Roraima and British Guiana With a Glance at Bermuda, The West Indies, And The Spanish Main

By Author	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Title	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Language

Download this book: [ ASCII ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Roraima and British Guiana With a Glance at Bermuda, The West Indies, And The Spanish Main
Author: Boddam-Whetham, John Whetham
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Roraima and British Guiana With a Glance at Bermuda, The West Indies, And The Spanish Main" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

GLANCE AT BERMUDA, THE WEST INDIES, AND THE SPANISH MAIN ***

RORAIMA AND BRITISH GUIANA.

[Illustration: RORAIMA.]

RORAIMA
AND
BRITISH GUIANA
WITH A GLANCE AT BERMUDA, THE WEST INDIES,
AND THE SPANISH MAIN.

BY
J. W. BODDAM-WHETHAM,
AUTHOR OF
‘PEARLS OF THE PACIFIC,’ ‘ACROSS CENTRAL AMERICA,’ ETC.

[Illustration: VIEW ON THE CURIPUNG RIVER.]

LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1879.

_All Rights reserved._

PREFACE.

“Will no one explore Roraima, and bring us back the tidings which it has
been waiting these thousands of years to give us? One of the greatest
marvels and mysteries of the earth lies on the outskirt of one of our own
colonies—only not within British territory because the frontier line has
been bent in at the spot, on purpose, it would seem, to shut it out—and
we leave the mystery unsolved, the marvel uncared for.”

The above words, together with a general outline of the wonders to be
explored, appeared in a number of the “Spectator” for April, 1877, and
aroused my interest to such a degree that I thought by day and dreamt by
night of Roraima.

After reading Mr Brown’s delightful book on British Guiana—which was
referred to in the article from which I have quoted—I made up my mind
to visit that colony, with the hope of at all events seeing Roraima and
exploring its floral treasures, even if I should be unable to make its
ascent.

The summit, Mr Brown says, is inaccessible, except by means of balloons.
“According to the traditions of the Indians,” says Sir Robert Schomburgh,
“the summits of the flat-topped gigantic sandstone walls, which never
can be reached by human beings, contain large lakes, full of remarkable
fish-like dolphins, and continually encircled by gigantic white
eagles—their eternal warders.”

Full then, of curiosity, with a great longing to become better acquainted
with this mysterious region, I arranged my plans so as to arrive in
Demerara about January, paying a flying visit on my way to Bermuda _viâ_
New York, and so on through the West Indies to Guiana. Fortune favoured
me, inasmuch as on my arrival at Georgetown, Demerara, I found that the
Colonial government was about to send an expedition to Roraima, for the
purpose of trying to reach the top of that mountain. With great kindness,
the authorities permitted me to accompany it, and I cannot let this
occasion pass without expressing my sincere thanks for the opportunity
thus afforded me of visiting the interior of British Guiana.

The following rough record of my journey is but a poor return for the
many attentions shown me, but it may add its mite in attracting the
notice of travellers to a country not often visited for pleasure.

J.W.B.W.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

OUTWARD BOUND—THE ‘CANIMA’—A ROUGH VOYAGE—FIRST VIEW OF
BERMUDA—COASTING—IRELAND ISLE—COMMISSIONERS’ HOUSE—THE
SOUND—HAMILTON—LANDING—AN INDIA-RUBBER TREE—A BILL OF FARE—THE
REGISTER—HAMILTON HOTEL—PAPAWS—A SUGGESTION 1

CHAPTER II.

A WHITE TOWN—A CEDAR AVENUE—THE “DUCKING-STOOL”—SEA
ENCROACHMENTS—FERN PITS—SPANISH POINT—FAIRY-LAND—THE ISLAND
ROAD—AMUSEMENTS—A PAPER HUNT—REEFS—SEA CUCUMBERS—THE SOUTH
WIND—SAND-HILLS—BOILERS—ARCHITECTURE—MUSEUM—A RARE SPIDER 8

CHAPTER III.

BERMUDIAN ROADS—NIGHT BLOOMING CACTUS—A NATURAL
CURIOSITY—EXPORTS AND IMPORTS—THE COLOURED NATIVE—HARRINGTON
SOUND—DEVIL’S HEAD—NEPTUNE’S GROTTO—A SALT-WATER
FOUNTAIN—A DIABOLICAL PLOT—THE CALABASH—MEMENTOES OF TOM
MOORE—WALSINGHAM—THE CAUSEWAY—A NEW FEATURE IN CULTIVATION—ST.
GEORGE’S 18

CHAPTER IV.

ST. THOMAS—FORTS—BOATMEN—DIVERS—HOTEL DU COMMERCE—MAIN
STREET—STABLE COMPANIONS—AMAZONS—A NEGRO POLITICIAN—DANISH
RULE—A SORRY SIGHT—JUSTICE IN THE VIRGIN GROUP—A DAY’S
DOINGS—KRUMM BAY—CHA-CHAS—AN OCEAN PAWNBROKER’S—LANDSLIP—ALOE—A
CURE FOR LUNG DISEASES—UP THE MOUNTAIN 27

CHAPTER V.

TO SANTA CRUZ—BASSIN—A DOG-HOUSE—FRUIT STEALING—“THIBET”
TREES—GREEN HERONS—PRETTY SCENERY—WEST END—SANTA
CRUZ v. ST. THOMAS—CENTRAL ROAD—STEAM PLOUGH—A
CENTRAL FACTORY—OPPOSITION—WAGES—CHILDREN—HOME
AGAIN—RE-EMBARKATION—OFFICIAL DELAY 39

CHAPTER VI.

SABA—CRATER COLONIES—ST. EUSTATIUS—ST. KITTS—BRIMSTONE
HILL—MOUNT MISERY—AN ATMOSPHERE—BASSETERRE—CROWN COLONY
SYSTEM—THE NARROWS—NEVIS—REDONDO—MONTSERRAT—ANTIGUA—ITS HARBOUR
BY MOONLIGHT—GUADELOUPE—MARIEGALANTE—DOMINICA—CARIBS—ISLAND
SCENERY—ROSEAU—FROGS 49

CHAPTER VII.

MARTINIQUE—ST. PIERRE—MUSCULAR FEMALES—FEVER—GRANDE
RUE—TAMARIND AVENUE—SAVANNA—SKETCHING FROM NATURE—BOTANICAL
GARDENS—MOUNTAIN CABBAGE PALM—THE GREAT TROPICAL
FALLACY—WATERFALL—THE LAKE—MUSEUM—A FORSAKEN GARDEN—TO MORNE
ROUGE—COUNTRY LIFE—THE CALVARY 57

CHAPTER VIII.

A GALA DAY—COSTUMES—CINQ-CLOUS—BATTERIE D’ESNOTY—A CASSAVA
FARM—PANDEMONIUM—PREPARATION OF CASSAVA—A “CATCH”—COUNTRY
SCENES—FRESH ATMOSPHERE—A STORM—RAINBOWS—FOREST SCENES—TROPICAL
VEGETATION—NOON-DAY HALT 69

CHAPTER IX.

A CURIO HUNTER—FORT DE FRANCE—BATHS OF DIDIER—DIAMOND
ROCK—FLYING-FISH TRADE—BARBADOES—CARLISLE BAY—HOAD’S—TRAFALGAR
SQUARE—THE ICE-HOUSE—ST. ANN’S—SCOTLAND—CONFEDERATION—COAST OF
TOBAGO—BIRDS OF TOBAGO—FAUNA OF THE WEST INDIES 82

CHAPTER X.

TO TRINIDAD—BOCA DE MONOS—GULF OF PARIA—PORT OF
SPAIN—SAVANNA—BOTANIC GARDENS—A HINDOO VILLAGE—STAPLES—A CACAO
PLANTATION—THE BLUE BASIN—FALLS OF MARACAS—THE PITCH LAKE—START
FOR THE ORINOCO 92

CHAPTER XI.

THE “HEROE DE ABRIL”—APPROACHING THE ORINOCO—MOUTHS
OF THE ORINOCO—THE MACAREO CHANNEL—MACAWS—WATER
LABYRINTHS—GUARANOS—INDIAN CAMP—TROUPIALS—BARRANCAS—LITTLE
VENICE—LAS TABLAS—CARATAL GOLD MINES—VENEZUELA—THE CARONI—ROCKS
OF PORPHYRY—CIUDAD BOLIVAR—PIEDRA MEDIO—ANGOSTURA BITTERS—UPPER
ORINOCO—FEATHER HAMMOCKS 102

CHAPTER XII.

TO GEORGETOWN—FIRST IMPRESSIONS—BATHS—A DROUGHT—STREET
SCENES—AN OIL PAINTING—VICTORIA REGIA—THE CANNON-BALL
TREE—SWIZZLES—A PROVISION OF NATURE—DIGNITY BALLS—CALLING
CRABS—FOUR EYES—KISKIDIS—FEATHER TRADE—COLOURED SUGAR—A
VERSATILE AMERICAN—DEMERARA CRYSTALS—PHYSALIA—OFF TO RORAIMA 120

CHAPTER XIII.

TO THE ESSEQUIBO—BARTICA GROVE—THE PENAL SETTLEMENT—CUYUNI
RIVER—EL DORADO—RALEIGH’S CREDULITY—TENT BOATS—CAMP IN
SHED—CARIA ISLAND—AN ARCHIPELAGO—KOSTERBROKE FALLS—ASCENT OF
CATARACTS—WARIMAMBO RAPIDS—MORA—A NEW YEAST 135

CHAPTER XIV.

A NEW HOUR—MARABUNTAS—SINKING OF THE BURA—ROCK FORMATIONS—ARA
HUMMING-BIRD—FALLS OF YANINZAEC—JABIRU—CABUNI RIVER—SHOOTING
FISH WITH ARROWS—PACU—AN INDIAN CAMP—GREEN-HEART BREAD—INDIAN
LIFE—A PAIWORIE FEAST—DUCKLARS—CURRI-CURRIS—SUN BITTERNS 149

CHAPTER XV.

THE BUSH-MASTER—LABARRI—CAMOODI—WOOD ANTS—TURESIE—A PACU
HUNT—CASHEW TREE—WOODSKINS—PIRAI—SINGING FISH—INDIAN
DANCE—BEADS—FASHION—A RIVER BEND—VIEW OF HILLS—SNIPE—INDIAN
MYTHOLOGY—WANT A DOG—TABLE MOUNTAINS—MERUME RIVER—COURSE OF THE
MAZARUNI 162

CHAPTER XVI.

A FISH HUNT ON LAND—STINGRAYS—THE “CARIBISCE”—TABLE
MOUNTAINS—A RIVER GOD—DESERTED VILLAGES—CURIPUNG RIVER—INDIAN
ENCAMPMENT—INDIAN SUPERSTITION—THE “PEAIMAN”—DURAQUA—EATING
CUSTOMS—ARRIVAL OF LANCEMAN—TRIANGLE OF MOUNTAINS—MACREBAH
FALLS—START ACROSS COUNTRY 175

CHAPTER XVII.

A “DACANA-BALLI”—STRANGE ROCKS—A ROOT PATH—INDIAN
SUPERSTITION—THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL—NEW CARRIERS—A FEATHERED
COSTUME—CURIOUS TREES—COCK OF THE ROCKS—CAMP ON THE LAMUNG—A
BOA-CONSTRICTOR—STENAPARU RIVER—THE CARIAPU—A BURNING TREE—THE
MAZARUNI—CAPTAIN DAVID—PICTURESQUE CAMP 189

CHAPTER XVIII.

AMATEUR BARBERS—AN INDIAN EXQUISITE—MOUTH OF THE CAKO—CAMP
ON VENEZUELAN TERRITORY—TRUMPETERS—MOUNT CAROUTA—REASON
FOR ASCENDING THE CAKO—MARIMA—INDIAN GUIDE—GLIMPSE OF
RORAIMA—THE ARUPARU CREEK—COTINGAS—SAVANNA INDIANS—A WATER
LABYRINTH—AMUSING SCENES—END OF NAVIGATION 204

CHAPTER XIX.

OLD GRANNY’S DESCRIPTION OF THE PATH TO
RORAIMA—TREE-BRIDGES—MONKEY-POTS—BUSH-ROPES—CASHEW
COTTAGE—SAVANNA INDIANS—MAZARUNI—MAGNIFICENT PALMS—BIXA
ORELLANA—COTENGA RIVER—FALLS OF OOKOOTAWIK—VILLAGE OF
MENAPARUTI—MARIKA RIVER—THE SORCERER AGAIN 216

CHAPTER XX.

SAVANNA—RORAIMA AT LAST—APPEARANCE OF THE
MOUNTAIN—WATERFALLS—HEAD OF THE QUATING—TRIBUTARIES OF THE
AMAZON AND THE ESSEQUIBO—KUKENAM—ITS FALL AND RIVER—THE
“PEAIMAN” AGAIN—FALLS OF EKIBIAPU—A CELEBRATION 227

CHAPTER XXI.

CLUSIAS—A MELASTOMA—FOREST TREES—FRESH CAMP—A FLORAL
TREASURY—BRAZILIAN MOUNTAINS—A COLOUR SYMPHONY—RORAIMA’S
EASTERN WALL—NO MEANS OF ASCENT—GOAT-SUCKERS—SOUTHERN WALL
OF RORAIMA—FALL OF KAMAIBA—KUKENAM FALLS—WESTERN SIDE OF
RORAIMA—REASONS FOR RETURNING HOME—SAVANNA FIRE—A STORM 232

CHAPTER XXII.

INDIAN VISITORS—A REWARD TO ASCEND RORAIMA—LAST VIEW
OF RORAIMA—HOW TO ASCEND RORAIMA—MENAPARUTI—A HUNTING
PARTY—CASSIREE—INDIAN PASTIMES—RUMOURS OF WAR—AMARYLLIS—QUATING
RIVER—CASHEW COTTAGE AGAIN—THE ARAPARU—FALSE ALARMS—OLD FRIENDS 245

CHAPTER XXIII.

A PAINFUL WALK—BIRD’S NEST FERNS—DOWN THE CURIPUNG—VOICES
OF THE NIGHT—AN INDIAN FAMILY—A QUICK JOURNEY—SHOOTING THE
FALLS—TIMBER SHOOTS IN CANADA—A LOST CHANNEL—ANTICIPATIONS OF A
FEAST—CAPSIZE—A SWIM FOR LIFE—TEBUCU FALLS—HOME AGAIN 253

CHAPTER XXIV.

FROM SOURCE TO SEA—END OF THE DROUGHT—D’URBAN—A
RACE MEETING—ENTHUSIASTIC COLOURED FOLK—ROYAL MAIL
STEAMERS—VENEZUELANS—CARIBE—CARUPANO—CUMANA—AN EARTHQUAKE
CENTRE—BARCELONA—LLANURAS—LLANERO—PLAINS—LA SILLA 265

CHAPTER XXV.

VIEW OF LA GUAIRA—PROJECTS IN VENEZUELA—LANDING—INDIAN PATH
TO CARACAS—BRILLIANT BEETLES—VIEW FROM CERRO DE AVILA—DESCENT
TO CITY—CLIMATE—AN EARTHQUAKE ALARM—SAD ASPECT OF THE
CITY—MYSTERIOUS POWER OF THE MOON—PERIHELION AND PESTILENCE 275

CHAPTER XXVI.

EL PASEO—HISTORICAL RENOWN—RESERVOIRS—VIEW OF CARACAS—RIVERS
OF PARADISE—COMPARED WITH MEXICO—PLAZA DE BOLIVAR—STATUE OF
THE LIBERATOR—ENTRY INTO CARACAS—FUNERAL CORTEGE—A NATION’S
GRATITUDE 287

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE LEGISLATIVE PALACE—A COMPLIMENT TO THE CAPITOL AT
WASHINGTON—PLAZA DE GUZMAN BLANCO—THE UNIVERSITY—SAN
FELIPE—REMINISCENCES OF HUMBOLDT—A STRANGE DISEASE—PROJECTS IN
VENEZUELA—EARTHQUAKE AT CUA—THE LEGISLATURE—LEAVE FOR LA GUAIRA 295

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CARRIAGE ROAD BETWEEN CARACAS AND LA GUAIRA—THE “COW-TREE”—A
VENEZUELAN SUCCESS—FRENCH MAIL STEAMER—LEAVE LA GUAIRA—PUERTO
CABELLO—GOLFO TRISTE—MILITARY HISTORY—CURACOA—GULF OF
MARACAIBO—SAVANILLA—EMERALD MINES—CLOUDS OF BUTTERFLIES—LEAVE
SAVANILLA 305

CHAPTER XXIX.

TREASURES OF THE DEEP—THE SAN PEDRO ALCANTARA—MARGARITA—SEEKING
LOST TREASURE—OCEAN MINING—NAVY BAY, COLON—INTER-OCEANIC
COMMUNICATION—GOMARA’S PROJECT—NELSON’S SCHEME—THE NICARAGUA
ROUTE—THE ACANTI-TUPISI ROUTE—INTERNATIONAL COMMISSION 313

CHAPTER XXX.

COLON—DEPARTURE—COLUMBUS AND MR. ASPINWALL—RAILWAY ACROSS
ISTHMUS—SCENES ON THE ISTHMUS—TELEGRAPH POSTS—HOLY GHOST
ORCHID—PANAMA HATS—PARADISE—MOUNT ANCON—PACIFIC MAIL STEAMER—ON
THE WHARF AT PANAMA—PANAMA FROM THE SEA—LAST LOOKS 323

APPENDIX 337

RORAIMA.

CHAPTER I.

“Under the eaves of a southern sky,
Where the cloud roof bends to the ocean floor
Hid in lonely seas, the Bermoothes lie—
An emerald cluster that Neptune bore
Away from the covetous earth god’s sight,
And placed in a setting of sapphire light.”

“Well, if we are going to a warmer temperature than this, few of us
will return,” was the remark made by one of the passengers on board the
little steamer ‘Canima,’ which was rolling heavily in a perfectly smooth
sea, past Staten Island on her way from New York to Bermuda. It was
the month of November, but the sun was as hot and the sky as brassy as
though it had been August. On shore we could see preparations being made
for cricket, lawn-tennis, and archery; and there were we bound for a
semi-tropical climate. It was one of those days with which the clerk of
the weather favours New York in early spring, and sometimes even when the
Indian summer is supposed to have ended.

I have said that the vessel rolled heavily, even in a smooth sea, and
we were naturally anxious to know what she would do in rough weather;
some thought that she would turn over altogether, others, that she would
regain her equilibrium and keep it, but this latter idea was soon proved
to be a fallacy, as the wretched ship had no more centre of gravity than
a cherub.

Hardly had we entered the open sea when a change in the weather occurred.
The sky was overcast, the waves assumed a threatening aspect, a cold
drizzle set in, and general discomfort prevailed.

How gay and lively the scene on deck was when we started! how dull and
quiet it suddenly became! just as I was imitating the example of the rest
of the passengers by retreating to my cabin, an old gentleman who had
made the passage to Bermuda thirty-two times spoke to me of

“The old green glamour of the glancing sea.”

As I did not feel much inclined to listen to poetry, I merely remarked
that I thought Lucretius was right when he declared that “the sea was
meant to be looked at from shore,” and then withdrew.

A less enjoyable voyage could not be imagined, and what with a head
wind, rainy weather, the gulf-stream in a state of extra-roughness,
and French-Canadian stewards, whose dirty appearance made the greasy
food less appetising, if possible, than it otherwise would have been,
a more ghostly, half-starved lot of travellers never arrived at their
destination. How many lines of steamers there are whose owners trade
on the old Sanscrit proverb which they might adopt as their motto, “The
river is crossed, and the bridge is forgotten.”

Fortunately the passage only lasted four days, the advertised time being
seventy-two hours; and glad indeed were we when we had passed through the
narrow reef-channel, and were coasting along the western side of the main
island of the Bermudas, and within the formidable chain of breakers which
surrounds them.

The first view of the island is disappointing, as the low hills have a
barren and desolate appearance, and the plain white cottages which are
dotted about here and there stand in bare, uncultivated spots. Lower
down, however, as we approach the central portion, the face of the
island brightens. Old acquaintances of Bermuda point out the position
of Harrington Sound, which they declare—and rightly as we afterwards
thought—to be the most lovely part of the island; but from the vessel all
we can see is a narrow inlet which one could almost jump across. The long
lines of roofs which sparkle so in the sun on the hill yonder are the
barracks, and the red coats of the soldiers make pleasant bits of colour,
which contrast well with the gleaming sand and the deep green cedar-nooks
in which the white houses nestle.

Farther on we pass Government House and the signal station, from which
the arrival of the steamer has long been signalled; then Clarence
Hill—Admiralty House—is left behind, and we round Spanish Point, with
Ireland and other islands forming a semi-circle on our right. On Ireland
Island is to be seen as everybody knows, the famous floating dock which
was towed from England in 1869. At another time, this would probably have
been the centre of attraction, but the eyes of our sea-worn passengers
were directed to a fine large building well situated at the extremity of
that island. “What a splendid hotel!” said one, and “How delightfully
cool it must be there!” said another. It proved to be the “Commissioner’s
House,” now used as military quarters.

The history of this building is rather singular. A certain Treasury
clerk was appointed “Commissioner” in charge of the dockyard, and, not
being satisfied with the house given him to occupy, received permission
from the Home Government to spend £12,000 in building a new one. This
concession appears to have turned his head, for the house gradually
assumed the dimensions of a palace; marble chimney-pieces were erected,
and stabling built for a dozen horses, and this in a country where
fire-places were hardly necessary, and where, at that time, horses
were useless. Marble baths and other trifles ran up the bill to over
£60,000. The gentleman for whom this expense was incurred never occupied
the house, as he went mad, and the office of “Commissioner” was soon
dispensed with.

Whilst an old resident was telling us this story, we had entered the
Great Sound, and we found ourselves in a pretty land-locked harbour, on
whose wonderfully clear blue water floated numerous fairy islets—a scene
which reminded us of the words of Moore:

“The morn was lovely, every wave was still
When the first perfume of a cedar-hill
Sweetly awakened us, and with smiling charms
The fairy harbour wooed us to its arms.”

Through these green islands we wound our way carefully, one channel being
particularly narrow and dangerous. Beneath its transparent waters we
could distinguish an old cannon; and then a sudden turn brought us into
the pretty port of Hamilton, where we dropped anchor close to the shore.
But being on shore and only near it are very different things, and it
seemed hours to us hungry mortals before the vessel was gradually dragged
to within forty feet of the quay. Nearer we could not get, on account of
a shallow.

Now to land in boats appeared too ridiculous for such a short distance,
but no other means were visible. A bridge lowered by a crane would have
landed us all in a few minutes, but there was no appearance of such a
thing. Old-fashioned Bermuda wanted no new-fangled notions, so we had
to abide our time and wait until a bridge had been manufactured in
the following way: Ropes were thrown from the vessel and fastened to
the outer ends of long beams, which were hauled on board, their other
extremities resting on shore. Then a number of grinning darkies strided
these beams, and lashed cross-bars to them; planks were laid on the
frame, and over these we walked on to the quay.

There were only two passengers besides myself for the Hamilton Hotel,
and these were a very charming old lady and her son—a young physician
from Boston—who had been advised to spend the winter abroad. A short walk
brought us to the hotel, a good-sized, comfortable building, commanding a
fine view of the harbour and port of the town. On our way up, we passed
a splendid specimen of the india-rubber tree, whose luxuriant growth
almost hid the broad veranda’d cottage behind it. Speaking of this tree,
Mark Twain says that, when he saw it, it was “out of season, possibly
as there were no shoes on it, nor suspenders, nor anything a person
would properly expect to find there.” This tree was the first sign of
tropical vegetation that we had seen, which fact had rather surprised us,
as on the cover of a “bill of fare,” which had been shown to us in New
York, was a picture of the Hamilton Hotel, with an avenue of palms and
bananas leading up to it. The fine palms—mountain cabbage—we afterwards
discovered about half-a-mile off, and not even within sight of the hotel.
But one cannot expect to find everything one sees, even on a bill of
fare. We were informed by the clerk that we were the first visitors of
the season. “But somebody else is here,” said I, pointing to a solitary
name in the visitor’s register. “Oh,” said he, “that’s me;” and forthwith
assigned us our rooms.

And now let me say a word about this hotel, which is notorious for having
prevented many strangers from visiting Bermuda, and others who would have
liked to return, from coming back. The rooms are simply but comfortably
furnished, the situation is good, and the grounds might be very prettily
laid out. The whole cause of discontent with the hotel has hitherto—that
is, up to the winter of 1877-78—been with the management. The house had
been leased to an American, a pleasant, agreeable person, but without
the least idea of managing an hotel. People did not come to Bermuda
for third-rate American hotel dinners, but there they got them, until
they could stand it no longer. It was useless to speak to the manager;
no redress was obtainable. Everything was served at once; an armada of
little white dishes was placed before you, in one a dry cutlet, in
another a few dried pellets of fried potatoes, peas like buckshot, boiled
potatoes like cannon-balls; here an inch of tough chicken, there a slice
of beef, baked until all its proper juices had been extracted; heavy
pumpkin pies, tea and coffee quite undrinkable, butter that no one could
touch; such, with but little variation, were the component parts of the
three meals. Even the provisions of Nature were not made as available
as they might have been. In the garden were two or three fine papaw
trees, whose insipid green fruit was sometimes given to us as a delicious
West-Indian preserve. It is said that the leaves of this tree, if rubbed
on a bull’s hide, would immediately convert it into tender beefsteak; now
our meat was always of the toughest description.

Day after day I used to see my two friends, fresh from their home in
Boston, rise from the table without having touched anything, and I felt
quite ashamed of our English colony. Had the proprietor been English,
I think I should have run away. As it was, we limited our visit to a
fortnight instead of a month, the doctor accompanying me to the West
Indies, whilst his mother returned home.

It seems a pity that quiet Bermuda should not attract more
visitors—Americans especially—than it does. A well-kept hotel there would
be very welcome to many who now winter in Florida or Nassau (Bahamas).
The island is more interesting than either of those places, and equally
picturesque; and I have no doubt that visitors, when they left, would
carry away as pleasant recollections as they would probably leave behind.

CHAPTER II.

“Pleasant it was when the woods were green,
And the winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go.”

LONGFELLOW.

When you first look out of your window over the town, you imagine that
there has been a slight snow-storm, so gleaming white are the roofs of
all the houses. But you soon learn that, owing to the absence of springs
and streams, the roofs are white-washed, and kept scrupulously clean, as
the rain-water is thence conducted into cisterns, from which it is drawn
for use.

The roads are white, the houses are whiter, and the roofs are whitest;
but what would otherwise be an unpleasant glare is modified by the
foliage, which half conceals the houses, and by the green Venetian
blinds, which shade all the windows.

Nearly every house has a garden, and passion-flowers, morning glory, and
other vines creep up the pillars and over the piazzas in great profusion
and brilliancy. “Pride of India” trees border the sides of the streets,
but these fail to give the delicious shade which is obtained under the
cedar avenue which lies on one side of the small public gardens. Here
you can stroll in the heat of the day, protected from the sun by a green
roof, and surrounded by roses,[1] heliotropes, lilies, great beds of
geraniums, pomegranates, gorgeous blossoms of hybiscus, gladioli, and
all sorts of lovely creepers. Then when the sun’s rays have lost some of
their power, you can prolong your walk along the winding road, past the
pretty country church of Pembroke, and leaving Mount Langton (Government
House) on your right, behold at the bottom of a shady lane spreadeth
a golden network, like a veil of gauze, stretching far and wide. That
is the sea, and in a short half-hour you have crossed this part of the
island.

Better still is it to come here in the morning, and after a plunge in the
deep blue water, sit on the “ducking stool,” and meditate on the feelings
of the poor wretches who, in days gone by, suffered the water punishment
for witchcraft, sorcery, and other imaginary offences. A notice prohibits
bathing on Government grounds, but down below the steep rocks there
are plenty of nooks and hollows, sand-carpeted and as private as your
own chamber. For myself, I never could make out where the Government
property began or where it ended.

On this north shore a delicious breeze tempers the heat of the sun, and
it is enjoyment enough to look at and listen to the sea, to watch the
men collecting the seaweed for their land, or to read, and consequently
fall asleep. No one will disturb you; there are no tramps in Bermuda,
and your watch will still be going, even should you sleep for hours. To
return to town two different ways are open to you; both are along the
same sea-shore road, but lie in opposite directions; the one leads to
the north-east, until you branch off to the right past the barracks; the
other—and the one we will take—runs south-west towards Admiralty House
and Spanish Point. All along this road you cannot help noticing the
encroachment of the sea, and you wonder how long it will be before the
road on which you are walking becomes the edge of a craggy wall for the
waves to beat against and undermine. Here truly does—

“The hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore.”

The hollowness of Bermuda is very remarkable, and in many places the
cavernous ground gives forth very musical sounds when struck.

As we proceed on our walk, we see but few signs of cultivation; here and
there are strips of garden running up into the ubiquitous cedar bush, but
most of the land is used for grazing, and very indifferent grazing, too.
One peculiarity amongst the four-footed animals is that they are nearly
all black and white; another is that they are all tethered; everything
seems at anchor in Bermuda, cattle, goats, pigs, donkeys, even the hens
are not at liberty. Occasionally one passes a deep well, originally dug
out for the purpose of obtaining fresh water, but entirely lined with
the lovely maiden-hair fern. This delicate species gives a special charm
to the island, as it grows luxuriously on the walls and rocks, in caves
and hollows, and drapes the numerous land-pits with its graceful fronds.
Where the fern declines to grow, there the “life-plant” flourishes, and
quickly covers up the bare places with its deep green, fleshy leaves.
Of such vitality is this weed that a single leaf, if plucked and pinned
to the wall, will live and send out shoots from its edges with perfect
indifference as to its changed abode.

At Spanish Point the view across to Ireland Island is very picturesque,
and one perfect horse-shoe bay, with white sandy shore, lingers a long
time in the memory, not only on account of the peaceful scene of which it
forms a part, but also for its own exquisite form. Near by is Fairy-land,
well named, for it really is one of the most charming spots in Bermuda.
The sea here runs far up into the island, forming a lake, with bays,
islets, caves, isthmuses, and peninsulas. Just above one of the green
bights stands a little nest called “Honeymoon Cottage,” a gem of a place,
where many a happy pair have passed the first week or two of their new
life. The hall-door steps lead down to the bathing house, which, when I
visited it, contained only one little shoe, but that worthy of Amphitrite
herself.

Leaving beautiful Undercliff, our road now turns more inland, sometimes
crossing a little hill, and sometimes running through a swamp with high
reeds and flags, and with its edges planted with potatoes and tomatoes.
Now it curves through a grove, anon it winds past home-like cottages,
whose black occupants grin with delight at seeing a stranger, curtsey,
and wish him a pleasant walk; then once more the sea is in view, pretty
gardens line the road, life and activity betoken the neighbourhood of the
wharf, and you are again in Hamilton. Have you enjoyed your walk? I must
not ask whether you have a good appetite for dinner!

There is no doubt that the scenery of Bermuda improves on acquaintance.
At first sight the visitor will probably be disappointed with the flat
appearance of the island and the apparently few possibilities for the
picturesque. But in a very short time he will discover that it is all
hill and dale, on a minute scale, it is true, as the highest elevation
hardly exceeds two hundred and fifty feet—but varied and even romantic.
Take, for instance, the view from the Barrack Hill. Everywhere the
coastland seems broken up in the most capricious manner. Deep bays,
narrow promontories, and an infinite number of islands give to the sea
the appearance of a series of silver lakes, which shine in the sun like
the fragments of a broken mirror. The undulating country is clothed with
cedar-bush, whose grey green is relieved here and there by the brilliant
flush of the pink oleander and the white perpendicular walls of a stone
quarry. Afar off a lighthouse is pictured against the sky, near at hand
is a white fort, and a church spire shows itself above the trees. But
it is the beauty of the sea rather than of the land that here takes the
first place in one’s affections; and in after-time it is the memory of
the molten silver sea and its green islands that clings to one longest;

“Wherever you wander the sea is in sight,
With its changeable turquoise green and blue,
And its strange transparence of limpid light.
You can watch the work that the Nereids do
Down, down, where their purple fans unfurl,
Planting their coral and sowing their pearl.”

Those who are familiar with the scenery of Puget Sound, or of Vancouver’s
Island, will recognise, I think, many points of similarity with that
of Bermuda. The dense forests are wanting in the latter, but from a
bird’s-eye view the resemblance is striking. Above all there is the same
air of absolute quiet and a subdued wildness characteristic of the two
places. Certainly Bermuda is a quiet land; so still a place, it seemed
to me, I had never been in before. You are perpetually wondering why the
church bells are not ringing for service, and I have heard people ask,
“Did you hear the dog barking yesterday?” But life here is by no means
dull, a more friendly, hospitable, and fun-loving people you would not
find, and what with military theatricals, croquet, cricket, lawn tennis,
boating parties, and other amusements, time glides away very quickly.

There is little or no game on the island—one bevy of quails being the
extent of my observations—but, as an Englishman must hunt or shoot
something, a “paper-hunt” has been established. It may not be as exciting
as fox-hunting, but, in a climate where you must take things easily, it
affords capital exercise. The Bermudian foxes—or rather the Judases, as
they carry the bag—are generally men from the garrison, and, with the
thermometer 75 deg. in the shade, and 110 deg. or more in the sun, they
have no easy task in giving a good run. Spectators are always invited
to view “the finish” at some previously selected spot, and there
refreshments of all kinds are served, making a very agreeable finale to
an amusing day. A severe critic might remark that the hurdles and other
obstacles placed near “the finish,” were hardly worthy of the excessive
ardour displayed in overcoming them, but he must remember that it perhaps
makes up for a slight falling off where the jumps were more formidable.
It is not only in Bermuda that the presence of a certain pair of bright
eyes has driven many a Nimrod to deeds of heroism in the matter of hedges
and ditches that otherwise would have been neglected.

For boating the Bermuda waters offer great facilities, and, if you want
to see how near to the wind’s eye it is possible to go, you cannot
do better than hire one of the native sailing-boats—one masted and
flush-decked—when there is a stiff breeze. You may get rather wet, but
you will spin along at a glorious rate, and you certainly will admire
the workmanlike way in which your crew—a man and a boy—manage the rakish
craft.

Then, in calm weather it is delightful to pay a visit to the reefs
and gather for yourself the brain corals and “sea-whips,” specimens
of which fishermen have brought to the hotel for sale. In these
water-gardens may be seen all sorts of many-hued plants; crinoids like
palm trees, gorgonias, mosses, sea-feathers, coral like creeping vines,
sea-cucumbers,[2] and coloured weeds waving to and fro over the brilliant
fish. On bright, sunny days, when the blue water sparkles, you may,
perhaps, in fancy, hear snatches of low music and gay tones of laughter
gurgling up from below, but, when it is dull and gloomy, the sounds will
be of sorrow, telling secrets dire and tales of woe, wrung from restless
spirits buried amid wreck and ruin beneath the flood that sweeps over
those cruel, beautiful coral rocks.

We had heard so much of the disagreeable effects of the south wind, which
generates so much moisture that everything is quickly covered with green
mould, and a general clammy feeling prevails, that we were continually
running round the corner of the hotel to note the direction of the wind
by the flag at the signal station. As we were constantly expecting it—the
south wind—the natural consequence was that it never came, and we were
very grateful. I think it was a Frenchman who remarked that nothing
happens except the unexpected, and I have found this true in many cases.
For instance, when travelling in the tropics, if you are continually on
the look-out for snakes, you will rarely meet them, and we all know that
the best way to keep off the rain is to carry an umbrella. The climate
of Bermuda is said to be capricious, but during our stay—a short one
certainly—we found the temperature very pleasant, the thermometer seldom
rising over 73 deg., and frequently a fire towards evening was very
comfortable.

Small as Bermuda is—as the five principal islands connected by ferries
and bridges only form a chain about twenty-four miles in length, and with
a breadth varying from a few hundred yards to about two miles—it yet
contains many points of interest. The splendid lighthouse on Gibb’s Hill
is worth a visit for itself, and for the fine view to be obtained from
it; the fortifications, too, which, together with the natural barriers,
are gradually making a second Gibraltar, must be inspected. The Paget
Hills on the eastern shore show how the drifting sand is elevating the
land, and probably increasing it as fast as the western waves are washing
it away. Unfortunately, this overwhelming mass of sand is steadily
advancing over the cultivated land, and has already buried one cottage,
whose chimney alone is visible above the surrounding whiteness. It is
merely a matter of taste which is preferable—to be washed away or to be
buried alive.

Near the beach, at the foot of these hills, may be seen, at low water,
great circular masses of rock, hollowed out like huge cauldrons. Similar
ones occur at intervals round the islands, and are by no means the least
interesting of the Bermudian curiosities.[3]

However entertaining the country and seaside may be, there is very little
in the town of Hamilton worth noticing. With the exception of Trinity
Church, the buildings are insignificant. The “Public Building” stands in
an ill-tended garden and presents no inducement to the young Bermudian to
prepare himself for the Legislature. But, perhaps, there will soon be no
young white Bermudians, as the youths of these islands find the United
States better adapted for their speedy advancement in life.

I had hoped to find in the museum a specimen of a certain spider,
concerning which an ancient chronicler of Bermuda has said: “They are of
a very large size, but withal beautifully coloured, and look as if they
were adorned with pearl and gold. Their webs are in colour and substance
a perfect raw silk, and so strongly woven that, running from tree to
tree, like so many snares, small birds are sometimes caught in them.”
The Museum consisted of a few South-Sea Island shells, some coral, some
moth-eaten skins, three bottles of alcohol containing marine specimens,
two butterflies, and no spider. I had a better ungathered collection of
insects in my own room at the hotel. I must return there and see if I can
find a mother-of-pearl spider.

CHAPTER III.

We have not half exhausted the beauties of the neighbourhood, but, in
case your patience should be at an end, please step into the carriage
which is to take us to St. George’s, at the other end of the island,
whence we are to embark for the West Indies, and let us look about us on
the way.

Three roads lead to our destination; we will take the middle one, which
joins the ocean drive near Harrington Sound. Splendid roads these are,
too! Bermuda may well be proud of them. Altogether there are more than
a hundred miles of broad, white, smooth road. Sometimes the road-bed is
so deeply hewn out of the white coral rock that Lilliputian canyons are
formed with fern-hung walls, and capped with aloe or cactus. Several
varieties of the latter plant grow in the islands, and a magnificent
specimen of the night-blooming _cereus grandiflora_ is to be seen
in the small garden behind the Yacht Club in Hamilton. It runs in
wild profusion over trees, walls, and bushes, and when in blossom is
covered with hundreds of pale flowers, whose delicious perfume is quite
overpowering. It may be inconvenient, perhaps, to visit it at the proper
time—midnight—but it is necessary, as in the morning beauty and perfume
have gone.

Dazzlingly white, but, fortunately, not dusty, is the road as we leave
the snowy houses behind us, but soon we enter a stretch of cool forest.
Here a deeper silence reigns than even on the sunny hill we have
ascended, a melodious silence too, for the sweet note of the blue bird
and the soft chirp of the “chick of the village” do not break the quiet,
but rather adds to it. A crimson cardinal gives a rare flush to the grey
cedar, and pretty little ground-doves sit perfectly unconcerned by the
roadside as we drive past. Prospect is soon reached, and then we descend,
again skirting a large morass, edged with cedars, mangrove, and palmetto.
We see a new church, which makes a strong contrast with the old ruined
one that stands farther on, near some really fine cedars.

Here we halt for a moment to inspect a natural curiosity, namely, a very
ancient cedar, lofty and hollow, and in whose dead trunk is growing
a young one, the green head of which appears high up, amid the dead
branches of the old one. Patches of cultivated land with their great
hedges of oleander were as common here as everywhere else, but, besides
the usual tomato, onion, and potato, we saw for the first time that
friend of our childhood—the farinaceous arrowroot. Could we do less
than greet it with a friendly nod as we drove along? Alas! even the
cultivation of this diminishes year by year; everything has to give way
to onions and tomatoes—consequently, the supply of other vegetables,
cereals, and fruits is extremely limited. With such a fertile soil
the exports might almost equal the imports in value, but I am afraid
to say how many times the latter exceed the former at present. No one
would expect a black man to work more than he is absolutely obliged,
and certainly in Bermuda he who can avoid doing anything makes the best
of his opportunities. Possibly his nature is allied to that of the
surrounding coral formations, and he becomes a sort of human coral-polyp,
whose only labour of life is to get a little food and to eat it; the rest
he leaves to nature. Well, who can blame him? he seems very happy and
contented, he sends his children to school, he is very polite, and, if he
is poor, poverty does not harm him, and he is content.

Look at that merry group in the doorway of that tumble-down old building!
All smile at the strangers, and the mother who has been plaiting away at
some palmetto work—which by the way is not half so fine and pretty here
as in Florida—leaves it, to gather some magnificent roses we have stopped
to admire. But surely an earthquake has shattered this little village;
roofless cottages, mouldering walls, gardens in which papaws, prickly
pears, and lantanas form a perfect jungle, everything has the appearance
of some such catastrophe. No, these ruins are the land fragments of
what was once an important harbour, and the splendid sheet of water
before us is Harrington Sound. Very beautiful is this lake—as it may be
called—which at its junction with the sea is crossed by a bridge a few
yards in length, and only visible when approached quite close; for it
lies at the foot of a circle of green hills, surrounded by cavernous
shores, and with islands dotting its green transparent waters.

Taking the road to the right we pass some pretty cottages, one of which
has such a tremendous portico, that we are reminded of the donkey that
tried to convert itself into a deer by attaching antlers to its head.
Then we arrive at the Devil’s Hole. Across the water the Devil’s Head
rises up, its perpendicular cliff looking quite grand in miniature; there
the tropic-bird builds its nest in perfect security in some inaccessible
position. What the devil has to do with either place I cannot say; both
names seem singularly inappropriate, and for the former “Neptune’s
Grotto” is more suitable, and just as easy to pronounce.

There is frequently, I believe, a good deal of difficulty in finding the
proprietor of the pool in question, but at the time of our visit he was
standing at the wooden door, and informed us we had come at a good time,
as he was just going to feed the fish. Entering, we found ourselves in a
pretty circular grotto, lined with shrubs, ferns, and creepers. Steps,
cut out of the rock, led down to a deep pool of the clearest salt water,
in which were a number of great fish called “groupers,” gazing up with
the most expectant look—if a fish-eye can be expressive—and evidently
aware that feeding time was at hand. And how they did eat! there was
no dainty nibbling, no coquettish trifling, a huge mouth opened and
the morsel was gone. “What does that great fellow weigh?” “Oh, about
two shillings,” replied the proprietor, whose idea of weight was a
marketable one, “and those angels will average one and sixpence apiece.”
Well, those angels were worth it, their exquisite azure hue vied with
the wonderfully tinted water, and, what with gold streakings, waving
plume-like fins, and really beautiful eyes, they well deserved their
name. If some clever soul could discover a preparation for preserving
the natural hues of fish, what a benefactor he would be! At present, the
alcoholic collections of our Museums form a ghastly contrast with the
brilliant birds and insects which surround them.

“While blazing breast of humming-bird and Io’s stiffened wing,
Are just as bright as when they flew their earliest voyage in spring;
While speckled snake and spotted pard their markings still display—
Though he who once embalm’d them both himself be turned to clay—
The scaly tribe a different doom awaits—scarce reach’d the shore
Those rainbow hues are fading fast till all their beauty’s o’er.”

Right learnedly, and with the tongue of a gourmet, did our fisherman
discuss the habits and qualities of the various fish that swim in
Bermudian waters. Cow-fish, porgies, hamlets, hog, grunts, bream, and
many others; a few he pointed out to us, amongst them a squirrel with
large eyes, of a blood-red colour and peculiar shape; then he landed a
“grunt,” which gave vent to sounds that would shame a veritable porker.
This natural aquarium is connected with the sea by an underground
passage, consequently the water is always fresh; formerly, we were told,
it was a cavern, but the roof had fallen in.

On emerging, we see eastward the pretty house and grounds belonging to
the American Consul. In his garden is a salt-water fountain, in the basin
of which we, during a former visit, had seen many strange fish, and also
some good specimens of the sea-horse. On that occasion we had been told
of the terrible plot concocted in these Islands by a Dr. Blackburn, for
introducing the yellow fever into the Northern part of the United States,
by sending thither boxes of infected clothing. Fortunately—and I believe
chiefly through the instrumentality of our host—the plot was discovered
in time to prevent the shipment, and a terrible calamity was probably
averted. The worthy Consul does not confine his attention to fish alone,
and his system of banana culture might be profitably adopted in many
other parts of the Island.

Continuing our drive round the Sound, we are more and more impressed
with its attractions; the apple-green water below us, the rocky inlets
with white sandy edges, here and there a stretch of shingle or a wooden
promontory, and, beyond, the blue sea with the foam on its distant reefs,
form a lovely picture, and we are sorry when a turn in the road has shut
us out from such a wealth of colour.

Our next halting-place is at a farm house, near which stands Moore’s
“calabash tree,”[4] beneath whose shade the poet composed his verses,
and wove his amatory couplets addressed to “Nea, the Rose of the Isles.”
The tree lives still, in spite of the severe hacking it has received
from tourists, whose carved names are continually blurred out by time
and the hands of their successors. Even the seat under it is the object
of much curiosity, and as each new one is placed in its proper position
it is carried off piecemeal by enthusiastic admirers, who must have a
bit of the chair the poet sat in. I never see the ravages made by relic
hunters, or the desecration of historical places, without thinking of
a certain tourist to whom an Italian monk was showing a consecrated
lamp, which had never gone out during five centuries. Giving the flame a
decisive puff, he remarked, with cool complacency, “Well, I guess it’s
out now.” A few gourds are still left hanging from the topmost boughs
of the tree, but the sable attendant will not allow any of these to be
knocked down, so you must be satisfied with the one presented to you by
the proprietor of the land at your departure. It may come from Moore’s
tree, but gourds are deceptive and much alike.

A short walk through tangled wild-wood leads to some limestone caves,
which were also frequented by the poet. They differ little from other
cavernous formations; there are vaulted arches, halls and aisles,
gem-studded cornices, and upright columns; here there is a sheet of
water so clear that the guide has to tell you that it is water; there,
oozing stalactites embellish a Gothic temple, but the effect of brilliant
crystallization is marred by the smoke of the rushes which light up the
gloom of the interior. The visit is a scrambling one, but still worth
accomplishing.

Shortly after leaving Walsingham we cross the causeway which connects the
main island with St. George’s; on our right, is the magnificent Castle
Harbour, with numerous islands; on our left, a land-locked sound, with
cranes and other birds fishing on the shallows and among the mangrove
bushes, whilst in front, lying in the hollow of a curve under a hill, are
the white houses of the town. Rapidly we drive along the fine causeway,
the waves now and then almost dashing over us, so near is the sea; then,
after crossing a drawbridge, we are soon among cottages and gardens.
Here we see again potato fields and patches of cultivated ground,
apparently planted with black bottles. These black bottles are quite a
feature in Bermudian cultivation during the sowing season; they are not
planted in the hope of their ever becoming quarts or magnums, or even of
their being refilled by nature with their original contents, but, having
held the seed, they merely indicate the amount sown.

A quaint old town is St. George’s, with its high stone walls and winding
alleys. So narrow are the streets that, if two carriages met in one
of them, it is difficult to imagine what would happen, as they could
not pass, and certainly could not turn back; but two carriages in St.
George’s on the same day would be an exceptional event. The whole place
has the appearance of having been cut out of a single block of white
limestone, rather than being built of bricks of that material. It is not
in many places that a man can build his house from stone out of his own
quarry, on his own premises, but he can in Bermuda. With a hand-saw he
cuts out the soft stone, and the blocks then harden by exposure to the
air.

The numerous square cuttings in the hill-sides and along the roads form
a feature in the scenery, and by no means an unpleasing one, as the new
are snowy white, and the old are generally draped with green bushes and
creepers. Walls are built of the same material, and then receive, as the
houses do, a coating of whitewash, which hides the seams and joinings,
thus presenting a solid white mass. Over these walls, you see broad
plantain leaves and flaming poinsettias; orange, lemon, and palm trees
are more numerous here at St. George’s than at Hamilton, and the tropical
aspect of the town extends to its inhabitants. Of labour there is little
or no sign, and what there is of life is hardly worth mentioning.

As St. George’s is a garrison town—two regiments being considered
necessary for the safety of Bermuda—it is probably gayer than when we saw
it, which was in hot noonday, when all slept except one black man, who
was shaving a white man under the shade of a tree in the square.

That evening the ‘Beta,’ from Halifax, left with us for the West Indies.
Summer isles, in spite of that abused hotel, I would gladly revisit you;
I carry away nought but a remembrance of white cottages and gardens,
green islands, billowy masses of oleander, cedar hills, and coral rocks,
and, above all, of a shining lake-like sea, as calm and restful as the
happy homes which it surrounds.

CHAPTER IV.

Had the passengers on board the comfortable ‘Beta’ been as poetical as
Childe Harold was when in his clumsy brig he sang:

“Four days are sped, but with the fifth anon
New shores descried make every bosom gay,”

they might have said something less prosy than “Thank goodness, there’s
land!” when, precisely on the fifth morning after leaving Bermuda, a
vision as of misty clouds grew out of the sea! Then, as the yellow flush
of dawn cleared the prospect, substance was given to the hazy outlines,
and as the sun rose, touching the rugged peaks with gold and purple, the
island of St. Thomas lay revealed before them.

As the vessel entered the spacious harbour and dropped anchor at some
distance from shore, we thought we had seldom looked at a prettier scene.
In front is a high, abrupt mountain range, from which three rounded spurs
run down to the sea, and on these hills stands the town. On the right,
a low, wooded savanna sweeps up to the hills which encircle the bay,
whose mirror-like surface reflects the rocks and islands which close the
entrance and almost join the promontory on our left. But it is the rich
colouring that forms the striking part of the view. After demure Bermuda,
with its white and grey-green, the bright red roofs and white, green,
yellow, and blue houses are almost dazzling. There, clinging to the side
of the hill, is a cluster of freshly painted cottages, looking very
gaudy in the strong sunlight; nearer at hand are a few low houses, whose
once brilliant roofs are now changed by time and weather to a golden
russet-red highly picturesque.

The height of the dark mountains gives a diminutive appearance to the
buildings, so that you imagine you are looking at a Dutch toy village—or
rather three villages. This idea is enhanced by the toy fort which,
with bastion, battlements, and barbican, is strongly suggestive of cake
ornamentation. Commanding this Danish fortress are the two strongholds
of those old pirates called Bluebeard and Blackbeard, which look feudal,
and only want a few of Mr. James’s horsemen slowly winding up the narrow
causeway to be quite romantic. Over the trees of the toy public garden,
which lies close to the landing, is seen a Moorish-looking structure,
which proves to be the hotel, and gives promise of coolness and comfort,
which I need hardly say is not realised. Behold, then, bright, cheerful
little dwellings, with a prevailing hue of russet, perched on hills and
nestling in the intervening valleys, amid tropical trees and flowering
shrubs, forming the centre of a combination of mountain, sea, and island
that is very pleasing, especially when seen in the soft golden light
shining through the pearly grey mist of the rain storms which often sweep
over the island—and such is St. Thomas.

The change of scenery from Bermuda is not greater than that of manners.
There is no quaker-like simplicity in St. Thomas; noise and clamour
prevail. Hardly has the anchor touched the bottom before the ship is
surrounded with dozens of boats, manned by sturdy negroes, anxious to
take passengers ashore. Here we find among the boatmen the same names as
those borne by Egyptian donkeys at Cairo and Alexandria—Derby winners,
heroes of popular songs, &c. “Champagne Charlie” urges his cognomen as
a special reason for your patronage, whilst another, blacker than the
blackest of imps, claims the stranger’s old acquaintance with “Remember
Snowball, massa, last time you here!”

Just as we stepped into our boat, a young Canadian on board, who had been
assiduously fishing ever since we arrived, and without success, suddenly
called out that he had a bite, and triumphantly pulled up his line, to
which a bottle had been attached by one of the little urchins when diving
for coppers. This little incident reminded one of our party of the tricks
which Antony and Cleopatra used to play each other by the aid of divers.
In the play Charmian says to Cleopatra:

“’Twas merry when
You wagered on your angling; when your diver
Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.”

“And thus history repeats herself,” said somebody else, as we landed on
the wharf.

The inhabitants of St. Thomas are apt to boast of their Hôtel du
Commerce, and to inform the stranger that it is the best in the West
Indies; all I can say is that out of the few I saw, it was by far the
worst. It was kept by a Spanish family, each member of which was master,
and each cared less than the other for the comfort of the guests. The
beds were bad, the mosquito nets were full of holes, there was not
a comfortable chair or table in any bedroom, dirt and uncleanliness
prevailed everywhere; clean linen was at a discount, and the cook
evidently thought that wretched food was compensated for by the fine,
broad verandah in which it was eaten. My friend, the doctor, was so
overcome by the heat and discomfort that he determined to return to
Boston by the first steamer, which was not due, however, for nearly a
fortnight. As mine, also, was not expected until about the same time, we
determined to make the best of it, and try to enjoy ourselves. On looking
back, we afterwards found that our enjoyment principally consisted in
going from the reading-room to the club, and from the club back to the
reading-room. It was too hot to sit down, and we found it necessary to
keep moving in order to get a little air.

Main Street, which runs along the sea, is the only level piece of ground
in St. Thomas; beyond that all is up-hill; it is here, therefore, that
you see life in its busiest and idlest aspect. The shops and stores are
prepossessing neither in their exterior nor in their interior. Straw
hats, ready-made clothes, tawdry trifles, and provisions predominate;
there is nothing to tempt you, nothing strange to invite a purchaser.
But in the street itself it is more amusing; look at that stately woman
in flowing white, with the bright turban, on which is poised a tray
of cakes—she is a Haytian; those children sitting on the doorstep, and
dressed in the suit they were born in, are evidently natives; here comes
a white horse, with a brilliant red saddle-cloth, followed closely by a
sheep; is there a circus coming? No; the patriarchal rider is only Mr.
So-and-So, and it is the fashion in many parts of the West Indies for
sheep to accompany horses. They say it is healthy for sheep to live in
the stables with horses, and they get so attached to one another that,
out-of-doors, the former will not leave the latter as long as they can
keep up with them.

Now groups of women pass; surely they are real Amazons! Jet black, and
wearing only very short skirts, a twist of hemp round their heads, and
with their woolly hair plaited in horns, or crowned with a half cocoa-nut
by way of bonnet, they shout and sing like frantic Mœnads. They are
coalers returning from their hard day’s labour in the harbour. It is not
in St. Thomas where “men must work and women must weep.” That old negro
who is declaiming with such vehemence in front of the hotel is a great
admirer of Lord Beaconsfield, learns all his speeches by heart, and goes
about reciting them. It is pleasant to observe this tribute of admiration
to our great Minister, however odd the expression of it may be. English,
French, German, Dutch, Creoles, all sorts of nationalities, are met with
here, but of Danes, to whom the island belongs, there is a very limited
supply. As for the Danish language, it is the only one not heard.

Of Danish rule the casual visitor can, of course, say very little.
He sees clean, well-ordered streets, and evidences of continual
improvements, sanitary and otherwise, although he cannot help thinking
that the great open sewer, crossed by a bridge in Main Street, and down
which, in the rainy season, come avalanches of dead cats, tin cans, and
other despised articles, might be made less conspicuous, and answer its
purpose equally well. He sees, also, a chain-gang on some public works,
and the pitiful sight of women working with the male convicts; but the
unfortunate creatures seem to care less about it than the spectator, and
with a jaunty air shoulder their spade or pickaxe, and sing to a chain
accompaniment.

The visitor to the island will probably hear—for at St. Thomas, as
elsewhere:

“There is a lust in man no charm can tame,
Of loudly publishing his neighbour’s shame—”

of the strange administration of justice (by the way, do we not, in our
own neighbouring island of Tortola, present the strange spectacle of a
president who himself combines the three functions of judge, prosecutor,
and judge of appeal?), of harmless idlers being picked up by the police
and exiled to the small island of St. John’s, there to tend sheep and
cattle; of theft being far more severely punished than murder, and of the
general incapacity of the government. But the proverbial “grain of salt”
must be taken with the tales, and I think the stranger will allow that
things are carried on much the same as elsewhere; that harmony exists in
spite of inharmonious elements, and that St. Thomas is not so bad as he
had been led to expect.

The days here are monotonous, but variety cannot be expected in so
circumscribed an area. In the early morning, just as you are about
to drop off to sleep, after an intensely hot night, varied with
earthquakes, and passed probably in opening and closing the shutters of
your room—closing them against the driving rain, and opening them to
get some air—the gun fires, and if that fails to waken you thoroughly,
the negroes hold such a jubilee under your window that sleep is quite
impossible.[5] A sudden screaming and wild vociferation makes you spring
out of bed fearing an earthquake, but it is only the old black women
having a “talk,” or merely wishing each other “good morning.” Then the
men indulge in angry abuse, gesticulate madly, and just as you expect to
see a knife plunged into somebody’s bosom, the chief disputant walks off,
singing the “Sweet by-and-by.” There was no quarrel! You then go to bed
again; but immediately bread and coffee are brought, and, as early rising
is infectious, you go through the agony of dressing when, as Sydney Smith
says, you would rather “take off your flesh and sit in your bones.” St.
Thomas is one of those places where, as the Irishman said, it is never
cooler—it may be hotter, but it is never cooler. However, that is at last
accomplished, and then comes a terrible gap of time until breakfast.
There is little to explore, and ferns and shells are soon exhausted, so
you ramble up Main Street, visit the much-enduring consul, or make one of
the coterie in the grand réunions held in some store, where the affairs
of the world are settled.

At last comes breakfast, which is dinner without soup, and where
quantity tries to make up for quality.

“Such breakfast, such beginning of the day
Is more than half the whole;”

and very fortunate it is that such is the case, as until the heat of the
sun has decreased there is not much inducement for exercise. By that time
dinner is ready, and soon after—as early hours are the rule—you retire
to your room, to turn out the centipedes, which are of enormous size
in St. Thomas, from under your pillow, and the mosquitos from out of
the netting. Then you perspire all night. And so passes hotel-life when
there are no dinner-parties, nor theatricals, nor excursions to break its
monotony.

One morning we took a boat to visit a very curious place called “Krumm
Bay.” It was intensely hot, but “Admiral Nelson” pulled away merrily
across the harbour, past the western suburb of the town, and in among
the islands and creeks, which in olden times afforded good retreats for
pirates. Here Blackbeard was wont to retire after some filibustering
expedition and take in fresh supplies of wines and provisions. A fishing
boat sailed by, in which was an enormous Jew-fish, at which the “Admiral”
pulled a very long face, and explained to us that, whenever a Jew-fish
was caught, some one of high position in St. Thomas was sure to die, or
perhaps was already dead. Strangely enough, next morning we noticed that
all the flags were at half-mast, and heard that news had just arrived of
the death in England of the head of one of the chief firms in the island.

The islets around were covered with thick under-bush, out of which tall
flowering aloes shot up like telegraph poles, but on the mainland cacti
predominated, with here and there masses of creamy blossoms of the
fragrant Frangipani. I am at a loss to know how the latter plant gained
its name, as its scent is by no means the same as that extracted from
flowers by the great Roman alchemist Frangipani, and which as “a perfumed
powder in a velvet bag,” with

“——a cast of
Odours rare—of orris mixed with spice
Sandal and violet, with musk and rose
Combined in due proportion,”

was considered a wonderful cure for the plague. High up on the arid soil
rose a giant cereus, with arms like candelabra; lower down were the round
prickly forms of the echinocactus, looking like small hedge-hogs; then
there were numbers of the melocactus, which they here call the Pope’s
head, and which finds a ready sale among the shipping. We had noticed
dépôts for shells and cacti at the other extremity of the town, and
probably these are the only exports from the island. Those large trees
near the water are manchineel, whose fruit is deadly poison to all but
crabs, who esteem it highly. These crabs are themselves considered a
delicacy, but are generally kept for a week, and thoroughly purged before
being eaten.

But who are those light-complexioned men in that crazy canoe? The Admiral
smiles disdainfully as he informs us that they are only “Cha-Chas,” who
live on the outskirts of the town, and employ themselves in fishing. We
afterwards visited one of their little colonies, and found an industrious
people—natives of small adjacent islands—living in huts made of the tin
plates cut from kerosene cans and biscuit cases, looking not unlike
extra large sardine-boxes, and as closely packed. There they raised some
fruit and vegetables, plaited straw, and made ornaments of tamarind seeds.

At the bottom of a deep bay, we found the object of our visit, viz., an
establishment for wrecks. Here, lying on the beach and stowed away under
long sheds, were fragments of all sorts of vessels and their fittings.
Long masts lay near rusty boilers, paddle-wheels were mixed with broken
screws; a deck cabin half concealed a ship’s boat; anchors, helms, poops,
sterns, funnels, beams, all the makings of a ship were there, and a
large workshop showed where the useless was made good, and the broken
repaired. It was not a working-day, and the only sign of life was a large
and hungry dog, whose appearance did not render a landing very inviting.
We had, therefore, to be satisfied with an exterior view of this marine
pawn-shop, where Neptune had got rid of some of his worthless lumber,
perhaps only to retake it when it had once more been made serviceable.

And now, before taking leave of St. Thomas, let us ascend to the top of
the hill above the town, and risk a hot walk for the sake of the fresh
air and view. After passing the theatre, where a black troupe had lately
performed “Macbeth,” the road winds up and up, past cottages hanging
like bird-cages to the hill-sides, and only waiting for a landslip to
precipitate them into the valley—in fact, one house that now stands close
to the town originally stood far up on a hill, but in 1877 it was carried
down entire to its present position, after an earthquake, followed by a
landslip—and soon we were high above the red tiled roofs.

The vegetation is of the scrub order, and among the low bushes fly the
repulsive “black witches,” uttering rich but melancholy notes. The yellow
flowers of the “cedar bush” sprinkle the mountain-side, and a species of
bitter aloe is common; from the latter an old black woman of the town
makes a decoction which is positively declared to be a certain cure for
lung disease. The fleshy leaves contain a jelly-like pulp; this, after
being extracted, is washed seven times in pure water, and beaten up
with eggs and milk. To effect a cure, seven wine-glasses of it must be
drunk. In Mexico I have frequently seen the same medicine used, and have
heard wonderful stories of its power, but there the number seven is not
included in the recipe.

Continuing up the path, we do not see much animal life; occasionally a
lizard runs across, or we meet a few natives bringing down sugar-cane,
and each carrying a “sour-sop”—a large green fruit, with pulp-like
cotton-wool—or, perchance, a little donkey clatters down, so loaded with
grass that nothing can be seen of it except the little hoofs.

The view from the summit is fine and contrasting. On one side, far below,
lies the busy town, with its picturesque towers and harbour filled with
shipping. On the other, a silent waste of water, broken up into fantastic
bays and inlets, and with rocky islands scattered over its face.

On the town side, hardly any cultivation is visible, but on the other are
long strips of cane-lands and patches of garden, groups of fruit-trees,
and grazing pastures.

In the west, rises Porto Rico; in the south, the dim outlines of Santa
Cruz are visible, and between the two, like a ship under press of canvas,
appears Caraval, or Sail Rock, with its forked peak, white-shining in
the sun.

To the east, lie the Virgin Islands in the midst of the “Grande Rue des
Vierges,” as the blue waters which surround them are called. But we have
not much time to admire the scene, already the rose-pink in the west is
changing to gold, a metallic lustre dances on the water, the Virgin group
is fading in the purple distance, and we must descend to the steaming
town.

As we approach, a sound of music floats up to us, and we hear children’s
voices singing a Christmas carol. Can this really be December? To-morrow
we will go to Santa Cruz.

CHAPTER V.

Santa Cruz is situated about forty miles south of St. Thomas. To reach
it, it is necessary to take the Government mail-schooner, which makes the
passage generally in about six hours, though, with contrary winds, it has
been known to take days, and even weeks. Nine o’clock in the evening was
the hour for sailing, and precisely at that time we stepped on board.
“Passports, gentlemen!” was the greeting we received. “What! passports
to go from one Danish island to another!” We had none, so it was finally
settled that we should pay the price of them—thirty-two cents. each—to
the Commissioner of Police, who was expected on board to see his
mother-in-law off. Ten o’clock came, and no sign of either Commissioner
or his mother-in-law. The breeze was falling, and we began to doubt
whether we should be able to get outside the harbour, but at half-past
ten they appeared, and in a few minutes we were beating out.

When we gained the open sea, the north-east trade wind blew fresh and
strong, so that by four a.m. next morning we had passed through the
narrow reef-passage, and had anchored in a picturesque bay at the fort
of Bassin (Christianstœd), the capital of the island. The scene differed
widely from that of St. Thomas. From the white beach backwards, acres of
sugar-cane extended over the level land and swept up over the undulating
hills and across to the mountain background in a waving mass of green,
broken here and there by long lines of cocoa-nut palms, windmills, the
white buildings of the planters, and the cottages of their labourers.

The town looked antiquated, but clean, and with ample foliage.
Originally, the island was covered with forest, but the French burnt it,
and now it appears like one vast sugar plantation. But the loss of its
forests may prove in time the ruin of the island. Formerly its rain-fall
was abundant, and its productiveness enormous. Now years of drought
follow in quick succession, and it is said that the barren belt beginning
at the sea-beach in parts of the island is annually spreading inland.
Ruin is following closely in the path of the forest destroyer.

In former years Bassin was a place of great resort, but now visitors
are scarce, and the wretched building near the wharf, although it still
bears the name of hotel, is closed and receives no guests. We had been
recommended to take rooms at the Widow Brady’s. This we did, and had no
cause to regret it. The widow herself met us before we reached her house.
It was only a short distance, but, before we had accomplished it, we knew
all the gossip of the island, the sugar prospect, the history of the
poor deceased, and had received a general sketch of past events, with a
few prophetic remarks concerning the future. A refreshing bath made up
for a sleepless night on the schooner, whose night accommodation—unless
you preferred to stifle below—consisted of a few rabbit-hutches, or
dog-houses, as they are called, with a mattress spread on the floor.
After our bath we started on a tour of inspection.

It did not require many minutes to find out that the sleepy old town was
not a success as regards its buildings, and that Santa Cruz rum was its
chief article of commerce, but its gardens and trees were delightful.
There were sapodillas, fine, lofty trees, with clusters of leaves and
brown fruit, avocados, trees of the mess-apple, sour-sop, and other
insipid fruits; then there were mangoes, tamarinds, and guava bushes,
overrun with bright convolvuluses, and still more brilliant ipomæas;
roses, jessamine, and honeysuckle grew most luxuriantly, but they were
overmatched in profusion, if not in fragrance, by the Mexican wreath
plant, with pretty pink flowers like clusters of coral, and by the
quiscualis, whose sweet jessamine-like flowers—white, pink, and red on
the same stalk—peeped out in hundreds from their glossy green hiding
places.

A pleasing feature in this island is the number of good roads which run
in all directions. On one of these we drove over to Friderichstœd, or
West End, as it is called. I do not know why the latter name should be
used, but I suppose for the same reason that Christianstœd is called
Bassin, and Charlotte Amalia, St. Thomas. During the drive, we saw
to perfection that system of cultivation which commencing in this
island continues all through the West Indies, with the exception now of
Trinidad,—namely, the systematic neglect of all other products for one,
and that one—sugar. There comes a drought, a deluge, or a blight, and
great is the outcry of planters, who have nothing else to fall back upon.
Here, outside the town, even the fruit trees had been cut down, because,
as long as fruit is on a tree, the labourers instead of working will lie
down and pick and eat. The same complaint exists everywhere against the
fruit-loving workmen, whether native or imported, and it is said that the
only way of stopping the evil is the ruthless cutting down of the trees.

Our road ran through a sea of cane, or an occasional acre of Guinea grass
in different stages of ripeness, crossed at intervals by long rows of
cocoa-nut palms, whose beauty was diminished by a blight which seems to
have prevailed in all the West Indian Islands. Fortunately, it had not
touched the mountain-cabbage palms, which rose straight and majestic, and
with the greenest of plums, beside their faded brethren. These trees,
although beautiful to look at, did not afford much shade, and as the
sun was intensely hot, it was a relief occasionally to rest under the
“Thibet,” whose long brown pods made a strange rustling sound as they
were shaken by the breeze. The branches and mimosa-like leaves of this
tree make nutritious food for cattle, and it is therefore especially
valuable in dry seasons. Now the planters were especially jubilant, as
there had been an abundant fall of rain, and the prospect of good crops
was cheering, after six or seven bad years. Rivulets trickled past us,
and in the marshy ground small green herons peered at us inquiringly or
plunged their bills into the soft earth.

As we approached the western side the scenery improved; high hills rose
up on either side, and below us ran a mountain stream in a dell rich
with mango and bread-fruit[6] trees, and gaily decked with heliconias,
yellow cedar bush, and the crimson flowers of the “Pride of Barbadoes.”
On the high points of land, windmills stretch out their long arms, or,
armless, resembled Martello towers guarding the cane valleys beneath.
In the valleys, the smoke issuing from the tall chimneys showed that
sugar-making was in progress, and at one of the plantations the owner
kindly asked us in. Here they were ploughing, or placing the cane slips
on the ridges ready for planting, there they were hoeing, and in another
place, cutting the ripe cane or carrying it to the mill. The various
processes were shown and explained to us, and then our host refreshed us
with cane juice in different stages, from “sling,” which was served in
large jugs, to the material beverage—rum—which, as real old Santa Cruz,
was drunk as a liqueur. We both agreed afterwards, that “sling” was the
most unpleasant beverage we had ever tasted. The dwelling house was well
situated for business and pleasure, as from one window the owner could
overlook his workpeople on the plantation, and from the other he often
shot the little Santa Cruz deer, which abound in the low underbrush of
the uncultivated parts.

After a short visit we took our leave, and continued our drive. At
length, the hills were left behind, and before us lay a flat rich
country—cane-laden of course—stretching to the sea. In the fine
roadstead, only two or three vessels lay at anchor, and we at once
exclaimed that surely this ought to be the converging point for trade
with the West Indies; that instead of the small town of Friderichstœd
there were capabilities for a city. We were ignorant perhaps, but we
could not understand what advantages St. Thomas possessed over this
pretty island. True, its geographical position is not equal to that of
St. Thomas, but the very few extra hours taken to reach it would be
compensated for by its superior land facilities and its healthiness.
Possibly, shipowners and merchants at home may say, what is health in
comparison with three hours’ extra fuel? but those who live out here,
and those who travel in ships, may reverse the saying. Would hurricanes
in the commodious roadstead be more dangerous than in the harbour of St.
Thomas? Well! in 1867, a tidal wave at the latter place destroyed an
immense amount of property and lives, and swamped the shipping, and to
the present time particular prayers are offered in the churches at the
beginning and end of the hurricane season. It is said that, in a sanitary
point of view, St. Thomas is very different from what it was years ago,
but of the two islands we certainly preferred Santa Cruz.

Towards evening, after we had paid a very pleasant visit to Major M—,
one of the principal planters in the Island—we drove back to Bassin by
the central road, which was straight and flat in comparison with that of
the morning. As before, cane and palms surrounded us, but many of the
cocoa-nut trees had been robbed of their beauty and were headless; and,
as the fresh breeze swept over the land, their bent shafts resembled the
bare poles of a stricken ship scudding along through a waving green sea.
At the corners of the different plantations by the roadside, were small
white-domed buildings like Eastern sepulchres; these were watch houses,
necessary to prevent stray passers-by from cutting the juicy cane. A
steam plough next claimed our attention, and after that a Moravian[7]
Church; then darkness closed in, and before long we were home again.

Another of our drives was to the new “Central Factory,” about which Santa
Cruz was then very much disturbed and divided into two factions. By a
“Central Factory,” the functions of the cane producer and the sugar-maker
are divided, just as those of the wheat farmer and the miller. All the
planter has to do is to grow the cane and take it when cut to the nearest
dépôt belonging to the “Central Factory,” and then his duty is finished.

The complaints against the one being erected in this island were
many; among them, it was said that the Government—it was a Government
project—had forced the planters into joining the Company, most of
the estates being in debt to the Government, owing to a series of bad
years; that the planters had their own machinery and could make larger
profits by manufacturing sugar themselves; that there was not enough
sugar on the island to make so large a factory pay; that small farms
and sub-lettings would spring up among the black population (which was
already fast superseding the white), which would withdraw labour from the
large estates and deteriorate agriculture. The “piping” was also objected
to; miles of this had been laid down to convey the juice from the five
dépôts to the Central House; up hill and down hill ran this piping, and
its opponents declared that the means (pressure) adopted for its utility
could never succeed. Nor was the price to be paid by the Company, viz.,
the value of five and a half pounds of sugar for one hundred pounds of
cane, considered sufficient, and altogether so disheartened were the
opponents that some of them who had one hundred shares in the Factory,
and had paid up a half, were ready to give away the remaining fifty to
anyone who would take them up. Whether the project has proved successful
or not, I have never heard. To our eyes, the chief drawback seemed to be
in the great cost of the buildings and machinery, which were on a far too
magnificent a scale for the small island.

A cause of failure in the West India Islands has been the superabundance
of central factories; where one would have been sufficient for the
neighbourhood, three and four have been erected, to the detriment of
all.[8] In Martinique, for example, there are no less than thirteen,
and out of these only six are profitable. Wages in Santa Cruz could
not be considered excessive, the average for the negro labourers being
ten cents per diem, with bread, sugar, and rum thrown in. But poverty
was not noticeable, as it was at St. Thomas, and the number of plump,
healthy-looking children was remarkable; when we wanted some memento to
take away with us, and asked if they made nothing peculiar to the island,
the answer might have been that given by an old lady at Martinique to a
similar question:—“Rien que les enfants, Monsieur, en voulez-vous?”

The vast preponderance of the black population over the white ought
to be a subject of deep consideration to the island planters, and to
us it appeared, from the rumours of discontent and negro outbreaks,
that the very existence of the white property-owners was in danger.[9]
Home we went by the beach, where the fresh-smelling seaweed lay in
great banks, and near us was a wonderfully bright colouring of green,
blue, and yellow, as the still water lay over deep or shallow shoals,
enclosed within circling coral reef, white with the foaming waves of the
blue-black sea beyond.

When we re-embarked on the schooner for St. Thomas, we were delayed for
more than three hours, which we knew would seriously imperil our chances
of getting anything to eat on our arrival at the hotel. This time the
delay was caused by the mail, and when it did arrive it consisted of one
skinny bag, apparently containing one letter. Fresh passports to take
us back! truly there must be “something rotten in the state of Denmark.”
We lost our dinner by just half-an-hour, but were compensated in some
degree by the arrival of our respective steamers, which were to sail on
the following day. We had therefore to forego the pleasures of a shark
hunt,[10] which had been arranged for us, and in a few hours the doctor
was on his way to America, and I was bound South.

CHAPTER VI.

The meeting of the steamers at St. Thomas brings together a varied
company, and those on board the ‘Tiber’ formed no exception to the rule,
clergymen, colonial officials, military officers, planters, engineers,
commercial travellers, tourists, only a few of each denomination
certainly, but those few all the more prepared to enjoy sea-life by
having superior cabin accommodation.

Passengers just from England were of course well-acquainted with one
another after a two weeks’ voyage, and of the others even the most frigid
had thawed out before we passed Saba. Strange little island! only a
volcanic cone rising directly from the water. We glided by so close that
we seemed to hear the lap of the waves as they gently kissed its rocky
base, but no harbour, no habitation was visible. It must be an active
volcano, for near the summit a faint blue smoke curled upwards and joined
the floating clouds. No; that smoke is raised by human hands, for the
crater out of which it ascends is the home of a small colony. A mixed
population of Dutch and negroes live there, raise fruit and vegetables,
and build boats it is said, though timber must be getting scarce in spite
of the trees that we see edging the crater’s rim.

Some years previously I had visited a crater colony in beautiful
Apolima—one of the South Sea Islands; there the whole of the interior had
sunk, and we paddled through a narrow opening into a lovely bay, on whose
bank stood the village. But here there was no ingress, save by a rocky
staircase leading to the interior. I should much like to have gained an
insight into the life of the inhabitants, who may, indeed, be said to
“live with a volcano under their feet,” but time and opportunity were
wanting, and in a very short time we had lost sight of the green nest in
rough and rugged Saba.

Then another volcanic island, St. Eustatius, appeared. The northern end
is broken and rocky, with here and there a ravine filled with trees, then
a stretch of land leading up to the crater. Unlike its sister isle, it is
the outside which is green and cultivated, and houses dot the scene. It
is picturesque, and, before we are tired of looking at it, it fades like
a dissolving view, and, ere the accompanying music has had time to change
from a Dutch to an English tune, we are coasting along St. Kitts.

Now we begin to realize the fact that we are in the West Indies. The
long promontory, which slopes up to the chain of hills intersecting
the island, is fresh and green with sugar-cane; tall factory-chimneys
and planters’ houses are scattered about, and the soft beauty of the
cultivated land contrasts with the bold mountain heights which shoot up
in culminating masses towards the centre.

Near the shore stands a lonely rock, huge and precipitous as if flung
from the summit of Mount Misery, which, in the distant background, towers
above it to a height of nearly 4,000 feet. Brimstone Hill, as this
imposing pile of igneous rock is called, is accessible only from one
side; formerly it was the seat of the garrison and was fortified, the
fortifications being still visible.

Further on, a shapely mount, flat-tipped and wooded, raises itself above
a black ravine cut deep into the lower hills, which are cultivated in
many parts to their tops. A white cloud floats across the volcanic
chasm over which Mount Misery frowns, leaving the summit crag bare and
distinct, and, for the first time since we entered the West Indies,
atmosphere lends its charm to perspective.

Hitherto the clearness of the atmosphere had brought the island views
strangely close, without a distance, and with a monotone of tint most
unpaintable, but here there was cloud and mist enough to have satisfied
Corot himself. It was pleasant to feel that there was a beyond that we
could clothe with our own fanciful colours, and that our gaze did not
enfold the entire landscape.

Basseterre, the capital, where we stopped for an hour, looked very bright
and sunny. Red roofs, peering out of thick green foliage, a gleam of
white among the palm trees, and a picturesque church-tower, formed the
foreground to a valley of rustling cane, extending the circle of hills,
whose links are here of a less elevation than in the other parts of the
chain. To us, it looked a quiet, fertile little place, and, no doubt,
uncommonly dull. Of its native products we only saw some very good white
grapes, and some very indifferent cigars which were brought for sale.
St. Kitts is the only one of the Leeward[11] Islands that can be said to
pay its way; the others seem to retrograde year by year. Now, however,
that the constitution of the islands has been changed to the Crown Colony
system, an improvement may be expected, and the same progress looked
forward to as in the Windward group.

From Basseterre, the hill chain runs in a south-easterly direction in
a series of low ridges covered with scrub mimosa, dwindling away until
they reach the “Narrows,” as the two-mile stretch of sea is called which
separates Nevis from St. Kitts. A shallow dangerous passage is this,
full of shoals and hidden reefs, and almost in its midst rises a sharp
triangular rock.

Across the “Narrows,” a long low plain slopes up to a single cone, whose
summit for ever sleeps in mist and clouds. Much bush covers the lower
lands, but windmills here and there show that some cultivation is carried
on, and light-green patches of cane are seen divided by rows of cocoa-nut
palms, which, in their blighted state, alas! have more the appearance
of feather dusters. A dreamy-looking little island is this Nevis, whose
chief interest to a stranger lies in the fact that here Nelson lived
after his marriage with Mrs. Nisbet for a few quiet years.

We sped along swiftly past the graceful southern slope of old “Ben”—as
the volcanic cone might be called—but he would not deign to lift his
fleecy cap to us, the shifty clouds merely paling or growing blacker,
until they were lost to view. The steep and picturesque “Redondo” next
claimed our attention. It is only a cavernous rock rising out of the
waves, and sea-birds are its sole inhabitants. From it the eye wanders
off to the more distant island of Montserrat, whose bold headland stands
out in relief against the thickly wooded gorges which traverse the broken
uplands. In the centre, a three-headed mountain range, like a crouching
Cerberus, guards the fruitful lemon groves and plantations that lie far
below. How pleasant it would be to spend a few days on each of these West
Indian islands! to visit their _souffrières_, their mountain forests,
their wild hills, and their cultivated estates! but, at present, to set
one’s foot on land necessitates a two weeks’ sojourn. Such being the
case, and with Roraima ever beckoning me on, I had determined to halt
only at Martinique and Trinidad before reaching British Guiana, and
therefore glimpses—sometimes near and sometimes far—were all I could
expect of the Antilles.

It was night before we reached Antigua, but a full moon rendered the
coast scene as clear as day, and added romantic effect to the lovely
harbour. A bay within a bay, a semi-circle of wooded hills and ravines, a
few white houses, lava cliffs which almost meet at the narrow entrance,
and a rampart-crowned rock were the principal points in the picture. The
basin in which the vessel lay moored by hawsers seemed but another sky,
the stars scarcely quivering in the still deep water; and, as the moon’s
rays silvered the sharp-leaved aloes, or touched with a bright gleam the
angled fort, here softening the rough-edged tufa, and there defining
more clearly the outlines of the palm groups, the whole scene wore a
delightful aspect of unreality, which was heightened by the extreme
quiet, broken only by an occasional plash of oars.

From Antigua we crossed over to Guadeloupe, whose broad and irregular
heights were hidden by clouds; as it was night when we coasted along, we
saw little except cliffs, green pasture land, and ravines leading up into
the heart of the mountains. Next morning we sighted Mariegalante, far
away on our port side, and then, in broad daylight, for several hours,
beautiful Dominica sat to us for her picture. Up to this time the various
island scenes had been pretty, but could not have been called grand, but
now the first glance raised our expectations to a high pitch. Nor were we
disappointed, for a more lovely island, a finer combination of grandeur
and quiet beauty, could hardly be found in the West Indies.

Towards the north, the waves beat against a rock-bound shore, above which
rise wooded hills, increasing in size until they join the seamed and
contorted mountains. Here, in a retired village, dwell the Carib Indians,
once the owners of the island. Reduced to a few score in numbers, these
relics of a great tribe live peacefully under their own king, intermarry,
hold but little intercourse with strangers, and seldom appear in the
capital, Roseau, except now and then to sell their beautifully woven
basket-work. On the western side, along which we coast, the sea-board
extends further back; there is not much cultivation, but in the bush
clearings are a few cane-fields, and beyond, out of the green sloping
lawns, spring many hills, some bare and craggy, others cultivated to
the summit. Behind, rise the great mountains in a thousand fantastic
shapes, here buried in forest, there frowning black and barren over
some tree-filled gorge. Everywhere there is a romantic mingling of hill
and valley, mountain and gorge. Lifting clouds reveal wooded eminences
crowning steep precipices, from whose feet the green sward stretches
down in waves to the white beach, and, as the silver veil floats higher
and higher, still loftier ridges are unbared, where the pale green of
the sugar-cane is plainly distinguished against the dark setting of the
forest background. So high and steep are the hills on which many of these
cane-fields are perched that the crop, when cut, has to be let down in
bundles by ropes.

At Roseau, where we stopped for an hour, we were gladdened by the sight
of a river in which many washerwomen were at work. The scene was very
pleasing; in the midst of palms and verdure, stood a pretty church
and old grey and white houses with deep verandahs; on the right was
Government House, with diminutive fortifications, on the left, the land
rolled up in cultivated terraces, and a magnificent ravine behind the
town ran deep into the cloud-capped mountains.

If Dominica is celebrated for anything, it is for its frogs, some of
which are of enormous size. A curry of frogs’ legs is a very delicate
dish, and we were in great hopes that some _grenouilles_ would have been
brought on board alive, but they only brought the large _crapauds_,
stuffed and varnished. A basketful of them, together with some huge
beetles, was quickly disposed of, but a promised cargo of live ones never
arrived. Roseau appeared to be an interesting place to pass a few days
in, but we were assured by those who knew, that the accommodation was
bad in the extreme, that there were no roads in the island, that it was
difficult to obtain riding animals, and that, if we wanted to carry away
a pleasant memory of our English isle, we had better be contented with
its view from the sea.

So we sail on. Still the same fair scenery; mountains gathered up “like a
woven garment, and shaken into deep falling folds,” here a velvet slope,
there a gigantic rib, sharp but forest-covered, or a bare perpendicular
cliff with its feet bathed by the sea. Now a farm nestling in some
winding glen, overshadowed by brown-red rocks tipped with cane, and again
a narrow fissure feathered with evergreen foliage, and opening into a
deep bowl full of close and thick vegetation. Clouds rest on the mountain
sides, or hanging above cast fitful shadows on upland and valley; a
hundred varying shades give colour to the landscape, and, over all, the
blue sky, in perfect harmony with the green tints of earth, blends with
the sparkling sea into one bright frame for the beautiful island.

The land ends abruptly in a mass of grey rock, sparsely clad, which juts
out into the sea. On its summit stands a cross. Passing this corner, we
see palm-covered slopes and gentle depressions, then a high needle-like
cone with perpendicular sides rising from the ocean, and, beyond, the
southern extremity of the central mountain range. Soon after, Dominica
fades from us in mist and rain.

CHAPTER VII.

“Here the pilgrim may behold
How the bended cocoa waves
When at eve and morn a breeze
Blows to and from the Carib seas,
How the lush banana leaves
From their braided trunk unfold;
How the mango wears its gold,
And the sceptred aloe’s bloom
Glorifies it for the tomb.”

The above lines, appropriate enough for any West India isle, yet for me
associate themselves with Martinique more than with any other. It may be
because I lingered long enough to know that island better than the rest,
or it may be because the remembrance of a certain ride across the rich
country—a ride ever memorable as the most beautiful I had ever enjoyed,
and which must be described later on—abides with me as a practical lesson
in botany by nature herself.

It was late in the afternoon when we anchored off St. Pierre—the chief
town in Martinique. The character of the island had not seemed quite
so broken and romantic as Dominica, there was more low table-land and
more cultivation, but the mountain range, with its grand pitons looking
out over the clouds, gave promise to the expectant imagination of many
beautiful scenes.

From the roadstead, we saw in front of us houses thickly massed together
and extending round the bay. Close behind the town, on the eastern
side, rose a precipitous hill, crowned with waving sugar-cane, and its
deep-wooded side dotted with white villas. Towards the north, a broad
ravine, through which a river ran, divided the town into two parts,
and beyond rose the soft uplands, green with cane, and stretching to
the delicately coloured hills which reached the high mountains in the
background. On our right, the coast line was varied with rock, hill, and
valley, and on one summit a large white statue stood out conspicuously
against the green foliage; on our left, the palm-fringed shore, with here
a solitary house, and there a little white village, ran northwards in a
gently undulating line.

On landing at St. Pierre the traveller finds himself the object of a
popular demonstration; he is assailed by a swarm of stalwart women, some
of whom dispossess him of his book, umbrella, or whatever he may be
carrying, whilst others, after a short fight among themselves, seize on
the luggage, toss great portmanteaus and boxes on to their heads with
the greatest of ease, and amid shouts of laughter rush off with loud
cries, “A la douane! à la douane!” It is useless to protest that you
want to carry such and such a thing yourself, you may recapture it for
a second, but it is lost again; everything goes aloft on female heads
and shoulders, and to avoid a similar fate yourself you follow in the
wake of the flying Amazons and arrive at the Custom House. Then a strict
inspection ensues, after which the luggage is remounted and a procession
is formed to the hotel.

We—one other passenger and myself—had been advised to go to the Hôtel
des Bains, so when our porters said of course “les Messieurs” were going
to the “Hôtel Micas,” we answered of course not. Eventually we made out
from the extraordinary Creole patois, that the former hotel was closed,
and that its proprietor had opened the latter. We soon arrived there, and
it looked clean and comfortable, but the landlord was “désolé,” there
was not a single vacant room; “would the gentlemen be satisfied with a
billiard table for to-night, then to-morrow——?” This offer was declined,
and finally we found rooms in the Hôtel du Commerce, a place of very
second-rate pretensions, but with a very obliging proprietor.

The first few days of my sojourn in this “Faubourg St. Germain of the
tropics”—as the French love to call it—were certainly depressing. The
heat was great, the food very indifferent, and the rain almost incessant.
Much stress has been laid on the streams of clear, crystal water which
here run through the streets. I should call them gutters, and, after
one has seen the use to which they are put—the houses being entirely
free from what we consider the most necessary requirements—the crystal
romance is dissipated. Fortunately, owing to the slope of the streets and
the ample supply of water which is brought down through fine aqueducts
from the mountains, the flow is swift, and thus the gutters are kept
pretty clean. Otherwise, the town of St. Pierre would be unbearable,
as even now it rivals Cologne in the number of its smells. Under such
conditions, it is not surprising that the stranger feels the effects of
an “acclimatizing fever,” as they here designate it.

Morning after morning I awoke dull, listless, and tired, and with all
sorts of pains and aches in my limbs, but as the day advanced health
returned and fever was forgotten.

St. Pierre is not a cheerful town even on its sunniest days; the streets
are narrow, with side-walks of infinitesimal dimensions, the old stone
houses, with heavy outside shutters, are gloomy and comfortless,
no bright verandahs attract the eye, and the roofs are dingy with
moss-covered tiles. But the outskirts are more attractive, and the road
to the Botanical Gardens particularly so. Passing up the Grande Rue
towards the north, we see shops and stores filled with gay-coloured
foulards, straw hats, finery of all sorts, and an excess of gold
ornaments. On the left is the Batterie d’Esnoty, with a few seats under
the shady trees, and affording a fine view over the sea. Farther on,
some fine mangoes overshadow a heavy fountain, and soon our road turns
off eastward before reaching the bridges which cross the intersecting
river. We follow its left bank under a beautiful avenue of tamarinds,
whilst on our right is the Savanna or public park. And here commences
picturesque Martinique. Down below in the wide rocky ravine flows the
brawling stream, alive with dusky “blanchisseuses,” whose methodical beat
on the smooth stones with the clothes they are washing, keeps time with
their patois songs. White houses rise in tiers over the opposite bank,
their gardens filled with many bright flowers, and crowning all are
clusters of palms and ceiba groves. Across the Savanna rises the mountain
screen that shades the town; its steep side a perfect network of hanging
vines. Here and there a mango has gained a precarious footing, its dark
green dome contrasting well with the crimson blaze of a neighbouring Bois
Immortelle;[12] and these lofty trees look like out-stretched arms on
which is hung a close-textured mantle of flowering creepers. Far up, at
the head of the cultivated river-valley, rise the mountains, whose dark
gorges, veiled by almost constant mist, are arched by the most brilliant
rainbows.

In a few steps after leaving the Savanna, the Botanic Gardens are gained.
At the time of my first visit the road outside was lined with cadets
from the French training ship “Flore,” who were sketching a handsome
Traveller’s Tree—_Ravenala speciosa_—which grew near the entrance. A
crowd of little urchins hovered about them, and it was very amusing to
hear their outspoken opinions on the efforts of the different artists,
who worked away with perfect composure. Several times afterwards I met
the young scholars eagerly acquiring, under able tuition, that most
desirable accomplishment—sketching from nature.

The Botanical Gardens are delightfully situated in a wide ravine through
which a stream flows. Terraces have been cut out of the sides, and
winding walks and avenues lead to pretty scenes and charming outlooks.
Art here has done much in laying out the grounds and forming the
various rills, fountains, and waterfalls, but nature has supplied a
very beautiful site. Particularly beautiful is one avenue of “Palmistes
Royals,”[13] whose perfectly straight grey stems, ending in a light
green shaft and crowned with a leafy diadem of dark green spreading
leaves, form an aisle of living Corinthian pillars, seventy or eighty
feet in height. This magnificent species of palm reminds me of an
article which appeared in the June number of “Belgravia,” 1878, entitled
“The Great Tropical Fallacy.” In it the writer declares that “waving
sugar-cane, graceful bamboos, spreading tree ferns, magnificent palms,
&c., may be found at Kew, but not in the tropics.” He also says “a true
fern can scarcely be seen through the foul mouldering fronds that cling
around its musty stem.”

The amusing article certainly would dispel “The Great Tropical Fallacy,”
if it was true, but it can only have been written as a joke, as the
writer adds that he has “lived for years in the tropics, but never yet
beheld an alligator, an iguana, a toucan, or an antelope in their wild
state. Scorpions do not occur.” It is an undoubted fact that these
creatures—with the exception of scorpions—do not frequent the streets
of towns or villages, nor are they much addicted to highway travelling,
but had the writer ever visited “the bush,” or walked in the “country,”
I think he would have hesitated before making such a statement, that is,
supposing he has the full use of his eyesight and has lived where these
animals exist.

As regards the palm, it is true that cocoa-nut trees, especially when
blighted, are not very imposing; but there are many other splendid
species, and to depreciate the mountain cabbage-palms is to be guilty
of high treason against the princes of the forest. They are simply
wonderful. To admire them it is not necessary to be a pantheist, or one
of those to whom a forest is a cathedral, each tree a missionary, and
every flying creature a sacred spirit; one who bows down at the sight of
a daisy or buttercup, and kneels before an oak as the wild Indian does
before his ceiba. For these palms are so matchless in grace, so simple
and yet so stately, that they lend an indescribable air of dignity to any
spot where they may chance to grow.

To return to the garden. Leaving the palm avenue one comes suddenly upon
a beautiful waterfall rushing down a steep rock amidst a mass of hanging
grasses, ferns, and waving cannas. A little way below it runs into the
heart of a garden-wilderness rich with bamboos, plantains, thickets of
tangled vines, and fragrant coffee trees. Here shrubs and trees are more
cultivated than flowers, but the former with their brilliant blossoms
save the place from the monotonous effect of a too prevailing green.
Gloxinias and primulas are scattered over the sloping banks, and overhead
are interlaced the branches of various trees. The bright flowers of the
“Flamboyant,”[14] form a red canopy which vies in richness with the
large crimson blossoms of the mountain rose.[15] Here may be seen South
Sea Island bread-fruit, cinnamon from Ceylon, and sandal-wood from the
Marquesas. That tree with bunches of wax-like and pear-shaped fruit is a
Eugenia;[16] its trunk is a perfect fernery, and its branches are hung
with parasites. Next to a stilted pandanus rises a tall “poui” with
saffron flowers, and beyond are the long white trumpets of a datura.
Close at hand is the much prized persimmon of Japan, having a wood like
ebony, and a reddish-yellow fruit. The ground is everywhere strewn with
the red beads of an erythrina, and occasionally the large uneatable fruit
of a species of inga comes down with a thump, that a passer by, if hit,
would not soon forget.

Perhaps the prettiest spot in the garden is a small lake fed by a slender
fall, whose water trickles down a moss-covered rock through ferns
and drooping grasses. The three tiny islets are fringed with arums,
heliconias, and bamboos, amongst which are scattered dark glossy green
and gold-marbled crotons, purple dracœnas, and crimson hybiscus blossoms.
In the centre of each stands a “Traveller’s Tree,” like a gigantic fan,
surrounded with a few flowering shrubs and graceful plantains. But here
as elsewhere, there is an air of neglect, the shady walks are full of
weeds, the stone seats under the trees are damp and green, a broken canoe
half full of water lies on the yielding bank, the few remaining tree
labels are illegible, and, in a word, the gardens are not tended as they
deserve. Their charm seems to have vanished with their novelty, as they
are seldom visited by the inhabitants, and the funds granted for their
maintenance are insufficient.

Within the grounds there is a building which contains a small natural
history museum, and the native products form a very interesting
collection. There is also an interior nursery-garden, where some delicate
orchids and rare exotics are reared.

A primitive people these French Creoles must be, as a printed notice
strictly prohibits bathing in the small fountains in this inside garden.
Unhappily the people appear disinclined even to walk in the pleasant
grounds, and the casual visitor feels that a time may come when the few
labourers will be withdrawn and a “Forsaken Garden” realised:

“Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not;
As the heart of a dead man the seed plots are dry;
From the thicket of thorns when the nightingale calls not,
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.
Over the meadows that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song,
Only the sun and the rain come hither
All year long.”[17]

One of the pleasantest drives from St. Pierre is to Morne Rouge. The
village is situated high up in the hills, and near it and cut out of a
rocky wall is a celebrated grotto dedicated to “Our Lady of Lourdes.”
Morne Rouge is one of the localities which the negroes say is at certain
seasons visited by the celebrated Dominican Friar, Père Labat, who
arrived in Martinique in 1693. He is said to appear in the guise of a
lambent flame.

The road thither passes the Botanical Gardens, and for some distance is
lined with country houses standing in pretty grounds. It was in one of
these villas that the Empress Joséphine was born. The hedges and banks
are covered with blue flowers of the “ipomæa” and the buff-coloured
“thumbergia,” whose dark brown eye attracts the attention of numerous
humming birds.

The houses for the most part look cool, but comfortless and devoid of
privacy. The foliage of the tall trees shades them, but the bare trunks
leave an uninterrupted view into the interior. Here, one sees Madame in
a very airy costume enjoying her early coffee; there, Monsieur in his
dressing-gown lounges on a long cane chair.

Grass is conspicuous by its absence, but rich and gaudy flowers are in
abundance. Tall yuccas guard the entrance, and the lavender spikes of
the “petrœa” cluster over the verandahs. Many varieties of “dracœna” are
scattered about, their slender stems and bending blades contrasting well
with the showy hybiscus and the bright green bananas. In each garden
one sees a tall clavija, like a giant papau, and with panicles of the
fragrant white flowers beloved by Creoles. Thick stone walls surround
some of the villas, but tropical nature heeds no such barriers. Creepers
of every hue fling themselves over, then catching the hanging air-roots
scramble up to the tree-tops and mingle their blossoms with those of
their more lofty brethren. Among the numerous trees with hanging pods,
the “rosary bean”[18] is very prominent, as the curled and split pod
displays the bright red seeds within. Gradually the houses are left
behind, and the road becomes more steep and winding. The high banks are
thickly carpeted with begonias, both pink and white. From a neighbouring
hill a high waterfall—caused by a deflected stream—descends and turns the
wheel of a sugar-mill situated at its foot.

At last we reach the village of Morne Rouge. A long straggling street
with pretty cottages and gardens. From trellis-work hang great
granadillas, fruit which is only palatable when cunningly compounded with
sugar, ice, and wine. The life around is simple, but full of colour,
and picturesque. Old women spin in the doorways. Mothers, with bright
kerchiefs round their heads, watch their children playing in the road.
The children themselves, often only dressed in a plain suit of gold
earrings, have fresh, happy faces, brighter and ruddier by far than
those in the hot town below. Round the fountain are groups of girls with
water-jars poised on their heads, and in the bright sunshine each touch
of red and blue in their dress shines out clearly and effectively. From
this fountain a beautiful view is obtained seaward, but from the higher
Calvary there is a more extended landscape. The prayer-stations leading
to the chapel stand between hybiscus hedges, and are surrounded with
roses, lilies, azaleas, and palms. The little shrines contained terra
cotta representations of the Passion, but the protecting glass was broken
and the figures were defaced. Within them green lizards played at hide
and seek, and humming birds searched the flower-offerings that had been
thrust through the torn grating.

The view from the top is worth the climb. On one side a mass of
undulating hills sweeps off to the sea; through the intervening pasture
land a winding stream threads its way, and here and there a cottage is
seen half buried in clumps of palms and bamboos, and with its cane patch
or banana grove. The lofty “pitons” form the background. Below us lies
the village, and extending westward towards St. Pierre are cane-covered
hills, fertile valleys, and a broad cultivated plain, squared like a
chess-board by the dividing palm rows. Beyond rises the glittering blue
sea far into the sky, white sails catch the sunbeams, and nearer is the
dark line of anchored ships. On rare occasions—one of which favoured
me—rounded masses of fleecy clouds of intense brilliancy float over
land and sea, and pour down such a flood of light that the panorama is
illuminated. The white glare is almost painful, but the strong sea-breeze
soon drives the wandering rain-heralds back to the mountains, where they
wreathe themselves round the higher peaks and lie like snow-drifts in the
hollows between the summits. And thus the scene changes from sunshine to
shade, from rest to storm, and from light to darkness, each a life-phase
typical in itself, but not more significant than the solemn Calvary above
us in its bright frame of green trees and flowers.

CHAPTER VIII.

On Sundays and gala days St. Pierre brightens up. The band plays in the
Savanna, and thither the inhabitants flock. In the matter of carriages
and horses, Rotten Row would certainly outvie this favourite drive, but
in brilliancy of colour the latter would carry the day. On ordinary
occasions the Creole woman is content with a simple long-flowing dress
of light material, but on state occasions her costume is bright and
picturesque. Then you see a bewildering display of silk or satin skirts,
short enough not to hide a daintily shod foot; embroidered bodices and
gauzy scarfs, a profusion of necklaces and bracelets, all of plain
gold—for precious stones are never worn—and jaunty turbans ornamented
with gold pins and brooches. But the most striking as well as the
commonest feature in the national costume of Martinique is the quaint
earrings—cinq-clous. These consist of five gold tubes welded together at
the sides into a circular form, not unlike the barrels of a revolver,
and vary in size from the dimensions of a toy pistol to those of a full
grown Colt’s. Many girls carry their entire future in their ears.

Those splendid beds of tulips were not in the Savanna when we last passed
through! As we approach, we see they are not composed of flowers, but are
merely gorgeous head-dresses. Another trait, and a charming one too, of
Martinique costume. Here you see no dyed feathers, or artificial flowers
and fruits, decorating the flashy hats and bonnets so dear to the negro
soul. Bright coloured foulards, twisted into various pyramidal, circular,
and oval shapes, crown every head with rainbow hues. There are ten
different ways of tying these kerchiefs, and the initiated can tell by
the twist whence the wearer comes.

Near the band is a motley group. Two or three old negresses dressed in
flowered chintz, and with trimly turned head-dresses gossip over the last
scandal; slowly sweeping along comes a majestic creature, her long white
dress hitched up on one side and displaying a foot neatly blacked by
nature; in that family coach are some white Creole ladies with charming
faces, and tastefully dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, while the
youngsters who force their bouquets on them are habited in little else
than “native” worth. The excitement is of the mildest kind, but enjoyment
is universal. Here and there some little maidens dance to the music, boys
run races, the elders give the prizes, handsome carriages and wretched
_fiacres_ continue their monotonous round, and meeting is so perpetual
that everybody smiles at everybody else, till at length the sun goes
down. Then the vehicles are turned towards home, dandies prance off on
their rocking horses, old ladies put up their umbrellas against the dew,
peasants take off their shoes preparatory to their homeward tramp, and
very soon the Savanna is deserted.

Wonderfully clear are the nights in Martinique. You see distinct shadows,
and on looking up for the moon you find they are cast by a star (Venus
probably) shining with a radiance of most remarkable power.

From the Batterie d’Esnoty you look down on a sparkling sea in which
every vessel stands out distinctly. You can almost count the piles of
merchandise and barrels on the wharf. It is so quiet that you can catch
the words of the song that the black crew are singing as they pull to
shore from some outlying ship, and their strange rising and falling to
each stroke is plainly visible. Suddenly a hideous bray rings out close
beside you. It comes from one of three buglers who make this their
starting point, and in turn repeat the discordant sounds until they reach
their distant barracks. This is the Martinique tattoo. The stranger in
St. Pierre will notice the quantity of thin white cakes about the size of
a cart wheel. These are made from cassava[19] which here, as in many of
the islands, and in parts of South America, affords the chief sustenance
of the poorer classes.

We drove out one day to a farm to witness its manufacture. We soon came
to fields covered with the plant, which grows to a height of about four
feet. In appearance it is a slender-knotted grey stem, with branches at
the top from which spring red stalks of broad digitated leaves. The root,
which is cylindrical and about a foot long, is a deadly poison in its
natural state, but by a simple process it is converted into nutritious
food. As we approached the wattled shed in which it was being prepared,
we heard sounds of a veritable pandemonium. On looking in, we saw thirty
or forty jet black Africans stripped to the skin and furiously grating
the white roots against a rough board, the meal falling into great tubs.

The exertion was apparently immense, as they steamed with perspiration,
and, as if the fumes of the poison got into their heads, they would every
now and then utter yells or bound into the air. To this wild scene there
was a musical accompaniment. The instruments consisted of tom-toms,
pipes, chac-chacs, and long bamboos, struck by pieces of wood, and a
strange concern made of cane-work, from which issued a grating sound by
drawing a stick quickly up and down. Music from such sources was not
likely to be of a high order, but it was conscientiously gone through at
all events. All that lungs could blow was blown; all that fists could
do to break a drum skin was done. White, eyes rolled, black lips blew,
and black fists struck. The “grater” sounded worse than the grating, and
the monotonous chant of one of the performers was more horrible than
the howls of the workers. Never had I heard a like “charivari.” “Ils
ont de la couleur,” said the pleased proprietor, as he rubbed his hand
and glanced at the rapidly filling tubs. The next operation is to get
rid of the poisonous juices. Here, as the factory was on a large scale,
the meal was put into a great sort of oven and the poison extracted by
heat or pressure. But the usual mode, and the one invariably applied by
the Indians of Guiana, where in after-days I many a time witnessed the
operation, is as follows: A long plaited tube—matapi—made of a certain
reed is filled with the grated meal; its upper end is fastened to a beam
so that its lower end, which possesses a loop-hole, hangs a few feet from
the ground. A pole is then passed through the loop and the shorter end
firmly fixed so that the longer, when pressed down, serves as a lever;
the elastic tube presses the meal together, and the poisonous juice
escapes through the interstices. The flour is then dried and sifted. When
required for use, a handful is baked over a fire on a flat plate, and in
a few minutes “cassava bread,” resembling an enormous oatmeal cake, is
ready. If required for a journey, it is thoroughly dried in the sun until
it is as hard as a nail, and will then last for months; if not properly
dried, it quickly gets mouldy and uneatable. Cassiripe, which is the
extracted poison-juice of cassava, is the foundation of the well-known
“pepper pot,” which is an “olla podrida” of meat and peppers cooked in
an earthen pot, and always on hand in the West Indies. Fortunately, the
deleterious principle of the juice is so volatile that it is entirely
dissipated by heat, and it then becomes a wholesome seasoning; and thus
the good is extracted from the evil in this strange blending of life and
death, as exhibited in the cassava root.

That evening, before we reached home, we witnessed a scene of excitement.
As we drove along the sea-shore there was a sudden rush of people to the
beach, boats were pushed hurriedly out, men jumped into the water and
swam out, women waded up to their knees and ran back again, and children
did their best to get drowned. Presently, a series of long nets formed
a semi-circle and enclosed a large shoal of sardines which had been the
cause of the uproar. Gradually the nets were drawn in, and so large was
the haul that in a few minutes five boats were filled with the little
silvery fish. Buckets, barrels, baskets, and cans were then put into
requisition, and, even after every article from the neighbouring cottages
that could hold a fish had done its duty, there were still sardines
enough left on the beach to have stocked a market.

Next morning I started for a ride across the island to Trinité, a
distance of about thirty miles. The scenery on the road had been so
extolled that I attributed enthusiastic descriptions of it to patriotism,
and was prepared for a disappointment. When I returned, I acknowledged it
was the most beautiful ride I had ever taken, and one whose like I should
probably never see again.

It was dawn when my mule drew up at the hotel door, and we were soon
clattering over the rough cobble stones which pave the narrow streets.
We passed the Promenade, which was deserted by all save a solitary
sentry, who slept in his box under the Palace of the Archbishop, and
then the road commenced to wind up the hill under whose shadow the town
lay, dark and quiet. Before we reached the top it was broad daylight,
the great crimson blossoms of the hybiscus and the fragile bells of the
abutilon, which we had left sleeping below, were now unfolded, and the
white flowers of the night cereus and of the ipomæa, had already drooped
and faded. For some distance beyond the summit the road is walled in
with sugar-cane, then bends inwards towards the mountains by a gentle
acclivity. Here and there, one passes a little _cabaret de ferme_, where
the market people are drinking coffee, or, more probably, rum.

Down in the valley lie cottages and farms, and the hill-sides are
flecked with groups of trees, whose light and dark green foliage is
very conspicuous. Fine mango trees are dotted about here and there, and
fringing rocky heights, or clustered in hollows, are aloes in various
stages of their growth; some fully flowered and rapidly collapsing,
others whose tall stalks are covered with fresh blooms, and more still
whose rich green expanding heart is suggestive of a thyrsus—“thro’ the
blooms of a garland the point of a spear.”

On approaching a small and picturesque village, cane culture is
superseded by cassava, and the country becomes more rugged and grander.
Cottages are perched upon jutting cliffs, and immediately above the road
is situated a delightfully quaint old church, which is reached by a
flight of rough stone steps. Near this, a large wooden cross overlooks
the valley. The view looking west is lovely. Afar off is the bright blue
sea, to which extend the mountain arms and the undulating hill spurs. The
valleys between are partly tilled and partly bush-covered, and the few
houses stand in garden patches high up on the hill slopes. Through the
central valley a twisting thread of green, darker than the surrounding
foliage, marks the course of a stream, and clumps of trees of a similar
contrasting hue, above and around us, show where orange groves and
mangoes lie amid the paler green of cane fields and bananas. Behind rise
the forest-clad peaks of the mountains, through which runs the road to
Trinité.

Up to this point we had enjoyed a very beautiful morning. Here spring was
in the air, and we had left hot summer below. There was such fulness of
life in the cool air that all nature seemed affected by it. The flowers
looked brighter, the birds sang sweeter, and even the running water
seemed to tinkle with a more silvery sound than in the valleys.

A simple circumstance, but one that impressed me very vividly, occurred
as I was looking over the blue shadowed valley. An old peasant woman,
very brown and wrinkled, laid a bunch of flowers on the cross, and as
she knelt at its foot an oriole flew on to one of its arms and poured
forth such a trill that it seemed as if the bird-voice was carrying aloft
her mumbled prayers. When she entered the church a few minutes later,
tears were in her eyes, but she looked so happy that I am sure the bird
had not sung in vain. The romance of the little episode was injured by
an unsentimental goat who completely demolished the flower-offering,
and then tried to butt some children who had done nothing to offend
it. They, however, did not seem to mind it, and laughed merrily at the
antics of the creature. These children’s voices were just what was wanted
to give a charming finish to the bright picture. What the flowers were
to the garden, the stream to the valley, the birds to the air, and the
sun’s rays to all, were the happy child-tones to the surrounding scene,
gladdening everything in accord with each, and freshening with rippling
music the fragrant uplands:

“Ah, what would the world be to us
If the children came no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
More than the dark before.”

I had hardly whispered these lines to my mule before the last two words
sounded ominous. The animal showed signs of uneasiness which could not
be attributed to the verse; for among his many faults a mule cannot be
accused of sentimentality, and he cares as little for poetry as he does
for a stick. He is so stubborn and self-willed, and yet carries it off
with such a nonchalant air, that there is no way of knowing what may be
passing in his mind, except by watching his restless ears. Fortunately,
these appendages are so expressive—more so in fact than some human
faces—that they explain his feelings and foretell his movements. On this
occasion they were suddenly pointed straight forward, and as suddenly
laid limp on his neck, then pricked again.

The air grew hot and still, a black mist was descending on us from the
now hidden mountains, and it was plain that a heavy storm was about to
break. On looking round, I saw a hand beckoning to me from a door, and
in a few minutes my mule was under cover, and I found myself in a clean
room drinking coffee with the kind hostess. Then the rain came down in
torrents, and held me prisoner for some time. Here I saw one of those
terrible snakes known as the “Fer-de-lance,” which had been killed not
long before on the road to Trinité by the old lady’s husband, who had
preserved it in a jar of spirits.

At the first lull we started again, and soon reached a stream spanned by
a stone bridge of a single arch. This we crossed, and in a few minutes
entered the forest ravine. Turning in the saddle, I was dazzled by a
brilliant rainbow, which in a broad band struck the bridge at a right
angle. It was so close that I could not resist the novelty of riding
back into the middle of it. Then it danced off up the deep bed of the
river, and before I re-entered the forest it had formed a bow, stretching
across the mountain sides like a grand triumphal arch. A last look from
the wooded portals revealed a bright blue sky and the sun shining over
the lowlands, whilst around us the rain still fell, and through the
dripping branches of the trees that met overhead only dull grey clouds
were visible. Here commenced a series of mountain pictures in bewildering
variety. For almost all the rest of the journey the path runs up and
down hill, with a deep ravine sometimes on one hand and sometimes on the
other. Through the ravine runs a stream, on the other side of which the
mountain rises in a grand and almost perpendicular wall. On the near side
the path is edged with banks which slope away to the higher hills, and
diversified with glens and hollows, and an occasional overhanging rock.

The vegetation is of the most luxuriant description, as numerous
waterfalls descend from both the mountain sides, here crossing the path
in a broad stream, and there trickling down in a slender thread, which
loses itself in thick ferns and grasses. Each turn in the road presents
some new combination of rock, tree, and falling water. You emerge from
an avenue of bamboos, to enter another arched over by the fronds of
magnificent tree-ferns. The latter grow everywhere; you look up at their
rough fibrous stems, and you look down into their very hearts. The
banks are covered with begonias and primulas; above these rise the dark
green blades of plantains, or dark green heliconias, with their red and
yellow flowers. Then come the great forest trees, such as the locust,
the angelim, the bois violon (fiddle wood), the bois immortelle, &c. Of
begonias I counted four varieties, one of which was sweet-scented. For
some time I searched, wondering whence the delicious fragrance—very like
that of the lily of the valley—came.

I had never heard of a sweet-scented begonia, but at last I discovered
one, and gathered a large bunch of the delicious blossoms. The flowers of
this variety were very small and of a pink colour, but the elephant-eared
leaves were as large as those of much finer flowering species. I regret
much that I did not endeavour to transplant some specimens, as I have
since heard that a scented begonia is unknown. The extraordinary
wealth of tropical vegetation was such that, in spite of heavy rain, I
constantly stood for many minutes lost in astonishment. And there was no
questioning the down-pour; sometimes a perfect stream would enter the
sensitive ears of the mule, and the poor animal would actually squeal and
kick, and then droop, until he presented a spectacle of abject misery.
Thoughts of fever hovered about me, but I had a change of clothes in my
saddle-bags, and even without it I doubt whether I could have hastened my
steps, so fascinating was the scenery.

Our progress had been so slow that it was noon before little more than
half the distance had been accomplished. Then a certain spot offered
such irresistible attractions for a halt that I picketed old Solomon—as
the mule had been named—under a hanging rock, and lunched. There could
not have been a prettier place, with its rich banks of flowers, feathery
bamboos, and silvery fall, trickling down through a fernery of frail,
shivering beauty. Across the wild ravine rose a perpendicular mass of
black rock, hung with long waving grasses and tufts of green. Large
trees clung to its side where there was, apparently, no root-hold, and
their branches were loaded with orchids and red-spiked bromelias. The
only sounds were the pattering of the raindrops and the murmur of the
rapids below, which foamed over the rough stones that were hidden by the
fringing arums, bamboos, and branching ferns.

Suddenly a whirring sound broke the silence, and I immediately saw a
“Purple Carib”[20] humming-bird, hovering over a flowering vine. It was
the first time I had ever seen one of this beautiful species alive, and
he seemed determined I should not forget him. After every plunge into a
flower, he retired to a favourite branch and preened his velvet black
feathers and shook his wings, until their metallic green and the deep
purple of the throat flashed again and again. His resting-place was a
magnolia tree—numbers of which line this woodland path—and the dark,
shining wet leaves formed a lovely frame for the dainty _oiseau-mouche_.
He looked like a living gem, set in green enamel, and diamond sprays. I
saw no other birds, and the silent woods raised in me a fancy to pull the
long bell-ropes hanging from the trees, and thus set the forest chiming.
I did so, and got nothing but a shower bath; and the falling leaves and
sticks stilled for a moment the melancholy croak of the frogs, in their
perpetual lament for the departed Indian race, “Ca-rib, Ca-rib.” Then I
saddled Solomon, and we resumed our journey.

There is little more to describe. Everywhere beautiful scenes, and
blending of loveliness and grandeur. Sometimes from the overhanging
cliffs a landslip, caused by the heavy rains, rendered the path—which,
with a very little trouble, might be made good enough for a
carriage—almost impassable; otherwise, the road is remarkably easy and
free from obstructions.

The finest view remains for the last. When the highest point to which
the road ascends is reached, a narrow ridge, with a deep ravine on each
side, commands a magnificent prospect over Trinité to the sea. Near
by are rocky gorges, mountain peaks, and half-hidden glades. The rank
vegetation forms green vistas above the descending terraces, and through
them shines the deep blue water, out of which rise the bold outlines of
Dominica on one side, and St. Lucia on the other. That these islands are
visible, I only know from hearsay, as mist and clouds enshrouded so much
of the landscape that I could only form an idea of what its beauty would
be on a clear day. In rain I went to Trinité and in rain I returned.
No feeling of ill-will towards the weather was felt by me, but rather
one of gratitude, as, had it not been for the rain, I might never have
torn myself from those enchanted grounds. It was my last and pleasantest
excursion in Martinique.

CHAPTER IX.

“Yeo-ho, boys, ho, yeo-ho,” rang out merrily from the crew, and before
the last notes of “Nancy Lee” had died away, the ‘Eider’ was slowly
steaming from Martinique on her way to Barbadoes. A slight delay had been
occasioned by the prolonged absence of one of the passengers who was an
enthusiastic curiosity hunter, and who, having rifled the other islands
and bought up all the frogs and beetles at Dominica, had gone on shore to
buy Eau de Cologne, dolls in native costume, and the various liqueurs for
which Martinique is celebrated.

Soon we pass Fort de France—the Fort Royal of Imperial days—which is
nominally the capital of Martinique, though far inferior in size and
population to St. Pierre. A small steamer runs daily between the two
places, and Fort de France is well worth a visit. The fine harbour and
the pretty town, backed by the great Piton, are more thoroughly tropical
in their surroundings than is St. Pierre. In the neighbourhood are
some picturesque walks, and the “Baths of Didier,” where there are some
mineral springs, is a very favourite resort. In the outskirts dwell a
few of the Carib Indians, who occupy themselves with their peculiar
basket work. It is a quiet little town, but gains an air of industry and
life from the freighted wharfs and the busy dockyard with its spacious
floating dock.

From the deck of the ‘Eider’ all eyes are centered on a steep island
pyramid, which rises out of the water to a height of about five hundred
and fifty feet. This is the celebrated “Diamond Rock,” whose history
forms a memorable page in the annals of the West Indies, where nearly
every link in the chain of the Antilles has been the scene of England’s
naval warfare.

The well-known story may be briefly related as follows. In 1804, the
English admiral determined to prevent the escape of French ships, which
hitherto had baffled him by running between this rock and the opposite
Diamond Point into Fort Royal harbour. The deep water that surrounded
the almost perpendicular rock permitted an anchorage within a few feet
of its side. The admiral therefore laid his ship, the ‘Centaur,’ close
alongside, and performed the surprising feat of hoisting heavy guns from
the top-sail yard-arm, and mounting them on the summit of this improvised
fortress. Here Captain Morris was established, with men, ammunition,
water, and provisions, and the rock was recognised at the Admiralty, as
His Majesty’s ship ‘Diamond Rock.’ For months the gallant captain and
his crew defied the exertions of the French to dislodge them, destroying
their merchant vessels and gun-boats, and harassing them to desperation.
Finally, want of water and ammunition necessitated a surrender, and the
rock-ship was once more untenanted.

On approaching Barbadoes, it is surprising to see the vast shoals of
flying-fish. Like flights of silver arrows they shoot over the water on
all sides, and just as you are beginning to think they must be birds,
down they drop into the waves. No wonder that the catching of them is a
trade in that island, and that flying-fish in Barbadoes is the staff of
life—and a very delicious one. No time is lost in their pursuit, nets
surround them by day, and at night, by means of an attractive lantern,
they fly against the outspread sail and fall victims by the hundred.

After Martinique and Dominica, the appearance of Barbadoes is flat, and
tame. One misses the central hill range, which is so marked a feature
in the other islands. The wide-stretching fields of bright green cane,
and the windmills, recall Santa Cruz. Like that island, Barbadoes, when
discovered by the Portuguese in the early part of the sixteenth century,
was covered with thick forest. From many of the trees hung the beard-like
Tillandsia, whence arose the island’s name. In the present day there is
no forest, and the one little wood, with its boiling spring, is reckoned
among the “lions” of Barbadoes.

But if the island is devoid of great physical beauty, it is interesting,
as being the most ancient colony in the British Empire, one also that has
never changed hands, and the only one which thrives—or shall I say has
thriven—without foreign labour.

From Carlisle Bay, the harbour of Bridgetown, which is the capital of
the island, the view is one of bright colour. One sees gleaming sands
broken on by blue water, and edged with deep green avicennias, with here
and there a bending cocoa-nut palm. From the busy wharfs white houses
extend back into the country to a limestone ridge, and to the undulating
hills which are covered with sugar-cane and dotted with lines of palms,
leading to the planters’ houses. White roads wind through the green
fields, and a church tower peeps over the shady trees; a windmill rises
above a cluster of cottages, and near by is the tall smoking chimney of
a sugar factory. There are no clouds in the intensely blue sky to cast
their shadows, and the breeze rushes across the cane slopes in white
green waves. On all, the sun pours down with a pitiless glare, and its
strong light brings to full view the finished cultivation and well-to-do
aspect of the island.

“Passengers for Bimshire all aboard,” was the cry, as the ship’s cutter
pulled for the shore, thus disappointing the clamorous native crews of
several expected fees. Presently we landed in Bimshire—as Barbadoes
is sometimes called—and were at once surrounded by an agitated crowd
of “Bims,” both black and white. As there are no hotels—properly
so-called—our luggage was carried to “Hoad’s,” the best boarding house;
and after escaping numerous blind beggars who pursued us from the wharf,
we were soon ensconced in clean lodgings. Here we found small but
comfortable rooms, good food—flying-fish served in two or three different
forms being particularly tempting—and indifferent bathing accommodation.

After Martinique, where there are no mosquitoes, one looks disconsolately
at the stuffy nettings, and cannot help wondering why the detestable
insects should patronize the English islands and not the French. The
Barbadian mosquito is of an exceptionally dissipated disposition, as it
keeps up its revels far into the morning, and with the heat increases the
misery of the late as well as of the early riser.

As may be expected in an island whose population averages a thousand
to the square mile, Bridgetown swarms with negroes, whose high-pitched
voices and incessant “talk” effectually relieve the streets of any
air of dulness. The town is not imposing. Its architectural features
are collected in Trafalgar Square, where are situated the Government
Buildings. Their style, though striking, is a marvellous blending of
Gothic and Venetian architecture, mixed with bow windows and Moorish
arches, and as much out of keeping with the adjacent Cathedral as the
National Gallery in London is with its neighbouring Church of St. Martin.
The statue of Nelson, which stands in the centre of the square, cannot
be considered as complimentary to the great admiral, and in its present
condition fairly represents “the triumph of Nature over Art.” Shops,
stores, and warehouses are good and thriving, and, last but not least,
there is an excellent tea-house, which is an institution peculiar to
the West Indies. It vies with the club as a place of resort, contains
a restaurant, and a well-kept bar, provides the latest papers, and
disseminates the freshest news.

In the matter of ice, which is of no small importance in hot climates,
the English are ahead of the French. Here it is admitted free,
I believe, of duty, whilst in Martinique it is heavily taxed and
monopolized.

Most of the white inhabitants live in the suburbs of the town, and in
a drive one passes many pretty villas and pleasant gardens. The roads
leading to them are lined with negro huts and cabins, shaded by flowering
trees, and now and then surrounded by an ill-tended garden plot. On some
of these abodes we noticed hanging-boards, on which quaint greetings had
been written; one of these bore the words, “A mery Krismas and a hapy New
ear to everybody;” on another was printed, “Welcum home 1 and all.”

Towards evening carriages wend their way past the seaside villages of
Hastings and Worthing, or, when the band plays at St. Ann’s, stop there
to listen to it. The latter appeared to me to be the most agreeable place
in or around Bridgetown. The barracks are situated there, and fronting
them is a fine savanna, surrounded by shady avenues. Here there is the
race course, the cricket ground, a ball court, theatre, and opportunity
for the various amusements which relieve the monotony of life in the
tropics, and which, fortunately, are always to be found where England
has established her garrisons. I should have liked to have visited
“Scotland,” as the northern part of the island is called, for it is said
to be picturesque and interesting, but time would not permit. Mount
Hillaby, which has the highest elevation, is not quite 1200 feet in
height, but the scenery is bold and mountainous, though of course on a
small scale.

About twelve miles from Bridgetown is Codrington College, and above it,
near the edge of a cliff, stands the old St. John’s Church, celebrated
for containing in its churchyard the tomb of a Palæologus, supposed to be
the last descendant of the Christian Emperors of Greece.

At the time of my visit, the island was somewhat excited over impending
Government changes, and the “storm in a tea cup,” raised by the
late Governor, Mr. Pope Hennessy, had not subsided. The scheme of
confederating it with Tobago, St. Lucia, St. Vincent, and Grenada
met with strong opposition. The Leeward Confederation had not proved
a success, and the Barbadians objected to having the Windward group
joined to them in the same way. Very conservative in their manners and
customs, the white inhabitants look with no friendly eye on change and
innovation; but I have heard it said, by some whose opinion was valuable,
that the Crown Colony system would eventually prove the saving of the
island. There were rumours too of fresh negro disturbances; provision
grounds were pillaged daily, and the already incredibly conceited blacks
were growing more and more pretentious. No other negro can come up to a
Barbadian in impudence. If in any of the other islands you meet or hear
of a case of peculiar insolence, the offender is sure to be a Barbadian.
“You do not like me,” says the deservedly-rebuked servant, “find one more
bettar,” and then walks off.

In Barbadoes, you hear that only the worst negroes leave the island, as
their love for it is so great that few can be induced to emigrate, in
spite of small wages. In time, however, even the most home-loving may
find himself compelled to agree with the African philosopher, who, when
asked what he thought of freedom, replied, “Well, sir, freedom is a
mighty fine thing, but I can’t eat freedom, and I can’t wear freedom,
and now I’se got to export myself.” Two days were all that were allowed
us in Barbadoes, and then the steamer arrived to carry us to Tobago and
Trinidad.

On approaching Tobago from the north, the island presents a mass of high
hills, terminating in abrupt precipices. Heavy forests clothe the central
ridge and the hill spurs which spring from it. There is hardly a break
in the luxuriant vegetation, and except here and there, where a patch in
the valleys or on the hill sides has been cleared for cultivation, not
a single bare spot is to be seen. We skirt the small island of Little
Tobago, the haunt of boobies and tropic birds, and then come in sight of
a pretty estate on the mainland, which greatly brightens the wild and
gloomy scenery. Soon we round a point, and anchor in Scarborough Bay.

On the right rises a hill, crowned by the dismantled fort of St. George.
Below it, and forming the central feature, lies a cluster of grey,
steep-roofed houses, grouped on a low conical hill which slopes towards
the water, and ends in a steep bank fringed with bamboos.

On the left, cane-fields extend from the shore far back over the
undulating land to the hill-range, which curves round in a southerly
direction towards a long, low promontory, called Sandy Point. Government
House is prettily situated on the rising ground at some distance behind
the town, but there is nothing of the slightest interest to induce a
passenger to land for the short time during the exchange of mails. For
a longer stay, that is if you have a friend’s house to go to, Tobago is
very interesting, both to the geologist and naturalist.

Up to the present, over one hundred and thirty different species of birds
have been discovered there, among which a “Penlope” is peculiar to the
island, and is known as the Tobago pheasant. A bird-seller, who came on
board, had some fine skins of trogons, jacamars, humming-birds, manakins,
and others. It is to be hoped that the bird laws which have been wisely
established in Trinidad will be adopted in Tobago, as at present the
bird-killers from the former island gain their supplies from the latter.

A curious circumstance in connection with the fauna of the West Indies is
the number of species of birds, animals, and reptiles peculiar to certain
islands, and those islands actually within sight of others. For instance,
the Santa Cruz deer is distinct from the deer of St. Vincent or Tobago.
The frogs of Dominica and the snakes of Martinique differ from those
found elsewhere. The “Imperial Parrot”[21] from Dominica, is unknown
in the other islands. Regarding humming-birds, Wallace says that “the
West Indian islands possess fifteen distinct species, belonging to eight
different genera, and these are so unlike any found on the continent that
five of these genera are peculiar to the Antilles.”

The cave-haunting Guacharos are found in Trinidad, as well as on the
mainland of South America, but they have not reached the more northerly
islands. It may be that the isolation of species is not so in reality,
but owes its apparent existence to a want of knowledge, as the recesses
of many of the densely wooded islands have still to be explored.

It was with no regret that we left Tobago, as the heat was intense, and
we could sympathize with a certain officer, who, when quartered here, was
once found sitting in his tub, uttering the most vehement denunciations,
with the invariable refrain, “D— Columbus, confound the fellow! why did
he discover this rascally island?”

CHAPTER X.

AS Tobago and Trinidad are little more than eighteen miles apart where
nearest, we were soon coasting down the latter island. The scenery was
bold and picturesque, and the richly clad mountains were of a deep green,
flushed in spots, with the crimson canopies of the “bois immortelle.”
Fertile valleys gently opened to the sea, which here dashed angrily
against the caverned limestone walls, and there rippled to the feet of
the cocoa-nut palms which encircled the bays.

On reaching the “Boca de Monos”—monkey’s mouth—the mountains of Cumaná
on the mainland of South America loomed up before us. Stretching far
out into the sea, these mountains resemble islands similar to those
which form the different entrances to the Gulf of Paria, and so near
do they appear that it is hard to believe that they are really part of
the mainland. As so often happens, whether travelling by sea, lake, or
river, the finest scenery is sure to present itself at dinner time. I
regret to say that, in our case, enthusiasm was damped by the thought
that the soup was getting cold, and that probably the “pepper-pot” would
be finished before we got through the “mouth.” The scene was striking,
as must be the case where wild woodland, reaching to the water, and bold
mountain cliffs combine with steeply rising islands, fringed with palms
and mangroves, and covered with a thick vegetation wherever a plant can
cling. As if the passage was not narrow enough, a rocky islet, tufted
with cactus and draped with euphorbias and cistus, stood in the way; but
we slipped past it, and soon sailed into the broad gulf. On we went, past
wooded islets crowned with white houses, to which the Trinidadians retire
in hot weather, and at last anchored off Port of Spain at a long distance
from shore.

The view from the water can hardly be called picturesque, the flat shores
stretching on either side of the town in a long line hardly above the
level of the sea. But the town itself is prettily situated in a profusion
of foliage trees and feathery palms, which half conceal the white houses
and graceful church towers. Higher up lies a green savanna, with the
handsome “Queen’s House” on its outskirts, and close behind rise the
forest hills of Montserrat.

At a short distance from the wharf, the main street is entered. A broad
shady avenue runs up its centre, terminating with the mosque-like Roman
Catholic Cathedral. Half way up, a break in the avenue is caused by
Marine Square, with a fountain in the middle, and two of its angles
occupied by boarding-houses. The nearest of these is known as Emma
Clark’s, and is supposed to have the best accommodation in the town.
Here, we accordingly entered, and were received by the hostess, a
Creole lady, of ultra Junoesque proportions, and of renowned verbosity.
Good-tempered beyond measure when not annoyed, but terrible in her wrath
when aroused. I shall never forget her sublime indignation and torrent
of words once, when one of her guests had the temerity to ask for an
extra pillow. He did not get it, nor did he even repeat the request.
Altogether, Miss Emma did not treat us so badly. Certainly, some people
did say that her food, though good, was very limited as to quantity,
that the wine and beer she supplied were execrable, that the solitary
bath-room might have been kept cleaner, and that the apartments might
have contained a little more furniture. But then somebody is always
sure to grumble about something, and those who were not satisfied had
the option of leaving—only there was nowhere else to go. What a benefit
it would be to travellers, and probably to the entire West Indies, if
the Government—Home or Colonial—were to erect suitable hotels in the
different islands, and lease them to competent persons who would render a
sojourn among them more attractive than at present!

The town of Port of Spain is not very interesting. Stores and shops are
good, and Brunswick Square is adorned with a handsome cathedral and a
curious old Government building. Beyond the latter are the new Court
Houses, of massive and striking design, and large and expensive enough
to satisfy the requirements of the entire West Indies. It is a handsome
town, and with that all has been said. Its chief features, irrespective
of Emma Clark, are buzzards[22] and smells. Of the birds there are an
immense number; they line the roofs of the houses, perch on the fountains
and wade in the basins, blink at you from the trees, and refuse to get
out of your way in the streets. Alive, the noisome creatures sweep close
to your face when you look from a verandah; and dead, they greet your
nostrils in your walk, as they generally choose the centre of a road as a
suitable place to expire, and where they fall, there they lie.

In smells, Port of Spain vies with St. Pierre. Our rooms were sometimes
unbearable from the odour of salt fish, raw onions, potatoes, and coffee,
which ascended from the provision stores underneath, and equalled in
intensity the fumes from the small courtyard in which a cow, goats, pigs,
a sheep, puppies, naked black children, and parrots wandered at liberty.
Often did we exclaim with Mrs. Partington, “How flagrant it is!” Perhaps
these odours account for the number of chemists’ and druggists’ shops
that exist in Port of Spain. But the outskirts of the town are fresh
and bright. Pretty houses and lovely gardens line the approaches to the
park-like savanna. The only blot on the fair scene, is an unsightly
building—originally erected for the Duke of Edinburgh—which stands in a
conspicuous position, unrelieved by a tree or flower.

On approaching Queen’s House, which is situated in the Botanical Gardens,
the eye rests on, what to me, was the most charming sight in or around
Port of Spain. Grand clumps of the most magnificent bamboos here line
the roadside. Splendid ceibas, tamarinds, and samans are dotted about
close by, but to my mind, could not compare with the bamboos, whose
feathery arches and drooping boughs seemed like a “forest fit to fringe
fairy land.” The gardens disappointed me, perhaps from over-expectation.
Unlike those of Martinique, nature has not here granted a picturesque
situation. Art has only partially succeeded in rendering the grounds
attractive. There are many beautiful varieties of palms, deep-green
nutmeg groves, towering erythrinas, ceibas, and various rare shrubs and
trees, but there is something wanting to make up an effective whole. The
gardens are of small extent and are deficient in any leading feature of
special interest. There are no fountains, no pieces of water, no falls,
no rockeries, and the only flower-garden proper is a small one under
the windows of Queen’s House. Great care and attention are bestowed on
the gardens, and in the nurseries I saw some rare orchids, luxuriant
ferns, and many species of begonias, caladiums, and morantas. I was also
shown some Liberian coffee trees, whose berries were far larger than the
common. Formerly, there was a small Zoological collection here, but that
is of the past.

The drive round the savanna in the cool evening is a very pleasant one.
Here a black game of cricket is going on, amid much laughter and noise;
there a white one is being conducted, in a very sedate and orderly
fashion. Near the ugly Prince’s building is a croquet lawn, and close to
the opposite Grand Stand an impromptu race has been organized. Moon-eyed
Chinese trot along, with a basket of vegetables slung at one end of a
long bamboo and a bundle of clean clothes at the other. Delicate-looking
cattle are being led to water by still more delicate-looking Indian
coolies, and scattered over the grass are brilliant patches of colour,
caused by the gay robes of Hindoo women, whose arms and ancles, heavily
hung with bangles, glitter brightly as they milk soft-eyed cows, to the
music of laughing babies riding astride their hips.

Coolie immigration from India has been very successful in Trinidad and
Demerara, and speaks well for the system of labour which has been adopted
in those places. And, certainly, the coolies have no cause for complaint.
From the time they leave India until they return there—that is if they
choose to return—every suitable provision is made for their comfort.
Unlike the Chinese, whose only object is to make money and get back to
the Celestial Empire as soon as possible, the Indian coolies become
attached to their new home, and in Trinidad a great number—nearly three
thousand—have obtained grants of land instead of “return” passages, and
have settled down as colonists. Many of them possess sugar estates, and
one owns several good race-horses.

Hindoo villages are seen in many parts of the island, and near Port of
Spain, on the road to St. James’s Barracks, is a coolie village, so
oriental in its character, even to its native priests, charmers, and
prayer-house, that, if an aeronaut suddenly descended there, he might
readily imagine himself near Calcutta.

From the moment a stranger sets foot in Trinidad, he recognises that he
is in a flourishing island; and the more he sees and hears of it, the
more convinced does he become of its prosperous future. In the large
and busy town, he can form some estimate of its resources, but, when
he visits the interior and more distant regions, the fertility of the
soil speaks for itself. To use one of Jerrold’s witticisms, the land
is so fertile “that, if you tickle it with a hoe, it smiles with a
flower.” Though sugar is the chief produce, there are other staples to
which Trinidad directs her attention in a greater degree every year. The
chief of these is cacao, which is a product continually increasing in
value, and which is admirably adapted to the soil. Apart from the ease
with which it is cultivated and prepared, a cacao plantation is a very
desirable one, on account of its beauty. It has none of the monotonous
stretches of a sugar plantation, as cacao has to be protected from the
sun.

In some picturesque valley, or on undulating slopes, with a forest
background, and probably with a glorious sea view from a neighbouring
hill, you see a dwarf forest whose trees are about the size of
apple-trees, and on whose stems and red-brown branches grow hundreds
of pods like great golden lemons. Through this forest, run rows of
“bois immortelles”—Madres del cacao—tall, elm-like trees, with bright
flame-coloured canopies which afford a complete shade. On an eminence
stands the white house of the planter, and near it a few rustic cottages
and provision grounds; there is no tall smoking chimney, no din of
machinery, no mingling of negro and molasses, all is cool and quiet, and
you feel that, out of the few agricultural pursuits in the tropics, that
of cacao-growing, must be the pleasantest.

Around Port of Spain the absence of bird life makes a sad void in
nature; one misses the humming-birds, which in Martinique dart from
every shrub, and even visit the balcony-flowers in the town. Even at
a distance inland, it is only occasionally that the yellow “sucriers”
are met with, or that the amusing, glossy brown “trembleurs” are seen
bowing and scraping to one another in their usual polite fashion, but
in some other islands these birds are very common. The “Wild Birds’
Protection Ordinance,” which was passed in 1875, has hardly had time to
bear fruit as yet, but before long the feathered tribe may once again
abound. Especially rare is that most beautiful of all humming-birds,
the “Tufted Coquette,”—Lophornis ornatus—and once the species was as
numerous as the “Ruby-crested,”[23] the “Savanna Sapphire,”[24] and the
“Snowy-throated Emeralds,”[25] which are still abundant in Trinidad. Some
lovely specimens of the above-named were offered me for sale, and I doubt
whether I could have refused them, even without the assurance that they
all came from the “Main.” I must have made a mistake in thinking that the
“Snowy-throated Emerald” was peculiar to Trinidad!

From Port of Spain there are many delightful excursions to be made. There
is the Blue Basin, at the head of the Diegomartin Valley, and above it
is the Signal Station, from whence the land and coast views are very
beautiful. Then there is the celebrated Maracas waterfall, the road
to which affords an opportunity of seeing the most picturesque plain,
forest, and river scenery in the island. Besides the mud volcanoes, there
is also that natural phenomenon, the Pitch Lake of La Brea. A weird,
uncanny, intensely hot locality is that in which this strange lagoon is
situated. The lake itself, which is nearly three miles in circumference,
is surrounded by wood and jungle, growing luxuriantly from the pitchy
soil. Out of the black sea rise little green oases covered with flowering
shrubs, and occasionally lines of grass streak the surface. In the
asphalte, which is hard in some places and soft and sticky in others, are
numerous cracks and channels, often filled with clear brown water. Here
and there a massive tree trunk or tapering pole protrudes through the
pitch, like the hull and masts of some wrecked vessel sinking gradually
out of sight.

Charles Kingsley has already fully described the sights and wonders of
Trinidad, and since “At Last” was written the face of the country has
little altered. Civilization of late has progressed, a railroad and coast
steamers now connect different parts of the island, plantations have
increased in number, and trade is augmenting annually. But Trinidad is
still in its infancy, as by far the greater part of the island is still
unreclaimed and unopened forest.

When Trinidad is traversed by proper roads, it is hardly too much to say
that her prosperity will out-rival that of Jamaica in her palmiest days.
On this subject a good authority has recently said:

“Unfortunately, the same conditions of soil, &c., which render Trinidad
a very productive country, make the construction of roads, which are
essential to the prosperity and advancement of a country, very difficult
and expensive, and the peculiar conditions of the colonial community
allow of little interest being manifested in the well-being of the
island, beyond the immediate concerns of the moment. Thus it is that our
highways, such as they are, are mostly very narrow, devoid of footwalks,
and for many weary miles without a single tree which might afford shelter
to man or beast, who are thus exposed to the fierce rays of a blazing
tropical sun, the direct effects of which are heightened by the scarcely
less pernicious ones of reflection and radiation from all the surfaces
around. The correction of these and other evils can hardly be expected,
unless there should arise a spirit of enlightened public feeling which at
the present time does not exhibit itself.”

Let us hope that the writer is too severe on the community of Trinidad,
and that the road-making difficulty will soon be overcome. I ought to add
that in the neighbourhood of the capital the roads are remarkably good,
but glaring.

From Trinidad I proceeded to Demerara, and there found, as I stated
in the preface, that the Government was about to send an expedition
to Roraima, and with great kindness allowed me to accompany it. As it
was not to start until the end of February, I determined to return to
Trinidad, and from thence ascend the Orinoco. In the next chapter I must
describe that trip.

CHAPTER XI.

Before a traveller can ascend the Orinoco, it is necessary—or said to
be necessary by the steam-ship company—to obtain a passport. It is, I
believe, quite unnecessary, but as the salary of Venezuelan officials
depends in a great measure on perquisites, it is an act of charity to
purchase your passport from the consul at Trinidad. This is the first of
the many blows which go far to destroy the romance of the great river. At
least we—my companion being a master from the college at Barbadoes—had
an idea that the Orinoco must be a romantic river, for had not Raleigh
cruised about it in search of golden palaces and of El Dorado!

We obtained our passports and tickets, and at the hour of sailing were
informed that our vessel—the “Heroe de Abril”—was in the hands of the
sheriff and could not leave. The following day, however, we received
notice to be on board at a certain hour, as the steamer was to be allowed
to depart on this occasion only. The owners chuckled over this, as,
owing to defective boilers, neither she nor any of the passengers were
expected to return at all. The “Heroe” proved to be an old Hudson River
tug-boat, with sufficiently comfortable cabins on its upper deck, whilst
its lower deck was open and crowded with second-class passengers who
slung their hammocks wherever they could find space. Nearly all on board
were bound for the gold mines of Caratal, and a very motley crowd it was.

Regarding the food and service, I will merely say that both were of
the worst possible description. Those who had made the trip before had
brought their own provisions, and were kind enough to share them with the
novices. Without this aid, it is doubtful whether some of the passengers
would have arrived at their journey’s end.

It was late at night when we left Trinidad, so that early the following
morning we found that we had crossed the Gulf of Paria, passed through
the “Serpent’s Mouth,” and were approaching the gruel-like water of the
Orinoco. On either side, but many miles apart, stretched two long, low
lines of trees, which extended from the equally low coast line in front.
To all appearance it was a deep ocean bay, but the colour of the water
and the fact that there was no longer any heaving of the lead, told us
that we had crossed the bar and had entered the Macareo channel of the
Orinoco. Of the numerous other mouths which form the enormous delta of
this river, but two are used by vessels, and of these two the “Boca
de Navios” has fifteen or sixteen feet of water on the bar, while the
“Pedernales” has barely six feet.

On nearing the mainland, we saw numerous islands covered with bush and
shrubs, and on one, which looked like a floating mass of weeds that
might be swept away by the waves caused by our paddle-wheels, an Indian
fisherman had established himself. Two sloping sticks covered with leaves
formed his shelter, which was half concealed from the prying eyes of
fish and birds by a wide-meshed net. A little bark canoe showed that, in
case of inundation, means of escape were at hand. Gradually the channel
mouth narrowed, and the dense mangrove thickets which line the banks
became more and more conspicuous. It is chiefly to these ever-extending
mangroves that the great delta of the Orinoco owes its development. The
twisted and matted roots stem the tide, retain the soil, and gradually
raise the surface. Year by year the mangrove increases its dominions,
and, judging from its present wide extent, it seems that ere long the
smaller delta mouths will be choked.

All we saw was a low but vast expanse of bright green foliage. At one
spot the mangroves appeared to be mingled with large bushes of hybiscus,
covered with enormous crimson blossoms. Suddenly the blossoms took wing,
and we recognized a flock of scarlet ibises. At length, we were fairly in
the river channel, with a width across of less than a quarter of a mile.
Various shrubs were now mixed with the mangroves, and at some distance
from the banks tall clumps of trees, with masses of creepers, fringed the
outlying lakes and open swamps. From these arose clouds of wild-fowl,
which, after a look at the steamer, returned to their feeding-grounds,
or in endless strings took long flights to more distant solitudes. There
was no scarcity of birds here; there were geese, ducks of various sorts,
bitterns, spoonbills, crested pheasants, herons, egrets, water-turkeys,
and many specimens of the huge tantalus.

After a time the vegetation assumed a forest aspect, and we entered a
palm region. Here we were greeted by the harsh cries of the blue and
yellow macaws, which in numberless pairs flew overhead, and in flocks
rose screaming from lofty trees. The scenery was very tropical, and we
began to think that perhaps a trip up the Orinoco was not the mistake
that it was said to be by a gentleman on board, who had made the voyage
before. Palms predominated, but there were also splendid trees, from
whose branches the hanging creepers formed a perfect wall. Here and there
these green curtains lifted, and disclosed an aquatic maze threading
its way deep into the wild forest. The monotonous green was varied
with white-plumed ingas, crimson poivreas, and yellow bauhinias, which
overhung the arums, the thick-veined caladiums, and the bamboo-like
grasses growing on the banks. White egrets stalked along, tortoises
flopped into the water from the branches, water-turkeys dived and always
came up just ahead of us, and solemn cranes with one eye on the stream
and the other on a fish, did not stir from their one-legged position as
we puffed past them.

Only on the beautiful little Ocklawaha River in Florida, have I seen
such lovely vistas as here penetrate the recesses of the border forests;
each one, in fact, was a tropical Ocklawaha. Once, on turning a bend in
the channel, we came suddenly upon a canoe whose occupants had not time
to disappear in the side labyrinths, as they had done previously. It
was evidently a family party of Guaraños or Kirishana Indians. The poor
creatures looked terribly frightened, and the trembling women turned
their faces towards the forest. Such modesty was hardly to be wondered
at, seeing that the only clothing of any description that one of them had
on was a baby, which she hastily caught up and wore as an impromptu apron.

It was with no small interest that we gazed at these few members of an
almost extinct tribe, whose home is—or used to be—for the greater part
of the year in the tree tops. For this Delta, which is always wet, is
for several months inundated. The swampy soil is then many feet under
water, and, therefore, high up in the trees, the Indians build their
houses. If it was on account of its freedom that they selected such an
unpropitious spot for habitation, they chose well and were certainly
safe from intrusion, as none but an Indian could thread in his canoe
the water-paths of the dismal forest. But probably their choice was
determined by the extraordinary abundance of a certain palm called the
“Mauritia” or “Ite.”[26] This has been well named _arbol de la vida_, for
it supplies the Indians with food, drink, clothing, habitation, canoes,
and hunting and fishing implements. Food is made from the scaly fruit,
which resembles pine cones hanging in clusters, and also from the soft
pithy substance contained in the trunk; the two are treated like cassava
and mixed into a cake of the consistency of sago and called “yaruma.”
From the juice of the flower-spathes toddy is made, and from the sheaths
at their base sandals and girdles are manufactured. Hammocks, nets, and
lines are woven from the fibres, canoes are fashioned out of the trunks,
and bows and arrows from the leaf-stems.

Besides these necessaries of life, some luxuries are also supplied, as
from the pith of the large arm of the leaf, split longitudinally, a sail
is made for canoes, and by raising the fibres of the arm and placing a
bridge under them, a rude kind of musical instrument is formed. To make
their domiciles, four suitable palm trees are selected, notches are cut,
and beams, stretched from trunk to trunk, are lashed together with fibre.
A layer of mud, which hardens and is capable of bearing a fire, is then
spread over the flooring, a roof of trees is added, and the dwelling is
complete.

Whether these Indians still take to the trees in the wet season, or
whether they find more comfortable lodgings on the ground, I know not.
Higher up the river we passed one or two small Indian settlements, where
the huts, pitched on elevated ground, consisted merely of a thatched
roof supported by poles, but whether the inhabitants were Guaraños or
not we could not say. They were better dressed than our old friends, as
each individual was provided with fully six inches of cotton girdle. But
their attire did not prove that they were not Guaraños, as it may be
that they only put on their Sunday best on the approach of the steamer.
Nature has admirably assisted these beings in their hiding propensities,
as the reddish brown colour of their skins assimilates with that of the
bush stems and tree trunks, among which they conceal themselves. In one
place where we had seen a canoe enter, we saw a camp with hammocks slung
and fire burning, but not a trace of the occupants, although they were
probably looking at us from out of the bushes a very short distance away.
They must have been close, as the canoe was there and empty.

It is not surprising that these timid savages consider everyone who does
not belong to their own tribe as their natural enemy. At a “wooding”
station where we had stopped, a canoe hovered about for some time
but would not approach. At last, just as we were starting, it came
alongside, and we found that it contained several cages of black and
yellow troupials. The owners would not come on board, and could not be
induced to hand up their birds for inspection until they had received
payment, and then they paddled hurriedly away. On inquiry, I heard that
the ship’s company (Venezuelans) made a good deal of money by the sale of
these beautiful birds in Trinidad and other places, and it had been the
practice to obtain them from the Indians and delay payment until it was
too late. Thus the unfortunate natives lost their birds and their money.

Besides the sight of an occasional Indian, we had no other excitement.
Once in the night the steamer came to a halt owing to a thick fog, and
at another time a loud crash preceded the stoppage of the engine; loud
cries of “Has the boiler burst?” came from different parts, in various
languages, but we had only run ashore, and soon steamed off again.

On the morning of the third day after leaving Trinidad, we arrived at
Barrancas, where the mouths of the Orinoco separate. We did not anchor,
but sent off the mails in a small boat to the little town which stands
on the left bank of the main river, and then proceeded on our way. Here
the scenery changed completely. The forest had disappeared, there were no
more palms, no bright creepers, even the mangroves were absent. Macaws,
parrots, troupials, all were left behind, and we looked over a river some
miles in width, with sandy banks and low, dry, unprepossessing hills in
the distance. It was a barren, desolate scene, and even a great, lean
heron sitting on a withered branch, with his long neck sunk between his
shoulders, seemed to think that life with such surroundings was not worth
fishing for. We were certainly in Venezuela, but “Little Venice,” with
its water lanes and streets, lay behind us.

After several hours of slow steaming we arrived at Las Tablas, which
is the nearest port to the mines of Caratal. It was a dreary-looking
place, consisting of a few houses and one large tree. No one was allowed
to disembark as there is no Custom House, consequently passengers for
the mines have to proceed on to Ciudad Bolivar and wait there some
days, until the steamer returns to Las Tablas. Thus, for want of a
Custom House, passengers, as well as goods, have to travel nearly two
hundred miles out of their way. The mines of Caratal are taking a very
conspicuous position among the gold mines of the world, and already there
are over 4,000 British subjects—mostly natives of the West Indies—at work
there.

Strange to say, we have no representative at Bolivar. Some years
ago our Consul was dismissed by the President in the most arbitrary
manner, and no notice was taken of the insult, neither was the office
refilled. The need of a representative is very great in a country
where the authorities are in the habit of raising troops to suppress
perpetual insurrections, and where they seize on anyone without regard
to nationality. I have heard it hinted that, were the boundaries of
Venezuela and British Guiana properly assigned, it would be found that
the valuable mines of Caratal belong to the latter. This, however, is
by no means the opinion of Venezuelans, and as these boundaries have
been of late under much discussion, I have appended the translation of
some official reports which have lately been published on the subject in
Carácas. The Venezuelan idea of the correct boundary line—that of the
Essequibo—is so different from our own, that a perusal of the papers may
be interesting.

Close to Las Tablas the Caroni joins the Orinoco, and a curious effect
is produced by the differently coloured waters running together for a
long distance without mingling. This was the farthest point reached by
Raleigh in his search for El Dorado in 1595, when, finding that his men
were discouraged and nothing was to be gained by remaining, he returned
to England. From Las Tablas upwards, the scenery was almost identical
with that from Barrancas. Here and there on the banks stood a cottage and
plantation, beyond stretched wide plains edged by green slopes and woods,
which imparted a brighter aspect. Soundings were continually taken, and
in many places there was barely sufficient depth of water to carry us
over. From the waste of waters rose numerous islets of porphyry as smooth
as glass, and which, being covered with a crust of oxide of manganese,
sparkled in the sun and formed remarkable objects in the scene.
Sand-banks were frequent, and on one a brig bound for New York lay
stranded, and had been there two weeks, owing to the captain’s refusal to
pay a steam-tug from Ciudad Bolivar the enormous sum demanded for towing
her off. As she was in the same position when we returned, it is probable
she remained there until the rising of the river in the wet season.

Animal life was reduced to a few cranes and some enormous alligators,
which basked on the sand in utter indifference to the noisy anathemas
heaped on them by the black crew, who yelled again whenever they caught
sight of the scaly bodies.

On the day after leaving Las Tablas, we anchored off Ciudad Bolivar,
the capital of Guayana, which is the largest state in the Republic of
Venezuela. The town was built in 1764, by Mendoza, who named it Santo
Tomas de la Nueva Guayana, which was afterwards changed to “Angostura,”
and then to its present one, Ciudad Bolivar. Angostura—the Narrows—was a
very appropriate name, as here the Orinoco, whose breadth above and below
averages about two miles and a half, contracts to less than half a mile.
In the middle of the river stands a famous rock, called “La Piedra del
Medio,” which serves as a metre to gauge the rise and fall of the flood,
which at its highest rises no less than sixty feet above its summer
level. As our visit was during the dry season we had to land in a boat,
struggle over a sandy beach, and then clamber up a high bank, whereas in
the wet season you step from the vessel on to the Alameda.

From the river the town looks picturesque, as it is situated on a conical
hill, with the houses rising in tiers and crowned by the cathedral. The
streets are narrow and steep, with the exception of the principal one,
which skirts the river, and which is partly shaded by a double row of
fine spreading trees called “mamon.” The most prominent building is the
market-place, which stands on a rocky eminence overhanging the river.

After a strict inspection of our luggage at the Custom House, we went
to the only hotel in the town which the two Germans who keep it call
“the Club.” Here we found clean rooms without furniture of any kind, but
the proprietor promised to give us canvas cots, and, if possible, two
chairs. We were glad to sit down to breakfast after our long fast on
board the “Heroe,” but alas! the food was almost as bad as that on the
steamer, and, as we were informed that it was impossible to cook any dish
without garlic, we had to live chiefly on bread during our stay. Some
claret that we ordered was so bad that we sent for another and much more
expensive brand; finding it equally bad we complained to the servant, who
laughingly informed us that it all came out of the same cask.

A more uninteresting town than Ciudad Bolivar it is impossible to
imagine. In half-an-hour you can see the whole of it, including the
cathedral, a bronze statue of “the Liberator”—Bolivar—and a very tall
pillar with a small bust of Guzman Blanco—the late President—on the top
of it. The cemetery contains the monument of the first Dr. Siegert, of
“Angostura Bitters” celebrity, and, when you have seen that and the two
above-mentioned statues, you have seen the “lions” of Ciudad Bolivar.
Apropos of “Angostura Bitters,” the manufactory is no longer carried on
here owing to its exorbitant taxation by the Government, but has been
removed to Trinidad.

Near the cemetery are the barracks, and these are buildings worthy of
their occupants. We were told that the soldiers collected here were not
good specimens of the Venezuelan Army, and we hoped not. In Carácas
I afterwards saw some troops that were well equipped and presented a
soldier-like appearance. But here half-starved, ill-clad, of a wretched
physique, in height averaging about five feet, and with miserable arms
and accoutrements, the troops that we beheld presented a sorry spectacle.
Their pay is hardly worth mentioning, but they are fortunate when they
receive it. This circumstance reminded me of a distribution of pay that
once occurred in a certain town in the United States.

A number of Pinte Indians had been brought in to take part in a 4th of
July procession, and after the parade each man received a dollar. It had
been customary to hand over the entire amount to their chief—Captain
Bob—for distribution, but the fact had become known that coin did not
readily leave his grasp. The captain observed this new method of paying
with more complacency than was anticipated. He was out-generaled, but
not beaten. Being a great poker player he took his men to one of his
favourite haunts, and before sunset had cleared his entire army out of
the last cent.

From the pitiful condition of the troops when we saw them, it was
difficult to imagine what the state of the private soldiers must have
been in 1822, when hundreds of officers were seen begging from house to
house in the streets of Carácas. Even as late as 1862, the army was in
want of the necessaries of life.

It is not from a lack of generals that the troops are uncared for and
ill-disciplined, for the supply is unlimited. Two boatmen, who once
rowed us over from Ciudad Bolivar to the opposite shore to visit a
cattle ranch, were both generals. The butcher who supplied the hotel
was a general, and, if his military tactics were as good as those he
exhibited in his steady resolve not to furnish good meat, he ought to
have been a success. But in Venezuela it is not necessary either to be,
or to have been a soldier, to become a general. The title is distributed
indiscriminately, and sent about like a bouquet of flowers or a box
of cigars, with the compliments of so and so. A late aspirant for the
Presidency intimated that he would abolish this distinction, by making
everybody a general. Needless to say he lost his election. In more recent
times, did not the son of Prince Bismarck lose his nomination to the
Reichstag by a premature declaration of his policy?

At Carácas, one day, I was looking over a book called _Cervantes y la
Crítica_, by Urdaneta. In it was a list of subscribers to the volume,
and out of four hundred names I counted two hundred and seventy-eight
generals, and all the rest were doctors. Well might the Irishman exclaim
in Venezuela, as he did upon his arrival in the United States, “What a
divil of a battle has been fought near here, where all the privates were
kilt!”

Finding so little to see or do in Ciudad Bolivar, we were anxious to
ascend the Upper Orinoco, but heard to our dismay that the small steamer
“Nutrias” no longer went up the river. We therefore had to pass a week in
the town until the “Heroe” returned to Trinidad. Formerly, the trade with
the Upper Orinoco was very considerable, and four steamers used to ply on
the river, bringing down coffee, indigo, hides, cotton, &c. Revolutions
have destroyed that, and now almost the only trade is with the mines of
Caratal. Now and then large Indian canoes from the Rio Negro descend the
river, bringing birds, hammocks, and curiosities, which they exchange for
necessaries, and then return. Some of their feather and grass hammocks
that we saw were marvels of skill, and must have been highly remunerative
to the merchants, who demanded from one hundred to one hundred and fifty
dollars apiece, having probably obtained them for ten or twelve dollars
worth of goods.

It was excessively hot during our stay, but fortunately a dry heat, and
there were no mosquitoes, although a lagoon on one side of the town gave
promise of an abundant supply. In the wet season the heat is almost
unbearable. As our hotel was close to the river—in fact, just outside the
door was the hull of a vessel which had been left there high and dry when
the water fell—we generally had a good breeze, and the verandah was the
coolest place in the town. Few of the other houses possessed verandahs,
as in Ciudad Bolivar the roof is the favourite family resort in the
evening. Some of the roofs are prettily laid out with flowers and shrubs,
and there the ladies sit and talk, receive visitors, promenade, and enjoy
any breath of air that may relieve the stifling heat.

Ciudad Bolivar used to be a very hospitable town, but that was in the
good old days when Señor Dalle Costa was President of Guayana, and there
seemed a fair chance of good government. Then there was a good deal of
amusement; travellers, English officers from Trinidad, and others were
gladly welcomed and entertained, puma and jaguar hunts were organized,
and a trip up the Orinoco was a great pleasure. Now trade is depressed,
the town is woefully dull, and I doubt whether any traveller would visit
Ciudad Bolivar for pleasure a second time. Whether the community—which
numbers 7,000 or 8,000 souls—is an intellectual one I do not know, but
I do know that I was unable to obtain a book in any language or of any
description—except grammars—at any store or shop in the town. After
a long search in stores that contained a little of everything, from
pomatum to ship’s cables, I was told that I might find some books at
the chemist’s. His stock consisted of a few grammars, very useful in
their way, but hardly entertaining enough to wile away the hot hours. It
must be remembered that this was in the capital of the largest State in
Venezuela, a republic whose area is larger than that of France, Spain,
and Portugal taken together.

Trinidad is very little better off for books than Ciudad Bolivar, as
the only bookseller there has very few works except an old collection
of volumes of Tauchnitz—an edition, by the way, which I think is
“particularly requested not to be introduced into English colonies.” A
collector of coins might visit Ciudad Bolivar with advantage, as a more
miscellaneous currency could not be found. Not only do you receive in
change coins from every country in the world, but also chips of silver
and blocks of copper that would be utterly valueless anywhere else. The
scenery around the town was flat and tame, but it acquired a charm from
the great river and the wonderful transparency of the atmosphere.

From the Calvary behind the town, easy of access, but fruitful in
rattlesnakes, the eye embraced a vast extent of country. For the most
part it is covered with thick _chaparro_, with here and there an
undulating line which marks the course of a rivulet. Dotted about are
what look like specks of pasture, but which, when approached, prove to
be wide savannas, which afford grazing for countless cattle. Dark masses
of trees show where virgin forests lie, and on the verge of the horizon
the hills rise, looking pink and purple in the brilliant sunlight. The
environs are dry and uncultivated. A few Indian huts and cottages with
plantain patches are all that are to be seen.

Every evening we used to go to the old fort near the market and watch
the sunset, and the last we saw surpassed in colouring any that I have
ever witnessed. We looked up the river towards the west, and were fairly
dazzled by the rich lights in sky and water. An arch of dead gold
spanned a dip in the distant purple hills; below it was a crimson disc,
and above a clear blue expanse. Radiating from this arc were bars of
distinct shades, which shone for a few seconds and melted into a sheet
of yellow and rose. The light was continuous from the sky far down the
river, where it touched with pink the great cross on the black rock “del
Medio.” Turning from the rainbow-tinted water to the north-east we looked
down the river, and, though a rose flush still tinged the horizon, the
broad flood flashed like burnished steel as the rays of a full moon fell
directly upon it. After the glare of the sunset, the change was as sudden
as from noon to midnight. But gradually the eye became accustomed to the
chastened silvery light as it touched the dark green foliage and brought
into clear relief the houses and cottages on the bank, and, when once
more we turned towards the west, it was there where the seeming darkness
rested. Only for a moment though, and then we discerned a beautiful
olive-green horizon, which gradually faded in the clear silver moonlight.
For sharp, decided colouring, we had seen nothing like it, and in spite
of our anxiety to leave Ciudad Bolivar we regretted that we should not
witness one more sunset there.

Before we left our rocky standpoint, a loud exclamation from some bathers
below us drew our attention to a black object floating down the stream.
It proved to be an alligator, who would, doubtless, have made short work
of anyone who ventured beyond the shallow pools that bordered the river.
When the river is high, it is not an unfrequent occurrence to see one of
these monsters in the very street. Waterton says: “One Sunday evening
some years ago, as I was walking with Don Felipe de Yriarte, Governor
of Angostura, on the banks of the Orinoco: ‘Stop here a moment or two,
Don Carlos,’ said he to me, ‘while I recount a sad accident. One fine
evening last year the people of Angostura were sauntering up and down
in the Alameda. I was within twenty yards of this place, when I saw a
large cayman rush out of the river, seize a man and carry him down before
anybody had it in his power to assist him. The screams of the poor
fellow were terrible as the cayman was running off with him. He plunged
into the river with his prey; we instantly lost sight of him, and never
saw or heard of him more.’”

Humboldt also saw an alligator seize an Indian by the leg, while pushing
his boat ashore, in the lagoon behind the town. He was dragged into
deep water, and his cries collected a crowd, who saw him search for his
knife. Not finding it, he seized the reptile by the head and pressed his
fingers into his eyes. But the creature held on and disappeared with the
unfortunate Indian.

Our descent of the Orinoco was as uneventful as our ascent. The only
change was a substitution of cattle for our former second-class
passengers. Freight, human and mercantile, was discharged at Las Tablas;
we were stopped by frogs and impeded by shallows, but the boiler did not
burst, thanks to the untiring watchfulness of the Scotch engineer, and we
arrived safely at Trinidad. Soon afterwards I proceeded to Demerara.

CHAPTER XII.

A dark thread stretching across the horizon, only a faint streak, which
thickened into a fringed skein as the tops of cocoa-nut trees came in
view, told us that we were in sight of British Guiana.[27] Soon the blue
water assumed the hue and consistency of pea-soup, as we approached the
mouth of the Demerara river. A pilot came on board, but for six hours we
had to await the pleasure of the tide before crossing the shallow bar
that guards the entrance to the river.

The first impression on beholding Demerara is that a wave of moderate
proportions would submerge the country. You see no background, no hill
or rising land, nothing but a thin coast line of avicennia and mangrove
bushes, above which rise cocoa-nut palms and high chimneys. Presently
you discover that there is land behind the coast line, as beyond a fine
sea-wall on the left you can see the barracks, fine spacious buildings
with deep verandahs, and several white houses. A fort is passed, and a
goodly array of shipping at anchor in the river, and lying alongside the
wharfs, betokens a busy town. Groups of royal palms, spires, and steeples
rise up in the rear of large warehouses and go-downs that line the bank,
and before the vessel anchors you recognize the fact that Georgetown is
the first and most promising town in or near the West Indies.

We anchored in the river, but now the steamers run alongside a wharf,
which is a comfort that cannot be too highly estimated. A hundred voices
greeted us on landing, with offers to convey our luggage to the hotel,
and “Kerridge, sir, kerridge,” resounded on all sides. Not only were
there “kerridges” of different descriptions, but there was actually a
“hansom” in waiting. Had it not been for the numerous black faces, we
might have landed on the coast of England, but, then again, the numerous
bangled women and turbaned men suggested India.

We were quickly driven to the new “Tower” Hotel, which looked clean and
comfortable, but not a room was vacant. In Georgetown, house-rent is so
exorbitant that many resident bachelors, and occasionally families, live
together at the hotels; consequently, strangers often find accommodation
unobtainable or indifferent.

Across the road was the “Kaieteur Hotel,” a large, rambling, wooden
structure, but with the prestige of antiquity, and kept by Captain Holly,
the American consul at Barbadoes. Here we found rooms, and the worthy
proprietor did his best to make us comfortable, but it must be allowed
that, with all his kindness and attention, he had not then attained the
art of keeping a good hotel. But as the two I have mentioned are by far
the best hotels in the West Indies, allowances must be made for a few
short-comings. There is one item though for which no allowance ought to
be made, and in the tropics it is a most important one. In the matter of
baths and bath rooms the hotels and boarding houses in the West Indies
are disgracefully negligent.

At St. Thomas, to reach the cobwebby and tarantula-occupied bath room, it
is necessary to descend a flight of dirty stone steps and to pick your
way across a courtyard which is never swept, and which is a repository
for old boots, rags, banana skins, and fowls. At Martinique there were
no bath rooms in my hotel, and I had to hire a tub; I was told that even
in the best hotels—the Hôtel Micas—there were no baths. At Barbadoes,
one very small shower-bath taken on the bare bricks did duty for the
whole establishment at Hoad’s. At Trinidad, a green, slimy tank into
which fresh water ran, but which was never emptied or cleaned, was
the sole bathing accommodation for Miss Emma Clark, her boarders, and
servants. And here at the “Kaieteur,” the two bath rooms—one on each
floor—were not fit for sculleries, a use by the way to which they were
frequently put. Their size was such that they barely held a small tub,
and it was difficult to stand upright in them; as for a chair, there was
not room for one, and, what with the intense heat and the want of space,
I have frequently seen people come out of the wretched hole streaming
with perspiration after their bath. The supply of water, too, was very
limited, as in Demerara rain water alone is used, and when we arrived
there the long continued drought had nearly emptied the tanks.

The average rain-fall in Demerara is estimated by feet instead of inches;
but last year (1877) had been very dry, and now the absence of rain in
the usual short wet season—December, January, and February—had already
created more loss to the planters, and as it was too late to expect rain
before May, a water famine was anticipated. It used to be positively
asserted that the year was divided into two wet and two dry seasons in
British Guiana, but it is gradually dawning on the public mind that
no uniformity in weather ever did, or can exist, and that, though the
climate remains, the weather changes.

Georgetown is a handsome, well-built town, with broad streets, avenues,
excellent stores, and shops of all descriptions, and with a lively, well
to-do air that is as invigorating as the heat is depressing. In the
streets, besides the white race, you meet sharp-featured Madrassees,
Hindoos of various castes, Parsees, Nubians, and half-breeds. Stepping
timidly along may also be seen two or three “bucks,” as the natives from
the interior are called, dressed—if dressed at all—in a motley suit
of old clothes, and only anxious to sell or exchange their parrots and
hammocks, and then return to their wilds. From a merchant’s store filled
with European goods, you step into a little shop redolent of the East,
and stocked with bangles and silver ornaments worked by their Cingalese
proprietor. There stands a Portuguese Jew, ready to fleece the first
“buck” whom he can entice into his cheap general-store, and here sits
stolid John Chinaman, with his pigtail wreathed round his head, keeping
guard over his home-made cigars.

The Government Building is a large, fine-looking structure, the numerous
churches are graceful and picturesque, and everywhere there is a home
look about the town, without pretension, that is very attractive. The
reading-room is cool and very comfortable, the library well managed,
and the museum in the same building is likely, under the care of Mr. Im
Thurm, the new curator, to become a very valuable acquisition to the
colony. Under his superintendence, a very interesting exhibition of
native produce and industry had been held previous to my arrival, and I
was sorry to have missed it.

It has been said that hospitality is on the wane in the West Indies;
well, if that of Demerara may be taken as an example, may it always be
on the wane! A kinder, more hospitable community I never met. It seems
to be the object of the residents to make a stranger’s sojourn among
them as home-like and agreeable as they can. Some one once remarked, and
it has been the fashion to repeat, that the French alone in the West
Indies make the land of their adoption their home, and that the English
make it merely a place of business, from which they hasten at the
earliest opportunity. This may be so, for the English of all others are
a home-loving race, and “the old country” is more, I think, to them than
“fatherland” to the Germans, or “notre pays” to the French. But, whilst
they are in exile, they, at any rate in Demerara, surround themselves as
far as possible with home comforts and home reminiscences, and infuse
something of the far off country sweetness into the inner circle of
their lives. No heart—no, not even a Savoyard’s—feels expatriation so
deeply as an Englishman’s, and none, save those whose lot has been to
sojourn far from home, can imagine the intense longing to see again the
native shores. Do you remember that old poem called “The Home Fever: A
reminiscence of the West Indies?”—the first verse is—

“We sat alone in a trellised bower,
And gazed o’er the darkening deep,
And the holy calm of that twilight hour
Came over our hearts like sleep,
And we dreamed of the banks and the bonny braes
That have gladdened our hearts in childhood’s days.”

and the last,

“Oh! talk of spring to the trampled flower,
Of light to the fallen star;
Of glory, to those who, in danger’s hour,
Lie cold in the field of war;
But ye mock the exile’s heart when ye tell
Of aught save the home where it pines to dwell.”

It will be asked, where do these good people of Georgetown dwell?

Opposite the “Kaieteur” hotel is the Club, which is the pleasantest
resort in the town, as it receives the full benefit of the trade wind,
which on certain occasions by-the-bye wafts other zephyrs than those
fresh from the beautiful hybiscus hedge in front, and is much frequented
by its members. Stretching far away from this club towards the sea-wall
is Main Street, and there and in the neighbouring parallel one the
principal houses of Georgetown are situated. Main Street is broad and
picturesque; a series of wide trenches[28] with green sloping banks
divides it, and on each side runs a fine road. The residences which
line it are all detached, and of various styles of architecture, from
a three-storied edifice with towers and cupola to a low wide-spreading
structure with but one floor above the basement. But all are built for
coolness as well as comfort, and their wide shady verandahs are the
favourite resorts of the family. Many of the gardens are brilliant
masses of colour, resembling a rich oil-painting, rather than a delicate
water-colour of those of European lands. The tints are so gorgeous
and heavy; there are bushes of the crimson hybiscus, scarlet cordias,
flaming poinsettias, trailing corallitas, the bright flowers of the bois
immortelle, the drooping clusters of the red quiscualis, the vermilion
blossoms of the flamboyant, all vying in splendour with saffron petrœas,
deep blue convolvuluses, abutilons, and the white trumpets of the datura.
In one garden I remember seeing a resplendent mass of Bougainvilleas,
and on a neighbouring tree some equally showy blossoms of a magnificent
crimson orchid—_Cattleya superba_; between them crept pale clusters
of English honeysuckle, not a bit abashed by their grand neighbours,
but rather exulting in the fragrance denied to their bright-coloured
companions.

Marbled crotons and purple dracœnas are tipped by strange-looking papaws,
whose wax-like blossoms grow direct from the trunks and branches, and
above these tower shade-trees and tall palms. Very conspicuous are the
royal palms, standing either singly or in groups, and near them bend the
cocoa-nut trees, as if in acknowledgment of the superior majesty of their
kings. Besides the houses, some pretty churches, half-hidden in trees,
give a finish to this the most picturesque street in Georgetown.

In the adjacent street are also some neat houses, and on one side of it
are the Public Gardens with the small but ever hospitable Government
House opposite. In the gardens are some specimens of the Victoria
Regia—the lily which was discovered by Sir Robert Schomburg on the
Berbice river—but in size they are not to be compared with some in other
parts of Demerara; for instance on one of the plantations, Leonora,
is a plant whose leaves are over six feet in diameter, and strong
enough to bear the weight of an average-sized man when a board has
been placed across to distribute the weight properly. There is also a
fine cannon-ball tree,[29] under whose shade the weary traveller may
experience sensations similar to those of Damocles, as the huge fruit,
which is as big as a twenty-pound shot and nearly as heavy, seems
always ready to fall from its slender hanging stem. The gardens are not
very interesting, but afford a pleasant playground for children, and a
delicious gossiping ground for their attendant nurses.

Let me now recall the usual daily routine in Georgetown. A little before
six o’clock tea and toast; after that I never knew for certain what
anyone did up to breakfast at half-past nine, probably because my time
till then was entirely taken up in getting a bath, dressing, and trying
to keep cool. I believe though that business was the occupation. As for
riding or early walking exercise, I saw none of it, but then again that
may have been through my own dilatoriness, although I doubt it. Breakfast
was a very substantial meal, too substantial in fact at the “Kaieteur,”
and not tempting enough for a hot climate.

Long before the traveller reaches Demerara, he will have discovered that
no meal in the West Indies is without salt-fish from Newfoundland; that
and pepper-pot are standard works. Good fresh fish in Georgetown is
something of a rarity—at least it was with us at the hotel—and when Jew
fish is in the market a bell-man goes round proclaiming the fact and the
price per pound. The flesh is coarse, but appreciated by the poorer class
when it is cheap. Housekeepers also complain of the scarcity of good
meat, and certainly the beefsteaks and mutton chops furnished to us were
poor.

After breakfast, business is attended to with decreasing energy up to
luncheon, and then dies a natural death in the course of the afternoon.
About five p.m. all the world—with the exception of the steady whist and
euchre players at the club—takes an airing. Those who have carriages
drive out to the sea-wall, which is the promenade, and those who have
not walk there. Nursery maids take their charges to the public gardens,
coolies lead out cows and oxen to graze, black boys exercise their
masters’ dogs, horsemen ride out to the race-course, and unfortunate
cripples—chiefly Chinese—in all stages of terrible disease, come forth
and beg. A late dinner, followed probably by some delightful music—as
Georgetown boasts of a very excellent Philharmonic Society—winds up the
day.

I must not forget to add that it is just possible that its interludes
have been filled up by a certain institution of Demerara known as
“swizzles.” Most cities and towns have some small peculiarity, for which
they are as well remembered as for their greater. Demerara and swizzles
are inseparably connected in my mind. The exact recipe for a swizzle I
cannot give, although I have seen it concocted not unfrequently; but it
is a deliciously cold drink, of a delicate pink colour, and when lashed
into a foam by the revolutions of a peculiar instrument called the
swizzle-stick, and imbibed out of a thin glass, it makes a very pretty
drink. By a wonderful provision of Nature the tree which furnishes the
pronged stick, without which the beverage would lose much of its charm,
grows abundantly in Guiana. The exact time for indulging in a swizzle
has not been clearly defined, but as a general rule in Demerara it is
accepted whenever offered. It is taken in the morning to ward off the
effect of chill, before breakfast to give a tone to the system, in the
middle of the day to fortify against the heat, in the afternoon as a
suitable finale to luncheon, and again as a stimulant to euchre, and
a solace for your losses. Before dinner it acts as an appetizer, and
it is said that when taken before going to bed it assists slumber. And
very frequently in Georgetown anything to induce sleep would be welcome,
as the incessant “dignity” balls of the negroes are fatal to slumber.
The noisier they are, the better they are enjoyed, and a lull of a few
minutes only gives fresh energy to subsequent demonstrations. Verily the
coloured folk give a literal interpretation of their own proverb, that
“what you lose in de jig, you gain in de reel.”

Even the guttural notes of the frogs, of which there are an extraordinary
number in the trenches, are preferable to the negro discord. When
Bacchus was rowed along the Styx he could not have been greeted with
a more varied frog’s chorus than that which day and night salutes the
inhabitants of Georgetown. “Awnk, awnk, awnk,” roars the bass, “week,
week, week,” pipes the tenor, “cru, cru, cru,” screams the soprano, and
then the full choir joins in a refrain which swells and falls with the
breeze. One quaint little fellow has a peculiarly sweet note, so exactly
like a whistle that I have frequently stopped in my walk and turned to
see who it was that wanted to attract my attention. Just as plentiful and
more amusing are the crabs which frequent the dykes and mud flats around
the town. The “calling crabs”[30] are especially entertaining, as they
wave and beckon with their great claw, and then scurry away at the least
attempt to approach them. Often in their fright they miss their holes,
then in despair place themselves in fighting attitude, and dare you to
the attack. Another common and very hideous creature is the little fish
known as “Four Eyes,”[31] which takes amusement in shooting along the
water and stranding itself at every opportunity.

The feathered tribe are not strongly represented around Georgetown, but,
as a “Birds’ Protection Ordinance” has lately been passed in Guiana as
well as in Trinidad, they may have a chance of multiplying. The commonest
bird is a species of flycatcher called “Qu’est-ce qu’il dit,” which are
the exact words it utters; it is pretty and sociable, and its querulous
notes are heard from many a tree and house top. It will be interesting
to learn after a lapse of time whether the bird-law has tended to the
increase of birds in towns and settlements. Of bright-plumaged birds the
humming-birds alone frequent habitations, and it will be chiefly their
increasing numbers that will tell the tale. The brilliant family of
chatterers, the troupials, the cocks-of-the-rock, the trogons, toucans,
the tanagers, fire-birds,[32] macaws, manakins, and other gay denizens
of Guiana live so far from the haunts of white men that any increase in
their numbers can only be assumed.

It is singular to note the constant development of the feather trade; the
day is long past when every fine gentleman, king and commoner, decked
himself with plumes, but now, when fashion requires them for ladies
alone, the demand is far greater. Forests, mountains, and swamps in all
parts of the world are ransacked to supply the dealers, and probably,
not before the last bird becomes as extinct as the dodo, will the mania
for feathers have died out. And it cannot be denied that the plumage of
birds makes a most beautiful adornment, and, though in dress, a head
here, a wing there, and a bit of the breast somewhere else, is not the
most advantageous mode of showing off the glistening beauties, yet even
the dismembered parts shine with matchless and inimitable tints. In
the present day there is little that cannot be imitated; artificial
flowers, stones, plants, fruit, fish, and human limbs are so skilfully
fashioned as sometimes to deceive the sharpest eye. It has been said,
too, that glass eyes have been made so perfectly that even the wearers
themselves cannot see through the deception. But birds and their nests
defy imitation.

A short time before my arrival in Georgetown, the community had been
much amused by the advent of a series of commissioners who had come from
the United States to inquire into the manufacture of “coloured” sugar.
Some cargoes of this sugar had been detained at the custom-house in one
of the American ports, under the impression that the sugar had been
“artificially” coloured, thereby avoiding the high duties on light sugars.

Duly furnished with Government credentials, they came, saw, and departed,
fully convinced, I believe, that the “coloured” sugar outcry was what is
vulgarly called a mare’s nest. One of the commissioners—a very pleasant
young fellow—on finding, when he arrived, that he had been forestalled by
others, wisely relinquished his sugar researches, and instead established
the first telephone in British Guiana between Georgetown and Berbice. The
last I heard of him was that he was about to be appointed consul either
in British, French, or Dutch Guiana. The versatility of the true American
is indeed wonderful.

Sugar-making has been so often described that I must refrain from
giving an account of a visit to a Demerara plantation, much as I should
have liked it. It must suffice to say that there you see the latest
improvements in machinery, the latest scientific appliances for vacuum
pans, centrifugals,[33] &c., and in fact sugar manufacture on a grand
scale.

You also see a veritable “little Holland,” as water forms the boundaries
of estates, and by water the produce is transported to the mills. Dams
and canals intersect the estates, and the navigation system is complete.
You see, too, how the welfare of the coolie is attended to, his hospital,
his home, his provision grounds, and how much better off in every way
he is than in his native land. I once saw a coolie vessel arrive in
Georgetown, and though her passengers wept and embraced the captain and
officers in their sorrow at having to leave, yet they looked very lean
and emaciated in comparison with those I afterwards saw working on the
estates. The ships which bring them over are well regulated, and as
comfortable as circumstances will admit, but the voyage is trying for a
non-sea-going race. One of the mates, in answer to a question, told me
they were “a docile, uncomplaining lot, but dirty, as they were always
using water.”

The visitor to a Demerara plantation is sure of a hearty welcome, that is
always fresh and invigorating, however hot the day or tame the scenery
may be. And even in the scenery there is always something interesting
besides sugar, some strange fruit-bearing tree, some flower or bird,
and the cane-laden boats, with a brightly clad figure among the green
blades, are always picturesque. The country is flat certainly—the only
hill I ever found about Georgetown was on the cricket ground—but it is
not monotonous if one chooses to look about and enjoy it. Even the muddy
river has its attractions, as the last time I crossed it after a visit to
a plantation it was covered with hundreds of Portuguese men-of-war[34]
whose large air sacks and vertical crests shone resplendently in every
shade of purple and blue.

I must not conclude this sketch of social Demerara without alluding to a
certain distribution of the government of the colony which, I believe,
is peculiar to British Guiana. Besides the Governor, there is what is
called a Court of Policy, and also the Combined Court, which consists
of the members of the Court of Policy together with six financial
representatives chosen by the people for two years. The Court of Policy
is composed of ten members, five of them being Government officers, and
five elected from the college of Keizers or Electors. This college is a
body of seven members chosen for life by the inhabitants who possess the
suffrage, for which an annual income of six hundred dollars qualifies.
The Court of Policy carries on the general legislative business, whilst
taxation and expenditure are in the power of the Combined Court. Every
member of the Combined Court has an equal vote, and also the power of
rejecting, if he thinks proper, a bill passed by the majority. Thus
Kings, Lords, and Commons rule in Demerara, and to their enterprise and
liberality I owe my visit to Roraima.

Mr. McTurk a Government official, who was experienced in bush life,
and possessed of qualifications well suited to the purpose, had been
commissioned by the Governor to superintend the expedition, and towards
the end of February I received intimation to join him at the settlement
near the junction of the Cuyuni and Mazaruni rivers, where he awaited me
with his boats.

CHAPTER XIII.

Early on the morning of the 23rd of February the steamer, which was to
take me part of the way to the settlement, started from Georgetown. The
wharf—or stelling, as the wooden pier is called—presented an animated
scene as the fruit-boats were being unloaded, and the vast quantities of
pine-apples and mangoes, especially of the latter, were surprising; some
of the canoes were actually overflowing with the golden fruit, and were
weighed down to the water’s edge. Mangoes form no inconsiderable item in
the food of the blacks of Demerara.

We were soon clear of the native and foreign craft, quitted the Demerara
river and proceeded in a north-westerly direction towards the Essequibo.
To the mouth of that river from Georgetown is only about five and twenty
miles, and so in spite of one or two delays at different landing-places
on the west coast, it was not long before we found ourselves in a vast
island-dotted expanse that suggested a lake rather than a river. From
one side of the mainland to the other, the embouchure of the Essequibo is
seventeen or eighteen miles in width, and is divided into four separate
channels by islets and sandy shoals.

At Wahenaam, one of the largest of these islands, we changed steamers,
as from that point a smaller one alone runs up to the settlement, fifty
miles further on. Then we were fairly in the Essequibo River, whose
breadth here is about eight miles. Of the mainland, we could only see
now and then the fringing line of courida[35] bushes and the chimneys
belonging to the plantations, but the island scenery was pretty and
varying. In places the luxuriant vegetation had been cleared and plantain
farms were seen extending far back into the surrounding bush, with a
few tumble-down but picturesque huts in the foreground. These farms are
chiefly owned by Portuguese, who make considerable profit out of them.
Here and there in the open spaces were ovens for burning charcoal, and
their proprietors—Chinese—were busily employed cutting down trees or
planting rice and other vegetable products.

Mingled with the bamboos and larger trees were several varieties of
palms, of which the most prominent were the Mauritias—Ite—easily
recognised by the bunches of red fruit, and the dead drooping fronds
which give an untidy aspect to the useful tree. There were also specimens
of the jagua and numberless fan palms,[36] whose leaves furnish a sort of
wax, but the most graceful of all were the manicoles, very straight and
slim, and rising to a height of about forty feet.

At last, after some hours, the monotonous green of the land scenery
was broken by a narrow promontory, on which stands the small village of
Bartica Grove, which is situated at the junction of the Essequibo and the
Mazaruni. This little settlement is a favourite resort of the Indians
from the interior, who come down to trade with the few Portuguese who
live there. Besides the latter there are but few whites, the greater
number of inhabitants being river-men, who, as their name implies, pass
their lives in navigating the waters, their principal occupation being
in carrying timber from the various wood-cutting locations. They are a
strange race, a mixture of Dutch, Indian, and negro descent, and though
skilful and hard-working in their own vocation, yet possess in a marked
degree, it is said, the attributes of the half-breed, _i.e._, all the
vices of civilization and none of the virtues of the savage.

Leaving the Grove on our left, we proceeded up the Mazaruni, and in
half-an-hour arrived at the settlement. The view here is fresh and
charming. On land the rising ground is planted with mango, palms, and
shade trees, behind which are seen the neat prison buildings—for it
is a Penal Settlement—and the houses of the Superintendent and other
officers. Across the river some houses are situated on the bank, and also
on the cleared sloping forest land, which is diversified with pasture
and huge granite boulders. Below, at Bartica Grove, the mighty stream of
the Essequibo is joined by that of the Mazaruni, and higher up there is
another meeting of the waters, as there the Mazaruni is joined by the
magnificent Cuyuni, whose mouth is nearly a mile in width.

About thirty miles up the Cuyuni is an abandoned gold mine, the sole
spot in Sir Walter Raleigh’s “El Dorado” where gold has up to the
present been discovered, and even here in such small quantities that the
working of it did not pay. Since the days of Raleigh, Guiana has earned
a fictitious fame, chiefly through the extraordinary stories set abroad
by that adventurer. Historians differ regarding Sir Walter’s own belief
in the existence of “El Dorado,” but it seems probable from his writings
that he was capable of believing anything. For instance, he says, “A
similar people were said to live in Guiana, on the banks of the Caora;
this may be thought a fable, yet for my own part I am resolved it is
true, because every child in the province of Arromaia affirms all the
same; they are called Ewaipanomi, and are reported to have their eyes in
their shoulders and their mouths in the middle of their breasts, and that
a long train of hair groweth backwards between the shoulders.” Again, in
speaking of the supposed city of El Dorado, he says that, “for greatness,
riches, and the excellent seat, it far exceeded any city in the world,
and founded on an inland sea two hundred leagues long, like unto the Mare
Caspium.”

The historian Hume says: “So ridiculous are the tales which he tells of
the Inca’s chimerical empire in the midst of Guiana; the rich city of El
Dorado or Manoa, two days journey in length, and shining with gold and
silver; the old Peruvian prophecies in favour of the English, who, he
says, were expressly named as the deliverers of that country long before
any European had even touched there; the Amazons, or republic of women;
and in general, the vast and incredible riches which he saw on that
continent, where nobody has yet found any treasures!”

As regards the Amazons and the Ewaipanomi, there are plenty of civilized
Indians who still assert the existence of a wonderful race of beings
who inhabit certain portions of Upper Guiana, which as yet have been
untrodden by white men. Concerning the golden city on the inland sea, it
is not improbable that the origin of the romance arose from the fact that
the low alluvial lands around Lake Parima were inundated every year to
such an extent that the natives navigated the forests in their canoes.
The chief of a certain tribe who inhabited this locality, is said to have
indulged in the luxury of a golden shower-bath every morning, that is, he
powdered himself with a glittering but valueless substance called golden
sand, which is merely iron ore in minute particles. Hence his cognomen,
El Dorado, or the Golden Man. His palace was found to be a natural
grotto, the walls of which were formed of micaceous rock that shone with
a yellow metallic glitter. It may be that the glittering mica, derived
from the granite which is prevalent in Guiana, deluded Raleigh into the
belief that it was gold, for he says, when speaking of a ledge of “white
sparre or flint,” that he endeavoured to break it by all the means that
he could, “because there appeared on the outside some small grains of
gold ... of which kind of white stone (wherein gold is engendered), we
saw divers hills in every part of Guiana wherein we travelled.”

To return to the settlement. Immediately on landing I was met by McTurk,
who, in spite of the day being far advanced, wisely determined to start
at once; and so, throwing aside those trammels of civilization, coat,
collar, and waistcoat, we stepped into our boats and were ready for
our trip of two or three months into the interior. Two ordinary-sized
boats—or bateaus, as they are called—and a strong well-built canoe
composed the fleet. In colour they had been respectively painted red,
white, and blue, and each was named after a certain species of frog;
the largest was the “Bura-buraloo,” the next was the “Adaba,” and
the canoe was the “Akoora.” The crew consisted of fifteen civilized
Indians—Arawaak and Acawais—good and tried men, most of whom had been on
short expeditions with McTurk, and who therefore understood his ways and
were aware that when he said a thing he meant it, that faithfulness and
good conduct would be rewarded, and laziness and bad behaviour as surely
punished. They nearly all understood a little English, but they preferred
a sort of “pigeon” English peculiar to McTurk, and which always reminded
me of a stage Dutchman’s language. The strongest and most intelligent
Indian in each boat is the captain, who, seated in the stern, uses his
paddle to direct the course. Next to him in rank is the bowman, who has
to keep a sharp look out for rocks and shoals.

Each boat was laden with provisions,[37] which were limited as far as
possible to absolute necessaries, as after leaving the boats we knew that
the difficulties of transportation would be very great. In addition,
there was our own clothing—a very slender supply—guns, ammunition,
trading articles, pots and pans, &c., everything, certainly, reduced to
a minimum, but nevertheless, forming sufficiently heavy loads.

Before starting, I cast longing eyes at two or three luxurious
tent-boats, provided with awnings, lockers, and curtains, all of which
were denied us; but before many days I recognised the superiority of
our own, as the long drought had shallowed the river, and it would have
been impossible for the deep tent-boats to have ascended some of the
cataracts. Taking our seats in the centre of our respective boats, McTurk
gave the word, and in an hour the strong paddles of our crews had placed
a considerable distance between us and the settlement, and we were really
on the way to Roraima. At one time we feared that our start would prove
inauspicious, as the strong wind blowing up the river raised such waves
that once or twice we were almost swamped, but gradually we gained the
opposite coast, and under the lee of the land entered comparatively
smooth water.

Owing to the lateness of our departure we soon had to camp, and spying
an old shed near the water’s edge, we landed, slung up our hammocks, and
there passed the night. To a traveller, I know of no cheaper luxury than
a hammock. On a former long journey through the tropics I had burdened
myself with a folding bed, thinking from very slight experience that
to sleep in a hammock would be impossible. But now I discovered that
a well-slung hammock, in which you have placed yourself diagonally,
not parallel, so that your head and feet are too elevated, is a very
delightful place of rest. By day a pleasant lounge, by night a clean
bed even in dirty hovels, unscalable by insects, light and compact,
easily put up and easily taken down, a hammock becomes an indispensable
companion, especially dear when travelling in countries where even the
most necessary articles have to be limited. We could hardly have selected
a more likely spot for those pests of Guiana, namely, vampires and
jiggers. The former frequent the clearings around sheds and houses, and
in the dead of night when all are asleep—they never pay their visits as
long as even one person in a party is awake—they fasten on an exposed
toe or some part of the foot and cup the sleeper, who awakes faint and
exhausted. Horses and cattle suffer equally from their attacks, and
fowls frequently drop dead from their perches, their life blood drained
to the very last drop. As a provision against these unpleasant visitors
I had provided myself with a long double blanket, so that under no
circumstances could a forgetful toe exhibit itself outside its covering.

A jigger (_Pulex penetrans_), as everyone knows, is a toe-loving
creature, and makes its nest under the nails, and, if allowed, lays its
eggs. As they swarm in every deserted hut and in every old Indian shed,
and in sand, it is impossible to avoid them; morning and evening a strict
examination of the feet by a competent Indian is absolutely necessary
when travelling in the interior. In spite of great care and watchfulness
on our part a search was seldom unrewarded, but we never approached the
number once collected by Sir Robert Schomburgh, of whom it is related
that a negress once extracted eighty-three from his feet at one sitting.

But, notwithstanding jiggers and vampires, the nights on the Mazaruni
are always enjoyable because there are no mosquitoes; in many parts of
Guiana, especially on the Pomeroon River, these plagues are so bad that
cattle have been driven wild by them, and are always obliged to be shut
up at night in mosquito-proof sheds; there, also, a mosquito net is
invariably included in the agreement between master and labourer. Here we
were free from them, and a patent hammock mosquito netting that had been
given me by a kind friend in Georgetown was devoted to other uses.

Next morning we made an early start, and soon passed Coria island, on
which a Dutch fort once stood, and the last that we saw of civilization
was the little mission-house of St. Edward’s, picturesquely situated
on the opposite bank of the mainland. Above this point we entered that
labyrinth of islands which, together with the innumerable rapids and
cataracts, form the chief features of the Mazaruni River for nearly one
hundred miles. Only one of our crew had ever ascended the river before,
and, as he did not appear to remember much about it, we determined to
keep to the main channel, as being the safest, out of the numerous ones
into which it was divided. This was no easy matter, as, on account of
the lowness of the water, and the great breadth—between three and four
miles—of the river, it was often very difficult to decide which was the
main channel, and sometimes we found our passage barred by shallows and
had to return and seek another.

We ascended two rapids, and then came to the rather steep falls of
Kosterbroke. A sad interest is attached to this place, as it was here
that in 1863 seven young men lost their lives. A pleasure party,
consisting of visitors from Trinidad and others who had been engaged in
a cricket match at Georgetown, visited the settlement and ascended the
Mazaruni as far as these rapids; whilst descending them, the tent-boat
capsized and seven of its occupants were drowned. Report says that a
midshipman, who formed one of the party, was swept away and given up
for lost, but was discovered later on sitting on a rock in mid channel,
drying a five-pound note in the sun.

The ascent of these cataracts affords a very lively and exciting scene.
All hands, except the steersman, leave the boat, a long stout hawser
is fastened to her bow, and by sheer strength she is hauled up through
the rushing waters. Some of the crew wade by the side of the boat,
to keep her from the rocks, others swim or dive across from adjacent
points to where the best purchase can be secured, and the rest, holding
the rope, pull with might and main straight up the current. A charming
variety exists in these rapids; sometimes they may be ascended by taking
advantage of the different currents and paddling with great power
diagonally across the channel; others have short but steep falls, and
others again extend for a long distance in a series of steep inclines,
whilst the volume of pouring water in a few is so great that boats have
to be carried round them overland. At the Warimambo Rapids, which we
reached soon after passing Kosterbroke, we had to unload the boats and
make a portage of about two hundred yards. A lot of negro woodcutters,
who sat grinning at us on the rocky banks, informed us that it would be
impossible for us to haul the boat up those rapids, but our men worked
splendidly, and in about two hours we had loaded the boats and were off
again.

The river here presented an extraordinary appearance from its great
breadth and the innumerable rocks which cropped up in every direction.
Many of these rocks were covered with the pretty pink flower of some
water-plant. The islands and the low mainland were covered with virgin
forest, whose intense green was relieved at intervals by the blazing
crimson spikes of the kara-kara[38] or the various tinted canopies of
the giant moras. The mora[39] may be termed the oak of the tropical
forests of Guiana, as it far exceeds other trees in dimensions; its
lofty wide-spreading branches, with glossy foliage changing from purple
to red, add a distinctive charm to the scenery, but a deceptive one, as
frequently we would exclaim. “At last there is some rising ground,” which
on approach proved to be only two or three moras towering above the rest
of the forest trees. Besides the moras, we were continually passing many
varieties of the valuable timber with which Guiana is so plentifully
supplied. Now a green-heart[40] or a splendid purple-heart, occasionally
a “letter-wood” tree and numerous “ballis,” such as mora balli—balli
meaning wood, and when attached to a word signifies akin to: itaballi,
hubaballi, silverballi, &c.[41]

McTurk from practical experience in superintending Government
wood-cutting was quite an authority on timber, and cast many longing
eyes on grand trunks that would have squared from twenty to twenty-eight
inches, with a length of from seventy to eighty feet. Overhanging
the river, were also many shrubs of the “mahoe,”[42] whose bright
yellow flowers contrasted with climbing purple petrœas and crimson
passion-flowers. But the bright colours were mere islets in the
surrounding sea of green, and it was necessary to observe closely in
order to note the varying forms of vegetable life.

After the Warimambo, we came almost immediately on some very steep
rapids, but which fortunately had sufficient depth of water to allow of
the boats being hauled up without unloading. Here one of the crew nearly
lost his life, as he was swept off his feet by the strong current, and
only just caught the rope in time to save himself from being carried over
a dangerous eddy, in which, as he was a weak swimmer, he would probably
have been sucked under and drowned. He attributed his safety to the
strictness with which the Indians had observed the proper respect due
to a trogon that had flown over our heads in the morning; they have a
superstition that, if on setting out on a journey they should turn their
backs to this species of birds, ill luck will surely follow.

That evening we camped under some fine green-hearts that grew on the
banks, which were here higher than we had hitherto seen. At this period
camping was a very short business with us, as owing to the prevailing
fine weather no shelter was necessary. On landing, some of the crew
collected fire-wood and the cook prepared his provisions; two or three
cut away the underbrush and slung up our hammocks on suitable trees apart
from the others, and after they had hung their own the camp was finished.
As McTurk had been unable to obtain at Georgetown a cook who was willing
to work and carry loads like the other men, we were entirely at the
mercy of the Indians, whose ideas of cookery were of the most primitive
description. To them their rations of salt fish, rice, and fat bacon
were luxuries, and a small alligator they considered a prize, but McTurk
and I often agreed that our very plain fare would have been improved by
even moderate cooking. Of canned meats and relishes, we had to be very
sparing, but of flour we had an unlimited supply. But here again we
failed in having any means of rendering the flour palatable, although it
perforce formed the chief item of our meals. It was prepared in two ways;
in the first, the flour was kneaded into a cake of dough, roasted on the
embers and called a “bake;” in the second it was kneaded into a ball of
dough, boiled in a pot and called a “dumpling;” under either name it was
equally leathery and indigestible, and only with butter, of which we had
a very small supply, and brown sugar, was it possible to eat it. Later on
in our journey we made a slight improvement in the bakes and dumplings
by adding some of “Eno’s Fruit Salt,” which had been recommended to us
as containing valuable properties for a cooling drink in case of fever,
thereby causing the flour to rise and the cakes to become lighter. It was
certainly a novel baking-powder, but it succeeded. In future years should
a traveller discover one of these “bakes” on the banks of the river, he
will be puzzled about its origin, and will probably conclude that it is
the fossil remains of some extinct species of shell-fish.

The crew took it in turns to cook for themselves, whilst the smartest of
them became our own particular “chef,” and a strong active young fellow,
called “Charlie,” acted as our trenchman. Charlie could turn his hand
to anything, from building a house to making a basket, and was always
ready and willing; he and his duplicate, Sammy, were the ones who worked
hardest in and out of the water; they carried the heaviest loads, they
shot the most game, were most skilful in raising shelters, and were the
two who were never ill. Sometimes in the night a rain storm would come
on, and Charlie was always ready with tarpaulins to stretch over our
hammocks.

The nights were usually warm, but the mornings were chilly, and an early
plunge into the river was like a warm bath, so great was the difference
between the temperature of the air and water. And those morning and
evening swims in the clear brown water—brown from the colouring matter of
the wallaba[43] trees—of the broad Mazaruni were delightful, especially
when contrasted with the tiny bucketful and the narrow bath-room of the
hotel at Georgetown!

CHAPTER XIV.

“Thirteen o’clock,” was the extraordinary and invariable announcement
with which McTurk roused the slumbering Indians at daybreak. The origin
of such an unwonted hour has always been wrapped in mystery to me, but it
sufficed that the men understood it, and, a few minutes after the cry had
resounded through the camp, coffee was ready, hammocks taken down, boats
loaded, and we commenced another day of river travel. Our nights under
the purple-hearts had been cool and pleasant, and had prepared us for a
day which turned out to be one of incessant falls and rapids. The crews
were hardly ever out of the water, and the sun poured down with such
power that even the well-tanned backs of the Indians were scorched and
blistered.

Between the wooded islands acres of rock rose two or three feet above the
water, revealing the most curious formations and indentations, varying
in size and shape from perfectly rounded bullet moulds to smooth oval
cauldrons. About half-past ten we stopped for breakfast, and whilst it
was being prepared I wandered around the island with my gun in search
of game, but found nothing. I was not quite unrewarded however, as on
passing under a low-hanging bough I received a sharp and painful nip,
as if a pair of red hot pincers had taken a piece of flesh out of my
back. At first I thought a snake must have stung me, but to my relief on
looking back I saw it must have been done by a “marabunta,” whose nest
was hanging near.

The sting of these Guiana wasps is extremely painful, and it was
predicted that fever would probably set in; although it caused a good
deal of inflammation, however, I was none the worse, but avoided
marabunta nests in future. When paddling, the Indians were continually
annoyed by large bumble-bees, which buzzed about their heads, and
sometimes followed the boats for more than a mile; I do not know what
attracted them, but as they did not trouble me I could afford to laugh at
the frantic efforts of the men to drive them off.

That evening we camped on the left bank of the mainland near a creek,
whose cold stream was very refreshing after the warm river water we had
been drinking. Here McTurk and some of the crew suffered from slight
feverish attacks, but a good dose of quinine set them up again, and next
morning they were ready to proceed. On this day we met with an accident
which might have occasioned a very serious loss. Two of the boats had
been hauled safely up a long rapid, down which the water was rushing
with great velocity, but the large one—the Bura-buraloo—was struck by a
wave and commenced to sink; the crew, instead of slackening the rope,
held on, and only loosened it when it was too late, as the boat drifted
a short way down and sank. Fortunately it was not deep, and in less
time than it takes to relate we had reached her, and rapidly unloading
conveyed her contents to the neighbouring rocks. Then commenced such
a drying as probably had never been witnessed on the Mazaruni before.
Tarpaulins were laid, and the wet rice, soaked biscuit, and drowned peas
spread over them.

The flour was not much damaged, as the water had made a cake round the
inside of the barrel which kept the rest dry. The greatest loss we
sustained was in the brown sugar, as not more than half was saved, and
that in a semi-liquid state. This was a misfortune, as the Indians were
intensely fond of sugar, and it formed part of their daily rations;
indeed without it their wretchedly made coffee would have been barely
drinkable. Knives, forks, and spoons were swept away, and had I not had a
small travelling case with another set we should have been badly off. Our
guns, clothes, and hammocks happened to be in the boat, and all were in
a sad plight, but the sun shone so hot and strong that, though it drove
us from the rocks to the shade of an island, everything gradually dried,
and after a detention of about four hours we were enabled to proceed. Our
camping ground that night was near some rocks whose formation was more
extraordinary than that of any we had hitherto seen, resembling the bones
of mammoths, and the fossil teeth and jaws of gigantic animals of the old
world.

The following day, after ascending a few rapids and traversing the wide
stretches of almost still water that lay between them, we stopped for
breakfast at a pretty spot where a dry water course between two islands
formed a dark cool lane, overhung by the meeting branches. Wandering up
this I disturbed a beautiful Ara humming-bird,[44] which I recognised by
its two long tail feathers, and the flash of red and golden green. He
flew from a dead tree—which had been split down the middle, probably by
some wandering Indians to obtain honey, as I found the glutinous remnants
of an enormous comb—and then returned to it, but I could not catch
another glimpse of him, although I searched long and ardently, as I was
anxious to obtain a specimen of this gorgeous little creature.

Near this place we shot some fine macaws, whose long scarlet and blue
tail feathers were quickly made into head-dresses by the crew. With
the exception of parrots and cranes, we had not seen up to the present
time a great variety of birds; the most numerous were orioles, trogons,
and toucans. The latter were a never-failing source of amusement, as,
with slow and jerky flight like that of a woodpecker, the ungainly
birds crossed and recrossed the river, uttering their monotonous cry,
“Tucáno, tucáno.” The commonest of this species was the large one called
by the Indians “bouradi,” whose enormous bill is of the most brilliant
and variegated tints of red, yellow, blue, and black. The crested
cassique[45] was another common bird, and the only one which uttered
musical sounds; it was very delightful to hear one of them pouring forth
his rich and ventriloquial notes, and with raised crest and outspread
golden tail singing love-songs to his mate as she swung in her aerial
hammock.

Some of the pouch nests of these birds that we saw must have been nearly
three feet in length, and, as they are invariably suspended from the ends
of most slender boughs, they are safe from the rapacious maws of monkeys
and other marauders. As a further precaution against danger, it is said
that they always build on trees where the dreaded marabuntas have their
nests, and in return for the protection thus afforded feed their young on
the larvæ of their patron insects.

We were now approaching what we had heard were the most formidable
cataracts in the river, namely, those of Yaninzaec, and hardly had we
with difficulty dragged the boats up one set of rapids before we heard
a roar of water that betokened a great fall. A turn in the river then
brought us in full view of a most picturesque scene. Forming a crescent
were five separate cataracts, fifteen or twenty feet in height, and
divided from one another by wooded islets. The river rushed with great
force over the rocky barriers, and the foam flakes were carried past us
in large white masses, or before reaching us were caught in the back
eddies and lay like snow-banks under the green bushes.

When we first appeared, a great jabiru[46]—or negro cap, as it is
sometimes called on account of its black head and neck—was stalking
about under the falls; and above, on a ledge of rock overhung by the
golden flowers of the cedar-bush, three white egrets stood and looked in
amazement at our unexpected intrusion, then gathering up their long legs
flapped off to a distant tree.

After a lengthened investigation as to how we could reach the top of
the falls, we discovered the Indian “portage;” so, after landing, we
unloaded the boats, carried the baggage over the rocks for a distance of
about one hundred yards, and then camped. That night I was awakened by
the patter, patter of heavy rain on the leaves overhead, and discovered
that McTurk—who always provided for my comfort before he thought of his
own—had stretched the only available tarpaulin over my hammock, and that
he himself was crouching under a tree trunk trying to keep his hammock
dry. On these journeys a dry hammock is of the utmost importance, as,
if it once gets wet, it takes a long time to dry, and fever is the
inevitable result of sleeping in a damp one.

The rain forced us to commence our day’s work even earlier than usual,
and so by seven o’clock we had carried the boats over the “portage” on
our shoulders, had loaded them, and were again wading through the rapids
above the falls of Yaninzaec. Shortly afterwards we passed on our left
the Cabuni River, which here empties itself into the Mazaruni, and then
another baggage portage became necessary. Then two more cataracts were
overcome, and on the following day we arrived at a fine stretch of river
comparatively free from rapids. On that day we were gladdened by the
first sight of hills, but still the scenery remained tame and monotonous.
Only here and there was the all-pervading green, stained by the young
dark-crimson leaves of the wallaba trees, and but for the slim matapolo
palms scattered in places, and the hot sun, we might have been anywhere
rather than in the tropics.

Only when we landed and on penetrating the forest could we appreciate
the strange forms and luxuriant growth of the tropical vegetation. Then
we saw the great moras and Bertholletias strangled in the folds of
some gigantic creeper, and with their branches laden with arums and the
curiously indented leaves of the pothos family; twisted bush-ropes and
lianes of all descriptions linked the trees together and chained them
to the earth, and while the ground was free from heavy growth, a chaos
of intermingling plants and foliage formed a dense canopy overhead. In
many places on the river, and especially near the rapids, we had seen the
dams which the roving Indians had made for the purpose of catching fish,
but we had not seen any of the natives; now, however, we knew that we
were at last approaching them, for on the rocks around one of the dams
we discovered some freshly beaten hai-arí roots which had been used for
poisoning the water.

Fishing with poison is a favourite method with the Indians, as they
thereby obtain the greatest quantity of fish with the least possible
exertion. Dams are built on the rocky ledges with loose stones, and
with spaces left open for the fish to enter; the roots of the hai-arí—a
leguminous creeper—are beaten on the rocks with heavy clubs until they
are in shreds, which are then soaked in water; the yellow acrid juice
thus obtained is finally poured into the ponds after the inlets have
been stopped. In a few minutes the fish appear on the surface, floating
aimlessly about as if intoxicated, and are either shot with arrows, or
knocked on the head with clubs. Enormous numbers are sometimes killed
in this manner. The flesh of the fish so destroyed, receives no more
deleterious qualities than does that of the forest game which the natives
shoot with arrows poisoned with the deadly “wourali.” For preservation, a
barbecue is erected, and the fish are smoked over a fire.

In the open river, other means have to be adopted for obtaining fish,
and the usual method is with the bow and arrow. Indians are not only
wonderfully quick in seeing fish, but also possess great skill in
shooting them, and, when it is remembered that allowance has to be made
for refraction, the resistance of the water, and the movements of the
fish, it is surprising how successful some of them are. McTurk, who was
no mean performer himself with the bow, told me of most extraordinary
shots that he had witnessed. Amongst our crew we had no very brilliant
marksmen, and we had to depend in a great measure for our supplies on the
Indians whom we chanced to meet. Seven or eight different kinds of arrows
are used, and each has its own particular name. One of the most curious
has its iron or bone point only slightly fixed to the shaft, and to it
is attached a long string which is neatly wound round the stem. When the
fish is hit the point detaches itself, the line runs off, the floating
arrow shows the position of the fish, and the Indian at once gives chase.
All the arrows are very long, some that we used being between five and
six feet in length, and made from the stem of a certain reed.[47]

Several delicately flavoured fish are found in the Mazaruni, but the most
delicious of all is the pacu,[48] which feeds on a species of lacis that
grows abundantly near falls and rapids. They are very shy, but their red
gold colour renders them easily discernible in the clear pools. Owing to
the extent of water-poisoning which had preceded our ascent of the river,
we had only obtained one of these fish, but now, as we were approaching
the Indian camp, we hoped to obtain a good supply of both fresh and
smoked.

Suddenly we espied a solitary Indian paddling with might and main to
get away from us; we gave chase, but in his light woodskin he speedily
distanced us. Then at the end of a long stretch of river we saw what
appeared to be a line of animals swimming across. It proved to be a
string of canoes, whose occupants, frightened at the appearance of the
white men’s boats, had left their fishing ground and were making all
haste to their camp. This we soon reached, and found about twenty men,
women, and children squatting on the rocks like brown monkeys, and
evidently very nervous about the strangers. They proved to be Acawais,
and could certainly not be complimented on their good looks. They were
short of stature, had olive complexions, and hair like a black mop.
The women added to their charms by a few pot-hooks tattooed into the
corners of the mouth, and by staining their limbs with blue stripes,
which at a distance gave the idea of tight-fitting drawers. But their
dress was strictly one of imagination, a few square inches of bead
apron—queyou—taking the place of the old original cestus. The men were
attired in the buck-skin suits in which they were born, with some pieces
of straw in their nose and ears, and instead of a bead apron they wore a
strip of calico called a “lap.”

The poor things looked very thin and half-starved, and we learn that
owing to the drought the cassava crop had been a poor one, and they had
been reduced to eating a wretched sort of bread made from the grated
nuts of the green-heart, and now had descended the river on a fishing
expedition. Moore in one of his poems asks:

“Know you what ’midst such fertile scenes
That awful voice of famine means?”

To such a question these Indians might answer “yes.” A more improvident
race does not exist; as long as they can satisfy their immediate wants
they are content. They seldom live on the banks of the large rivers, but
build their huts—two or three of which often constitute a village—near
some retired creek. There they plant a little cassava, and when that is
exhausted they pack their household goods on their backs, and, as they
express it, “walk” _i.e._, they wander about wherever fancy leads them,
pitching their camp sometimes for a day, and sometimes for weeks in one
place. In an indolent fashion they will hunt and fish, and, when they
have no game, live on wild berries; occasionally when they have anything
to sell they will paddle leisurely down to the Settlements and paddle
back in the same easy manner. Time is no object to them, except when a
paiworie[49] feast and dance are on the _tapis_. To be present on such an
occasion they will travel great distances, in an incredibly short time,
they will ascend and descend rivers, cross mountains, penetrate forests,
and die from exhaustion rather than forego the effort necessary to obtain
a drink of paiworie. Our friends had no fresh fish, but we obtained a
few dried pacu, averaging five or six pounds each, and some fish arrows,
of which we were in want, in exchange for fish-hooks and a little salt.
Indians are very fond of salt, and as they can only obtain it in trade it
forms a good article of barter.

We did not camp that evening until we had placed some distance between
ourselves and the natives, as, when the latter think that anything is to
be obtained from white men, they will follow and keep near them as long
as they can, although the direction may be the opposite to that in which
they themselves were originally travelling.

The next day the river was freer than usual from rapids, and we were
enabled to replenish our larder, which up to the present had been sadly
deficient in fresh meat. Some golden red howling monkeys—baboons the
men called them—were our first acquisition, and the chase they gave us
through the forest, though very amusing, covered us with garrapatas—large
ticks—and the equally annoying bête rouge. The latter insect is of a
bright scarlet, and so small as hardly to be distinguished, but it causes
great irritation, and if the skin is scratched it ulcerates, and like all
other sores and wounds in the tropics is difficult to heal. Then we shot
two young alligators each about three feet in length; it was strange that
although on the Mazaruni we saw several baby alligators, yet we never
saw any large ones. Of game birds we bagged a paui, curassow,[50] and
two maroudis, a species of wild turkey. The Indians say that the maroudi
obtained its bare red throat by swallowing a fire-stick which it mistook
for a glow-worm.

Two sorts of water-birds, were very plentiful, namely: ducklars[51]
and curri-curris.[52] We did not often fire at the former, unless we
were very badly off for fresh meat, as, irrespective of their ability
to carry off an incredible amount of the largest shot, they are fishy,
ill-flavoured birds. But the curri-curris, so called from their peculiar
cry, are by no means to be despised, and probably being aware of their
eatable properties generally disappeared into the thick bush, just out of
range. These birds are of an olive and bronze colour, feed snipe-like on
worms, and have a heavy flight, similar to that of an owl.

Sometimes we startled a little sun-bittern, and occasionally we crept
near enough to watch him in his motions whilst fascinating an insect;
then his body would writhe and twist, his slender neck undulating like a
serpent’s folds, but all the time with head quiet and eye steadily fixed
on his victim; finally there was a quick darting movement, and there was
no more insect. Our day’s sport was brought to a conclusion by spearing a
very large electric eel. It was Saturday night, and according to custom
McTurk’s cry of “Grog-oh” speedily brought the crew to receive their
weekly glass—dose they called it—of brandy, and this well-earned medicine
infused such life into their tired bodies that we were kept awake for a
long time by the monotonous strains of an old fiddle with which they were
“making dance.”

The next day we remained in our camp below Turesie cataract, and as
somebody shot a deer, and somebody else a maroudi, we had a grand Sunday
dinner consisting of:

SOUP.
Macaw.

FISH.
Smoked pacu and Electric eel.

SIDE DISHES.
Curried monkey, Maroudi à la Turesie.

JOINT.
Haunch of Venison.

BAKES.
Dumplings, Sea biscuit.

Coffee and Eno’s Fruit Salt _ad lib._

CHAPTER XV.

Towards midnight I was aroused by a low rustling sound in the bushes; as
I glanced around, my eye fell on an old mora tree just opposite, and at
the foot of my hammock, there on the grey trunk I plainly saw the shadow
of a snake’s head and neck. From its position, there could be no doubt
that it was close beside me, and almost over my head, its body being
half hidden by the branches of one of the trees in which it was coiled.
As I watched, the head and neck moved towards me and drew back in slow
undulating movements, the forked tongue shot out and seemed almost to
touch me. I did not dare to move, and hardly to breathe, as the reptile
seemed only waiting for my slightest motion in order to strike. The
minutes that I lay there with my eyes fixed on the horrid shadow seemed
like hours; all sorts of thoughts passed across my brain; had I the
nightmare? could the curried monkey have disagreed with me? I was wet
with perspiration and at last could stand it no longer, but, slowly
disentangling my feet from the blanket, threw myself forward and sprang
to the ground. Seizing my gun, I pointed it to where the snake must have
been, but there was no appearance of one, and a careful search revealed
nothing. Then I went to bed again, and there in front of me, on the tree,
was the same writhing form and shooting tongue. I put up hand, and its
shadow almost grasped the neck of the creature; then I raised myself,
and looking up saw my enemy. A projecting twig and a few leaves gently
swayed by the breeze were all that remained of my snake, but the shadow
they cast was so exactly that of a serpent that when I pointed it out to
McTurk he fully believed for a moment that it was one.

The forests of Guiana are well furnished with everything that a
traveller can want in the shape of beast or insect, and in snakes they
are especially prolific. Of these, the “bush-master”[53] is the most
dreaded, and as its name implies, is lord of the woods. In colour it
is as brilliant as its bite is venomous. The “labarri”[54] is equally
poisonous, but is not so aggressive as the “bush-master.” The “camoodi”—a
boa-constrictor—is the largest of all the snakes, and the stories of
their enormous size and strength would be incredible to any one who had
not travelled in Guiana. A gentleman in Georgetown solemnly assured me
that once when he was out shooting in the interior, with a party of seven
others, they stopped to rest after a long walk and all sat down on a
falling trunk; all at once it began to move, and what they had imagined
to be the trunk of a tree proved to be an immense “camoodi,” which glided
slowly into the forest without being fired at by any of the amazed
spectators. The “water-camoodi”[55] is even larger and more dangerous
than the land species.

It was destined that our night after the shadow-snake incident should not
pass wholly destitute of the pleasures of camp life, as, on putting on my
hat before starting, I found that it was wreathed round and round with
the clay tunnels of the wood-ant, thousands of which had taken advantage
of its position, at the foot of a tree, to erect on it their covered ways
before they climbed up aloft. Charlie was highly amused at the appearance
of the hat, but soon rid it of its inhabitants by holding it over a fire.

After ascending the falls of Turesie we noticed a long reed performing
strange evolutions in the water; this the Indians knew to be an arrow
with a pacu at the end of it, which had been shot and then lost by a
native. We at once gave chase, and a most amusing hunt followed. Whenever
we approached it, one of the crew plunged into the river, and immediately
the arrow disappeared to come up again fifty yards off in another
direction. This was repeated until the poor fish was tired out and at
last landed. Another excitement was in store for us, as hardly had the
pacu been caught before we saw in the distance a deer swimming across
the river. Away went the three boats in full cry, but the light canoe
soon led the chase, and it was a pretty sight to see her shoot through
the water amidst a shower of rainbows raised by the splendidly sweeping
paddles. Now she gains on the deer, no, the animal will reach the shore;
to shoot would be useless, as the body would sink; now he flags, as the
distance he has already swum is great, the “Akoora” flies through the
water, the crew are near enough to hear the panting of the victim, and
the next minute is his last. He proved to be a fine young buck, and was
a great acquisition to our stores. I am afraid I did not want him to
escape, until he had been captured; but I did then, it seemed so hard
that he should have chosen the moment of our arrival for his swim.

Soon after our deer chase we saw a splendid cashew[56] tree loaded with
purple-red fruit. This was a treat not to be neglected, and so in a
quarter of an hour the tree was down and stripped. The fruit was tart,
but extremely refreshing and of a pleasant flavour. Near this place I
took a shot at a parrot, and brought him down so little hurt that by the
evening he had quite recovered his spirits, and in two days was perfectly
tame. He became a great pet, and, as he called himself “Pourri,” we
christened him so. Later on, when one of the boats was sent back to the
settlement, he accompanied it, and there I found him well and happy on my
return.

The river now was freer from impediments than it had been hitherto; the
islands were fewer, and occasionally we were in sight of both banks.
Owing to its shallowness, sandbanks were numerous, and we frequently were
obliged to get out of the boats and push and lift them over. We camped
that evening in sight of a range of hills near the Issano river. An
Indian who had been following us at a distance in his woodskin,[57] since
the previous day, here came up to us. He was skinny and shy, but as
berries and cashews had of late formed his chief support, hunger overcame
his timidity, and he was thankful for some venison. A few matches pleased
him highly, as he had never seen any before, and the small fire which was
burning in his boat must have been a continued source of trouble, as if
it went out, the relighting of it was a laborious process.

Before sunrise next morning we were afloat on a beautiful clear expanse
of water, with a white sandy beach under the trees on both sides. A
silvery haze lay over the silent river, and the western hills were seen
as if through a filmy veil. As the sun rose, the silver changed to gold
in a flood of light that touched the hill crests, and then pouring over
the strange, peaceful land, cast rare tints and shades among the drooping
trees and into the forest depths. Our painted boats were quite in accord
with the bright scene, and the gay feather ornaments of the crews and the
gleam of the paddles were strikingly effective. The sky was of a frosty
blue, unrelieved by a single cloud.

Near where we stopped for breakfast was an Indian shed—banaboo—and there
we found numerous jaws of the pirai, and we were thankful that in our
morning bath we had escaped these voracious fish. The pirai[58] is not
large, but its jaws are so strong and teeth so sharp that it can take off
a finger or a toe at a bite. It will attack anything, even an alligator,
and ducks and geese seldom have any feet where this species of fish
exists, but a man bathing is an object of peculiar attraction to it. Its
flesh is coarse and bony, but the Indians eat it.

Several times that day our attention was directed to a peculiar humming
noise, like the distant burr of machinery in motion, proceeding from the
water over which we passed. McTurk and the Indians, who had heard similar
sounds on the Pomeroon and other rivers, said that they were uttered by
singing fish. That it was fish-music there was no doubt, as the nearer we
placed our ears to the water the more distinct were the sounds, and on
dropping a stone they ceased for a moment and then recommenced. The tone
was by no means inharmonious, and resembled the hum of a busy city heard
from a high church steeple, or the voice of Saint Francis reading prayers
to the fish, to which they were repeating the responses.

As we approached the Teboco hills, one of our Acawais said that he had an
uncle who lived in a village not far from the river, and asked permission
to visit him. This was readily granted by McTurk, and on finding the
landing we all went ashore, and the Indian, quickly dressing himself in a
clean shirt and an old hat, evidently with the intention of astonishing
the natives and showing them what civilization had done for him, started
off with two companions on a two-mile walk through the forest. On the
high bank near where we had landed we found an old shed, and near it,
not in it, as it probably contained a rich entomological collection, we
prepared breakfast, and then awaited the arrival of the absentees.

After a delay of nearly three hours our Indians arrived, and they were
quickly followed by the strangest procession I have ever seen. Along
the narrow forest path, which led from the clearing in which we were
seated, stalked in single file, noiselessly and solemnly, the whole
of the inhabitants from the Indian village. There were only twelve or
thirteen altogether, men, women, and children, but their slow march and
the long intervals between each gave magnitude to their number. As they
arrived they touched our hands, and then retired to a short distance,
the children trying to hide themselves behind their mothers, but with
little success. It was with the utmost difficulty that we could refrain
from loud bursts of laughter, so utterly ridiculous was the appearance
of the natives. The men were short, but stoutly proportioned, and wore
the customary “lap” and bright feathers in their hair. A few had little
patches of white fluff stuck about their faces, and all were freshly
painted. Their heads were got up in a very elaborate style; the parting
of their long black hair was dyed vermillion, and a Vandyck pattern of
the same brilliant colour ran round the forehead. Through the nose and
ears of each were passed yellow straws or strips of wood, those of the
ear resting on that of the nose, and giving a most humorous expression to
their pathetic countenances. Some carried a blow-pipe, others a bow and
arrows. In addition to their bead aprons, the women wore broad armlets
and anklets of beads, and their bodies and limbs were stained and
painted in stripes with crimson “arnotto”[59] and blue black “lana.”[60]
They were tall in proportion to the men and had well-turned limbs, but in
features were coarse and plain.

We were anxious to secure the services of a man who was acquainted with
the river and its tributaries; so, selecting the strongest, we found he
was willing to accompany us, and at once sent his son for his hammock.
In the interval, the ladies and gentlemen entertained us with a dance.
Placing their hands on each other’s shoulders, they formed into line,
and advanced and retreated in a kind of jig. As there were only two or
three steps in it, it became monotonous to all but the dancers, who
continued their amusement until the arrival of the hammock. The wife
of our late acquisition then bitterly lamented the departure of her
husband, and seemed inclined to accompany us herself, but as there was no
room for her we had to decline her offer; then she burst into tears and
would not be comforted. As a last resource we produced some beads, and
immediately tears were dried and the mourning wife was changed to a merry
coquette, whose only anxiety was concerning the colour of the ornaments.
Shakespeare says:—

“Win her with gifts, if she respects not words,
Dumb jewels often in their silent kind,
More than quiet words, do move a woman’s mind.”

Fashion reigns in the wilds of Guiana as it does in the regions of
civilization, and it is of no small importance to a traveller that his
_negotia_—beads, knives, &c.,—should be of the proper colour, shape, or
description.

We christened our new hand “Mazaruni,” not because his name was
William—he said he had been called William during a visit he had paid to
the settlement—but because we already had most of the common Christian
names among our crew. Paiworie and fresh cassava had been the cause of
our delay in the first instance, and a bowl of that unpleasant beverage
was brought for the entertainment of our Indians, who thoroughly enjoyed
it. Two woodskins, containing friends of Mazaruni, accompanied us as
far as the Teboco hills, and there left us, as our course was deflected
due south for some distance. This part of the river was very pretty, as
from each bank numerous points ran out, all thickly wooded with trees
of various shades. Before we reached the southern extremity of this
river-bend we obtained a beautiful view of the Karanang Hills, and beyond
them, to the south, we saw in the far distance a high table-mountain,
and behind that again a lofty peak, dim and hazy, but standing out in
clear outline against the pale blue of the evening sky. This sugar-loaf
peak was said by Mazaruni to be that of Illuie, but on our return another
native who was with us gave it a different name.[61] After passing the
mouth of the Semang River on our left, we rounded the Teboco promontory
by ascending the pretty falls of Teboco, and continued on our way in a
northerly direction. That evening we camped, during a rain storm, on the
left bank of the Mazaruni, opposite the Karanang River. Next day we
varied our game-bag by shooting some snipe, and the numerous fresh tracks
of tapirs gave us hopes of obtaining large game, but a small accourie[62]
was the only four-footed creature we got. This little rodent figures
prominently in Indian mythology.

One of the legends runs thus; the inhabitants of the sky once peeped
through a hole that they had been told not to approach, and on looking
down saw another world. They therefore cut down long bush-ropes and let
themselves down. After wandering about they became frightened and began
to ascend the ladder, but an old lady of too ample proportions stuck in
the hole, and, during the fighting and scrambling that ensued the rope
broke and many had to remain on earth. Then, as they had no provisions
they became very lean, but noticing that the accourie was always plump
they set the woodpecker to watch its feeding ground. But the woodpecker
betrayed himself by his tapping. Then the alligator was told to watch,
and he found out, but came back and told a lie, so they cut out his
tongue.[63] Then the rat was sent off, but he never returned and the
people starved. They wandered off and left a little child behind, and
when they returned after a long time, having lived on berries, they found
the child alive and well, and surrounded by Indian corn cobs that the
accourie had fed it with. Then the child followed the accourie after its
next visit and discovered the maize field, and the people were saved.
In gratitude, they kill and eat the delicate little animal whenever they
have the opportunity.

In their tradition of the Deluge, maize takes the place of the olive
branch. They say that only one man was saved in his canoe, and when
he sent out a rat to discover land, it brought back a head of Indian
corn. The Caribs, in their account of the Creation, say that the Great
Spirit sat on a mora tree, and picking off pieces of the bark threw
them into the stream, and they became different animals. Then the Great
Spirit—Makanaima—made a large mould, and out of this fresh, clean clay,
the white man stepped. After it got a little dirty the Indian was formed,
and the Spirit being called away on business for a long period the mould
became black and unclean, and out of it walked the negro. All the Indian
tribes of Guiana—Acawais, Arawaaks, Arecunas, Warraus, Macusis, &c.—rank
themselves far higher than the negro race, and the Caribs consider
themselves the first of the tribes, calling themselves “the” people, and
their language “the” language.

Ever since our departure we had regretted that we had brought no dog with
us, as without one it was almost impossible to drive the labba[64] or
the great pig-like water haas[65] from their lair amongst the reeds and
moco-mocos[66] that lined the banks. The labba and tapir being nocturnal
in their habits were hardly ever seen by us, and it was only occasionally
that we chanced to see the day-feeding animals. We frequently tried to
buy an Indian dog from the natives, but they invariably declined to part
with them.

After leaving Teboco, we encountered no more falls or rapids of any
importance, having up to that time ascended about thirty and gained
an elevation above the sea of about two hundred feet. Continuing our
northerly course, we saw towards the north-west a long table mountain
known as the Comaka, which was much broken and very jagged at the
northern extremity. On our left was the precipitous hill of Tamanua,
wooded far up its sides and then presenting a massive face of rock,
seamed and scarred in places with ravines and crevices. Over the strange
mountain crests rain clouds continually came and went, and storms which
never failed to deluge us in their progress hurried past on their way to
the hill regions.

At last from north our direction changed to west, and after about six
miles of this westerly course we arrived at the mouth of the Merumé
river. Twenty miles to the south lay the Merumé mountains, in which the
Mazaruni has its source. The course of this river is a very singular one,
completely enclosing a great area of country, with the exception of the
narrow strip of land, twenty miles in breadth, between its source and the
mouth of the Merumé.[67]

It had been our intention to ascend the Merumé as far as possible, then,
striking across the mountains, to cross the head waters of the Mazaruni,
and reaching the Oweang river, down which we could travel in woodskins,
again meet the Mazaruni in its course westward. Owing to the shallowness
of the Merumé, we found it would be impossible to ascend that river in
our boats, and there were no woodskins to be obtained. We therefore
determined to continue our course up the Mazaruni, until we reached the
Curipung river, which our new hand, Mazaruni, assured us would have a
sufficient depth of water as far as the commencement of the overland
path. Within three days we expected to arrive at the mouth of the
Curipung.

CHAPTER XVI.

It has been well said that mountains are privileges, blessings; Ararats
whereon the dove of thought may alight when weary of the deluge around.
And truly after the level country we had been traversing, it was an
unutterable relief to gaze on the strange forms and picturesque colouring
of the cliffs and crags that rose up around us. Though in height they did
not approach the sublime order of mountains, yet their forest slopes,
broken with clefts and chasms, and their perpendicular flat-topped
walls, streaked here with clinging shrubs, and there glistening with
falling water, were more suggestive of the wonderful land changes, yet
more mysterious than the rounded and lofty forms of some grand Sierras.
They resembled Cyclopean monuments scattered through the graveyard of a
universe.

On the day after passing the Merumé river, we saw two natives carrying
some large fish; as soon as they caught sight of us, they took to their
heels and fled over the sandbank on which they had been walking towards
the bush. As we were in want of fish we called to them, but the more we
called the faster they ran. Then Mazaruni gave evidence of his value,
as with a grunt of indignation at the silly fear of his countrymen, he
jumped into the water and speeded after the fugitives. It was a most
laughable chase and won eventually by Mazaruni, who returned triumphantly
with his heavily-weighted captives. They gladly sold us two of their
pacus, but would not part with more, as they required them for their own
camp, which was pitched somewhere up the Cabeparu creek, near which we
were. Shortly afterwards, we captured two more pacus that had lately been
shot, and they afforded us a more amusing hunt than even those of the
previous week.

On account of the number of electric eels and stingrays it was dangerous
work jumping carelessly out of the boat, and in the last hunt one of
the crew touched a ray with his foot but fortunately without receiving
any injury. In appearance a ray is rather like a frying-pan, and its
lance-like tail, fringed with a series of barbs, is a most terrible
weapon. The wound it inflicts causes great agony and is always followed
by severe inflammation. It frequents shallows, where it lies half buried
in the sand, and its yellow colour renders it difficult to distinguish.
The flesh is eatable, when you can get nothing else, and we speared many
of them with a bayonet fastened to a long pole, or shot them with arrows.
Some were of enormous size and defied both arrow and spear.

The next day we met a party of Indian hunters dressed in the costume
of the chase, _i.e._, in feathers, and armed blow-pipes and bows, but
they had no game. We found out from them where we could obtain a certain
liane called “mamurie,” which we were in search of in order to make
“quakes” for our overland journey. We therefore camped early that day
on the left bank of the river, and the men were sent into the woods to
look for the required vine. As we ascended the river from Teboco, we had
noticed in some distant hills a remarkable rocky peak which is called
“the Caribisce,” from the legend stating that it is an Indian hunter who
was turned into stone for daring to ascend the mountain. To-day from
our camp, we saw in the direction from which we had come, east, another
curious peak rising like a gigantic thimble from a flat table-mountain.
The name of this is Sororieng, _i.e._, Swallow’s Nest, and it is an
object of much dread to the superstitious Indians. Not far from it was
the rugged outline of Ishagua, and far away in the south-west we saw the
misty range of the Curipung mountains.

We had chosen a pretty spot for the camp, where on the high bank big
moras and solemn ceibas cast a pleasant shade over rocky pools, deep and
clear, in which small and large fish played near the surface. Among them
McTurk thought he recognized a lucanani[68] and fished zealously for a
couple of hours, but without success. I suggested that perhaps the fish
saw him; he was dressed in scarlet flannel knickerbockers, and in his
Scotch cap he wore the macaw’s tail feathers, that even the greediest
fish could hardly have mistaken for a fly—at all events we got no
lucanani that day. But the fisherman was delightfully picturesque.

Then we strolled through the dark forest, where great butterflies,
with wings whose outer side was of a dull brown, whilst the under part
was of metallic blue, flapped heavily along. Blue morphos, too, of a
most lustrous sheen glanced here and there, and danced through the
foliage like the will-o-the-wisp. Besides these there were not many
other species, some pretty swallow-tails and heliconias being the chief
representatives of the diurnal lepidoptera.[69]

Under the fallen trees were several species of brilliant beetles, and
occasionally a great golden green buprestis[70] whizzed past us. This
beetle is very common, and its wings are used by the Indians for armlets
and anklets. The few flowering plants that we saw were yellow; an
oncidium, the mahoe, cedar-bush, ginger-wort, and other cannas, all were
yellow. The prettiest leaf was that of a crimson-veined caladium, the
bulb of which had probably been dropped by an Indian on his way through
the forest. The natives are fond of this plant, often bringing it back
with them from their journeys to the settlement and using it medicinally.
When the crew returned they brought a good supply of “mamurie,” and in
addition one had a large land-tortoise, another had some toucans, whilst
a third had seen some wonderful animal or other, but of course had no gun
with him. The rest of the day was spent in basket-making.

Just before sun-down the noisy monkeys commence their usual chorus;
cranes and egrets betook themselves to their resting places; macaws
and parrots crossed the river, uttering their harsh good-nights, and
were answered by “pourri,” who had not forgotten when they, too, wended
their evening flight over the waters; and finally, with a rush of wings
and with weird minor cries, the green ibises—curri-curris—flew by and
disappeared in the gloom—

“And far away in the twilight sky
We heard them singing a lessening cry,
Farther and farther till out of sight,
And we stood alone in the silent night.”

When we left next morning, the Giant’s Thimble was just touched by the
rising sun, and after we had crossed a fine reach of river, we had a
fresh mountain view. In the distance it looked like a single mountain,
much broken and castellated in the centre, and with table ends. Mazaruni
informed us that the central position was called Tapusing and the flat
Aricanna; so probably they were two mountains, one standing in front of
the other.

Soon afterwards we passed a peculiar rock in the middle of the river,
somewhat resembling a human figure; the Indians thought it was a river
god watching for pacu. Strange rock formations had been the rule rather
than the exception in all parts of the river, and owing to its unusual
shallowness, we had been able to notice the action of the water on the
various developments, such as granite, porphyry, green stone, gneiss,
&c., below the ordinary low-water mark. Hitherto we had seen no Indian
village on the banks of the river, although we had passed the sites of
several deserted settlements, which were easily to be recognized by the
forest-clearing and the new growth of bush. To day we were glad when
Mazaruni told us that we were approaching the village of Masanassa, and
soon, on the left bank of the river and opposite a small island, we saw
a number of woodskins and evident signs of habitation. Long before we
reached the landing we had been descried by the natives, who flocked
to see us and escorted us to the principal house, which stood on a
high bank, with a neat approach of flowering shrubs, plantains, ochro,
peppers, papaws, cotton, and fruit trees. The house was merely a large
shed with wattled walls. From the beams were suspended twenty-five
hammocks, so that it was evident that three or four families occupied
the same house. In the centre were two large paiworie troughs, and
scattered about the floor, or resting on a platform overhead, were
the various cassava-making implements, calabashes, tastefully fretted
“pegalls”—covered baskets in which the women keep their paints and
knick-knacks—quaint, low stools, parrots, accouries, and a few snarling
dogs.

In appearance and dress the inhabitants were the same as we had before
seen, only the men had put on their finest and largest necklaces,
made of the teeth of monkeys and peccaries, and of wild-boars’ tusks.
To some of these necklaces were attached long cords with tassels of
toucans’ breasts, and various bird-skins. Some of the women were engaged
in chewing cassava, whilst others were occupied in the pleasanter
employment of cotton-spinning and hammock-weaving. The villagers were not
particularly enthusiastic in their reception of us, and one man, with
a fierce countenance horribly painted in red, lay in his hammock in an
open shed outside the house, and scowled ferociously at our intrusion,
but it was plain that his enmity arose from a too copious indulgence
in paiworie. The chief of the house was named Lanceman, and though his
knowledge of speaking English only amounted to “yes,” yet he understood
a few words, and seemed an intelligent man. To his care McTurk confided
the baggage—tin boxes, &c.,—that would be troublesome to carry during
our overland journey, and also sufficient provisions to last us on our
return from his house to the settlement. He also promised to accompany us
himself to Roraima, and on the following day to bring to our camp, on the
Curipung, as many men as were willing to assist us as carriers.

In two hours after we left we arrived at the Curipung River, in whose
broad mouth the water had shrunk to one narrow channel, just deep enough
to admit our boats. Just above, however, it widened out into a stream of
about fifty yards in width, and on its left bank we camped. On the other
side of this creek, and bordering the Mazaruni, was a large stretch of
white sand, and on its edge a number of Indians, who had come down on a
fish-poisoning excursion, were encamped. Above all other localities, an
Indian is fond of an open, sandy beach whereon to pass the night. In the
ground he sticks a few poles from which to suspend his hammock, and if
the weather is rainy, a few palm leaves form a sufficient shelter. There
in the open, away from the dark, shadowy forest, he feels secure from the
stealthy approach of the dreaded “kanaima;”[71] the magic rattle of the
“peaiman”[72] has less terror for him when unaccompanied by the weird
rustling of the waving branches; and there even the wild hooting of the
“didi”[73] is bereft of that intensity with which it pierces the gloomy
depths of the surrounding woodland. It is strange that the superstitious
fear of these Indians, who are bred in the forest and hills, should be
chiefly based on natural forms and sounds. Certain rocks they will never
point at with a finger, although your attention may be drawn to them
by an inclination of the head. Some rocks they will not even look at,
and others again they beat with green boughs. Common bird-cries become
spirit-voices. Any place that is difficult of access, or little known,
is invariably tenanted by huge snakes or horrible four-footed animals.
Otters are transformed into mermaids, and water-tigers inhabit the deep
pools and caves of their rivers. Yet with all their superstition, I doubt
whether any of them would object to set out on a journey on a Friday,
or whether any would place faith in “lucky numbers,” and I am sure none
would refuse to join a dinner party of thirteen.

We passed a whole day at our camp on the Curipung, and completed as many
“quakes” as we could out of the material, in all numbering forty-two,
each capable of holding about fifty-five or sixty pounds. Here we shot a
“great mâam,”[74] whose flesh proved superior to anything we had tasted.
The anatomy of this bird is peculiar, as it may be said to be nearly all
breast; the flesh before cooking is of a light green, and when cooked
is white and delicate. In size it is about the same as a pheasant, and
its shrill plaintive whistle, which gradually increases in volume, is
a never-failing forest-sound both night and morning. There is another
but smaller bird of the same species. We also bagged two or three
“duraquauras”[75]—partridges—which were almost as good on the table as
the “mâam.” The notes of this bird, from which it takes its name, are
usually the first heard in the morning and frequently before dawn.

In spite of repeated assurances from Lanceman that he and his Indians
would be ready to accompany us early on the following morning, they
failed to appear at the appointed time. Some of the natives from the
sandbank encampment were willing to join us, so we accepted their
services and loaded one of their woodskins, so as to lighten our
own boats, and then started. Soon after we left the river widened
considerably, but became so shallow that for over an hour we had to walk
and drag the boats, and even the woodskin. Then it became deeper, and
maintained an average breadth of sixty or seventy yards. The banks were
thickly clothed with a jungle growth, above which locust and cork-trees
reared themselves. Here and there a great Brownea,[76] with brilliant
red flowers or fiery legumes, stretched out, Briareus-like, a hundred
arms wreathed with deeply cut arums and parasitical plants, and over
the water drooped the feathery foliage of an amherstiæ, with beautiful
rose-tinged flowers having long crimson stamens. Sport was easier to be
obtained here than on the large river, and we had plenty of amusement
spearing rays and shooting sun-bitterns, hanuras,[77] white egrets, and
sometimes a beautiful Quaak heron.[78] The latter is a very graceful
bird with plumy crest, and curly neck and breast feathers of a lovely
lavender colour. Nothing was wasted, for most of our civilized Indians
found no flesh amiss, and apparently enjoyed the leg of a heron as much
as they did the breast of a mâam. But two of our Acawais would not
eat the delicious pacu, although they did not refuse the ray, or the
electric-eel. In North America, too, the Comanche Indians will not eat
fish that have scales, but are fond of those that have none.

The different tribes of Guiana have various ideas regarding what food is
fit and what food is unfit to be eaten. For instance, the Caribs will not
touch large fish, nor will they eat pork. The Macusi consider the flesh
of cattle unclean, but do not object to that of peccary and wild boar.
The Warraees think roast dog a great delicacy, therein resembling the
Cheyennes of North America. On this river we missed the little silver
fish running swiftly over the top of the water, the bats that flew out of
every dead tree near the water’s edge as we passed, and even the bumble
bees that had been our constant companions on the Mazaruni. But their
place was supplied by sociable king-fishers, many of which kept in our
society for hours, awaiting our approach on some bare bough, and then
skimming over the water just ahead of us. Ducklars, too, and curri-curris
stood less on ceremony, and scarcely waited for an invitation to dinner.
We stopped for breakfast near a village—two houses—where fifteen or
twenty people assembled to look at us. A successful wild-pig hunt had
just provided them with a quantity of meat, a small portion of which
we wished to purchase. They, however, declined to part with any of it,
unless we gave in return a much larger supply of salt than we could
afford; so we had to go without it. “Gentle hospitality,” quoth the
Sanscrit sage, “dwelleth not in palaces. Rather seeking, shall ye find
her in the tent of the desert.” Before we left, a woodskin, containing
Lanceman and six other Indians caught us up, and we proceeded together.

The river scenery was now more picturesque, and mountain forms, with
outlines ever changing as we moved, gathered round us. Our course
was so winding that sometimes the same mountain appeared on one side
of us and sometimes on the other. Towards evening we obtained a very
pretty view. Beyond where the river narrowed a little, two mountains
stood almost together, the nearer—Wattaparu—flat-topped, and with
bare, perpendicular walls, loomed up grandly and in striking contrast
with the other—Aricanna—whose rounded base was crowned with a curious
pinnacle, the whole being thickly wooded from top to bottom. The one
was all shining silver-grey, the other of a rich purple bloom. But with
the mountains had come the rain, and it was as much as we could do by
perpetual bailing to keep the boats above water. At length we camped on a
sandbank, and for the first time since we left Georgetown built a house.

As we might now expect constant rains, in all our future camps the
building of a shelter was our first care. The huts were necessarily
substantial, in order to sustain the weight of our hammocks. Four stout
forked poles were worked into the ground, and formed the corner posts;
these were connected by strong poles, and in the centre of the narrower
ends of the parallelogram two more thick forked poles were erected high
enough for the tarpaulins, which were thrown over the connecting beam
to form a sloping ceiling. All the fastenings were made with bush-rope,
which was as pliable as cord. Rafters placed across the connecting
side-beams formed a dry platform in wet weather for the “quakes,” guns,
&c. After a little practice, it was astonishing how quickly the shelter
was set up. In spite of our house the night was not a pleasant one, as
owing to our exposed situation the rain beat in terribly through the open
sides. It passed though, and before daybreak the tarpaulins were down and
the boats reloaded. The course of the river was more tortuous than on the
preceding day, and it seemed as if we should never reach the other side
of Wattaparu, so frequently did we pass and repass it. In some places
fallen trees obstructed our passage, and these had to be cut away; and
in others enormous boulders, formed of coarse conglomerate and diorite
rising from the bed of the river, gave us but scanty space to squeeze
through.

At last we reached a mountain triangle. In front was Wairinu, a splendid
table-mountain with bold perpendicular wall, and castellated like some
gigantic fortification of the most perfect stone masonry. On our left was
Pacaru, surmounted by a high cone and with massive slabs of rock jutting
out from its side. On the right rose Wuruima with its outline similar to
Pacaru. Everywhere there was a beautiful blending of rock and forest,
the rocks varying from red overhanging buttresses to grey perpendicular
heights, furred at intervals with shrubs, and the forest which covered
every available spot with dark green foliage was brightened in places
with a few patches of colour, and the lighter tints of palm and wild
plantain leaves.

On reaching the Seroun creek, near which the Indian path leads across
the country, we found the water too shallow for an ascent, so crossing
to the right bank of the Curipung, we camped on some high ground below
the falls of Macrebah. Nowhere had we found so picturesque a camping
ground. Under the trees was a broad beach of the whitest sand, at whose
foot ran the dark river, foam-flecked from the beautiful falls over which
the water rushed in three successive cataracts, flanked and broken by
enormous boulders. Mountains surrounded the little valley through which
the river flowed, and their wonderful precipices and curious forms were a
never failing source of attraction. As this was the terminus of our river
travel in boats, we soon set to work filling and weighing the “quakes;”
the weight assigned to each man being forty-five pounds of provisions,
which together with his own bundle and a few et ceteras altogether
amounted to about sixty pounds, no inconsiderable weight to carry, when
the temperature and the difficulties of the route are considered.

For our future progress McTurk arranged the following plan. All the
hands, except two, who were unwell and were to be left at Macrebah in
charge of the boats, were to take part in the overland journey to where
we rejoined the Mazaruni. Then all the original crew, except six of the
best men, were to return to Macrebah, and with the two sick ones make the
home journey to the settlements in two of the boats. The other boat, “the
Adaba,” was to be left on a raised platform, which was built under the
trees, to take us back on our return from Roraima. As we had forty-two
quakes and only twenty-two men to carry them, Lanceman started off in
a woodskin to a neighbouring Arecuna village, to try and get more. He
succeeded in obtaining five, so we saw that we should be compelled to
make short daily journeys, and after each to send back relays of men to
bring on the extra quakes.

Our preparations occupied us for a day and a half, during which time
our Indians also cut a short track through the woods from the opposite
bank of the river to join the Seroun path, thereby avoiding a tedious
and rock-encumbered walk up the shallow creek. As it would require two
trips to remove all our baggage to the first day’s halting place, McTurk
started early in the morning with the intention of sending back the
necessary number of men for the remaining quakes on the following day.
I remained behind, so as to superintend the departure of the second
detachment, and guard against any unnecessary delay.

CHAPTER XVII.

It was a dismal morning when McTurk set out on his tedious march; the
rain fell in torrents, and I congratulated myself on being under shelter,
and hoped that by the morrow the weather would have cleared. At intervals
during the day the rain ceased, and I was able to ramble about the
falls, where there were many botanical treasures in the various agaves,
yuccas, and ferns. Wherever a gleam of light shone across the forest
border, there the little sun-hairs—as the humming-birds are well named
by the Aztecs—darted among the blossoms, and often poised themselves for
a minute at a time close to my face, as if wondering to what class of
vegetable I belonged.

Under our house was a fine dacana-balli tree, whose large white blossoms
lay strewn on the ground, and weighted the green foliage like a
snow-fall; in the forks and on the branches were some orchids and pretty
pink and white euphorbias, and amongst these flowers, also, humming-birds
loved to revel. In the white sand were numerous tracks of wild animals
that daily came from the forest to drink, but none ever appeared when
I was on watch. Towards evening the atmosphere had cleared, so that I
anticipated fine weather, but one of the Indians said it would surely
rain again, as the toucans cried so loudly. The birds were weather-wise,
as in the night the rain recommenced, and when the carriers arrived next
day it was still pouring. There was no time to be lost, so after the men
had breakfasted we set off.

After crossing the river, the first part of our journey was to ascend
the slopes of the Seroun mountains. As soon as we joined the old path
above the creek, difficulties commenced. The narrow trail wound in and
out, and up and down, and over and under enormous masses of conglomerate
rock, whose smooth and shapely sides, rising perpendicularly for sixty or
seventy feet, were crowned by grasses and ferns. Under some of these were
flowers and green branches that had been offered to the rock spirits by
the superstitious natives; others, with their overhanging crags, formed
natural shelters which had served for a night’s resting-place to the less
timorous Indians. Between these boulders were deep pits, which were hard
to avoid, and into which a false step would have given a drop of thirty
or forty feet.

Over rocks and streams, and through quagmires, we made our varied way,
and at last caught sight of the Curipung River above Macrebah, far below
us. Soon after we reached the top of the hill range, having ascended
nearly one thousand feet. Here the path ran through a level forest, but,
instead of by boulders, the walking was henceforth made exceedingly
fatiguing by the countless roots which composed the track. No ground
was to be seen; it was simply a network of roots from which all earth
had been washed away, and which varied in size from a sharp thin blade
that cut like a knife, to a rounded, full-sized limb, over which you
slipped, with every probability of straining your ancle even if you did
not break your leg. I wore a pair of moderately-sized shooting boots, but
to my unaccustomed soles the proceeding was most painful; a pilgrimage on
peas to Rome would have been nothing in comparison. The resemblance to a
pilgrimage was rendered all the more striking by the perpetual tolling
of the bell-birds,[79] which in spite of the pouring rain uttered their
wonderful notes from every part of the forest. Sometimes the ringing
sounds produced by these birds resemble “quâ-ting,” at other times you
hear a drawling “kóng, kóng, kóng” at intervals, and then the full notes
“kóng-kày.” In each case, the last syllable is a note higher than the
first, and the tone is more that of an anvil when struck by a hammer than
that of a bell. The sounds are remarkably clear and resonant.

The campanero is pure white—strange colour for a tropical bird—and from
its forehead extends a long tube which it can inflate at pleasure,
and which is covered with small white, downy feathers. Its belfry is
generally the topmost dead bough of some lofty tree, and even if in spite
of its ventriloquial notes you have discovered its whereabouts, yet its
colour renders it extremely difficult to distinguish. Our Indians, and
others that we met, did not object to shoot one occasionally, but in
Brazil the campanero is greatly dreaded, as its toll is believed to be
the cry of a soul condemned to perpetual torments. The American poet
Whittier has made this belief the subject of one of his poems, entitled

THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL.

“In that black forest, where, when day is done,
With a serpent’s stillness glides the Amazon,
Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
A cry as of the pained heart of the wood,
The long despairing moan of solitude,
And darkness and the absence of all good,
Startles the traveller with a sound so drear,
So full of hopeless agony and fear.
His heart stands still and listens with his ear;
The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll,
Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale’s thole,
Crosses himself and whispers ‘A lost soul!’
No, Señor, not a bird, I know it well,
It is the pained soul of some infidel,
Or cursed heretic that cries from hell.
Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair,
He wanders shrieking on the midnight air,
For human pity and for Christian prayer.”

After six or seven hours of the weariest walking we arrived drenched
to the skin—by the way it does not take much to wet the Indians to the
skin—at our camp. There I found McTurk footsore, but energetic as usual,
and happy in the addition of a few more Indian carriers who were “on the
walk,” and willing to accompany us. The chief of the party was an old
fellow with streaming black hair and of fierce aspect. He did not know
his proper name, but produced a small package in the folds of which was
a card with “Isaac” written on it. As there was already one Isaac in our
party, we christened the new man “the Pirate.” Among his most cherished
treasures was a large parcel, which he opened with much ceremony. It
contained five or six other palm leaf packets, from the last of which
he drew a printed tract in the Acawai language, which he had obtained
from one of the missions near the coast. The tract was composed of a few
prayers and Bible extracts, which he requested McTurk to read aloud.
It was a curious scene; a few fires threw a glare over the dark forest
outside, and clustered round the shelter, under which we lay in our
hammocks, were the Indians listening with the deepest attention to the
reading, and now and then repeating to each other in a low tone some word
that was better understood than the rest.

The Pirate, although he could not read, knew many of the lines by heart,
and made an admirable clerk, although I much doubt whether his knowledge
was more than that of a parrot. Our friend lived on the Cako River, and
together with the rest of his party was on his way down the Mazaruni to
sell birds and hammocks. Thinking that on our arrival at the Cako the
assistance of these men in obtaining woodskins might be valuable, we
easily induced them by the promise of food and a few knives, &c., to
retrace their footsteps, and aid us in carrying our quakes.

When we started next morning it was still raining, but the ludicrous
appearance of the Pirate made us forget all discomfort. On his head,
shoulders, back, and perched all over his quake were a number of parrots;
we saw nothing of the man but his legs, he was literally clothed with
parrots. These birds were not in the least alarmed at the brown-skinned
Indians, but whenever McTurk or myself approached they uttered their
harsh cries, and whilst some in terror ran their claws deep into the poor
man’s flesh, others fluttered off into the bush and caused much loss of
time before being recaptured.

Our path differed but little from that of the preceding day; we hardly
ever touched the ground, but limped painfully over the matted roots. We
continually crossed small streams and creeks, whose water ran fresh and
sparkling over the stony beds, except when we were hot and thirsty, and
then it generally lay in tepid, stagnant pools among the rocky basins.
These Indian paths are not always easy to follow, so little do they vary
in appearance from the surrounding bush. The original picking out of such
a path must have been of considerable difficulty, as in the dense forest
there are few landmarks to steer by, nothing in fact but the sun. A track
once made, however, even by a single Indian, is easily recognized by the
sharp-eyed natives, to whom a broken twig, or a scratched root, tells
the story of a previous traveller. So exactly do they follow the narrow
trail—always in single file—that often for miles the very footsteps of
the explorer are trodden by his successors. I think paiworie has much to
do with the generally true direction of these paths, as if you were to
place a trough of that liquor on one side of a trackless forest twenty
miles in breadth, and an Indian on the other, the two would meet in a
very short space of time.

The vegetation which surrounded us was not of a very interesting nature,
as the soil was often poor and stony, and frequently covered with a
carpet of selaginella or other lycopods. A pretty little dark blue and
white gloxinia was very abundant, and in swampy places grew yellow
lilies and various cannas. The dakama trees strewed the ground in every
direction with their brown nuts, of the size of an orange, and having a
pink and white core. These are uneatable, and it was only occasionally
that we found the delicious Souari nuts, whose finely grained kernel
rivals the most delicate almond. Besides the buttressed forms of the
bombaceæ, there were strange-looking trees whose trunks were made up of a
number of thick stems joined together at a height of ten or twelve feet
from the ground. One that I measured had eight separate supports, and
above where they united the trunk had a circumference of over twenty-five
feet. We saw no game birds, although we sometimes heard the drumming of a
“pani”—curasson—or the shrill notes of a mâam. In addition to the tolling
of the bell-birds, we frequently recognized the harsh peacock cry of the
“cock of the rocks”—Pipra rupicola—and near one of their dancing places
we shot three specimens. The colour of the Guiana species in the male
differs from that of Ecuador and Peru in being much lighter; instead of
crimson it is a splendid orange on the body, and the wing feathers are
brown instead of black and silver grey. The short square tail is ringed
with reddish yellow, and the orange crescent-shaped feathers placed on
the head like a cocked hat are edged with black.

In Australia the bower-birds—Chlamydoderæ—build their galleries and
cabins, and in New Guinea the gardener-bird[80] not only builds a house
but also arranges pleasure-grounds around it, and here in Guiana the
“cock of the rocks” has his dancing place. The spot chosen is a mossy
level, which is cleared of stones and sticks, and surrounded by low
bushes. The assembled birds form a circle, and presently an old cock
walks into the ring and with spreading tail performs a series of steps,
which from the Indian account of them must vary from those of a stately
minuet to those of the “Perfect Cure.” When he is tired, he receives the
applause of the hen-birds and retires, another taking his place. Some
of their upward leaps are said to be astonishing, and are repeated in
rapid succession until the bird is exhausted. It is during these antics
that the natives shoot them or capture them alive, as so absorbed are
both the spectators and the performers that they pay no attention to the
stealthy approach of the Indian. In captivity these delicate birds soon
languish, and out of two that I sent home from Georgetown, one died on
the passage, and the other only lived about a month in spite of great
care and attention. The dancing grounds of the “cocks of the rock” are
unadorned with flowers, fruit or shells; as long as they are smooth and
free from stones, the birds are satisfied and apparently believe that
their own bright plumage is a sufficient ornamentation, and that they can
afford to turn their attention to the study of graceful accomplishments.
Also among the birds of Paradise, the beautiful plumaged species do not
construct bowers or gardens, a gift which is possessed only by their more
intellectual but less ornamental brethren.

We camped after our second day’s tramp near a stream called the Lamung,
and at once sent back to the old camp a sufficient number of men to
bring on the remaining quakes the following day. The good temper
and cheerfulness with which all the carriers, and especially the new
contingent, performed their double journeys was really remarkable; and,
though these forest journeys were to most a natural part of their lives,
yet we could not help feeling sorry for the great but unavoidable labour.
We remained in camp all next day, but sent forward a number of quakes,
the carriers returning, so that the entire number might be ready to
depart with all the remaining baggage when we again set out. Besides the
palm-leaf covering of each individual quake, those that were sent forward
or left behind were ranged by the side of the path on poles, and well
protected from the weather by broad leaves and branches. Naturally they
formed very conspicuous objects, and though they must continually have
been noticed by several parties of Indians that passed on their way to
the Curipung River, yet nothing was ever touched or in any way disturbed.

In one of our rambles around the camp we killed a beautifully marked
boa-constrictor, about nine feet in length and very thick. Another
disagreeable visitor we had was an enormous hairy monkey-spider (araña
monos) six inches long and with two formidable nippers like a bird’s
talons. On touching it with a stick it threw itself back into a fighting
attitude, clashed its nippers and twined its long legs about the wood in
its efforts to break it. We saw no wild beasts, but the Indians reported
having seen a large tiger,[81] which walked slowly along the path in
front of them, close to the camp, and disappeared in the bushes. One of
them had a gun, but he was too frightened to fire.

A circumstance, trivial in itself, here very nearly put an end to my
journey. Charlie, whose zeal had outrun his discretion, in drying
my boots had placed them so near the fire that they were roasted;
consequently when I put them on the following morning, they literally
came to pieces in my hands, and during the day the heel of one of them
dropped off. As I knew that without them it would be impossible for me
to reach Roraima, for with our limited luggage one pair of thin canvas
shoes was all I had besides, my future occupation whenever we arrived
at our camping ground was that of a cobbler. McTurk and Charlie first
of all cunningly re-attached the heel, and ever afterwards I managed by
the aid of string and bush-rope to keep the different parts together. So
carefully did I nurse and mend them, that they actually brought me back
to Macrebah, which was as far as necessary, but the anxiety caused by so
simple an accident can hardly be imagined.

During that day we shot a pani, for which we were duly thankful, as good
fresh meat had of late been very scarce. Game was not plentiful, and as
McTurk was extremely anxious to complete the expedition as quickly as
possible—as the men were paid by the day—we wasted but little time in
looking for it. In many parts the bush growth was ill adapted for game of
any sort, and in the likely places, though we heard panis and duraquaras,
yet we could not get a shot at them. Seldom had the truth of the old
proverb “a bird in the hand, &c.,” been more forcibly presented to us.

We passed through one very pretty silvan scene, where the path came
out on to an open mossy glade surrounded by a perfect circle of grand
old trees, whose grey buttressed trunks contrasted vividly with the
green-robed stems of the slender plants in the background. In other lands
it might have been a temple grove dedicated to the old Druid worship,
and Hellenic belief would have peopled it with Dryads and Oreads, but to
the Indian mind no dancing fay or wood-nymph would step from the opening
trees, and only the terrible Didi could inhabit the mysterious circle.
Soon afterwards we crossed the Stenaparu River, and then commenced a very
steep ascent, which we climbed by the aid of rocks and roots.

When we reached the summit we were at an elevation of 2,600 feet above
the sea, and the forest plateau extended for miles before us. The
fatiguing ascent had made us very thirsty, and from passing Indians
we heard that we should not find water for a long time. The sight of
several “swizzle-stick” trees added to our thirst, and recalled the iced
pepper-punches and cooling drinks of Georgetown. At length, after passing
a branch path on our right which led to Camarang, on the Upper Mazaruni,
we arrived at the brink of a great precipice. At first it was difficult
to imagine how we were to descend, but by following a zig-zag trail, and
aided by bushes and stony juttings, we gained a ravine about 700 feet
below, through which flowed a delicious stream. From here the path ran
along the mountain side, and though we should have been glad to halt, the
absence of water prevented our doing so. At length we saw a few Manicole
palms, a sure sign of the vicinity of water, and in a few minutes we
found a small rivulet, where we erected our house.

The night was wet and stormy, and when we started next morning in the
rain, one of the Indians who was lame and feverish had to be left
behind, with the understanding that he was to overtake us with the
rest of the party, who had gone back for the extra quakes. On this day
the path gave signs of being almost untravelled, and in many places we
had to search diligently before we could pick up the lost thread. By
continually bending a twig here and slashing a branch there, we left sure
indications of our line of travel for those who were behind, but in order
that all should overtake us, we shortened our arduous day’s march over
hill and creek, and camped near a stream called Cariapu, _i.e._, mora.
From the father of an Indian family encamped near, we found that we had
followed an unused trail, but that by retracing our steps for a short
distance we should be able with his assistance to strike the new path,
which would bring us to the Mazaruni by the middle of the next day. Our
party was now at three different points, but as our new friends had of
course established themselves beside us, we formed a small though very
picturesque camp, under the fine moras from which the stream took its
name.

As the rain never ceased to pour, one of the men thought he would improve
the occasion by setting fire to a gigantic mora, whose trunk was hollow
throughout. From the inclination of the tree, we thought that in the
event of its falling the direction would be away from the camp. Still, as
it looked dangerous, McTurk gave orders that the fire which, apparently,
grew less and less, should not be relighted, and after our usual game
of euchre we stretched ourselves in our hammocks quite ready for a good
night’s rest. Before midnight there was a cry that the tree was falling,
and springing up we found that the draught had so fanned the flames that
the entire tree was ablaze, sheets of fire and smoke rushing from all
the apertures, and from the very summit. It was a magnificent sight, but
from that moment sleep was banished, as had the mora fallen towards us,
we should inevitably have been crushed. As the rain fell in torrents we
could not change our shelter, so we had to pass the rest of the night
staring at the burning tree, and ready at a moment’s notice to rush to a
place of safety.

Dawn found us still watching, but the mora had not fallen, and as
far as we know never did fall; still it had caused us to pass a very
uncomfortable night. When we departed the rain ceased, but the dripping
bushes supplied us with abundant moisture, and we soon forgot that the
storm was over. The new path was but little better than the old one, and
was very intricate, now crossing swamps, or running over steep hills, and
now making us wade through creeks, or traverse a slippery bog for fifty
or sixty yards.

Snakes were plentiful, but two duraquaras were the only birds we
obtained. Owing to our anxiety to reach the big river, this last day’s
journey, although the shortest, seemed longer than any previous one,
but at length we arrived at a dry creek called the Asimaparu, and after
following its muddy bed for a short time we again found ourselves on
the banks of the Mazaruni. We had left it flowing east, at an elevation
of less than 200 feet above the sea; here it was flowing north, at an
elevation of 1,300 feet. On the high bank we made a clearing, cut down
the trees that intercepted our view of the river, and built the usual
shed. Before night the Pirate, Lanceman, Mazaruni, and the rest of the
Indians had all arrived with the baggage, and the tired party enjoyed a
well-earned rest.

The next day our original crew, with the exception of the six best
men, set off on their return journey to Macrebah on their way home,
accompanied by the other Indians, with the exception of Lanceman,
Mazaruni, and two Arecunas, who remained with us. In order to send news
of our progress to our friends at Georgetown, McTurk loaded an empty
cartridge shell with the letter he had written, the novel envelope
ensuring its arrival in a clean and dry state, if ever it reached its
destination. The Pirate went away in a canoe to obtain woodskins for us
from the Indians who live near the mouth of the Cako, from which we were
only a few hours distant; but long before he returned our arrival had
been discovered by natives whilst passing up and down the river, and we
soon received a number of visitors.

When the Pirate returned, he brought with him the chief inhabitant of
that part of the river. He called himself Captain David, and having
once been to the coast, understood yes and no, wore a shirt and an old
black hat, had only two wives, and considered himself a white man. He
graciously accepted a cigarette, and after critically examining our
baggage promised to send woodskins on the following day to take us to
the Cako, from which river we had determined to find our way across
country to Roraima. He himself had never been to Roraima, and thought we
were insane for wishing to go there, but said that perhaps he might find
somebody who could guide us. Owing to the influx of visitors, who as a
matter of course established themselves in close proximity to us, our
narrow camping limits were inconveniently crowded. But want of space was
atoned for by the picturesque scene, which, when darkness fell, was very
curious. Our own white-roofed habitation overlooked the silent river,
and behind it were slung the twenty red[82] hammocks of the Indians,
some under palm-leaf shelters, some covered with broad uranias, and
others merely suspended from tree to tree. Here and there little fires
were scattered about—as Indians are particularly fond of sleeping close
to or over a fire—and from one nook a burning lump of the hyawa[83]
resin sent up a fragrant smoke. Through the dark background of trees the
fire-beetles flitted, and the occasional nocturnal forest-sounds only
rendered the silence more complete. Once a loud rustling overhead brought
some of the Indians to their feet, but it was only caused by a species of
the harmless lemur, and the camp was soon wrapped in sleep.

CHAPTER XVIII.

As the Captain did not arrive at the appointed time with the woodskins,
we amused ourselves with some amateur hair-cutting, which so delighted
the natives that many of them insisted on being shorn of their long black
tresses. These they carefully gathered, and after wrapping them in leaves
buried in some retired part of the forest, so that no Kanaima should get
hold of them and exercise his incantations to the destruction of their
late owner. Here we discovered that Mazaruni, who was extremely plain,
was excessively conceited, and was never tired of gazing at himself in
a small hand-glass, and arranging the straw ornaments in his nose and
ears in what he considered the most becoming fashion. Whenever a woodskin
appeared in which there were any ladies, he would immediately retire to
his hammock and change his dress, _i.e._, take out the old straws and
insert new ones, carefully placing them at the proper angle. Then with a
few fresh touches of blue and vermillion he brightened himself up, and
felt that he was a dandy of the first water. By the time the barber’s
duties were completed the Captain arrived with his woodskins, which were
quickly loaded, and we proceeded up the river.

Stepping into a woodskin for the first time is a delicate undertaking. If
the foot is placed on one side a capsize ensues, and in the exact centre
the bark bends so that the feeling is that you are trusting yourself to
a sheet of brown paper. The only safety is in stepping in lightly and
quickly, and at once sitting down in the bottom of the boat, breathing
only when you are perfectly balanced in the middle of it. A little
practice, however, soon gives confidence, and you are able to use your
gun as well as in an ordinary-sized craft. The paddlers sit one at each
end, the man in the bows having to keep a sharp look out for rocks or
snags, which would pierce or upset the frail shell in a moment.

In about three hours we reached the mouth of the Cako, and looking up
that river saw in the distance a fine table-mountain called Carotipu. We
found the Cako to be a fine river, about one hundred yards in width, and
with moderately high banks. We ascended a short distance, and then camped
on the left bank—the Venezuelan[84] side—in order to be free from several
Indian parties who had erected their “banaboos” on the opposite shore.
But our precaution was of no avail, as when we were comfortably settled
and had cleared the bush around, over came the Indians and quietly
established themselves in our midst. One or two of the women had pleasing
countenances, but their striped and too sturdy limbs and sack-like forms
entirely destroyed the first impression of feminine beauty. I think
it was Alphonse Karr who said, “La nature a fait la femelle, et la
civilization a fait la femme!”

Most of the men were powerfully made, but their painted and unintelligent
faces were not improved by the black pellets which, according to custom,
they all held between their lips. This vegetable pellet—I do not know
what it is composed of—is the Indian substitute for the betel-nut of
the Malays, the cocoa-leaf of the South Americans, the opium of the
Chinese, the tobacco of Europeans, and in outward appearance is not an
improvement on any of them. When the natives heard that we wished to buy
provisions, they brought us all they could, but it only amounted to a
small quantity of cassava bread, a few pumpkins, and three or four roots
of sweet cassava.[85] The latter not being poisonous require no special
preparation, and when the roots are roasted they are very palatable.
Our next object was to buy some woodskins, as the owner of those that
had brought us from the Mazaruni did not wish to part with them. On the
day after our arrival five were offered to us, and these we purchased
for four small flasks of powder. As ten shillings was not much to give
for five boats, we promised the natives that on our return they should
receive them back again.

Powder is eagerly sought by the Indians, as many of them have long
single-barrel guns—buck-guns they are called in Demerara—that they
have obtained in trade, and their opportunities of getting ammunition
are exceedingly limited! They are very fond of fire-arms, and our
breech-loaders were a never-ending source of wonder to them. Of late,
we had heard the most appalling sounds issuing from the forest;
sometimes they resembled the bellowing of a cow who had lost her calf,
and at others were like the howls of a wild animal. At last one of the
perpetrators was shot, and it proved to be a small bird known in Guiana
as the “calf bird,” which has a bald head and plumage of an olive colour.

McTurk told me that these birds are common on the Pomeroon River, and
that once a newly arrived Englishman, who had been out shooting one day,
returned in haste to camp, with the intelligence that he had heard such
a terrific bellowing and roaring that he was certain a band of tigers
were fighting with some other animals. McTurk and others hastened to the
scene, and shot three calf-birds. Considering that it comes from a bird,
the noise is certainly the most astounding I have ever listened to. We
shot some trumpeter[86] birds, which also make a very peculiar sound.
They live in flocks, run swiftly over the ground, and look like a number
of diminutive ostriches. They are graceful creatures, with long velvety
necks, beautiful blue and purple breast-feathers, and back and wings of a
silver grey. The Indians call them Waracabas, from a fanciful resemblance
in their notes to the cry of the Waracaba tigers, which hunt in packs.

Having spent nearly two days in camp, with the vain hope of securing a
guide to Roraima, we determined to start early on the following morning.
The natives promised to bring more cassava on the morrow if we could
only wait another day, but with an Indian the morrow is as indefinite
a period as “mañana” with the Spaniards, or “bookra” with the Arabs.
The five woodskins—the two largest each containing three persons, and
the smaller, two—were loaded down to the water’s edge when we set out,
but we soon reached Captain David’s house, and there we left the three
quakes of provisions for our return journey. The course of the river was
pretty and very winding, continually opening out fresh views of distant
mountains. We rounded the northern extremity of Mount Carouta which was
thickly wooded, except under its high central dome, where the precipitous
rock was quite bare. Nearly all the mountains that we had hitherto
seen, were extremely precipitous on the northern and eastern faces, but
on the western side there were generally patches of heavy forest even
where, to the eye, it looked most perpendicular. We hoped that Roraima
would present the same forest growth, and by ascending the Cako River we
thought we might arrive opposite the western slope of the mountain.

We knew little about the course of the river, as no information could
be obtained from the Indians, and we were probably the first white men
who had ever ascended it. As it was probable that the river rose in the
mountain range near Roraima, we intended to follow it as far as we could,
and then strike off across country. From what Captain David told us, we
were much afraid that owing to the scant population along the river banks
we should be unable to find a guide. Still we determined to push on, and
in the event of failure, to return to the mouth of the Cako and make
another attempt to reach Roraima by the Cukuie River.

After passing Carouta, we saw in our front the flat-topped mountain of
Ibropu, and soon after we camped on the right bank of the river, opposite
a path leading to Camarang, on the Mazaruni. We erected our shed on a
high jutting promontory above a white sand beach, and after unloading the
woodskins carried the quakes up the bank. It was fortunate we did not
leave them below, as in the morning there was no sand to be seen; the
river had risen, and the beach was covered to a depth of three or four
feet. As we approached Ibropu, we caught sight of a fine waterfall that
descended from its eastern slope, and the stream which it formed entered
the Cako near a very pretty island. Here, two fine Muscovy[87] ducks flew
over our heads, and, as they ran the gauntlet, each boat in succession
greeted them with a volley, but unsuccessfully. Shortly afterwards,
I discovered five more swimming near the shore, and by dint of quiet
paddling and taking advantage of a bushy point we crept within range, and
with two barrels I bagged four of them. They were very large and heavy
birds, differing from the tame Muscovy only in having less coral about
the bill. They are difficult to approach, and though we frequently saw
them alight on the high trees, and from afar distinguished them by their
white wing-coverts, yet by the end of the day we had only obtained six.
It is said that these ducks build their nests on lofty trees, and, when
the young ones are sufficiently grown, the parents carry them down to
the swamps to educate them. Those we shot were uncommonly tough, but
duck and pumpkin were such rare delicacies that, had the former been of
cast-iron, I think we should have enjoyed them.

We passed along the east side of Ibropu, then the ever-winding river
turned south, and we saw a high table-mountain which we fancied must be
Roraima, but the view was only for a moment, and then a veil of clouds
concealed it. Afterwards we found out that the mountain we had seen
was Marima, which is situated to the north-east of Roraima. We paddled
along fine stretches of river, here getting a snipe, there a duck, and
sometimes a curri-curri, and at last camped on the left bank. Before it
was dark we heard the sound of a horn blown lustily from the river, and
soon a woodskin appeared containing a man, woman, and child. It turned
out that they lived near Roraima, and having heard from Captain David
that we wanted a guide had hastened after us. The man’s name was Abraham,
which was about the only common biblical name that we had not encountered
among our various crews at some time or other. He declined to camp with
us, but preferred going farther on, as he said that close by was the cave
of a celebrated “water-māmā,” near whom it was dangerous to sleep.

The Indians firmly believe in the reality of these mermaids, or
“water-māmās,” as they are called in Dutch Creole; and where they are
supposed to have their caves or nests, there great danger awaits the
traveller. Some are related to be extremely beautiful and possessing
long golden hair—like the Lorelei—and whoever casts his eye on them is
seized with madness, jumps into the deep water, and never returns. Others
are hideous, snakes being twined about them, and with their long white
talons they drag boats under the water and devour their occupants. On the
Orinoco and Amazon similar creatures are supposed to exist, but these
are capable of drawing their prey into their mouths at a distance of a
hundred yards. In order to avoid such a calamity, the natives always blow
a horn before entering a creek or lagoon in which one of these monsters
may be living; if it happens to be there, it will immediately answer the
horn and thus give warning to the intruder.

When we awoke in the morning it seemed as if the “water-māmā” had
indeed bewitched us. The river, which on the previous night flowed
quietly beneath the bank on which we were encamped, had disappeared. The
woodskins were high and dry on a ledge of rocks that extended for some
distance up and down the bed of the stream. There, on the other side of
the rocky plateau we discovered the lost river, which had fallen three
feet during the night, and had lost nearly the same volume of water
that it had gained after the recent rains. About a mile farther on we
found Abraham waiting anxiously for us, and glad that we had survived
the perils of the night. On this day we caught some beautiful views of
Roraima whenever the clouds lifted, and towards noon we left the Cako and
turned into a broad creek on its right bank called the Aruparu. By so
doing we feared—as eventually proved to be the case—that we should not
reach Roraima from its western flank, but as our guide assured us that it
was the only way he knew of, we thought it best to follow his advice.

The creek scenery was pretty, but monotonous; the clay banks were clothed
with thick bush, with here and there masses of yellow blossoms and the
pink tassels of the Brownea. There were also many shrubs known as the
“witê,” whose long velvet pods contain beans covered with a very sweet
but insipid pulp. A drawback in picking them was that every pull brought
down showers of stinging ants, which, as well as parrots, are very fond
of that fruit. Sometimes we passed an Indian banaboo that had lately
been occupied, and at others the new jungle growth showed where a small
village had once existed. At the mouths of the smaller streams, which
flowed into the creek, there was generally a barricade of sticks and
poles made by the natives for securing fish, but most of the streams were
dry and the barricades of ancient date. In the mud and sand were endless
tracks of tapirs and the “water-haas”—capybara—and occasionally a splash
and rustle told where we had disturbed one of the latter, but we were
seldom near enough for a shot.

Ducklars were very numerous, and as we turned each corner, there they
would be sitting in rows on the branches of fallen trees awaiting our
approach; then a dive and an ungainly flutter to start them, and away
they would go to the next bend in the river. But after the Muscovy ducks
the men looked with disdain on the fishy ducklar, and those that were
shot that day remained uneaten. On many subsequent occasions they looked
back with regret on the despised and wasted ducklars. Now and then we
heard the “kwet-kwet” of the beautiful scarlet cotinga, and once the
brilliant but harsh-voiced pompadour[88] flew across in front of us. Not
seldom the narrowing stream was over-arched by the bending trees, and
under their dark shadows the splendid blue morphos and still more lovely
butterflies of a sparkling violet hue floated lazily. At one place where
the forest seemed clearer we ascended the bank, and were gratified by the
sight of a savanna, which with a diversity of wood and hill stretched off
to some distant mountains.

Owing to the muddy nature of the banks and the thick bush, it was late
that night before we could find a camping ground, but at last we came
to a spot where some Indians had already erected their sheds. They were
wild-looking creatures, hideously painted and stained, and the hair of
the men was longer than that of the women. They were stalwart and tall,
and had come from their homes in the savanna country to this fashionable
watering-place for fishing and bathing. They shook their heads and
groaned when they heard that we were going to Roraima, and recommended us
to turn back and not act foolishly.

An amusing incident occurred here. Our primitive acquaintances kept us
awake for some time with their monotonous sing-song talk, and shortly
after I had dropped asleep McTurk awoke me with the intelligence that he
was going to have his bath, as day was breaking. I got up at once, as it
appeared to be getting light, and we bathed and dressed, and sat in our
hammocks waiting coffee. After some time day did not appear to advance
much, and to our astonishment we saw the moon slowly rising over the
trees. In our anxiety to make an early start we had mistaken moonrise for
daybreak, and had got up at about half-past twelve a.m.

Hitherto the creek had been free from all impediments and was deep enough
to float large boats, but soon after we left our sleeping quarters the
ominous stroke of an axe told us that Abraham was cutting a passage
through a fallen tree. For the rest of the day our journey was like going
in a canoe through a forest that had been cut down and left. Here, a
great tree trunk permitted the passage of the woodskins underneath, but
without their loads; there, an enormous limb necessitated the unloading
and lifting over of the boats; in some places a sunken log had sufficient
water flowing over it to float the woodskins, but only after their
contents had been discharged; in others an opening had to be cut through
tangled branches and stems. We were never in the boats for five minutes
at a time; it was a perpetual jumping in and out, loading and unloading,
lifting and hauling, pushing and carrying, cutting and squeezing.
Frequently, the arch formed by the overhanging trunk seemed high enough
to allow the woodskin and its contents to pass under, but when well in
the centre a jam would occur, and we would find ourselves crouching in
the bottom of the boat unable to move hand or foot, and water rapidly
coming in over the sides. It was most amusing, and I never enjoyed a
good laugh at McTurk’s expense without immediately finding myself in a
similar position. The great strain on the woodskins caused two of them to
split, and only by rapidly conducting them to shore did we save them from
sinking. By filling the cracks with bark, linen, and paper, they were
soon made serviceable again.

The windings of the creek were extraordinary; often after following a
southerly direction for a mile or more, we would turn north for the same
distance, and come out on the other side of the narrow promontory only
a few yards from where we had started. The same thing would be repeated
east and west, and the patient stream seemed never tired of twisting
itself into a hundred folds and then untwisting.

Just before dark, we arrived at a place past which it would be impossible
to proceed, and Abraham informed us that we had reached the end of the
creek journey. So we landed and built our house.

CHAPTER XIX.

About half a mile higher up the creek lived Abraham’s mother, and there
we intended to leave sufficient provisions for our return journey and
whatever articles we could not carry with us.

Our first care on the day following our arrival was to hide the woodskins
in the forest, so that they should not be appropriated by any passing
Indians. Then we followed a trail through the bush which brought us to
the hut. A very old lady with long white hair received us, and began
to moan and beat her breast wildly. We asked what she was doing, and
discovered that she was relating the difficulties of the path to Roraima.
Over level country she travelled smoothly and in low tones, but when she
came to the mountains that had to be crossed, then her voice rose, she
shrunk to the ground, raised herself on tip-toes, waved her arms, struck
her chest, uttered strange cries, and the higher and steeper the mountain
the louder and shriller became her screams.

Already our superstitious carriers had lent too ready an ear to the
terrors of Roraima as depicted by the son, and now the mother seemed
disposed to add her store of legends and tales of witchcraft for general
information. We therefore arranged our quakes as quickly as possible,
rethatched her crazy shed so as to preserve from the weather the numerous
articles we deposited on fresh rafters and were ready to start. Before
we left she made the entire party blow three times on her back for good
luck, but whether the luck was for her or for us we never found out. It
was an odd farewell, but as it pleased old granny—as we called her—we
were content.

Our path did not differ much from that of our previous foot-journey,
but the creeks and streams were more numerous and the crossings often
extremely difficult. Our bare-footed and trained carriers walked easily
enough over the narrowest logs, but for us, with boots and weighed down
with gun, bag and cartridges, it was different. Generally the water was
too deep to wade through, and the only way of crossing was by means of
a slippery trunk as narrow as a tight-rope, and many feet above the
stream. Sometimes when the slender bridge was suspended at an angle, the
crossing was more dangerous than amusing, as a fall would probably have
been on to the sharp snags and branches that threw their points out of
the deep pools underneath. As in our former walk, the ground was covered
with dark blue gloxinias and a pretty creeping plant whose glossy leaves
were delicately veined with pink; near the streams grew cannas and thick
masses of the umberilla grass[89] varied with soft-textured marantas.
Palms were more plentiful than before, and we saw varieties that we had
not previously met with. We saw also the curious “monkey-pot” tree[90]
with its strange bowl-shaped fruit and wooden covers. Purple-heart and
the crab-oil tree[91] were not uncommon and strange nuts constantly fell
around us.

Many of the bush-rope forms were very curious, differing in size and
shape from a boot-lace to a ship’s cable. Here, like the strangling
serpents of Laocoon, they hold a great tree in their huge folds, and
there a delicate vine had formed a complete network around some forest
giant until it was as helpless as a fly in a spider’s web. Very terrible
are these lace-like parasites which cling at first in their helplessness
to some lordly trunk and then slowly extend their treacherous embrace
until their support is shut up in a living grave. The poor tree dies, and
its destroyers live and thrive on the dead body of their benefactor. Few
flowers relieve the monotony of these dark forests, and it is strange
that here, where birds have such brilliant plumage, flowers should be
almost unnoticeable. Nor do they atone by perfume for their want of
colour, as with the exception of a faint breath of vanilla, or of the
fragrant blossoms of a lecythes, no odour of flowers greets the senses.

The forest was not dull, as besides the tolling bell-birds, numerous
kites and hawks added their harsh cries; nearer at hand little
humming-birds were perpetually lisping “tweek-tweek” or a gay fire-bird
calling out “quark.”

Once we heard a flute-bird,[92] whose mellow ventriloquial notes were
of wonderful sweetness, and as they floated around the sound was that of
an Æolian harp struck by the wind on the tree tops. The exquisite tone
reminded me of the “Siffleur montagne,” which I once heard singing in the
woods of Martinique. But in the forest all birds’ sounds are pleasing,
and even the harsh-throated parrots and macaws are pleasant to listen
to. What does the bell-bird say when he tolls out “quiâ-ting” or the
pompadour cotinga when he screams “wallababa” or the duraquara when he
greets the dawn with his own name? Something surely, and though we cannot
understand it, it is clear to the initiated. Those two parrots holding
such confidential intercourse must understand one another, and that
touching monologue of the flute-bird cannot be uttered in vain! Forest
music must be, like Tzigane music, without laws and dogmas, and though
subtle and mystic, yet distinct and easily comprehended by those who
utter it.

After some hours of steady walking, during which we had been gradually
ascending, we arrived at a small clearing in the centre of which stood
a circular house, thatched and wattled. A fine cashew tree shadowed
it, and in a twinkling we were enjoying the refreshing fruit which an
agile Indian who had climbed up, shook down for us. Cashew Cottage was
unoccupied, the family being in town or at some watering place, or more
probably “on the walk.” Abraham conducted us to a point which was a
little way off the path, but from which we obtained a fine mountain view.

We were facing the west, and close in our front ran the Marima[93] range,
sloping and forest-clad for the greater part, but towards its southern
extremity was an enormous square pile of sheer rock without even a shrub
on its smooth sides. Behind this and in the far blue distance another
perpendicular wall of rock was just visible; this was the northern end
of Roraima. Stretching far away to the north were other mountains, the
most conspicuous of which were the dome-shaped Serāpi and the flat-topped
Ilotipu. As far as the eye could reach the violet tinted ranges rose
one above the other, and threading its way between them we could trace
the course of the Cako River. As usual Roraima only showed itself for
a moment, for the white clouds fell slowly down and hid its sharp
profile. Then we resumed our journey, whose direction was now towards the
south-eastern end of Marima.

From Cashew Cottage two paths branched off into the forest. Abraham
chose the one to the right, and in about four hours we emerged on to a
high savanna plateau. In the centre of it were two conical huts, old
and deserted. Close to them lay several large troughs hollowed out of
tree trunks, but whether they had originally been intended for canoes
or to hold paiworie we could not determine. Not far from here we built
our shelter, as Abraham said that a stream ran through the forest below
us. When we sought it we found it was dry, but as McTurk was unwell and
feverish, owing to the numerous cuts, bruises, and sores gained during
our hard tramps, we thought it better to remain where we were and send
back for water to the nearest brook.

From the savanna we had a fine view all round. On one side were the
Marima mountains, and a picturesque fall which proved to be the head
waters of the Aruparu; and on the other, from the foot of a steep
precipice, a broad valley bounded by wooded hills extended far away to
the east in one unbroken surface of foliage.

In the evening a party of Indians arrived. They were on their way to
the Mazaruni, but some of them agreed to accompany us, and others said
that if we waited for a day they would bring us some cassava from their
home in the forest. We therefore promised to wait, and early next
morning despatched three men to bring some more quakes of flour from
old Granny’s house. Like other Indians we had met and questioned, these
people beat their breasts and uttered various cries when they told us of
the mountains to be crossed, and added their testimony to the spirits
of Roraima. Besides cassava, they brought us some cobs of Indian corn
and green plantains, which we paid for in small silver coins, as they
said if ever they went to the coast they should require money. They were
an inquisitive set, and our clothes and shoes astonished them beyond
measure. I admit that at that time my boots certainly were curiosities.
When we went to perform our ablutions in the rain water that the troughs
held, we were always followed by a squad of sight-seers who had never
seen soap or sponges, and who stood at a distance and laughed.

At this period Mazaruni was in his glory, for besides Sarah—Abraham’s
wife—three more women were added to our party by the arrival of the new
comers, and as they carried burdens as well as the men, he was always on
hand to assist them in any difficult places. And the difficulties were
many, for we found that the hardest part of our journey was before us.
Directly after leaving camp the path descended through the forest, over
the usual terrible but unavoidable roots, and in the course of time we
arrived at the Owtaro River, which we crossed just above a splendid set
of falls that were precipitated over a rocky wall, between two hundred
and three hundred feet in depth, into the valley below.

Soon afterwards we reached the foot of the Opuima Mountain,[94] and
commenced an ascent which fully accounted for the breast-beating and
wild outcries of the natives. By root-ladders and with the aid of trees,
which were themselves clinging with difficulty to the precipitous side,
we slowly wended our way to the top. The ascent seemed interminable, and
from sheer exhaustion I was frequently on the point of throwing away my
gun and cartridges. At length the struggle was over, and we sat down on
the summit to await the arrival of the plucky carriers. I should not
have been at all surprised if none of them had reached the top, as I am
certain that with the same weight they carried I should have been totally
unable to make the ascent. But they all arrived safely, not quite so
light-hearted as when they started, but ready to proceed after a short
rest. In many places the ground seemed covered with snow, from the
whiteness of a pretty lichen[95] which was specked here and there with a
yellow flower growing from the end of a long stalk.

On the hill slopes were many magnificent palms, one species of which was
finer even than the royal palm. The shapely stems were of great height,
and the beautiful fronds were over twenty feet in length. McTurk had
never seen the species before, but probably it is the Ceroxylon Andicola,
which is found high up on the Andes. Scattered about at their feet were
delicate ferns whose tiny pinnules quivered at the least breath, whilst
the huge fronds above them were unmoved by the passing breeze. It was a
rare treat to behold these two singularly contrasting examples of the
most exquisite grace and beauty known in the botanical kingdom. Here were
also shrubs of the Bixa orellana, whose seeds furnish the “arnotto” paint
so much used by the Indians.

At length we came to the Cotinga River, or, as the natives call it, the
Quiâ-ting. It is curious that both the English and Indian name of this
river should have reference to the bell-bird, although it is common in
the locality. Here the stream is deep and about thirty-five yards broad,
and a canoe which we fortunately discovered took us over in relays. On
the opposite side was an unoccupied shed and a provision ground, which
gave evidence that the desertion of the house was only temporary. Here
were some blocks of red jasper of a very smooth and delicate grain.

On re-entering the forest, our path ran parallel to the river, but at
some distance from it. Presently a bend in the river brought us to the
side of a very pretty fall, where the water swept over a long and deep
dyke, whose stones were as smooth and regular as if chiselled by hand.
The name of the fall was Ookootawik, and there we intended to camp, but
Abraham assured us that a large village was very near. So on we went,
terribly fagged and tired, and at last reached a scene of desolation.
In North America a similar scene would be called a “windrow,” for the
appearance was that of a forest overturned by a whirlwind or tempest.
Tree lay piled on tree, the roots of one interlaced with the branches
of another; there were ladders of trunks stepping up and up, and topped
by the gnarled branches of some great tree, which seemed to have been
whirled down from a height and to have lodged there. Many were black and
charred, and others snow-white and barkless, throwing up their scraggy
arms like skeletons. Of course all signs of a path had vanished, and over
this forest wreck we had to scramble and pick our way, trusting to the
horn of Abraham for the right direction.

Horn-blowing was a very useful accomplishment of our guide, as it kept us
straight and frightened away the various evil spirits, from a water-māmā
to a wood-demon.

Another stretch of forest and then we came out on to a savanna, across
which we saw the dome of Waëtipu—the sun mountain. Four hours after
Abraham had told us the great village was close at hand we arrived there.
The first house that we came to belonged to the head of the village; he
seemed highly delighted to see us, said his name was Captain Sam, that
he had been to Georgetown, that his house and everything in it was at
our disposal, but that we would be more comfortable in the stranger’s
house, which was on the other side of the savanna. Thither we hastened,
and found a very large, lofty, and well built open shed, and we were soon
more comfortably housed than we had been since our departure. Around us
were a few more houses, but they all had wattled walls, and none looked
so cool and clean as ours. Close by, at the foot of a sugar-loaf hill,
flowed the Quáting, and never was bath more enjoyed than ours that night
in its cool, clear water. The name of the village was Menaparuti, and
numbered probably about fifty souls.

Next morning we only waited long enough to buy some cassava, and then
started off again. On clear days Roraima is in view from the village, but
the morning was wet, and clouds covered all the mountains. We commenced
with a short but very steep ascent, and after following a wretched path
came to a mountain called Marikamura. Then we had a climb which, in
length, far surpassed that of the previous day; the rocky steps were
steeper, the root-ladders longer, the trunks which here and there formed
the path more slippery, and the ascent altogether more fatiguing. About
half way up we met an unpleasant-looking Indian who informed us that
he was a great “peaiman,” and the spirit which he possessed ordered us
not to go to Roraima. The mountain, he said, was guarded by an enormous
“camoodi,” which could entwine a hundred people in its folds. He himself
had once approached its den, and had seen demons running about as
numerous as quails. We asked him if they would be good broiled on toast,
and though he did not understand, he made an angry gesture and soon
disappeared. The tale of this monster carried us back to old classical
days, when the famous python hindered the march of Regulus.

From the summit we descended a considerable distance, and at length
camped on the right bank of the Marika River. This was a pretty stream,
the water foaming here among great boulders, and there flowing dark and
smoothly over slabs of stone. The high banks were clothed with helianthus
and cannas, and some beautiful ferns threw a green mantle of the most
delicate point-lace over the moist earth. Away from the streams the soil
was stony and poor, and the trees, instead of taking root, balanced
themselves by great buttresses and numerous stilted stems of the most
fantastic forms.

In the course of the day we had crossed many little savannas, strewn with
small hard pebbles, which so hurt the feet of our Indians that most of
them were compelled to make and wear bark sandals. On these savannas grew
a very peculiar grass which bore a strong resemblance to miniature mops,
as from the top of each stem fell a thick crop of hairy fibres. There was
also a very pretty flowering grass, like a half-opened snowdrop, with its
white outer petals extended to a long pale green point.

A wet evening made us retire early to our hammocks, and soon after, a
few shrill cries were heard issuing from the forest, and presently with
hair streaming wildly and shaking a rattle, the old sorcerer, whom we had
met on the mountain, passed hurriedly along the path towards Roraima.
He looked neither to the right nor left, and quickly disappeared in the
gloom. Then Abraham once more dilated on rock spirits and sorcery to the
timorous Indians, and the night passed slowly away in storm and rain.

CHAPTER XX.

The sun was fiercely bright when, after an early start from our camp on
the Marika, our straggling party issued one by one from the dark, shady
forest on to an open savanna. A glad shout from the foremost announced
that our goal was in sight. Hastening up an intercepting hill we looked
down on an undulating savanna country, streaked here and there with
forest belts. On our right towards the north were the craggy heights of
Marima; on our left, beyond the terraced side of Waëtipu, the table-land
faded away in the silver-blue mountains of Brazil; and in front of us,
at the distance of a few miles, “walled round with rocks as an inland
island,” stood Roraima.[96]

At the foot of the mountain the hilly ground lay in patches of yellow
stony savanna, and dark strips of woodland rising in elevation as they
approached its base. Then came a deep forest-clad ravine whose farther
side sloped steeply up to a distance of about three thousand feet, and
springing directly out of this sea of green rose a perpendicular wall
of red rock, fifteen hundred feet in height. Hardly a shrub broke the
sheer descent of the shining cliff; scarcely a line of verdure marked
where clinging grasses had gained a footing on its smooth face. The
south-eastern corner was slightly rounded, and its tower-like appearance
increased its general resemblance to a Titanic fortification a few miles
in length, rising from a forest glacis.

The glancing rays of the sun struck the red sandstone layers which shone
like glass, and stood out in bold and bright relief above their green
base. A fly could hardly have rested on the slippery slabs, and this
was the mountain we had come so far to scale! The level summit-line was
backed by forest trees, which to us appeared like bushes, and from their
feet, like skeins of floss silk swaying in the wind, three waterfalls
descended and were lost in the woods below. But towards the northern end
of the mountain, a magnificent cascade, whose lip seemed to be below the
summit, sprang in a broad silvery arch right down into the green depths,
barely touching the rocky wall in its descent. This is the source of the
Cotinga River, or as the Indians call it Quáting-yama, _i.e._, head of
the Quáting. Eventually this river falls into the Amazon after mingling
with the Rio Branco and Rio Negro. Still farther north was another fall
whose waters formed one of the principal tributaries of the Cako River.

To the north-east of the mountain, and close to it, was a miniature
Roraima, and towards its south-western extremity was another mural
precipice, apparently just as impregnable. The mountain was Kukenam, and
from our position it seemed to be part of Roraima, but afterwards we
found that they were separated by a wide and wooded valley. From this
mountain, too, a splendid waterfall makes a clear leap of fifteen hundred
feet before it disappears in the green wilderness at its base. It issues
from the forest as the Kukenam River, and after joining the Yuruarti,
which also rises in the Kukenam mountain, forms the Caroni River, which
flows into the Orinoco below Ciudad Bolivar. Thus this extraordinary
group of mountains becomes the watershed of some of the tributaries of
three great rivers, viz.; the Amazon, the Orinoco and the Essequibo. No
wonder that the Indians named it “the ever-fruitful mother of streams.”
No wonder, too, that such a spirit-dreading race should regard the
weird and mysterious mountain with an awe which might almost be called
reverential, were it not entirely inspired by fear. They believe that the
magic circle which encompasses their “red-rocked night mountain,” cannot
be approached without danger, that he who enters it will never return,
and that the demon-guarded sanctuary on the summit will never be gazed on
by mortal eyes.

It is impossible to behold these smoothly chiselled mountains without
wondering how they have been shaped and moulded by Nature into their
present uniformity of feature. It could not have been by fire, as no
trace of volcanic action exists in them. Were it possible that the
present equatorial regions had passed through a glacial period, one would
think that by the polishing and grooving of glaciers alone could the
planed and sculptured rocks have attained their massive and perpendicular
outlines. But it is supposed that South America, in ages long past, was
divided into island groups, indicated as Wallace says, “by the great
area and low elevation of the alluvial plains of the Orinoco and Amazon.
A subsidence of less than two thousand feet would convert the highlands
of Guiana and Brazil into islands separated by a shallow strait from the
Andes.”

Hence it must be that the action of water has carved the island sides
into smooth perpendicular walls. For my own part, the idea would
cling to me that in the untold past the surrounding region was a high
plateau which by earthquakes and convulsions had been so shattered
and broken that nothing was left in its original position save these
mountain-monuments that lie scattered over its surface. It is also a
matter of no little surprise that in a country of almost perpetual rain
and moisture, which usually tend to produce rounded and broken hills and
mountains, the predominating features should be the perpendicular cliffs
and plateaus of dry and arid climes.

Our first full view of Roraima did not last long, for thick fleecy clouds
gradually rolled over its flat top, and then slowly unfolded themselves
down the red sides until they rested on the green slopes, presenting
the appearance of a carefully spread damask table-cloth. Near where we
had halted, we found the “peaiman” looking very disconsolate under the
shelter of leaves. For a consideration, he offered to charm away the evil
spirits that would beset us, and declared that without his assistance we
should be unable to cross the river that we saw below us. Not desiring
his society, we declined his aid and continued our walk.

In an hour we reached the river, and crossed it just above some fine
falls where it was about forty yards in breadth. The water was not deep,
but its red sandstone bed was as slippery as the smoothest ice, so that
it required much caution to avoid falling, and being swept over the
cataract, which was between forty and fifty feet in height. Where the
river was dry, a curious appearance was presented by the sandstone which
lay in perfectly even blocks like large red bricks. Abraham said that
the name of the river—Eki-biapu—was derived from these singular slabs
which are supposed to resemble the stones on which cassava is baked. In
the savanna, on the other side of the stream, we erected our shed, a
neighbouring grove supplying poles and the necessary fire-wood.

We celebrated our arrival by a grand clothes-washing, Charlie being chief
washer-man, whilst I did the ironing by placing the articles between
flat-stones and sitting on them. The day was finished by a grand banquet,
consisting of rice, “Worcestershire” sauce, and “bakes.” In bumpers of
sparkling “Eno’s Fruit Salt,” we drank to the successful issue of our
undertaking, and retired soberly to our hammocks for our first night’s
rest under the shadow of Roraima.

CHAPTER XXI.

From the ridge above our camp, we saw a long tongue of savanna running up
through the forest belt, almost to a level with the base of the mountain
wall. To this clear spot we bent our footsteps, taking with us provisions
for three days, and leaving all the men except two in camp. To avoid the
wooded ravines, we followed the undulating savanna for a long distance
in a south-westerly direction. The path was well trodden and distinct,
but there were no signs of habitations, and, indeed, the arid appearance
of the country gave but little promise of support. The exceptional
drought which prevailed in the lowlands of Guiana prevailed also in the
mountains, and no water flowed over the beds of many of the rivulets
that we were constantly crossing. Wherever streams ran, the hollows and
ravines were clothed with a bright green foliage; beautiful ferns grew
on the banks, and among them was a grand species, which, in growth,
resembled the sago palm. There were clusias too with pure wax-like
flowers, and innumerable trees of a species of Melastomacea, whose large
white blossoms unfold themselves with a rare tinge of pink which fades as
day advances.

In the larger forest belts, the trees were chiefly of the chinchonea[97]
and laurus; but their pale flowers were varied with yellow gomphias and
crimson befarias. Slender palms and quaint cecropias added their beauty
to the woodland edges, and the rough-leafed curatella mingled with the
fragile mimosas. Over the savannas large kites hovered, and occasionally
small parrots flew from one grove to another; white-throated swallows,
of a reddish brown colour, dashed here and there, and a few long-tailed
fly-catchers[98] balanced themselves on the thin stems of a rubus whose
berries we often found very refreshing. I recognised some old friends,
too, in meadow larks,[99] with their pretty black horse-shoe marked
throats. But birds were not numerous, with the exception of a little
brown species like a linnet which was continually rising from under our
feet, and settling again a few yards off. In the wooded dells and ravines
were pigeons, and from the thick bush came the unceasing frog-like croaks
of the fringed chatterer.

On all parts of the savanna were dotted pyramid-shaped ant-hills, many
of which had been freshly torn open by the great ant-eaters.[100] These
curious animals as well as the smaller tamanduas are very common in
Guiana, though on account of their nocturnal habits they are not often
met with in the day time. They are slow clumsy creatures, peaceable and
harmless, but formidable when attacked, as their hug is almost as deadly
as that of a grisly bear. Their skin will resist the bite of a dog; but
the snout is their weak point, as a sharp blow on it from a stick will
kill them. When an ant-eater throws itself back and extends its powerful
claws, it will seize the first object within reach and hold on to it,
so they are often killed by throwing some article into their embrace,
and then tapping them on the proboscis. The tongue of the animal is very
long and round, and can be lubricated at pleasure from two large glands
below the roots; when with its strong claws it has opened an ant-hill, it
thrusts in its tongue which sweeps around and is quickly covered with the
insects which must, one would think, be swallowed in enormous quantities
to afford sustenance for so large a body. The wonderful mechanism of an
ant-eater’s tongue calls forcibly to mind the extraordinary muscular
flexibility of all tongues, from that of a giraffe, or snake, or bird to
our own. The tongue is so familiar an organ that we are apt to overlook
its varied offices, and its power and motion.

At last we turned off the Indian path, and soon reached a delicious
mountain stream which flowed at the foot of the slopes, directly below
Roraima. A thick grove on the other side of the rivulet formed a
sheltered nook, and as the position seemed an admirable one from which to
attempt an ascent, McTurk sent back one of the men with instructions to
move camp to the present site. We then continued our climb towards the
south-eastern extremity of the mountain. The higher we mounted, the more
tedious became the walking, owing to the boulders and débris which lay
hidden under the long grass. Sometimes a ravine had to be crossed, or our
way pushed through a narrow belt of woodland.

On all sides were flowering shrubs and trees whose blossoms were not only
brilliant but extremely fragrant. A more sweet-scented region than that
around Roraima cannot be found. Eugenias, aromatic lantanas, ericas,
genipas, a species of salvia, gesnerias and many other plants were as
abundant on the mountain-savanna as the bignonias and passion-flowers
which draped the forests.

After copious rains this district would be a perfect El Dorado for
botanists. Even after the drought which had preceded our visit there
were still many rare blossoms to be seen, and, though often faded or
withering, we could form from them some idea of the floral wealth of
Roraima. There were orchids, too, both tree and terrestrial, and of the
latter a lovely crimson cleistes[101] bore off the palm. Wherever it was
damp panicles of golden oncidiums drooped from the tree branches, but
they as well as the odontoglots and epidendrons were dead or dying. One
species—a Stanhopea[102]—seemed to set the dry weather at defiance, and
its dark purple cup and bright green petals always looked as fresh as
though they had been watered daily.

At length we arrived at a point almost on a level with the perpendicular
wall of Roraima, but with a vast forest-clad gulf intervening. It had
been evident to us from the first that our best method of proceeding
would be to choose from one of these open savanna ridges any point in the
straight-cut rock that appeared at all practicable for an ascent, and
then by the aid of a compass to make our way direct to that spot across
the wooded ravine. We afterwards found that the passage of this deep and
precipitous ravine presented difficulties which were second only to those
of the wall itself. The north wind swept so keenly over our elevated
position that we were glad to seek shelter for a time under one of the
great black boulders that lay around.

Our climb had made us thirsty, but we had to content ourselves with the
water contained in the sheath bases of the leaves of the wild pines,[103]
which grew in great numbers on the surrounding trees. These natural
reservoirs contained a good supply of rain-water, but it was very old and
full of insects.

Looking back over the country we had traversed, we saw a picturesque
landscape of mountain and plain. Far below, the undulating yellow savanna
was pierced at intervals by tongues of green forest; beyond, a few silver
flashes marked where a stream ran through a narrow valley, and on its
left towards the east rose the Sun mountain—Waëtipu—in a series of wooded
terraces, and with its southern extremity crowned by a high sugar-loaf.
From here, far away to the south, stretched a chain of blue hills with
flickering spaces of shadowed sunlight between them, and on the edge of
the horizon towered the great table mountains of Brazil, which, like
colossal monoliths, contrasted with the peaks and domes of the adjacent
ranges in Guiana. The scene was by no means grand but acquired a certain
charm from the variety of colour diffused by the western sun. The arid
savannas which had seemed so barren and dreary were now tinted with a
soft green paling to silver-grey; the purple film of distance, which we
knew was only the parched foliage of some forest belt, was streaked with
golden lines, and the hard red rock shingle over which we had painfully
trudged, gleamed and sparkled like early dew. Colour brightened the
landscape, but life was wanting. No bird sang, no hut was visible, no
wreath of smoke curled up from wood or plain, no moving object caught
the eye as far as it could reach. Cows in the green valley by the river,
a goat clambering about the rocks, or even an Indian banaboo would
have relieved the loneliness of the picture. Once we thought we could
distinguish a cluster of huts in a distant vale, but the sweeping shadows
hindered any close observation.

From the open country we turned to the giant fortress which rose sternly
above us. The contrast was sharp and decided. From the heights on which
we stood, the wide-stretching savanna land seemed a grassy country over
which a good horse could galop, jumping with ease the narrow forest
belts which intersected the plains like hedges. But nothing less than a
winged Pegasus could expect to attain the summit of the bare red wall
that raised itself for hundreds and hundreds of feet, unrelieved by aught
save a few tangled bushes and tasselled bunches of some wild grasses.
Carefully we scanned every ledge and crevice, seeking some practicable
spot to which we might direct our steps on the morrow. At the southern
extremity of the eastern side, which we were facing, a ravine near a
rounded tower-like rock, draped with grass and lichens, which recalled
to my mind the Metella Tomb of the Roman Campagna on a gigantic scale,
gave better promise of a foot-hold than anywhere else. But a closer
examination showed that this fissure only separated the rounded mass, at
about two-thirds of its height, from the rest of the mountain which then
rose as perpendicular as in other places.

The following day when we resumed our explorations the results were
similar. Near one of the falls an angle in the rock, and a fringe of
shrubs running up for some distance along a deep crack, held out hopes of
a practicable ascent, but they vanished in a plumb-line of wall without
ridge or chink. Upon the elevated ridges we were not troubled by animal
life, as besides a large rattlesnake, which one of the men killed, we
found nothing except two goat-suckers’ nests, each containing a young
one. But down on the savanna we were so plagued by a small black fly that
life was almost insupportable. These insects attacked the eyes and ears,
and bit severely, leaving a bright red mark with a black centre. Even the
Indians were obliged, when in camp, to sit all day surrounded by dense
volumes of smoke.

It was therefore with no regret that, after finding the ascent of the
eastern side of Roraima impracticable, we left camp one day with hammocks
and provisions—the latter now unfortunately reduced to little except
flour, of which we had far too much—with the intention of exploring the
south side. The nights were very cold, as the thermometer generally fell
below 60 degs., but the days were intensely hot, and in walking over the
open savannas we were much blistered by the sun, a circumstance which
rendered the incessant attacks of the black flies more aggravating. As we
crossed over the ridges, before turning towards the mountain, we passed a
very pretty tree-filled hollow with precipitous sides and very deep. At
one end of this chasm a fine stream emerged from underground, and after
falling over the rocks in a picturesque cascade, wound round the base of
the cliff and disappeared through a narrow outlet.

To reach an open point suitable for a survey, we passed over ground very
similar to that on the eastern flank. There were the same steep spurs,
the same widths of jungle, and the same black boulders, grass-covered
and so slippery that the greatest caution was necessary in placing the
feet, for a sprained ancle or a broken leg would have been of serious
consequence in these wilds. At last we stood above the great ravine
that surrounds the mountain, and commanded a near view of the southern
wall. This side of Roraima is, if possible, even more precipitous than
the eastern. The outline is similar, except in the centre, where it is
wonderfully turreted and shaped with battlements. Here and there enormous
black slabs appear to be let into the red stone as smoothly as if by
hand, and in other spots quaint mosaic patterns can be traced. There were
no waterfalls from the summit, but in three or four places the dark shiny
lines showed where water had only recently ceased to flow. A fine cascade
issued from the forest slope near the smooth western extremity, but we
could not tell whence the water came. This we imagined must be the second
fall of the Kamaiba, mentioned by Schomburgh as having a breadth of
seventy yards. Although when we saw it we estimated its width at barely
that number of feet, yet its diminished size could readily be accounted
for by the exceptionally dry season.

From this point we had a splendid view of the eastern side of Kukenam,
which projects beyond, and runs up parallel with the western flank
of Roraima. Its steep wall, though seemingly perpendicular, did not
present the same inaccessible front that Roraima did. North of its great
waterfall, we could trace ledges covered with trees and bush, which to
us seemed contiguous and continuous enough to reach the top. But Roraima
was our goal, not Kukenam, and even to reach its base across the broad,
dense forest valley that intervened, would have been the work of days.
These southern slopes are actually more prolific in floral treasures than
the eastern. The great fantastic black rocks which lie scattered about
in infinite variety, are all clothed with agaves, cactuses, bromelias,
gesnerias, mosses, and orchids. Every step reveals some new charm,
every breath of air seems laden with a fresh sweetness; now it is the
delicate fragrance of a yellow melastoma, and now the heavier odour of a
chocolate-tinted odontoglot.

The soil on the southern side of Roraima was more moist than on the
eastern, the plants were brighter, and the blossoms more abundant. In
one place, which in our excursions we continually had to cross, there
was a broad swamp, which was the last thing we expected to find on
such elevated ground, traversed apparently by no stream. Here, grew a
beautiful utricularia with dark blue flowers, a nepenthes, and various
cœlogynes. There were also numerous sobralias,[104] but none were in
flower, which was a great disappointment to us, as Schomburgh has
pronounced this variety of orchidea to be the most fragrant and beautiful
of its class. Near this swamp and hovering over the bell-blossoms of
a thibaudia[105] we saw the only humming-bird that we met with in the
locality; from the quick glance we obtained of it we could see it was not
one of a very brilliant species, the plumage being of a reddish bronze.

It was always a relief to emerge on to this flowery marsh from the thick
forest entanglement of the craggy ravine, and one day, after repeated
failures to trace out the smallest likelihood of a possible ascent, we
sat down on a rock near its edge, and agreed that the southern flank of
Roraima was as impracticable as the eastern. One thickly-bushed crevice
near the south-western end had cheered us with a prospect of success,
but alas! between the wooded ledges were impassable walls of sheer
rock, which neither man nor monkey could ascend. At another place the
bush connection up to a certain point was only interfered with by an
overhanging slab, but that projection was an insuperable impediment.
Gradually the conviction was forced upon us that the Indians were right,
and that Roraima was impregnable. That the north side, even if it were
approachable through the wide-stretching primeval forest, was impossible
of ascent we had no doubt, on account of the stupendous wall of rock
we had seen—though at a distance—from Cashew Cottage. So now it only
remained for us to see what we could of the western side. Of this flank
we could only get glimpses by retiring towards Kukenam, and from savanna
hills obtaining our view up the dividing valley.

Owing to the clouds which almost incessantly filled this gorge, it was
seldom that we could enjoy a satisfactory view, but what we did see only
convinced us that the western side was a repetition of the others.
To thoroughly examine that side of the mountain, it would have been
necessary to make a journey round Kukenam, with the hope of finding high,
open ridges, from which we could have made a close inspection. But this
would have been a work of many days, and, as we felt, a fruitless labour.
Irrespective of my expressed opinion—when asked by McTurk—of the futility
of further efforts to ascend Roraima, I was influenced by two other
unexpressed considerations. One of these was my firm conviction that my
unfortunate boots would not stand a longer sojourn in the neighbourhood,
and I did not wish to pass the rest of my days in the wilds of Guiana,
and the other a desire for something to eat. For the fact was that our
provisions had run short; rice, bacon, coffee, sugar, mouldy biscuits,
all had vanished except several great quakes of mildewed flour, and it
was beyond human nature to return to camp day after day, hungry and
tired, and sit down with any enjoyment to cold water and “bakes” or
dumplings. In theory the carrying of a great quantity of flour may have
been good, as I suppose—although I am by no means certain of it—it would
have warded off actual starvation, but in practice it was bad. May future
visitors to Roraima take plenty of flour, but also may they take other
things to render it eatable!

On the day after our last view of the western wall we turned our steps
homeward, that is to the camp under the eastern slopes, where our Indians
awaited us. Before dark, we arrived at a circular hut which stood alone
on the top of a barren hill. It was deserted, so we took up our quarters
in it for the night. As daylight faded, the mountain fortress loomed
more and more mysterious; the battlements were touched with a light
rose colour, and the clear-cut summit was sharply defined against the
purple sky. For a short time the mists rolled away, and this great
“sermon in stone” stood out in vivid, faultless accuracy, all the more
impressive from the perfect stillness of the scene. Then darkness fell;
but presently the moon arose, and lo! the recent rich colouring gave
place to a fretwork of pure frosted silver. The edges of the woods and
the pencilled lines of the delicate foliage were burnished with the soft
rays, and then, indeed, Roraima looked weird and solemn.

We were destined to see the mountain under many aspects, as whilst the
clouds were enveloping it for the night, a pink reflection in them made
us look for the cause. Then we saw that all the country to the south and
east was illuminated by fire. We knew that probably the savanna grass
around our camp had been set on fire by the Indians, but had the design
and direction been arranged by an experienced pyrotechnist the effect
could not have been finer. As if by art, the flames kept in accord with
the hill outlines, here rising in long lines one above the other, and
there encircling the oval peaks as with coronets of fire. The exhibition
did not last long, for a storm, whose approach had been signalled by a
few thunder-claps, broke with great fury and a deluge of rain descended.
It continued all night, and we were very thankful that we had a
roof—although a leaky one—over us.

Next morning the face of the country had changed, the parched appearance
had disappeared, and all was green and fresh. The great Kukenam Fall,
which of late had been growing more and more attenuated was now a
splendid body of water, and three or four fine cataracts dashed down
the side of Roraima where previously there had only been the faintest
indications of moisture.

On our way back to camp, rivulets whose thread of water we had before
stepped over, were so swollen that we were forced to wade through
them, and in one or two cases we had to seek a place where a ford was
possible. Our Indians were rejoiced to see us back again, as they had
not expected that the mountain-demons would allow us to return. They
were very glad to hear that on the following day we should prepare for
our departure towards home. During our absence, they had transformed an
open shelter into a picturesque little house with door and walls formed
of palm leaves; a similar one, but made entirely of boughs, gave them a
comfortable lodging. Thus warmly housed, our last nights at Roraima were
pleasanter than the previous ones, and the smoke-filled apartment proved
a successful remedy for the poisonous flies.

CHAPTER XXII.

When engaged in repacking our diminished baggage, we were visited by a
hunting party of Arecuna Indians. They were taller and fiercer looking
than our Acawais who shrunk timidly away, and it was with difficulty
that we could induce our own Arecunas to approach the strangers and
interpret their language. Their long black hair was cut short and combed
over the forehead, and the part thus “banged” was painted red. Their
feet and knees were also painted red, and their faces were striped.
Some of them wore cross pieces of steel wire as a lip ornament, and one
was contented with a couple of common pins crossed in the same way. The
chief wore a peculiar bell-shaped and tasselled ornament in his under
lip, which he gave to me in exchange for two or three charges of powder.
For his necklace of teeth I offered him a very good hunting knife; this
he declined, but intimated his willingness to part with it for an old
cutlass whose value was about one-third of the knife.

McTurk offered them two guns if they would show us how to reach the
top of Roraima, but they beat their breasts, grunted, and with wild
gesticulations declared that there was no way of ascending to the summit
of the cloud mountain. If they had known of any way, the promise of a
gun would certainly have induced them to point it out. The chief had
a miserable “buck” gun, but the rest carried only bows and arrows and
blow-pipes.[106] The only bird they had shot was a duraquara which they
had obtained near their own village, that was a few miles off in the
savannas towards the east. We had noticed a few deer tracks, and once
McTurk had seen a large animal cross slowly over an opening in the high
ridge on Roraima, but he was unable to make out what it was. But game was
scarce, and the Indians said they could not get any before we left next
day, but they would return to their village and meet us on our journey
with vegetables and cassava.

True to their appointment, we found them waiting near our former camp at
Eki-biapu Falls, but the provisions they brought only consisted of some
old cassava as hard as rock, and a few unripe plantains. We had started
before sunrise in order, if possible, to reach the village of Menaparuti
on the same night; it was a long march, but with our lightened loads
we hoped to accomplish it. Before entering the forest we turned for a
last full view of Roraima. “Parting looks,” says the old Welsh proverb,
“are magnifiers of beauty,” and to us the grand red walls looked more
perpendicular, stiller, and more solemn than ever. Against the pure blue
sky the sharp outlines of the softly-coloured mountain stood out in
perfect relief, and the atmosphere was so clear that we fancied we could
hear the roar of the falls. What messages were those waters carrying to
earth? They alone knew the secret of Roraima, but their language, like
that of the birds, is understood only by themselves. They could tell what
we had vainly tried to find out, for we most assuredly failed to tear the
veil from the head of this mysterious Sphinx. We were disappointed—who
would not be?—at the time. But we did not regret those Roraima days;
to others, perhaps, we had apparently laboured fruitlessly; but not to
ourselves, for we had learnt far more by Nature’s lessons than can be
taught by books, had witnessed scenes that well repaid some weariness of
body, and had so enjoyed them that the spell of the mountains lingered
long after we had left them. It is far from an unpleasant reflection
to think that there are still a few unvisited spots in the world, and
as the summit of Roraima is one of them, it may be that before long
the fascination of travel will induce some toil-loving mortal to again
attempt its exploration.

If I have dwelt too long on the various points of our journey, it has
been with the idea that a knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome
and the assistance to be gained _en route_ may be of use to future
travellers. I do not think it possible to make the ascent of Roraima
except by a balloon, and the novelty of such an exploring tour would
give additional zest to the undertaking.

And now let me atone for my tiresome details by a quick journey home.
We reached the village of Menaparuti late at night, after a very long
day’s walk, and once more slung our hammocks in the fine open shed.
Here we rested a day in order to obtain a supply of cassava, which the
villagers prepared for us in abundance. They had no fresh meat, so a
hunting party went off to the woods in search of game. All they brought
back was a small mâam, and a large striped coatimundi,[107] whose flesh
was so pungent that it completely spoilt the bird which was cooking
in the same pot. The favourite beverage among the inhabitants was a
disagreeable-looking compound called cassiree; it was of a pink colour,
and being prepared in the same way as paiworie it was highly appreciated
by our men.

We were much amused by a number of village children who used continually
to pass our house on their way to the river. Slowly, in single file,
they marched past, the tallest leading, and the sizes diminishing until
the last was not the height of his bow. They never smiled, and were so
grave that they impressed one with the idea that they were little old
men starting on some dangerous expedition. Once we followed them, and
directly the small troop was out of sight of the houses, its members
changed immediately into children. They shouted and laughed, pushed each
other into the river, jumped into their tiny canoes and raced one against
the other, swam about and were as happy as schoolboys on a half holiday.
After their fun had lasted some time they all crossed the river, resumed
their solemn air, and disappeared in single file up a forest path on a
shooting foray. About an hour afterwards they returned triumphantly,
dragging another coatimundi which the little imps had managed to kill,
probably with a poisoned arrow.

From childhood to old age male Indians are seldom without a bow or a
blow-pipe in their hands, peccaries, pumas, and panis falling as easy
a prey to the man as toucans, pigeons, and small birds to the boy. To
get food is their principal object in life. They have few pastimes, but
enjoy a dance, or the “ha-ha” game.[108] In some tribes, when a youth
wishes to show his courage and powers of endurance of pain, he is shaken
up by his friends in a bag filled with Monouri[109] ants, which are the
most dangerous of their kind, the sting of one being sufficient to cause
fever. This is almost their only amusement. I do not think they were
much impressed with the intellectual recreations of the white men, as
when McTurk and I were playing our usual evening euchre, they could not
understand the object of throwing down pieces of painted paper only to
pick them up again. They thought the picture-cards were wonderful, and
that they were the portraits of foreigners.

We obtained a good many teeth necklaces from them, as they were inclined
to sell anything they possessed for powder or knives, but they had
no other curiosities worth the trouble of carrying. There was great
competition amongst the women as to who should dispose of the most
cassava; in fact they brought a great deal more than we could take, and
much of what we did pack soon became mouldy and uneatable, in consequence
of insufficient sun-drying.

The evening before we left, some natives from the Mazaruni spread a
report that we were to be attacked and killed by the Cako Indians, as
soon as we reached that river. We paid no attention to the rumour, but
our men were evidently much disturbed. We thought it highly improbable
that the timid and peaceful people we had seen should suddenly become
hostile; still the idea of an ambushed river and poisoned arrows was not
a pleasant one. It was just possible that traders in Venezuela, hearing
of our expedition, and being ignorant of its import, had instigated the
Indians to take offensive action, but it was very improbable, and we soon
forgot all about it.

Before dawn we were up and away, and ere the last house in the village
had disappeared, we heard the crowing of a cock. Had we heard it sooner
what a dinner we might have had! Indians never eat eggs or poultry, and
only keep hens as pets. On leaving the savanna, Abraham conducted us by a
different path from that by which we had come, stating that it was a much
shorter one, but he had not known of it before. In an old cassava field,
there were some beautiful golden red blossoms of an amaryllis, evidently
a garden-flower run wild.

We crossed the Quáting much higher up than previously, near a small
village called Nimapi. It was a pretty place, the houses being perched on
the side of the high hill on the left bank of the river, and surrounded
with plantains and fruit trees. There were also a few huts on the
right bank, and as in one of them there was a trough of paiworie, we
had to sentinel the door until the last man had crossed in the cranky
canoe which we used as a ferry-boat. From this village commenced an
ascent which equalled, if it did not surpass, in steepness any that we
had accomplished. The damp and slippery ground made it all the more
difficult, but in time we reached the summit. The path afterwards
branched into our old one near the Opuima mountain, which we descended in
wonderfully quick time. So long and rapid was that day’s march that we
slept that night at Cashew Cottage, having made the distance in half the
time that we had previously taken.

A large family party was assembled at the cottage, and from them we
received the intelligence that three of our woodskins had been taken
from their hiding place. This was worse news than the other, and when
about the middle of the next day we arrived at old Granny’s, a man was
at once despatched to find out the truth. He returned with the joyful
intelligence that all the woodskins were perfectly safe. Several parties
of Indians had stopped at the old lady’s hut during our absence, but
nothing that we had left had been touched, and the rice and coffee were
very acceptable to us.

After the late rain, the water in the Aruparu creek was deeper and our
descent was not so much impeded as our ascent had been. On the way down,
we replenished our larder with a fine water-haas, which was as large as
an ordinary pig. At last we arrived at the house of Captain Sam on the
Cako River, and there found that the story of the attack was an entire
fabrication, probably invented to induce us to remain longer at the
village, or to proceed by another—the Cukuie—route. Then again we entered
the Mazaruni River and landed at our former camp. Our old friend the
Pirate, who was cruising about in his canoe, came to bid us farewell, and
in his charge we left the woodskins to be returned to their owners.

Before starting on our last walk through the forest, we saw a woodskin
approaching, its paddles being plied vigorously by a man and a woman.
Mazaruni, at the prospect of another conquest, immediately began to
adorn himself, and as the boat drew near, our amusement was great at
recognizing old Granny and her son, Abraham, whom we had left at their
home on the Aruparu creek. The paddles, under the strength of the skinny
arms of the old lady, swept the water as powerfully as did those of her
robust son, and she did not appear to mind in the least the physical
exertion for which we pitied her. Indian women, although well treated by
their husbands, are so accustomed from their girlhood to the exercise of
physical endurance that what we consider must be a sad strain on their
powers is but a second nature to them even in old age.

Our friends had brought with them much of the flour and salt, and some
of the various articles that we had given them, and intended to proceed
farther down the river on a trading expedition. We gently blew on the old
lady’s back for good luck, and with a farewell to Abraham set off through
the dark forest.

CHAPTER XXIII.

In order to reach Macrebah before our hands and feet were quite worn out,
we determined to waste no time but to proceed by forced marches. Poor
McTurk, in addition to injured limbs and feverish attacks, was worse off
as regards foot covering than I was, as he was reduced to three pair of
india-rubber shoes, which he wore one over the other on account of the
holes.

With our thin soles, the sharp-ribbed roots made our movements as
delicate as walking over eggs, and it was very ludicrous but rather
painful to find ourselves now on one leg and now on the other, vainly
endeavouring to escape the knobs and pointed projections which thrust
themselves against our bruised feet. I could not help thinking of the
grasshopper when he said to the bee;

“There’s a time to be sad,
And a time to be glad,
A time both for working and stopping;
For men to make money,
For you to make honey,
And for me to do nothing but hopping.”

During this walk we saw for the first time the great “bird’s nest” fern,
adapted for the purpose its name implies. Numbers of these plants grew on
the trunks and low branches of the trees, and in many instances they had
been made the nesting places of ground-doves. No other species of bird
occupied them, but we invariably discovered one or two eggs of the dove,
and in one instance the mother allowed us to look at her as she sat on
her nest.

Concerning the rest of our foot-journey, it suffices to say that in three
days we arrived at Macrebah and there found our boat, the Adaba, all
safe. My wonderful boots would certainly not have lasted another day; but
I had no further need of them, and in gratitude I hung them to a high
pole driven into the sand, and after tracing underneath the well-known
words

“Whoever dare these boots displace
Must meet Bombastes face to face!”

I abandoned them as an offering to the Spirit of Macrebah Falls.

The large dacana balli, which we had left covered with white flowers,
had now fruited, and the great green nuts fell heavily to the ground.
The Curipung River was but little affected by the recent rain, and its
claret coloured water reflected the white sand in as clear a purple as
when we first saw it. Here we rested for a day and dismissed all the
Indian carriers, with the exception of our own six, who formed the crew
of the Adaba, and Lanceman and Mazaruni, who accompanied us, when we
departed, in a woodskin. “Master will no take boot,” said Charlie with a
mischievous grin, as he pointed to the two skeletons swinging near the
water’s edge, when we started.

A long day’s journey brought us down to the Mazaruni River. There was
little current in the creek, and in some places so little water that
there was scarcely sufficient to moisten the throats of the disconsolate
herons which, like lone fishermen, moodily gazed at the shallow stream
from the pebbly shore.

The sun was just setting when we arrived at the mouth of the creek,
and never before had the scenery of the great river appeared to us so
picturesque as it did then. The black water stretched away north and
south-east to the wooded hills, whose sides were first a rose colour,
then crimson, then purple. Above the dark forest, across the river, a
golden green haze expanded itself up and up until it touched the pink
and pearl clouds in the east. The sharp promontories of silver sand
sparkled as they caught the expiring rays, and stood out so clearly
that even on the most distant could be seen the shadowy forms of the
egrets or cranes. Then, as the colours all faded into a slowly darkening
purple, a mysterious silence prevailed; the cries of the monkeys ceased,
the toucans had called “tucáno” for the last time, and the ibises no
longer screamed “curri-curri” as they flapped by. The sombre jungle grew
blacker, the sky clearer and the thin vapour which stole up from the
water’s edge crept along the forest-crest and spread a film over more
distant objects. Then on noiseless wing the night-hawks floated past
looking like great butterflies, bats skimmed through the forest openings,
and fire-beetles suddenly started into life.

Presently the breeze brought faint sounds from the river, a frog croaked,
again we heard the fog-horn notes of the howling monkeys, and then the
“brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep” was over. When the
full moon rose, the scene might have been in Greenland. The river changed
to a sheet of silver-blue ice, the vapour-clad trees sparkled like dew,
the sky and stars were brilliantly clear, and the great sandbank was a
drift of the purest snow. On this white bank some travelling Indians had
encamped, and their dark figures stood out in as bold relief as those of
Esquimaux on a snow-field. The illusion was heightened by the sleigh-like
appearance of a woodskin which had been drawn up from the water, and at
whose side three dogs were lying asleep.

The night sounds which issue from the forests of Guiana are singularly
strange and weird. Whether on broad river, narrow creek, or out in the
lonely woods, the traveller is greeted with unearthly sounds that utterly
banish sleep. Scarcely had we ensconced ourselves in our hammocks, which
had been slung to the trees bordering the sandbank, when the “voices of
the night” broke forth. First, the night-jar ran down its scale “ha,
ha-ha, ha-ha-ha,” each note lower than the preceding, and each the acme
of the most hopeless sorrow. The utter misery told in this bird’s voice
must be heard to be believed. Next a mâam uttered its shrill plaintive
whistle, whose volume increased until the whole forest resounded with it.
Then, as if a warning to the noisy reveller, a loud rattle, like that of
a night-watchman, sounded close by. This was the music of a night-hawk.
Immediately after came the melancholy cries of a pigeon, like a human
voice calling for aid. These sounds were hushed by the dismal wail of
a sloth, which, in its turn, gave place to a series of sharp clucks
like those of a hen, and which were produced by some winged creature
of darkness. After a moment’s stillness a stealthy rustle in the leaves
betokened the neighbourhood of a snake or lizard, and, farther off, a
breaking branch told where a larger animal was pushing its way.

These sounds continued until nearly midnight, that hour when, as Cotton
says:

“The goblin now the fool alarms,
Hags meet to mumble o’er their charms;
The nightmare rides the dreaming ass,
And fairies trip it o’er the grass.”

Suddenly the Indians commenced to whisper, for even their sleep had been
aroused by the wild screeching of the terrible didi, whose dreaded notes
ended in a prolonged and mournful crowing. This unearthly sound seemed to
be the climax, and soon the real silence of the night settled down.

“Now night it was, and everything on earth had won the grace
Of quiet sleep; the woods had rest, the wildered waters’ face;
It was the tide when stars roll on amid their courses due,
And all the tilth is hushed, and beasts and birds of many a hue,
And all that is in waters wide, and what the waste doth keep,
In thicket rough, amid the hush of night-tide, lay asleep.”

For three or four hours the silence lasted, only broken occasionally,
and for a few minutes at a time, by the moan of a jaguar, or the fierce
snappings of the small hunting tigers on the track of some peccaries,
or of the night-loving tapir. Before dawn the concert was renewed;
the monkeys howled, the mâams whistled piercingly, the honoquas and
duraquaras gave endless repetitions of their own name, and with the first
streak of daylight the parrots chattered from the tree tops. Day broke,
and the camp was again alive.

Bird cries are imitated to perfection by Indians, and we not
unfrequently obtained a pani, or a duraquara, by such means. At night
they would note the position of the roosting bird by its notes, and then
in the early morn proceed in its direction, attract it by their imitative
cries and shoot it.

Amongst the Indians encamped on the sandbank was a family which was on
its way to Georgetown, with hammocks and birds for sale. We christened
its members the Cowenaros, _i.e._, cocks of the rock, as they had a fine
specimen of the bird in their possession. They were good-looking people,
and as the father was the only one who had ever visited the coast,
there was considerable excitement with the younger members, especially
on the part of Miss Cowenaro, who was going to celebrate her débût
into society by a new dress—the first she had ever worn. By some means
she had obtained some pink calico, and out of it she had manufactured
an extraordinary robe which she was always trying on, or, perhaps,
accustoming herself to wear. At any rate, on our way down the river we
never arrived near a prominent rock without seeing the young lady perched
on the top of it, and evidently lost in admiration of herself.

After leaving Lanceman’s house at Menaparuti where we found all that
we had left, the rain, which we could see by the heightened river had
been falling heavily in the mountains, burst upon us. The fine weather
which had favoured us for so unexpected a length of time, broke up and
rain set in. Sometimes the squalls were so severe that the waves almost
swamped our boat, and the woodskins, containing Lanceman and Mazaruni,
who accompanied us to the Settlement, were only saved by a quick run to
shore.

Our journey up the river had by no means been a slow one, in spite of the
delays at the cataracts and rapids, but now with the swift current in our
favour and the speed with which we shot the falls, up which we had toiled
wearily on foot, our progress was extremely quick. Shooting the falls
was splendidly exciting, and not unaccompanied by danger. I had once
employed a spare afternoon in Ottawa by accompanying the rafts in their
descent of the “timber shoots,” and great amusement it was, but devoid of
the inspiring element of danger. There the descent was swift but smooth,
steerage was unnecessary, and no impediment barred the narrow, wall-edged
current. Here it was different, conflicting currents seethed in all
directions, broken rocks and half-hidden projections cropped up all
around, and nothing but the strong arm and steady eye of both the man at
the prow and the man in the stern could save the boat from being dashed
to pieces.

To those unaccustomed to it—as I was—the novel sensation of fall shooting
is delightful. Choosing the long smooth tongue of water which indicates
the safest passage, the words “Give way all!” are spoken, and though the
paddles work with intense vigour, and the foaming water is pouring madly
at your side, the boat seems to stand still; the rocky walls rush up to
you, the waves dash at you instead of from you, the roar increases, the
drop looks perpendicular, and still you are apparently not moving; there
is a plunge, a wave or two shipped perhaps, and the next moment the boat
is floating quietly in the smooth back-water below the falls. Sometimes
the difficulties of the descent are much increased by the twists and
turns which have to be made in the very middle of the fall itself. Our
Indians, who had been rather nervous at the first few cataracts, soon
recovered their self-possession, and were so elated at their skill that
once or twice their valour almost overcame their discretion.

When we reached the Falls of Yaninzaec, the rising water had so altered
the appearance of the river that we could no longer recognize our old
landmarks. In the island labyrinth we lost the channel which led to the
“portage,” and it was in vain that we tried to regain it. All our efforts
only brought us to one or other of the great falls, a safe descent of
which could no more be accomplished than that of Niagara. Darkness at
last came on, and we had to encamp on a small island.

Next morning we were fortunately discovered by the two
woodskins—containing Lanceman and the Cowenaros—and under their guidance
we reached the portage; passing on our way a curious rock called “the
Cabuni”—near the mouth of the river of that name. After carrying the boat
over the portage, and reloading it, it was McTurk’s intention to proceed
a short way down the river and camp early, so as to replenish our larder
with fresh meat. It was many days since we had tasted meat, and our
appetites told us that game would be very desirable.

“I shoot and eat one pani,” said Sammy.

“Pani!” said Charlie indignantly. “I eat one maipurie myself.”

Now as a pani is nearly as large as a turkey, and as a maipurie, _i.e._,
tapir, is about the size of a small donkey, the speakers must, indeed,
have been hungry. For ourselves we had arranged quite a little banquet
with the remnant of the provisions that had been left at Lanceman’s
house. There was a tin of mullagatawny soup, a pot of marmalade, a tin
of biscuits, and besides a bottle of brandy which we had been treasuring
for weeks, there was still a small supply of Seidlitz Powders, which had
of late superseded Eno’s Fruit Salt on occasions of great jollification.
In order the better to enjoy our intended repast, we had refrained from
breakfast on that day, but “_l’homme propose, Dieu dispose_.”

Having safely descended several cataracts after leaving Yaninzaec, we saw
in the distance a pleasant spot for camping, and from the same direction
heard a great howling of monkeys which promised sport. We rapidly
approached a fall, the roar of whose waters seemed unnecessarily loud.
This we descended, but a sharp turn that had been hidden by a high rock
revealed another and steeper fall, which it would be madness to attempt
to shoot. But it was too late, no power could stop us; we were already
in the long swift current which swept down to the deep drop. “Give way!”
shouted McTurk, as a glance showed that there was no chance of escape
except by the mere possibility of speed; then there was a sweep of
paddles, a plunge, a wild swirl of waters, wave after wave rushed over
us, and the boat went down. The whole affair had happened so quickly
that, almost before I could realise it, I found myself under water and
powerless to rise to the surface, as my legs seemed to be entangled in
something—probably the framework of the awning we had lately put up as a
shelter from the rain. The idea flashed through me that this surely could
not be the end of my long looked for Roraima expedition, and giving a
great struggle up I came to the surface.

The first thing I saw was the Adaba, bottom upwards, floating down the
river, and McTurk and two of the crew clinging to her. I soon reached
them, and in about thirty minutes, by gently guiding our support towards
a rocky island, our feet touched the ground. Higher up the river, in a
different direction, we saw that what we thought were the remaining four
of the Indian crew, standing on another rocky islet. Almost immediately
afterwards the woodskins appeared; having descended on the opposite side
of the river, where there was a moderately easy passage unknown to us.
They at once unloaded, and pushed out into the river to try and save
whatever happened to be floating.

Suddenly the cry was raised “Where is Charlie?” Then we saw that only
three men stood on the far rock, and that what we had at first taken for
a figure was only a barrel. We never saw him again. Sammy, who sat next
to him in the bow, said he saw him spring clean out of the boat before
she went down, and strike out for land. No cry was heard; we on the
boat thought he was with those on the barrel, and they thought he was
with us. As he was a very strong swimmer, we could only suppose that he
had been sucked down by the terrible undercurrent, or that he had been
dashed against a rock. It was very, very sad, and for a time we could not
believe that he was really drowned. For the rest of that day and next
morning we searched long and carefully in the hopes of recovering the
body, but uselessly. The Indians said that two years ago three natives
were drowned in the same place, and their bodies were never found. The
poor fellow had only been married a month before we left Georgetown, and
among the crew were two of his wife’s brothers. One of these had a very
narrow escape as he was not a good swimmer, and was just sinking when
he caught at a pillow floating by, which supported him until he reached
the flour barrel that saved the other two. Everything was lost, with the
exception of a few hammocks and a tin canister of mine, which, besides
Indian curiosities, fortunately contained shirts and other clothes. For
the crew had divested themselves of everything when in the water, and
not one of their bundles was picked up. Guns, ammunition, field-glasses,
provisions, plants, boxes of clothes, in fact almost everything we had,
and alas! a human life—the only thing that could never be replaced—all
lay in the deep water under the falls of Tebucu.[110]

When we continued our journey, we took Lanceman as a guide to guard
against any future catastrophe, and no other accident occurred, with the
exception of a hole which was knocked into the side of the boat whilst
being let down a fall by means of ropes. From the woodskins we had
received paddles to replace those we had lost, and urged on by hunger we
made rapid progress, and at last issued from the island-dotted river into
the large lake-like expanse of water near the junction of the Cuyuni.

After we had passed the neat houses of the Caribs, the island church
came in view, cottages appeared, people with clothes on were seen
walking about, there were ducks and geese, and the different signs of
civilization. We soon rounded Palmer’s Point, and after a tremendous
squall of rain and wind, arrived at the Settlement, where we received a
hearty welcome from the Superintendent and his family. And thus ended our
expedition to Roraima, a journey which we had accomplished in a little
more than two months.

CHAPTER XXIV.

When, on our way back to Georgetown, we saw the waters of the Mazaruni
mingling with those of the Essequibo, it was like parting with a human
friend whose career we had watched until its close. We had seen it,
or its great tributaries, at its birth, spring from its cradle in the
broken mountain tops into the green valley below, and in that one great
leap for life rush blindly into the big world that lay before it. Not an
easy-going, quiet life—not a gentle, cared for one, but a life from first
almost to last of strife and battle. Occasionally, in its school days,
checked and restrained, and forced into channels that it spurns, only to
dash more impetuously than ever against the rocks and crags that beset
its path. Sometimes its smooth, shining, face rippled only with a smile,
and the tremulous music of its voice as it flows softly over its pebbles,
tell of peace and rest, but such expressions are but minutes compared
with the years of its more troubled life. Not until its youth and middle
age are long past, does this turbulent river exert its powers for the
benefit of mankind. Wearied with strife, it now sweeps on with deep and
silent current, bearing contentedly on its bosom the joys and sorrows of
others, and rendering fruitful the land through which it courses. Older
and older it grows, but persevering to the end, until at last it slips
away from us, and the course of the tired river is ended in the grey sea.

At Georgetown, we heard that the drought had continued until very
recently, and had caused much suffering among the poorer classes. The
public tanks had run dry, and water brought from a long distance was
sold in the streets by the bucket. But now the long looked for rain had
come, much to the satisfaction of everybody—even of the planters—and as
an old black lady said, “It was indeed a cause of great ‘tank’-fulness.”
With the rains had also come the annual visitation of “hard-backs,”
great beetle-like insects, that flocked in myriads to the gas-light, and
literally enveloped tables and chairs in a coat of living mail.

We arrived just in time for the races, and for the two days they lasted
the town presented an unwonted scene of excitement. The road to the
d’Urban race-course was alive with a laughing, pushing crowd of various
nationalities, in holiday garb. Vehicles of all descriptions, heavily
weighted, plodded to the course, or empty rattled back at full speed,
eager for another load. The days were hot but the distance short, and the
broad road lined with pretty gardens and cottages, half hidden in green
shrubbery, formed a pleasant and animated drive. Some of the buildings,
too, were worthy of notice, especially the handsome Roman Catholic
Cathedral, the Orphan Asylum, and the Almshouses. A gateway and avenue
of palms marked the entrance to a wide-spreading grass-land, round which
the course ran. A dividing road led up to the circular grand-stand,
which was not a very picturesque building, as its architecture was
something between that of an umbrella and a band stand; but it was cool
and suitable to the occasion. The surroundings differed but little from
those of most race-courses; tents, booths, sheds, and structures of more
or less pretension, varying from the well carpentered stand, admission
to which was four “bits”—a bit in Guiana is fourpence—to the slender
structure composed of a few boards and a roof of leaves, where the
entrance fee was theoretically a “bit” but practically nothing.

Of the races themselves there is not much to be said. As nearly every
event—as was expected—was won not only by the same stable, but also by
the same horse, the meeting could hardly be termed an exciting one. To
stimulate competition and to avoid disappointment, a certain gallant
major entered his carriage horses, but as I do not think they ever got
round the track, their entries were not altogether a success. Still the
intention was laudable, and if others had been equally public-spirited,
the racing would have been far from tame. The winning horses were
undeniably good, and were the love of sport as widely diffused as cane,
the Georgetown race-meetings would compare favourably with those of any
colony. At present the inhabitants object to an annual presentation of
cups, plates, stakes, and purses to one stable, but as long as the races
are kept up, it must continue until enterprise claims a division.

To the coloured population the races were a source of unmixed enjoyment.
From the rude Barbadian to the peaceable Mongol, all were bent on a
day’s diversion. When the inevitable dog ran down the track, they howled
and screamed with delight, and when the horse of the mounted policeman
ran away with its rider, joined in the race, and came in a good third,
the enthusiasm was unbounded. After each race the crowd was permitted
to rush into the space hitherto kept clear in front of the judge’s
stand. Then as many as could approach swarmed round the box, eagerly
demanding a piece of paper with the name of the winner written on it.
The numbers posted up were nothing to them, they had probably seen a
wide difference between the first and second horses, but nothing could
satisfy them except a written statement; a “bit” depended on the result,
and oral testimony was valueless. Such laughter and shrieking would
follow! Those who had lost would try to defer payment until the next race
was over, and those who had won would loudly demand their money. Angry
gesticulations would succeed to wordy warfare, and just as a free fight
seemed inevitable, the band would strike up and the whole crowd, without
exception, would commence to dance. Then, until the course was again
cleared, nothing would be visible but a mass of parti-coloured heads
bobbing up and down.

With the exception of the brilliant head-dresses, white predominated too
much in dress for much effect, but here and there might be seen Indian
coolies in cardinal red or mazarine blue, and others who had not been
afraid to risk the union of green, orange, pink and purple. But from
above, one saw only the bright turbans and twisted handkerchiefs keeping
time to the music, and it was very amusing to witness the transformation
when, during a passing shower, the animated poppies were replaced by
a dense mass of dancing umbrellas. No drunkennness nor any unpleasant
incident marred the enjoyment of the meeting, and not until the roses of
the setting sun had all faded, did the merry crowd wend its way back to
the duties of every-day life.

Very soon after the race meeting I took leave of kind and hospitable
Georgetown, and proceeded to Trinidad on my way to Carácas. A few days
after our arrival in Port of Spain, I heard that the French mail-steamer
“Cacique” was about to sail for La Guaira, and so instead of waiting for
the monthly English mail-boat, I secured my ticket by the former and
hastened on board at the appointed hour.

As the “Cacique” lay at anchor about two miles from the wharf, and
besides a heavy surf running, the rain poured in torrents, the
little open boat that conveyed two or three of the passengers—myself
included—was almost swamped, and we were thoroughly soaked before
reaching the steamer. After the well-appointed vessels of the Royal
Mail, with their disciplined crews, admirable attendance, and officers
who spare no pains to make their passengers as comfortable as possible,
it was with some dismay that we saw the little tub in which we were
to continue our voyage. A closer inspection was not more cheering
as the cabin accommodation was wretched, and the tiny upper deck
unpleasantly crowded. I must add that this was not one of the regular
French Mail-steamers, but only an inter-colonial vessel running between
Martinique, Trinidad, and La Guaira.

Our fellow-passengers were nearly all Venezuelans; the ladies were
extremely pretty and graceful, but a little over-dressed for a
sea-voyage, and not being good sailors they soon presented a very
dishevelled appearance. The men, as usual dreadfully vociferous, in
their shouting, stamping, and gesticulations reminded me of my late
friends the Arecuna Indians. They mean nothing, it is merely their mode
of emphasizing their expressions, and though they shake their fists in
each other’s faces, and contradict one another flatly, no insult is
intended or received as such. They all wore long black coats, tall hats
and high-heeled boots, a dress which they thought quite appropriate to
the deck of a ship. Fortunately, except for the invalids, there was no
necessity to go below, as all the meals—and very good they were—were
served on deck, which also answered for sleeping quarters. In the matter
of ice, there was not much on board, and no one was allowed any except
the captain. I once drew his attention to that fact, but he only shrugged
his shoulders.

It was dark when we left the Gulf of Paria and sailed through the
Dragon’s Mouth, and then turned west towards the mountains of Cumaná.
Next morning we found ourselves at some distance from shore, but moving
parallel with the Venezuelan coast, which looked high, grey and arid.
After passing Caribe there were a few signs of habitation; stretches of
white sandy beach were backed by groves of palms, and in the bright green
wooded ravines, which intersected the cactus-covered hills, a hacienda
peeped out here and there.

Our first halt was at Carupano, which is said to be a rapidly progressing
town. There is certainly room for improvement. In the centre of the bay
rises a high rock covered with different species of cereus, and on it
stands a lighthouse. On the beach is the custom-house, and a collection
of low yellow mud huts surrounded by brown rocks and bare hills. The
town itself is situated farther back, and a river flowing through the
neighbouring palm groves gives a fresher aspect to that part of the
withered scene. Like most ports on this coast, it is excessively hot and
unhealthy.

Early next morning we entered the Gulf of Cariaco and anchored off Cumaná
the capital of the State of that name. Here, as at Carupano, the town
is situated at some distance from the coast, and at the foot of a brown
hill crowned by an old fort. Between us and it is a broad sandy plain,
dotted over with mud huts of the most unprepossessing appearance. There
is little to interest the spectator in the arid scenery, except its
colouring, and that is of the brightest and most varied description. The
intense light, the excessive radiance of the sun, and the clearness of
the atmosphere—Cumaná is comparatively healthy—produce an astonishing
effect of colour that would not be possible if vegetation predominated.

Here and there glistening points of white sand run out into the water,
and behind them are undulating grey hills which end abruptly in low
walls of red rock. Through the yellow plain the Manzanares winds its way
from the town, and its banks are covered with a growth of dark green
verdure. The hill of San Antonio above the town looks white and shining.
Nearer to us, a long promontory is covered with a broad belt of palms,
among which some red-roofed houses are seen. Beyond, across the gulf, is
a red, rocky shore, which fades away in a russet brown; and over the
coast-range, which is almost crimson in its rich tints, rise the purple
peaks of distant mountains. Sky and sea are of the purest blue, and the
snowy sails of the fishing boats, that skim over the latter, are only
matched in whiteness by the gossamer shreds of cloud that float above.
To what extent modern conveniences are carried in the capital we could
not tell, but the canoes that brought us Muscat grapes were only hollowed
tree-trunks, and the vehicles on shore that conveyed passengers to the
town were donkey-carts.

From the number of nets which we observed, it was evident that fishing
was the chief occupation, and the continuous strings of pelicans showed
that there was an abundance of food. These ungainly birds were a great
amusement to us as we basked in the intense heat of the powerful sun.
Sometimes they flew past in long lines on heavy wing, with their long
necks doubled over their backs, and with no other thought than that of
regulating their movements with those of their leader. At others, they
approached singly or in pairs, each one attending to its own business.
Here one falls like a bullet, but diagonally, and disappears under
the water. In a second it re-appears, and disgorging the fish from
its capacious pouch swallows it whole. That one must have missed his
aim, as he sits gazing with an air of astonishment, as if such a thing
was impossible; and his mate who alights behind him and slides along
the water to his side, reproves him with a look as comical as it is
expressive. The graceful man-of-war “hawks” appeared to be much more
expert than the pelicans, and though they did not dive so frequently, yet
they seldom missed their fish.

Around Cumaná the dry plains and barren rocks, the stunted vegetation,
the roofless walls and shattered buildings are suggestive of the
earthquakes and tidal waves which have desolated this as well as other
parts of this region of South America. Only now is the town recovering
from the shock of 1854, which in twenty seconds reduced it to a heap of
ruins.

After leaving Curnaná the scenery was more picturesque. Deep bays ran
in between rocky headlands, at whose feet were islets as white as if
they had been salted. Crags and bare hills, varied with tree-clad
promontories, and dainty little coves full of the bluest water and rimmed
with the whitest sand. After threading our way through various islands,
we passed between El Morro and the craggy islet of Borracha, and cast
anchor opposite Barcelona, another State capital. The place was not
attractive, and I was glad to be able to answer no when a Venezuelan
asked me if I was not going to visit the great English paper-manufactory
which is established in the town.

The district is interesting, for here commence the great “llanuras” which
stretch away to the Orinoco, and whose inhabitants are veritable free
children of the desert. The “Llanero” will not live in towns, and is only
happy when with his horse for a companion he roams over the boundless
grassy plains tending his cattle. Brave, hardy, athletic, and eminently
patriotic, the “Llanero” is a power in the land, and has played an
important part in the establishment of national independence.

Inexpressibly sombre was the vast brown savanna extending to the purple
horizon, relieved only at intervals by a few hills or a flat-topped
mountain. Even the sea seemed to have caught the cheerless tint of the
land, and instead of sparkling blue, we tossed in dull water of a leaden
grey. By degrees the level shore gave place to undulating ground, this to
rounded hills, and the hills to a mountain range, above which towered La
Silla, one of the highest peaks—in the State of Bolivar—of the northern
Cordillera of the Andes.[111] Then we knew we were approaching La Guaira.

CHAPTER XXV.

Viewed from the open roadstead where vessels anchor, La Guaira is
picturesque. Almost from the very edge of the water the land begins to
rise, so that the houses, with the exception of those that line the
curved shore, are perched on the various spurs and knolls in a gradually
ascending scale. The depth of the little town is only a few hundred
yards, and straight up behind it rises the rocky wall of the Cerro de
Avila, which terminates in the peaks of Naiguatá and La Silla. The height
of the former is 8,800 feet above the level of the sea. On the right,
the cliffs which shut in the town end in an abrupt white promontory,
enclosing a low stretch of cultivated ground dotted with palm groves and
strips of forest; and on the left the coast range extends away, casting
down long spurs and spits of palm-covered land which shoot out far into
the sea. On all sides there is a blending of green hills, rugged and
barren precipices, cactus-clad rocks, fertile plains, and white houses.

To the right of the town may be traced the carriage road to Carácas,
which after endless zig-zags disappears round a mountain corner. Of the
mule or Indian path to the same place nothing can be seen, except the
general direction indicated by a steep ravine which cuts into the face
of the Silla immediately behind the town. Near this ravine, at a height
of about fifteen hundred feet, a fort holds a commanding position, and a
battery on the shore completes the defence—such as it is—of La Guaira.
Landing here is effected with considerable difficulty, owing to the
tremendous swell, against which there is no protection.

Many projects have been formed to convert this roadstead into a port,
but like all other good intentions in Venezuela, they remain projects.
For some years a small breakwater has been in course of construction,
but the sea demolishes it as fast as it is made. Lighters are used for
the conveyance of passengers from the vessels, and from one of these we
were jerked on to the jetty dripping like river-gods, as the wave which
had carried us on its crest to the landing was followed by another which
broke over the boat. A capsize in these waters would probably be fatal,
owing to the number of sharks which here lie in wait for victims. Not
long ago a young negro was bathing near the jetty and was attacked by a
shark, which snapped off his right hand. He did not lose his presence of
mind, but by beating the water with his left arm hoped to frighten away
the monster. But he was again attacked, and before the boat which had put
off from shore to his assistance reached him, his left hand had been cut
off. The shark was harpooned and captured, and on opening the stomach of
the animal, there were the two little black hands. The boy recovered,
and now earns a living by showing his hands, which he has preserved
in spirits, to compassionate strangers. If the sea-sharks are bad, the
land-sharks are equally so, and it requires an hour’s hard bargaining to
have your luggage carried from the Custom House to the hotel—a distance
of a hundred yards—even for the exorbitant sum laid down in the official
tariff.

The Hotel Delfino is in keeping with the wretched town, and rather
than sleep there I determined to start at once to Carácas. Having made
arrangements that my heavy luggage should arrive there early next morning
by coach, I hired a mule for three pesos—dollars—and set off for the
capital by the famed Indian path. The distance from La Guaira to Carácas
by the new coach-road is over twenty miles, and as the crow flies about
nine, but then the great Silla has to be crossed. At the end of a narrow
ill-paved street we reached the ravine, down in whose depths several
swarthy washerwomen were dabbling in about two inches of water, which was
all that remained of the usual mountain torrent. This we followed for a
short distance, and then turned off to the right, up an excessively steep
and stony path.

From the fort, the view over the town and the neighbouring village of
Maquetia towards Cape Blanco was charming, and it was a relief to have
left behind the insufferably hot streets. I do not think my steed was
accustomed to extend his walks farther than this fort, as henceforth
my time was fully occupied in persuading him to move. Before starting
I had remarked to his owner that he hardly seemed up to my weight, but
the reply was that, in spite of his appearance, he had many good points
and his indomitable spirit atoned for all imperfections. His points
certainly were numerous, but unfortunately they were all physical, as a
more angular creature I had never seen—in fact he was all points, and I
soon discovered that his indomitable spirit was unquestionable. After
repeated efforts to make the saddle stay in its proper place, I at last
fastened the girths so tightly that I was sure nothing could move it.
In this endeavour I had been aided by the animal, who very kindly, as I
thought, drew himself into the smallest possible compass. Hardly was I
again seated when he commenced to swell, and in a second the girths were
in shreds and the saddle and its occupant slid to the ground. In Guiana,
tapirs are said to rid themselves of boa-constrictors in the same manner.
With the assistance of cord and boot-laces I managed to patch up the
broken tackle, but my future progress was necessarily very slow.

The path was ever winding up and up, and pretty scenes were continually
opening. Here was a bold rock sparsely covered with prickly pears or
magueys, and there in a deep ravine, through which a mountain torrent ran
in many leaps and falls, the light green plantain fields were ruffled
by the breeze into waves of frosted silver. Plantations of coffee and
bananas fringed the path, and at the hill corners, where the ground
fell steeply to the valley below, were perched the owners’ houses, with
their clean white walled drying grounds, which looked like little forts.
Over the large gateway of one of these, which was particularly neat and
flourishing, was the inscription. “Rio Grande,” Señʳ. Pacheco, 1877. The
proprietor, or perhaps the superintendent, was sunning himself on the
doorstep, whilst his old wife improved the opportunity by a searching
examination of his head.

From the back of his rancho there was a delightful view looking
towards the sea. On all sides the forest was gradually giving place to
cultivation, and even the steepest of the rocky angles were in many
places blackened by the destroying fire. Occasionally, where the woods
were thick brilliant cotingas flew in and out, and amongst the coffee
trees glossy green jacamars darted about like giant humming-birds. There
were only a few bright butterflies, but a great variety of gorgeous
beetles. Some of the latter were of great size, and most of wonderfully
metallic hue. Others were of satiny green with black spots, silvery
white with red lines, black with crimson bands, brown with yellow bands;
there were blues, greens and velvety browns, all touched with rich
bronze, and as different in shape as in colour. Here was one clouded
like a goat-sucker, there another in maroon velvet ornamented with black
hieroglyphics, some with antennæ three inches in length, others with only
a horn.[112]

Afterwards in Carácas I had an opportunity of inspecting a private
collection of Coleoptera, and I was astonished at the amazing variety
of species belonging to Venezuela, and their extraordinary shapes and
strange proportions:

“Their shape would make them, had they bulk and size,
More hideous foes than fancy can devise,
With helmet heads and dragon scales adorned,
The mighty myriads, now securely scorned,
Would mock the majesty of man’s high birth,
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth.”

The only four-legged animals that we saw were small donkeys, so laden
that the legs and ears were the only parts visible, and their great bulk
made it a difficult matter to avoid collision.

At last we reached the top of the ridge of Avila, on one side of which
were ravines and cultivated slopes and hill spurs trending away to
the blue sea, and on the other rounded hill-spurs that half concealed
the city of Carácas, which was situated in the valley below. The
south-western limit of the valley was bounded by the strangest range of
hills ever seen; hundreds of sharp skeleton ribs formed the base, and
these were of all shades of brown, green, yellow, and red. Above them
rose the grey and arid slopes, cut into endless clefts and chasms, and
over their summit range after range of mountain stretched away to the
horizon. Soon we left the Indian path, and descended by the old military
road, half-paved, steep, and winding towards the city. The descent
seemed almost as long as the ascent, and I began to wonder how so low
an elevation—for Carácas is less than 3,000 feet above the level of the
sea—could possess a climate which has been designated that of “perpetual
spring.”

When we entered the city limits it was night, as instead of the usual
four hours, our journey had occupied nearly eight. Trusting to my
mule to find its way to its stable in the hotel, for none of the few
people who were still abroad could give me any direction, we at last
arrived opposite a spacious building, the Legislative Palace, which was
surrounded with sleeping soldiers. There they lay in companies and
detachments across the roads, on the side walks, and under the porticoes.
Could a revolution have suddenly broken out? Strange that they should not
have known anything about it at La Guaira! A sentry opposed my progress
by pointing his musket at me, but the mule was in a hurry for the first
time, and could not stop. Soon after it walked through an open gateway
on the opposite side of the Palace, and I found myself in the courtyard
of the hotel. There I heard that there was no revolution at present, but
the military and most of the inhabitants slept out of doors, for fear
of another earthquake similar to that which a few days previously had
destroyed the neighbouring town of Cúa.

For a Spanish American city the Hôtel Saint Amand had fair accommodation
and good living. The former was limited, as the best rooms were
occupied by the English Minister, but to partake of the latter all the
non-resident inhabitants of the town and the members of the Legislature
used to assemble. Still there was plenty of room for improvement in the
establishment, and the new hotel which is about to be built will probably
supersede the old one.

From the accounts I had heard of Carácas, I had expected to find a
bracing atmosphere after the heat of Guiana, but I was doomed to be
disappointed. From the time I arrived until I left, neither the days
nor the nights were enjoyable. No breeze tempered the heat, the air was
dull and heavy, the sun was as hot as at La Guaira—which is said to be
one of the hottest places in the world—and the general feeling was one
of depression. Of course, I was told, it was an exceptional season,
that the heat was unusual, and that the oldest inhabitant—that unfailing
encyclopedia of dates and events—could not remember such weather. Where
can one go in the present day without finding exceptional weather, and
changes that are always astonishing to the oldest inhabitant?

After leaving Bermuda—and, indeed, whilst we were there—we had met
with nothing but exceptional seasons. At St. Thomas it was said to be
exceptionally cool with the thermometer at 89.° At Martinique such rain
had never been known. At Trinidad it was extraordinarily dry. In Demerara
there was an unheard of drought, and here in Carácas weather-prophets
foretold dire phenomena from the unusual state of the atmosphere and its
unwonted sultriness.

Since the destruction of Cúa—of which I shall speak in another
chapter—the alarm had increased in Carácas; nor, after two severe shocks
on the 13th, was it at all diminished by a printed warning issued on the
15th of April by Señor Briceño, a scientific gentleman of the city, who
had made the study of earthquakes one of his principal pursuits. In it
he wrote to this effect: “Be watchful! humanity compels me to place the
inhabitants of Carácas on their guard, for I believe there are causes
for fear, and the situation is alarming.” He then showed how in former
earthquakes the shocks corresponded with the different phases of the
moon, and affirmed that “it was much to be feared that at full moon
on Wednesday the 17th of the month (April), at 1° 29´ 0´´ at night, a
tremendous shock would be experienced.” It was in vain that men of great
scientific attainments refuted the arguments of Señor Briceño, in vain
that they asserted that all the combined intellect of the world could
not foretell earthquakes, and that regarding such phenomena nothing could
be affirmed and nothing denied, a panic had seized the people of Carácas,
which increased as the prophesied time approached. To have turned a
river with a book, or have stayed an avalanche with a wise saying, would
have been as easy as to have stemmed the tide of the general alarm by
scientific discussion.

It was Holy Week, but for fear of a catastrophe the religious ceremonies
did not take place, and the churches were closed. The weather was damp
and changeable. A painful silence reigned in the deserted streets,
and scarcely a house gave signs of being inhabited. An immense number
of people had left the city and gone into the country, taking their
household effects with them. Carriages and conveyances of all sorts
demanded exorbitant prices for transportation, and received them. The
great square—La Plaza Bolivar—was like an encampment. From its trees
hundreds of hammocks were suspended, its avenues and gardens were covered
with picturesque tents, its benches and seats were turned into couches,
and every available spot was occupied with camp bedsteads, canvas
stretchers, or sofas. To avoid a similar fate to that which befell a
regiment of 800 soldiers who perished in the great earthquake of 1812,
when Carácas was destroyed, all the military had left their barracks and
slept in the open air. The other plazas, and even the Calvario, presented
a similar appearance to that of the principal square.

To add to the sad scene which the city presented, the neighbouring
heights and woods were on fire, and the heavy smoke thickened the dense
atmospheric vapours. The day previous to the expected fatality passed
slowly and mournfully away. As night advanced, anxiety increased. It
was intensely still, the only sounds were those of coughing and crying
children, and the moans of frightened women. One o’clock sounded from
the cathedral, and then the quarter. Heads appeared at tent doors, pale
faces grew paler, watches were examined, there was an extraordinary air
of expectancy, and people only listened. The clock struck the half hour.
Everyone breathed again, a confused murmur arose simultaneously, the
name of Briceño was received with jeers and laughter, some women fainted
and others fell into hysterics now that the tension was removed, and the
panic was over. None, except the experienced, can appreciate the intense
dread inspired by earthquakes; some may say they are too accustomed to
them to care for them, but it is not those who live in South America,
where the terrible shocks level houses, villages, and towns in a few
seconds.

In 1812, there was a roar as of cannon firing, then a silence; this
was followed by a tremulous motion, which increased until the ground
seemed to roll in great waves, and in a moment the city of Carácas was
in ruins and 12,000 people perished. Of late years there have been an
extraordinary number of tidal waves, devastating storms, and earthquakes
in Peru, Chili, and Ecuador; the direction of the convulsions has been
more and more northerly, and since the destruction of Cúcuta in 1874
the north of South America has been widely shaken. The wise men of the
south have paid much attention to the causes of these convulsions of
nature, and numerous theories have been indulged in. By some they have
been attributed to luni-solar attraction, by others to the transits of
Venus and Mercury, to comets, and to different electric influences. Quite
lately, a sensation has been created in Europe by the prediction that
we are rapidly approaching one of the most pestilential periods of the
earth’s history. And why? Because in 1880, or soon after, the perihelia
of the four great planets—Jupiter, Uranus, Saturn, and Neptune—will be
coincident. The theory is that, when one or more of the largest planets
is nearest the sun, the temperature and condition of our atmosphere
are so disturbed as to cause injurious vicissitudes, terrible rains,
and prolonged droughts &c., resulting in the destruction of crops and
pestilence among human beings and domestic animals. Soon, for the first
time in 2,000 years, four planets are to be against us, and we are warned
that every living thing will be put to a severe and trying ordeal.

Various prophets have arisen who have foretold the advent of great
convulsions within certain dates, but I think the Caraqueñan astronomer
alone has been bold enough to predict the destruction of a city by an
earthquake, at a given hour and minute, taking for his data the changes
of the moon. It is strange that, for so long a period, a mysterious
power should have been attributed to the cold, peaceful moon, or its
phases. Superstition has assigned to it great influence over health,
over the weather, over the tides, over the ascent of sap in trees, over
vegetation, &c., and we all know how dangerous it is said to be to
sleep with the moon’s rays falling on the face. Eminent men of science
have declared that these ideas have no foundation whatever, and that
neither theoretically nor practically have they ever been proved true
in the smallest particle. Yet on account of their antiquity and the
firm hold they have established on public belief, it is probable they
will exist for a much longer time yet. Regarding the periods at which
earthquakes occur, Humboldt has said that, if it were possible to notice
the daily state of the earth’s superficies, one would soon be convinced
that the earth was always being shaken at some point or other. For the
inhabitants of Venezuela, it is an alarming fact that the intervals of
time between the great earthquakes are growing less and less. In 1766, a
great earthquake occurred at Carácas, and in 1812, Carácas was totally
destroyed, as were Cumaná in 1853, Tocuyo in 1868, Cúenta in 1874, and
Cúa in 1878.

CHAPTER XXVI.

For a view of Carácas and its neighbourhood, no better point can be
chosen than the summit of the “Calvario,” or, as it is now called, the
“Paseo-Guzman Blanco.” The hill lies to the west of the city, and has
been changed from a barren waste into a very pretty garden, with winding
carriage-drive and walks. It has an historical renown, as it was here
that the old Indian rulers of the country made their last fight against
the Spanish invaders, and from its summit, where now stands the statue of
the late President, the Cacique Paramaconi defied to single combat the
leader of the Spanish host.

On the side nearest to the town the slopes are laid out with flower-beds,
rockeries, fountains and miniature cascades. The shrubs and plants
are of hot, temperate and cold climes; there are lichens and ferns,
lilies, sunflowers, two or three kinds of hybiscus, gardenias, dahlias,
verbenas, sago palms, roses, heliotropes, lantanas, honeysuckles, and
various brilliant creepers. In the centre of the beds on the summit
were two magnificent clusters of one of the commonest yet showiest
orchids—Cattleya mossix—in Venezuela. The large flowers were of a rich
rose colour and the lip delicately spotted; in each cluster I counted
over two hundred blossoms, and they formed most attractive centre-pieces.
Near by are the reservoirs which supply the city with water from the
river Macarao. They are cut out of the solid rock and are of fine
proportions; the distributing pipes are of iron, but it seems a mistake
that the aqueduct itself should have been made by open trench-work
instead of by piping.

From our elevation, Carácas looks like all other Spanish American
towns; low houses with brown and red roofs, among which stand out
conspicuously numerous cupolas, domes, spires, towers and the white
façades of the churches. The city divides the valley of Chacao into two
parts, that towards the east looking fresh and green with coffee and
sugar plantations, thick groves and forest; and the other, towards the
south-west, fertile and cultivated but without the rich woodland which
marks the opposite side. Winding about through rows of poplars and
willows, the river Guaire flows through the valley in a south-easterly
direction, being joined in its course by three little streams called
respectively El Caroata, El Catuche, and El Anauco. These three streams
divide the town into four parts and have broad, deep beds, but in the dry
season would hardly rank above gutters; yet a national writer, taking
them, I suppose at the flood, has recognised in them—together with El
Guaire—the four rivers of Paradise, and taking into consideration its
climate of perpetual spring, has compared the situation of Carácas to
that of Eden.

Still, small as these streams may be, their green banks clothed with
orange, quince and avocata trees with here and there plantain, or sugar
and coffee estates, give a bright smiling aspect to the valley which
contrasts with the arid range of the southern hills.

The northern sierra, with its domed Silla, is also barren and grim for
a considerable portion of its lower half, but above it is crowned with
fine trees and foliage. I tried hard to be impressed with the scenery so
highly praised by Humboldt, but I failed. Perhaps it was because I could
not shake off the remembrance of another valley view, viz: that of Mexico
from the hill of Chapultepec, which I had seen the previous year. In the
two panoramas, there were just sufficient points of resemblance to cause
a comparison. The green plain, the poplar rows, the magueys, the weeping
willows, the cypresses, the ruined habitations, the white city and the
mountain frame were in both pictures, but the view of modern Carácas was
only a diminutive shadow that faded almost out of sight with the memory
of the Mexican landscape. In the latter, everything is on so magnificent
a scale, and all is enshrouded in the glamour of history.

From Chapultepec, with its giant cypresses and sad associations, the
eye wanders over the garden, villages, cultivated-fields and swamps,
avenues of poplars, and great aqueducts to the city itself, with its
innumerable churches and convents. Beyond it sparkles a silver lake and
canal, and the whole is enclosed by lofty mountains, above which tower
the snow-covered heights of Popocatapetl and Iztaccihuatl, the volcanic
guardians of the city of Montezuma. Though externally Carácas presents
a similar appearance to other Spanish American towns, yet internally
it is far brighter and more cheerful. Its streets, which intersect one
another at right angles, are broad and clean, the houses are well-built,
the merchants’ stores and the shop-windows are quite attractive, and what
with flowers, fountains and statues, the Paris of South America—as the
inhabitants love to call their little town—at certain seasons looks gay
and animated.

In the centre of the city is the chief Plaza—Plaza de Bolivar—which is
flanked by the Cathedral, the President’s or the Yellow House (Casa
amarilla) as it is called out of compliment to the White House at
Washington, the Archbishop’s Palace, and the usual collection of small
shops and “palperias” that abound in all plazas. The trees and flowers
are carefully tended, and the benches and chairs are not only numerous,
but, strange to say, comfortable. When there is no moon the Plaza is well
lighted by pretty clusters of oil-lamps. Once the city was lighted by
gas, but the company—like other Venezuelan projects—failed, and now oil
is used.

The middle of the Plaza is occupied by a magnificent equestrian statue
of Simon Bolivar the Liberator. It is a work of art that must be deemed
fully worthy of the great man, even by his most ardent admirers. An
unprejudiced observer might ask whether the man was worthy of the statue.
It is doubtful whether the true life and character of Bolivar will be
known or at least acknowledged. I have lately read his memoirs by General
Holstein, who was chief of the Staff of the President Liberator, and
with whom he claims great intimacy. The author here says, “The dominant
traits in the character of General Bolivar are ambition, vanity, thirst
for absolute, undivided power, and profound dissimulation.... Paez was
heard to tell Bolivar, after the action at Villa del Cura, that he would
move off his own troops and act no more with him in command; adding, ‘I
never lost a battle wherein I acted by myself, or in a separate command,
and I have always been defeated when acting in concert with you and under
your orders.’ ... To these brave men (here a number of men are named)
Colombia and Bolivar himself owe the expulsion of the Spaniards, and
the salvation of the country, if their present expulsion may be called
so. The brightest deeds of all these Generals were performed in the
absence of Bolivar. Abroad they were attributed to his military skill and
heroism, while in fact he was a fugitive a thousand miles from the scenes
of their bravery, and never dreaming of their successes.... General
Bolivar, moreover, has never in person commanded a regiment, nor four
soldiers. He has never made a charge of cavalry, nor with a bayonet. On
the contrary, he has ever been careful to keep himself out of danger....
Bolivar has several times offered his resignation, but never unless he
knew beforehand that no one would dare appear in favour of accepting
it.... The great mass of the people are ignorant, bigoted and rude, to
a degree not easily conceived by one educated in almost any Protestant
country. Hence it is that Bolivar’s speeches, proclamations, promises,
conversations, are thought of so highly. These people, once getting a
notion into their heads, keep it fast. They think Bolivar a great man,
and believe that his monstrous faults are in fact the faults of others,
because he tells them so.”

Colonel Hippisly in his “Narrative of the Expedition to the Rivers
Orinoco and Apure, in South America,” says:—

“Bolivar would ape the great man. He aspires to be a second Bonaparte
in South America, without possessing a single talent for the duties of
the field or the cabinet.... He has neither talents nor abilities for a
general, and especially for a commander-in-chief.... Tactics, movements,
and manœuvres are as unknown to him as to the lowest of his troops. All
idea of regularity, system, or the common routine of an army, or even a
regiment, he is totally unacquainted with. Hence arises all the disasters
he meets, the defeats he suffers, and his constant obligations to retreat
whenever opposed to the foe.”

Certainly his life was one of extraordinary vicissitudes; he was
perpetually flying from, or returning to, his country. At one moment an
outcast, at the next making a glorious entry into Carácas. In reference
to one of these returns the author I first quoted, says:—

“The entry of General Bolivar into Carácas (August 4th, 1813) was the
most gratifying event of his whole military career. But here I cannot
omit to mention a singular and characteristic trait of that vanity of
which I have already spoken. Previous to his entry into Carácas, a kind
of triumphal car was prepared, like that which the Roman consuls used on
returning from a campaign after an important victory. Theirs was drawn
by horses; but Bolivar’s car was drawn by twelve fine young ladies,
very elegantly dressed in white, adorned with the national colours, and
all selected from the first families in Carácas. They drew him in about
half-an-hour from the entrance of the city to his residence; he standing
on the car, bareheaded and in full uniform, with a small wand of command
in his hand. To do this was surely extraordinary on their part; to suffer
it was surely much more so on his. Many thousands were eye-witnesses of
the scene.”

The same year Bolivar was again a fugitive. Once more, in December 1842,
the inhabitants of Carácas flocked in immense throngs with banners,
pennants, oriflammes, and trophies of war, to do honour to Bolivar. But
this time it was a funeral procession, as the remains of the Liberator
were being brought for interment in the city. In a poem on Simon Bolivar,
Whittier has written:—

“How died that victor? In the field with banners o’er him thrown,
With trumpets to his falling ear, by charging squadrons blown,
With scattered foemen flying fast and fearfully before him,
With shouts of triumph swelling round, and brave men bending o’er him?
Not on his fields of victory, nor in his council hall,
The worn and sorrowful leader hears the inevitable call,
Alone he perished in the land he saved from slavery’s ban,
Maligned, and doubted, and denied, a broken-hearted man.”

But the question naturally arises, how is it possible that Bolivar
should have liberated his country, and preserved in himself the supreme
power, without superior talents? To this General Holstein replies:—“If
by ‘liberating his country’ it be meant that he has given his country
a free government, I answer, that he has not done so. If it be meant
that he has driven out the Spaniards, I answer that he has done little,
or nothing, towards this; far less, certainly, than the meanest of the
subordinate chieftains. To the question, how he can have retained his
power without superior talents, I answer, in the first place, that the
reputation of superior talents goes a great way.... The stupid management
of the Spanish authorities has facilitated all the operations of the
patriots. The grievous faults of Bolivar and some of his generals have
been exceeded by those of his adversaries. It is not strange, therefore,
that Bolivar should have been able to do all that he has done with very
limited talents.”

A late writer on Venezuela—Señor Miguel Tejera—has thus summed up the
character of Bolivar.

“Bold and fortunate as Alexander, a patriot like Hannibal, brave and
clement like Cæsar, a great captain and profound statesman like Napoleon,
honourable as Washington, a sublime poet, a versatile orator, such was
Bolivar, who united in his own mind all the vast multiplicity of the
elements of genius. His glory will shine in the heaven of history, not as
a meteor that passes and is lost in the bosom of space, but as a heavenly
body whose radiance is ever increasing.”

Between two such extremes of blame and praise as those I have quoted,
a middle line may perhaps give a true estimate of the character of the
Liberator; and, though his fame may not have been spotless, though he
may have been neither a great warrior nor a statesman, yet he was a
patriot, and above all, successful. Alive, he was by turns a demi-god and
an impostor; dead, his beautiful monument in the Cathedral of Carácas
testifies to the reverence of the nation.

CHAPTER XXVII.

From the Plaza Bolivar you pass at once into the square where stands
the Legislative Palace. This edifice of Doric architecture is graceful
and imposing, but does not impress one with the idea of the necessary
solidity in so earthquaky a country. A handsome court with a large
fountain (fine as regards its material, but feeble in its water-jets)
divides it into two parts, one of which is surmounted by a huge
dome—another compliment to the city of Washington—that will probably fall
at the first severe shock. The most solid portions of the building are
the iron pillars of the corridors which came from England.

The history of the building of this edifice is singular. The original
site was occupied by the Convent of La Concepcion. One morning the
convent was missing; it had been swept away during the night by the
order of the President, and already hundreds of workmen were busily
engaged erecting a new structure. Such were the activity and enthusiasm
displayed in this work, that within ninety days the Chambers destined
for the Legislature were ready for occupation. Whenever one of the
numerous arches was finished, the event was celebrated with music and
fireworks, and when the last sound of the hammer was heard, previous to
its occupation, the occasion was made one of general rejoicing. A pretty
little garden plaza runs down one of the sides of the Palace, and in the
centre is another equestrian statue of heroic proportions, which has
been raised in honour of Guzman Blanco, “the illustrious American and
Regenerator of Venezuela,” who built the palace and the aqueduct. I do
not think his successor, General Alcántara, the present President, has
built anything, but, if he would introduce ice into the Paris of South
America, a niche might be found for him in the Temple of Fame.

On the opposite side of the little garden, and running parallel with the
Palace, stands the University and the Museum, both of which have a modern
rococo façade in semi-gothic style, that contrasts strangely with the
arched cloisters and great stone patios in the interior of the ancient
building. The exterior decoration is perhaps too suggestive of the
educational system that is carried on inside. Yet in spite of teaching
a somewhat superficial character, public instruction received a great
impetus during the Presidency of Guzman Blanco, and the great increase in
the number of schools and scholars promises favourably for the progress
of this Republic, whose chief city has earned from some writers the
cognomen of the “American Athens.” It must be admitted that the Museum
is not a credit to the city; its eminent director—Dr. Ernst—has laboured
long and arduously in its cause, and has hitherto vainly implored the
Government to support the institution. Promises are made, but only to be
broken, projects are inaugurated, but never carried out; and at present
there can be no better example of a “whited sepulchre” than the Museum of
Carácas.

With the exception of the cathedral, none of the numerous churches offer
much interest to a visitor. That of San Felipe Neri is a fine edifice,
and its exterior presents a curious appearance on account of the numerous
cupolas which adorn it. Already four generations have contributed largely
towards its completion, and it is still unfinished.

One day when wandering near the Pantheon I passed through an ancient
doorway, and found myself in a little wilderness, in which stood ruined
walls and rooms open to the sky. Trees thrust themselves through the
broken pavement, moss and grasses grew on the fissured stones, vines
twisted themselves about the empty window spaces, and lizards and
butterflies were the only living creatures to be seen. It resembled
many other of the fragments that alone recall the terrible earthquake
of 1812, but it possessed a special interest, for it was once the home
of Humboldt when he visited Carácas in 1800. Another relic of Humboldt
is to be seen in the market-place, where, on a brick pillar, stands a
sun-dial which he is said to have erected, although the inscribed date
(1803) hardly corresponds with the time of his visit. The market differed
in no particular from the usual Spanish American market. The geography
of arrangement was just the same; stalls with imported goods, calicoes,
cloths, hardware, &c.; then cordage, baskets, and native manufactures;
then fruit and vegetables, poultry in eel-pot cages, and turkeys tied
by the leg. Last of all, the meat-market. Here and there were some small
parrots, cardinals, and mocking-birds, but not a specimen of the lovely
“siete colores,”[113] a bird I was very anxious to obtain. On the Orinoco
I was told I should be able to obtain them at Carácas, here they said I
should only find them on the Orinoco. There was very little beauty and a
great amount of ugliness amongst the market women; a few pensive Indians,
with their mahogany babes slung across their backs, carrying off the palm
in both instances. The most curious sight, and at the same time the most
repulsive, was that of a negro who was literally covered with large round
knobs from head to foot. I was told the name of the terrible disease, but
have forgotten it.

To gain an idea of the celebrated Caraqueñan beauty, neither the market,
nor even the Plaza Bolivar on band nights, must be visited. On Sundays
it is the rude fashion for the youth of Carácas to congregate round
the door of the favourite church, near the University, and there to
feast their eyes on the lovely figures that have been attending mass.
That it is worth their while to do so is evident from the never-failing
throng of admirers. The prevailing type of beauty has very distinct
characteristics. The expression of the face is spirituelle, and, in
colour, white as alabaster, but tinged with a healthy glow. The eyes are
dark and lustrous as the hair, and the teeth perfect. But occasionally
one sees types similar to the “rubias” or “morenas” of Mexico; the
former with gold or auburn hair and soft eyes of the deepest blue, and
the latter with delicate olive complexion, black, poetic eyes, and
brown-black hair. These beauties are by no means numerous, and beauty
tinted by nature is rare, but altogether I do not think anyone could deny
that the women of Carácas are worthy of their reputation.

The environs of the town are neither picturesque nor interesting;
the roads are unshaded and dusty, that to Sabana Grande—a favourite
drive—particularly so. On the way there, and just within the city limits,
may be seen another of Venezuela’s failures. This time it is a railway,
which was intended to connect Carácas with Petaré. The station is there,
and a short distance of grass-covered rails, but they, together with a
broken engine and a mouldy carriage, alone represent the projected means
of communication. Harbour improvements, railroads, gas and ice companies,
and all advances in civilization seem to fail in Venezuela; nothing
succeeds except revolutions and statues. And yet the lemon—which those in
authority call country—is squeezed to the last drop!

Near the station is a plantation—La Guiana—whose owner must have been
disgusted with the repeated failures of the city, as over his gateway
is inscribed the legend,[114] “Dost thou love liberty? then live in the
country.” Beyond Petaré is the curious Cave of Encantado, which contains
bats, stalactites, quaint rock formations, and the usual accessories of a
well-appointed cavern. In the valley of the Tuy are some pretty villages,
and as it was there that the severest shocks of the late earthquake had
been felt, it was of more interest than usual. In the neighbourhood of
Cúa, and for some miles before reaching that town by the Charayave
road, the signs of desolation were especially apparent. Houses in ruins,
fallen church towers, tottering walls, and deep chasms in the earth, all
betokened the excessive violence of the earthquake.

For days previous to the great catastrophe of the 12th of April, the
inhabitants of Cúa had suffered from the intense heat. The air was heavy
with a yellow vapour, and chairs and pieces of furniture felt as if they
had been exposed to the sun. Slight shocks were continually felt, and
repeated detonations like distant musketry shots were heard. On the 12th
the church bells were agitated by a movement, a low, rumbling sound,
as of thunder, brought the frightened people from their houses, then
all was quiet again. Sand of a leaden colour burst up from the streets
and patios. Hours of complete calm ensued, and it was anticipated that
the worst was over. At 8.40 p.m. Cúa was a pretty, flourishing town; at
8.41 it, was a cemetery. From east to west ran the earthquake wave, and
this was instantly followed by perpendicular oscillations which left no
house standing. There was no time for escape, and beneath the ruins four
hundred people were buried. Very few who were indoors at the moment of
the shock were saved. The wife of one of the principal merchants was
standing near her doorway, when suddenly she saw the walls open, and she
was buried beneath the _débris_; she was not crushed, however, as a great
quantity of tobacco and piles of skins prevented the mass from touching
her. With her freed hand she saved herself from suffocation, and all
through that terrible night she heard the groans of her husband who was
buried near her. He died, but she was dug out alive.

Three days later a soldier, who was passing a ruin, heard a small voice
call out “I am hungry.” Search was made, and in an aperture formed by
three large stones was found a child, the only one saved out of a large
household. A singular circumstance occurred in one of the houses whose
owner had for many years been accustomed to prepare and decorate the
sacred image of the Tomb, which was carried in procession during Holy
Week. This casket was in one of the largest rooms, when two of the walls
fell outwards leaving the ceiling poised in equilibrium by a single beam.
In this position it remained until the image was removed in safety, and
shortly afterwards another shock dislodged it.

At daybreak, when the disinterment of those who had been overwhelmed
commenced, the most heartrending scenes were witnessed. Mothers sought
children only to find disfigured corpses; husbands discovered their
dead wives pressing their babies in their arms. In many cases features
could not be recognised, for fire had completed the work commenced by
the falling habitations. Some lives were taken away in sleep, others
when employed in various occupations. Here a hammock formed a shroud,
and there an open book lay by the side of its reader. For days after
the destruction of the town, shocks of earthquakes were felt and
subterraneous rumblings heard, but at length these died out, and a
troubled peace rested with the survivors of unhappy Cúa.

Perhaps I visited Carácas at an unfortunate time, but it certainly seemed
to me to be the most stupid town I had ever seen. There was very little
to see, and no amusements of any kind, unless a weekly lottery and the
continual firing of rockets can be classed as such. Of the latter, the
people were never tired, and day and night they were thus commemorating
some civil or religious event. The perpetual hissing and explosions
reminded me of the conversation once held by Ferdinand, King of Spain,
and a Mexican courtier, when the news had arrived of a successful
revolution.

“What do you suppose the Mexicans will be doing now?” said the King.

“Letting off rockets, your Majesty.”

“Well—I wonder what they are doing now in Mexico?” said the King in the
afternoon.

“Letting off rockets, your Majesty.”

“What will your countrymen be doing at this time?” said the King in the
evening.

“Letting off rockets, your Majesty.”

Day after day I attended the demure and uninteresting debates of the
Legislature, and once witnessed the official presentation of the new
American Minister to the President. This ceremony, which took place in
the handsome state-room of the palace, was brilliantly attended by the
élite of Carácas, and was simply but imposingly conducted. The Minister
was an agreeable, well-read gentleman but, unfortunately, neither he nor
any of his family understood a single word of Spanish, and of all towns
Carácas is the least entertaining for a foreigner who does not speak the
language. I think that, after arriving, they never ceased to regret that
they had left their home in the valley of the Mississippi. To a very dry
manner the Minister added great quaintness and humour of expression,
and his society made a very pleasant change in the dulness of the hotel
life. He was fond of exaggerating his natural American intonation
and quaint pronunciation, and when with grave and rather pompous air
he slowly uttered his long carefully worded sentences, the effect was
irresistibly comic. “My young English friend,” he said one day to me, in
the course of conversation, “we look upon your best men as Americans;
John Bright, Cobden, Dickens and Gladstone: they air Americans. Our
recent visitor, the Emperor of Brazil, ought to be an American, he had
quite an outfit of intelligence, and, Sir, if Dom Pedro would come over
to the States and settle, mind—I say and settle, we would make a senator
of him.”

On another occasion he said, “Sir, you air a traveller, if you’ve been
to Florida you air a traveller; out of a thousand people you may meet
not five have visited Florida; and even in the great American nation,
which stretches from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from 49° north to
the confines of Mexico, though ten may have been to Paris hardly one will
have seen Florida. Sir, you air a traveller.”

My only regret in leaving Carácas was bidding good-bye to my kind-hearted
friend. It had been my intention to proceed overland to Valencia and
Puerto Cabello from Carácas for the purpose of seeing the beautiful lake
and some of the most fertile parts of Venezuela. As the steamers which
touch at the different ports only remain a few hours, and are liable to
arrive twenty-fours before or after their appointed time, it is necessary
for passengers to anticipate them. Not wishing to remain on the coast
longer than I could avoid, I had timed my departure from Carácas so as to
catch the French Mail at Puerto Cabello, allowing myself four days for
the journey. Inland travel is very limited, the charge for carriages or
mules is most exorbitant. After much trouble I at last hired some animals
at a price which ought to have bought them and the guide. However, as
they did not appear at the appointed time, I suppose their owner repented
his bargain, and as it would have been too late to seek others, I was
obliged to return to La Guaira.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

In the dry season the carriage-road between Carácas and La Guaira is
by no means a pleasant one. The ricketty old coaches which perform the
journey have leather flaps instead of windows; if these are down you are
stifled with the heat, and if they are open you are suffocated with dust.
On account of the bad springs and deep ruts, you are little better than
an animated shuttle-cock for a great part of the drive, and the exercise
you undergo is of the most severe description.

The scenery is wild and romantic, but when I passed through it was dry
and barren. Only here and there, in the deep valley on the left, were
there patches of green and cultivated spots, whilst the hills on the
right were rugged and aloe-clad. For the first two hours we wound up the
hill-side, and then commenced a long zig-zag descent. Every now and then
we had to halt, to allow the numerous pack-trains of donkeys and oxen to
pass, the poor animals toiling painfully in such clouds of dust that
breathing must have been difficult.

Not far from the station where we changed horses, I left the road to
visit a cow-tree[115]—Palo de vaca. It was about eighty feet in height
with long, thick leaves of a deep, shining green. The milk, which is said
to be wholesome, is thick and glutinous and of a yellower tinge than that
of a cow. A few of these wooden cows would be valuable acquisitions in
many grassless regions, but I do not think any attempt to acclimatize
them has ever been made.

The first view of La Guaira and the coast recalls the “Corniche” road.
Below lie green fields edged with palms, groves, and white cottages
standing in gardens; and beyond the clustering houses of the town the
land runs out in numberless promontories into the blue sea. Truly this
is a land of projects and projections! On the right and above rise steep
mountains specked with the white flowers of the Frangipanni, and its
ravines green with coffee plantations, mangoes and bananas. A glimpse
of white houses, and the Fort of San Carlos perched above the Quebrada
de Tipe, add to the picturesque element of the scene. At the pretty
little village of Maiquetia they were firing off rockets, as they had
not yet finished the celebration of a great event in Venezuela, viz.,
the completion during the past week of a single-line tramway, connecting
the village with La Guaira, a distance of about a mile. And thus the
contemplated railroad between the coast and the capital has ended in a
one-horse car with a mile run, and even that enterprise will probably
have failed in a few months. By the advice of the agent I arrived in
La Guaira one day before the French mail steamer was due; as a natural
consequence it was a day late. Those three days I will pass over in
silence, so utterly wretched were they on account of the heat, the bad
hotel, and the squalid town.

When at last the steamer arrived, the port-captain kept the passengers
waiting on the wharf for about three hours before he would allow the
boats to take them off. The first remark that greeted us on board was
from the afore-mentioned agent.

“Show your permits, please.”

“I have no permit,” I replied.

“Monsieur,” said the Agent, “must be good enough to return to land, and
get a permit from the port-captain.”

“You must really excuse me,” I remonstrated, “it is too far to return,
and when I bought my ticket I ought to have been informed that it was
necessary to obtain a permit.”

“The steamer cannot leave until you have received your permit,” insisted
the agent.

“Then the steamer must remain,” I said coolly.

A whispered conference between the agent and his myrmidon now ensued.

“If Monsieur will not leave, the captain will be appealed to,” resumed
the agent.

“Appeal to the captain,” was my calm but firm rejoinder.

“Monsieur must go at once,” said the agent with firmness, a decision
which his myrmidon seemed ready to applaud.

“Monsieur will not go,” replied the passenger with equal firmness, which
was greeted with applause by the other passengers.

“Once for all, will Monsieur leave?” exclaimed the agent, now furious.

“Once for all, he will not,” I replied, rather angrily.

At this moment another delinquent came on board without a permit, and as
I turned on my heel to look after my baggage I heard, “Monsieur must be
good enough, &c.” Whether this one returned to shore I do not know; if
he did, he must have lost his passage, as a few minutes afterwards the
anchor was lifted and we were off.

In the saloon I heard an animated discussion between the new passengers
and the stewards. I think the port-captain and the head-steward must have
had an arrangement between them, not to allow the passengers to come on
board until after dinner. Dinner was over, and we were refused anything
to eat until tea time. Now, as none of us had dined, we were hungry and
did not wish to wait for another three hours. Expostulation was useless,
so I sought the captain, and as he was just going to dinner, he requested
me to join him, and I fared extremely well. The others, who would not go
to the fountain-head, growled angrily until tea-time. I never had been
glad to get on board ship before, but after the land heat and the utter
impossibility of procuring anything cold to drink, the sea breeze and ice
were both refreshing.

The steamer was a fine vessel, built to carry the countless hordes
who were expected to visit the Paris Exhibition, _viâ_ Panama. On no
mail-steamer have I ever seen better attendance or such good living. The
cooking was perfection, and the viands were just suited to the tropics.
Abundance of cool salads—that of the cabbage-palm being particularly well
made—delicious bread and coffee, really good butter, appetizing dishes,
and very fair white and red wines, _ad lib._, were items on the daily
bill of fare not often found on board ship. The price of the passage was
undoubtedly high, but so it was with the other lines of steamers that
touched at these ports.

Close along shore we glided past the green plains around Maiquetia and
the white cape, beneath which sat a row of pelicans with the most solemn
physiognomies. The high coast range was broken and ribbed, deep ravines
backed stretches of white sand, and the only signs of habitation were in
the few canoes which floated near the shore. The next day we were still
in view of the mountains of Ocumare, and soon sighted Puerto Cabello.
From a distance the town appeared to be far inland, but mingled with
towers and red roofs were the tall masts of vessels. Low, bush-covered
islets and white sandy beaches, on which the surf broke heavily, lay
between us and the town. We rounded a long point of land, and saw the
Golfo Triste curving away to the north; then we entered the strangest
little harbour in the world. Passing close alongside an island fort and
lighthouse, we gradually drifted into a deep, narrow channel, and were
soon moored to the wharf. This inside bay affords admirable shelter for
shipping, but it is small, and the islets and mangrove banks on its
eastern limits seem to indicate a gradual shallowing of its still waters.
It is like a small swampy lake protected from the sea by sand-bars,
rocks, and bushes. The town is quaint and pretty; palms, minarets, and
pagoda-like towers giving it an oriental aspect. The high mountain
background is crowned by two peaks, the “Tetas de Hilaria,” and on the
hill of the “Vigia” is an old and useless fort. To the east is Fort
Mirador del Solano, on which vast sums have been spent, and which now,
when nearly completed, is discovered to be of no use whatever.

Up in the mountains is the picturesque village of San Estéban, famed for
its feather flowers, and also as a health resort for the fevered dwellers
on the coast. In the olden days, when Puerto Cabello was the refuge for
pirates, smugglers, and criminals, it was considered the most unhealthy
spot in northern South America; the terrible “vómito negro” devastated
the region. It has always maintained its bad reputation with the outside
world, but in reality it is comparatively salubrious at the present day.
Its military history eclipses that of other Venezuelan towns, as in
1743 it was attacked by an English fleet, which was repulsed with great
loss, and in 1824 its capture by Generals Padilla and Paez ended the war
of emancipation. Since then it has undergone three sieges. Altogether,
Puerto Cabello and its environs are interesting, but the heat is too
great to render a prolonged sojourn enjoyable.

Soon after leaving, we sighted the Dutch island of Curaçoa, which, during
the revolution, had been the head-quarters of the Spaniards, as, although
its people were with the patriots, yet the Government and the rich
merchants were in favour of Spain. As we proceeded, the high mainland
grew fainter, and presently we crossed the entrance of the deep gulf of
Maracaïbo. Then great rocks of a ghostly whiteness started up near the
ship’s course, and long reaches of sand bordered the yellow green sea
which surged heavily on the hot coast of Colombia. The land scenery was
flat and sombre; the coast hills dwindled away to a vanishing point,
and grey savannas reached to the horizon. It was dull and sad-looking
and intensely hot, too hot, apparently, for the traditional dolphins
which, on the previous day, had never ceased racing with the steamer,
and had entertained us by the marvellous unanimity with which long lines
of them would appear and disappear, taking their graceful leaps like
trained steeplechasers who had disposed of their riders, but were still
determined to complete the course.

Forty hours after leaving Puerto Cabello we reached Savanilla, and
anchored in a large bay at a great distance from shore, where we could
see only a few cottages and a lighthouse, standing in an amphitheatre of
undulating green hills. It had been my intention to disembark here and
proceed up the Magdalena River to Bogotá, but when the little tug came
alongside to take passengers for Barranquilla, I heard that the river was
too low at present even for the small steamers that run on it. This was a
great disappointment, as I had been anxious to visit the emerald mines of
Muzo, not only for the sake of seeing the mines themselves, but in order
to obtain some specimens of the rare “Morpho Cyprio.” Afterwards, at
Panama, I saw two of these wonderful butterflies, and was not astonished
at the belief of the miners of Muzo that the splendid insects feed on the
emeralds, and so obtain their brilliant hue. Anything more exquisite than
the colour and sheen it is impossible to imagine. Unfortunately for me
their owner appreciated them as highly as I did, and though I was by no
means illiberal in my offer, I could not tempt him to part with one of
them.

Whilst we were at Savanilla great swarms of a single species of
butterfly—_Danaidæ_—hovered over the vessel, and many of them rested
on the deck and rigging. They appeared to be outward bound, and flew
north-east in delicate clouds. As there was no breeze to blow them
from the land, it must have been their own wish to migrate. If their
destination was one of the islands, I am afraid the poor emigrants
never could have reached it, as before we left Savanilla a strong
north-easterly wind sprang up, against which they could not have sailed
onwards. The heavens were already sprinkled with silver stars when we
steamed out of the bay; and where only a few minutes before, in the
direction of our course, there had been a bank of rainbow-coloured
clouds, there was now only a pale silvery vapour that gradually diffused
itself over land and sea.

CHAPTER XXIX.

TREASURES OF THE DEEP—THE SAN PEDRO ALCANTARA—MARGARITA—SEEKING
LOST TREASURE—OCEAN MINING-NAVY BAY, COLON—INTER-OCEANIC
COMMUNICATION—GOMARA’S PROJECT—NELSON’S SCHEME—THE NICARAGUA
ROUTE—THE ACANTI-TUPISI ROUTE—INTERNATIONAL COMMISSION.

The dream of Clarence has occupied the waking thoughts of many since
Shakespeare’s time, and in the West Indies, as well as off our own coast,
it has been the ambition of treasure-hunters to find the Spanish gold
which here and there paves the sea. Near Carthagena we passed a vessel
engaged on a diving expedition, and not far from Cumaná we had seen
another ship, which was said to be in search of the vast treasure sunk in
the San Pedro Alcántara.

The history of this unfortunate vessel is an interesting one. In 1815,
Ferdinand VIII. of Spain, dispatched from Cadiz a number of transports
with men, money, and provisions, for the supply of the fleet, which was
then stationed in the Caribbean Sea. These ships sailed under the convoy
of the San Pedro Alcántara, a three-decked line of battle-ship mounting
seventy-four guns. On board were 1,400 soldiers, under the command of
General Morillo, and in the treasure-chests were between three and four
million dollars. When the San Pedro Alcántara arrived at La Guaira, the
revolution had so far progressed that the Spanish citizens of that town
and of Carácas, fearing the loss of their personal property, transferred
their gold and jewels to the man-of-war. This act was soon imitated by
the convents and churches of Venezuela, and the vessel was laden with
an immense treasure of jewels, gold and silver altar plate, valuable
pictures, coin, and costly ornaments. The jewelled tiara of the Virgin of
Guadaloupe, which was sent from Valencia, was alone of almost priceless
value.

From La Guaira the San Pedro Alcántara sailed up the coast to the island
of Margarita—now known as Nueva Esparta—where the troops disembarked and
defeated the Venezuelan forces stationed there. The brave Margaritans,
who, during the War of Independence, proved themselves to be as truly
patriotic as the Llaneros, retired to the hills and inaugurated a
guerilla warfare which harassed the Spaniards beyond measure. Still their
towns were open to attack, and Asuncion, Pampatar, Norte, and others,
were sacked and destroyed by the invaders. Thus the wealth of the San
Pedro was again added to, and, as there was much treasure in these towns,
it is supposed that little was saved from the sudden descent of the
conquerors.

After the plundering of the last town, orders were received that the
San Pedro should sail at once to Cumaná. To celebrate their successes a
grand revel was held on board one night; casks of wine and spirits were
broached, and success to the ensuing expedition was so eagerly drunk
that it is doubtful whether there was a single sober man in the vessel.
Then arose an alarm of fire. How the fire originated is unknown, but
it speedily reached a cask of brandy, which burst, and the deck was
instantly deluged with liquid fire. The flames were soon darting through
the hatchways and lapping the sails, and so quickly did the conflagration
spread that nothing could have checked it, even if sober men had tried
to stem the danger. As it was, the wild mob, mad with drink and fear,
thought only of flight. With difficulty the boats were lowered, and men
sought to reach them, either by jumping into them from the deck, or
battling with each other in the water to clutch their sides. Of the few
boats that there were, all except one were either capsized or stove in.

In the meantime the fire made its way to the powder-magazine. Suddenly
a tremendous explosion rent the air, a lucid light hung for a moment
over the doomed vessel, and the air was filled with mangled corpses and
fragments of the ship. The after-half of the San Pedro Alcántara had
been blown to pieces, and the forward half quickly sank beneath the
waves. Over a thousand men perished in the fire and ocean on that night.
The magazine had been situated beneath the strong chambers wherein were
stored the Spanish treasure-chests, the riches of the people and churches
of Venezuela and the plunder of the towns. All was now scattered and
buried in the sea.

In a paper describing this disaster, it is said that in 1816 an American
Captain visited the scene of the wreck, one mile from the island of
Cuagua, and succeeded in securing about 30,000 dollars in silver.
Again in 1845 a company was organized in Baltimore for the purpose of
seeking the lost treasure. The remnant of the wreck was easily found,
but owing to the lack of proper diving apparatus the attempt proved a
failure. A few months later the same company sent out another expedition.
This search was prosecuted under an agreement with the government of
Venezuela. During the first three months quantities of copper, huge
rusty anchors and guns, were dragged up, but only about 1,500 dollars in
silver coin were recovered. The search had been confined to the immediate
vicinity of the sunken wreck, and the divers became so dissatisfied by
the ill results of their labour that they refused to continue unless
those in charge of the explorations would test the theory they formed,
which was that the force of the explosion had hurled the treasure-chests
some distance away from the spot where the ship went down. They were
humoured, and the vessel was anchored in another place. The first time
the diving bell went down on the new ground, 750 dollars were picked up
in two hours, and this success continued so well that in six months about
200,000 dollars in silver had been recovered. Then the major portion of
the divers and crew having surreptitiously possessed themselves of such
portions of the treasure as they could secrete, stole a boat and set sail
for La Guaira. The remainder of the party returned to Baltimore, having
been unable to pursue the exploration for want of divers.

In 1849 another American barque recovered several thousand dollars
in silver, but how much is not known, as the Captain suddenly hauled
his anchor on board and set sail for the Horn, bound for the new El
Dorado on the Pacific coast. In 1856, 28,000 dollars were recovered,
and, in 1858, 30,000 more. In April, 1877, a Captain Folingsby went to
Venezuela to obtain permission from the government to search for the
lost millions, and effected a contract whereby, in consideration of the
payment of five per cent on all sums he might recover, he was granted
the exclusive right to drag, dredge, and dive for the sunken treasures
of the San Pedro Alcántara for the period of six years. Armed with this
contract, Captain Folingsby organized an expedition for the thorough and
exhaustive exploration of all the ocean bed over which the treasure might
have been scattered by the explosion of the ship. He has had extensive
experience as a diver, and having been in the employ of the Baltimore
company in 1845 and 1846 in their searches, is thoroughly familiar with
the ground on which he is to work. He believes that the strong boxes
which held the gold, jewels, and church plate were not burst by the
explosion, but simply tossed away to a greater distance than seekers have
hitherto deemed it worth while to go from the wreck. No gold has as yet
been found, but simply silver, and this he accepts as evidence of the
correctness of his theory. He thinks that he can go over all the ground
in about eight months. His dredges and drags are of the most approved
patterns, fitted with special appliances such as chair-nettings, to let
sand escape, but to hold everything else. As 500,000 dollars are about
all that have hitherto been recovered, he has the hope of finding at
least four or five millions and, with every requisite that knowledge
and unrestricted capital can supply, he confidently expects to achieve
success. As he was to sail from New York early in 1878, the vessel we
saw near Cumaná must have been his. With that idea we cordially wished a
prosperous finale to the ocean-mining of the enterprising Captain.

From Savanilla onwards to Panama the little we saw of the coast was
uninteresting. We were seldom near enough to appreciate the colour-chords
on beach, hill and savanna, and the sombre monotone of the land seemed
but an extension of the yellow green sea. The nights were calm and
beautiful, and as we sailed on and on through the great star-chamber,
the vessel appeared to plunge through a sea of fire. Long gleams of
blue, green and purple crested the waves that were only raised by the
vessel’s bow, and the teeming phosphorescent life made the starry waters
more brilliant even than the sky. But pleasant as the nights were, the
French Mail Company interfered with our entire enjoyment of them, by a
silly order which forbade passengers to take their pillows on deck. They
might sleep there if they chose—and everyone did choose—but under no
circumstances were pillows allowed. Various were the devices made use
of to disguise the forbidden articles, but those who indulged in them
were generally awakened by a polite reminder from one of the officers or
stewards that the pillows must be taken below. Then the different _ruses_
had to be repeated. The pillow-prohibition was the only fault that could
be found with this comfortable vessel.

Our little voyage along the Spanish Main had been slow and deliberate,
but as the old Spanish proverb says “step by step goes a long way,” and
at last we entered a pretty horse-shoe bay surrounded by low misty hills,
and were presently moored alongside one of the fine wharfs at Colon. Here
we were at the narrowest point of that narrow isthmus, to cross which
by water has been a problem to the great nations of the world for three
centuries and a half. The project of connecting the Atlantic and Pacific
Oceans by a canal is a scheme of such vast commercial importance that
it may be interesting to take a rapid glance at a few of the numerous
surveys made with a view to inter-oceanic communication. As early as
1513 the Spanish explorers believed in the existence of a narrow strait
leading across to the Pacific. In the following year, the Spanish
Government gave a secret order for the preparation of a coast-chart to
determine whether such a strait really existed. In the hope of finding
such a passage, Cortez sent out his expeditions and prepared a map of
the Gulf of Mexico, which he sent to Spain in 1524. Then the European
Powers explored and searched the whole coast-line of the New World,
and at length realized the fact that from Colon the continent extended
uninterruptedly north and south. Just as the Suez Canal is only an
enlargement of the plan conceived and executed by the Pharaohs 4,000
years ago, so the Panama or Darien route, when completed, will be the
practical result of a project contemplated as far back as three centuries
and a half.

In 1551, a Spaniard of the name of Gomara proposed that a canal should be
constructed to connect the oceans, and suggested three of the same routes
that have been under the consideration of modern engineers. “It is true,”
said the proud Castilian, “that mountains obstruct the passes, but if
there are mountains there are also hands; let but the resolve be made,
and there will be no want of means; the Indies, to which the passage will
be made, will supply them. To a King of Spain, with the wealth of the
Indies at his command, when the object to be attained is the spice trade,
what is possible is easy.” But soon Spain fell from her high estate,
religious intolerance benumbed her energies, and the project of the
canal became at last a mere legend.

In 1780 the Nicaragua route was first projected, and Captain—afterwards
Lord—Nelson conveyed a force of 2,000 men to San Juan de Nicaragua for
the conquest of the country, and in one of his despatches said, “In
order to give facility to the great object of Government, I intend to
possess the great lake of Nicaragua, which at the present may be looked
upon as the inland Gibraltar of Spanish America. As it commands the
only water-pass between the oceans, its situation must ever render it
a principal port to ensure passage to the Southern Ocean, and by our
possession of it Spanish America is severed in two.” The expedition was a
failure, however, and nothing came of Nelson’s project.

In 1814, the Spanish Cortes decreed the opening of a canal, but the
matter was deferred and the decree never executed. In 1825, after the
Central American States had secured their independence, they asked the
co-operation of the United States in constructing a canal. In 1828, the
King of the Netherlands proposed to undertake the work, and sent over
General Verveer with instructions to build the canal. The General found
Central America engaged in one of its regular half-yearly revolutions,
and the matter was deferred until 1830, when the revolution in his own
country put an end to the plans. In 1836, Mr. John Bailey made some
preliminary surveys for a route across Nicaragua, which were brought
to a close by the dissolution of the “Confederation of the Centre.” In
1850, under appointment from the Atlantic and Pacific Ship-canal Company,
Mr. Childs, of Philadelphia, began a survey on the Pacific side, and
after examining several routes chose the line which terminated in Brito
Harbour, giving very strong reasons against the Lake Managua route, which
have been confirmed by every subsequent survey. British capitalists
were interested in this route, and would have adopted Mr. Child’s plans
if favourable arrangements could have been made with Nicaragua. But
the Nicaraguan Government finally killed the scheme, as far as British
capital was concerned, by demanding twenty-five per cent of profits.

In 1873, President Grant appointed an Inter-oceanic Canal Commission, to
examine the various proposed routes and report on the most feasible. The
Commission considered the following surveys: the Isthmus of Tehuantepec;
the Nicaragua route, _viâ_ Lake Nicaragua; the Isthmus of Panama; the San
Bias and Chepo route; the Caledonian and North routes; the Caledonian
and Sucubti route; the Cacarica and Tuyra route; the Atrato and Truando
route; and the Atrato-Napip route. The Commission unanimously reported
that the Nicaragua route possessed, both for construction and maintenance
of a canal, greater advantages, and offered fewer difficulties from
engineering, commercial, and economic points of view, than any one of
the routes shown by surveys to be practicable. This route, beginning
on the Atlantic side, at or near Greytown, would run by canal to the
San Juan River, thence following its left bank to the mouth of the San
Carlos River, at which point navigation of the San Juan begins, and by
the aid of three short canals of an aggregate length of three and a
half miles reach Lake Nicaragua. Thence across the lake and through the
valleys of the Rio del Medio and the Rio Grande to what is known as the
Port of Brito, on the Pacific coast. No doubt exists as to the entire
practicability of constructing this canal, the cost of which, with all
the necessary adjuncts—locks 400 feet in length and 26 feet depth of
water—may be set down as at least twenty million pounds sterling.

The last survey of the several routes has very lately been completed by
Lieutenant-Commander Wyse of the French Navy. After an exhaustive survey,
he judges that the best route for a canal is what he describes as the
Acanti-Tupisa route. This starts from the Gulf of Darien on the Atlantic
side, following the Atrato River for a short distance and passing through
the valley of the Tupisa to the Tuyra River, which flows into the Gulf
of San Miguel. Commander Wyse has proposed that M. de Lesseps should be
President of an International Commission that shall assemble before long
to examine the different lines that have been surveyed, and to select
whichever will be, in their judgment, the easiest and most desirable to
construct. It is probable that the choice of routes will rest between
the Acanti-Tupisa and that of Nicaragua, but when work will actually be
commenced on either is doubtful. Before the Atlantic and Pacific join
hands across the Isthmus another century may elapse, and the problem
propounded four hundred and fifty years before may still be unsolved.

CHAPTER XXX.

From the sea Colon had looked pretty and mysterious; gauzy vapours
floated over the town, and all we could see were the outlines of palms,
a few roofs, and behind the surrounding forest the dim shadows of the
distant hills. We landed, and with the vanished mists all romance
disappeared. We stepped from the shelter of the roofed wharf, and in the
dirty, decayed village that lay before us beheld Colon, or the city of
Aspinwall as it is called by the Americans.

The principal street runs along the shore, and its shambling frame-houses
with verandahs and balconies are of the most tumble-down description.
Drinking saloons predominate, and the various stores and shops are
stocked with a miscellaneous assortment of goods, such as shells,
calico, coral, toilet articles, parrots, hats, pale ale, boots, oranges,
bananas, and ready-made clothing. The untidy tenement houses, the dirty
lanes, the swamps, and the apparent effort to make life in the tropics
as uncomfortable as possible, give an impression of squalid poverty. Nor
are the inhabitants unsuited to their dwellings; from the sallow German
Jew who dispenses iced drinks across a dirty counter, to the slippered
negro who beats a gong at meal time in front of a wretched eating-house,
all are unkempt and unclean. The officials and their houses are too
few in number to counteract the general atmosphere of unpicturesque
decay, and both they and their well-appointed offices render the native
unsightliness more conspicuous by contrast.

After arriving in Colon the principal aim is to get away as soon as
possible. “Thank goodness it isn’t a full stop,” was remarked by a
perspiring passenger, whose extreme heat must account for the want of
brilliancy in his joke. The Panama Railroad Company facilitates this
object by starting a train for Panama as soon as the passengers’ luggage
has arrived from the steamer. As the main street is the terminus of
the railway, the entire population assembles to bid farewell to their
only source of income. Then may be seen a motley crowd, each member of
which is endeavouring to extract some coin or other from the pockets of
their late guests. Black porters appear at the last moment with some
trifling article that they have taken care their employer should forget;
jet-black Africans, Jamaica negroes, half-castes, yellow Peruvians,
naked children, both black and brown, all endeavour to sell some article
or other, either cakes, fruit and sweetmeats, or fans, coral, and
smoking-caps of palm-fibre. Nor are the passengers themselves of less
varied nationalities, as the steamers from New York and St. Thomas have
brought emigrants, business men, pleasure-seekers, fortune-hunters, and
travellers from all parts of the world.

Here is an entire German family, from the grandmother to the baby in
arms, and not one of them can speak other language than their own; there
are some Mexicans carrying on a rapid conversation in mixed French,
English, and Spanish, with the negro fruit-sellers, and those five
ladies, who have paid such a tender adieu to the captain of the American
Mail Steamer, are tourists—probably you will learn that they are not
travelling _viâ_ Panama on account of its cheapness, but for the sake
of the sea-voyage. Then there are several commercial travellers, each
of whom thinks it correct to wear one of the fibre smoking-caps and
chaff the crowd in “h-less” English. Those rosy-cheeked damsels, with
flower-decked hats and general gaudy aspect, are Irish servant-girls
who have left New York to seek a fortune in San Francisco. On leaving
the wharf I had passed two of these maidens, who were looking at the
beautiful statue—the only beautiful thing in Colon—of Columbus and the
Indian. Said one to the other, “Sure an’ its Mr. Aspinwall himself, the
man who built the town.”

At last, amid a faint cheer, or rather a hoot of derision, the train
moves slowly off, and we pass almost at once from the so-called
civilization into the primeval forest. Perhaps we were a very ignorant
set of passengers, but strange to say none of us—and some had crossed the
Isthmus before—knew to whom the railroad or the land belonged. Some said
both land and road belonged to England, others to America, and a few that
both belonged to Colombia, who leased it to the United States. Afterwards
we found out that the Panama Railway is American, by contract with the
Government of New Granada,[116] to whom the land belongs.

With the history of the survey, and the building of the road, the world
is familiar from the time when in 1850, “two American citizens leapt,
axe in hand, from a native canoe upon a wild and desolate island,
(Manzanilla), their retinue consisting of half-a-dozen Indians, who
clear the path with rude knives,” up to the 27th of January, 1855, when,
“at midnight in darkness and rain, the last rail was laid, and on the
following day a locomotive passed from ocean to ocean.” The undertaking
was intrepid, the expense enormous, and the loss of life tremendous.
Pestilential vapours, reptiles, poisonous insects, fevers, incessant
rains, working waist deep in water, insufficient food and shelter, all
combined to sweep off thousands of the labourers. Americans, English,
Irish, French, Germans, Austrians, natives of India, South America and
the West Indies fell victims to the malarious climate, but misery and
suffering seems to have fallen most heavily on the Chinese. Of these, one
thousand had been brought to the Isthmus by the Company, and though as
much care as was possible was taken with their health and comfort, yet
before a month had elapsed almost the whole of them became affected with
a suicidal tendency, and scores ended their existence by their own hands.
The memory of these sad details throws a shadow over the interesting
journey of forty-seven miles from ocean to ocean, where each advancing
step has only been gained by the sacrifice of a human life.

The traveller will gain some idea of the deadly swamps directly the train
has crossed the artificial isthmus—(for Colon is situated on the little
island of Manzanilla)—which connects the island with the mainland. Dense
mangrove thickets border the waters, both of the sea and swamp, the stems
of those near the sea being loaded with clusters of small oysters. White
egrets and an occasional roseate spoon-bill grace the banks with their
presence, and the black forbidding water of the marshes is redeemed by
the starry crinums and aquatic plants which grow in great luxuriance.

After passing Mount Hope, where the cemetery of Colon is situated, we
are deep in the forest jungle. Cassias, pleromas, and all kinds of
feathery-leaved shrubs mingle with giant cedros, ceibas, and locusts,
and all are knitted together by the purple convolvulus, or by the
chains of some thick-stemmed liane. Most conspicuous are the palms with
their crimson clusters of fruit hanging like tassels below the green
crown, and the red and yellow blossoms of the helianthus. Fleet-winged
heliconias dart among the shrubs at the forest edge, and in the shady
glades, which sometimes break the monotony of the jungle, silver-blue
morphos and yellow and orange pieridæ flit heavily along. Now and then
a flock of parroquets wheels rapidly in the air, or a black and yellow
troupial pipes from a high tree top, but birds are not numerous, with the
exception of the ugly “black witches,”[117] that treat the passing train
with the utmost contempt. To those who have been accustomed to travel
through tropical forests only, after toilsome journeys on foot or on
mule-back, it is an agreeable sensation to glide—although there certainly
is a good deal of jolting—swiftly through the luxuriant vegetation in
a comfortable railway carriage. And yet it was strange, in the trip I
have been speaking of, to witness the indifference with which most of
the passengers viewed the many pretty scenes. Some did not see them at
all, but played whist during the whole journey, others slept, and not a
few improved the occasion by deliberately drawing up the wooden blinds,
so that nothing outside should disturb their attention whilst they read.
“Look at the grave-stones!” screamed one of the passengers, who hitherto
had been impervious to the novel scenery. When the information was gently
broken to her that the small stone-like columns were not grave-stones,
but merely pillars to support the wires of the telegraph,[118] she was
quite disappointed.

Near the stream called the Mindee, we saw patches of cultivated ground,
and perched on the high knolls were a few picturesque wattled and
thatched cottages, with clumps of bananas, mango-trees and palms.
Gradually the ground became less swampy, and by the time we reached
Gatun Station, situated on the eastern bank of the Chagres River, had
given place to dry savanna land that stretched to the hill range. Almost
immediately after leaving the station we crossed the Rio Gatun, and again
entered a region of swamp and jungle. On the left rose the twin peaks
known as the “Lion” and the “Tiger,” conical in shape and clad with thick
forest. And thus we sped on through an ever-changing scene; from marsh
and swamp we passed to plain and forest hills, and from the silence of
the wilderness to the life and cheerfulness of the little settlements
that dot the road.

Here was a swamp covered with pretty aquatic plants, then a stream almost
hidden by overhanging bamboos, then forest trees laden with orchids,
and from whose branches the pendent nests of the orioles swayed to
and fro, or a narrow country-lane walled in by petrœa and convolvuli
so dense and of such shapely growth that they appeared like old ruins
over which time had thrown a mantle of verdure. One view of the Chagres
River, which we crossed near Barbacoas over a fine wrought iron bridge,
was very charming. There were wide stretches of meadow-land with cattle
farms, and in the broad stream which curved off to the undulating hills
cows stood knee-deep, and under the high banks groups of women wearing
flowers in their black hair were hard at work clothes-washing. It
formed a pretty picture in the happy blending of wild forest and rural
scenery. At a native village, composed of three rows of picturesque huts,
standing in an open glade surrounded by palm trees, we found much needed
refreshments, as breakfast that morning had been small and early.

All the inhabitants vied with each other in their efforts to secure
customers, yet though the competition was great, fixed prices prevailed.
There was a rare mixture of home and foreign productions; Bass’s ale,
claret, sardines, biscuits and potted meats were carried by some, whilst
others bore trays of bread, cakes, native sweetmeats, pine-apples,
oranges, inga pods, mangoes, and other fruits. Here was a little urchin
with a bottle of milk, and there was another with hard-boiled eggs and
neat little packets of pepper and salt. The chief trade was in eggs, and
though they were not sold “four for a dollar” as in the ante-railroad
days, yet the charge was sufficiently remunerative. Probably, the sellers
agreed with the dairy-woman who said that a smaller price than that at
which she sold her eggs “would not pay for the wear and tear of the hen.”
Old travellers shook their heads ominously at the quantity of mangoes,
starapples, and granadillas that were consumed, and hints of Panama
fever were thrown out; but the novel fruits here, and the magnificent
Guayaquil white pine-apples that afterwards tempted us at Panama seemed
to be irresistible. The latter were not mere consolidated lumps of sugar
and water like the West Indian pine, but equalled in flavour, and in
size surpassed, those of our hot-houses. It was a miracle that no one
was harmed by the fruit-consumption, as everybody appeared to follow
the example of Artemus Ward, who “took no thought as to his food;
if he liked things he ate them, and then let them fight it out among
themselves.” Some bulbs of the beautiful orchid[119] known as the “Holy
Ghost,” on account of the marvellous image of the dove that rests within
the exquisite flower-cap, were for sale, but none of the plants were
in bloom, as they seldom blossom before July. They are numerous on the
Isthmus, and grow luxuriantly on the decayed trunks that abound in the
hot, damp, low-lying grounds.

Some of the natives wore straw hats of a crimson tint, which colour is
extracted from the leaves of a vine called “china.” As yet but little
attention has been paid to this dye as an article of commerce, but it
must be of considerable value, as neither sun nor rain alters the colour
which is said to be permanent. The vine grows abundantly in the hill
districts, and sheds its leaves annually. Such a dye would be vastly
superior to those so-called “fast” colours, whose only “fastness”
consists in their tendency to run. The hats themselves were coarse and
very unlike the famed “Panama,” specimens of which were only to be seen
on the heads of some of the passengers from the West Indies. Although
the plant—Carludovica palmata—from whose young unexpanded leaves the
“Panama hats”[120] are made, grows on the Isthmus, yet the manufacture
is confined to Moyobamba, on the banks of the Amazon, Guayaquil, and the
Indian villages of Peru.

After leaving the refreshment-station the grade makes a gentle ascent
until the summit—260 feet above sea level—is reached, and then we descend
the Pacific slope. Here the scenery is bolder than previously, but the
vegetation is as luxuriant as ever. Quickly we rush through cuttings
and across rocky spurs, the Rio Grande winding through the forest maze
below us; the pretty valley of Paraiso, enclosed in high conical hills,
is passed, then once more we enter alternate stretches of swamp and
cultivated savanna land.

We see meadows and cottages lying at the base of Mount Ancon, from whose
summit Balboa, in 1513, saw the Pacific, and thus proved the fallacy of
the belief in which Columbus died, that the New World was part of India
and China. Then groups of huts, chiefly composed of flattened tin cans
and shingles, came in view, and beyond them rose the Cathedral towers and
the red roofs of Panama. Through the groves of cocoa-nut palms we caught
sight of the glittering sea, and in a few minutes we entered a commodious
station close to the wharf, where a tug lies ready to take passengers to
the ocean steamer bound for California.

From Panama I had intended to visit Quito, and to descend the Amazon,
but on account of ill-health I was advised to postpone that journey for
a time, and to hasten to a colder climate. Of the town I, therefore,
saw but little, and after a short ramble went on board the Pacific
mail-steamer. Regarding the vessel, I will only say that she was very
comfortable, and the food and attendance were very bad, and the ice
and liquor supply grossly insufficient. The poor table was ascribed to
the cheap rate of passage-money from New York to San Francisco, but
when I pointed out that the Company reimbursed themselves by exorbitant
coasting charges—a first-class ticket from Colon to San Francisco
costing several dollars more than the entire passage money from New
York to San Francisco—a shrug of the shoulders was the only answer. It
is a misfortune for travellers that the Pacific Mail Steamers have no
competitors on this line.

It might be imagined that in the great central hive of commerce, the
old features of Panama would have been replaced by those of more modern
date. But it is not so. Once leave the bustling wharf and freight-depôt,
loaded with coffee, cacao, ivory nuts, pearl shells, india-rubber,
ores, hides, woods, balsams, quina bales, sarsaparilla, wool, and other
products collected from the two great continents, and pass through the
quiet lanes into the narrow streets of the town, and the active life of
the present is forgotten in the all-pervading memories of the past. It is
like passing from the busy work-shops of the stone-cutters into the quiet
shadows of the adjoining cemetery. Convent ruins, voiceless bell-towers,
grass-grown walls, broken arches and fallen pillars, all tell of the
departed glory of Panama. Mellow time-stains have tinged alike the carved
stone-work and the rich mouldings of the plaster façades, and over the
crumbling edifices and through the window-piercings, passion-flowers and
luxuriant creepers twist and twine in the wildest confusion.

During my short ramble, I rested for a moment on the ancient ramparts
with their old-fashioned sentry towers, at whose feet lay the waters of
the Pacific; so still and glaring in the intense heat, and reflecting
so many colours from the pink-brown walls and high tiled roofs that it
resembled a sea of old Bohemian glass. The hot sun had caused the streets
and walks to be deserted, and the only signs of life were the swinging
hammocks in the heavy balconies, and the turkey-buzzards,[121] which
with out-stretched wings sunned themselves on every roof and steeple.
The natives of Panama have an odd legend, which accounts for the absence
of feathers on the head and neck of these birds—gallinazos, as they call
them. It is said that after the deluge, Noah, when opening the door
of the ark, thought it well to give a word of advice to the released
animals. “My children,” said he, “when you see a man coming towards you
and stooping down, go away from him; he is getting a stone to throw at
you.” “Very good,” said the gallinazo, “but what if he has one already
in his pocket?” Noah was taken aback at this, but finally decided that
in future the gallinazo should be born bald in token of its remarkable
sagacity.

And now, before bidding farewell to the reader who may have glanced
through these pages, let me record one more scene. Our vessel lay at
anchor far out in the bay, as owing to the reef and the great rise and
fall of the tide—between twelve and twenty feet—no ships of heavy tonnage
can anchor within two miles of the wharf. Close to us were the pretty
green islands of Perico and Flamenco, and through a quivering haze,
which gave additional charm to the lovely panorama, we saw the bold and
rocky promontory on which stands the city of Panama. Behind it rose the
volcanic peak Ancon, crowned by a signal-station—La Vigia—forming the
centre of the coronet of undulating hills that encircle the land. On
either side were glimpses of white beach, palm groves and valleys, and
away to the south-east, in a tangled wilderness of forest and brush-work,
a solitary tower—at least we were told it was a tower—marked the site
of the “ancient city of Panama.” In the surrounding silver-green haze
the town stood out like a dainty mosaic, whose tints of red, pearl, and
brown flashed brightly in the warm sunlight. And in harmony with the
tender beauty of the scene was the stillness which rested on all around;
save the creaking of the anchor which was being weighed, and the distant
notes of a song from some shore-returning boat, no other sound broke the
silence.

Suddenly, some startled birds flew shrieking overhead, the water lost its
sparkle and the colours faded; a rush of footsteps forward made us look
to windward for the cause. Close to us, and rapidly approaching, was a
long white line of foam which was driven along under a dense curtain of
mist and rain. In a second the squall struck the vessel; the awning which
the crew had hurried forward to save was torn to shreds, with a loud
crash one of the ship’s-boats was dashed against the hurricane deck, and
for a moment the ship quivered and careened over from the extraordinary
force of the wind. As quickly as it came, so quickly it passed, but the
land was hidden from view by the grey mist, and before it had dispersed
we had steamed out into the open sea, and Panama was soon left far
behind.

APPENDIX.

NATIONAL BOUNDARIES
WITH
BRITISH GUIANA.

ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN “LA OPINION NACIONAL,” BY
THE LAWYER, FRANCISCO J. MARMOL.

OFFICIAL EDITION.

CARÁCAS: NATIONAL PRINTING OFFICE.
1878.

(Translation.)

APPENDIX.

The tracing of territorial limits has always been considered of the
highest importance, not only because it determines and consolidates
rights which constitute the welfare of the present, but also because it
frees nations from conflicts in the future.

Guided by such considerations, we propose seriously to call the attention
of our National Government towards the establishment (fixing) of our
boundaries with British Guiana, as we consider that survey of the
greatest public interest and of the highest transcendency. The importance
of the territory of the State of Guiana, under the diverse phases that
it may be considered, is beyond all doubt and discussion. It notably
attracted attention since the times of the Spanish Government, and since
then by the frequent invasions and controversies about boundaries,
between Spaniards, Dutchmen, and Englishmen.

Our Republic began to fix, with marked interest, its consideration upon
that territory since 1841, in consequence of the deeds of Schomburgh upon
the Barima, always in pursuit of the great mouth of the Orinoco. Those
deeds gave rise to the preliminaries of a Boundary Treaty, initiated in
London in 1841, and which did not merit the approval of our Government.
When in 1857, we found ourselves managing the Government of the Province
of Guiana, we had occasion to confront new and more exaggerated
pretensions consummated by the Governor of Demerara, at the time when the
discovery of the mines of Tupuquen powerfully attracted public attention.
It even got to be officially maintained that those auriferous lands were
within the limits of British Guiana; and in so false an idea, expeditions
were authorized and exploring licenses granted to Engineers, who might
carry them out in the name of the Government of Great Britain. We
opposed ourselves vigorously to all this in fulfilment of our official
duty; we maintained the exclusive right of the Republic over those lands,
in controversy with the English Vice-Consul, and we gave a documentary
account of everything to our National Government.

Such a number of acts reveals undoubtedly the marked tendency of our
neighbours for those regions, to invade progressively our territory,
induced to it without doubt by the indecision of our boundary lines, and
the easy and frequent communication between both territories. There are
later acts of noteworthy significance, and we believe it is our duty
to place them clearly before public consideration, and very specially
before the National Government, for the purpose of inspiring the profound
conviction of the importance of the demarcation about which we are
discoursing.

In the vicinity of the river Amacuro—a navigable and important affluent
of the Orinoco, which empties to the west of Barima—there exists an
Indian village belonging to the district Curiapo, Department of Zea. On
taking our last census, in 1874, some British subjects from Demerara, who
trade with those Indians, claimed the non-incorporation of that village
in the census of the Republic, with the pretext that it is under the
jurisdiction of the Government of Demerara. Fortunately our Commissioner
for taking the census energetically opposed that design, and the Indian
village was incorporated in it. Still further: an Indian (of the tribes
of the Moroco, a river which undoubtedly belongs to us, as it rises
and empties in our territory) having committed a murder, was taken to
Demerara to be judged. The defendant’s lawyer demurred on the ground of
the incompetency of that tribunal, because the crime had been committed
in Venezuelan territory, and to that nation belonged also the indictment.
The controversy being carried to the superior tribunals, it was declared
that there was competency to continue the suit, because the territory
as well as the accused were under the jurisdiction of the English
nationality, and this opinion was printed in the official newspaper of
Demerara.

The acts which we have already narrated and others still which we omit,
not to be prolix, demonstrate the great necessity of fixing definitely
on boundary lines with the neighbouring British Guiana. The want of
that demarcation, the proximity of the territories, and their easy and
frequent communication by diverse ways are the causes why they continue
slowly, but progressively, to invade us; an invasion that may be
perfected by the great distance of our capital cities, and without the
public authorities being able to be warned. For example, by the Yuruari,
an affluent of the Cuyuni, which runs navigably close up to Tupuquen. By
the Batonamo, an affluent of the same river, and which is situated in the
neighbourhood of Tumeremo. By the road of the Palmar seeking the waters
of the channels of the Toro, which communicate interiorily with those of
the eastern Delta of our Orinoco till they descend to the currents of the
Moroco.

Still further and of graver consideration. There exists the tradition of
a land communication between the mouths of the Essequibo and the interior
of our Guiana—a communication which is not at all unlikely, since it is
well known that the sources of the Pumaron and of the Moroco descend
from the hill country of Imataca, which penetrates considerably into our
Guiana territory. The facility of such communications being allowed, and
the proper industrial interests of both territories, the consequences
of an unsettled state of boundary are as obvious as grave, and worthy
of consideration by the high national powers. It should be known and
kept well in remembrance that there exists a constant and frequent
commercial traffic between the English establishments of Demerara and the
interior of our channels of the eastern Delta of the Orinoco, that the
Indian inhabitants of these districts are found provided with all kinds
of goods for their clothing, with powder and arms for their hunting,
effects which they obtain either from the English colonists who come to
trade with them, or get for themselves when travelling to Demerara; that
some of these traders fix their residence among our Indians, and come
to establish families. And what will be the result of that proceeding
in no distant time? that in lands situated on the banks of our rivers,
tributaries of the Orinoco, populations will be formed whose instincts,
whose interests will not be those of Venezuela; a prediction that is not
exaggerated if we bear in mind the ignorance and simple disposition of
those Indians, and the little interest with which past governments have
unfortunately regarded the immense advantages and the vast future of that
territory.

Grave, very grave conflicts will arise for the Republic the day in
which these Indians, ours to day, influenced by whatever suggestions,
become inclined to invoke British Nationality. We understand that the
English language is no longer unknown to many of those Indians. We do not
exaggerate upon vain hypotheses. It is indisputable that our boundaries
extend beyond the Essequibo. Such was the insurmountable domination of
Spain, such is ours as their legitimate successors. Every occupation
from the western bank of the Essequibo towards the mouths of the Orinoco
has not been, neither is it in fact, anything but an occupation always
opposed by Spain, never accepted by us, and which no legitimate right can
consolidate. Well then, if by occupying, in fact, part of the western
banks of the Essequibo and of the mouths of the Pumaron, they aspire
to the domination of those rivers and the territory which they occupy,
will there be no foundation for believing that when that occupation
is consummated upon the interior tributaries of the Orinoco, the same
pretensions will be unfolded?

Nobody at present disputes with the Republic the exclusive domination
over that river which involves the vastest and grandest future. The
day in which it must be divided with any other nation, it will decline
under all its aspects, principally if we treat with a foreign power
with institutions contrary to ours. Its internal and external security
will be in a great measure compromised, the first military line of
its defence exposed. Under a commercial aspect it seems superfluous,
writing in Venezuela, to call to mind the advantages of the navigation
of the Orinoco. It will be sufficient to consider it from the western
confines of our territory, serving as a base to the future prosperity of
these districts, and carrying its waters to the provident Casiquiari to
open a way for us to the regions of the Amazon. To descend then in its
course to receive from the territory of Granada powerful affluents like
the Meta, the Arauca and others that put us in communication with the
industrious States of Colombia, so effectually helping to the prosperity
of both nations. Later, by its right bank to promote with astonishing
facility the industrial and mercantile development of the extensive State
Guiana—one might say maritime at the same time as continental—very fecund
in natural wealth. By the left bank, and by numerous affluents that form
an immense network of water communications, to foment the agricultural
and commercial growth of important States to the South and West of the
Republic—Apure, Guárico, Zamora, Portuguesa Cojedes y Záchira. Afterwards
to run over the Eastern States where all its banks have easy and secure
ports, with navigable tributaries that penetrate extensively into those
same States running over immense belts as suitable for agriculture as for
stock-raising. Then to descend majestically to the ocean by an infinity
of canals that fertilize the fruitful lands of its beautiful Delta.

Such is in a general way the course of the Orinoco, such is that
immense water-way of four hundred leagues of navigation, whose exclusive
domination the Republic must never share with any other nation. And it
is not that we are partisans of that selfish and retrograde policy that
Rosas maintained in Buenos Ayres, nor that we aspire for our Orinoco, to
the restrictions which Brazil maintains over the Amazon. No, ours are
other designs. What we do not want, is that our territory upon that river
should be invaded as by alluvion, slowly but surely, for the want of a
settlement by boundaries.

What we do not want is that on those banks populations should be
encouraged that may have another spirit, other interests and other
tendencies that are not essentially Venezuelan. What we do want is
that no nation may be able to allege any right, of whatsoever nature
it may be, over the banks of that river that may disturb our exclusive
domination, and give rise sooner or later to questions about territorial
limits, nor about any regulations restrictive of our free traffic
and commerce like those which disturbed Paraguay and the Argentine
Republic—whose inhabitants live on the banks of the La Plata—and which
served as a pretext for a prolonged as well as a disastrous and bloody
war. We wish that our maritime ports, like our interior rivers, may be
open as they are to all the nations of the world, as becomes a civilized
people; but we wish also above all that the territory of the Republic may
remain integral, and that its rights may be properly respected.

Entering now into the question of boundaries, we maintain the following
conclusions:—First: Our limits extend beyond the Essequibo up to the
limits of French Guiana. Second: Spain, as the first discoverer and first
occupier, and of whose rights we are the legitimate successors, always
maintained her boundary lines beyond that river. Third: The occupation
in fact, first by the Dutch and afterwards by the English does not give
a right to the exclusive domination of the Essequibo. Fourth: The Dutch
possessions never went beyond Cape Nassau. Fifth: The boundaries proposed
by the British Minister must be rejected as invasory of our Guiana
territory.

For greater clearness let us invert the order of these propositions. That
Spain, as the first occupant, always maintained her boundaries beyond the
Essequibo, in spite of the Dutch possession, which it always considered
but as an occupation in fact, different documents of indisputable
authority evidently prove. In the general map of the province of Cumaná
sent to Spain by the Governor Don José Dibuja in 1761, and which was
properly approved, it said that the province of Guiana is bounded on the
East by all the coast in which are found situated the Dutch colonies
of Essequibo, Berbice, Demerara, Corentin and Surinam; from which it is
clearly deduced that Spain considered these possessions as Dutch colonies
established on territory belonging to her. So certain is this, that on
tracing in the same map the Southern boundaries, it says: by the South
the dominions of the very faithful King of Brazil. Here exists a true
acknowledgment of territorial domination which does not occur with the
Dutch possessions.

With such boundaries was erected the province of Guiana by Royal Decree,
June 4, 1762, under the command of Don Joaquin Moreno de Mendoza. In
proof of this right, always maintained by Spain, may be cited the Royal
Decree of May 5, 1768, confirming the arrangement that the Upper and
Lower Orinoco and Rio Negro should remain in charge of the Governor of
the province of Guiana, in which is given, as the Eastern boundary of
this province, the Atlantic Ocean. It may also be adduced, in proof of
the assertion, that we are maintaining the Royal Decree of September 19,
1777, describing the boundaries of the province of Guiana incorporated
already, as was also Upper and Lower Orinoco. In it is also given as
the Eastern limit, the Atlantic Ocean. From these antecedents, deduced
from official and authentic documents, the truth of what we have stated
is evidenced, that Spain, as discoverer and first occupant, maintained
her boundaries beyond the Essequibo, and did not consider the Dutch
possessions but as an occupation in fact. Such was undoubtedly the
character of the Dutch colonies to which we are referring.

Two acts came afterwards to modify that occupation. The Treaty of
Munster, ratified in 1648, and that of Aranjuez in 1791. By the
first, Philip IV. recognised the sovereignty and independence of the
Netherlands, and agreed that the high contracting parties should remain
in possession of the countries, forts and factories which they occupied
in the East and West Indies. By the second, bases and conditions were
established for the extradition of the deserters and fugitives in the
American colonies. These agreements considered in the light of the
principles of the Law of Nations, it cannot be put in doubt that Spain
recognised the possession of the Dutch colonies, since, in regard to
them, she undertook to treat with Holland as one power with another.
However, if this is true, if that possession was recognized, it is also
true that Holland, by virtue of those very treaties, was subject to the
common condition of conterminous and subordinate nations, in consequence
of the established rules and prescriptions of the Law of Nations for the
territorial division between bordering nations.

It is not in accordance with the principles of that Law, neither has it
ever been so, nor will it ever be, that the occupation of the mouth of
rivers in undivided territories between conterminous nations, should
confer any right for acquiring the exclusive domination of those rivers,
or of the territories which surround them. Such a principle would be
equivalent to a justification of the invasions, and to proclaiming the
right of force as a legitimate title to territorial property. The Law of
Nations prescribes the contrary. It establishes that for the demarcation
of boundaries between nations who are joint holders, natural boundaries
are to be preferred, such as rivers, mountain chains, &c., and that if
those rivers have great volumes of water, each one of the contiguous
nations has the domination over the half of the breadth of the river, or
all the bank which it occupies. Such are the conditions of the Essequibo.

The territories of our Guiana and of British Guiana are naturally of
curved boundaries. So that even raising the right of Holland to the
height of that of Spain, which is ours, there is no kind of reason
whatever for the supremacy which is claimed over the Essequibo. In
almost all its course we dwell on the bank, and it may be said to rise
in our territory. We have then, at least, an indisputable right to the
domination of one half of its width and to its free navigation. The
doctrine that we have explained is so generally acknowledged and accepted
that we think ourselves that we can dispense with the production of the
authorities on which it is supported. It is among those points on which
there is no divergence in the Law of Nations. The occupation in fact,
then, first by the Dutch, and lately by the English, does not give any
right to the exclusive domination which is claimed over the Essequibo.
That the Dutch possessions never passed beyond Cape Nassau, and that
Spain repulsed with force every invasion toward the Orinoco, among other
and conclusive proofs, the Royal Order of October 1st, 1780, clearly
demonstrates. In it instructions are given to Don José F. Inciarte to
destroy a fort which the Dutch had constructed on the right bank of the
Moroco. Incontrovertible as is the right of the Republic to maintain
its boundary beyond the Essequibo, it cannot forego that line without
exposing itself to grave perturbations in future. Every other demarcation
compromises the integrity of our territory which should be defended on
its Eastern flank with the basin of that river. The demarcation proposed
by the British Minister since 1841, offers the gravest difficulties
besides injustice.

_First._—Leaving out the Essequibo, it begins in the Moroco, and comes
to compromise, in great part, the course of the Cuyuni. It should
be borne in mind, as of the highest importance in the fixing of our
boundaries with British Guiana, to preserve entire the course of the
Moroco and of the Cuyuni, which belong to us exclusively, as they
rise and empty in our territory. The first serves as boundary to our
Eastern Delta of the Orinoco, it communicates with all its channels, is
of extraordinary importance to the internal security of the Republic,
and may serve as a vehicle of clandestine commerce. The second runs
extensively into the mainland of our Guiana, and navigable rivers that
encircle its interior are tributaries to it. To permit part of its course
as a boundary would be the same as to permit foreign navigation in our
Guiana territory.

_Second._—The mountain ranges and the rivers to which the alluded
demarcation refers not being fixed astronomically, it is exposed to
further invasions and exaggerated pretensions that may compromise the
tranquillity of the Republic.

_Third._—The English possessions which may be established on this side
of the Essequibo will open a passage to the North in order to be on the
banks of the Orinoco, and then will arise complications of immeasurable
magnitude. They must then reject the limits proposed by the British
Ministry as invasive of our territory. Our general conclusion then may
be formulated in the following terms: The question of boundaries between
ourselves and Great Britain is reduced purely to a question of fact, viz.
Up to where did the Dutch establishments, recognized by Spain, extend?
and whose domination was transmitted to Great Britain by her treaty with
the Sovereign of the Netherlands in 1814; setting out from the principle
that our interior limits, founded on authentic documents, extended beyond
the Essequibo up to the borders of French Guiana.

Some will say that we have lost time, that England is a powerful nation,
of eminent rank among the Powers of Europe, and will not abdicate her
claims upon the Essequibo, and on the territory of Guiana to which she
aspires. No, we reply, the question is not of cannons or of squadrons; it
is of International Right, of principles consecrated by eyes before which
all civilized peoples of the world bow respectfully. Nor do we believe
that Great Britain, whose historical precedents in the splendours of our
Independence, give her titles to our consideration and high esteem, and
who boasts of her respect and importance to the other nations, would
found the solution of her boundaries with us on the preponderance of her
force. But if, unfortunately, it should be so, we are in possession of
indirect and legitimate means to make the rights which with such evident
justice we maintain, be respected.

The importance of the demarcation of our limits with British Guiana
brings us again to the arena of discussion. Supported by official
documents of absolute authenticity, we have proved the most important of
our conclusions in our former explanation; that Spain, as the discoverer
and first occupier, had always maintained her boundaries beyond the
Essequibo, that she had repelled with force every invasion from the
banks of that river toward the Orinoco. We reproduce now those documents
entire, no longer to prove an argument, but to demonstrate that the
question of our boundaries with Great Britain is not situated—nor ought
to be—in the region of controversies, but in that of consummated acts.

Let us enter into the matter. Among those authentic documents, two,
above others, surpass, and are of the highest transcendency, if they be
not decisive. The instruction of the Intendente-General of Venezuela to
people the province of Guiana, and the exploration of the Eastern Delta
of the Orinoco by virtue of that very instruction; documents corroborated
by the authority of the Sovereign of Spain, who was then the Sovereign
of that territory; documents that are in the fullest harmony and
consequence, and are completed the one by the other.

Respecting the first, it is to be observed that, with indisputable right,
Spain made her limits beyond the Essequibo up to the frontier of French
Guiana. As regards the second, it is evidently proved that the Dutch
possessions occupied, in that epoch, only the banks of the rivers near
the sea, without penetrating far into the interior of the country. We
will occupy ourselves later, in this same writing, with the legitimate
consequences that emanate from those acts authentically proved. We think
also of the highest importance the exploration of the Eastern part
of the Lower Orinoco, carried out by the Spanish engineer, Felipe de
Inciarte, and more important still the Royal approbation of March 9th,
1780, which gives to that instruction, to those traced boundaries, to
that exploration, the seal of the national sovereignty which indisputably
Spain was competent to do in those times in which those acts were
consummated, and it conferred on them irrevocable authority within and
without the Peninsular dominions.

One of the most important results of the commission confided to Inciarte
is that exploration of the Eastern Delta of the Orinoco in which were
comprehended the Barima, the Guaima, the Moroco, and the Pumaron the
latter is designed under the authority of Bauruma. The exploration of
the rivers is an act of authority of national sovereignty; so the Law of
Nations has recognized it. Spain exercised that right exclusively over
that territory and over those rivers without any kind of obstacle, and
without the participation of any other nationality. We may then allege in
all time the exercise of that right with certain and indubitable success
in the question of boundaries, with Great Britain principally, as she has
not desisted in her claims over the Barima. However, let us raise the
question to its true height. Let us fix it in its proper place, analyzing
at length the documents adduced, in order to give it its genuine
significance. From this analysis will result, undoubtedly constituted on
a solid foundation, the right of Spain, which is our own.

The instruction of the Intendente-General of Venezuela—in order to occupy
in the province of Guiana, for its object, for the genius and character
of its dispositions by the faculties with which that functionary was
invested, and by the Royal approbation which it received in 1780—is not
after all anything else than a Government order to occupy a territory
in the possession of Spain; and as a consequence of the occupation
which was ordered, the boundaries of that territory were traced. Let us
demonstrate this. The instruction says: “The commissioners shall try to
occupy said lands, as belonging to Spain, their first discoverer, and not
ceded afterwards nor occupied at the time by any other Power, nor have
they any title for it—advancing in the occupation by the eastern side as
much as may be possible until they reach French Guiana.” And what were
those lands which the Intendente of Venezuela was commanded to occupy
as belonging to Spain? The Intendente had surveyed them before. “At the
back of the Essequibo and other Dutch possessions, running east up to
French Guiana and south up to the river Amazon is situated the territory,
unoccupied on this part, and only occupied by Pagan Indians and a large
number of fugitive negroes, slaves of the Dutch, and also from the
plantations of Guiana.”

The Intendente of Venezuela speaking from Carácas, says that the phrase,
“at the back of the Essequibo” means “beyond the Essequibo.” Here then in
the clearest manner, in the most explicit way, is the authority of the
Spanish sovereign fixing his national limits, with just and unimpeachable
titles, in land of his own. Every nation has a right to trace the
boundaries of the territory which it occupies, and it is the duty of
the other nations to respect these boundaries, as long as they are not
disputed by others with better titles. That Spain was sovereign of the
territory which now belongs to us in Guiana, and that she had the right
to trace its boundary lines, are asseverations placed beyond all doubt
and controversy. We should rather say they are true acts consummated.
And in truth, it would be superfluous, except for the claims of Great
Britain, to open a discussion to sustain the titles of Spain in the
disputed territory, after that for more than three centuries they were
recognized by all the Powers of Europe; after having been recognized
by Holland—the very one from whom England derived her right—in public
treaties like those of Munster and Aranjuez; after having been recognized
also in public treaties by Portugal, the only Power of Europe that could
have been able, as discoverer, to compete with Spain in the regions of
Guiana, but that never dared, respecting those agreements, to overpass
the boundaries of what now constitutes French Guiana.

To discuss the titles of Spain after they have been solemnly recognised
by England herself in the Treaty of Utrecht! And no one less than Great
Britain has a right to dispute territories acquired by Spain with
the title of discoverer and first occupant, she that has made use of
these same titles and same rights. If not, what right had she—Great
Britain—to cede to the North Americans by the Treaty of 1783, in which
she recognised their independence, the territory which constituted the
primitive Confederation of the North? No other right except that of
discoverer and first occupier. And why deny to Spain, and to us now, her
legitimate successors, equal rights to those which Great Britain has
exercised by public treaties.

Returning again to the document which we are analyzing, we find in
it, by explicit acts, the exercise of the public power, by means of a
magistrate, who, with full conscience of the rights of the Sovereign whom
he represents, orders the occupation of Spanish Guiana, and traces its
boundary lines.

_Paragraph II._—“The Commissioners shall endeavour to occupy said lands,
as belonging to Spain, their first discoverer, and not ceded afterwards,
nor occupied at this time by any power, neither have they any title for
it.”

_Paragraph I._—“The principal and greatest importance of this business
being, not to work uselessly the securing the said boundaries of the said
Province of Guiana, that begins on the Eastern part of it at a point
where the Orinoco empties into the sea, called Barlovento, on the border
of the Dutch colony of Essequibo.”

_Paragraph XXX._—“The principal object is the occupation and security of
the boundaries of the Province of Guiana, on the East of Essequibo and
French Guiana.”

Such Government acts, sanctioned by the authority of the Sovereign of
Spain, give to this document the character of a direct and unimpeachable
proof in the question of boundaries that we are elucidating. And will
Great Britain be able to present documents of equal nature and with equal
titles? Has she presented them up to now?

As a result of the preparations of the Intendente-General of Venezuela,
they proceeded to the exploration of the lower Delta of the Orinoco.
The official Report of Inciarte which contains it, is an important
document of high significance under various aspects. In the first place,
it confirms the idea which the instructions of the Intendente give in
respect to the nature and true position of the Dutch colonies in the
times to which it refers—1779—situated on the banks of the rivers near
the sea, and without penetrating far into the interior of the country.
Inciarte explored all the territory embraced between the Orinoco and the
Essequibo, and finds no establishments, nor buildings of any kind with
the exception of the small fort of Moroco, whose insignificant nature he
describes, and that he was ordered to destroy it by express order of the
King of Spain.

And where is the act of our national sovereignty in virtue of which
we may have abdicated the right that we have to the immense extent of
territory which extends from the Essequibo to French Guiana? Who has
marked for us the limits of those possessions? Who has marked those
boundaries? Great Britain, intercepting us by means of the Essequibo. And
still more is claimed; they deny us all share in that river, and limits
are proposed invasive of our territory. And we must not cede any more. It
is not just, neither politic nor convenient. Every foreign invasion on
this side of the Essequibo ruins our territory. The British possessions
which might commence on that flank, increasing themselves towards the
North, would become part of the banks of the Orinoco; while advancing
towards the south, they have a speedy way to the auriferous zone of our
interior. Lord Aberdeen well understood this when he proposed to our
Minister in London—Fortique—according to official data that we have
before us, that the English Government would cede territory in Barima,
provided that of Venezuela would yield on the Cuyuni. That Great Britain
ought not to consider herself exclusive mistress of the Essequibo, she
herself has said in the most solemn and explicit manner.

There exists in our Ministry of Foreign Relations a communication which
she made by means of the public Minister, in 1840, of the commission
which she had given to Schomburgh to explore the Essequibo, and mark its
limits. Certainly Great Britain would not have made such a communication
if she had considered herself possessed of the exclusive predominance
which she now claims over the Essequibo. Neither is the object conceived
of informing our Government of the establishment of their boundaries
on that river, if they did not consider the Republic joint possessors
of its waters. That communication involves an explicit acknowledgment
of our right. The vacillation of Great Britain certainly contradicts
her claims over Guiana. Before the exploration of Schomburgh, she
communicates officially to our Government, giving public testimony that
she considered the Republic joint holder in the waters of the Essequibo.
But after the exploration, and when the intelligent English engineer had,
without doubt, revealed the immense advantages of that water-way, by its
prolonged extension, by its numerous affluents, by its ramifications
that extend to the Amazon, then they deny us all right in the Essequibo,
and they propose to us boundaries which extravagantly invade our Guiana
territory.

We wish now to enter into a new kind of argument, either for greater
clearness of our right, or to reply to some observations which have
already been made on the part of the Government of Great Britain, and
others that may be made in future. The explanation of our Plenipotentiary
Fortique in London; the demarcations of Codazzi; the records of those
eminent men, Messrs. Yones and Baralt; the diplomatic notes addressed
to the British Government by our Minister of Foreign Relations in
November 1876, so full of abundant reasoning on behalf of our right;
the statistics of Guiana published in 1876, and the annual statistics
of 1877; in all these explanations and official data, the Essequibo is
presented as the absolute Eastern limit of our territory with British
Guiana. We believe that that boundary, so expressed, diminishes the
territorial right of the Republic, and we are going to explain ourselves.
The records of Messrs. Yones and Baralt, like the observations of
Codazzi, which served as a base to our Plenipotentiary Fortique, for his
explanation before the British Cabinet, and the said official data, rest
on two foundations to which we do not lend the merit or the force which
have been attributed to them. The opinions of geographers and historians,
and the demarcation of the Missions were made by the Government of Spain.
However valuable may be the opinions of wise men, of historians and
geographers, they have no authority whatever where national boundaries
are treated of, which are but legitimate acts of the Sovereigns in use
of their natural prerogatives; so that in the present question, every
opinion, however authorised it may be considered, is ineffectual and
unable to exist before the Royal decrees of the King of Spain, which,
drawing the boundary lines in Guiana places them beyond the Essequibo up
to the borders of French Guiana. No asseveration, whatever its nature may
be, can oppose itself to the authority of the official documents that we
have analyzed.

The demarcation of the Missions has no more strength. Guided by its
intentions of occupying their dominions, and of widening the civilization
and culture of the Indians, Spain continued, in the course of time,
to mark out Mission districts which it subordinated to the different
religious orders; but such demarcation was made within its territory
and national boundaries, it was an eternal economic act, purely
administrative, and had no other object but order and regularity in the
service of the Missions. And it is certain that the demarcation carried
out in Venezuela was ordered by the Governor of Cumaná, in agreement with
the “padres” in charge of the Mission, who had to make their residence in
Guiana. There is then no truth, no reason for confounding the demarcation
of Missions with the national boundaries of Spain. From that confusion
of boundaries, which we oppose, it would be reasonably deduced that
Spain did not possess in Venezuela any other territory than that marked
out by its Missions; an assertion very far from the truth, and which
fails in every legal and rational foundation. Such an assertion leads
us evidently to the maintenance of the theory which establishes that
the material occupation of the whole of the territory of a nation is
necessary in order to found exclusive domination over it, or it may be
right of property. Such a theory that recognises, as a principle, only
an erroneous idea about the nature of the possession which serves as a
title to acquire, by the Law of Nations, cannot be sustained, cannot be
accepted, without confusing and shaking the territorial domination of all
nations, because none of them occupies materially all the territory which
they have declared in their possession. That theory, inadmissible under
all aspects, would be extremely disastrous to all the nationalities of
South America.

More than this—Great Britain can produce no argument favourable to her
right as emanating from the explanations and data to which we have
referred. Of whatsoever nature may have been the asseverations of our
Minister-Plenipotentiary Fortique in London, they are null, and of no
value, since our Government denied its approbation to the preliminaries
of the boundary treaty initiated by him, and they cannot be the object
of any reasonable pretension. As regards Codazzi, it is certain that
Lord Aberdeen replied to Señor Fortique, in a diplomatic note, denying
the Essequibo for the dividing line, and supporting himself on the
demarcation of Codazzi, that presents the Moroco. Such an agreement has
no value whatever. The map of Codazzi is not an official map. There is no
act of competent authority which declares it such; on the contrary, our
Government has lately rejected claims from the Government of New Granada
for possessions on the bank of the Orinoco, founded on his demarcation.
Great Britain cannot constitute an exception.

The records and official data to which reference has been made,
are opinions of citizens and public functionaries which in nowise
compromise, or diminish, the rights of the Republic. It is certainly
strange that our Government, being in possession of the documents that
we have analyzed—the Instruction of the Intendente of Venezuela, and
the Exploration of the Delta—it being allowed that Messrs. Baralt and
Fortique refer to them, they should have been presented to demonstrate
our boundaries by the Essequibo, when they prove most abundantly that
they extended beyond that river. There not existing then any act of our
National Sovereignty which defines our boundaries with Great Britain in
detriment of what we are sustaining, the rights of the Republic continue
to have unalterable force.

We have demonstrated that since 1810, we find ourselves in
legal possession of the territory which constituted the ancient
Captaincy-General of Venezuela with its legitimate boundaries, and it
was only in 1814 that Great Britain obtained possession of some Dutch
colonies which the Sovereign of the Netherlands transmitted. Well, what
were the boundaries of that transmission? What the boundary lines traced
by Holland in the ceded territory? None, because Holland herself was
without them. Her possession was only in fact. She only held in Guiana
what Spain, the discoverer and first occupier, had seen fit to permit
her. And for that reason, with the good faith which ought to distinguish
nations in their treaties, in the Third Article in which she ceded to
Great Britain some of her colonies in Guiana, she does not mark out any
kind of boundaries whatever. It is to be noticed that that treaty was an
agreement between Holland and Great Britain, without the intervention of
Spain; that it establishes bonds and obligations between the contracting
parties, but in no way can it bind Spain, that no longer legally
possessed that territory, nor her legitimate successors, in all that may
prejudice them.

We have founded our right to the territory which constituted the ancient
Captaincy-General of Venezuela on the “_uti possidetis_” of 1810. We
are going to make clear that right beyond all controversy. Nobody has
ever put in doubt, not only in Venezuela, but in all the sections of
South America, that by virtue of the political transformation that gave
rise to our new nationalities, these were substituted respectively
for the territorial Seignory of Spain in all her former dominions.
Brazil herself, in spite of the diversity of her institutions, has
recognized that principle, and could not proceed differently without
grave inconsequence, because, in short, what other right did the new
empire represent but the one proceeding from the old kingdom of Portugal?
If she has maintained controversies about boundaries with adjacent
nations, it has not been in denial of the principle cited, but rather
confirming it, for having believed herself helped to rights which she
could enforce before Spain herself by virtue of old treaties. Our
succession to the seignorial rights of Spain in all the territory of the
ancient Captaincy-General of Venezuela was constant prescription, and an
infallible arrangement of all our constituent bodies-politic, even in the
midst of our great struggle for independence.

The Liberator, in incorporating the Province of Guiana in 1817 with the
territory conquered by the Republican arms, traced its boundaries after
the tenor of the Royal Decrees of Spain which he expressly mentions. The
first Congress assembled in Angostura, which sanctioned the Fundamental
Law of Colombia, established in its Second Article: “Its territory
shall be that embraced in the old Captaincy-General of Venezuela and
the Vice-royalty of the new kingdom of Granada.” The “Constituyente” of
Cúcuta in 1821, ratifies the former Fundamental Law by that of July 12th,
whose Fifth Article reads: “The territory of the Republic of Colombia
will be comprehended within the limits of the old Captaincy-General of
Venezuela and the Vice-royalty and Captaincy-General of the new kingdom
of Granada, but the assignment of its exact boundaries will be reserved
for a more opportune occasion.”

The same “Constituyente” sanctioned, at last, the Constitution of the
New Colombian nationality, and ratified the former prescriptions in its
Articles 6th and 7th.—7th. “The towns of the said extension still under
the Spanish yoke, at whatever time they may free themselves, will form
part of the Republic with rights and representation equal to all the
others that compose it.”

6th.—“The territory of Colombia is the same that comprised the old
Vice-royalty of New Granada and the Captaincy-General of Venezuela.” As
is seen from Article 7, the right sanctioned by the “Constituyente” of
Colombia referred not only to the towns that had already gained their
independence and liberty, but also to all those that remained under the
rule of the Spanish Government. It was not only to the territory of which
the founders of our nationality were already in possession, but also to
all that which they believed themselves to have the right to possess.

Venezuela, which separated from the Colombian Union, and constituted
her nationality independently, in 1830, sanctioned the same right in
her fundamental agreement. Article 5th. “The territory of Venezuela
comprehends that which, before the political transformation of 1810, was
denominated the Captaincy-General of Venezuela.” And this canon has been
essentially reproduced in all the Constitutions that afterwards have
been given to the Republic. In that of 1857, 1858 and 1864. “Article
3rd. The territory of Venezuela comprises all that before the political
transformation of 1810, was denominated the Captaincy, &c., &c.”

Such is the canon which has reproduced itself in all our fundamental
institutions since the birth of our nationality, in the glorious
splendours of Colombia; the same which is found sanctioned in all the
Constitutions of our sister Republics. Its appearance as constant as
universal has elevated it to a dogma of the Public International Law
of South America. It could not happen in any other way, because the
existence of such a precept is not a creation of that public right, but
a natural and legitimate consequence of the political transformation
which the different sections that constitute the dominion of Spain
have experienced. In truth, political forms are variable, are purely
accidental, in conformity with the times; at the wish of the radical
sovereignty of the people; yet those same people, in society congregated,
have by the Law of Nations the eminent domination of the territory which
they occupy with the demarcations which they have assigned to them for
their special use.

Such is, in short, the radical foundation of the “_uti possidetis_”
of 1810. The existence of that right, as far as we are concerned, is
solemnly sanctioned by the public treaty with Spain upon recognition of
our Independence.

“Article I. In consequence of this renouncement and cession, His
Christian Majesty recognizes as a free Sovereign and Independent Nation,
the Republic of Venezuela, composed of the provinces and territories
expressed in its Constitution, and other later laws, viz.: Margarita,
Guiana, Cumará, Barcelona, Carácas.”

Separation being made of the renouncement and transfer of rights on the
part of Spain, which are but diplomatic formulæ that do not embody any
modification of the treaty, the truths which in it appear as a relief,
are, the recognition of our Independence, the legitimate succession
of our right in the right of Spain, and that the territory of the old
Captaincy-General of Venezuela came to constitute that of the Republic
of the same name, traced out in its Constitution and in its laws. Such
understanding Spain has lately confirmed by an act of her own, extremely
solemn. A controversy being raised by the Netherlands about the ownership
of the island of Aves, the Court of Spain was designated as arbitrator
by the contending parties, and in 1865 declared that the said island
belonged to Venezuela in right and possession, basing its decision
especially on the fact that all the islands of the Caribbean sea, among
which is found the aforesaid—were discovered by Spain, and on Venezuela
being established with the territory of the old Captaincy-General of
Carácas, she had succeeded to Spain in all her territorial rights.

There exists a public act emanating from our Government which we judge
worthy of being commemorated in this writing, because it strikes the
heart of the question which we are sustaining. About the middle of
1822, Señor J. Rafael Ravenga was accredited as Plenipotentiary to His
Britannic Majesty, and in the instructions sent by the Secretary of
Foreign Relations is found the following paragraph:—

“May I be permitted, however, to call your attention particularly to
Article 2nd of the projected treaty about boundaries. Agree as exactly
as may be possible about fixing the dividing line of both territories,
according to the last treaties with Spain and Holland. The colonists
of Demerara and Berbice have usurped a great portion of land, which
according to them belongs to us, from the side of the river Essequibo. It
is absolutely necessary that said colonists either put themselves under
the protection and obedience of our laws, or that they retire to their
former possessions. In short, the necessary time will be given them, as
is set forth in the project.”[122]

The conscientiousness of the Government of Colombia—which was ours
then—expressed in the preceding instructions, has two important phases;
the usurpation of our territory on the Essequibo by English colonists,
such as exists now, and the possession of the _uti possidetis_ of 1810,
which is nothing else than the guaranteeing of our rights in the treaties
celebrated between Holland and Spain, and to which the Colombian minutes
refer.

Again, in order to carry to the highest evidence the demonstration of
our right in the present question we will say that Great Britain has
virtually recognized the _uti possidetis_ of 1810, in public Convention
in the Treaty of 1783, in which it recognized the independence of the
United States of the North. Let us prove it. The Articles 1st and 2nd of
that Treaty are the following:

“Article 1st.—His Britannic Majesty recognizes as free, sovereign, and
independent the States of New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Rhode Island,
&c., agreeing to recognize them as such, and renouncing for himself, his
heirs, and successors all claim against the rights of their government
and territory.

“Article 2nd.—In order to avoid all discussions and differences that may
arise in future about the question of the boundaries of the said United
States, it is declared and agreed that those shall be the following,
namely, from the North-west angle of Nova Scotia, &c.”

Well then; what difference exists between those articles and those of
our treaty with Spain upon the identical object of recognizing our
independence, which we have reproduced? Essentially none. In one, as much
as in the other, the national sovereignty of a people is recognized that
proclaims its independence and effects it. In the one, as much as in the
other, the right which it has as a sovereign nation to all the territory
which they occupied as colonies is recognized. And what else is the _uti
possidetis_ of 1810? On what principle of the Law of Nations, on what
practice of civilized nations will Great Britain be able to found the
difference which she claims, between the national sovereignty of the
United States and the national sovereignty of the people of Venezuela?
No difference exists which can be founded on reason, and if any could be
adduced it would undoubtedly be in our favour, because no chain of former
subordination linked us to the government of Great Britain.

From the mass of reasoning which we have brought forward, we can deduce
the following conclusions. 1st.—Spain, as a sovereign nation, traced
the boundaries which belonged to her in Guiana. 2nd.—On establishing
herself, the Republic of Venezuela succeeded Spain in the domination
and ownership of that territory, under its legitimate boundaries,
either by virtue of the _uti possidetis_ of 1810—recognized by all the
nationalities of South America—or as a national prerogative of its
national sovereignty. 3rd.—Great Britain has no right to annul the
legitimate exercise of two national sovereignties. 4th.—As a European
Power, possessor of territory on our continent, she is incorporated in
the great family of nationalities of South America, and has no right to
violate a principle recognized and sanctioned by all other nationalities,
as that of the _uti possidetis_ of 1810.

From these affirmations that we have deduced from authentic official
documents, and from indisputable principles of the Law of Nations, we
may conclude definitely that the question of our boundaries with Great
Britain does not present, in its solution, such grave difficulties as we
supposed. That it should not be placed in the region of controversies but
in the district of accomplished facts, allowing that Spain of whom we are
the legitimate successors, traced its boundaries. That by the priority
of our right, and the nature and origin of the titles that confirm
it, we are rather in the position to grant concessions than under the
necessity of accepting conditions which it may be wished to impose upon
us. Above all, we wish to inspire the profound conviction, as a result
of this writing, which is extremely important to the Republic, _viz._,
the necessity of a speedy solution of this controversy, that its delay
prejudices immensely its gravest and most transcendental interests in
various respects. Thus, it betters the conditions of Great Britain; time,
our silence and indifference give margin that they may effect invasions,
which are afterwards alleged as accomplished facts, as bases of acquired
rights, which is the formula hitherto adopted. Lord Aberdeen well judged
it so, when in a diplomatic note he said to our Plenipotentiary Fortique,
in London, that he did not understand the interest of Venezuela in the
urgency of the question of boundaries, and that he should be satisfied
that things should remain as before.

Our Government has officially addressed that of Great Britain proposing
a speedy solution of the controversy. We understand that no satisfactory
answer has been given, and it is probable that it will not be given,
because, thus, it suits the interests of Great Britain. We think that it
would be convenient to reiterate that effort in explicit and peremptory
terms, by proposing the arbitration of a third Power, in case of negation
to a direct convention. We have all the data sufficient to accept,
without any kind of fear, an absolute decision; and as far as principles
are concerned, all of them are also in favour of our right.

Lifting the question to its highest, it will be understood easily that
these interests are not purely Venezuelan. The position of the Orinoco
in the hands of a friendly power, that fraternizes in institutions, is
a question eminently American and of the highest transcendency. The day
in which this is not so, the day in which a European Power of political
institutions adverse to ours dominates on the Orinoco, or makes its
influence felt as a possessor on its banks, and in any other respect with
the water communication of that river, with the Amazon, or the numerous
navigable affluents of either, then not only the political and commercial
interests of Venezuela would be in a great measure compromised, but also
those of New Granada, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia, and even those of
Brazil herself. Under these circumstances, the navigation of the Orinoco
may become a grave international question of South America. (Here, follow
a few paragraphs relating to the ruptured intercourse between Colombia
and Venezuela, which I omit.)

In continuation:—We offered to discuss the demarcation proposed by
the British Government. We are going to comply with that promise as
a summary of our former observations. At once we maintain that that
demarcation is inadmissible, because it compromises and prejudices in
the highest degree the interests of the Republic, in the present and in
the future. In short, every dividing line between us and British Guiana
that is not in the Essequibo, ruins the territory of the Republic. In
the first place it is extremely difficult to fix that dividing line,
making it correspond with mountain chains and rivers of the second class,
geographically unknown; to trace meridians in unexplored and perhaps
unexplorable lands without exposing our territory to new invasions and
dangerous controversies, and of uncertain success, which have always
to be sustained with powerful nations accustomed to impose their
will by using force. The Essequibo being free and only under British
domination, our territory may be invaded and dominated with impunity.
It being allowed that that river communicates by means of the channels
of the Orinoco, which are difficult to be watched and guarded, so also
it communicates with our territory of the Amazon by its upper part.
These ways of communication would be free, rapid, and without power of
being restricted, as long as the Essequibo remains under the exclusive
domination of Great Britain. The demarcation proposed by the British
Minister is the following:—

“A line that should go from the mouth of the Moroco to the point at
which the river Barama unites with the Guaima; thence by the Barama up
the stream as far as the Aunama, which would be ascended up to the place
where this stream approaches nearest to the Acarabici, and following this
river to its confluence with the Cuyuni; then continuing by this last
up stream till it arrives at the high lands in contact with the Roraima
range, in which are divided the waters that flow into the Essequibo from
those which run into the Rio Blanco.”

This line has inconveniences and most prejudicial disadvantages for the
Republic. As is seen, it begins at the mouth of the Moroco, it runs by
insignificant rivers, almost geographically unknown, and mountain-chains
of the same kind, till it arrives at the waters of the Cuyuni; it
follows then the course of this river up to the Roraima range.[123] The
explanation of that line is the following; as a point of departure and
continuation it takes the secondary mountain ranges and rivers of our
continent, subject to controversies and invasions, till it arrives at the
Cuyuni, an affluent of the Essequibo, which belongs to us integrally: it
runs all its course, attaching great part of the territory of our State
Guiana, up to the Roraima range, where rises our Caroni. That is to say,
England marks herself boundaries within our territory, imprisoning us
within a line of circumvallation from the ocean up to the sources of one
of our most important interior rivers. And with what right can Great
Britain claim from us the abrogation of incontrovertible principles of
the universal Law of Nations? Even laying aside our original titles from
Spain, which prove, evidently, that our interior boundaries passed beyond
the Essequibo up to the borders of French Guiana, even laying aside, we
say, those titles which we have analyzed over-abundantly, England has no
right to take possession of the Essequibo and to declare it her exclusive
property.

It is an invariable law and constant practice of the Law of Nations
that in order to divide nations, possessors of common territories, the
rivers and mountain ranges of consideration and importance are preferred
as boundaries. In these conditions is found the Essequibo, which is a
natural curved boundary between us and British Guiana. And what right has
Great Britain not only to declare that the Essequibo is her exclusive
property, but also to pass beyond its banks and penetrate into our
territory and leave her boundaries? It is also an invariable law of the
Law of Nations that when a broad river divides the territories of two
conterminous nations, each one of them has a right to the domination
of the half of that river in all the bank which it occupies. And with
what right can Great Britain claim from us the abrogation of that
incontrovertible prescription of the Universal Law of Nations? Besides
the line which we have traced and which was proposed by Great Britain,
there was also the dishonourable condition that Venezuela should engage
herself not to alienate that territory to any other foreign power.

The Government of Great Britain well understood the importance of that
territory under diverse phases, and that it would not suit for it to pass
into the power of a nation that might be able to repel force by force
with equal advantages and conditions. Guided by the design of putting
an end to this question of boundaries, our Government Council, in 1844,
submitted for discussion a proposal for a dividing line that should be
offered to Great Britain. It humoured sufficiently the exactions of Great
Britain, but that dividing line was not so onerous as that which had
been proposed by that nation. It began at the mouth of Moroco, following
the course of that river up to its source. Thence it drew a meridian,
which crossing the Cuyuni went up to the Pacaraima range, which divides
the waters of the Essequibo from those of the Rio Blanco. If not so
prejudicial as that proposed by Great Britain, it compromises, in a
great measure, the gravest transcendental interests of the Republic in
the present as much as in the future. All that may be cut off from the
Essequibo, as our eastern boundary with British Guiana, is to ruin the
territory of the Republic; it is to cause that British subjects, that the
foreigner may travel and navigate through our territory without our being
able to impede it. Having the exclusive domination of the Essequibo,
they have the free navigation of that river and of its most important
affluents, which penetrate extensively into our territory, and among
others the Cuyuni and the Mazaruni.

Besides this, the nation has already given forth its judgment, has
already expressed its will respecting the territorial rights by that
flank in the most solemn manner, and it is not possible to contradict
itself without great indignity, besides grave prejudices, under different
respects and considerations.

The 1st Article of our Boundary Treaty with Brazil, in its 3rd division,
speaks thus:—“The line will continue through the most elevated points of
the Pacaraima range, so that the waters which go to the Rio Blanco may
remain belonging to Brazil, and those which run to the Essequibo, Cuyuni,
and Caroni to Venezuela, up to where the territories of the two States
reach on their eastern part.” From this boundary convention with Brazil,
the only nation that could dispute with us original titles in Guiana,
is deduced that the Republic stretches its territorial dominion on the
south as far as the Pacaraima range, a continuation of the Parima and
which divides the waters of the Rio Blanco from those which run to the
Essequibo; that it has declared and maintained its dominion over that
territory, and over the Essequibo and its affluents in those regions,
and, what is more important, that it is bounded on the east by Brazil.
Comparing this demarcation with Brazil with the line proposed by the
English Government, it results that the latter is going to terminate in
the Roraima range, which is in the interior of our State Guiana, and
which is a ramification of that of Pacaraima. In short this line with
our Brazilian division comes to form an immense angle in our Guiana
territory. If it is cut off then from the Essequibo the following
absurdities result, in which grave prejudice and national indignity
dispute the palm.

1st.—That we lose not only the territory that belongs to us, from the
Essequibo to the boundaries of French Guiana, but that comprehended to
the east between that river and the line proposed by Great Britain, which
amounts to a multitude of square leagues.

2nd.—This nation taking possession of the Essequibo, she bounds herself
in fact and divides us from Brazil, by which we are bounded on the east
according to the public treaty with that nation.

There is then in the usurpation of the Essequibo, a usurpation of
territory and a usurpation of national sovereignty.

We terminate these articles, recommending as we have already done in
several places, the importance of putting, as soon as possible, an end to
the question of our boundaries with Great Britain, and the necessity and
justice of maintaining the Essequibo as the limit of our concessions, as
the natural boundary of our territory, as much by the original authentic
titles which we have from Spain as by the principles of the Law of
Nations, which we have discussed and analyzed in these writings.

FRANCISCO J. MARMOL.

Carácas, February 18th, 1878.

(Here follow copies of the original documents from which these arguments
have been deduced, but it is unnecessary to reproduce them, as their
substance is contained in the above writings.—J.W.B.W.)

THE END.

London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13 Poland Street.

[Illustration: RORAIMA AND BRITISH GUIANA

BY J.W. BODDAM-WHETHAM

_Author’s Route in Blue_

London: Hurst & Blackett.

_Stanford’s Geogr. Establ., London._]

FOOTNOTES

[1] Some magnificent roses are grown near Hamilton, and one gentleman
informed me that he had over two hundred varieties thriving luxuriantly;
not the over-blooming, straggling plants, whose blossoms are coarse,
ill-shaped, and of faded colour, so often seen in hot climates, but
beautiful bright roses with thick petals and rare symmetry of outline.

[2] A curious circumstance about these creatures is that nearly every
individual harbours in his stomach a large parasitical fish, that lies at
ease and feeds upon whatever comes in its way.

[3] In appearance these gigantic pots and cauldrons are similar to the
large basin-shaped, or funnel-like holes made ages ago by the glacier on
the sandstone ridge in the “Glacier garden of Lucerne,” Switzerland. But
there, lying at the bottom of the basins are the colossal balls, which
once as hard blocks of stone had slipped through the icy fissures, and
had then been rolled and twisted about by the action of water rushing
down upon them until the deep holes were made. The Bermudian boilers
appear rather to have been built up than hollowed out.

[4] Crescentia cujete.

[5] Just before our arrival a case occurred in which a little urchin was
sent on a similar expedition, his only offence apparently being that of
running about the streets in a shirt which only extended as far as his
breast-bone, and consequently was not regulation.

[6] The bread-fruit naturally recalls the “Mutiny of the Bounty,” as it
was for the purpose of introducing that tree into the West Indies that
Bligh was sent to Tahiti in 1788. On the failure of that expedition he
again set out for Tahiti in 1792, obtained his trees, and landed a number
safely at St. Vincent. But in these islands it is not the grand tree
which in the South Seas affords the chief sustenance of life, and the
degenerated fruit is left untouched even by the negro.

[7] The Moravians here, as elsewhere, have schools judiciously
administered, and these zealous people are still worthy of Cowper’s
eulogy when he said,

“Fir’d with a zeal peculiar, they defy
The rage and rigour of a polar sky,
And plant successfully sweet Sharon’s rose
On burning plains, and in eternal snows.”

[8] Among the important improvements, the factory intended to burn coal
for fuel, thus saving the waste cane which it was customary to use for
that purpose, for manure.

[9] Since the above was written news has arrived of a negro insurrection,
and the destruction of nearly every sugar plantation on the island.

[10] A favourite amusement in St. Thomas; a dead horse is towed out
behind a boat, and the greedy monsters, eagerly fastening on it, are then
harpooned.

[11] Leeward Islands consist of Dominica, Antigua, Montserrat, Nevis,
and St. Kitt’s. Windward Islands consist of Barbadoes, St. Vincent, St.
Lucia, Grenada, and Tobago.

[12] Erythrina umbrosa.

[13] Oreodoxa oleracea; called the mountain-cabbage because within the
central spike lies concealed the cabbage, composed of white longitudinal
flakes forming a crisp compact body. When cut up into thin ribands and
boiled, it is served as a vegetable with meat. As all palm trees possess
this eatable spike, it is hard to tell why this species should in
particular be called the “cabbage.”

[14] Carolinea.

[15] Brownea.

[16] Eugenia Michellii.

[17] Swinburne.

[18] Abrus precatoria.

[19] Jatropha manihot.

[20] Eulampis Jugularis.

[21] Chrysotis Augusta.

[22] Cathartes aura.

[23] Trochilus moschitus.

[24] Chlorostilbon atala.

[25] Thaumatias chronopectus.

[26] Mauritia flexuosa.

[27] This, the largest of our colonies in the West Indies, and the only
one in South America, comprises the three counties of Demerara, Essequibo
and Berbice, which derive their names from the three principal rivers
which border them. Georgetown, the capital, and seat of Government,
has a population of 37,000 inhabitants, whilst the total population
of the colony approaches 240,000. The coast line of British Guiana on
the Atlantic is about 280 miles in length, and in breadth the country
varies from 200 to 450 miles, the total area being estimated at 76,000
square miles. Its boundaries inland may be said to be Venezuela, Brazil,
and Dutch Guiana, but the precise limits of the two former are still
undetermined. Cultivation is restricted to a long narrow strip of the
coast and along the banks of the rivers for a few miles. The whole of the
cultivated area is under 80,000 acres, and the greater part of that is in
sugar cane alone.

[28] As there is no natural fall of water, these open trenches, which are
seen everywhere in the country as well as town, are necessary to carry
off surface water to prevent flooding in the wet season. By sluice-gates
the town trenches can be flooded when required.

[29] Couroupita Guianensis.

[30] Gelasimus vocans.

[31] Anablaps tetraophthalmus.

[32] Phœnicircus carnifex.

[33] Centrifugals are open round boxes of metal, pierced like gauze.
These are whisked round and round at a tremendous speed, and the molasses
flying out through the gauze leave the sugar white and dry.

[34] Physalia atlantica.

[35] Avicenna nitida.

[36] Coryphœ cerifera.

[37] Provisions intended to last for three months. Six barrels of flour,
one and a half boxes of cod fish; three bags of brown rice; three barrels
of ship’s biscuit; one hundred and forty pounds of bacon; seventy-five
pounds of coffee; one barrel of sugar; one case of brandy; fifty pounds
of onions; twelve gallons of split peas. Also a small quantity of canned
provisions.

[38] Chaconia Calycophyllum.

[39] Mora excelsa.

[40] Nectandra Rodiei.

[41] Oreodaphne sp.

[42] Hybiscus elatus.

[43] Eperua falcata.

[44] Topaza pella.

[45] Cacicus citrius.

[46] Mycteria Americana.

[47] Gynericum.

[48] Myletes pacu.

[49] Paiworie is a drink made from cassava bread, which is prepared
in the same disgusting way, viz.: by chewing, as is the “kava” of the
islanders of the South Seas. When a drinking feast is at hand the women
are occupied for several days in chewing cassava, which with the addition
of hot water gradually fills an enormous wooden trough, shaped like a
canoe, and capable of containing a hundred and fifty gallons. On the
appointed day, the invited guests dressed in their best feathers and
decorated with teeth and beads in the latest styles, assemble round the
trough. A preliminary song and dance are indulged in, then the calabashes
are dipped into the intoxicating beverage, and the orgie commences. It
does not finish until the paiworie is exhausted, or not a soul is left
with a leg to stand upon. The scenes incident to such a performance need
no description.

[50] Crax alector.

[51] Plotius anhinga.

[52] Ibis infuscata.

[53] Lachesis rhombeata.

[54] Trigonocephalus.

[55] Eunectes murinus.

[56] Anacardium occidentale.

[57] A woodskin is constructed out of a single piece of bark of a
tree—generally the purple-heart. After the bark has been removed from the
wood it is kept open by cross sticks, and the extremities are supported
on beams so as to raise those parts. A more cranky affair cannot be
imagined, and even to step into one required the greatest care; and if
upset it sinks instantly, owing to the great specific gravity of the
bark, which is hardly one-eighth of an inch in thickness. Its great
advantage is that it can float where no boat or canoe could possibly
pass. Some of the large ones will carry six or seven persons and their
effects.

[58] Serra salmo.

[59] Bixa Orellana.

[60] Genipa Americana.

[61] We found it very difficult to determine with any exactness the names
of mountains and falls, not only on account of the names themselves, but
also from the Indian habit of slurring over the last syllables. Then
again different tribes have different names for localities, and not
unfrequently the various parts of mountains and even of rapids are called
by various denominations. By constant repetition we approached as nearly
as we could to the names uttered.

[62] Dasyprocta agouti.

[63] The Indians to the present day do not recognise in the alligator
that shapeless fleshy mass, which is incapable of extension, as a tongue.
Herodotus, too, who was a keen observer of the crocodile, repeats the
idea that it is tongueless, and for that reason was regarded by the
Egyptians as an emblem of mystery.

[64] Paca caligenis.

[65] Capybara.

[66] Caladium arborescens.

[67] In speaking of the course of the Mazaruni, Mr. Barrington Brown
in his “Geology of British Guiana,” says that it rises in the “Merumé
mountains, part of the Pacaraima group, at a height of 2,400 feet above
the sea, near the 60th degree of west longitude; it runs eastward for
some miles, curving round to the south in 68° 8´ 30´´ west longitude, and
5° 34´ 23´´ north latitude, and descends to a level of 2,000 feet. From
this it flows in a tortuous course in a west-north-west direction to the
Cako river mouth, in 60° 44´ west and 5° 47´ 11´´ north, being joined on
the way by numerous large tributaries, and descending by a set of high
falls at Chi-chi to a level of 1,400 feet above the sea. Flowing smoothly
along at this altitude in a north-north-west direction to Sericoeng, it
is precipitated down a succession of lofty falls, occupying a distance
of eight miles to a level of 500 feet. Passing along at this level with
a north-north-east course, it plunges over two more sets of falls to a
height of 150 feet, and, emerging from the sandstone mountains in 6° 26´
14´´ north latitude, turns suddenly to the east-north-east for a distance
of 105 miles to Teboco cataract, passing on the way near the foot of the
Merumé mountains, 20 miles to the northward of its source.”

[68] The “lucanani,” or sun-fish, so called from a golden ring in its
tail, weighs five or six pounds, and its flesh is by many preferred to
that of the pacu. A peculiarity in the habits of this fish is that, when
the young—which always swim near the mother—are in danger, the mother
opens her mouth and they all rush in.

[69] During our journey the principal butterflies that we noticed were as
follows:—

“Morpho Adonis,” of the most brilliant azure blue.

“Urania Leilus,” with black velvet ground and golden green bands of a
silky lustre, and black tail.

“Marius Thetis,” tawny, with narrow black lines.

“Erycina Octavius,” dark bands and crimson spots, long black tail with
crimson patch.

“Papilio Æneas,” velvet black wings, with red patch in middle of hinder
wing, upper wings with large green spot.

“Papilio Sinon,” black wings with pale green bands.

“Callidryas Eubule,” surface of wings a fine yellow.

“Vanessa Amathea,” dark brown surface, with broad band of deep red across
centre of wings, which are edged with white spots.

“Heliconia Cynisca,” surface deep black, red at base of upper wings,
under wings with red stripes.

[70] Buprestis gigas.

[71] The “kanaima” is a secret murderer who performs his work generally
by poison.

[72] The “peaiman” is the sorcerer and doctor of the tribe.

[73] The “didi” is supposed to be a wild man of the woods, possessed of
immense strength and covered with hair.

[74] Tinamus Brasiliensis.

[75] Odontophorus Guianensis.

[76] Brownea racemosa.

[77] Ardea cocoi.

[78] Ardea myrticorax.

[79] Procnias carunculata.

[80] “Amblyornis inornata.” Dr. Beccari, the well-known Italian
naturalist, in describing the home of this species of paradise-bird says:
“Directly in front of its cabin is a level space occupying a superficies
about as large as that of the structure itself, which has a diameter of
about a metre. It is a small lawn of soft moss, all transported thither,
kept smooth and clean and free from grass, weeds, stones, and other
objects not in harmony with its design. Over this graceful green carpet
are scattered flowers and fruit of brilliant colours in such a manner
that they really present the appearance of an elegant little garden.
After these objects have been exposed for some time, and have lost their
freshness, they are taken from their abode and thrown away, and are
replaced by others.”

[81] Felis onca.

[82] The hammocks of Indians are invariably of a greasy red colour from
contact with their painted bodies.

[83] Icica heptaphylla.

[84] I use the expression “Venezuelan side” because of our own idea
of the national boundaries, but the Venezuelans claim as theirs the
territory stretching east as far as the Essequibo river, and south to
Brazil almost to the River Parima.

[85] Janipha Coeflingo.

[86] Psophia crepitans.

[87] Anas moschata.

[88] Ampelis cotinga.

[89] Cyperus alternifolius.

[90] Lacythis ollaris.

[91] Carapa Guianensis.

[92] Cyphorinus cantans.

[93] I have adhered to the spelling of Roraima as laid down by Sir R.
Schomburgh and Mr. Barrington Brown, but the natives certainly pronounce
the “ai” in the same way that they pronounce the i in Marima, _i.e._
Mareema. It may be, as in other cases, that different tribes have
different pronunciations of the same name.

[94] Most of these so-called mountains are little more than high hill
ranges, but their excessive steepness and the difficult nature of the
ascent render them far from despicable.

[95] Cladonia reticulata.

[96] The height of Roraima above the sea is about 8000 feet; the
table-land from which it rises being about 3,500 feet above sea level.

[97] Ladenbergia densiflora.

[98] Milvulus forficatus.

[99] Sturnella magna.

[100] Myrmecophaga jubata.

[101] Cleistes rosea.

[102] Stanhopea oculata.

[103] Tillandsia lingulata.

[104] Sobralia Elizabetha.

[105] Thibaudia Pichinchensis.

[106] Waterton, in speaking of the blow-pipe says that this extraordinary
tube of death is, perhaps, one of the greatest natural curiosities of
Guiana. The amazingly long reed of which it is composed grows hollow
without knot or joint. This is called the Ourah. Being of itself too
slender to answer the end of a blow-pipe, a species of Palma is used as a
case in which they put the Ourah. This outer case is called Samourah. The
arrow—poisoned—is from nine to ten inches in length.

[107] Nasua.

[108] The “ha-ha” is a wicker shield, with which the opponents try to
push each other down.

[109] The Monouri ant is used by the Indians as one of the ingredients in
preparing the deadly Wourali poison.

[110] The names of these and the other falls marked in the map were given
to us by Lanceman, who claimed familiarity with all of them.

[111] In the mountainous district of Mérida—another of the States of
Venezuela—the Sierra Nevada peak attains an altitude of nearly 14,000
feet above the sea.

[112] Amongst the few coleoptera that I recognised were those of the
curious genus Brentus and the giant Prionus. There were also brilliant
silver green Curculios, golden green and coppery Buprestidæ, steel blue
Scarabœi glossed with purple, and a few specimens of Phaucus lancifer,
whose golden body was tinged with green and violet.

[113] Tanagra septicolor.

[114] “Amais la libertad? pues—vivais en la campagna.”

[115] Bersimum glactodendron.

[116] Mr. Otis says: “Among the most important concessions by the terms
of this contract was one guaranteeing that all public lands lying on the
line of the road were to be used gratuitously by the Company, also a gift
of 250,000 acres of land, to be selected by the grantees from any public
lands on the Isthmus. Two ports, one on the Atlantic and the other on the
Pacific (which were to be the termini of the road) were to be free ports;
and the privilege was granted of establishing such tolls as the Company
might think proper. The contract was to continue in force for forty-nine
years, subject to the right of New Granada to take possession of the road
at the expiration of twenty years after its completion, on payment of
five millions of dollars; on the expiration of thirty years on payment
of four millions; and at the expiration of forty years on payment of two
millions. Three per cent was to be paid to the New Granada government
upon all dividends declared. The entire work was to be completed within
eight years.”

[117] Crotophaga.

[118] Owing to the rapid decay of the wooden poles which were formerly
used, the chief engineer (Colonel Totten) conceived the idea of moulding
a support of concrete. A small scantling of pitch pine was placed upright
and surrounded by a jointed wooden mould, fifteen inches in diameter
at base, tapering to about eight inches at the top and sunk into the
earth sufficiently for support; this was filled with concrete. When the
mould was removed, it was found firm and strong and well adapted to the
purpose, being perfectly weather and insect proof. These posts have the
appearance of hewn stone.

[119] Peristeria elata.

[120] The author of “Three Years in Chili,” says, “The grass of which
they—Panama hats—are made is found chiefly in the neighbouring province
of San Cristoval. They can be braided only in the night or early in the
morning, as the heat in the day-time renders the grass brittle. It takes
a native about three months to braid one of the finest quality, and I saw
some hats which looked like fine linen, and are valued at fifty dollars
apiece even here.”

[121] Cathartes aura.

[122] “Historical Record upon the Boundaries between the Republic of
Colombia and the Empire of Brazil,” By José M. Quijano Otero.

[123] It seems to have slipped the notice both of the proposers and those
to whom it was proposed, that by no possible means could a line following
the Cuyuni river reach the Roraima range or anywhere near it.—J.W.B.W.

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

MESSRS. HURST AND BLACKETT’S LIST OF NEW WORKS.

ROYAL WINDSOR. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. SECOND EDITION. Volumes I. and II.
Demy 8vo. 30s. To be completed in 2 more volumes.

CONTENTS OF VOLS. I AND II.—Castle Hill, Norman Keep, First King’s House,
Lion Heart, Kingless Windsor, Windsor Won, Geoffrey Plantagenet, Windsor
Lost, The Fallen Deputy, The Queen Mother, Maud de Braose, The Barons’
War, Second King’s House, Edward of Carnarvon, Perot de Gaveston, Isabel
de France, Edward of Windsor, Crecy, Patron Saints, St. George, Society
of St. George, Lady Salisbury, David King of Scots, Third King’s House,
Ballad Windsor, The Fair Countess, Richard of Bordeaux, Court Parties,
Royal Favourites, Rehearsing for Windsor, In the Great Hall, Simon de
Burley, Radcote Bridge, A Feast of Death, Geoffrey Chaucer, At Winchester
Tower, St. George’s Chapel, The Little Queen, At Windsor, Duchess
Philippote, The Windsor Plot, Bolingbroke, Court of Chivalry, Wager of
Battle, Deserted Little Queen, Captive Little Queen, A New Year’s Plot,
Night of the Kings, Exit Little Queen, Dona Juana, Constance of York, The
Norman Tower, The Legal Heir, Prince Hal, The Devil’s Tower, In Captivity
Captive, Attempt at Rescue, Agincourt, Kaiser Sigismund, The Witch Queen,
Sweet Kate, The Maid of Honour, Lady Jane, Henry of Windsor, Richard of
York, Two Duchesses, York and Lancaster, Union of the Roses.

“‘Royal Windsor’ follows in the same lines as ‘Her Majesty’s Tower,’
and aims at weaving a series of popular sketches of striking events
which centre round Windsor Castle. Mr. Dixon makes everything vivid
and picturesque. Those who liked ‘Her Majesty’s Tower’ will find these
volumes equally pleasant reading.”—_Athenæum._

“A truly fine and interesting book. It is a valuable contribution
to English history; worthy of Mr. Dixon’s fame, worthy of its grand
subject.”—_Morning Post._

“Mr. Dixon has supplied us with a highly entertaining book. ‘Royal
Windsor’ is eminently a popular work, bristling with anecdotes and
amusing sketches of historical characters. It is carefully written, and
is exceedingly pleasant reading. The story is brightly told; not a dull
page can be found. Mr. Dixon is to be congratulated on having put so much
information into so agreeable a shape.”—_Examiner._

“These volumes will quickly find favour with the widest and most
inclusive circle of readers. From the first days of Norman Windsor to the
Plantagenet period Mr. Dixon tells the story of this famous castle in his
own picturesque, bright, and vigorous way.”—_Daily Telegraph._

“Mr. Hepworth Dixon has found a congenial subject in ‘Royal Windsor.’ His
exploration of the Tower of London for a similar purpose, and the curious
and careful researches which his study of that fatal fortress occasioned,
had furnished him with an abundance and variety of materials for his
present monograph on an ancient keep and palace of the English Monarchy.
Under the sanction of the Queen, he has enjoyed exceptional opportunities
of most searching and complete investigation of the Royal House and
every other part of Windsor Castle, in and out, above ground and below
ground.”—_Daily News._

“‘Royal Windsor’ is a worthy companion to ‘Her Majesty’s Tower.’ It
brings before the reader with no less fidelity the splendid pageants of
history, and it gives an animated series of tableaux, the characters in
which are so life-like that they seem again to pass in very flesh and
blood before our eyes.”—_Sunday Times._

“In ‘Royal Windsor’ Mr. Dixon has found a subject most rich in
opportunities for the gorgeous word-painting and the dramatic power of
which he has unquestionable command. The Royal dwelling in its various
phases—Saxon hunting-lodge, Norman keep, and Palace-Castle, altered,
enriched, and added to by king after king—supplies in vulgar phrase the
peg on which to hang the storied chronicle of the kings and captives who
all these years have tenanted its walls. The work is pre-eminently one
for the general public.”—_Graphic._

A LEGACY: Being the Life and Remains of JOHN MARTIN, Schoolmaster and
Poet. Written and Edited by the Author of “JOHN HALIFAX.” 2 vols. crown
8vo. With Portrait. 21s.

“This is, in many respects, a remarkable book. It records the life, work,
aspirations, and death of a schoolmaster and poet, of lowly birth but
high-strung and ambitious soul. His writings brim with vivid thought,
keen analysis of feeling, touches of poetic sentiment, and trenchant
criticism of men and books, expressed in scholarly language.”—_Guardian._

“Mrs. Craik has related a beautiful and pathetic story—a story of faith
and courage and untiring energy on the part of a young and gifted man,
who might under other circumstances have won a place in literature. The
story is one worth reading.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._

“In these volumes a well-known novelist presents us with a history so
touching, so marvellous, and so simple, as no invention could produce.
Few more pathetic or more instructive volumes have fallen in our
way.”—_Morning Post_.

“We strongly recommend our readers to procure this charming book, not
only because it is a gem of beautiful writing, showing the finished style
and graceful heart of the talented authoress, but because the subject
matter in itself is of absorbing interest.”—_Church Review._

A YOUNG SQUIRE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, from the Papers of CHRISTOPHER
JEAFFRESON, of Dullingham House, Cambridgeshire. Edited by JOHN CORDY
JEAFFRESON, Author of “A Book about Doctors,” &c. 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21s.

“Two volumes of very attractive matter:—letters which illustrate
agriculture, commerce, war, love, and social manners, accounts of passing
public events, and details which are not to be found in the Gazettes, and
which come with singular freshness from private letters.”—_Athenæum._

“Two agreeable and important volumes. They deserve to be placed on
library shelves with Pepys, Evelyn, and Reresby.”—_Notes and Queries._

“In the interests of history a publication such as the present is of
almost incalculable value. Every historical student ought to make himself
acquainted with these two very delightful volumes.”—_Morning Post._

HISTORY OF ENGLISH HUMOUR. By the Rev. A. G. L’ESTRANGE, Author of “The
Life of the Rev. W. Harness,” &c. 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21s.

“This work contains a large and varied amount of information. It is
impossible to give any idea of the wealth of anecdote and epigram in its
pages, and for anything like a proper appreciation of its value we must
refer our readers to the book itself.”—_John Bull._

“This work gives evidence of a vast deal of industry and study of the
subject, and is distinguished by considerable analytical power, and
contains many pleasant anecdotes.”—_Morning Post._

“A book of the highest mark and character. The literary man, the
antiquarian, and the historian will combine in pronouncing it worthy of
admission into every well-selected library.”—_Messenger._

MY LIFE, FROM 1815 TO 1819. By CHARLES LOFTUS, formerly of the Royal
Navy, late of the Coldstream Guards. Author of “My Youth by Sea and
Land.” 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21s.

“The praise which the _Athenæum_ gave to the first portion of Major
Loftus’s work, may be fairly awarded to the second. These reminiscences
are pleasantly told. There is a cheeriness about them which communicates
itself to the reader.”—_Athenæum._

“A thoroughly interesting and readable book, which we heartily
recommend as one of the most characteristic autobiographies we ever
read.”—_Standard._

THE THEATRE FRANÇAIS IN THE REIGN OF LOUIS XV. By ALEXANDER BAILLIE
COCHRANE, M.P. 1 vol. demy 8vo. 15s.

CONVERSATIONS WITH M. THIERS, M. GUIZOT, and other Distinguished Persons,
during the Second Empire. By the Late NASSAU W. SENIOR. Edited by his
Daughter, M. C. M. SIMPSON. 2 vols. demy 8vo. 30s.

Among other persons whose conversations are recorded in these volumes
are King Leopold; the Duc de Broglie; Lord Cowley; Counts Arrivabene,
Corcelle, Daru, Flahault, Kergolay, Montalembert; Generals Lamoricière
and Chrzanowski; Sir Henry Ellis; Messieurs Ampère, Beaumont, Blanchard,
Bouffet, Auguste Chevalier, Victor Cousin, De Witt, Duchâtel, Ducpetiaux,
Dumon, Dussard, Duvergier de Hauranne, Léon Faucher, Frère-Orban,
Grimblot, Guizot, Lafitte, Labaume, Lamartine, Lanjuinais, Mallac, Manin,
Mérimée, Mignet, Jules Mohl, Montanelli, Odillon-Barrot, Quêtelet,
Rémusat, Rogier, Rivet, Rossini, Horace Say, Thiers, Trouvé-Chauvel,
Villemain, Wolowski; Mesdames Circourt, Cornu, Ristori, &c.

“This new series of Mr. Senior’s ‘Conversations’ has been for some years
past known in manuscript to his more intimate friends, and it has always
been felt that no former series would prove more valuable or important.
Mr. Senior had a social position which gave him admission into the
best literary and political circles of Paris. He was a cultivated and
sensible man, who knew how to take full advantage of such an opening.
And above all, he had by long practice so trained his memory as to
enable it to recall all the substance, and often the words, of the long
conversations which he was always holding. These conversations he wrote
down with a surprising accuracy, and then handed the manuscript to his
friends, that they might correct or modify his report of what they had
said. This book thus contains the opinions of eminent men given in the
freedom of conversation, and afterwards carefully revised. Of their value
there cannot be a question. The book is one of permanent historical
interest. There is scarcely a page without some memorable statement
by some memorable man. Politics and society and literature—the three
great interests that make up life—are all discussed in turn, and there
is no discussion which is unproductive of weighty thought or striking
fact.”—_Athenæum._

“The present selection of Mr. Senior’s Journals, edited with remarkable
skill and judgment by Mrs. Simpson, is extraordinarily full and
interesting. Although the unreserved and original communications
of Thiers are especially fascinating, the book would be abundantly
interesting if it consisted only of the reports of conversations with
Guizot, Montalembert, Cousin, Lamartine, and other persons of celebrity
and eminence.”—_Saturday Review._

“These conversations extend from the year 1852 to 1860, and will be found
to refer to some of the most interesting public events of our time—the
Revolution of 1848, the Crimean War, the French Alliance, the attempt on
the life of Louis Napoleon, the Indian Mutiny, and the Italian campaign
of 1859. Besides these great public occurrences of European celebrity,
we have many very curious and piquant anecdotes of a private character,
and expressions of opinion on men and things by persons of eminence.
All that is said in these volumes of France, England, and Russia, is as
interesting now as when it was first uttered.”—_Standard._

“The two new volumes of the late Mr. Nassau Senior’s most interesting
conversations give us the ideas of some eminent foreign statesmen on the
Eastern Question. They embrace the eventful years from 1852 to 1860,
during which Mr. Senior paid prolonged visits to Paris, and conversed on
the most confidential terms with some of the shrewdest men of the time.
They set forth the opinions of those who had the best means of informing
themselves on Russian objects and English interests. They abound,
besides, in most interesting details as to the personal character of the
Emperor Nicholas and his successor; as to the relations of Russia and
Austria; as to the social condition and resources of the two empires;
as to the considerations that govern their policy, and their respective
capabilities as fighting Powers.”—_Blackwood’s Magazine._

HISTORY OF TWO QUEENS: CATHARINE OF ARAGON and ANNE BOLEYN. By W.
HEPWORTH DIXON. _Second Edition._ Vols. 1 & 2. Demy 8vo. 30s.

“In two handsome volumes Mr. Dixon here gives us the first instalment of
a new historical work on a most attractive subject. The book is in many
respects a favourable specimen of Mr. Dixon’s powers. It is the most
painstaking and elaborate that he has yet written.... On the whole, we
may say that the book is one which will sustain the reputation of its
author as a writer of great power and versatility, that it gives a new
aspect to many an old subject, and presents in a very striking light some
of the most recent discoveries in English history.”—_Athenæum._

“In these volumes the author exhibits in a signal manner his special
powers and finest endowments. It is obvious that the historian has been
at especial pains to justify his reputation, to strengthen his hold upon
the learned, and also to extend his sway over the many who prize an
attractive style and interesting narrative more highly than laborious
research and philosophic insight.”—_Morning Post._

“The thanks of all students of English history are due to Mr. Hepworth
Dixon for his clever and original work, ‘History of two Queens.’ The book
is a valuable contribution to English history. The author has consulted a
number of original sources of information—in particular the archives at
Simancas, Alcala, and Venice. Mr. Dixon is a skilful writer. His style,
singularly vivid, graphic, and dramatic—is alive with human and artistic
interest. Some of the incidental descriptions reach a very high level of
picturesque power.”—_Daily News._

VOLS. III. & IV. OF THE HISTORY OF TWO QUEENS: CATHARINE OF ARAGON and
ANNE BOLEYN. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. _Second Edition._ Demy 8vo. Price 30s.
Completing the Work.

“These concluding volumes of Mr. Dixon’s ‘History of two Queens’ will
be perused with keen interest by thousands of readers. Whilst no less
valuable to the student, they will be far more enthralling to the
general reader than the earlier half of the history. Every page of what
may be termed Anne Boleyn’s story affords a happy illustration of the
author’s vivid and picturesque style. The work should be found in every
library.”—_Post._

“Mr. Dixon has pre-eminently the art of interesting his readers. He has
produced a narrative of considerable value, conceived in a spirit of
fairness, and written with power and picturesque effect.”—_Daily News._

HISTORY OF WILLIAM PENN, Founder of Pennsylvania. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. A
NEW LIBRARY EDITION. 1 vol. demy 8vo, with Portrait. 12s.

“Mr. Dixon’s ‘William Penn’ is, perhaps, the best of his books. He
has now revised and issued it with the addition of much fresh matter.
It is now offered in a sumptuous volume, matching with Mr. Dixon’s
recent books, to a new generation of readers, who will thank Mr. Dixon
for his interesting and instructive memoir of one of the worthies of
England.”—_Examiner._

FREE RUSSIA. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. _Third Edition._ 2 vols. 8vo, with
Coloured Illustrations. 30s.

“Mr. Dixon’s book will be certain not only to interest but to please its
readers and it deserves to do so. It contains a great deal that is worthy
of attention, and is likely to produce a very useful effect.”—_Saturday
Review._

THE SWITZERS. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. _Third Edition._ 1 vol. demy 8vo. 15s.

“A lively, interesting, and altogether novel book on Switzerland.
It is full of valuable information on social, political, and
ecclesiastical questions, and, like all Mr. Dixon’s books, is eminently
readable.”—_Daily News._

MEMOIRS OF GEORGIANA, LADY CHATTERTON; With some Passages from HER DIARY.
By E. HENEAGE DERING. 1 vol. demy 8vo. 15s.

Among other persons mentioned in this work are Lords Lansdowne, Brougham,
Macaulay, Lytton, Houghton; Messrs. Wilberforce, Wordsworth, Hallam,
Rogers, Moore, Sydney Smith, Landor, Lockhart, Fonblanque, Warburton,
Harness, Chantrey; Count Montalembert, Dr. Ullathorne, Dr. Newman, Joanna
Baillie, Lady Gifford, Lady Cork, Mrs. Somerville, Mrs. Norton, &c.

“Lady Chatterton’s Diary gives a sketch of society during a well
known but ever-interesting period. Mr. Dering may be congratulated on
having furnished a graceful epilogue to the story of an interesting
life.”—_Athenæum._

“In this work we have the pleasant picture of a literary artist and an
amiable lady, and some interesting anecdotes which give value to the
volume.”—_John Bull._

“In this agreeable volume Mr. Dering has succeeded in bringing before
us in vivid colours the portrait of a very remarkable, talented, and
excellent lady. Her Diary is full of charming reminiscences.”—_The
Tablet._

HISTORIC CHATEAUX: BLOIS, FONTAINEBLEAU, VINCENNES. By ALEXANDER BAILLIE
COCHRANE, M.P. 1 vol. 8vo. 15s.

“A very interesting volume.”—_Times._

“A lively and agreeable book, full of action and colour.”—_Athenæum._

“This book is bright, pleasant reading.”—_British Quarterly Review._

“A most valuable addition to the historical works of the time. It is full
of life and colour.”—_Morning Post._

“A well executed book by a polished and vigorous writer.”—_The World._

THE SEA OF MOUNTAINS: AN ACCOUNT OF LORD DUFFERIN’S TOUR THROUGH BRITISH
COLUMBIA IN 1876. By MOLYNEUX ST. JOHN. 2 vols, crown 8vo. With Portrait
of Lord Dufferin. 21s.

“Mr. St. John has given us in these pages a record of all that was seen
and done in a very successful visit. His book is instructive, and it
should be interesting to the general reader.”—_Times._

“Mr. St. John is a shrewd and lively writer. The reader will find ample
variety in his book, which is well worth perusal.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._

“These volumes are amusing, interesting, and even valuable. They give us
a very clear idea of the great quarrel between British Columbia and the
Dominion of Canada; and they contain a full report of Lord Dufferin’s
great speech at Victoria. Then there are some graphic sketches of social
life and scenery, and some entertaining stories.”—_Spectator._

A MAN OF OTHER DAYS: Recollections of the MARQUIS DE BEAUREGARD.
Edited, from the French, by CHARLOTTE M. YONGE, Author of “The Heir of
Redclyffe,” &c. 2 vols. 21s.

“The ‘man of former times’ whose biography is now introduced to our
notice, will be remembered by all who have read the correspondence of
Count Joseph de Maistre. A Savoyard by birth, M. Costa de Beauregard
lived long enough to see the last years of the Monarchy, the Revolution,
and the early promise of General Bonaparte. The opening chapters of
the work introduce us to Paris society at the time when it was perhaps
the most brilliant; and it is amusing to accompany our hero to Mme.
Geoffrin’s salon, where Marmontel, Rochefoucauld, Greuze, Diderot,
Cochin, and many others, discourse literature, art, and philosophy. Sent
off to Paris for the purpose of finishing his education by mixing with
all the choice spirits of the day, young Costa writes home brilliant
descriptions of the sights he has seen and the company to which he has
been introduced. The variety of scenes described in these pleasant
memoirs, the historical personages crowded on the canvas, and the account
of the noble struggle of Savoy against the French Republic, give to the
whole work a dramatic interest which derives additional charm from the
character of the Marquis himself—a character in which high principle,
genuine wit, and patriotism are happily blended together.”—_Saturday
Review._

VOLS. I. & II. OF HER MAJESTY’S TOWER. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. DEDICATED BY
EXPRESS PERMISSION TO THE QUEEN. _Sixth Edition._ 8vo. 30s.

FROM THE TIMES:—“All the civilized world—English, Continental, and
American—takes an interest in the Tower of London. The Tower is the stage
upon which has been enacted some of the grandest dramas and saddest
tragedies in our national annals. If, in imagination, we take our stand
on those time-worn walls, and let century after century flit past us,
we shall see in due succession the majority of the most famous men and
lovely women of England in the olden time. We shall see them jesting,
jousting, love-making, plotting, and then anon, perhaps, commending
their souls to God in the presence of a hideous masked figure, bearing
an axe in his hands. It is such pictures as these that Mr. Dixon, with
considerable skill as an historical limner, has set before us in these
volumes. Mr. Dixon dashes off the scenes of Tower history with great
spirit. His descriptions are given with such terseness and vigour that
we should spoil them by any attempt at condensation. In conclusion, we
may congratulate the author on this work. Both volumes are decidedly
attractive, and throw much light on our national history.”

VOLS. III. & IV. OF HER MAJESTY’S TOWER. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. DEDICATED
BY EXPRESS PERMISSION TO THE QUEEN. Completing the Work. _Third Edition._
Demy 8vo. 30s.

“These volumes are two galleries of richly painted portraits of the
noblest men and most brilliant women, besides others, commemorated by
English history. The grand old Royal Keep, palace and prison by turns, is
revivified in these volumes, which close the narrative, extending from
the era of Sir John Eliot, who saw Raleigh die in Palace Yard, to that of
Thistlewood, the last prisoner immured in the Tower. Few works are given
to us, in these days, so abundant in originality and research as Mr.
Dixon’s.”—_Standard._

RECOLLECTIONS OF COLONEL DE GONNEVILLE. Edited from the French by
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE, Author of the “Heir of Redclyffe,” &c. 2 vols. crown
8vo. 21s.

“This very interesting memoir brings us within the presence of Napoleon
I., and some of the chiefs who upheld the fortunes of the First Empire,
and its anecdotes about that extraordinary man are evidently genuine and
very characteristic. It introduces us to the inner life and real state of
the Grand Army, and lays bare the causes of its strength and weakness.
The work discloses a variety of details of interest connected with
Napoleon’s escape from Elba, the Hundred Days, the Bourbon Restoration,
and the Revolution of July, 1830. We have dwelt at length on this
instructive record of the experiences of a memorable age, and can commend
it cordially to our readers.”—_The Times._

MY YOUTH, BY SEA AND LAND, FROM 1809 TO 1816. By CHARLES LOFTUS, formerly
of the Royal Navy, late of the Coldstream Guards. 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21s.

“It was a happy thought that impelled Major Loftus to give us these
reminiscences of ‘the old war,’ which still retains so strong a hold on
our sympathies. Every word from an intelligent actor in these stirring
scenes is now valuable. Major Loftus played the part allotted to him
with honour and ability, and he relates the story of his sea life with
spirit and vigour. Some of his sea stories are as laughable as anything
in ‘Peter Simple,’ while many of his adventures on shore remind us of
Charles Lever in his freshest days. During his sea life Major Loftus
became acquainted with many distinguished persons. Besides the Duke of
Wellington, the Prince Regent, and William IV., he was brought into
personal relation with the allied Sovereigns, the Duc D’Angoulême, Lord
William Bentinck, and Sir Hudson Lowe. A more genial, pleasant, wholesome
book we have not often read.”—_Standard._

CELEBRITIES I HAVE KNOWN. By LORD WILLIAM PITT LENNOX. _Second Series._ 2
volumes demy 8vo. 30s.

Among other persons mentioned in the Second Series of this work are—The
Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold; the Dukes of Wellington and
Beaufort; the Earls of Durham and Carlisle; Lords Byron, Clyde, Adolphus
Fitzclarence, and Cockburn; Sirs Walter Scott, G. Wombwell, A. Barnard,
John Elley, Sidney, Harry, and C. F. Smith; Count D’Orsay; Dr. Dodd;
Messrs. Thomas Moore, Theodore Hook, Leigh Hunt, Jordan, James, Horace,
and Albert Smith, Beazley, Tattersall, Hudson, Ude, George Colman, The
Kembles, G. F. Cooke, Charles Young, Edmund and Charles Kean, Yates,
Harley; Miss Foote; Mrs. Nisbet; Mesdames Catalani, Grassini, Rachel, &c.

“This new series of Lord William Lennox’s reminiscences is fully as
entertaining as the preceding one. Lord William makes good use of an
excellent memory, and he writes easily and pleasantly.”—_Pall Mall
Gazette._

“One of the best books of the season. Pleasant anecdotes, exciting
episodes, smart sayings, witticisms, and repartees are to be found on
every page.”—_Court Journal._

COACHING; With ANECDOTES OF THE ROAD. By LORD WILLIAM PITT LENNOX, Author
of “Celebrities I have Known,” &c. Dedicated to His Grace the DUKE OF
BEAUFORT, K.G., President, and the Members of the Coaching Club. 1 vol.
demy 8vo. 15s.

“Lord William’s book is genial, discursive, and gossipy. We are indebted
to the author’s personal recollections for some lively stories, and
pleasant sketches of some of the more famous dragsmen. Nor does Lord
William by any means limit himself to the English roads, and English
coaches. Bianconi’s Irish cars, the continental diligences, with
anecdotes of His Grace of Wellington, when Lord William was acting as
his aide-de-camp during the occupation of Paris, with many other matters
more or less germane to his subject, are all brought in more or less
naturally. Altogether his volume, with the variety of its contents, will
be found pleasant reading.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._

LIFE OF MOSCHELES; WITH SELECTIONS FROM HIS DIARIES AND CORRESPONDENCE.
By HIS WIFE. 2 vols. large post 8vo, with Portrait. 24s.

“This life of Moscheles will be a valuable book of reference for the
musical historian, for the contents extend over a period of threescore
years, commencing with 1794, and ending at 1870. We need scarcely state
that all the portions of Moscheles’ diary which refer to his intercourse
with Beethoven, Hummel, Weber, Czerny, Spontini, Rossini, Auber, Halévy,
Schumann, Cherubini, Spohr, Mendelssohn, F. David, Chopin, J. B. Cramer,
Clementi, John Field, Habeneck, Hauptmann, Kalkbrenner, Kiesewetter, C.
Klingemann, Lablache, Dragonetti, Sontag, Persiani, Malibran, Paganini,
Rachel, Ronzi de Begnis, De Beriot, Ernst, Donzelli, Cinti-Damoreau,
Chelard, Bochsa, Laporte, Charles Kemble, Paton (Mrs. Wood),
Schröder-Devrient, Mrs. Siddons, Sir H. Bishop, Sir G. Smart, Staudigl,
Thalberg, Berlioz, Velluti, C. Young, Balfe, Braham, and many other
artists of note in their time, will recall a flood of recollections. It
was a delicate task for Madame Moscheles to select from the diaries in
reference to living persons, but her extracts have been judiciously made.
Moscheles writes fairly of what is called the ‘Music of the Future’ and
its disciples, and his judgments on Herr Wagner, Dr. Liszt, Rubenstein,
Dr. von Bülow, Litolff, &c., whether as composers or executants, are in
a liberal spirit. He recognizes cheerfully the talents of our native
artists, Sir Sterndale Bennett, Mr. Macfarren, Madame Arabella Goddard,
Mr. John Barnett, Mr. Hullah, Mrs. Shaw, Mr. A. Sullivan, &c. The
celebrities with whom Moscheles came in contact include Sir Walter Scott,
Sir Robert Peel, the late Duke of Cambridge, the Bunsens, Louis Philippe,
Napoleon the Third, Humboldt, Henry Heine, Thomas More, Count Nesselrode,
the Duchess of Orleans, Prof. Wolf, &c. Indeed, the two volumes are full
of amusing anecdotes.”—_Athenæum._

WORDS OF HOPE AND COMFORT TO THOSE IN SORROW. Dedicated by Permission to
THE QUEEN. _Fourth Edition._ 1 vol. small 4to, 5s. bound.

“These letters, the work of a pure and devout spirit, deserve to find
many readers. They are greatly superior to the average of what is called
religious literature.”—_Athenæum._

“The writer of the tenderly-conceived letters in this volume was Mrs.
Julius Hare, a sister of Mr. Maurice. They are instinct with the devout
submissiveness and fine sympathy which we associate with the name of
Maurice; but in her there is added a winningness of tact, and sometimes,
too, a directness of language, which we hardly find even in the brother.
The letters were privately printed and circulated, and were found
to be the source of much comfort, which they cannot fail to afford
now to a wide circle. A sweetly-conceived memorial poem, bearing the
well-known initials, ‘E. H. P.’, gives a very faithful outline of the
life.”—_British Quarterly Review._

“This touching and most comforting work is dedicated to THE QUEEN,
who took a gracious interest in its first appearance, when printed
for private circulation, and found comfort in its pages, and has now
commanded its publication, that the world in general may profit by it. A
more practical and heart-stirring appeal to the afflicted we have never
examined.”—_Standard._

“These letters are exceptionally graceful and touching, and may be read
with profit”—_Graphic._

OUR BISHOPS AND DEANS. By the Rev. F. ARNOLD, B.A., late of Christ
Church, Oxford. 2 vols. 8vo. 30s.

“This work is good in conception and cleverly executed, and as thoroughly
honest and earnest as it is interesting and able. The style is original,
the thought vigorous, the information wide, and the portrait-painting
artistic.”—_John Bull._

LIFE OF THE RT. HON. SPENCER PERCEVAL; Including His Correspondence. By
His Grandson, SPENCER WALPOLE. 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait. 30s.

“Mr. Walpole’s work reflects credit not only on his industry in
compiling an important biography from authentic material, but also on
his eloquence, power of interpreting political change, and general
literary address. The biography will take rank in our literature, both as
a faithful reflection of the statesman and his period, as also for its
philosophic, logical, and dramatic completeness.”—_Morning Post._

MY YEAR IN AN INDIAN FORT. By Mrs. GUTHRIE. 2 vols, crown 8vo. With
Illustrations. 21s.

“Written with intelligence and ability.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._

“A pleasantly written book. Mrs. Guthrie appears to have enjoyed her
visit to the Fort of Belgaum, in the Deccan, immensely. Those who
know India, and those who do not, may read her work with pleasure and
profit.”—_Standard._

“Mrs. Guthrie’s charming book affords a truthful and agreeable picture of
an English lady’s life in India.”—_Globe._

ACROSS CENTRAL AMERICA. By J. W. BODDAM-WHETHAM, Author of “Pearls of the
Pacific,” &c. 8vo, with Illustrations. 15s.

“Mr. Boddam-Whetham writes easily and agreeably.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._

“Mr. Whetham’s new volume contains the story of his journey by land and
river from San José de Guatemala to Carmen on the Mexican Gulf. This
journey is so interesting in many ways, that Mr. Whetham’s sprightly
work may fairly rank as one of those rarer books of travel which
tell us something that is really new and quite worth telling. It has
enabled him to present us with some charming pictures of a curious
country.”—_Graphic._

“A bright and lively account of interesting travel. We have not
met anywhere a truer picture of Central American scenery and
surroundings.”—_Globe._

THROUGH FRANCE AND BELGIUM, BY RIVER AND CANAL, IN THE STEAM YACHT
“YTENE.” By W. J. C. MOENS, R.V.Y.C. 1 vol. 8vo. With Illustrations. 15s.

“This book is pleasantly written, the descriptions of the scenery and
objects of interest are fresh and lively, and are interspersed with
entertaining anecdote. Mr. Moens gives very valuable information to his
yachting readers.”—_Sporting Gazette._

A BOOK ABOUT THE TABLE. By J. C. JEAFFRESON. 2 vols. 8vo. 30s.

“This book is readable and amusing from first to last. No one ought to be
without it. Racy anecdotes coruscate on every page.”—_Morning Post._

COSITAS ESPANOLAS; OR, EVERY-DAY LIFE IN SPAIN. By Mrs. HARVEY, of
Ickwell-Bury, Author of “Turkish Harems and Circassian Homes.” _Second
Edition._ 1 vol. 8vo. 15s.

RAMBLES IN ISTRIA, DALMATIA, AND MONTENEGRO. By R. H. R. 1 vol. 8vo. 14s.

PEARLS OF THE PACIFIC. By J. W. BODDAM-WHETHAM. 1 vol. Demy 8vo, with 8
Illustrations. 15s.

“The literary merits of Mr. Whetham’s work are of a very high order.
His descriptions are vivid, the comments upon what he saw judicious,
and there is an occasional dash of humour and of pathos which stirs our
sympathies.”—_Athenæum._

NOTES OF TRAVEL IN SOUTH AFRICA. By C. J. ANDERSSON, Author of “Lake
Ngami,” &c. Edited by L. LLOYD, Author of “Field Sports of the North.” 1
volume demy 8vo. With Portrait of the Author. 15s. bound.

WILD LIFE IN FLORIDA; With a Visit to Cuba. By Captain F. T. TOWNSHEND,
F.R.G.S., 2nd Life Guards. 1 vol. 8vo, with Map and Illustrations. 15s.

SPAIN AND THE SPANIARDS. By AZAMAT BATUK. 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21s.

TURKISH HAREMS & CIRCASSIAN HOMES. By MRS. HARVEY, of Ickwell-Bury. 8vo.
_Second Edition._ 15s.

MEMOIRS OF QUEEN HORTENSE, MOTHER OF NAPOLEON III. Cheaper Edition, in 1
vol. 6s.

“A biography of the beautiful and unhappy Queen, more satisfactory than
any we have yet met with.”—_Daily News._

RECOLLECTIONS OF SOCIETY IN FRANCE AND ENGLAND. By LADY CLEMENTINA
DAVIES. _2nd Edition._ 2v.

“Two charming volumes, full of the most interesting matter.”—_Post._

ON THE WING; A SOUTHERN FLIGHT. By the Hon. Mrs. ALFRED MONTGOMERY. 1
vol. 8vo. 14s.

THE EXILES AT ST. GERMAINS. By the Author of “The Ladye Shakerley.” 1
vol. 7s. 6d. bound.

THE NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS.

PUBLISHED BY HURST & BLACKETT.

THE LAST OF HER LINE. By the Author of “St. Olave’s,” &c. 3 vols.

THE GRAHAMS OF INVERMOY. By M. C. STIRLING, Author of “A True Man,” &c. 3
vols.

PAUL FABER, SURGEON. By GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D., Author of “David
Elginbrod,” “Robert Falconer,” “Alec Forbes,” &c. 3 vols.

“A powerful story. It is impossible to do justice to its lofty purpose
and its rare merits in the limits of a review.”—_John Bull._

“In ‘Paul Faber’ Dr. Mac Donald adds to his high reputation. The plot
is deeply interesting, the characters are life-like, and the incidents
remarkably striking.”—_Court Journal._

KELVERDALE. By the EARL OF DESART. 3 vols.

“Lord Desart’s book is agreeable and amusing. It is a spirited novel,
pleasantly written, and full of clever pictures of the society of to-day,
evidently sketched from life.”—_Morning Post._

“Lord Desart lays bare the impostures of the various classes of society
with unsparing directness and with a good deal of humour.”—_Athenæum._

A YOUNG MAN’S FANCY. By Mrs. FORRESTER, Author of “Viva,” “Mignon,” &c.
_Second Edition._ 3 vols.

“We hail with pleasure another novel from the pen of Mrs. Forrester. Her
book has all the natural interest and tact which distinguish a work of a
clever woman.”—_Court Journal._

“These volumes are brightly written, and are of varied interest.”—_John
Bull._

LOVE LOYAL. By MARY C. ROWSELL. 3 vols.

A BROKEN FAITH. By IZA DUFFUS-HARDY, Author of “Only a Love-Story,”
“Glencairn,” &c. 3 vols.

“An exceedingly interesting story, of considerable power. Miss Hardy is
to be congratulated on having added to her reputation by this fascinating
and clever novel.”—_Morning Post._

“A well-written story, with occasional touches of effective humour. The
plot is well imagined and well worked out.”—_Academy._

MICHELLE AND LITTLE JACK. By FRANCES MARTIN, Author of “The Life of
Angélique Arnauld.” 1 vol. 10s. 6d.

“These stories are masterpieces. The stamp of genius is apparent in every
page.”—_Examiner._

“Far above the average of novels in literary merit, greatly above in
moral tone and purpose, and equal in interest to any novel of the
season, is the volume which contains the tales of Michelle and Little
Jack.”—_John Bull._

A TRUE MARRIAGE. By EMILY SPENDER, Author of “Restored,” “Son and Heir,”
&c. 3 vols.

“A thoroughly pleasant and satisfactory book. It is a genuine story
of human concerns and interests such as are met with in the world
of every-day experience, rather than in the world of fancy or of
fiction.”—_Athenæum._

“A very pleasant and clever novel.”—_Post._

UNDER TEMPTATION. By the Author of “Ursula’s Love Story,” “Beautiful
Edith,” &c. 3 vols.

“An extremely clever story, remarkably well told.”—_Morning Post._

MRS. GREY’S REMINISCENCES. By LADY BLAKE, Author of “Claude,” “Ruth
Maxwell,” &c. 3 vols.

“A satisfactory, amusing, and attractive book.”—_Examiner._

THE PRIMROSE PATH. By Mrs. OLIPHANT, Author of “Chronicles of
Carlingford,” &c. 3 vols.

“Mrs. Oliphant’s last novel has merits which will recommend it to the
general public, and it should be hailed with something like enthusiasm by
all who happen to have, like Sir Ludovic Leslie, ‘a warm heart for Fife.’
A prettier Scotch story it would be hard to find, and the refinement of
its humour and picturesqueness of its descriptive setting cannot fail to
be appreciated. There is not a character without individuality from one
end of the book to the other.”—_Athenæum._

A CHEQUERED LIFE. By Mrs. DAY, Author of “From Birth to Bridal,” &c. 3
vols.

“A genuine story, of well sustained interest”—_Spectator._

“We have seldom seen a more taking novel, or one that better commands the
attention and interest of its reader.”—_Post._

WOOD ANEMONE. By Mrs. RANDOLPH, Author of “Gentianella,” “Wild Hyacinth,”
&c. 3 vols.

“A charming novel. The characters are natural and life-like. It is
written in Mrs. Randolph’s very best manner.”—_John Bull._

MARGERY TRAVERS. By Miss BEWICKE, Author of “Onwards, but Whither?” &c. 3
vols.

“An excellent novel: fresh, interesting, and entertaining.”—_Sunday
Times._

THE BUBBLE REPUTATION. By KATHARINE KING, Author of “The Queen of the
Regiment,” &c. 3 vols.

“Miss King is favourably known as the author of several novels of a more
or less military character. ‘The Bubble Reputation’ is quite equal to its
predecessors. The plot is ingenious, and the interest sustained to the
last.”—_Athenæum._

HATHERCOURT RECTORY. By Mrs. MOLESWORTH (ENNIS GRAHAM), Author of “The
Cuckoo Clock,” &c. _Second Edition._ 3 vols.

“We have read ‘Hathercourt Rectory’ with not a little pleasure. The tone
of the book is healthy throughout.”—_Saturday Review._

RUBY GREY. By W. HEPWORTH DIXON. _Third Edition._ 3 vols.

“This novel is one which everyone fond of an exciting story, with a good
deal of human interest in it, should read, and upon which it is pleasant
to congratulate the author.”—_Morning Post._

HIS LAST STAKE. By SHIRLEY SMITH, Author of “All for Herself,” &c. 3 vols.

“An extremely interesting story, written in a style much above the
average of contemporary works of fiction. An excellent novel, abounding
throughout with striking episodes. It is well worth reading.”—_Morning
Post._

BROTHER GABRIEL. By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS, Author of “Kitty,” “Bridget,” &c.
3 vols.

“This book may be read with pleasure. It is carefully written, and
contains very pleasant sketches of character.”—_Academy._

CALEB BOOTH’S CLERK. By Mrs. G. LINNÆUS BANKS, Author of “The Manchester
Man,” &c. 3 vols.

“This book is written with power and is a capital story, which we found
it difficult to lay down.”—_Spectator._

Under the Especial Patronage of Her Majesty.

_Published annually, in One Vol., royal 8vo, with the Arms beautifully
engraved, handsomely bound, with gilt edges, price 31s. 6d._

LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE, CORRECTED BY THE NOBILITY.

THE FORTY-EIGHTH EDITION FOR 1879 IS NOW READY.

LODGE’S PEERAGE AND BARONETAGE is acknowledged to be the most complete,
as well as the most elegant, work of the kind. As an established and
authentic authority on all questions respecting the family histories,
honours, and connections of the titled aristocracy, no work has ever
stood so high. It is published under the especial patronage of Her
Majesty, and is annually corrected throughout, from the personal
communications of the Nobility. It is the only work of its class in
which, _the type being kept constantly standing_, every correction is
made in its proper place to the date of publication, an advantage which
gives it supremacy over all its competitors. Independently of its full
and authentic information respecting the existing Peers and Baronets
of the realm, the most sedulous attention is given in its pages to the
collateral branches of the various noble families, and the names of many
thousand individuals are introduced, which do not appear in other records
of the titled classes. For its authority, correctness, and facility of
arrangement, and the beauty of its typography and binding, the work is
justly entitled to the place it occupies on the tables of Her Majesty and
the Nobility.

LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS.

Historical View of the Peerage.

Parliamentary Roll of the House of Lords.

English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their orders of Precedence.

Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain and the United Kingdom,
holding superior rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage.

Alphabetical list of Scotch and Irish Peers, holding superior titles in
the Peerage of Great Britain and the United Kingdom.

A Collective list of Peers, in their order of Precedence.

Table of Precedency among Men.

Table of Precedency among Women.

The Queen and the Royal Family.

Peers of the Blood Royal.

The Peerage, alphabetically arranged.

Families of such Extinct Peers as have left Widows or Issue.

Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the Peers.

The Archbishops and Bishops of England, Ireland, and the Colonies.

The Baronetage alphabetically arranged.

Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by members of Noble Families.

Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of Peers, usually borne by their
Eldest Sons.

Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Dukes, Marquises, and Earls, who,
having married Commoners, retain the title of Lady before their own
Christian and their Husband’s Surnames.

Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of Viscounts and Barons, who, having
married Commoners, are styled Honourable Mrs.; and, in case of the
husband being a Baronet or Knight, Honourable Lady.

Mottoes alphabetically arranged and translated.

“This work is the most perfect and elaborate record of the
living and recently deceased members of the Peerage of the
Three Kingdoms as it stands at this day. It is a most useful
publication. We are happy to bear testimony to the fact that
scrupulous accuracy is a distinguishing feature of this
book.”—_Times._

“Lodge’s Peerage must supersede all other works of the kind,
for two reasons: first, it is on a better plan; and secondly,
it is better executed. We can safely pronounce it to be the
readiest, the most useful, and exactest of modern works on the
subject.”—_Spectator._

“A work of great value. It is the most faithful record we
possess of the aristocracy of the day.”—_Post._

“The best existing, and, we believe, the best possible Peerage.
It is the standard authority on the subject.”—_Standard._

HURST & BLACKETT’S STANDARD LIBRARY OF CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR MODERN
WORKS,

ILLUSTRATED BY SIR J. GILBERT, MILLAIS, HUNT, LEECH, FOSTER, POYNTER,
TENNIEL, SANDYS, HUGHES, SAMBOURNE, &C.

Each in a Single Volume, elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated, price
5s.

1. =SAM SLICK’S NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE.=

“The first volume of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett’s Standard Library of
Cheap Editions forms a very good beginning to what will doubtless be
a very successful undertaking. ‘Nature and Human Nature’ is one of
the best of Sam Slick’s witty and humorous productions, and is well
entitled to the large circulation which it cannot fail to obtain in its
present convenient and cheap shape. The volume combines with the great
recommendations of a clear, bold type, and good paper, the lesser but
attractive merits of being well illustrated and elegantly bound.”—_Post._

2. =JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.=

“This is a very good and a very interesting work. It is designed to trace
the career from boyhood to age of a perfect man—a Christian gentleman;
and it abounds in incident both well and highly wrought. Throughout it is
conceived in a high spirit, and written with great ability. This cheap
and handsome new edition is worthy to pass freely from hand to hand as a
gift book in many households.”—_Examiner._

3. =THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.=

BY ELIOT WARBURTON.

“Independent of its value as an original narrative, and its useful and
interesting information, this work is remarkable for the colouring
power and play of fancy with which its descriptions are enlivened.
Among its greatest and most lasting charms is its reverent and serious
spirit.”—_Quarterly Review._

4. =NATHALIE. By JULIA KAVANAGH.=

“‘Nathalie’ is Miss Kavanagh’s best imaginative effort. Its manner
is gracious and attractive. Its matter is good. A sentiment, a
tenderness, are commanded by her which are as individual as they are
elegant.”—_Athenæum._

5. =A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“A book of sound counsel. It is one of the most sensible works of its
kind, well-written, true-hearted, and altogether practical. Whoever
wishes to give advice to a young lady may thank the author for means of
doing so.”—_Examiner._

6. =ADAM GRAEME. By MRS. OLIPHANT.=

“A story awakening genuine emotions of interest and delight by its
admirable pictures of Scottish life and scenery. The author sets before
us the essential attributes of Christian virtue, with a delicacy, power,
and truth which can hardly be surpassed.”—_Post._

7. =SAM SLICK’S WISE SAWS AND MODERN INSTANCES.=

“The reputation of this book will stand as long as that of
Scott’s or Bulwer’s Novels. Its remarkable originality and happy
descriptions of American life still continue the subject of universal
admiration.”—_Messenger._

8. =CARDINAL WISEMAN’S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LAST FOUR POPES.=

“A picturesque book on Rome and its ecclesiastical sovereigns, by an
eloquent Roman Catholic. Cardinal Wiseman has treated a special subject
with so much geniality, that his recollections will excite no ill-feeling
in those who are most conscientiously opposed to every idea of human
infallibility represented in Papal domination.”—_Athenæum._

9. =A LIFE FOR A LIFE.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“In ‘A Life for a Life’ the author is fortunate in a good subject, and
has produced a work of strong effect.”—_Athenæum._

10. =THE OLD COURT SUBURB. By LEIGH HUNT.=

“A delightful book, that will be welcome to all readers, and most welcome
to those who have a love for the best kinds of reading.”—_Examiner._

11. =MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS.=

“We recommend all who are in search of a fascinating novel to read this
work for themselves. They will find it well worth their while. There are
a freshness and originality about it quite charming.”—_Athenæum._

12. =THE OLD JUDGE. By SAM SLICK.=

“The publications included in this Library have all been of good quality;
many give information while they entertain, and of that class the book
before us is a specimen. The manner in which the Cheap Editions forming
the series is produced, deserves especial mention. The paper and print
are unexceptionable; there is a steel engraving in each volume, and the
outsides of them will satisfy the purchaser who likes to see books in
handsome uniform.”—_Examiner._

13. =DARIEN. By ELIOT WARBURTON.=

“This last production of the author of ‘The Crescent and the Cross’
has the same elements of a very wide popularity. It will please its
thousands.”—_Globe._

14. =FAMILY ROMANCE.=

BY SIR BERNARD BURKE, ULSTER KING OF ARMS.

“It were impossible to praise too highly this most interesting
book.”—_Standard._

15. =THE LAIRD OF NORLAW. By MRS. OLIPHANT.=

“The ‘Laird of Norlaw’ fully sustains the author’s high
reputation.”—_Sunday Times._

16. =THE ENGLISHWOMAN IN ITALY.=

“Mrs. Gretton’s book is interesting, and full of opportune
instruction.”—_Times._

17. =NOTHING NEW.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“‘Nothing New’ displays all those superior merits which have made ‘John
Halifax’ one of the most popular works of the day.”—_Post._

18. =FREER’S LIFE OF JEANNE D’ALBRET.=

“Nothing can be more interesting than Miss Freer’s story of the life
of Jeanne D’Albret, and the narrative is as trustworthy as it is
attractive.”—_Post._

19. =THE VALLEY OF A HUNDRED FIRES.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS.”

“If asked to classify this work, we should give it a place between ‘John
Halifax’ and ‘The Caxtons.’”—_Standard._

20. =THE ROMANCE OF THE FORUM.=

BY PETER BURKE, SERGEANT AT LAW.

“A work of singular interest, which can never fail to
charm.”—_Illustrated News._

21. =ADELE. By JULIA KAVANAGH.=

“‘Adele’ is the best work we have read by Miss Kavanagh; it is a charming
story full of delicate character-painting.”—_Athenæum._

22. =STUDIES FROM LIFE.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“These ‘Studies from Life’ are remarkable for graphic power and
observation. The book will not diminish the reputation of the
accomplished author.”—_Saturday Review._

23. =GRANDMOTHER’S MONEY.=

“We commend ‘Grandmother’s Money’ to readers in search of a good
novel. The characters are true to human nature, and the story is
interesting.”—_Athenæum._

24. =A BOOK ABOUT DOCTORS.=

BY J. C. JEAFFRESON.

“A delightful book.”—_Athenæum._ “A book to be read and re-read; fit
for the study as well as the drawing-room table and the circulating
library.”—_Lancet._

25. =NO CHURCH.=

“We advise all who have the opportunity to read this book.”—_Athenæum._

26. =MISTRESS AND MAID.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“A good wholesome book, gracefully written, and as pleasant to read
as it is instructive.”—_Athenæum._ “A charming tale charmingly
told.”—_Standard._

27. =LOST AND SAVED. By HON. MRS. NORTON.=

“‘Lost and Saved’ will be read with eager interest. It is a vigorous
novel.”—_Times._

“A novel of rare excellence. It is Mrs. Norton’s best prose
work.”—_Examiner._

28. =LES MISERABLES. By VICTOR HUGO.=

AUTHORISED COPYRIGHT ENGLISH TRANSLATION.

“The merits of ‘Les Miserables’ do not merely consist in the conception
of it as a whole; it abounds with details of unequalled beauty. M. Victor
Hugo has stamped upon every page the hall-mark of genius.”—_Quarterly
Review._

29. =BARBARA’S HISTORY. By AMELIA B. EDWARDS.=

“It is not often that we light upon a novel of so much merit and interest
as ‘Barbara’s History.’ It is a work conspicuous for taste and literary
culture. It is a very graceful and charming book, with a well-managed
story, clearly-cut characters, and sentiments expressed with an exquisite
elocution. It is a book which the world will like.”—_Times._

30. =LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING.=

BY MRS. OLIPHANT.

“A good book on a most interesting theme.”—_Times._

“A truly interesting and most affecting memoir. Irving’s Life ought to
have a niche in every gallery of religious biography. There are few lives
that will be fuller of instruction, interest, and consolation.”—_Saturday
Review._

31. =ST. OLAVE’S.=

“This charming novel is the work of one who possesses a great talent for
writing, as well as experience and knowledge of the world.”—_Athenæum._

32. =SAM SLICK’S AMERICAN HUMOUR.=

“Dip where you will into this lottery of fun, you are sure to draw out a
prize.”—_Post._

33. =CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“A more charming story has rarely been written. Even if tried by the
standard of the Archbishop of York, we should expect that even he would
pronounce ‘Christian’s Mistake’ a novel without a fault.”—_Times._

34. =ALEC FORBES OF HOWGLEN.=

BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D.

“No account of this story would give any idea of the profound interest
that pervades the work from the first page to the last.”—_Athenæum._

35. =AGNES. By MRS. OLIPHANT.=

“‘Agnes’ is a novel superior to any of Mrs. Oliphant’s former
works.”—_Athenæum._

“A story whose pathetic beauty will appeal irresistibly to all
readers.”—_Post._

36. =A NOBLE LIFE.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“This is one of those pleasant tales in which the author of ‘John
Halifax’ speaks out of a generous heart the purest truths of
life.”—_Examiner._

37. =NEW AMERICA. By HEPWORTH DIXON.=

“A very interesting book. Mr. Dixon has written thoughtfully and
well.”—_Times._

“We recommend every one who feels any interest in human nature to read
Mr. Dixon’s very interesting book.”—_Saturday Review._

38. =ROBERT FALCONER.=

BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D.

“‘Robert Falconer’ is a work brimful of life and humour and of the
deepest human interest. It is a book to be returned to again and again
for the deep and searching knowledge it evinces of human thoughts and
feelings.”—_Athenæum._

39. =THE WOMAN’S KINGDOM.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“‘The Woman’s Kingdom’ sustains the author’s reputation as a writer of
the purest and noblest kind of domestic stories.”—_Athenæum._

40. =ANNALS OF AN EVENTFUL LIFE.=

BY GEORGE WEBBE DASENT, D.C.L.

“A racy, well-written, and original novel. The interest never flags. The
whole work sparkles with wit and humour.”—_Quarterly Review._

41. =DAVID ELGINBROD. By GEORGE MAC DONALD.=

“The work of a man of genius. It will attract the highest class of
readers.”—_Times._

42. =A BRAVE LADY.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“A very good novel; a thoughtful, well-written book, showing a
tender sympathy with human nature, and permeated by a pure and noble
spirit.”—_Examiner._

43. =HANNAH.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“A very pleasant, healthy story, well and artistically told. The book is
sure of a wide circle of readers. The character of Hannah is one of rare
beauty.”—_Standard._

44. =SAM SLICK’S AMERICANS AT HOME.=

“This is one of the most amusing books that we ever read.”—_Standard._

45. =THE UNKIND WORD.=

BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”

“The author of ‘John Halifax’ has written many fascinating stories, but
we can call to mind nothing from her pen that has a more enduring charm
than the graceful sketches in this work.”—_United Service Magazine._

46. =A ROSE IN JUNE. By MRS. OLIPHANT.=

“‘A Rose in June’ is as pretty as its title. The story is one of
the best and most touching which we owe to the industry and talent
of Mrs. Oliphant, and may hold its own with even ‘The Chronicles of
Carlingford.’”—_Times._

47. =MY LITTLE LADY. By E. F. POYNTER.=

“There is a great deal of fascination about this book. The author writes
in a clear, unaffected style; she has a decided gift for depicting
character, while the descriptions of scenery convey a distinct pictorial
impression to the reader.”—_Times._

48. =PHŒBE, JUNIOR. By MRS. OLIPHANT.=

“This novel shows great knowledge of human nature. The interest goes on
growing to the end. Phœbe is excellently drawn.”—_Times._

49. =LIFE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE.=

BY PROFESSOR CHARLES DUKE YONGE.

“A work of remarkable merit and interest, which will, we doubt not,
become the most popular English history of Marie Antoinette.”—_Spectator._

“This book is well written, and of thrilling interest.”—_Academy._

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Roraima and British Guiana With a Glance at Bermuda, The West Indies, And The Spanish Main" ***

Home