The great Sorceress?—?The forest seen from above?—?A struggle for life?—?The crimes of plants?—?Everlasting twilight?—?Births and deaths?—?Concerts by forest vocalists?—?The "durian"?—?The "ple-lok"?—?Vastnesses unexplored by science?—?Treasures intact?—?Para Rubber—The Samaritans of the jungle?—?The forest and its history.

To speak of the forest without having seen it, and after having seen it, to describe its marvellous beauties, are equally impossible tasks.

When Art shall have re-produced faithfully the magnificent harmonies of colour, voice and outline peculiar to the jungle, it may be said that there are no more secrets of beauty for it to penetrate, because nowhere else has Nature been so profuse in bestowing her multifarious tints or has manifested Life with such triumphal glory of fecundity; nowhere else can be found such a prodigious variety of forms and attitudes or such ineffable multiplicity of sounds.

Like a paean of love the forest breaks forth from the bosom of its great Mother and rises eagerly, passionately towards the sun, its Benefactor.

Were it possible to soar on high and look down upon that wide verdant sea, its infinite gradations of green, enlivened here and there by the audacious brightness of a thousand wondrous flowers, we should have under our eyes the most complete, artistic and suggestive representation of life and its struggles.

The gigantic trees shoot up straight towards the sun, each one seeming to strive to outstrip the other; but a thick and even more ambitious undergrowth of plants twine round their trunks and enclose them in a tenacious embrace, then twisting, and creeping, amongst the spreading boughs, reach and cover the highest tops where they at last unfold their several leaves and flowers under the sun's most ardent gaze.

The tree, thus encircled and suffocated by the baneful hold of the climbers, lacks light and breath; the sap flows in scarce quantities throughout its organism and it languishes under the shade of the close tendrils; swarms of insects increase its agony by making their food and their nests of its bark; reptiles make love within the hollows of its trunk and at last the day comes when the lifeless giant falls with a frightful crash bearing with it the murderous parasite that is the victim of its own tenacity, which first raised it to bask in the sunshine and then caused it to be crushed under the rotten weight of its former supporter.

These are furious embraces of envy and jealousy; phrenzies of egotism in the vegetable kingdom: strange expressions of formidable hate and love, of oppression and vengeance.

All these myriads of plants are invaded by the irrepressible mania to ascend as high as possible and to receive the first, the most burning, perhaps the most pernicious, but the most liberal kiss of the sun. And they all hasten to arrive as though fearing to be superseded in the ascent as much by the colossal tree destined to brave centuries—if its massive roots are not ruined by its minute foes—as by those slender growths of a month or a day.

"Higher still! Always higher!" the green-leafed multitude seem to cry, "Excelsior!"

The sun never penetrates under this tangled mass of vegetation except where an opening has been made by the hands of the savages or by the work of lightning and hurricane.

In the dim light of its damp atmosphere the interminable rows of tall straight trunks, some stout and some slight, assume the oddest shapes which can appeal to the observer's phantasy. Now they are colonnades, adorned with pendant festoons stretching away into the distance; now they are mysterious aisles of monster temples; now they are the unfinished design of some giant architect whose undertaking was arrested by a sudden, mystic command. However fruitful may be the imagination of the artist he would here always find fresh and superb inspiration from the enthralling sight of Nature's virginal beauties.

The stagnant waters of the ponds, round which the frogs croak and the leeches crawl, are plentifully strewn with water-lilies, reeds and other aquatic plants.

On the hoary trunks of ancient trees whole families of orchids have insinuated themselves into little clefts in the bark, and flower there in the brightest of colours: red, purple, blue and also white.

Everywhere there is a joyous exuberance of life and vigour. Each day begins or ends the cycle of time destined to the vegetable inhabitants of the jungle, because as there is no regular round of seasons the plants and flowers finish their course according to the short or long existence prescribed them by natural laws, and one continually sees dried and withered leaves and flowers falling to the ground whilst others open and blossom in their stead. Those that die to-day afford nourishment to the new-born generation and in this manner there is a ceaseless renovation of the various species without any need of a gardener to prepare the soil.

The exuberance of animal life is in equal proportion, as there is abundance of food for all.

A deep and uninterrupted buzz fills the air; it comes from the cicadas whose monotonous note wearies the ear, and from hornets and bees of every description that keep up an incessant hum as they suck Juices from the plants or dive their antennÆ into the ripe fruit or perhaps into some carrion lying near. The bassoon-like sound never ceases a single instant and tells the listener how innumerable are the populations of insects which live and generate their sort under the shade of their jungle retreat. Other inexplicable noises—far off crashes, mysterious sounds that chill one's veins, howls that make one shiver—for a sole moment break the noon-day silence. What is their origin? Nobody can say.

The different animal sounds to be heard in the forest follow a rule which knows no exception.

The day is hailed by a full concert warbled from the throats of feathered songsters. This morning hymn rises in all its innocent purity to the skies whilst the fierce protaganists of the past night's bloody tragedies slink off to their dens and leave the field free to the more gentle herbivorous animals.

But at noon, when the sun is casting down its hottest rays upon that vast emerald palace of life, gay voices are hushed and the forest echoes only with the drowsy buzzing of insects.

As evening draws near the birds once more begin to chirp and trill, they salute the setting sun and fly away to rest. Then the monkeys commence their screeching and chattering and soon after the owls and other night birds take their turn, making the now dense darkness more terrible with their harsh, sinister cries. Little by little as the night deepens, bellows, roars and howls resound upon every part in a slow crescendo until they are fused into a general and appalling uproar which could not be more awful if the gates of Hell were to be opened on Earth.

I am not an artist and still less a scientist but as a simple observer I like to take note of all that is worthy of notice and that is possible for me to transmit in an intelligible form.

Having depicted, to the best of my ability, the characteristics of forest life, I think it will be well—setting aside its magic charms and manifold wonders which would make a poet even of one who has no tendency for poetry—to describe, in a more practical way, some of its products.

I will begin with the durian, or sumpÀ, the fruit of which is unknown in our country.

It is a very large tree, growing to the height of 40 or 50 metres and distends around it a huge pavilion of rich branches, covered with little leaves.

It is to be found sometimes singly and sometimes in clumps and is the only tree that the Sakais show any interest in multiplying, and this cultivation, if we may so call it, is done by them almost unconsciously, not from any sentimental feeling but rather from the effect of a sentiment and a superstition.[4] It produces a most extraordinary quantity of fruit, the exquisite flavour of which it is difficult to match. It has been calculated that every tree bears, on an average, about 600 durians but some have even reached the enormous figure of 1000.

If one were treating of berries or nuts this would not be so remarkable but each fruit of the durian weighs about two kilograms and is as large as a child's head. For this reason it is a dangerous thing to stand or pass under one of these trees when the fruit is quite ripe as so heavy a ball falling from a height of forty or more metres would suffice to split open one's head even if the long prickles with which it is covered did not make it more to be feared.

The Sakais are quite greedy over durians and Mr Wallace writes that its delicate flavour is so exquisite it would well repay the expense and disturbance of a journey Eastward on purpose to taste it.

This assertion of the English writer may be somewhat exaggerated but for my own part, I must say that I have never tasted anything more delicious. But not everyone can enjoy or appreciate this strange fruit for the disgusting smell that distinguishes it and that is apt to cause nausea to a weak stomach.

Imagine to have under your nose a heap of rotten onions and you will still have but a faint idea of the insupportable odour which emanates from these trees and when its fruit is opened the offensive smell becomes even stronger.

When mature, that is to say in the months of August and September, the durians fall to the ground and are eagerly gathered up by the natives, who at the period of their ripening, leave the women and children, the old and the sick in their villages and encamp themselves in the forest around these precious trees.

The outside of the durian is ligneous and is covered with strong prickles of nearly an inch long. The interior consists of a great many small eggs each one being wrapped in a fine film which, when broken, reveals a pulp of the consistency and colour of thick custard. A big seed is embedded in the centre of each egg, almond-like in size and form, although not so flat.

I cannot describe in any way the flavour of this fruit which the real Sakai calls sumpÀ. I can but repeat that it is exquisite and far superior to any sweet dainty prepared by cook or confectioner. There is nothing to equal it, and in eating one does not discern the least smell as the disagreeable stench comes from the husk alone and the worse it is, the more delicate is the taste of the pulp.

This fruit is too perishable for it to be exported to far countries even if there was any chance of its finding favour in European markets, in consequence of its horrible smell, which does not however protect it from the voracity of the monkeys and their rodent companions—especially the squirrels—that manage, in spite of its formidable prickles, to make a hole in the husk and nibble out some of its contents leaving the rest to rot inside.

To my knowledge the durian is not subject to any malady which might effect the annual quantity of fruit to be gathered, this depending entirely upon whether the wind has blown violently, or not, during the time it was in flower.

This King of Trees, as it is called by the Sakai, will grow and prosper nearly to the height of a thousand metres, and its fruit is preserved by pressing it into large tubes of bamboo after the seeds have been picked out.

The Sakais frequently exchange these original pots of jam for other articles equally prized by them, such as tobacco and beads.

Another fruit, so delicious that it may almost be said to rival the durian, is the plÈ lÒk.

The tree on which it grows cannot be ranked amongst the giants of the forest. It has big and long leaves something like those of the orange but whilst on the top they are a glossy black in under they are of a still glossier green.

The fruit, that ripens between September and November, is the size of a peach but it is covered with a very thick husk (nearly black outside, and a rusty red inside) after the sort of our walnuts. The pulp is divided into a lot of quarters each one enclosed in a very thin skin. It looks like snow-white Jelly and in fact melts in the mouth at once, leaving only a little kernel. The flavour is sweet and exceedingly pleasant.

The husk is utilized by the Sakais for producing a dye with which to paint their faces and also for making a decoction as a remedy against diarrhÆa and pains in the stomach.

The Sakais are immensely fond of this fruit as indeed any European, accustomed to the finest sweets, might be, the more so as it never does any harm or brings about an indigestion, even when eaten in large quantities.

Besides these two grand lords of the forest I will also mention the ple pra, a colossus that, modestly, but without avarice, supplies the Sakai with excellent chestnuts.It is impossible, notwithstanding my desire, to describe the many other trees and fruits which form the richness of the forest, as it would take too long. Further on, in a chapter dedicated to poisons, I have named some of the most dangerous in this respect, but between those that are the ministers of Death and those that are the means of Life to the simple jungle-dweller, there are countless species to which it would be difficult to assign a particular class.

Many of these latter are regarded by the natives with distrust, perhaps without any reason, but from who knows what strange belief transmitted from father to son? And in the heart of the forest who is there to study and make experiments upon such leaves and fruits in order to ascertain if they are perfectly edible?

I, for instance, am of opinion that the fruit of the giÙ Ù ba a could be safety used and to a great extent.

It is like a little pumpkin, green outside and yellowish-white inside. A kind of oil is extracted from its pulp which, when cooked, is not of a disagreeable taste and does one no harm. But the giÙ Ù ba a is a creeper and it is among these parasites that poisons abound and this is why the fruits obtained from them are used with reluctance and if possible, avoided altogether.

Treasures not to be imagined are still hidden in the profound recesses of the Malay forest; priceless treasures for medical science and for industry.

Could the former but discover the exact therapeutic and venomous virtues of some of those plants, many of which are quite unknown to botanists, what innumerable new and potent remedies might be found to enrich the pharmacopoeia of civilized people!Agriculture, in all its varied branches, could here find incalculable treasures of fertility!

Without counting the rice that gives a wonderful annual product, the Indian-corn that gives two harvests a year and the sweet potatoes that give three, there is the yam, the sikoi,[5] the sugar-cane, coffee, pepper, tea, the banana, the ananas, indigo, sago, tapioca, gambier, various sorts of rubber, gigantic trees for shipbuilding, and so on.

The Para Rubber, from which is extracted our gutta percha grows marvellously well in the Malay soil and requires very little attention or expense.

There is the ramiÈ whose fibres will by degrees supplant the silk we get from cocoons, or mixed together will form an excellent quality of stuff. It is a herb with long, fibrous stems which when well beaten out and bleached become like a soft mass of wool. After being carded it can be spun into the finest threads as shiny and pliant as silk itself.

This plant flourishes to a great extent in Perak and its stems may be cut off twice a year. It only needs to be cultivated, for industry to be provided with a new and precious element. In fact there are few who do not know that the greater part of Chinese silk stuffs are woven with the ramiÈ fibres, but its utility might have a much larger extension if it were made an object of study by those capable of drawing from it profitable results.

Very few lands, I think, have been so favoured by capricious Nature as the Malay Peninsula where she seems to have taken delight in bestowing her treasures of flora and fauna as well as underground ones, for several gold and tin mines are being worked, whilst lead, copper, zinc, antimony, arsenic and many other metals are constantly being found, besides some rich veins of wolfram, although a real bed of the latter ore has not yet been discovered.

If once the still lazy but honest forces of the Sakais could be utilized by turning them towards agriculture, all this natural wealth might be sent to the World's markets and a sparse but good people, susceptible of great progress, would be gradually civilized.

The Para Rubber, referred to above, constitutes one of the greatest riches of the Malay agricultural industry.

Both soil and climate are very favourable for its cultivation in the Peninsula, so much so that a tree attains the maturity necessary for the production of this valuable article in four years, if special care and attention is given it, or in five or six if left to its natural growth (as in Ceylon), whilst in other places it takes eight and even ten years.

Not many years ago the British Government had a limited space of ground planted, with seeds brought from Brazil, as a simple experiment. The result was encouraging enough to induce the Institute of Tropical Researches—initiated under the auspices of the Liverpool University, with the object of developing Colonial commerce—to make plantations which in one season yielded no less than 150,000 pounds of gum.

About three years ago 60,000 acres of land were planted with Para Rubber, the Government providing the seed at a very low rate.

It is calculated that each acre contains from 125 to 250 trees according to the quality of the ground and its position.

These plantations continue to increase with surprising rapidity and it may be said, at the present day, that four million trees are to be found in an area of 200,000 acres.

When one considers that each tree renders, on an average, from 5 to 6 pounds of gum, and that that of Perak—chemically proved to be pure—is quoted on the market at 6/10 per pound—whilst the best produced by other countries does not exceed 5/7—one can form a pretty correct estimate of the enormous sum derived from the Para rubber of Perak.

It was generally supposed that this valuable tree would suffer if it surpassed a thousand metres in height but in the Malay Peninsula it grows and nourishes even higher than 1,600 metres, especially the so-called ficus elasticus and India-rubber.

The British Government is doing its best to increase this cultivation, and "its best" in this case really means "the very best" because besides concession of land, and the providing of seed at a low rate, the Government aids this industry, in which so many millions are invested, by the making of fine, wide high-roads as well as by maintaining railways for the conveyance of goods, fixing a minimum tariff for the transport.

Perhaps some one will accuse me of being too partial in my remarks upon the work done by the British Government in this its remote Eastern Protectorate, but having assisted for many years in the ever increasing agricultural and commercial development of the peninsula, and having seen the steady conquest civilization has made by means of the most practical and surest methods—such as the patient training of the natives to the love of work, and the prompt and conscientious administration of justice—I cannot but admire the enlightened and benificent activity displayed by the English in those parts.

Closed this parenthesis about the plantations, which are now spreading far and wide over the forest (the wood-cutter's hatchet continually clearing new tracts of land for agricultural enterprises), I want you to return with me to the jungle which is still almost untrodden and where Nature reigns supreme over the thick tropical vegetation.

Having already spoken briefly and in a disorderly way of the riches which are here gratuitously offered—not the riches of Midas and Pymalion, because mother Nature does not refuse food to her children even if they are profaners of that wonderful temple of her fecundity—it is right that I should now draw your attention to two great friends of travellers in the forest. One is the bamboo and the other a creeper called the "water vine".

The bamboo, known to us only as one of the plants least considered in a large, well-kept garden, or as a polished walking stick, as the legs of a fancy table of uncertain equilibrium or as a tobacco box ably worked by Chinese or Japanese fingers, in the free forest becomes a colossal inhabitant. Its canes, at first tender and supple, grow to such a size, and so strong as to be used for water conduits. It is a vigorous and invasive plant that covers the surrounding ground with new shoots whilst in under its long roots spread out and suck up all the vital nutriment to be found in the earth around.

To one who lives in the forest, the bamboo is as necessary as food itself. It provides light, solid huts; it makes the blowpipe, arrow and quiver; it serves for carrying water and preserving fruit; it forms a safe recipient for poisonous juices; it is bottle and glass, and finally supplies the native cooks with a saucepan that only they can use because they have the knack of cooking their food without burning the bamboo. I have often tried to do the same but the result has always been that pot and pottage have been burnt together.

The bamboo has also a secret virtue of incalculable value to the thirsty wayfarer, overcome by the heat of a tropical sun: it is a perfect reservoir of water.

By boring a hole just under the joints of each cane more than half a litre of clear water, not very fresh, but wholesome and good, gushes out. It is rather bitter to the taste and serves to restore one's forces as well as to quench one's thirst.

The water-vine also acts as a Samaritan in the jungle. Like all the others of its sort this climbing plant closes some giant king of the forest in its cruel embrace (thus depriving it of its strength) and then falls in rich festoons from its boughs, swaying and rustling with every breath of air.

By making a cut at the extremity of one of the sprays that hang down towards the ground, a fresh, drinkable water flows out.

It is superfluous, perhaps, to add that this grand necessity for the traveller on foot may be obtained from other sources: the streams that are to be found trickling along here and there, and the huge leaves that upon drying up secrete a certain quantity of rain water within them.So the jungle gives to eat and to drink, with wonderful abundance and variety, but woe to him who does not know her well, for she also proffers Death in a thousand unsuspected and seductive forms!

How many times in the solemn, languid hour of noontide, when bird and beast were drowsing from the heat, I have stood in the shade and interrogated the forest upon its first violators and their descendants! But my demands remained unanswered; in its superb grandeur it does not interest itself in the tragic vicissitudes of animal or vegetable lives, it makes no records, on the contrary, it quickly cancels all traces of past events.

I have vainly asked: from whence came those who have found shelter and solitude in the obscure depths of its wooded hills? How many centuries have they dwelt in those lone, wild parts? I have asked if that shy and dispersed tribe was not the remains of a once great and strong people eclipsed by a younger, stronger, and more savage race? Sometimes watching, with admiring eyes, the strange architectural forms taken by the massive trunks and graceful vines, fantastic but always majestic, I have asked the forest if it had not arisen upon the ruins of some long ago and lost civilization and if those same forms were not an inexplicable evocation of the gigantic creations of vanished genii of which I seemed in imagination to catch faint glimpses?

But the forest remained mute and kept its impenetrable secret.

Only here and there, groups of trees, lower than the surrounding ones, and between them spaces of ground, which had evidently once been clearings and were not yet totally re-covered by jungle growth, gave proof of Sakai nomadism even in other ages. No other sign of the past, and my query, perhaps absurd, repeats itself. Am I before the savage infancy of a people, or the spent senility of a race, lost sight of in the course of centuries? If the latter, would there not be some relic left of its existence; a fragment of stone or concrete substance inscribed with the figures of its period? Is it possible that everything has been buried from the sight of modern man, under the rank luxuriance of grass and bush? Or is it not I who vainly dream under the impression of the forest's mute grandeur and the thousands of voices that to-day awake its echoes and to-morrow leave none behind?