Part 3—Chapter I.

Part 3—Chapter I.South America.Scenes of Ancient Days.Time was when a rocky island, against which dashed the surges of the Atlantic on the east and of the Pacific on the west, rose in solitude from the wide-extending ocean where now the highlands of Guiana appear above the surrounding plains. Not another spot of dry land was to be found—so geologists affirm—between that point and the hills of Canada on the north, or for thousands of miles southward towards the pole, over that portion of the globe’s surface now occupied by the vast continent of America. Then, by slow degrees, the mountains of Brazil, with their mines of glittering gems, appeared above the surface of the waters, amid which huge reptile-like whales, ichthyosaurs, plesiosaurs, and cetiosaurs buffeted the billows, and vast saurians, lizards, and alligators, rivalling the elephant in bulk, and twice his length—such as the megalosaurus, the iguanodon, and teleosaurus—crawled along the slimy shores; while giant birds, with wide-spreading feet, stalked across the newly-formed plains, or flew shrieking, with wings of prodigious expanse skimming the glittering sea,—the lords paramount of this lower world. At length the earth, convulsed by mighty throes in the far-away west from north to south, began to cast up a long line of rocky heights, now to sink, now to rise once more above the surface,—till by degrees Pelion piled on Ossa—the vast chain of the Cordilleras rose towards the skies, forming a mighty barrier between the two great oceans.On the eastern side, the waves of the Atlantic, beating continuously, brought down into the shallow sea the débris from the newly-formed rocks, gradually filling up the spaces between the already created islands; and the streams, running down from the mountain heights, formed the plan of the three great river-systems of the continent—the Orinoco in the north, the Amazon in the centre, and La Plata in the south.The Almighty Creator appears always to have worked by mechanical means in preparing the globe for the habitation of man. There came then a glacial period. Ponderous blocks of ice, resting not only on the mountainsides, but extending over the plains, and acting the part of mighty mill-stones, ground into impalpable powder the pieces of detached rock of which the lower surface was composed, till a soil was formed capable of producing a wondrous and varied vegetation to clothe that Amazonian valley.(The continent, Professor Agassiz supposes, extended at that time between 200 and 300 miles further east than it does at present; but the waters from the rapidly-melting mass of ice, forcing a passage towards the ocean, carried a large portion away, leaving only certain tracts which now appear in the form of islands at the mouths of the Amazon and Orinoco.)The work has been accomplished—the land prepared for its future inhabitants! Mighty torrents fall from the lofty mountains, meandering through the vast Amazonian plain. The age of winter has passed away. The earth, warmed by the fires beneath and the hot sun above, steams with vapour. Lofty trees rise from the alluvial soil. A dense mass of underwood springs up; creepers innumerable hang from the boughs; countless multitudes of insects have been called into existence—termites, ants, and beetles—feeding on the leaves and herbage, and on the giant trunks themselves. It might seem, numerous and voracious as they are, that they must quickly destroy the clothing of verdure which covers the soil. But they are not destined thus to triumph over the wonderful work of the Creator’s hand.A law has been framed by which all things are beautifully and wonderfully balanced. Monstrous animals have been created to place bounds on their too great increase. Huge, awkward-looking beasts covered with shaggy hair, with thick, short limbs, and powerful, sharp claws bent inwards on soft pads—compelling them to move on the edge of their paws—are busy with the clay-formed nests of the insects, dashing them asunder, and devouring their active builders—taking in whole armies at a mouthful.See yonder huge creature, its body the size of a rhinoceros, covered with a coat of armour, a convex oval shield, formed of hexagonal plates wonderfully fitted to each other! It is an armadillo, the precursor of a race still abounding in the land, though of diminutive form compared to its mighty predecessor. See how, with powerful jaws, it crunches up a fallen tree, perforated through and through by ants,—grinding the papery partitions of the dry wood, licking in and chewing between its wonderful cylinder teeth the whole mass into a black pulp!“But lo! here are mightier creatures yet. See the vast mylodon, the scelidothere, and the still more colossal megathere! Ponderous giants these. The very forests seem to tremble under their stately stride. Their immense bulk preponderates behind, terminating in a tail of wonderful thickness and solidity. The head is mean, and awakens no terror. The eye lacks lustre, and threatens no violence, though the whole form betokens vast power; and the stout limbs are terminated by the same thick, in-bent, sharp, hoofed claws. One of them approaches that wide-spreading locust-tree. He gazes up at the huge mud-brown structures that resemble hogsheads affixed to the forks of the branches, and he knows that the luscious termites are filling them to overflowing. His lips water at the tempting sight. Have them he must; but how? That heavy stern-post of his was never made for climbing. Yet, see! he rears himself up against the tree. Is he about to essay the scaling? Not he. He knows his powers better. He gives it one embrace—one strong hug, as if to test its thickness and hold upon the earth. Now he isdigging away below, scooping out the soft soil from between the roots; and it is marvellous to note how rapidly he lays them bare with those great shovel-like claws of his. Now he rears himself again; straddles wide on his hind-feet, fixing the mighty claws deep in the ground; plants himself firmly on his huge tail, as on the third foot of a tripod, and once more grasps the tree. The enormous hind-quarters, the limbs and the loins, the broad pelvis and thick spinal cord, supplying abundant nervous energy to the swelling muscles inserted in the ridged and keeled bones, all come into play as apoint d’appuifor the Herculean effort.” (Gosse’s “Natural History.”)“And now conceive the massive frame of the megathere convulsed with the mighty wrestling, every vibrating fibre reacting upon its bony attachments with the force of a hundred giants. Extraordinary must be the strength and proportions of the tree if, when rocked to and fro to right and left in such an embrace, it can long withstand the efforts of its assailant. It yields! The roots fly up. The earth is scattered wide upon the surrounding foliage. The tree comes down with a thundering crash, cracking and snapping the great boughs like grass. The frightened insects swarm out at every orifice, but the huge beast is in upon them. With his sharp hoofs he tears apart the crusty walls of the earth-nests, and licks out their living contents—fat pupae, eggs, and all—rolling down the sweet morsels, half sucking, half chewing, with a delighted gusto that repays him for all his mighty toil. While this giant is absorbed in his juicy breakfast, see! there lounges along his neighbour the macrauchen—equally massive, equally heavy, equally vast, equally peaceful. The stranger resembles the huge rhinoceros, elevated on much loftier limbs. But his most remarkable feature is the enormously long neck, like that of the camel, but carried to the altitude of that of the giraffe. Thus he thrusts his great muzzle into the very centre of the leafy trees, and gathering with his prehensile and flexible lip the succulent twigs and foliage, he too finds abundance of food for his immense body in the teeming vegetation without intruding on the supply of his fellows.” (Owen on the “Mylodon.”)Emerging from the water appears a great head, with little piggish eyes set wide apart, with immense muzzle and lips, and broad cheeks armed with stiff projecting bristles—the sluggish toxodon. The creature opens its cavernous mouth to seize a floating gourd; and now it tears up the great fleshy arum roots from the clay bank, and grinding them to pulp, sinks below to masticate its meal. Numberless other curious creatures are roaming through the forest, or feeding on the banks; many others, having run their destined course, disappear from the face of the globe, to be replaced by a new creation of far less magnitude—the mild llama, the savage jaguar, the nimble monkey with prehensile tail, the ant-eater, arborial and terrestrial; the diminutive sloth, thick-skinned tapir, alligators, turtles, and manatees; lizards, serpents; the beautiful denizens of the air with superb plumage, numerous species of humming-birds, gorgeous butterflies and beetles, vieing in their shining hues with the rich gems hidden within the bowels of the earth.It is of these, and of many others in wonderful variety; as well as of their master—man—in his savage state; and of the curious trees and shrubs, whose fruits afford him and the lower orders abundant nourishment, that some outline sketches will now be given.

Time was when a rocky island, against which dashed the surges of the Atlantic on the east and of the Pacific on the west, rose in solitude from the wide-extending ocean where now the highlands of Guiana appear above the surrounding plains. Not another spot of dry land was to be found—so geologists affirm—between that point and the hills of Canada on the north, or for thousands of miles southward towards the pole, over that portion of the globe’s surface now occupied by the vast continent of America. Then, by slow degrees, the mountains of Brazil, with their mines of glittering gems, appeared above the surface of the waters, amid which huge reptile-like whales, ichthyosaurs, plesiosaurs, and cetiosaurs buffeted the billows, and vast saurians, lizards, and alligators, rivalling the elephant in bulk, and twice his length—such as the megalosaurus, the iguanodon, and teleosaurus—crawled along the slimy shores; while giant birds, with wide-spreading feet, stalked across the newly-formed plains, or flew shrieking, with wings of prodigious expanse skimming the glittering sea,—the lords paramount of this lower world. At length the earth, convulsed by mighty throes in the far-away west from north to south, began to cast up a long line of rocky heights, now to sink, now to rise once more above the surface,—till by degrees Pelion piled on Ossa—the vast chain of the Cordilleras rose towards the skies, forming a mighty barrier between the two great oceans.

On the eastern side, the waves of the Atlantic, beating continuously, brought down into the shallow sea the débris from the newly-formed rocks, gradually filling up the spaces between the already created islands; and the streams, running down from the mountain heights, formed the plan of the three great river-systems of the continent—the Orinoco in the north, the Amazon in the centre, and La Plata in the south.

The Almighty Creator appears always to have worked by mechanical means in preparing the globe for the habitation of man. There came then a glacial period. Ponderous blocks of ice, resting not only on the mountainsides, but extending over the plains, and acting the part of mighty mill-stones, ground into impalpable powder the pieces of detached rock of which the lower surface was composed, till a soil was formed capable of producing a wondrous and varied vegetation to clothe that Amazonian valley.

(The continent, Professor Agassiz supposes, extended at that time between 200 and 300 miles further east than it does at present; but the waters from the rapidly-melting mass of ice, forcing a passage towards the ocean, carried a large portion away, leaving only certain tracts which now appear in the form of islands at the mouths of the Amazon and Orinoco.)

The work has been accomplished—the land prepared for its future inhabitants! Mighty torrents fall from the lofty mountains, meandering through the vast Amazonian plain. The age of winter has passed away. The earth, warmed by the fires beneath and the hot sun above, steams with vapour. Lofty trees rise from the alluvial soil. A dense mass of underwood springs up; creepers innumerable hang from the boughs; countless multitudes of insects have been called into existence—termites, ants, and beetles—feeding on the leaves and herbage, and on the giant trunks themselves. It might seem, numerous and voracious as they are, that they must quickly destroy the clothing of verdure which covers the soil. But they are not destined thus to triumph over the wonderful work of the Creator’s hand.

A law has been framed by which all things are beautifully and wonderfully balanced. Monstrous animals have been created to place bounds on their too great increase. Huge, awkward-looking beasts covered with shaggy hair, with thick, short limbs, and powerful, sharp claws bent inwards on soft pads—compelling them to move on the edge of their paws—are busy with the clay-formed nests of the insects, dashing them asunder, and devouring their active builders—taking in whole armies at a mouthful.

See yonder huge creature, its body the size of a rhinoceros, covered with a coat of armour, a convex oval shield, formed of hexagonal plates wonderfully fitted to each other! It is an armadillo, the precursor of a race still abounding in the land, though of diminutive form compared to its mighty predecessor. See how, with powerful jaws, it crunches up a fallen tree, perforated through and through by ants,—grinding the papery partitions of the dry wood, licking in and chewing between its wonderful cylinder teeth the whole mass into a black pulp!

“But lo! here are mightier creatures yet. See the vast mylodon, the scelidothere, and the still more colossal megathere! Ponderous giants these. The very forests seem to tremble under their stately stride. Their immense bulk preponderates behind, terminating in a tail of wonderful thickness and solidity. The head is mean, and awakens no terror. The eye lacks lustre, and threatens no violence, though the whole form betokens vast power; and the stout limbs are terminated by the same thick, in-bent, sharp, hoofed claws. One of them approaches that wide-spreading locust-tree. He gazes up at the huge mud-brown structures that resemble hogsheads affixed to the forks of the branches, and he knows that the luscious termites are filling them to overflowing. His lips water at the tempting sight. Have them he must; but how? That heavy stern-post of his was never made for climbing. Yet, see! he rears himself up against the tree. Is he about to essay the scaling? Not he. He knows his powers better. He gives it one embrace—one strong hug, as if to test its thickness and hold upon the earth. Now he isdigging away below, scooping out the soft soil from between the roots; and it is marvellous to note how rapidly he lays them bare with those great shovel-like claws of his. Now he rears himself again; straddles wide on his hind-feet, fixing the mighty claws deep in the ground; plants himself firmly on his huge tail, as on the third foot of a tripod, and once more grasps the tree. The enormous hind-quarters, the limbs and the loins, the broad pelvis and thick spinal cord, supplying abundant nervous energy to the swelling muscles inserted in the ridged and keeled bones, all come into play as apoint d’appuifor the Herculean effort.” (Gosse’s “Natural History.”)

“And now conceive the massive frame of the megathere convulsed with the mighty wrestling, every vibrating fibre reacting upon its bony attachments with the force of a hundred giants. Extraordinary must be the strength and proportions of the tree if, when rocked to and fro to right and left in such an embrace, it can long withstand the efforts of its assailant. It yields! The roots fly up. The earth is scattered wide upon the surrounding foliage. The tree comes down with a thundering crash, cracking and snapping the great boughs like grass. The frightened insects swarm out at every orifice, but the huge beast is in upon them. With his sharp hoofs he tears apart the crusty walls of the earth-nests, and licks out their living contents—fat pupae, eggs, and all—rolling down the sweet morsels, half sucking, half chewing, with a delighted gusto that repays him for all his mighty toil. While this giant is absorbed in his juicy breakfast, see! there lounges along his neighbour the macrauchen—equally massive, equally heavy, equally vast, equally peaceful. The stranger resembles the huge rhinoceros, elevated on much loftier limbs. But his most remarkable feature is the enormously long neck, like that of the camel, but carried to the altitude of that of the giraffe. Thus he thrusts his great muzzle into the very centre of the leafy trees, and gathering with his prehensile and flexible lip the succulent twigs and foliage, he too finds abundance of food for his immense body in the teeming vegetation without intruding on the supply of his fellows.” (Owen on the “Mylodon.”)

Emerging from the water appears a great head, with little piggish eyes set wide apart, with immense muzzle and lips, and broad cheeks armed with stiff projecting bristles—the sluggish toxodon. The creature opens its cavernous mouth to seize a floating gourd; and now it tears up the great fleshy arum roots from the clay bank, and grinding them to pulp, sinks below to masticate its meal. Numberless other curious creatures are roaming through the forest, or feeding on the banks; many others, having run their destined course, disappear from the face of the globe, to be replaced by a new creation of far less magnitude—the mild llama, the savage jaguar, the nimble monkey with prehensile tail, the ant-eater, arborial and terrestrial; the diminutive sloth, thick-skinned tapir, alligators, turtles, and manatees; lizards, serpents; the beautiful denizens of the air with superb plumage, numerous species of humming-birds, gorgeous butterflies and beetles, vieing in their shining hues with the rich gems hidden within the bowels of the earth.

It is of these, and of many others in wonderful variety; as well as of their master—man—in his savage state; and of the curious trees and shrubs, whose fruits afford him and the lower orders abundant nourishment, that some outline sketches will now be given.

Part 3—Chapter II.A General View of South America.Three separate mountain-systems exist in South America:—that of the Andes on the west, Guiana and Venezuela on the north, and the serras of Brazil in the centre. The surface of the remainder of the continent is occupied by vast level, or undulating tracts of different elevations. The chief portion of the region through which the Amazon flows, but slightly raised above its surface, is covered with the richest and most varied vegetation to be found on any part of the globe, extending on either side of its course, as also along the shores of the Atlantic, north and south, for many hundreds of miles. Here enormous trees of many descriptions, of varied shapes and heights, grow in wonderful profusion. The candelabra, sumauméra, the manicaria, and raphia, with their enormous leaves, and other palms innumerable, tower towards the sky. To the south of the Orinoco is another thickly-wooded region, known as the Silvas; which, united to the woods of Guiana and those of Brazil, Eastern Peru and Bolivia, form one enormous forest. From the north bank of the last-named river, the ground gently rises towards the interior at the rate of five feet in amile. At a distance of one hundred miles from its hanks, at a slightly increased elevation, appears a sandy terrace—the greater portion barren, though in some places bearing grasses, and supplying water to the wide-extending plains below. This barren region, which occupies the most northern part of South America, is called the Llanos Altos. A far wider and more level country extends between the base of the Andes and the banks of the Orinoco, at a height of between two hundred and five hundred feet. Not a stone or rock, not even a pebble, is to be seen on these vast plains. So level are they, that the currents of the rivers crossing them are almost imperceptible, and are frequently sent back towards their sources when met by strong winds. They are covered with grass, which affords pasturage to large herds of wild cattle—the only other species of vegetation being a few bushes growing on the banks of the streams; while here and there, scattered at considerable distances apart, a few tall palm-trees are seen, reminding the traveller of the deserts of Arabia.In the southern part of the continent are the treeless plains of the Pampas, extending from about 20 degrees south latitude for a distance of fully two thousand miles into Patagonia, and averaging in width five hundred miles. Stretching, as do these plains, across a large portion of the South Temperate Zone, they present great varieties of climate. The northern portion is watered by the River La Plata and its tributaries. To the south of Buenos Ayres the rivers are fewer and of less extent. The north-western Pampas consist of slightly undulating and dry plains, though interspersed with vast tracts on which lofty thistles rear their heads—useful, however, as fuel to the inhabitants. Further on, to the west, is a wide-extending pastoral district; and yet beyond, reaching to the foot of the Cordilleras, the soil is well-suited for agriculture. The pastoral region is almost a dead level, with large shallow salt-lakes,—one of them measuring fifty miles in length by twenty in width. Scarcely a tree is to be found throughout this region, and but few permanent water-courses. To the north extends a salt desert for upwards of one hundred miles, with a width of two hundred miles. It is crossed by the River Salado, which, rising in the Cordilleras, falls into the Plata, to the south of which rises a number of step-like terraces, sterile during the heats of summer, but covered with verdure after the rains of spring. Huge boulders, brown grass growing in tufts, and low spine-covered bushes, diversify the surface. In this inhospitable region transitions from heat to cold are very great. Now the traveller is panting under the intense heat of the sun’s rays; and anon an icy blast rushes across the plain, compelling him to draw close around his body his thick poncho, for protection against its chilling influences.Further to the south are found large swamps and lagoons, one of them having an area of one thousand square miles, its surface covered with aquatic plants. In the rainy season, the rivers, overflowing their banks, inundate the plains—leaving behind, however, a thick deposit of fertilising soil, from which, as elsewhere, rich crops are capable of being produced. Further on, to the south, the Pampas, over which the yet savage and untamed Patagonians roam, and hunt the huanacu and ostrich, is generally higher and drier.The South American continent, it will thus be seen, consists of several distinctly different descriptions of country:—the long line of the Cordilleras, with their snow-capped peaks and their lofty punas or high table-lands, and the narrow strip of arid soil at their western base; the three separate mountain-systems of Venezuela, Guiana, and the Brazils; the mighty forests bordering the great rivers and their tributaries, to which must be added the wooded heights of the inter-tropical regions, where tall trees, including several palms, flourish at an elevation of many thousand feet above the level of the ocean; and lastly, the wide-extending regions of the Llanos and the Pampas. These, as might be supposed, present great varieties of animal life—though scarcely so great as might have been expected, when it is remembered that they extend from 10 degrees north to 50 degrees south latitude. Several species indeed are found far to the north of the equator, and also near the southern end of the continent. But to give an idea of these different regions, they must be described in detail.

Three separate mountain-systems exist in South America:—that of the Andes on the west, Guiana and Venezuela on the north, and the serras of Brazil in the centre. The surface of the remainder of the continent is occupied by vast level, or undulating tracts of different elevations. The chief portion of the region through which the Amazon flows, but slightly raised above its surface, is covered with the richest and most varied vegetation to be found on any part of the globe, extending on either side of its course, as also along the shores of the Atlantic, north and south, for many hundreds of miles. Here enormous trees of many descriptions, of varied shapes and heights, grow in wonderful profusion. The candelabra, sumauméra, the manicaria, and raphia, with their enormous leaves, and other palms innumerable, tower towards the sky. To the south of the Orinoco is another thickly-wooded region, known as the Silvas; which, united to the woods of Guiana and those of Brazil, Eastern Peru and Bolivia, form one enormous forest. From the north bank of the last-named river, the ground gently rises towards the interior at the rate of five feet in amile. At a distance of one hundred miles from its hanks, at a slightly increased elevation, appears a sandy terrace—the greater portion barren, though in some places bearing grasses, and supplying water to the wide-extending plains below. This barren region, which occupies the most northern part of South America, is called the Llanos Altos. A far wider and more level country extends between the base of the Andes and the banks of the Orinoco, at a height of between two hundred and five hundred feet. Not a stone or rock, not even a pebble, is to be seen on these vast plains. So level are they, that the currents of the rivers crossing them are almost imperceptible, and are frequently sent back towards their sources when met by strong winds. They are covered with grass, which affords pasturage to large herds of wild cattle—the only other species of vegetation being a few bushes growing on the banks of the streams; while here and there, scattered at considerable distances apart, a few tall palm-trees are seen, reminding the traveller of the deserts of Arabia.

In the southern part of the continent are the treeless plains of the Pampas, extending from about 20 degrees south latitude for a distance of fully two thousand miles into Patagonia, and averaging in width five hundred miles. Stretching, as do these plains, across a large portion of the South Temperate Zone, they present great varieties of climate. The northern portion is watered by the River La Plata and its tributaries. To the south of Buenos Ayres the rivers are fewer and of less extent. The north-western Pampas consist of slightly undulating and dry plains, though interspersed with vast tracts on which lofty thistles rear their heads—useful, however, as fuel to the inhabitants. Further on, to the west, is a wide-extending pastoral district; and yet beyond, reaching to the foot of the Cordilleras, the soil is well-suited for agriculture. The pastoral region is almost a dead level, with large shallow salt-lakes,—one of them measuring fifty miles in length by twenty in width. Scarcely a tree is to be found throughout this region, and but few permanent water-courses. To the north extends a salt desert for upwards of one hundred miles, with a width of two hundred miles. It is crossed by the River Salado, which, rising in the Cordilleras, falls into the Plata, to the south of which rises a number of step-like terraces, sterile during the heats of summer, but covered with verdure after the rains of spring. Huge boulders, brown grass growing in tufts, and low spine-covered bushes, diversify the surface. In this inhospitable region transitions from heat to cold are very great. Now the traveller is panting under the intense heat of the sun’s rays; and anon an icy blast rushes across the plain, compelling him to draw close around his body his thick poncho, for protection against its chilling influences.

Further to the south are found large swamps and lagoons, one of them having an area of one thousand square miles, its surface covered with aquatic plants. In the rainy season, the rivers, overflowing their banks, inundate the plains—leaving behind, however, a thick deposit of fertilising soil, from which, as elsewhere, rich crops are capable of being produced. Further on, to the south, the Pampas, over which the yet savage and untamed Patagonians roam, and hunt the huanacu and ostrich, is generally higher and drier.

The South American continent, it will thus be seen, consists of several distinctly different descriptions of country:—the long line of the Cordilleras, with their snow-capped peaks and their lofty punas or high table-lands, and the narrow strip of arid soil at their western base; the three separate mountain-systems of Venezuela, Guiana, and the Brazils; the mighty forests bordering the great rivers and their tributaries, to which must be added the wooded heights of the inter-tropical regions, where tall trees, including several palms, flourish at an elevation of many thousand feet above the level of the ocean; and lastly, the wide-extending regions of the Llanos and the Pampas. These, as might be supposed, present great varieties of animal life—though scarcely so great as might have been expected, when it is remembered that they extend from 10 degrees north to 50 degrees south latitude. Several species indeed are found far to the north of the equator, and also near the southern end of the continent. But to give an idea of these different regions, they must be described in detail.

Part 3—Chapter III.Valley of the Amazon.Standing on the eastern spur of the Andes, between 3 degrees and 4 degrees south of the equator, the eye of the traveller may see in imagination a vast valley, clothed with a dense forest, stretching towards the far-distant Atlantic. Behind him, on the west, tower the lofty peaks of the Cordilleras; on his left, in a northerly direction, appear the mountains and highlands of Venezuela and Guiana; while to the south rise the serras and table-lands of the Brazils. It is the Valley of the Amazon, in which more than half of Europe might be contained. Down the centre flows a mighty stream, the tributaries of which alone contain a bulk of water greater than all the European rivers put together.Upwards of five hundred miles away to the south of the spot where the traveller stands, is the little lake of Lauricocha, near the silver-mines of Cerro de Pasco in Peru, just below the limit of perpetual snow—14,000 feet above the level of the sea. This lake has the honour of giving birth to the mighty stream: its waters forming the River Tunguragua, which, roaring and foaming in a series of cataracts and rapids through rocky valleys, flows northerly till it reaches the frontier of Ecuador. It then turns suddenly to the east, which direction it maintains, with a slightly northerly inclination, for two thousand miles—its volume greatly increased by numerous large streams, each of which is by itself a mighty river—till, attaining a width which may vie with that of the Baltic, it rushes with such fierce force into the Atlantic as to turn aside on either hand the salt-waters of the ocean. Thus the seaman approaching the shore of South America, when still out of sight of land, may lower his bucket and draw up the fresh-water which, it may be, has issued forth weeks before from the sides of the Andes. The whole length of the river, following its main curves, is but little under three thousand miles, while the tributaries from north to south stretch over seventeen hundred miles.The basin of the Amazon may be considered like a shallow trough lying parallel to the equator, the southern sides having double the inclination of the northern, the whole gently sloping eastward. The channel of the river lies rather to the north of the basin, some hills rising directly above its waters; while the falls of several rivers to the south are two hundred miles above their mouths. Two thousand miles from its mouth the depth of the river is never less than eighteen feet, while many of its tributaries at their embouchures are of equal depth; and at the junction of the great rivers the hollows of its bed attain a depth of twenty-four fathoms. At Tabalingua, two thousand miles from its mouth, it is a mile and a half broad; and lower down, at the entrance of one of its tributaries—the Madeira—it measures three miles across. Still further to the east its sea-like reaches extend to the north for ten miles, with still wider lake-like expanses, so that the eye of the voyager can scarcely reach the forest-covered banks on the opposite side; while if the River Para is properly considered one of its branches, its measurement from shore to shore, across a countless number of islands, is one hundred and eighty miles—equal to the breadth of the widest part of the Baltic.After receiving the waters of numerous streams, many of which flow for considerable distances parallel with its shores, and are united by a network of channels, it is joined by its most considerable northern tributary—the Rio Negro. This stream, rising in the mountains of Venezuela, and passing amidst the Llanos, robbing the Orinoco of part of its waters, has already, before it reaches the Amazon, flowed for a course of one thousand five hundred miles. It is called the Negro from its black colour. It is here not less than nineteen fathoms deep, and three thousand six hundred paces broad. The next great affluent is the Yapura, which, rising in the mountains of New Granada, takes a south-easterly course for one thousand miles, its principal mouth entering the Amazon opposite the town of Ega; but it has numberless small channels, the streams of which, two hundred miles apart, flow into the great river. The upper part of the Amazon is frequently called the Solimoens, which name it retains as far south as the mouth of the River Negro.About sixty miles further east, its largest southern affluent—the gigantic Madeira—unites its milky waters with the turbid stream of the main river. One branch, the Beni, rises in the neighbourhood of the ancient Cuzco in Peru, near Lake Titicaca, its whole extent from the centre of the province of Bolivia being nearly the length of the Amazon itself. At its mouth it is two miles wide and sixty-six feet deep; and five hundred miles up it is a mile wide. Numerous islands are found in its course: for nearly five hundred miles it is navigable for large vessels, when a cataract intervenes. Were it not for this, there would be a free navigation from the centre of the province of Bolivia to the ocean, embracing islands the size of many of the Old World provinces, and widening into broad lakes. The monarch of waters flows on between its low forest-clothed banks till, four hundred miles from its mouth, it reaches the Strait of Obydos, where it is narrowed to two thousand paces. Through this channel its waters rush with immense force, calculated at five hundred thousand cubic feet in one second—sufficient to fill all the streams in Europe, and swell them to overflowing. No plummet has hitherto sounded the depth of its bed at this point, the force of the stream probably rendering the operation almost impracticable.Its last two great tributaries are the Tapajos, six times the length of the Thames, and the Xingu, twice that of the Rhine; while further east a narrow channel unites it with the River Para, into which flows the broad stream of the Tocantins. This river, rising in the Minas-Geraes, six hundred miles from Rio Janeiro, is one thousand six hundred miles long, and ten miles wide at its mouth. Opposite to Para is the large island of Marajo; and if Professor Agassiz is right in supposing that the continent once extended much further to the east than it now does, this island may properly be considered in the centre of the mouth of the river, and the River Para might then properly be called one of its true embouchures. But only a few of the streams which feed the Amazon have been named. Numberless other rivers swell its waters, united to it by countless channels which form a wonderful network throughout the whole region, joining also many of the main riverstogether, with the intricate navigation of which the natives alone are acquainted.These curious water-paths, or igarapes, as they are called, are often so narrow that the branches of the lofty trees meet overhead, enabling the traveller in his canoe to proceed for miles together sheltered from the noonday sun. Here and there a glimpse of the sky can be discovered through the umbrageous foliage overhead, while birds of gay plumage flit to and fro, or sit perched on the branches uttering their strange and varied cries. In the intervals, or sometimes forming the termination of the water-path, numerous pools of various sizes exist—some a few yards across, others expanding into lakes—filled mostly by the overflowing of the main river during the rainy season. They are the habitations of a great variety of fishes. Here several species of turtles and alligators swarm in vast numbers; electric eels, too, abound in them, as well as many of the other curious water-creatures of that region. Water-fowl and various other aquatic birds dwell on their banks, while on the surface of their placid waters float the wide-spreading leaves and magnificent blossoms of the Victoria Regia, as also of other lilies and water-plants.Scenes on the Amazon.The chief feature of the Lower Amazon is the vast expanse of smooth water, of a pale yellowish-olive colour, bearing on its bosom detached masses of aquatic grass floating down like islands, sometimes mixed with huge trees, their branches and roots interlocked, and often carrying among them wild animals, which, unconscious of their character, have there taken refuge from their foes, or have ventured thither in search of prey. The timid stag and fierce jaguar are sometimes thus entrapped and carried out to sea. At even and morn flocks of parrots and large and yellow macaws, fly backwards and forwards, uttering their wild and hoarse cries; herons and rails frequent the marshes on its banks; while all night long the cries of gulls and terns are heard over the sandy banks where they deposit their eggs, while they may be seen during the day sitting in rows on floating logs gliding down the stream, motionless and silent, as if contemplating the scenery. There are divers and darters, too, in abundance. Now and then a huge manatee comes gliding by, its cow-like head rising to breathe the upper air; while dolphins, porpoise-like, rear their backs above the surface, or leap half out of the water as they swim up the stream. On the low banks, huge alligators with open jaws are basking in the sun, or leisurely swimming across the river.The Rainy Season.This magnificent region enjoys a perpetual summer, its various fruits coming to maturity, according to their character, at different periods throughout the year. It has, however, its wet and dry seasons. The rain occurs at one time in the Upper Amazon, and at another in the Lower,—greatly swelling the volume of water in the main stream, which, unable to find its way towards the ocean, rushes through the countless channels and igarapes, overflowing the lower portions of a vast district called the Gapo. The waters begin to rise in February, and progress inch by inch until the middle of June, gradually swelling the rivers and lakes, when, these becoming filled, the lower lands and sand-banks are overflowed even far-away in the interior. The forests are traversed by numerous gullies, which in the dry season are wide dells, but now become transformed into broad creeks, through which canoes can proceed to great distances under the shade of the lofty trees.At this period of the year the inland pools are frequented by swarms of turtle, as well as alligators, and shoals of fish which leave the main river; while the flocks of wading birds migrate northerly, thus greatly dispersing the food on which the natives depend for their existence. The fishermen who have been employed during the dry months in catching turtle and fish on the sand-banks return to their villages, though some employ themselves in collecting the Brazil-nut and wild cacao, which are now ripe.About the first week in June, the flood has risen sometimes to the height of forty feet above the usual level of the river, when it now begins to subside. The rains, however, do not fall continuously, though very heavy at times. Several days of beautiful sunny weather generally intervene. The fine season begins with a few days of brilliant weather—the rays of the sun breaking forth among the passing clouds. Towards the middle of July the sand-banks again appear, flocks of gulls and other water birds fly by, and the gaily-plumaged inhabitants of the forest come forth into full activity and life.Storms.The navigation of the Amazon is not free from danger. Fierce storms arise; black clouds gather over the blue expanse, suffused anon with a lurid yellow tinge, and the fierce whirlwind howls along the river-banks, tearing the placid stream into masses of foam; the tall trees bend before the blast, and huge branches are wrenched off and hurled into the water. The long-legged waders and other water birds, unable to face it, throw themselves on the ground, and cling with claws and beak to the sand to escape being carried helplessly away.The Pororocca.Sometimes, too, the destroying pororocca—a vast wave rising across the whole width of the stream, to the height of twelve or fifteen feet—sweeps up the stream. Advancing noiselessly over the deeper portions of the river-bed, it rises into an angry billow, with a fearful roar when passing over a shallow, or meeting any impediment in its course. A French traveller describes an island where he and his companions had rested on their voyage down the stream. They had happily gone over to the mainland on the previous evening, when, as they stood on the shore, the pororocca was heard approaching. Onward it came till the island was reached, when, with an angry roar, it burst into masses of foam, and swept over the devoted spot, carrying in its fierce embrace not only the whole mass of vegetation, but overturning the foundations of the island itself, so that in a few seconds not a vestige remained. Sometimes, too, the higher banks of the Upper Amazon, crowned by lofty trees, are worn away by the rapid current, increased during the rainy season, continually passing beneath them, till the upper portions, deprived of their support, fall over with a terrific roar into the stream, dragging with them their neighbours. The earth trembles with the concussion, the waters hiss and foam and rush furiously over the impediments in their course. Sometimes miles of the bank thus give way, the sound being heard far up and down the stream. Occasionally a canoe and its crew—who, to avoid the current, have been toiling close along the bank—have been thus overwhelmed; while others, descending, unaware of the obstruction, have been dragged by the furious whirlpool thus formed amid the tangled branches, and destroyed.

Standing on the eastern spur of the Andes, between 3 degrees and 4 degrees south of the equator, the eye of the traveller may see in imagination a vast valley, clothed with a dense forest, stretching towards the far-distant Atlantic. Behind him, on the west, tower the lofty peaks of the Cordilleras; on his left, in a northerly direction, appear the mountains and highlands of Venezuela and Guiana; while to the south rise the serras and table-lands of the Brazils. It is the Valley of the Amazon, in which more than half of Europe might be contained. Down the centre flows a mighty stream, the tributaries of which alone contain a bulk of water greater than all the European rivers put together.

Upwards of five hundred miles away to the south of the spot where the traveller stands, is the little lake of Lauricocha, near the silver-mines of Cerro de Pasco in Peru, just below the limit of perpetual snow—14,000 feet above the level of the sea. This lake has the honour of giving birth to the mighty stream: its waters forming the River Tunguragua, which, roaring and foaming in a series of cataracts and rapids through rocky valleys, flows northerly till it reaches the frontier of Ecuador. It then turns suddenly to the east, which direction it maintains, with a slightly northerly inclination, for two thousand miles—its volume greatly increased by numerous large streams, each of which is by itself a mighty river—till, attaining a width which may vie with that of the Baltic, it rushes with such fierce force into the Atlantic as to turn aside on either hand the salt-waters of the ocean. Thus the seaman approaching the shore of South America, when still out of sight of land, may lower his bucket and draw up the fresh-water which, it may be, has issued forth weeks before from the sides of the Andes. The whole length of the river, following its main curves, is but little under three thousand miles, while the tributaries from north to south stretch over seventeen hundred miles.

The basin of the Amazon may be considered like a shallow trough lying parallel to the equator, the southern sides having double the inclination of the northern, the whole gently sloping eastward. The channel of the river lies rather to the north of the basin, some hills rising directly above its waters; while the falls of several rivers to the south are two hundred miles above their mouths. Two thousand miles from its mouth the depth of the river is never less than eighteen feet, while many of its tributaries at their embouchures are of equal depth; and at the junction of the great rivers the hollows of its bed attain a depth of twenty-four fathoms. At Tabalingua, two thousand miles from its mouth, it is a mile and a half broad; and lower down, at the entrance of one of its tributaries—the Madeira—it measures three miles across. Still further to the east its sea-like reaches extend to the north for ten miles, with still wider lake-like expanses, so that the eye of the voyager can scarcely reach the forest-covered banks on the opposite side; while if the River Para is properly considered one of its branches, its measurement from shore to shore, across a countless number of islands, is one hundred and eighty miles—equal to the breadth of the widest part of the Baltic.

After receiving the waters of numerous streams, many of which flow for considerable distances parallel with its shores, and are united by a network of channels, it is joined by its most considerable northern tributary—the Rio Negro. This stream, rising in the mountains of Venezuela, and passing amidst the Llanos, robbing the Orinoco of part of its waters, has already, before it reaches the Amazon, flowed for a course of one thousand five hundred miles. It is called the Negro from its black colour. It is here not less than nineteen fathoms deep, and three thousand six hundred paces broad. The next great affluent is the Yapura, which, rising in the mountains of New Granada, takes a south-easterly course for one thousand miles, its principal mouth entering the Amazon opposite the town of Ega; but it has numberless small channels, the streams of which, two hundred miles apart, flow into the great river. The upper part of the Amazon is frequently called the Solimoens, which name it retains as far south as the mouth of the River Negro.

About sixty miles further east, its largest southern affluent—the gigantic Madeira—unites its milky waters with the turbid stream of the main river. One branch, the Beni, rises in the neighbourhood of the ancient Cuzco in Peru, near Lake Titicaca, its whole extent from the centre of the province of Bolivia being nearly the length of the Amazon itself. At its mouth it is two miles wide and sixty-six feet deep; and five hundred miles up it is a mile wide. Numerous islands are found in its course: for nearly five hundred miles it is navigable for large vessels, when a cataract intervenes. Were it not for this, there would be a free navigation from the centre of the province of Bolivia to the ocean, embracing islands the size of many of the Old World provinces, and widening into broad lakes. The monarch of waters flows on between its low forest-clothed banks till, four hundred miles from its mouth, it reaches the Strait of Obydos, where it is narrowed to two thousand paces. Through this channel its waters rush with immense force, calculated at five hundred thousand cubic feet in one second—sufficient to fill all the streams in Europe, and swell them to overflowing. No plummet has hitherto sounded the depth of its bed at this point, the force of the stream probably rendering the operation almost impracticable.

Its last two great tributaries are the Tapajos, six times the length of the Thames, and the Xingu, twice that of the Rhine; while further east a narrow channel unites it with the River Para, into which flows the broad stream of the Tocantins. This river, rising in the Minas-Geraes, six hundred miles from Rio Janeiro, is one thousand six hundred miles long, and ten miles wide at its mouth. Opposite to Para is the large island of Marajo; and if Professor Agassiz is right in supposing that the continent once extended much further to the east than it now does, this island may properly be considered in the centre of the mouth of the river, and the River Para might then properly be called one of its true embouchures. But only a few of the streams which feed the Amazon have been named. Numberless other rivers swell its waters, united to it by countless channels which form a wonderful network throughout the whole region, joining also many of the main riverstogether, with the intricate navigation of which the natives alone are acquainted.

These curious water-paths, or igarapes, as they are called, are often so narrow that the branches of the lofty trees meet overhead, enabling the traveller in his canoe to proceed for miles together sheltered from the noonday sun. Here and there a glimpse of the sky can be discovered through the umbrageous foliage overhead, while birds of gay plumage flit to and fro, or sit perched on the branches uttering their strange and varied cries. In the intervals, or sometimes forming the termination of the water-path, numerous pools of various sizes exist—some a few yards across, others expanding into lakes—filled mostly by the overflowing of the main river during the rainy season. They are the habitations of a great variety of fishes. Here several species of turtles and alligators swarm in vast numbers; electric eels, too, abound in them, as well as many of the other curious water-creatures of that region. Water-fowl and various other aquatic birds dwell on their banks, while on the surface of their placid waters float the wide-spreading leaves and magnificent blossoms of the Victoria Regia, as also of other lilies and water-plants.

The chief feature of the Lower Amazon is the vast expanse of smooth water, of a pale yellowish-olive colour, bearing on its bosom detached masses of aquatic grass floating down like islands, sometimes mixed with huge trees, their branches and roots interlocked, and often carrying among them wild animals, which, unconscious of their character, have there taken refuge from their foes, or have ventured thither in search of prey. The timid stag and fierce jaguar are sometimes thus entrapped and carried out to sea. At even and morn flocks of parrots and large and yellow macaws, fly backwards and forwards, uttering their wild and hoarse cries; herons and rails frequent the marshes on its banks; while all night long the cries of gulls and terns are heard over the sandy banks where they deposit their eggs, while they may be seen during the day sitting in rows on floating logs gliding down the stream, motionless and silent, as if contemplating the scenery. There are divers and darters, too, in abundance. Now and then a huge manatee comes gliding by, its cow-like head rising to breathe the upper air; while dolphins, porpoise-like, rear their backs above the surface, or leap half out of the water as they swim up the stream. On the low banks, huge alligators with open jaws are basking in the sun, or leisurely swimming across the river.

This magnificent region enjoys a perpetual summer, its various fruits coming to maturity, according to their character, at different periods throughout the year. It has, however, its wet and dry seasons. The rain occurs at one time in the Upper Amazon, and at another in the Lower,—greatly swelling the volume of water in the main stream, which, unable to find its way towards the ocean, rushes through the countless channels and igarapes, overflowing the lower portions of a vast district called the Gapo. The waters begin to rise in February, and progress inch by inch until the middle of June, gradually swelling the rivers and lakes, when, these becoming filled, the lower lands and sand-banks are overflowed even far-away in the interior. The forests are traversed by numerous gullies, which in the dry season are wide dells, but now become transformed into broad creeks, through which canoes can proceed to great distances under the shade of the lofty trees.

At this period of the year the inland pools are frequented by swarms of turtle, as well as alligators, and shoals of fish which leave the main river; while the flocks of wading birds migrate northerly, thus greatly dispersing the food on which the natives depend for their existence. The fishermen who have been employed during the dry months in catching turtle and fish on the sand-banks return to their villages, though some employ themselves in collecting the Brazil-nut and wild cacao, which are now ripe.

About the first week in June, the flood has risen sometimes to the height of forty feet above the usual level of the river, when it now begins to subside. The rains, however, do not fall continuously, though very heavy at times. Several days of beautiful sunny weather generally intervene. The fine season begins with a few days of brilliant weather—the rays of the sun breaking forth among the passing clouds. Towards the middle of July the sand-banks again appear, flocks of gulls and other water birds fly by, and the gaily-plumaged inhabitants of the forest come forth into full activity and life.

The navigation of the Amazon is not free from danger. Fierce storms arise; black clouds gather over the blue expanse, suffused anon with a lurid yellow tinge, and the fierce whirlwind howls along the river-banks, tearing the placid stream into masses of foam; the tall trees bend before the blast, and huge branches are wrenched off and hurled into the water. The long-legged waders and other water birds, unable to face it, throw themselves on the ground, and cling with claws and beak to the sand to escape being carried helplessly away.

Sometimes, too, the destroying pororocca—a vast wave rising across the whole width of the stream, to the height of twelve or fifteen feet—sweeps up the stream. Advancing noiselessly over the deeper portions of the river-bed, it rises into an angry billow, with a fearful roar when passing over a shallow, or meeting any impediment in its course. A French traveller describes an island where he and his companions had rested on their voyage down the stream. They had happily gone over to the mainland on the previous evening, when, as they stood on the shore, the pororocca was heard approaching. Onward it came till the island was reached, when, with an angry roar, it burst into masses of foam, and swept over the devoted spot, carrying in its fierce embrace not only the whole mass of vegetation, but overturning the foundations of the island itself, so that in a few seconds not a vestige remained. Sometimes, too, the higher banks of the Upper Amazon, crowned by lofty trees, are worn away by the rapid current, increased during the rainy season, continually passing beneath them, till the upper portions, deprived of their support, fall over with a terrific roar into the stream, dragging with them their neighbours. The earth trembles with the concussion, the waters hiss and foam and rush furiously over the impediments in their course. Sometimes miles of the bank thus give way, the sound being heard far up and down the stream. Occasionally a canoe and its crew—who, to avoid the current, have been toiling close along the bank—have been thus overwhelmed; while others, descending, unaware of the obstruction, have been dragged by the furious whirlpool thus formed amid the tangled branches, and destroyed.

Part 3—Chapter IV.Character of Vegetation on the Banks.A dense vegetation, though somewhat varied in character, rises like a lofty wall of verdure along the banks of the mighty stream, from the base of the Andes to its mouth in the Atlantic. There, where the influence of the sea-breeze is felt, the ever-present mangrove of the tropics forms a thick belt round the shores of its numberless islands. Higher up, various palms of many graceful forms appear, interspersed with numberless other trees, some bearing huge pods a yard long, others vast nuts and other curious fruits,—the banks below fringed either with giant grasses and broad-leaved bananas, or here and there with the large wide heart-shaped leaves of the aninga growing on the summit of tall stems, or in other places with the murici of a lower growth close to the water’s edge. Among the most remarkable is the white-stemmed cecropia, the lofty massaranduba, or cow-tree, often rising to the height of one hundred and fifty feet; the seringa, or india-rubber tree, with its smooth grey bark, tall erect trunk, and thick glossy leaves. The assai-palm, with its slender stem, its graceful head and delicate green plumes, is at first morenumerous than any other. Now appears the miriti, or mauritia—one of the most beautiful of its tribe, with pendent clusters of glossy fruit, and enormous spreading fan-like leaves cut into ribbons; the jupati, with plume-like leaves forty feet and upwards in length, graceful in the extreme, starting almost from the ground. Here is seen also the bussu, with stiff entire leaves, also of great length, growing upright from a short stem, close together, and serrated along their edges. Higher up still, while the palms become less numerous, other trees take their places. Among them appears conspicuous the majestic sumaumera, its flat dome rounded, but not conical, towering high above the forest. The branches of this tree are greatly ramified and knotty, and the bark is white. Conspicuous, too, is the taxi, with brown buds and white flowers; while the margin of the water is thickly fringed by a belt of arrow-grass, orfrexes—so called by the Portuguese—six feet in height. Its name is given in consequence of being used by the Indians in making arrows for their blowpipes.Amid this wonderful mass of forest vegetation grows an intricate tracery of lianas and climbing sipos, some running round and round the trees, and holding them in a close embrace; others hanging from branch to branch in rich festoons, covered with starlike flowers, or dropping in long lines to the ground,—often to take root and shoot upwards again round a neighbouring stem, or drooping like the loose cordage of a ship swinging in the breeze. Often they form so dense and impenetrable a thicket from the ground upwards that a way must be cleared with an axe to proceed even a short distance from the banks towards the inner recesses of the forest.The Gapo.On the Gapo, or submerged lands, however, a considerable difference in the vegetation appears. The palms are here often more numerous than in other parts. This is the region where the cacao-tree and prickly sarsaparilla grow. Here the underwood is less dense, the sipos retiring to weave their tracery among the upper branches alone. Though during the dry season the vegetation springs up with wonderful rapidity, it is swept away by the next overflow.Here the lovely orchis tribe adorn the gloomy shades with their brilliant flowers. Among the most beautiful is the oncidium, of a yellow hue, often seen—apparently suspended in air between the stems of two trees—shining in the gloom, as if its petals were of gold. In reality it grows at the end of a wire-like stalk a yard and a half long, springing from a cluster of thick leaves on the bark of a tree; others have white and spotted blossoms, growing sometimes on rotten logs floating on the water, or on moss and decayed bark just above it. Still more magnificent is the Flor de Santa Ana, of a brilliant purple colour, emitting a most delicious odour.Peculiar and strange is this region of the Gapo. When the waters are at their height it can be traversed in all directions. The trees which grow on it, and the animals which here have their abodes, appear to differ from those of other districts.Let us accompany the naturalist Wallace, in his canoe, through a district of this description; now forcing our way under branches and among dense bushes, till we get into a part where the trees are loftier and a deep gloom prevails. Here the lowest branches of the trees are level with the surface of the water, many of them putting forth flowers. As we proceed we sometimes come to a grove of small palms, the leaves being now only a few feet above us. Among them is the maraja, bearing bunches of agreeable fruit, which, as we pass, the Indians cut off with their long knives. Sometimes the rustling of leaves overhead tells us that monkeys are near, and we soon see them peeping down from among the thick foliage, and then bounding rapidly away. Presently we come out into the sunshine, on a lake filled with lilies and beautiful water-plants, little bladder-worts, and the bright blue flowers and curious leaves with swollen stalks of the pontederias. Again we are in the gloom of the forest, among the lofty cylindrical trunks rising like columns out of the deep water; and now there is a splash of fruit falling around us, announcing that birds are feeding overhead, and we discover a flock of parrakeets, or bright blue chatterers, or the lovely pompadour, with its delicate white wings and claret-coloured plumage. Now, with a whir, a trogon on the wing seizes the fruit, or some clumsy toucan makes the branches shake as he alights above our heads.This region, as might be supposed, is not destitute of inhabitants. Several tribes of Indians dwell within it all the year round. Among them are the Purupurus and Muras tribes, who, spending most of their time in their canoes, in the dry season build small huts on its sandy shores; and when the waters overflow it, form rafts, which they secure between the trees, sleeping in rude huts suspended from the stems over the deep water, and lighting their fires on masses of mud placed on their floating homes. They subsist entirely on fish, turtle, and manatee.Several species of trogons are peculiar to this submerged region. The curious black umbrella-bird is entirely confined to it, as is also the little bristle-tailed manakin. Several monkeys visit it during the wet season, for the sake of its peculiar fruits; and here the scarlet-faced urikari has its home.For miles and miles together the native traverses thisregion in his canoe, passing through small streams, lakes, and swamps, scraping the tree trunks, and stooping to pass between the leaves of the prickly palms, now level with the water—though raised on stems forty feet high—while everywhere round him stretches out an illimitable waste of waters, but all covered with the lofty virgin forest. In this trackless maze, by slight indications of broken twigs or scraped bark, he finds his way with unerring certainty.“This curious region,” says Wallace, “extends from a little above Santarem to the confines of Peru, a distance of about 1700 miles; and varies in width on each side of the river from one to ten or twenty miles.”Trip up an Igarape into the Interior.Let us leave the mighty stream, and wander amidst the picturesque windings of an igarape, into the depths of the forest, with Professor Agassiz. Passing into its narrow entrance, the lofty trees arching overhead shelter the voyager in his light canoe from the glaring heat of the noonday sun. The air is cool and refreshing. Not a ripple stirs the water, save that caused by the paddles of the Indian crew. Clumps of the light and exquisitely graceful assai-palm shoot up everywhere on either side from the denser forest. Here and there the drooping bamboo dips its feathery branches into the water, covered sometimes to their very tips with the purple of convolvuli; yellow bignonias carry their golden clusters to the very summits of some of the more lofty trees; while white-flowering myrtles and orange-coloured mallows border the stream. Life abounds in this quiet retreat. Birds and butterflies are numerous on the margin of the water. Crabs of every variety of colour and size sit on the trunks of decaying logs, watching for their prey,—to make their escape, however, with nimble feet, when pursued.Or let us start before daylight, on a calm morning, along the banks of a larger tributary, to proceed towards the heights of the Sierra Erere. As dawn begins to redden the sky, large flocks of ducks and of a small Amazonian goose may be seen flying towards the lake. Here and there we see a cormorant, seated alone on the branch of a dead tree; or a kingfisher poises himself over the water, watching for his prey. Numerous gulls are gathered in large companies on the trees along the river-shore. Alligators lie on its surface, diving with a sudden splash at the approach of the canoe. Occasionally a porpoise emerges from the water, showing himself for a moment, and then disappearing. Sometimes a herd of capybaras, resting on the water’s edge, are startled at our approach.There sits, on the branch of an imbauba, rolled-up in its peculiar attitude, a sloth, the very picture of indolence, with its head sunk between its arms. The banks, covered in many places with the beautiful capim-grass, afford excellent pasturage for cattle.Now we turn into an inner stream, or igarape, often having to make our way with difficulty amid islands of capim-grass. Now we pass through a magnificent forest of the beautiful fan-palm—the miriti—overshadowing many smaller trees and innumerable shrubs, bearing light conspicuous flowers. Among them are numerous Leguminosae—one of the most striking, the fava, having a colossal pod.The whole mass of vegetation is interwoven with innumerable creepers, amid which the flowers of the bignonia, with their open trumpet-shaped corollas, are conspicuous. The capim is bright with the blossoms of the mallow growing in its midst, in some places edged with the broad-leaved aninga—a large aquatic arum. Through these forests, where animal life is no less rich and varied than the vegetation, our canoe glides silently for hours.The sedgy grasses on either side are full of water birds. One of the most common is a small chestnut-brown wading bird—the jacana—whose toes are immensely long in proportion to its size, enabling it to run over the surface of the aquatic vegetation as if it were solid ground. It is their breeding season—January. At every turn of the boat we start them up—usually in pairs. Their flat, open nests generallycontain five flesh-coloured eggs, streaked in zig-zag with dark brown lines. Among the other waders are a snow-white heron, another ash-coloured, and a large white stork. The ash-coloured herons are always in pairs—the white always singly, standing quiet and alone on the edge of the water, or half hidden in the green capim. The trees and bushes are full of small warbler-like birds. The most numerous and interesting is one which builds a very extraordinary nest, considering the size of the bird. It is known among the country people by the name ofpedreiro, or theforneiro—both names referring to the nature of its habitation. This singular nest is built of clay, and is as hard as stone—pedra; while it is the shape of the mandioca oven—forno—in which the country people prepare their farina. It is about a foot in diameter, and stands edgewise upon the branch or crotch of a tree. Among the smaller birds are bright tanagers, and a species resembling the canary. Humming-birds are scarce, though here and there a few appear; while countless numbers of parrots and parrakeets fly overhead in dense crowds, at times drowning every other sound with their noisy clatter.Birds of prey are not wanting. Among them is the red hawk, about the size of a kite—and so tame, that even when a canoe passes under the branch on which he is sitting, he does not fly away.Among the most striking are the gallinaceous birds. The commonest is the cigana, to be seen in groups of fifteen or twenty perched on trees overhanging the water, and feeding upon berries. At night they roost in pairs; but in the daytime are always in larger companies. In appearance they have something of the character of both the pheasant and peacock, and yet do not closely resemble either. With the exception of some small partridge-like gallinaceous birds, the representatives of this family in Brazil belong to types which do not exist in any other parts of the world. Here the curassow, the jacu, the jacami, and the unicorn resemble as much the bustard and other ostrich-like birds as the hen and pheasant.The most numerous insects to be met with are dragonflies; some with crimson bodies, black heads, and burnished wings; others with large, green bodies, crossed by blue bands.The Campos.Although the forests cover generally the whole length and breadth of the Amazonian Valley, there are here and there, on the higher ground, open dry plains with scanty vegetation,—the ground in the water-courses or gullies, formed of clay, being baked by the heat of the sun into slate-like masses. One of these spots we now reach. The most prominent plants of this sandy or clayey region are clusters of cacti and curua palms—a kind of stemless, low palm, with broad leaves springing, vase-like, from the ground. Here also grow wild pineapples; and in broad sunlight numerous humming-birds delight to sport and feed upon the blossoms of the various plants which find no room to bloom in the darker shades of the forest.Geology of the Amazonian Valley.Professor Agassiz remarks that no formation—known to geologists—resembling that of the Amazon exists on the face of the earth. Its extent is stupendous. It stretches from the Atlantic shore through the whole width of Brazil into Peru, to the very foot of the Andes—one vast extent of red sandstone, capped by a yellow-ochred clay; not only along the banks of the main river, but forming the sides of those of its tributaries, to their far-off sources, probably over the whole basin of the Paraguay and the Rio de la Plata. How are these vast deposits formed? is the question. The easiest answer, he observes, and the one which most readily suggests itself, is that of a submersion of the continent at successive periods—to allow the accumulation of these materials—and its subsequent elevation. This explanation is rejected, for the simple reason that the deposits show no signs whatever of a marine origin. No sea-shells, or remains of any marine animal, have as yet been found throughout their whole extent—over a region several thousands of miles in length, and from five to seven hundred miles in width. It is evident, he considers, that this basin was a fresh-water basin, these deposits fresh-water deposits. It is true that calcareous layers thickly studded with shells have been found interspersed with the clay; but though supposed to be marine fossils, he recognised them for what they really are—fresh-water shells of the family of the Naiades. As their resemblance is very remarkable, the mistake as to their true zoological character is natural: indeed, many travellers have confounded some fresh-water fishes from the Upper Amazon of the genus of Pterophyllum with the marine genus Platax. He considers that the immense glacier which probably existed at the same time that ice, thousands of feet thick, covered the centre of Europe, must have been formed in this valley, and then, ploughing its bottom over and over again, and grinding all the materials beneath it into a fine powder, must ultimately have forced its way through the colossal sea-wall which it had built up eastward into the Atlantic.A Day and Night on the Amazon, with their Sights and Sounds.Day is beginning to dawn, the birds are astir, the cicada have begun their music; flocks of parrots and macaws, and other winged inhabitants of the forest, pass by in numbers, seeking their morning repast; beautiful long-tailed and gilded moths like butterflies fly over the tree-tops. Rapid is the change from the dark night. The sky in the east assumes suddenly the loveliest azure colour, across which streaks of thin white clouds are painted. The varied forms of the numberless trees, imperceptible during the gloom of night, now appear, the smaller foliage contrasting with the large glossy leaves of the taller trees, or the feathery, fan-shaped fronds of palms. For a time the fresh breeze blows, but flags under the increasing power of the sun, and finally dies away, the heat and electric tension of the atmosphere becoming almost insupportable.The heat increases as the day draws on. Languor and uneasiness seize on every one;—even the denizens of the forest betray it by their motions. By this time every voice of bird or mammal is hushed. Only in the trees is heard at intervals the whir of the cicada. The leaves, so soft and fresh in the early morn, now become lax and drooping. The flowers shut their petals. The natives, returning to their huts, fall asleep in their hammocks, or, seated on mats in the shade appear too languid even to talk. White clouds now appear in the east, and gather into cumuli, with an increasing blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horizon becomes rapidly black, the dark hue spreading upwards. Even the sun is at length obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind is heard through the forest swaying the tree-tops. A vivid flash of lightning bursts forth, then a crash of thunder, and down streams the deluging rain. The storm soon ceases, leaving the bluish-black motionless clouds in the sky till night. Meantime all nature is refreshed, but heaps of flower petals and leaves are seen under the trees.Towards evening life revives again. The noises of the forest animals begin just as the sun sinks behind the trees, leaving the sky above of the intensest shade of blue. The briefest possible twilight commences, and the sounds of multifarious life come from every quarter. Troops of howling monkeys, from their lofty habitations among the topmost branches—some near, some at a distance—fill the echoing forest with their dismal noise; flocks of parrots and blue macaws pass overhead, the different kinds of cawing and screaming of the various species making a terrible discord. Added to them are the calls of strange cicada—one large kind perched high on the trees setting up a most piercing chirp. It begins with the usual harsh jarring tone of its tribe, rapidly becoming shriller, until it ends in a long and loud note resembling the steam whistle of a locomotive engine. A few of these wonderful performers make a considerable item in the evening concert. The uproar of beasts, birds, and insects lasts but a short time; the sky quickly loses its intense hue, and the night sets in. Then begin the tree-frogs—Quack, quack! Drum, drum! Hoo, hoo! These, accompanied by melancholy night-jars, keep up their monotonous cries till late at night.The night, however, is not given over to darkness. In every forest path, across the calm waters of the igarapes, along open spaces, in the village as well as in spots remote from man’s abode, the whole air is full of bright and glittering lights of varied hue; now darting here, now there, like meteors flashing through the sky—now for a moment obscured, to burst forth again with greater brilliancy. Beautiful as is the English glow-worm, the fire-flies and fire-beetles, the elaters of the tropics, far surpass them in brilliancy. Their light is redder and more candle-like, and being alternately emitted and concealed, each of the tiny vermilion flames performing its part in the aerial mazy dance, the spectacle is singularly beautiful. In the marshy districts is seen the large elater, which displays both red and green lights; the red glare, like that of a lamp, alternately flashing on the beholder, then concealed as the insect turns his body in flight, but the ruddy reflection on the grass beneath being constantly visible as it leisurely pursues its course. Now and then a green light is displayed, and then the mingling of the two complementary colours, red and green, in the evolutions of flight, surpasses description. Even the brilliant elaters, however, will scarcely enable the traveller to find his way amid the darkness through the forest.Wallace describes a midnight walk he was compelled to take. He was barefooted, every moment stepping on some projecting root or stone, or treading sideways on something which almost dislocated his ankles. Dull clouds could just be distinguished in the openings amid high-arched, overhanging trees, but the pathway was invisible. Jaguars, he knew, abounded, deadly serpents were plentiful, and at every step he almost expected to feel a cold gliding body under his feet, or deadly fangs in his leg. Gazing through the darkness, he dreaded momentarily to encounter the glaring eyes of the jaguar, or to hear his low growl in the thicket. To turn back or stop were alike useless. Unpleasant recollections of the fangs of a huge dried snake’s head he had just before examined, would come across his memory; and many a tale of the fierceness and cunning of the jaguar would not be forgotten. Suddenly he found his feet in water, and then he had to grope for a narrow bridge it was necessary to cross. Of its height above the water, or the depth of the stream, he was utterly ignorant. To walk along a plank four inches wide, under such circumstances, was a nervous matter. He proceeded, however, placing one foot before the other, and balancing steadily his body, till he again felt himself on firm ground. Once or twice he lost his balance, but happily he was only a foot or two from the ground and water below—though, had it been twenty it would have been all the same. Half-a-dozen such brooks and bridges had to be passed, till at length, emerging from the pitchy shade upon an open space, he saw two twinkling lights, which told him that the village was ahead.But we were describing a tropical day. Night is over. The sun rising again in the cloudless sky, the cycle is completed—spring, summer, and autumn, as it were, in one tropical day. The days are more or less like this throughout the year. A little difference exists, between the dry and wet seasons. The periodical phenomena of plants and animals do not take place at about the same time in all the species, or in the individuals of any given species, as they do in temperate countries. The dry season here is not excessive, nor is there any estivation, as in some tropical countries. In these forests the aspect is the same or nearly so every day in the year—budding, flowering, fruiting, and leaf-shedding, are always going on in one species or other. The activity of birds and insects proceeds without interruption, each species having its own breeding-times. The colonies of wasps, for instance, do not die off annually, leaving only the queens, as in cold climates, but the succession of generations and colonies goes on incessantly. It is never either spring, summer, or autumn, but each day is a combination of the three. With the day and night always of equal length, the atmospheric disturbances of each day neutralise themselves before each succeeding morning. With the sun in its course proceeding midway across the sky, and the daily temperature the same within two or three degrees throughout the year, how grand in its perfect equilibrium and simplicity is the march of nature under the equator!“Oppressive, almost fearful, is the silence and gloom of the Brazilian forest,” says Bates. “The few sounds of birds are of that pensive or mysterious character which intensifies the feeling of solitude, rather than imparts a sense of life and cheerfulness. Sometimes, in the midst of the stillness, a sudden yell or scream will startle one. This comes from some defenceless fruit-eating animal, which is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or stealthy boa-constrictor. Morning and evening howling monkeys make a most fearful and harrowing noise, under which it is difficult to keep up one’s buoyancy of spirit. The feeling of inhospitable wildness which the forest is calculated to inspire, is increased tenfold under this fearful uproar. Often, even in the still hours of mid-day, there is a sudden crash, resounding afar through the wilderness, as some great bough or entire tree falls to the ground. Sometimes a sound is heard like the clang of an iron bar against a hard hollow tree, or a piercing cry rends the air. These are not repeated, and the succeeding silence tends to heighten the unpleasant impression which they make on the mind. The natives believe it is the curupira—the wild man of the forest—who produces all the noises they are unable to explain. He is a mysterious being,—sometimes described as a kind of orang-outang, covered with long shaggy hair, and living in trees; at others, he is said to have cloven feet and a bright red face. He has a wife and children, who, as well as himself, come down to the plantations to steal the mandioca.”Such is a faint outline of some of the more prominent features of the great Amazonian Valley—the most interesting portion of the southern half of the New World. No verbal descriptions can do justice to the reality—although drawn, as some of the above are, by master hands. We will next range along the mighty Cordilleras to the ancient kingdom of the Incas, looking down on the Pacific shores; and then, again descending from the mountain heights, take a brief glance at the debased human beings who people the valley, and pass in review the more interesting of the countless wild creatures which inhabit its forests and waters. Afterwards we will traverse Venezuela, Guiana, the rest of the Brazils, and the wide-spreading level regions to the south of that vast country, the river-bound province of Paraguay, the territories of the Argentine Republic, the wild district of the Gran Chaco, the far-famed Pampas, and the plains of Patagonia.

A dense vegetation, though somewhat varied in character, rises like a lofty wall of verdure along the banks of the mighty stream, from the base of the Andes to its mouth in the Atlantic. There, where the influence of the sea-breeze is felt, the ever-present mangrove of the tropics forms a thick belt round the shores of its numberless islands. Higher up, various palms of many graceful forms appear, interspersed with numberless other trees, some bearing huge pods a yard long, others vast nuts and other curious fruits,—the banks below fringed either with giant grasses and broad-leaved bananas, or here and there with the large wide heart-shaped leaves of the aninga growing on the summit of tall stems, or in other places with the murici of a lower growth close to the water’s edge. Among the most remarkable is the white-stemmed cecropia, the lofty massaranduba, or cow-tree, often rising to the height of one hundred and fifty feet; the seringa, or india-rubber tree, with its smooth grey bark, tall erect trunk, and thick glossy leaves. The assai-palm, with its slender stem, its graceful head and delicate green plumes, is at first morenumerous than any other. Now appears the miriti, or mauritia—one of the most beautiful of its tribe, with pendent clusters of glossy fruit, and enormous spreading fan-like leaves cut into ribbons; the jupati, with plume-like leaves forty feet and upwards in length, graceful in the extreme, starting almost from the ground. Here is seen also the bussu, with stiff entire leaves, also of great length, growing upright from a short stem, close together, and serrated along their edges. Higher up still, while the palms become less numerous, other trees take their places. Among them appears conspicuous the majestic sumaumera, its flat dome rounded, but not conical, towering high above the forest. The branches of this tree are greatly ramified and knotty, and the bark is white. Conspicuous, too, is the taxi, with brown buds and white flowers; while the margin of the water is thickly fringed by a belt of arrow-grass, orfrexes—so called by the Portuguese—six feet in height. Its name is given in consequence of being used by the Indians in making arrows for their blowpipes.

Amid this wonderful mass of forest vegetation grows an intricate tracery of lianas and climbing sipos, some running round and round the trees, and holding them in a close embrace; others hanging from branch to branch in rich festoons, covered with starlike flowers, or dropping in long lines to the ground,—often to take root and shoot upwards again round a neighbouring stem, or drooping like the loose cordage of a ship swinging in the breeze. Often they form so dense and impenetrable a thicket from the ground upwards that a way must be cleared with an axe to proceed even a short distance from the banks towards the inner recesses of the forest.

On the Gapo, or submerged lands, however, a considerable difference in the vegetation appears. The palms are here often more numerous than in other parts. This is the region where the cacao-tree and prickly sarsaparilla grow. Here the underwood is less dense, the sipos retiring to weave their tracery among the upper branches alone. Though during the dry season the vegetation springs up with wonderful rapidity, it is swept away by the next overflow.

Here the lovely orchis tribe adorn the gloomy shades with their brilliant flowers. Among the most beautiful is the oncidium, of a yellow hue, often seen—apparently suspended in air between the stems of two trees—shining in the gloom, as if its petals were of gold. In reality it grows at the end of a wire-like stalk a yard and a half long, springing from a cluster of thick leaves on the bark of a tree; others have white and spotted blossoms, growing sometimes on rotten logs floating on the water, or on moss and decayed bark just above it. Still more magnificent is the Flor de Santa Ana, of a brilliant purple colour, emitting a most delicious odour.

Peculiar and strange is this region of the Gapo. When the waters are at their height it can be traversed in all directions. The trees which grow on it, and the animals which here have their abodes, appear to differ from those of other districts.

Let us accompany the naturalist Wallace, in his canoe, through a district of this description; now forcing our way under branches and among dense bushes, till we get into a part where the trees are loftier and a deep gloom prevails. Here the lowest branches of the trees are level with the surface of the water, many of them putting forth flowers. As we proceed we sometimes come to a grove of small palms, the leaves being now only a few feet above us. Among them is the maraja, bearing bunches of agreeable fruit, which, as we pass, the Indians cut off with their long knives. Sometimes the rustling of leaves overhead tells us that monkeys are near, and we soon see them peeping down from among the thick foliage, and then bounding rapidly away. Presently we come out into the sunshine, on a lake filled with lilies and beautiful water-plants, little bladder-worts, and the bright blue flowers and curious leaves with swollen stalks of the pontederias. Again we are in the gloom of the forest, among the lofty cylindrical trunks rising like columns out of the deep water; and now there is a splash of fruit falling around us, announcing that birds are feeding overhead, and we discover a flock of parrakeets, or bright blue chatterers, or the lovely pompadour, with its delicate white wings and claret-coloured plumage. Now, with a whir, a trogon on the wing seizes the fruit, or some clumsy toucan makes the branches shake as he alights above our heads.

This region, as might be supposed, is not destitute of inhabitants. Several tribes of Indians dwell within it all the year round. Among them are the Purupurus and Muras tribes, who, spending most of their time in their canoes, in the dry season build small huts on its sandy shores; and when the waters overflow it, form rafts, which they secure between the trees, sleeping in rude huts suspended from the stems over the deep water, and lighting their fires on masses of mud placed on their floating homes. They subsist entirely on fish, turtle, and manatee.

Several species of trogons are peculiar to this submerged region. The curious black umbrella-bird is entirely confined to it, as is also the little bristle-tailed manakin. Several monkeys visit it during the wet season, for the sake of its peculiar fruits; and here the scarlet-faced urikari has its home.

For miles and miles together the native traverses thisregion in his canoe, passing through small streams, lakes, and swamps, scraping the tree trunks, and stooping to pass between the leaves of the prickly palms, now level with the water—though raised on stems forty feet high—while everywhere round him stretches out an illimitable waste of waters, but all covered with the lofty virgin forest. In this trackless maze, by slight indications of broken twigs or scraped bark, he finds his way with unerring certainty.

“This curious region,” says Wallace, “extends from a little above Santarem to the confines of Peru, a distance of about 1700 miles; and varies in width on each side of the river from one to ten or twenty miles.”

Let us leave the mighty stream, and wander amidst the picturesque windings of an igarape, into the depths of the forest, with Professor Agassiz. Passing into its narrow entrance, the lofty trees arching overhead shelter the voyager in his light canoe from the glaring heat of the noonday sun. The air is cool and refreshing. Not a ripple stirs the water, save that caused by the paddles of the Indian crew. Clumps of the light and exquisitely graceful assai-palm shoot up everywhere on either side from the denser forest. Here and there the drooping bamboo dips its feathery branches into the water, covered sometimes to their very tips with the purple of convolvuli; yellow bignonias carry their golden clusters to the very summits of some of the more lofty trees; while white-flowering myrtles and orange-coloured mallows border the stream. Life abounds in this quiet retreat. Birds and butterflies are numerous on the margin of the water. Crabs of every variety of colour and size sit on the trunks of decaying logs, watching for their prey,—to make their escape, however, with nimble feet, when pursued.

Or let us start before daylight, on a calm morning, along the banks of a larger tributary, to proceed towards the heights of the Sierra Erere. As dawn begins to redden the sky, large flocks of ducks and of a small Amazonian goose may be seen flying towards the lake. Here and there we see a cormorant, seated alone on the branch of a dead tree; or a kingfisher poises himself over the water, watching for his prey. Numerous gulls are gathered in large companies on the trees along the river-shore. Alligators lie on its surface, diving with a sudden splash at the approach of the canoe. Occasionally a porpoise emerges from the water, showing himself for a moment, and then disappearing. Sometimes a herd of capybaras, resting on the water’s edge, are startled at our approach.

There sits, on the branch of an imbauba, rolled-up in its peculiar attitude, a sloth, the very picture of indolence, with its head sunk between its arms. The banks, covered in many places with the beautiful capim-grass, afford excellent pasturage for cattle.

Now we turn into an inner stream, or igarape, often having to make our way with difficulty amid islands of capim-grass. Now we pass through a magnificent forest of the beautiful fan-palm—the miriti—overshadowing many smaller trees and innumerable shrubs, bearing light conspicuous flowers. Among them are numerous Leguminosae—one of the most striking, the fava, having a colossal pod.

The whole mass of vegetation is interwoven with innumerable creepers, amid which the flowers of the bignonia, with their open trumpet-shaped corollas, are conspicuous. The capim is bright with the blossoms of the mallow growing in its midst, in some places edged with the broad-leaved aninga—a large aquatic arum. Through these forests, where animal life is no less rich and varied than the vegetation, our canoe glides silently for hours.

The sedgy grasses on either side are full of water birds. One of the most common is a small chestnut-brown wading bird—the jacana—whose toes are immensely long in proportion to its size, enabling it to run over the surface of the aquatic vegetation as if it were solid ground. It is their breeding season—January. At every turn of the boat we start them up—usually in pairs. Their flat, open nests generallycontain five flesh-coloured eggs, streaked in zig-zag with dark brown lines. Among the other waders are a snow-white heron, another ash-coloured, and a large white stork. The ash-coloured herons are always in pairs—the white always singly, standing quiet and alone on the edge of the water, or half hidden in the green capim. The trees and bushes are full of small warbler-like birds. The most numerous and interesting is one which builds a very extraordinary nest, considering the size of the bird. It is known among the country people by the name ofpedreiro, or theforneiro—both names referring to the nature of its habitation. This singular nest is built of clay, and is as hard as stone—pedra; while it is the shape of the mandioca oven—forno—in which the country people prepare their farina. It is about a foot in diameter, and stands edgewise upon the branch or crotch of a tree. Among the smaller birds are bright tanagers, and a species resembling the canary. Humming-birds are scarce, though here and there a few appear; while countless numbers of parrots and parrakeets fly overhead in dense crowds, at times drowning every other sound with their noisy clatter.

Birds of prey are not wanting. Among them is the red hawk, about the size of a kite—and so tame, that even when a canoe passes under the branch on which he is sitting, he does not fly away.

Among the most striking are the gallinaceous birds. The commonest is the cigana, to be seen in groups of fifteen or twenty perched on trees overhanging the water, and feeding upon berries. At night they roost in pairs; but in the daytime are always in larger companies. In appearance they have something of the character of both the pheasant and peacock, and yet do not closely resemble either. With the exception of some small partridge-like gallinaceous birds, the representatives of this family in Brazil belong to types which do not exist in any other parts of the world. Here the curassow, the jacu, the jacami, and the unicorn resemble as much the bustard and other ostrich-like birds as the hen and pheasant.

The most numerous insects to be met with are dragonflies; some with crimson bodies, black heads, and burnished wings; others with large, green bodies, crossed by blue bands.

Although the forests cover generally the whole length and breadth of the Amazonian Valley, there are here and there, on the higher ground, open dry plains with scanty vegetation,—the ground in the water-courses or gullies, formed of clay, being baked by the heat of the sun into slate-like masses. One of these spots we now reach. The most prominent plants of this sandy or clayey region are clusters of cacti and curua palms—a kind of stemless, low palm, with broad leaves springing, vase-like, from the ground. Here also grow wild pineapples; and in broad sunlight numerous humming-birds delight to sport and feed upon the blossoms of the various plants which find no room to bloom in the darker shades of the forest.

Professor Agassiz remarks that no formation—known to geologists—resembling that of the Amazon exists on the face of the earth. Its extent is stupendous. It stretches from the Atlantic shore through the whole width of Brazil into Peru, to the very foot of the Andes—one vast extent of red sandstone, capped by a yellow-ochred clay; not only along the banks of the main river, but forming the sides of those of its tributaries, to their far-off sources, probably over the whole basin of the Paraguay and the Rio de la Plata. How are these vast deposits formed? is the question. The easiest answer, he observes, and the one which most readily suggests itself, is that of a submersion of the continent at successive periods—to allow the accumulation of these materials—and its subsequent elevation. This explanation is rejected, for the simple reason that the deposits show no signs whatever of a marine origin. No sea-shells, or remains of any marine animal, have as yet been found throughout their whole extent—over a region several thousands of miles in length, and from five to seven hundred miles in width. It is evident, he considers, that this basin was a fresh-water basin, these deposits fresh-water deposits. It is true that calcareous layers thickly studded with shells have been found interspersed with the clay; but though supposed to be marine fossils, he recognised them for what they really are—fresh-water shells of the family of the Naiades. As their resemblance is very remarkable, the mistake as to their true zoological character is natural: indeed, many travellers have confounded some fresh-water fishes from the Upper Amazon of the genus of Pterophyllum with the marine genus Platax. He considers that the immense glacier which probably existed at the same time that ice, thousands of feet thick, covered the centre of Europe, must have been formed in this valley, and then, ploughing its bottom over and over again, and grinding all the materials beneath it into a fine powder, must ultimately have forced its way through the colossal sea-wall which it had built up eastward into the Atlantic.

Day is beginning to dawn, the birds are astir, the cicada have begun their music; flocks of parrots and macaws, and other winged inhabitants of the forest, pass by in numbers, seeking their morning repast; beautiful long-tailed and gilded moths like butterflies fly over the tree-tops. Rapid is the change from the dark night. The sky in the east assumes suddenly the loveliest azure colour, across which streaks of thin white clouds are painted. The varied forms of the numberless trees, imperceptible during the gloom of night, now appear, the smaller foliage contrasting with the large glossy leaves of the taller trees, or the feathery, fan-shaped fronds of palms. For a time the fresh breeze blows, but flags under the increasing power of the sun, and finally dies away, the heat and electric tension of the atmosphere becoming almost insupportable.

The heat increases as the day draws on. Languor and uneasiness seize on every one;—even the denizens of the forest betray it by their motions. By this time every voice of bird or mammal is hushed. Only in the trees is heard at intervals the whir of the cicada. The leaves, so soft and fresh in the early morn, now become lax and drooping. The flowers shut their petals. The natives, returning to their huts, fall asleep in their hammocks, or, seated on mats in the shade appear too languid even to talk. White clouds now appear in the east, and gather into cumuli, with an increasing blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horizon becomes rapidly black, the dark hue spreading upwards. Even the sun is at length obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind is heard through the forest swaying the tree-tops. A vivid flash of lightning bursts forth, then a crash of thunder, and down streams the deluging rain. The storm soon ceases, leaving the bluish-black motionless clouds in the sky till night. Meantime all nature is refreshed, but heaps of flower petals and leaves are seen under the trees.

Towards evening life revives again. The noises of the forest animals begin just as the sun sinks behind the trees, leaving the sky above of the intensest shade of blue. The briefest possible twilight commences, and the sounds of multifarious life come from every quarter. Troops of howling monkeys, from their lofty habitations among the topmost branches—some near, some at a distance—fill the echoing forest with their dismal noise; flocks of parrots and blue macaws pass overhead, the different kinds of cawing and screaming of the various species making a terrible discord. Added to them are the calls of strange cicada—one large kind perched high on the trees setting up a most piercing chirp. It begins with the usual harsh jarring tone of its tribe, rapidly becoming shriller, until it ends in a long and loud note resembling the steam whistle of a locomotive engine. A few of these wonderful performers make a considerable item in the evening concert. The uproar of beasts, birds, and insects lasts but a short time; the sky quickly loses its intense hue, and the night sets in. Then begin the tree-frogs—Quack, quack! Drum, drum! Hoo, hoo! These, accompanied by melancholy night-jars, keep up their monotonous cries till late at night.

The night, however, is not given over to darkness. In every forest path, across the calm waters of the igarapes, along open spaces, in the village as well as in spots remote from man’s abode, the whole air is full of bright and glittering lights of varied hue; now darting here, now there, like meteors flashing through the sky—now for a moment obscured, to burst forth again with greater brilliancy. Beautiful as is the English glow-worm, the fire-flies and fire-beetles, the elaters of the tropics, far surpass them in brilliancy. Their light is redder and more candle-like, and being alternately emitted and concealed, each of the tiny vermilion flames performing its part in the aerial mazy dance, the spectacle is singularly beautiful. In the marshy districts is seen the large elater, which displays both red and green lights; the red glare, like that of a lamp, alternately flashing on the beholder, then concealed as the insect turns his body in flight, but the ruddy reflection on the grass beneath being constantly visible as it leisurely pursues its course. Now and then a green light is displayed, and then the mingling of the two complementary colours, red and green, in the evolutions of flight, surpasses description. Even the brilliant elaters, however, will scarcely enable the traveller to find his way amid the darkness through the forest.

Wallace describes a midnight walk he was compelled to take. He was barefooted, every moment stepping on some projecting root or stone, or treading sideways on something which almost dislocated his ankles. Dull clouds could just be distinguished in the openings amid high-arched, overhanging trees, but the pathway was invisible. Jaguars, he knew, abounded, deadly serpents were plentiful, and at every step he almost expected to feel a cold gliding body under his feet, or deadly fangs in his leg. Gazing through the darkness, he dreaded momentarily to encounter the glaring eyes of the jaguar, or to hear his low growl in the thicket. To turn back or stop were alike useless. Unpleasant recollections of the fangs of a huge dried snake’s head he had just before examined, would come across his memory; and many a tale of the fierceness and cunning of the jaguar would not be forgotten. Suddenly he found his feet in water, and then he had to grope for a narrow bridge it was necessary to cross. Of its height above the water, or the depth of the stream, he was utterly ignorant. To walk along a plank four inches wide, under such circumstances, was a nervous matter. He proceeded, however, placing one foot before the other, and balancing steadily his body, till he again felt himself on firm ground. Once or twice he lost his balance, but happily he was only a foot or two from the ground and water below—though, had it been twenty it would have been all the same. Half-a-dozen such brooks and bridges had to be passed, till at length, emerging from the pitchy shade upon an open space, he saw two twinkling lights, which told him that the village was ahead.

But we were describing a tropical day. Night is over. The sun rising again in the cloudless sky, the cycle is completed—spring, summer, and autumn, as it were, in one tropical day. The days are more or less like this throughout the year. A little difference exists, between the dry and wet seasons. The periodical phenomena of plants and animals do not take place at about the same time in all the species, or in the individuals of any given species, as they do in temperate countries. The dry season here is not excessive, nor is there any estivation, as in some tropical countries. In these forests the aspect is the same or nearly so every day in the year—budding, flowering, fruiting, and leaf-shedding, are always going on in one species or other. The activity of birds and insects proceeds without interruption, each species having its own breeding-times. The colonies of wasps, for instance, do not die off annually, leaving only the queens, as in cold climates, but the succession of generations and colonies goes on incessantly. It is never either spring, summer, or autumn, but each day is a combination of the three. With the day and night always of equal length, the atmospheric disturbances of each day neutralise themselves before each succeeding morning. With the sun in its course proceeding midway across the sky, and the daily temperature the same within two or three degrees throughout the year, how grand in its perfect equilibrium and simplicity is the march of nature under the equator!

“Oppressive, almost fearful, is the silence and gloom of the Brazilian forest,” says Bates. “The few sounds of birds are of that pensive or mysterious character which intensifies the feeling of solitude, rather than imparts a sense of life and cheerfulness. Sometimes, in the midst of the stillness, a sudden yell or scream will startle one. This comes from some defenceless fruit-eating animal, which is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or stealthy boa-constrictor. Morning and evening howling monkeys make a most fearful and harrowing noise, under which it is difficult to keep up one’s buoyancy of spirit. The feeling of inhospitable wildness which the forest is calculated to inspire, is increased tenfold under this fearful uproar. Often, even in the still hours of mid-day, there is a sudden crash, resounding afar through the wilderness, as some great bough or entire tree falls to the ground. Sometimes a sound is heard like the clang of an iron bar against a hard hollow tree, or a piercing cry rends the air. These are not repeated, and the succeeding silence tends to heighten the unpleasant impression which they make on the mind. The natives believe it is the curupira—the wild man of the forest—who produces all the noises they are unable to explain. He is a mysterious being,—sometimes described as a kind of orang-outang, covered with long shaggy hair, and living in trees; at others, he is said to have cloven feet and a bright red face. He has a wife and children, who, as well as himself, come down to the plantations to steal the mandioca.”

Such is a faint outline of some of the more prominent features of the great Amazonian Valley—the most interesting portion of the southern half of the New World. No verbal descriptions can do justice to the reality—although drawn, as some of the above are, by master hands. We will next range along the mighty Cordilleras to the ancient kingdom of the Incas, looking down on the Pacific shores; and then, again descending from the mountain heights, take a brief glance at the debased human beings who people the valley, and pass in review the more interesting of the countless wild creatures which inhabit its forests and waters. Afterwards we will traverse Venezuela, Guiana, the rest of the Brazils, and the wide-spreading level regions to the south of that vast country, the river-bound province of Paraguay, the territories of the Argentine Republic, the wild district of the Gran Chaco, the far-famed Pampas, and the plains of Patagonia.

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