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.
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 more
