived public
convenience of the little claim she had a right to put in. You would
wish that this city, so famous for its harbour, so happy in its climate,
and so well situated for commerce, could have risen under the flag of
Dido, in lieu of that of Braganza.
As you walk down the streets, the appearance of the homes is not much in
their favour. Some of them are very high, and some very low; some newly
whitewashed, and others stained and mouldy and neglected, as though they
had no owner.
The balconies, too, are of a dark and gloomy appearance. They are not,
in general, open, as in most tropical cities, but grated like a farmer's
dairy window, though somewhat closer.
There is a lamentable want of cleanliness in the streets. The impurities
from the houses, and the accumulation of litter from the beasts of
burden, are unpleasant sights to the passing stranger. He laments the
want of a police as he goes along; and when the wind begins to blow, his
nose and eyes are too often exposed to a cloud of very unsavoury dust.
When you view the port of Pernambuco, full of ships of all nations; when
you know that the richest commodities of Europe, Africa, and Asia are
brought to it; when you see immense quantities of cotton, dye-wood, and
the choicest fruits pouring into the town, you are apt to wonder at the
little attention these people pay to the common comforts which one always
expects to find in a large and opulent city. However, if the inhabitants
are satisfied, there is nothing more to be said. Should they ever be
convinced that inconveniences exist, and that nuisances are too frequent,
the remedy is in their own hands. At present, certainly, they seem
perfectly regardless of them; and the Captain-General of Pernambuco walks
through the streets with as apparent content and composure as an English
statesman would proceed down Charing Cross. Custom reconciles
everything. In a week or two the stranger himself begins to feel less
the things which annoyed him so much upon his first arrival, and after a
few months' residence he thinks no more about them, while he is partaking
of the hospitality and enjoying the elegance and splendour within doors
in this great city.
Close by the riverside stands what is called the Palace of the
Captain-General of Pernambuco. Its form and appearance altogether strike
the traveller that it was never intended for the use it is at present put
to.
Reader, throw a veil over thy recollection for a little while, and forget
the cruel, unjust, and unmerited censures thou hast heard against an
unoffending order. This palace was once the Jesuits' college, and
originally built by those charitable fathers. Ask the aged and
respectable inhabitants of Pernambuco, and they will tell thee that the
destruction of the Society of Jesus was a terrible disaster to the
public, and its consequences severely felt to the present day.
When Pombal took the reins of power into his own hands, virtue and
learning beamed bright within the college walls. Public catechism to the
children, and religious instruction to all, flowed daily from the mouths
of its venerable priests.
They were loved, revered, and respected throughout the whole town. The
illuminating philosophers of the day had sworn to exterminate Christian
knowledge, and the college of Pernambuco was doomed to founder in the
general storm. To the long-lasting sorrow and disgrace of Portugal, the
philosophers blinded her king and flattered her Prime Minister. Pombal
was exactly the tool these sappers of every public and private virtue
wanted. He had the naked sword of power in his own hand, and his heart
was as hard as flint. Ho struck a mortal blow, and the Society of Jesus
throughout the Portuguese dominions, was no more.
One morning all the fathers of the college in Pernambuco, some of them
very old and feeble, were suddenly ordered into the refectory. They had
notice beforehand of the fatal storm, in pity from the governor, but not
one of them abandoned his charge. They had done their duty, and had
nothing to fear. They bowed with resignation to the will of Heaven. As
soon as they had all reached the refectory, they were there locked up,
and never more did they see their rooms, their friends, their scholars,
or acquaintance. In the dead of the following night, a strong guard of
soldiers literally drove them through the streets to the water's edge.
They were then conveyed in boats aboard a ship, and steered for Bahia.
Those who survived the barbarous treatment they experienced from Pombal's
creatures were at last ordered to Lisbon. The college of Pernambuco was
plundered, and some time after an elephant was kept there.
Thus the arbitrary hand of power, in one night, smote and swept away the
sciences; to which succeeded the low vulgar buffoonery of a showman.
Virgil and Cicero made way for a wild beast from Angola! and now a guard
is on duty at the very gate where, in times long past, the poor were
daily fed!!!
Trust not, kind reader, to the envious remarks which their enemies have
scattered far and near; believe not the stories of those who have had a
hand in the sad tragedy. Go to Brazil, and see with thine own eyes the
effect of Pombal's short-sighted policy. There vice reigns triumphant,
and learning is at its lowest ebb. Neither is this to be wondered at.
Destroy the compass, and will the vessel find her far-distant port? Will
the flock keep together, and escape the wolves, after the shepherds are
all slain? The Brazilians were told that public education would go on
just as usual. They might have asked Government, who so able to instruct
our youth as those whose knowledge is proverbial? who so fit as those who
enjoy our entire confidence? who so worthy, as those whose lives are
irreproachable?
They soon found that those who succeeded the fathers of the Society of
Jesus had neither their manner nor their abilities. They had not made
the instruction of youth their particular study. Moreover, they entered
on the field after a defeat, where the officers had all been slain; where
the plan of the campaign was lost; where all was in sorrow and dismay.
No exertions of theirs could rally the dispersed, or skill prevent the
fatal consequences. At the present day the seminary of Olinda, in
comparison with the former Jesuits' college, is only as the waning moon's
beam to the sun's meridian splendour.
When you visit the places where those learned fathers once flourished,
and see with your own eyes the evils their dissolution has caused; when
you hear the inhabitants telling you how good, how clever, how charitable
they were--what will you think of our poet laureate for calling them, in
his "History of Brazil," "Missioners, whose zeal the most fanatical was
directed by the coolest policy"?
Was it _fanatical_ to renounce the honours and comforts of this
transitory life, in order to gain eternal glory in the next, by denying
themselves, and taking up the cross? Was it _fanatical_ to preach
salvation to innumerable wild hordes of Americans, to clothe the naked,
to encourage the repenting sinner, to aid the dying Christian? The
fathers of the Society of Jesus did all this. And for this their zeal is
pronounced to be the most fanatical, directed by the coolest policy. It
will puzzle many a clear brain to comprehend how it is possible, in the
nature of things, that _zeal_ the most _fanatical_ should be directed by
the _coolest policy_. Ah, Mr. Laureate, Mr. Laureate, that "quidlibet
audendi" of yours may now and then gild the poet, at the same time that
it makes the historian cut a sorry figure!
Could Father Nobrega rise from the tomb, he would thus address
you:--"Ungrateful Englishman, you have drawn a great part of your
information from the writings of the Society of Jesus, and in return you
attempt to stain its character by telling your countrymen that 'we taught
the idolatry we believed!' In speaking of me, you say, it was my happy
fortune to be stationed in a country where _none_ but the good principles
of my order were called into action. Ungenerous laureate, the narrow
policy of the times has kept your countrymen in the dark with regard to
the true character of the Society of Jesus; and you draw the bandage
still tighter over their eyes by a malicious insinuation. I lived, and
taught, and died in Brazil, where you state that _none_ but the good
principles of my order were called into action, and still, in most
absolute contradiction to this, you remark we believed the _idolatry_ we
taught in Brazil. Thus we brought none but good principles into action,
and still taught idolatry!
"Again, you state there is no individual to whose talents Brazil is so
greatly and permanently indebted as mine, and that I must be regarded as
the founder of that system so successfully pursued by the Jesuits in
Paraguay; a system productive of as much good as is compatible with pious
fraud. Thus you make me, at one and the same time, a teacher of none but
good principles, and a teacher of idolatry, and a believer in idolatry,
and still the founder of a system for which Brazil is greatly and
permanently indebted to me, though, by-the-bye, the system was only
productive of as much good as is compatible with pious fraud!
"What means all this? After reading such incomparable nonsense, should
your countrymen wish to be properly informed concerning the Society of
Jesus, there are in England documents enough to show that the system of
the Jesuits was a system of Christian charity towards their
fellow-creatures, administered in a manner which human prudence judged
best calculated to ensure success; and that the idolatry which you
uncharitably affirm they taught was really and truly the very same faith
which the Catholic Church taught for centuries in England, which she
still teaches to those who wish to hear her, and which she will continue
to teach pure and unspotted, till time shall be no more."
The environs of Pernambuco are very pretty. You see country houses in
all directions, and the appearance of here and there a sugar plantation
enriches the scenery. Palm-trees, cocoa-nut trees, orange and lemon
groves, and all the different fruits peculiar to Brazil, are here in the
greatest abundance.
At Olinda there is a national botanical garden; it wants space, produce,
and improvement. The forests which are several leagues off, abound with
birds, beasts, insects, and serpents. Besides a brilliant plumage, many
of the birds have a very fine song. The troupiale, noted for its rich
colours, sings delightfully in the environs of Pernambuco. The
red-headed finch, larger than the European sparrow, pours forth a sweet
and varied strain, in company with two species of wrens, a little before
daylight. There are also several species of the thrush, which have a
song somewhat different from that of the European thrush; and two species
of the linnet, whose strain is so soft and sweet that it dooms them to
captivity in the houses. A bird, called here _sangre do buey_ (blood of
the ox), cannot fail to engage your attention: he is of the passerine
tribe, and very common about the houses; the wings and tail are black,
and every other part of the body a flaming red. In Guiana there is a
species exactly the same as this in shape, note, and economy, but
differing in colour, its whole body being like black velvet; on its
breast a tinge of red appears through the black. Thus nature has ordered
this little tangara to put on mourning to the north of the line, and
wears scarlet to the south of it.
For three months in the year the environs of Pernambuco are animated
beyond description. From November to March the weather is particularly
fine; then it is that rich and poor, young and old, foreigners and
natives, all issue from the city to enjoy the country, till Lent
approaches, when back they hie them. Villages and hamlets, where nothing
before but rags were seen, now shine in all the elegance of dress; every
house, every room, every shed become eligible places for those whom
nothing but extreme necessity could have forced to live there a few weeks
ago: some join in the merry dance, others saunter up and down the orange
groves; and towards evening the roads become a moving scene of silk and
jewels. The gaming-tables have constant visitors; there, thousands are
daily and nightly lost and won; parties even sit down to try their luck
round the outside of the door as well as in the room:--
"Vestibulum ante ipsum primisque in faucibus aulae
Luctus et ultrices, posuere sedilia curae."
About six or seven miles from Pernambuco stands a pretty little village
called Monteiro; the river runs close by it, and its rural beauties seem
to surpass all others in the neighbourhood; there the Captain-General of
Pernambuco resides during this time of merriment and joy.
The traveller who allots a portion of his time to peep at his
fellow-creatures in their relaxations, and accustoms himself to read
their several little histories in their looks and gestures as he goes
musing on, may have full occupation for an hour or two every day at this
season amid the variegated scenes around the pretty village of Monteiro.
In the evening groups sitting at the door, he may sometimes see with a
sigh how wealth and the prince's favour cause a booby to pass for a
Solon, and be reverenced as such, while perhaps a poor neglected Camoens
stands silent at a distance, awed by the dazzling glare of wealth and
power. Retired from the public road he may see poor Maria sitting under
a palm-tree, with her elbow in her lap and her head leaning on one side
within her hand, weeping over her forbidden banns. And as he moves on,
"with wandering step and slow," he may hear a broken-hearted nymph ask
her faithless swain,
"How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake;
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?"
One afternoon, in an unfrequented part not far from Monteiro, these
adventures were near being brought to a speedy and a final close: six or
seven blackbirds, with a white spot betwixt the shoulders, were making a
noise, and passing to and fro on the lower branches of a tree in an
abandoned, weed-grown, orange orchard. In the long grass underneath the
tree, apparently a pale green grasshopper was fluttering, as though it
had got entangled in it. When you once fancy that the thing you are
looking at is really what you take it for, the more you look at it the
more you are convinced it is so. In the present case, this was a
grasshopper beyond all doubt, and nothing more remained to be done but to
wait in patience till it had settled, in order that you might run no risk
of breaking its legs in attempting to lay hold of it while it was
fluttering--it still kept fluttering; and having quietly approached it,
intended to make sure of it--behold, the head of a large rattlesnake
appeared in the grass close by: an instantaneous spring backwards
prevented fatal consequences. What had been taken for a grasshopper was,
in fact, the elevated rattle of the snake in the act of announcing that
he was quite prepared, though unwilling, to make a sure and deadly
spring. He shortly after passed slowly from under the orange-tree to the
neighbouring wood on the side of a hill: as he moved over a place bare of
grass and weeds, he appeared to be about eight feet long; it was he who
had engaged the attention of the birds, and made them heedless of danger
from another quarter: they flew away on his retiring; one alone left his
little life in the air, destined to become a specimen, mute and
motionless, for the inspection of the curious in a far distant clime.
It was now the rainy season, the birds were moulting; fifty-eight
specimens of the handsomest of them in the neighbourhood of Pernambuco
had been collected, and it was time to proceed elsewhere. The conveyance
to the interior was by horses; and this mode, together with the heavy
rains, would expose preserved specimens to almost certain damage. The
journey to Maranham by land would take at least forty days. The route
was not wild enough to engage the attention of an explorer, or civilised
enough to afford common comforts to a traveller. By sea there were no
opportunities, except slave ships. As the transporting poor negroes from
port to port for sale pays well in Brazil, the ships' decks are crowded
with them. This would not do.
Excuse here, benevolent reader, a small tribute of gratitude to an Irish
family, whose urbanity and goodness have long gained it the esteem and
respect of all ranks in Pernambuco. The kindness and attention I
received from Dennis Kearney, Esq., and his amiable lady, will be
remembered with gratitude to my dying day.
After wishing farewell to this hospitable family, I embarked on board a
Portuguese brig, with poor accommodation, for Cayenne in Guiana. The
most eligible bedroom was the top of a hen-coop on deck. Even here, an
unsavoury little beast, called bug, was neither shy nor deficient in
appetite.
The Portuguese seamen are famed for catching fish. One evening, under
the line, four sharks made their appearance in the wake of the vessel.
The sailors caught them all.
On the fourteenth day after leaving Pernambuco, the brig cast anchor off
the island of Cayenne. The entrance is beautiful. To windward, not far
off, there are two bold wooded islands, called the Father and Mother; and
near them are others, their children, smaller, though as beautiful as
their parents. Another is seen a long way to leeward of the family, and
seems as if it had strayed from home, and cannot find its way back. The
French call it "l'enfant perdu." As you pass the islands, the stately
hills on the main, ornamented with ever-verdant foliage, show you that
this is by far the sublimest scenery on the sea-coast, from the Amazons
to the Oroonoque. On casting your eye towards Dutch Guiana, you will see
that the mountains become unconnected, and few in number, and long before
you reach Surinam the Atlantic wave washes a flat and muddy shore.
Considerably to windward of Cayenne, and about twelve leagues from land,
stands a stately and towering rock, called the Constable. As nothing
grows on it to tempt greedy and aspiring man to claim it as his own, the
sea-fowl rest and raise their offspring there. The bird called the
frigate is ever soaring round its rugged summit. Hither the phaeton
bends his rapid flight, and flocks of rosy flamingos here defy the
fowler's cunning. All along the coast, opposite the Constable, and
indeed on every uncultivated part of it to windward and leeward, are seen
innumerable quantities of snow-white egrets, scarlet curlews, spoonbills,
and flamingos.
Cayenne is capable of being a noble and productive colony. At present it
is thought to be the poorest on the coast of Guiana. Its estates are too
much separated one from the other by immense tracts of forest; and the
revolutionary war, like a cold eastern wind, has chilled their zeal and
blasted their best expectations.
The clove-tree, the cinnamon, pepper, and nutmeg, and many other choice
spices and fruits of the eastern and Asiatic regions, produce abundantly
in Cayenne.
The town itself is prettily laid out, and was once well fortified. They
tell you it might easily have been defended against the invading force of
the two united nations; but Victor Hugues, its governor, ordered the
tri-coloured flag to be struck; and ever since that day the standard of
Braganza has waved on the ramparts of Cayenne.
He who has received humiliations from the hand of this haughty,
iron-hearted governor, may see him now in Cayenne, stripped of all his
revolutionary honours, broken down and ruined, and under arrest in his
own house. He has four accomplished daughters, respected by the whole
town. Towards the close of day, when the sun's rays are no longer
oppressive, these much-pitied ladies are seen walking up and down the
balcony with their aged parent, trying, by their kind and filial
attention, to remove the settled gloom from his too guilty brow.
This was not the time for a traveller to enjoy Cayenne. The hospitality
of the inhabitants was the same as ever, but they had lost their wonted
gaiety in public, and the stranger might read in their countenances, as
the recollection of recent humiliations and misfortunes every now and
then kept breaking in upon them, that they were still in sorrow for their
fallen country: the victorious hostile cannon of Waterloo still sounded
in their ears; their Emperor was a prisoner amongst the hideous rocks of
St. Helena; and many a Frenchman who had fought and bled for France was
now amongst them begging for a little support to prolong a life which
would be forfeited on the parent soil. To add another handful to the
cypress and wormwood already scattered amongst these polite colonists,
they had just received orders from the court of Janeiro to put on deep
mourning for six months, and half-mourning for as many more, on account
of the death of the Queen of Portugal.
After a day's journey in the interior is the celebrated national
plantation. This spot was judiciously chosen, for it is out of the reach
of enemies' cruisers. It is called La Gabrielle. No plantation in the
western world can vie with La Gabrielle. Its spices are of the choicest
kind; its soil particularly favourable to them; its arrangements
beautiful; and its directeur, Monsieur Martin, a botanist of first-rate
abilities. This indefatigable naturalist ranged through the East, under
a royal commission, in quest of botanical knowledge; and during his stay
in the western regions has sent over to Europe from twenty to twenty-five
thousand specimens in botany and zoology. La Gabrielle is on a
far-extending range of woody hills. Figure to yourself a hill in the
shape of a bowl reversed, with the buildings on the top of it, and you
will have an idea of the appearance of La Gabrielle. You approach the
house through a noble avenue, five hundred toises long, of the choicest
tropical fruit-trees, planted with the greatest care and judgment; and
should you chance to stray through it after sunset, when the clove-trees
are in blossom, you would fancy yourself in the Idalian groves, or near
the banks of the Nile, where they were burning the finest incense as the
Queen of Egypt passed.
On La Gabrielle there are twenty-two thousand clove-trees in full
bearing. They are planted thirty feet asunder. Their lower branches
touch the ground. In general the trees are topped at five-and-twenty
feet high; though you will see some here towering up above sixty. The
black pepper, the cinnamon, and nutmeg are also in great abundance here,
and very productive.
While the stranger views the spicy groves of La Gabrielle, and tastes the
most delicious fruits which have originally been imported hither from all
parts of the tropical world, he will thank the Government which has
supported, and admire the talents of the gentleman who has raised to its
present grandeur, this noble collection of useful fruits. There is a
large nursery attached to La Gabrielle, where plants of all the different
species are raised and distributed gratis to those colonists who wish to
cultivate them.
Not far from the banks of the river Oyapoc, to windward of Cayenne, is a
mountain which contains an immense cavern. Here the cock-of-the-rock is
plentiful. He is about the size of a fantail-pigeon, his colour a bright
orange, and his wings and tail appear as though fringed; his head is
ornamented with a superb double-feathery crest, edged with purple. He
passes the day amid gloomy damps and silence, and only issues out for
food a short time at sunrise and sunset. He is of the gallinaceous
tribe. The South-American Spaniards call him "gallo del Rio Negro" (cock
of the Black River), and suppose that he is only to be met with in the
vicinity of that far-inland stream; but he is common in the interior of
Demerara, amongst the huge rocks in the forests of Macoushia; and he has
been shot south of the line, in the captainship of Para.
The bird called by Buffon _grand gobemouche_ has never been found in
Demerara, although very common in Cayenne. He is not quite so large as
the jackdaw, and is entirely black, except a large spot under the throat,
which is a glossy purple.
You may easily sail from Cayenne to the river Surinam in two days. Its
capital, Paramaribo, is handsome, rich, and populous: hitherto it has
been considered by far the finest town in Guiana; but probably the time
is not far off when the capital of Demerara may claim the prize of
superiority. You may enter a creek above Paramaribo, and travel through
the interior of Surinam, till you come to the Nacari, which is close to
the large river Coryntin. When you have passed this river, there is a
good public road to New Amsterdam, the capital of Berbice.
On viewing New Amsterdam, it will immediately strike you that something
or other has intervened to prevent its arriving at that state of wealth
and consequence for which its original plan shows it was once intended.
What has caused this stop in its progress to the rank of a fine and
populous city remains for those to find out who are interested in it;
certain it is that New Amsterdam has been languid for some years, and now
the tide of commerce seems ebbing fast from the shores of Berbice.
Gay and blooming is the sister colony of Demerara. Perhaps, kind reader,
thou hast not forgot that it was from Stabroek, the capital of Demerara,
that the adventurer set out, some years ago, to reach the Portuguese
frontier fort, and collected the wourali-poison. It was not intended,
when this second sally was planned in England, to have visited Stabroek
again by the route here described. The plan was to have ascended the
Amazons from Para and got into the Rio Negro, and from thence to have
returned towards the source of the Essequibo, in order to examine the
crystal mountains, and look once more for Lake Parima, or the White Sea;
but on arriving at Cayenne, the current was running with such amazing
rapidity to leeward, that a Portuguese sloop, which had been beating up
towards Para for four weeks, was then only half-way. Finding, therefore,
that a beat to the Amazons would be long, tedious, and even uncertain,
and aware that the season for procuring birds with fine plumage had
already set in, I left Cayenne in an American ship for Paramaribo, went
through the interior to the Coryntin, stopped a few days in New
Amsterdam, and proceeded to Demerara. If, gentle reader, thy patience be
not already worn out, and thy eyes half closed in slumber, by perusing
the dull adventures of this second sally, perhaps thou wilt pardon a line
or two on Demerara; and then we will retire to its forests, to collect
and examine the economy of its most rare and beautiful birds, and give
the world a new mode of preserving them.
Stabroek, the capital of Demerara, has been rapidly increasing for some
years back; and if prosperity go hand in hand with the present
enterprising spirit, Stabroek, ere long, will be of the first colonial
consideration. It stands on the eastern bank at the mouth of the
Demerara, and enjoys all the advantages of the refreshing sea-breeze; the
streets are spacious, well-bricked, and elevated, the trenches clean, the
bridges excellent, and the houses handsome. Almost every commodity and
luxury of London may be bought in the shops at Stabroek; its market wants
better regulations. The hotels are commodious, clean, and well attended.
Demerara boasts as fine and well-disciplined militia as any colony in the
western world.
The court of justice, where, in times of old, the bandage was easily
removed from the eyes of the goddess, and her scales thrown out of
equilibrium, now rises in dignity under the firmness, talents, and
urbanity of Mr. President Rough.
The plantations have an appearance of high cultivation; a tolerable idea
may be formed of their value when you know that last year Demerara
numbered seventy-two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine slaves. They
made about forty-four million pounds of sugar, near two million gallons
of rum, above eleven million pounds of coffee, and three million eight
hundred and nineteen thousand five hundred and twelve pounds of cotton;
the receipt into the public chest was five hundred and fifty-three
thousand nine hundred and fifty-six guilders; the public expenditure,
four hundred and fifty-one thousand six hundred and three guilders.
Slavery can never be defended; he whose heart is not of iron can never
wish to be able to defend it; while he heaves a sigh for the poor negro
in captivity, he wishes from his soul that the traffic had been stifled
in its birth; but, unfortunately, the Governments of Europe nourished it,
and now that they are exerting themselves to do away the evil, and ensure
liberty to the sons of Africa, the situation of the plantation slaves is
depicted as truly deplorable, and their condition wretched. It is not
so. A Briton's heart, proverbially kind and generous, is not changed by
climate, or its streams of compassion dried up by the scorching heat of a
Demerara sun; he cheers his negroes in labour, comforts them in sickness,
is kind to them in old age, and never forgets that they are his
fellow-creatures.
Instances of cruelty and depravity certainly occur here as well as all
the world over: but the edicts of the colonial Government are well
calculated to prevent them; and the British planter, except here and
there one, feels for the wrongs done to a poor ill-treated slave, and
shows that his heart grieves for him by causing immediate redress, and
preventing a repetition.
Long may ye flourish, peaceful and liberal inhabitants of Demerara! Your
doors are ever open to harbour the harbourless; your purses never shut to
the wants of the distressed: many a ruined fugitive from the Oroonoque
will bless your kindness to him in the hour of need, when, flying from
the woes of civil discord, without food or raiment, he begged for shelter
underneath your roof. The poor sufferer in Trinidad, who lost his all in
the devouring flames, will remember your charity to his latest moments.
The traveller, as he leaves your port, casts a longing lingering look
behind; your attentions, your hospitality, your pleasantry and mirth, are
uppermost in his thoughts; your prosperity is close to his heart. Let us
now, gentle reader, retire from the busy scenes of man, and journey on
towards the wilds in quest of the feathered tribe.
Leave behind you your high-seasoned dishes, your wines and your
delicacies; carry nothing but what is necessary for your own comfort and
the object in view, and depend upon the skill of an Indian, or your own,
for fish and game. A sheet, about twelve feet long, ten wide, painted,
and with loop-holes on each side, will be of great service; in a few
minutes you can suspend it betwixt two trees in the shape of a roof.
Under this, in your hammock, you may defy the pelting shower, and sleep
heedless of the dews of night. A hat, a shirt, and a light pair of
trousers, will be all the raiment you require. Custom will soon teach
you to tread lightly and barefoot on the little inequalities of ground,
and show you how to pass on, unwounded, amid the mantling briers.
Snakes in these wilds are certainly an annoyance, though perhaps more in
imagination than reality: for you must recollect, that the serpent is
never the first to offend; his poisonous fang was not given him for
conquest: he never inflicts a wound with it but to defend existence.
Provided you walk cautiously, and do not absolutely touch him, you may
pass in safety close by him. As he is often coiled up on the ground, and
amongst the branches of the trees above you, a degree of circumspection
is necessary, lest you unwarily disturb him.
Tigers are too few, and too apt to fly before the noble face of man, to
require a moment of your attention.
The bite of the most noxious of the insects, at the very worst, only
causes a transient fever, with a degree of pain more or less.
Birds in general, with few exceptions, are not common in the very remote
parts of the forest. The sides of rivers, lakes, and creeks, the borders
of savannas, the old abandoned habitations of Indians and woodcutters,
seem to be their favourite haunts.
Though least in size, the glittering mantle of the humming-bird entitles
it to the first place in the list of the birds of the New World. It may
truly be called the Bird of Paradise; and had it existed in the Old
World, it would have claimed the title instead of the bird which has now
the honour to bear it. See it darting through the air almost as quick as
thought!--now it is within a yard of your face!--in an instant gone!--now
it flutters from flower to flower to sip the silver dew--it is now a
ruby--now a topaz--now an emerald--now all burnished gold! It would be
arrogant to pretend to describe this winged gem of nature after Buffon's
elegant description of it.
Cayenne and Demerara produce the same humming-birds. Perhaps you would
wish to know something of their haunts. Chiefly in the months of July
and August the tree called _bois immortel_, very common in Demerara,
bears abundance of red blossom, which stays on the tree some weeks; then
it is that most of the different species of humming-birds are very
plentiful. The wild red sage is also their favourite shrub, and they
buzz like bees around the blossom of the wallaba-tree. Indeed, there is
scarce a flower in the interior, or on the sea-coast, but what receives
frequent visits from one or other of the species.
On entering the forests, on the rising land in the interior, the blue and
green, the smallest brown, no bigger than the humblebee, with two long
feathers in the tail, and the little forked-tail purple-throated
humming-birds, glitter before you in ever-changing attitudes. One
species alone never shows his beauty to the sun; and were it not for his
lovely shining colours, you might almost be tempted to class him with the
goat suckers on account of his habits. He is the largest of all the
humming-birds, and is all red and changing gold-green, except the head,
which is black. He has two long feathers in the tail, which cross each
other, and these have gained him the name of karabimiti, or ara
humming-bird, from the Indians. You will never find him on the
sea-coast, or where the river is salt, or in the heart of the forest,
unless fresh water be there. He keeps close by the side of woody
fresh-water rivers and dark and lonely creeks. He leaves his retreat
before sunrise to feed on the insects over the water; he returns to it as
soon as the sun's rays cause a glare of light, is sedentary all day long,
and comes out again for a short time after sunset. He builds his nest on
a twig over the water in the unfrequented creeks; it looks like tanned
cow-leather.
As you advance towards the mountains of Demerara, other species of
humming-birds present themselves before you. It seems to be an erroneous
opinion that the humming-bird lives entirely on honey-dew. Almost every
flower of the tropical climate contains insects of one kind or other;
now, the humming-bird is most busy about the flowers an hour or two after
sunrise and after a shower of rain, and it is just at this time that the
insects come out to the edge of the flower in order that the sun's rays
may dry the nocturnal dew and rain which they have received. On opening
the stomach of the humming-bird, dead insects are almost always found
there.
Next to the humming-birds, the cotingas display the gayest plumage. They
are of the order of passeres, and you number five species betwixt the
sea-coast and the rock Saba. Perhaps the scarlet cotinga is the richest
of the five, and is one of those birds which are found in the deepest
recesses of the forest. His crown is flaming red; to this abruptly
succeeds a dark shining brown, reaching half-way down the back: the
remainder of the back, the rump, and tail, the extremity of which is
edged with black, are a lively red; the belly is a somewhat lighter red;
the breast, reddish-black; the wings, brown. He has no song, is
solitary, and utters a monotonous whistle which sounds like "quet." He
is fond of the seeds of the hitia-tree, and those of the siloabali and
bastard-siloabali trees, which ripen in December, and continue on the
trees for about two months. He is found throughout the year in Demerara;
still nothing is known of his incubation. The Indians all agree in
telling you that they have never seen his nest.
The purple-breasted cotinga has the throat and breast of a deep purple,
the wings and tail black, and all the rest of the body a most lively
shining blue.
The purple-throated cotinga has black wings and tail, and every other
part a light and glossy blue, save the throat, which is purple.
The pompadour cotinga is entirely purple, except his wings, which are
white, their four first feathers tipped with brown. The great coverts of
the wings are stiff, narrow, and pointed, being shaped quite different
from those of any other bird. When you are betwixt this bird and the sun
in his flight, he appears uncommonly brilliant. He makes a hoarse noise,
which sounds like "wallababa." Hence his name amongst the Indians.
None of these three cotingas have a song. They feed on the hitia,
siloabali, and bastard-siloabali seeds, the wild guava, the fig, and
other fruit trees of the forest. They are easily shot in these trees
during the months of December, January, and part of February. The
greater part of them disappear after this, and probably retire far away
to breed. Their nests have never been found in Demerara.
The fifth species is the celebrated campanero of the Spaniards, called
dara by the Indians and bell-bird by the English. He is about the size
of the jay. His plumage is white as snow. On his forehead rises a
spiral tube nearly three inches long. It is jet-black, dotted all over
with small white feathers. It has a communication with the palate, and
when filled with air, looks like a spire; when empty, it becomes
pendulous. His note is loud and clear, like the sound of a bell, and may
be heard at the distance of three miles. In the midst of these extensive
wilds, generally on the dried top of an aged mora, almost out of gun
reach, you will see the campanero. No sound or song from any of the
winged inhabitants of the forest, not even the clearly-pronounced
"Whip-poor-Will," from the goatsucker, causes such astonishment as the
toll of the campanero.
With many of the feathered race, he pays the common tribute of a morning
and an evening song; and even when the meridian sun has shut in silence
the mouths of almost the whole of animated nature, the campanero still
cheers the forest. You hear his toll, and then a pause for a minute,
then another toll, and then a pause again, and then a toll, and again a
pause. Then he is silent for six or eight minutes, and then, another
toll, and so on. Actaeon would stop in mid chase, Maria would defer her
evening song, and Orpheus himself would drop his lute to listen to him,
so sweet, so novel, and romantic is the toll of the pretty snow-white
campanero. He is never seen to feed with the other cotingas, nor is it
known in what part of Guiana he makes his nest.
While cotingas attract your attention by their superior plumage, the
singular form of the toucan makes a lasting impression on your memory.
There are three species of toucans in Demerara, and three diminutives,
which may be called toucanets. The largest of the first species
frequents the mangrove-trees on the sea-coast. He is never seen in the
interior till you reach Macoushia, where he is found in the neighbourhood
of the river Tacatou. The other two species are very common. They feed
entirely on the fruits of the forest, and though of the pie kind, never
kill the young of other birds or touch carrion. The larger is called
bouradi by the Indians (which means "nose"), the other, scirou. They
seem partial to each other's company, and often resort to the same
feeding tree, and retire together to the same shady noon-day retreat.
They are very noisy in rainy weather at all hours of the day, and in fair
weather, at morn and eve. The sound which the bouradi makes is like the
clear yelping of a puppy dog, and you fancy he says, "pia-po-o-co," and
thus the South American Spaniards call him piapoco.
All the toucanets feed on the same trees on which the toucan feeds, and
every species of this family of enormous bill lays its eggs in the hollow
trees. They are social, but not gregarious. You may sometimes see eight
or ten in company, and from this you would suppose they are gregarious;
but, upon a closer examination, yon will find it has only been a dinner
party, which breaks up and disperses towards roosting-time.
You will be at a loss to conjecture for what ends nature has overloaded
the head of this bird with such an enormous bill. It cannot be for the
offensive, as it has no need to wage war with any of the tribes of
animated nature; for its food is fruits and seeds, and those are in
superabundance throughout the whole year in the regions where the toucan
is found. It can hardly be for the defensive, as the toucan is preyed
upon by no bird in South America, and were it obliged to be at war, the
texture of the bill is ill adapted to give or receive blows, as you will
see in dissecting it. It cannot be for any particular protection to the
tongue, as the tongue is a perfect feather.
The flight of the toucan is by jerks; in the action of flying it seems
incommoded by this huge disproportioned feature, and the head seems as if
bowed down to the earth by it against its will; if the extraordinary form
and size of the bill expose the toucan to ridicule, its colours make it
amends. Were a specimen of each species of the toucan presented to you,
you would pronounce the bill of the bouradi the most rich and beautiful;
on the ridge of the upper mandible a broad stripe of most lovely yellow
extends from the head to the point; a stripe of the same breadth, though
somewhat deeper yellow, falls from it at right angles next the head down
to the edge of the mandible; then follows a black stripe, half as broad,
falling at right angles from the ridge, and running narrower along the
edge to within half an inch of the point. The rest of the mandible is a
deep bright red. The lower mandible has no yellow; its black and red are
distributed in the same manner as on the upper one, with this difference,
that there is black about an inch from the point. The stripe
corresponding to the deep yellow stripe on the upper mandible is sky
blue. It is worthy of remark that all these brilliant colours of the
bill are to be found in the plumage of the body, and the bare skin round
the eye.
All these colours, except the blue, are inherent in the horn; that part
which appears blue is in reality transparent white, and receives its
colour from a thin piece of blue skin inside. This superb bill fades in
death, and in three or four days' time has quite lost its original
colours.
Till within these few years no idea of the true colours of the bill could
be formed from the stuffed toucans brought to Europe. About eight years
ago, while eating a boiled toucan, the thought struck me that the colours
in the bill of a preserved specimen might be kept as bright as those in
life. A series of experiments proved this beyond a doubt. If you take
your penknife and cut away the roof of the upper mandible, you will find
that the space betwixt it and the outer shell contains a large collection
of veins, and small osseous fibres running in all directions through the
whole extent of the bill. Clear away all these with your knife, and you
will come to a substance more firm than skin, but of not so strong a
texture as the horn itself; cut this away also, and behind it is
discovered a thin and tender membrane: yellow where it has touched the
yellow part of the horn, blue where it has touched the red part, and
black towards the edge and point. When dried, this thin and tender
membrane becomes nearly black; as soon as it is cut away, nothing remains
but the outer horn, red and yellow, and now become transparent. The
under mandible must undergo the same operation. Great care must be
taken, and the knife used very cautiously when you are cutting through
the different parts close to where the bill joins on to the head: if you
cut away too much, the bill drops off; if you press too hard, the knife
comes through the horn; if you leave too great a portion of the membrane,
it appears through the horn, and by becoming black when dried, makes the
horn appear black also, and has a bad effect. Judgment, caution, skill,
and practice will ensure success.
You have now cleared the bill of all those bodies which are the cause of
its apparent fading; for, as has been said before, these bodies dry in
death, and become quite discoloured, and appear so through the horn; and
reviewing the bill in this state, you conclude that its former bright
colours are lost.
Something still remains to be done. You have rendered the bill
transparent by the operation, and that transparency must be done away to
make it appear perfectly natural. Pound some clean chalk, and give it
enough water till it be of the consistency of tar; add a proportion of
gum-arabic to make it adhesive; then take a camel-hair brush, and give
the inside of both mandibles a coat; apply a second when the first is
dry, then another, and a fourth to finish all. The gum-arabic will
prevent the chalk from cracking and falling off. If you remember, there
is a little space of transparent white on the lower mandible which
originally appeared blue, but which became transparent white as soon as
the thin piece of blue skin was cut away; this must be painted blue
inside. When all this is completed, the bill will please you; it will
appear in its original colours. Probably your own abilities will suggest
a cleverer mode of operating than the one here described. A small gouge
would assist the penknife, and render the operation less difficult.
The houtou ranks high in beauty amongst the birds of Demerara--his whole
body is green, with a bluish cast in the wings and tail; his crown, which
he erects at pleasure, consists of black in the centre, surrounded with
lovely blue of two different shades: he has a triangular black spot,
edged with blue, behind the eye, extending to the ear; and on his breast
a sable tuft, consisting of nine feathers edged also with blue. This
bird seems to suppose that its beauty can be increased by trimming the
tail, which undergoes the same operation as our hair in a barber's shop,
only with this difference, that it uses its own beak, which is serrated,
in lieu of a pair of scissors; as soon as his tail is full grown, he
begins about an inch from the extremity of the two longest feathers in
it, and cuts away the web on both sides of the shaft, making a gap about
an inch long; both male and female Adonise their tails in this manner,
which gives them a remarkable appearance amongst all other birds. While
we consider the tail of the houtou blemished and defective, were he to
come amongst us he would probably consider our heads, cropped and bald,
in no better light. He who wishes to observe this handsome bird in his
native haunts must be in the forest at the morning's dawn. The houtou
shuns the society of man: the plantations and cultivated parts are too
much disturbed to engage it to settle there; the thick and gloomy forests
are the places preferred by the solitary houtou. In those far-extending
wilds, about daybreak, you hear him articulate, in a distinct and
mournful tone, "Houtou, houtou." Move cautiously on to where the sound
proceeds from, and you will see him sitting in the underwood, about a
couple of yards from the ground, his tail moving up and down every time
he articulates "houtou." He lives on insects and the berries amongst the
underwood, and very rarely is seen in the lofty trees, except the
bastard-siloabali tree, the fruit of which is grateful to him. He makes
no nest, but rears his young in a hole in the sand, generally on the side
of a hill.
While in quest of the houtou you will now and then fall in with the jay
of Guiana, called by the Indians ibibirou. Its forehead is black, the
rest of the head white; the throat and breast like the English magpie:
about an inch of the extremity of the tail is white, the other part of
it, together with the back and wings, a greyish changing purple; the
belly is white: there are generally six or eight of them in company; they
are shy and garrulous, and tarry a very short time in one place; they are
never seen in the cultivated parts.
Through the whole extent of the forest, chiefly from sunrise till nine
o'clock in the morning, you hear a sound of "Wow, wow, wow, wow." This
is the bird called boclora by the Indians. It is smaller than the common
pigeon, and seems, in some measure, to partake of its nature; its head
and breast are blue; the back and rump somewhat resemble the colour on
the peacock's neck; its belly is a bright yellow; the legs are so very
short that it always appears as if sitting on the branch; it is as
ill-adapted for walking as the swallow; its neck, for above an inch all
round, is quite bare of feathers, but this deficiency is not seen, for it
always sits with its head drawn in upon its shoulders: it sometimes feeds
with the cotingas on the guava and hitia trees; but its chief nutriment
seems to be insects, and, like most birds which follow this prey, its
chaps are well armed with bristles: it is found in Demerara at all times
of the year, and makes a nest resembling that of the stock-dove. This
bird never takes long flights, and when it crosses a river or creek it
goes by long jerks.
The boclora is very unsuspicious, appearing quite heedless of danger: the
report of a gun within twenty yards will not cause it to leave the branch
on which it is sitting, and you may often approach it so near as almost
to touch it with the end of your bow. Perhaps there is no bird known
whose feathers are so slightly fixed to the skin as those of the boclora.
After shooting it, if it touch a branch in its descent, or if it drop on
hard ground, whole heaps of feathers fall off; on this account it is
extremely hard to procure a specimen for preservation. As soon as the
skin is dry in the preserved specimen, the feathers become as well fixed
as those in any other bird.
Another species, larger than the boclora, attracts much of your notice in
these wilds; it is called cuia by the Indians, from the sound of its
voice; its habits are the same as those of the boclora, but its colours
different; its head, breast, back, and rump are a shining, changing
green; its tail not quite so bright; a black bar runs across the tail
towards the extremity; and the outside feathers are partly white, as in
the boclora; its belly is entirely vermilion, a bar of white separating
it from the green on the breast.
There are diminutives of both these birds; they have the same habits,
with a somewhat different plumage, and about half the size. Arrayed from
head to tail in a robe of richest sable hue, the bird called rice-bird
loves spots cultivated by the hand of man. The woodcutter's house on the
hills in the interior, and the planter's habitation on the sea-coast,
equally attract this songless species of the order of pie, provided the
Indian corn be ripe there. He is nearly of the jackdaw's size, and makes
his nest far away from the haunts of men; he may truly be called a
blackbird: independent of his plumage, his beak, inside and out, his
legs, his toes, and claws, are jet black.
Mankind, by clearing the ground, and sowing a variety of seeds, induces
many kinds of birds to leave their native haunts and come and settle near
him; their little depredations on his seeds and fruits prove that it is
the property, and not the proprietor, which has the attractions.
One bird, however, in Demerara, is not actuated by selfish motives; this
is the cassique; in size, he is larger than the starling; he courts the
society of man, but disdains to live by his labours. When nature calls
for support, he repairs to the neighbouring forest, and there partakes of
the store of fruits and seeds which she has produced in abundance for her
aerial tribes. When his repast is over, he returns to man, and pays the
little tribute which he owes him for his protection; he takes his station
on a tree close to his house, and there, for hours together, pours forth
a succession of imitative notes. His own song is sweet, but very short.
If a toucan be yelping in the neighbourhood, he drops it, and imitates
him. Then he will amuse his protector with the cries of the different
species of the woodpecker; and when the sheep bleat, he will distinctly
answer them. Then comes his own song again; and if a puppy-dog or a
Guinea-fowl interrupt him, he takes them off admirably, and by his
different gestures during the time, you would conclude that he enjoys the
sport.
The cassique is gregarious, and imitates any sound he hears with such
exactness, that he goes by no other name than that of mocking-bird
amongst the colonists.
At breeding-time, a number of these pretty choristers resort to a tree
near the planter's house, and from its outside branches weave their
pendulous nests. So conscious do they seem that they never give offence,
and so little suspicious are they of receiving any injury from man, that
they will choose a tree within forty yards from his house, and occupy the
branches so low down, that he may peep into the nests. A tree in
Waratilla creek affords a proof of this.
The proportions of the cassique are so fine, that he may be said to be a
model of symmetry in ornithology. On each wing he has a bright yellow
spot, and his rump, belly, and half the tail are of the same colour. All
the rest of the body is black. His beak is the colour of sulphur, but it
fades in death, and requires the same operation as the bill of the toucan
to make it keep its colours. Up the rivers, in the interior, there is
another cassique, nearly the same size, and of the same habits, though
not gifted with its powers of imitation. Except in breeding time, you
will see hundreds of them retiring to roost, amongst the mocamoca-trees
and low shrubs on the banks of the Demerara, after you pass the first
island. They are not common on the sea-coast. The rump of the cassique
is a flaming scarlet. All the rest of the body is a rich glossy black.
His bill is sulphur colour. You may often see numbers of this species
weaving their pendulous nests on one side of a tree, while numbers of the
other species are busy in forming theirs on the opposite side of the same
tree. Though such near neighbours, the females are never observed to
kick up a row, or come to blows!
Another species of cassique, as large as a crow, is very common in the
plantations. In the morning he generally repairs to a large tree, and
there, with his tail spread over his back, and shaking his lowered wings,
he produces notes which, though they cannot be said to amount to a song,
still have something very sweet and pleasing in them. He makes his nest
in the same form as the other cassiques. It is above four feet long; and
when you pass under the tree, which often contains fifty or sixty of
them, you cannot help stopping to admire them as they wave to and fro,
the sport of every storm and breeze. The rump is chestnut; ten feathers
of the tail are a fine yellow, the remaining two, which are the middle
ones, are black, and an inch shorter than the others. His bill is
sulphur colour; all the rest of the body black, with here and there
shades of brown. He has five or six long narrow black feathers on the
back of his head, which he erects at pleasure.
There is one more species of cassique in Demerara, which always prefers
the forest to the cultivated parts. His economy is the same as that of
the other cassiques. He is rather smaller than the last described bird.
His body is greenish, and his tail and rump paler than those of the
former. Half of his beak is red.
You would not be long in the forests of Demerara without noticing the
woodpeckers. You meet with them feeding at all hours of the day. Well
may they do so. Were they to follow the example of most of the other
birds, and only feed in the morning and evening, they would be often on
short allowance, for they sometimes have to labour three or four hours at
the tree before they get to their food. The sound which the largest kind
makes in hammering against the bark of the tree is so loud, that you
would never suppose it to proceed from the efforts of a bird. You would
take it to be the woodman, with his axe, trying by a sturdy blow, often
repeated, whether the tree were sound or not. There are fourteen species
here; the largest the size of a magpie, the smallest no bigger than the
wren. They are all beautiful; and the greater part of them have their
heads ornamented with a fine crest, movable at pleasure.
It is said, if you once give a dog a bad name, whether innocent or
guilty, he never loses it; it sticks close to him wherever he goes. He
has many a kick and many a blow to bear on account of it; and there is
nobody to stand up for him. The woodpecker is little better off. The
proprietors of woods in Europe have long accused him of injuring their
timber, by boring holes in it, and letting in the water, which soon rots
it. The colonists in America have the same complaint against him. Had
he the power of speech, which Ovid's birds possessed in days of yore, he
could soon make a defence. "Mighty lord of the woods," he would say to
man, "why do you wrongfully accuse me? why do you hunt me up and down to
death for an imaginary offence? I have never spoiled a leaf of your
property, much less your wood. Your merciless shot strikes me at the
very time I am doing you a service. But your short-sightedness will not
let you see it, or your pride is above examining closely the actions of
so insignificant a little bird as I am. If there be that spark of
feeling in your breast which they say man possesses, or ought to possess,
above all other animals, do a poor injured creature a little kindness,
and watch me in your woods only for one day. I never wound your healthy
trees. I should perish for want in the attempt. The sound bark would
easily resist the force of my bill: and were I even to pierce through it,
there would be nothing inside that I could fancy, or my stomach digest.
I often visit them, it is true, but a knock or two convince me that I
must go elsewhere for support; and were you to listen attentively to the
sound which my bill causes, you would know whether I am upon a healthy or
an unhealthy tree. Wood and bark are not my food. I live entirely upon
the insects which have already formed a lodgment in the distempered tree.
When the sound informs me that my prey is there, I labour for hours
together till I get at it; and by consuming it, for my own support, I
prevent its further depredations in that part. Thus I discover for you
your hidden and unsuspected foe, which has been devouring your wood in
such secrecy, that you had not the least suspicion it was there. The
hole which I make in order to get at the pernicious vermin will be seen
by you as you pass under the tree. I leave it as a signal to tell you
that your tree has already stood too long. It is past its prime.
Millions of insects, engendered by disease, are preying upon its vitals.
Ere long it will fall a log in useless ruins. Warned by this loss, cut
down the rest in time, and spare, O spare the unoffending woodpecker."
In the rivers, and different creeks, you number six species of the
kingfisher. They make their nest in a hole in the sand on the side of
the bank. As there is always plenty of foliage to protect them from the
heat of the sun, they feed at all hours of the day. Though their plumage
is prettily varied, still it falls far short of the brilliancy displayed
by the English kingfisher. This little native of Britain would outweigh
them altogether in the scale of beauty.
A bird called jacamar is often taken for a kingfisher, but it has no
relationship to that tribe; it frequently sits in the trees over the
water, and as its beak bears some resemblance to that of the kingfisher,
this may probably account for its being taken for one; it feeds entirely
upon insects; it sits on a branch in motionless expectation, and as soon
as a fly, butterfly, or moth passes by, it darts at it, and returns to
the branch it had just left. It seems an indolent, sedentary bird,
shunning the society of all others in the forest. It never visits the
plantations, but is found at all times of the year in the woods. There
are four species of jacamar in Demerara; they are all beautiful; the
largest, rich and superb in the extreme. Its plumage is of so fine a
changing blue and golden green, that it may be ranked with the choicest
of the humming birds. Nature has denied it a song, but given a costly
garment in lieu of it. The smallest species of jacamar is very common in
the dry savannas. The second size, all golden green on the back, must be
looked for in the wallaba forest. The third is found throughout the
whole extent of these wilds; and the fourth, which is the largest,
frequents the interior, where you begin to perceive stones in the ground.
When you have penetrated far into Macoushia, you hear the pretty songster
called troupiale pour forth a variety of sweet and plaintive notes. This
is the bird which the Portuguese call the nightingale of Guiana; its
predominant colours are rich orange and shining black, arrayed to great
advantage; his delicate and well-shaped frame seems unable to bear
captivity. The Indians sometimes bring down troupiales to Stabroek, but
in a few months they languish and die in a cage. They soon become very
familiar; and if you allow them the liberty of the house, they live
longer than in a cage, and appear in better spirits; but, when you least
expect it, they drop down and die in epilepsy.
Smaller in size, and of colour not so rich and somewhat differently
arranged, another species of troupiale sings melodiously in Demerara.
The woodcutter is particularly favoured by him; for while the hen is
sitting on her nest, built in the roof of the woodcutter's house, he
sings for hours together close by: he prefers the forests to the
cultivated parts.
You would not grudge to stop for a few minutes, as you are walking in the
plantations, to observe a third species of troupiale: his wings, tail,
and throat are black; all the rest of the body is a bright yellow. There
is something very sweet and plaintive in his song, though much shorter
than that of the troupiale in the interior.
A fourth species goes in flocks from place to place in the cultivated
parts at the time the Indian corn is ripe; he is all black, except the
head and throat, which are yellow; his attempt at song is not worth
attending to.
Wherever there is a wild fig-tree ripe, a numerous species of birds,
called tangara, is sure to be on it. There are eighteen beautiful
species here. Their plumage is very rich and diversified; some of them
boast six separate colours; others have the blue, purple, green, and
black so kindly blended into each other, that it would be impossible to
mark their boundaries; while others again exhibit them strong, distinct,
and abrupt: many of these tangaras have a fine song. They seem to
partake much of the nature of our linnets, sparrows, and finches. Some
of them are fond of the plantations; others are never seen there,
preferring the wild seeds of the forest to the choicest fruits planted by
the hand of man.
On the same fig-trees to which they repair, and often accidentally up and
down the forest, you fall in with four species of manikin. The largest
is white and black, with the feathers on the throat remarkably long; the
next in size is half red and half black; the third, black, with a white
crown; the fourth, black, with a golden crown, and red feathers at the
knee. The half red and half black species is the scarcest. There is a
creek in the Demerara called Camouni. About ten minutes from the mouth,
you see a common-sized fig-tree on your right-hand, as you ascend,
hanging over water; it bears a very small fig twice a year. When its
fruit is ripe, this manikin is on the tree from morn till eve.
On all the ripe fig-trees in the forest you see the bird called the small
tiger-bird. Like some of our belles and dandies, it has a gaudy vest to
veil an ill-shaped body: the throat, and part of the head, are a bright
red; the breast and belly have black spots on a yellow ground; the wings
are a dark green, black, and white; and the rump and tail black and
green. Like the manikin, it has no song: it depends solely upon a showy
garment for admiration.
Devoid, too, of song, and in a still superber garb, the yawaraciri comes
to feed on the same tree. It has a bar like black velvet from the eyes
to the beak; its legs are yellow; its throat, wings, and tail black; all
the rest of the body a charming blue. Chiefly in the dry savannas, and
here and there accidentally in the forest, you see a songless yawaraciri
still lovelier than the last: his crown is whitish blue, arrayed like a
coat of mail; his tail is black, his wings black and yellow, legs red,
and the whole body a glossy blue. Whilst roving through the forest, ever
and anon you see individuals of the wren species busy amongst the fallen
leaves, or seeking insects at the roots of the trees.
Here, too, you find six or seven species of small birds, whose backs
appear to be overloaded with silky plumage. One of these, with a
chestnut breast, smoke-coloured back, tail red, white feathers like horns
on his head, and white narrow-pointed feathers under the jaw, feeds
entirely upon ants. When a nest of large, light brown ants emigrates,
one following the other in meandering lines above a mile long, you see
this bird watching them, and every now and then picking them up. When
they disappear he is seen no more: perhaps this is the only kind of ant
he is fond of; when these ants are stirring, you are sure to find him
near them. You cannot well mistake the ant after you have once been in
its company, for its sting is very severe, and you can hardly shoot the
bird, and pick it up, without having five or six upon you.
Parrots and paroquets are very numerous here, and of many different
kinds. You will know when they are near you in the forest, not only by
the noise they make, but also by the fruits and seeds which they let fall
while they are feeding.
The hia-hia parrot, called in England the "parrot of the sun," is very
remarkable: he can erect at pleasure a fine radiated circle of tartan
feathers quite round the back of his head from jaw to jaw. The fore-part
of his head is white: his back, tail, and wings green; and his breast and
belly tartan.
Superior in size and beauty to every parrot of South America, the ara
will force you to take your eyes from the rest of animated nature and
gaze at him: his commanding strength, the flaming scarlet of his body,
the lovely variety of red, yellow, blue, and green in his wings, the
extraordinary length of his scarlet and blue tail seem all to join and
demand for him the title of "emperor of all the parrots." He is scarce
in Demerara till you reach the confines of the Macoushi country; there he
is in vast abundance; he mostly feeds on trees of the palm species. When
the coucourite-trees have ripe fruit on them, they are covered with this
magnificent parrot: he is not shy or wary; you may take your blow-pipe
and quiver of poisoned arrows, and kill more than you are able to carry
back to your hut. They are very vociferous, and, like the common
parrots, rise up in bodies towards sunset, and fly two and two to their
place of rest. It is a grand sight in ornithology to see thousands of
aras flying over your head, low enough to let you have a full view of
their flaming mantle. The Indians find their flesh very good, and the
feathers serve for ornaments in their head-dresses. They breed in the
holes of trees, are easily reared and tamed, and learn to speak pretty
distinctly.
Another species frequents the low lands of Demerara. He is nearly the
size of the scarlet ara, but much inferior in plumage. Blue and yellow
are his predominant colours.
Along the creeks and river sides, and in the wet savannas, six species of
the bittern will engage your attention. They are all handsome. The
smallest is not so large as the English water-hen.
In the savannas, too, you will sometimes surprise the snow-white egrette,
whose back is adorned with the plumes from which it takes its name.
Here, too, the spur-winged water-hen, the blue and green water-hen, and
two other species of ordinary plumage are found. While in quest of
these, the blue heron, the large and small brown heron, the boat-bill,
and Muscovy duck now and then rise up before you.
When the sun has sunk in the western woods, no longer agitated by the
breeze; when you can only see a straggler or two of the feathered tribe
hastening to join its mate, already at its roosting-place, then it is
that the goatsucker comes out of the forest, where it has sat all day
long in slumbering ease, unmindful of the gay and busy scenes around it.
Its eyes are too delicately formed to bear the light, and thus it is
forced to shun the flaming face of day, and wait in patience till night
invites him to partake of the pleasures her dusky presence brings.
The harmless, unoffending goatsucker, from the time of Aristotle down to
the present day, has been in disgrace with man. Father has handed down
to son, and author to author, that this nocturnal thief subsists by
milking the flocks. Poor injured little bird of night, how sadly hast
thou suffered, and how foul a stain has inattention to facts put upon thy
character! Thou hast never robbed man of any part of his property, nor
deprived the kid of a drop of milk.
When the moon shines bright you may have a fair opportunity of examining
the goatsucker. You will see it close by the cows, goats, and sheep,
jumping up every now and then under their bellies. Approach a little
nearer--he is not shy, "he fears no danger, for he knows no sin." See
how the nocturnal flies are tormenting the herd, and with what dexterity
he springs up and catches them, as fast as they alight on the belly,
legs, and udder of the animals. Observe how quiet they stand, and how
sensible they seem of his good offices, for they neither strike at him,
nor hit him with their tail, nor tread on him, nor try to drive him away
as an uncivil intruder. Were you to dissect him, and inspect his
stomach, you would find no milk there. It is full of the flies which
have been annoying the herd.
The prettily-mottled plumage of the goatsucker, like that of the owl,
wants the lustre which is observed in the feathers of the birds of day.
This at once marks him as a lover of the pale moon's nightly beams.
There are nine species here. The largest appears nearly the size of the
English wood-owl. Its cry is so remarkable that, having once heard it,
you will never forget it. When night reigns over these immeasurable
wilds, whilst lying in your hammock, you will hear this goatsucker
lamenting like one in deep distress. A stranger would never conceive it
to be the cry of a bird. He would say it was the departing voice of a
midnight-murdered victim, or the last wailing of Niobe for her poor
children, before she was turned into stone. Suppose yourself in hopeless
sorrow, begin with a high loud note, and pronounce, "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha," each note lower and lower, till the last is scarcely heard,
pausing a moment or two betwixt every note, and you will have some idea
of the moaning of the largest goatsucker in Demerara.
Four other species of the goatsucker articulate some words so distinctly,
that they have received their names from the sentences they utter, and
absolutely bewilder the stranger on his arrival in these parts. The most
common one sits down close by your door, and flies and alights three or
four yards before yon, as you walk along the road, crying, "Who-are-you,
who-who-who-are-you?" Another bids you, "Work-away,
work--work-work-away." A third cries mournfully, "Willy-come-go.
Willy-Willy-Willy-come-go." And high up in the country, a fourth tells
you to "Whip-poor-Will. Whip-whip-whip-poor-Will."
You will never persuade the negro to destroy these birds, or get the
Indian to let fly his arrow at them. They are birds of omen and
reverential dread. Jumbo, the demon of Africa, has them under his
command; and they equally obey the Yabahou, or Demerara Indian devil.
They are the receptacles for departed souls, who come back again to
earth, unable to rest for crimes done in their days of nature; or they
are expressly sent by Jumbo, or Yabahou, to haunt cruel and hard-hearted
masters, and retaliate injuries received from them. If the largest
goatsucker chance to cry near the white man's door, sorrow and grief will
soon be inside; and they expect to see the master waste away with a slow
consuming sickness. If it be heard close to the negro's or Indian's hut,
from that night misfortune sits brooding over it; and they await the
event in terrible suspense.
You will forgive the poor Indian of Guiana for this. He knows no better;
he has nobody to teach him. But shame it is that, in our own civilised
country, the black cat and broomstaff should be considered as conductors
to and from the regions of departed spirits.
Many years ago I knew poor harmless Mary; old age had marked her
strongly, just as he will mark you and me, should we arrive at her years
and carry the weight of grief which bent her double. The old men of the
village said she had been very pretty in her youth; and nothing could be
seen more comely than Mary when she danced on the green. He who had
gained her heart left her for another, less fair, though richer than
Mary. From that time she became sad and pensive; the rose left her
cheek, and she was never more seen to dance round the May-pole on the
green: her expectations were blighted; she became quite indifferent to
everything around her, and seemed to think of nothing but how she could
best attend her mother, who was lame, and not long for this life. Her
mother had begged a black kitten from some boys who were going to drown
it, and in her last illness she told Mary to be kind to it for her sake.
When age and want had destroyed the symmetry of Mary's fine form, the
village began to consider her as one who had dealings with spirits; her
cat confirmed the suspicion. If a cow died, or a villager wasted away
with an unknown complaint, Mary and her cat had it to answer for. Her
broom sometimes served her for a walking-stick; and if over she supported
her tottering frame with it as far as the May-pole, where once, in
youthful bloom and beauty, she had attracted the eyes of all, the boys
would surround her and make sport of her, while her cat had neither
friend nor safety beyond the cottage wall. Nobody considered it cruel or
uncharitable to torment a witch; and it is probable, long before this,
that cruelty, old age, and want have worn her out, and that both poor
Mary and her cat have ceased to be.
Would you wish to pursue the different species of game, well stored and
boundless is your range in Demerara. Here no one dogs you, and
afterwards clandestinely inquires if you have a hundred a year in land to
entitle you to enjoy such patrician sport. Here no saucy intruder asks
if you have taken out a licence, by virtue of which you are allowed to
kill the birds which have bred upon your own property. Here
"You are as free as when God first made man,
Ere the vile laws of servitude began,
And wild in woods the noble savage ran."
Before the morning's dawn you hear a noise in the forest, which sounds
like "duraquaura" often repeated. This is the partridge, a little
smaller, and differing somewhat in colour from the English partridge; it
lives entirely in the forest, and probably the young brood very soon
leave their parents, as you never flush more than two birds in the same
place, and in general only one.
About the same hour, and sometimes even at midnight, you hear two species
of maam, or tinamou, send forth their long and plaintive whistle from the
depth of the forest. The flesh of both is delicious. The largest is
plumper, and almost equals in size the black cock of Northumberland. The
quail is said to be here, though rare.
The hannaquoi, which some have compared to the pheasant, though with
little reason, is very common.
Here are also two species of the powise, or hocco, and two of the small
wild turkeys called maroudi; they feed on the ripe fruits of the forest,
and are found in all directions in these extensive wilds. You will
admire the horned screamer as a stately and majestic bird: he is almost
the size of the turkey cock; on his head is a long slender horn, and each
wing is armed with a strong, sharp, triangular spur, an inch long.
Sometimes you will fall in with flocks of two or three hundred waracabas,
or trumpeters, called so from the singular noise they produce. Their
breast is adorned with beautiful changing blue and purple feathers; their
head and neck like velvet; their wings and back grey, and belly black.
They run with great swiftness, and, when domesticated, attend their
master in his walks with as much apparent affection as his dog. They
have no spurs, but still, such is their high spirit and activity, that
they browbeat every dunghill fowl in the yard, and force the Guinea
birds, dogs, and turkeys to own their superiority.
If, kind and gentle reader, thou shouldst ever visit these regions with
an intention to examine their productions, perhaps the few observations
contained in these Wanderings may be of service to thee; excuse their
brevity; more could have been written, and each bird more particularly
described, but it would have been pressing too hard upon thy time and
patience.
Soon after arriving in these parts, thou wilt find that the species here
enumerated are only as a handful from a well-stored granary. Nothing has
been said of the eagles, the falcons, the hawks, and shrikes; nothing of
the different species of vultures, the king of which is very handsome,
and seems to be the only bird which claims regal honours from a
surrounding tribe. It is a fact beyond all dispute, that when the scent
of carrion has drawn together hundreds of the common vultures, they all
retire from the carcase as soon as the king of the vultures makes his
appearance. When his majesty has satisfied the cravings of his royal
stomach with the choicest bits from the most stinking and corrupted
parts, he generally retires to a neighbouring tree, and then the common
vultures return in crowds to gobble down his leavings. The Indians, as
well as the whites, have observed this, for when one of them, who has
learned a little English, sees the king, and wishes you to have a proper
notion of the bird, he says, "There is the governor of the carrion
crows."
Now, the Indians have never heard of a personage in Demerara higher than
that of governor; and the colonists, through a common mistake, call the
vultures carrion crows. Hence the Indian, in order to express the
dominion of this bird over the common vultures, tells you he is governor
of the carrion crows. The Spaniards have also observed it; for, through
all the Spanish Main, he is called "rey de zamuros"--king of the
vultures. The many species of owls, too, have not been noticed; and no
mention made of the Columbine tribe. The prodigious variety of waterfowl
on the sea-shore has been but barely hinted at.
There, and on the borders and surface of the inland waters, in the
marshes and creeks, besides the flamingos, scarlet curlew, and
spoonbills, already mentioned, will be found greenish-brown curlews,
sandpipers, rails, coots, gulls, pelicans, jabirus, nandapoas, crabiers,
snipes, plovers, ducks, geese, cranes, and anhingas, most of them in vast
abundance; some frequenting only the sea-coast, others only the interior,
according to their different natures; all worthy the attention of the
naturalist, all worthy of a place in the cabinet of the curious.
Should thy comprehensive genius not confine itself to birds alone, grand
is the appearance of other objects all around. Thou art in a land rich
in botany and mineralogy, rich in zoology and entomology. Animation will
glow in thy looks, and exercise will brace thy frame in vigour. The very
time of thy absence from the tables of heterogeneous luxury will be
profitable to thy stomach, perhaps already sorely drenched with
Londo-Parisian sauces, and a new stock of health will bring thee an
appetite to relish the wholesome food of the chase; never-failing sleep
will wait on thee at the time she comes to soothe the rest of animated
nature; and, ere the sun's rays appear in the horizon, thou wilt spring
from thy hammock fresh as April lark. Be convinced, also, that the
dangers and difficulties which are generally supposed to accompany the
traveller in his journey through distant regions, are not half so
numerous or dreadful as they are commonly thought to be.
The youth who incautiously reels into the lobby of Drury Lane, after
leaving the table sacred to the god of wine, is exposed to more certain
ruin, sickness, and decay than he who wanders a whole year in the wilds
of Demerara. But this will never be believed; because the disasters
arising from dissipation are so common and frequent in civilised life,
that man becomes quite habituated to them; and sees daily victims sink
into the tomb long before their time, without ever once taking alarm at
the causes which precipitated them headlong into it.
But the dangers which a traveller exposes himself to in foreign parts are
novel, out-of-the-way things to a man at home. The remotest apprehension
of meeting a tremendous tiger, of being carried off by a flying dragon,
or having his bones picked by a famished cannibal--oh, that makes him
shudder. It sounds in his ears like the bursting of a bomb-shell. Thank
Heaven, he is safe by his own fireside!
Prudence and resolution ought to be the traveller's constant companions.
The first will cause him to avoid a number of snares which he will find
in the path as he journeys on; and the second will always lend a hand to
assist him, if he has unavoidably got entangled in them. The little
distinctions which have been shown him at his own home ought to be
forgotten when he travels over the world at large; for strangers know
nothing of his former merits, and it is necessary that they should
witness them before they pay him the tribute which he was wont to receive
within his own doors. Thus, to be kind and affable to those we meet, to
mix in their amusements, to pay a compliment or two to their manners and
customs, to respect their elders, to give a little to their distressed
and needy, and to feel, as it were, at home amongst them, is the sure way
to enable you to pass merrily on, and to find other comforts as sweet and
palatable as those which you were accustomed to partake of amongst your
friends and acquaintance in your own native land.
We will now ascend in fancy on Icarian wing, and take a view of Guiana in
general. See an immense plain, betwixt two of the largest rivers in the
world, level as a bowling-green, save at Cayenne, and covered with trees
along the coast quite to the Atlantic wave, except where the plantations
make a little vacancy amongst the foliage.
Though nearly in the centre of the torrid zone, the sun's rays are not so
intolerable as might be imagined, on account of the perpetual verdure and
refreshing north-east breeze. See what numbers of broad and rapid rivers
intersect it in their journey to the ocean, and that not a stone or a
pebble is to be found on their banks, or in any part of the country, till
your eye catches the hills in the interior. How beautiful and
magnificent are the lakes in the heart of the forests, and how charming
the forests themselves, for miles after miles on each side of the rivers!
How extensive appear the savannas, or natural meadows, teeming with
innumerable herds of cattle, where the Portuguese and Spaniards are
settled, but desert as Sahara where the English and Dutch claim dominion.
How gradually the face of the country rises! See the sand-hills all
clothed in wood first emerging from the level, then hills a little
higher, rugged with bold and craggy rocks, peeping out from amongst the
most luxuriant timber. Then come plains, and dells, and far-extending
valleys, arrayed in richest foliage; and beyond them, mountains piled on
mountains, some bearing prodigious forests, others of bleak and barren
aspect. Thus your eye wanders on, over scenes of varied loveliness and
grandeur, till it rests on the stupendous pinnacles of the long-continued
Cordilleras de los Andes, which rise in towering majesty, and command all
America.
How fertile must the lowlands be, from the accumulation of fallen leaves
and trees for centuries. How propitious the swamps and slimy beds of the
rivers, heated by a downward sun, to the amazing growth of alligators,
serpents, and innumerable insects. How inviting the forests to the
feathered tribes, where you see buds, blossoms, green and ripe fruit,
full-grown and fading leaves, all on the same tree. How secure the wild
beasts may rove in endless mazes. Perhaps those mountains, too, which
appear so bleak and naked, as if quite neglected, are, like Potosi, full
of precious metals.
Let us now return the pinions we borrowed from Icarus, and prepare to bid
farewell to the wilds. The time allotted to these Wanderings is drawing
fast to a close. Every day for the last six months has been employed in
paying close attention to natural history in the forests of Demerara.
Above two hundred specimens of the finest birds have been collected, and
a pretty just knowledge formed of their haunts and economy. From the
time of leaving England, in March, 1816, to the present day, nothing has
intervened to arrest a fine flow of health, saving a quartan ague, which
did not tarry, but fled as suddenly as it appeared.
And now I take leave of thee, kind and gentle reader. The new mode of
preserving birds, heretofore promised thee, shall not be forgotten. The
plan is already formed in imagination, and can be penned down during the
passage across the Atlantic. If the few remarks in these Wanderings
shall have any weight in inciting thee to sally forth and explore the
vast and well-stored regions of Demerara, I have gained my end. Adieu.