The snares of civilized life?—?Faust's invocation?—?The dangers of the forest?—?Serpents?—?A perilous adventure?—?Carnivorous and herbivorous animals?—?The "sladan"?—?The man of the wood.

The young man who incautiously ventures into the mysterious parts of Drury Lane—where vice and crime have a classical reputation—or strolls through the old Latin Quarter of Paris (where some of the streets are anything but safe to pass through), or who finds himself, for whatsoever reason you will, in one of those questionable labyrinths still existing in the most civilized Italian cities, would certainly not run less risk than in facing the dangers of the forest. The dart, the trap, the attack of beast and reptile may be, with courage and calmness, averted or parried, but the evils which menace man, under the hypocritical euphemisms of Society (ever ready to vaunt its impeachableness) injure not only the body but, what is worse, the spirit.

Those who succumb to the latter are ofttimes induced to lament that death does not come swift enough to kill their flesh, after their souls and intellects have been long since slain and consumed.

In the thick of the jungle the spirit rises and wanders free; there are no restraints or limits to its flight. It is inebriated by the simple and serene joys of living; it is pervaded by a current of new, potent energy that makes one feel—alone, in Nature's realm—either immensely great or infinitely small; exquisitely good or miserably wicked.

It is not prudent, when travelling in the forest, to let philosophy make us linger long on the way, but there are some moments in which one's inner life is so intense, in which thought and sentiment are so impetuous that that fleeting atom of time is in itself sufficient to mark an indelible epoch in the existence of men. Who knows but what if Mephistopheles had lead Faust into the virgin forest, and there left him free to his speculations, if the famous invocation would ever have escaped from the fevered lips of the doctor?

But... what is this hissing? It is not the spirit that denies; it is a snake I have disturbed along my path and that has not found my philosophizing over pleasant (like you, perhaps, kind reader) and so I will cut short my digression.

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The forest abounds in reptiles. There are innumerable varieties of serpents, big and small, venomous and harmless. It may almost be said (especially towards the plain) that every bush and every tree has one of these inhabitants.

The commonest species are the tigi rilÓ, the tigi paÀ and the tigi dolÒ but the most feared are the sendok and the bimaÀ.

As a rule none of these snakes will assail a person unless they have been molested. They remain either rolled up close to a tree or lazily swinging from one of its branches, keeping hold of it with its powerful tail and so it is necessary to proceed very carefully and to look attentively both up and down in order not to disturb them.

The serpent, when stumbled against, hurls itself as quick as lightning upon the unhappy offender, encircling and suffocating him with its coils and biting him with its sharp fangs even when they are not poisoned. Like all other animals it becomes ferocious and seeks to kill from fear. He who disturbs it is a foe to be vanquished.

But if you pass him without being afraid and without hurrying, with a slow gliding step, taking care not to move your hands or arms, it will let you go on your way and take no notice of you.

And this I can affirm from experiments I have myself made upon the terrible sendok.

One day I was able, in this way, to pass quite close, almost touching one of these most venomous reptiles. He never moved as I crept by but he did not lose sight of me for a single instant. I am quite sure that if my inward fear had betrayed itself by the slightest gesture, I should have been a dead man.

Sometimes I have succeeded, very, very gently, in placing upon it a stick about two metres long. Well, the horrid serpent just lazily unfolded its coils and softly slipped from under it. Very different would have been the result if I had put the stick upon its head roughly!

From this you will see that danger from snakes is much less than one might believe from the thrilling adventures narrated by friends (between a roast chestnut and a sip of wine), as they are snugly gathered round a cosy fireside, adventures which they have read in the fabulous pages written by one of those story-tellers who gull the respectable public with the loveliest or the most terrifying descriptions of places, men and beasts of which they scarcely know the name.

Serpents are always attacked and beaten down with sticks, except the very large ones, that are taken by lassoes as I will explain in another chapter. It is a quick and simple means of getting free, in a few minutes, of a venomous enemy which it never fails to do when fear does not make the eye and the hand miss its aim, precision in the blow being all that is needed.

Not very long since I had an adventure with one of these reptiles which threatened to be my last. I was quietly strolling in the forest and had with me neither weapon nor stick. My thoughts were far away but a rustling sound and a loud hiss brought them quickly back and arrested my steps. A large, venomous snake was right in front of me! Erect, with open mouth and protruding tongue, the embodiment of hatred, it was there, prompt for an assault. My case was desperate and only a miracle of sang-froid could save me. Fixing my eyes steadily upon those of the serpent, very gradually and with the slowest possible movement I bent my knees and crouched down towards the ground, where, in an equally slow and methodical way I groped for some sort of stick with which to strike my adversary. Having found what I wanted, I drew myself up in the same cautious manner and with a sudden, rapid gesture I hit the beast with all my might. Fortunately for me, my blow told and I had an addition to my collection of jungle foes.

The traveller in Malay who is not a thorough alien to timorous feelings would do well to never leave his comfortable post in the railway carriage between one place and another or at least to keep within a safe distance of the forest, for although its perils have been greatly exaggerated there are some, all the same, that require a stout heart and firm nerves.When there is no big game to put your courage and your pulse to the test there is always a troop of smaller animals that make game of you and prove your force of resistance. A rat bites your heel whilst you are asleep; the leeches suck your blood; all sorts of insects sting you. These little annoying incidents irritate flesh and spirit and may be the cause of feverishness, but a dose of quinine and a compress over the wound soon have a good effect.

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But it is not sufficient to bravely face bodily danger, support physical pain and endure with grace the mortifications inflicted upon one's flesh by the more minute inhabitants of those regions, for the jungle also exacts certain moral virtues which civilization does not always appreciate or admire, nay, on the contrary, that it often laughs at.

The great Sorceress, for whom one feels a strange nostalgia after having once known her magnificence and her horrors, kills the man who is not temperate in his habits.

Moderation in eating is the first consideration for prolonging life in the forest. The stomach must never be overladen and no strong drinks must be used.

By following this method of living and allowing myself very rarely even a glass of wine I managed to keep in excellent health in 1889 when an epidemic raged violently in the island of Nias and made sad havoc amongst the natives.

The human organism, especially that of a European, is beset by numerous inconveniences which may generate illness; the burning sun, that seems to cook one's brain; the cold nights and heavy dews; the violent storms that quite suddenly break over your head, and the food that must be put up with even when it is not actually hygienic.

For all this a strict regime, based upon moderation, is indispensable.

It is true that in my forest cabin I have an assortment of the best wines and whiskies, notwithstanding the improbability of being able to offer a glass to my friends, but those bottles remain well corked, waiting for their legitimate owner to feel indisposed, when a draught of their contents will restore his lost strength without resorting to medicine.

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The greatest dangers in the jungle are those which cannot be met with impunity; those that render every defence inefficacious when a man is taken unawares.

I speak of the tigers and panthers that are very numerous and audacious; of the bears, that do not act so jocosely here as in our streets and menageries but vie with other wild beasts in blood-thirstiness; of the rhinoceros, the elephant, the terrible sladan, the wild dogs that, fierce as wolves, wander about in large packs.

A dissertation upon the tiger and its like does not seem to me a sufficiently interesting subject for my readers who will have seen, who knows how many, at the fairs and museums and will have learnt their character and habits from Natural History books or from the description (not always correct) of someone who has only set foot on the land where they live. I must, however, make special mention of the sladan, the only survivor of an almost extinct fauna.

This animal belongs to the herbivorous class but is more ferocious than any of the carnivorous species. It does not kill from hunger or for self-defence, but for the mere sake of killing.It is a sort of buffalo or bison with two very solid, strongly planted horns on its thick-set head. This animal possesses such vigour and agility as to enable it to attack victoriously all other wild beasts. Only the elephant sometimes succeeds, with difficulty, in mastering it.

Its den is in the most remote and inaccessible parts of the forest and by day and by night it scours the neighbourhood, rending the air with its awful roars. One is never sure of not meeting it, and to meet it either means to kill it or to be killed.

It is very fond of the tender shoots of sweet potatoes and for this will often visit the crops cultivated by the Sakais who, for fear of this dreaded enemy, do not plant very much. Generally, though, the sladan devastates the potato fields during the night.

The ferocity of this beast surpasses that of all others, for whilst the lion, the bear and even the tiger and panther have been known to show some feeling of respect, gratitude or fear, the sladan never exhibits one or the other. It would almost seem that in him is concentrated all the hatred of a race of animals, fast dying out, against every living creature whose species is still destined to remain in the world.

And yet quite close to the haunts of these champions in savagery, always on the look out for blood and carnage, live other quiet and harmless animals. I will say nothing of the wild boar (that in comparison with the sladan, might pass for a lamb) of the wild goat or of the deer which are in great numbers, but there are little rodent quadrupeds of every sort, size, and fur, besides perfect crowds of monkeys of different kinds. They belong to the herbivorous order and go about by day in search of food, hiding themselves when the first shades of night call forth from their dens the heroes of nocturnal tragedies.A garrulous population of birds enliven the forest; they are insectivorous, granivorous, and omnivorous but all are beautiful in their rich and wonderful variety of colour. Amongst these the pheasant for its oriental plumage and the cockatoo for its querulous voice are remarkable as the largest.

A gay concert is given in honour of the dawning and the dying day but long before the birds of prey have unfolded their wings and soar, like phantoms, through the darkness, the pretty carol-singers hush their warblings and hide themselves from the horrors of the night.

A collector of butterflies would go into ecstasies over the splendid varieties that flutter and flit in the air, and the countless multitude of different insects would be well worth special study; amongst the latter are verified the most curious mimetic facts that ever the unprejudiced mind of a man of politics could imagine!

And yet, in the midst of so many contrasts, in the midst of so many dangers which exact exceptional presence of mind and strong nerves, life in the forest is full of charm and allurements.

The spirit is strengthened and elevated by this continuous warfare, open and pronounced, so unlike those depressing struggles against narrow minds, and tiger-hearts, which distinguish town-life.

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It is very rare that one meets a man in the Malay forest. You may walk on for weeks without encountering a soul. I happened once, though, to fall in with one who was a primitive being in the strictest sense of the term.

I was trudging along one day with my Sakai servant, when at the foot of the hill (Chentok) I saw a little cot and wished to visit it. Inside I found a man. At seeing me he caught up his blow-pipe—a miserable-looking instrument—and his poisoned darts, and was about to run away. I hastily made my companion offer him a few cooked potatoes and a little maize which he accepted without saying a word and began to devour ravenously.

In those brief moments I took stock of the poor creature. He was painfully thin; his skeleton could be clearly seen under the unadorned skin; his sunken eyes gleamed with mistrust and inquietude from out of his fleshless face, and his long black hair lay in tangled masses round his neck.

I had before me the true type of a wild man of the wood, less vivacious and less loquacious than his brother, the ape.

I gave him some tobacco, that he eagerly crammed into his mouth and then, keeping fast hold of his weapon he hurried off, without uttering a single syllable, although I asked him many things in his own tongue.

Neither did he in any way express satisfaction, or gratitude for what he had received but vanished mute, contemptuous and silently into the thickest part of the jungle.

My little Sakai was not so surprised as I at this strange person and his way of proceeding, because he had seen him before and could tell me something about him.

He was known by the name of AlÀ Lag, or the sorcerer. He had no wife, no children, no friends, and lived quite alone, far from everyone, wandering about the forest, feeding upon wild-honey and the fruit he found upon the ground. If he happened to catch some game he would light up a bit of fire and seem to cook it but in reality he ate it raw. Sometimes he came across a settlement when he would enter the first hut which lay in his way, and by gesture more than by word, would ask for food and after having obtained it, started off again.

The good Sakais pitied the poor vagabond and had often tried to make him stop with them as a brother or a guest but he always resolutely refused whatever proposal they made him and they were of opinion that not even old age would have any effect upon the misanthropy of this poor inoffensive being who isolated himself so obstinately from all his kind.

I thought to myself, is the poor fellow wise or mad in thus seeking to live alone as Nature produced him, in the unlimited liberty of his native jungle where he is secure from delusions and sorrows?

Men, little less savage than he, feel compassion for him as he passes by. Nobody would dare to laugh at or injure such a harmless soul and so he is allowed to ramble from hut to hut undisturbed, his eccentricities and his odd behaviour being his safeguard.

It is not always so amongst people more advanced in civilization!

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