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    Green Mansions: A Romance of the Tropical Forest
    Green Mansions: A Romance of the Tropical Forest
    Green Mansions: A Romance of the Tropical Forest
    Ebook291 pages5 hours

    Green Mansions: A Romance of the Tropical Forest

    By W.H. Hudson

    3.5/5

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    The curious call of an unseen bird lures a young European explorer deeper and deeper into the jungle, where he encounters the source of the siren song — a lovely, half-wild girl with mysterious powers. Thus begins the romance between Abel, a revolutionary hiding among an Indian tribe in the Venezuelan rainforest, and Rima, who speaks the languages of birds and longs to return to the land of her birth to be reunited with others of her kind.
    Written by a British naturalist with a deep love and knowledge of wilderness areas, the richly colored tale transports readers to the lush atmosphere of the Amazonian outback. Originally published in 1904, this haunting classic offers a narrative of lyric beauty as well as a fascinating link between nineteenth-century Romanticism and modern environmentalism.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateSep 22, 2014
    ISBN9780486798592
    Author

    W.H. Hudson

    William Henry Hudson (1841–1922) was an author and naturalist. Hudson was born in Argentina, the son of English and American parents. There, he studied local plants and animals as a young man, publishing his findings in Proceedings of the Royal Zoological Society, in a mixture of English and Spanish. Hudson’s familiarity with nature was readily evident in later novels such as A Crystal Age and Green Mansions. He later aided the founding of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.

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    Reviews for Green Mansions

    3.5/5

    173 ratings12 reviews

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    • 3/5
      While I believe that most modern readers would appreciate the nature observations to be found in this novel or find the philosophical and historical perspective interesting, only a very small (I presume or hope) audience consisting of racist vegetarians would really love it.
    • 1/5
      I read this ages ago (it was published even more ages ago}, I enjoyed the fantasy story line but when the author decided that the heroine must be of European decent to be beautiful it totally turned my stomach. His portrayal of the indigenous women was quite... forgive me but I cannot find the right word.

      A side note: I picked this up because I'm a fan of Van Morrison and I read somewhere that he based his song "Green Mansions" on this book. I sure hope not. I have never quite enjoyed the song again.
    • 4/5
      Great story, wonderfully told. Simply a classic. Action, adventure, romance - it has it all.
    • 5/5
      On Jan 6, 1946, I said: "Read "Green Mansions" a queer and poetic book : romance. I liked it quite well." As the years went by I seemed to like it better and better, though I have never re-read it.
    • 3/5
      I feel ambivalent about this book. I did finish it, and on the whole I'm glad I read it, but I'm not sure I'd say I liked it--it holds on to three stars by its toe nails. It's considered a minor classic, and it was a favorite book of someone I knew in high school. How many classics are loved and read (unassigned) by teenagers? It was a favorite of novelist John Galsworthy as well, who provided the introduction in the Project Gutenberg edition I downloaded--he ranks Hudson with Tolstoy and called him his favorite living author (the book was published in 1904).The "green mansions" of the title is the Venezuelan Amazon rainforest. And Hudson was not only a respected novelist in his day, but a naturalist--and it shows. His descriptions of the rainforest, his depiction of his heroine Rima, who embodies nature, was the most appealing side of the book. I wouldn't particularly call myself a nature lover--and certainly no environmentalist, but even I wasn't immune to how he painted everything from the canopy of trees to a moth or spider. Lyrical--vivid--it was all that. So was Rima--one of the most original and memorable heroines I've read in literature. She's described as "bird-like" and so mystically in tune with nature she gains her raiment from a spider's silk and can cuddle up to a coral snake with impunity. The area's tribe won't hunt in her domain, which is under her protection--they fear her as something supernatural. That's the good part of the book, and a big reason I kept turning the pages was to read more of Rima and find out what happened to her.Then there's Abel. Abel is our narrator and hero--and boy, did I ever despise him. I'm far from politically correct--and I can make allowances for the times--remember, this was published in 1904. The problematic racial aspects of Gone With the Wind don't keep me from loving the book and film--ditto Kipling. So when I say Abel continually annoyed and repelled me with his attitude toward the indigenous inhabitants (which he called "savages") that says a lot. I'm not sure in the end if this really reflects Hudson's own attitudes or just how he depicted a character--because in the end I found Abel so despicable, so arrogant, I'm not so sure I am supposed to be on this side--although I think yes. In the end this is the first person narrator through which all the events are filtered, and he's framed as telling all this to his friend, who is flattering about his character. I can only tell you that if Rima is the reason I kept reading, Abel was the reason I was tempted to stop reading. If you can tolerate the character though, and some admittedly florid writing (1904 remember) as Abel goes into raptures about Rima's beauty--well, especially if you love nature, you might find yourself happy you took the journey.
    • 5/5
      I read this book when I was sixteen. I have been wanting to reread it for the past few months and now I have. It is one of those rare books which you remember almost perfectly. I did not, however, remember the love story. Must have been my age. And I did not remember how sad the ending was.Green Mansions is the story of Abel and his love affair with Rima the bird girl. Leaving political chaos behind in Caracas, Abel travels into the savage interior of Guayana province. He eventually comes to spend some little time with a village of natives. There is a nearby wood which they warn him against. They will not hunt there nor even enter, believing it to be under the protection of an evil spirit they call 'the daughter of the Didi'. Such ignorant superstitions hold no water with Abel, an educated man, and he begins exploring the wood. Once inside his 'green mansions' he is enchanted by the song of no bird he can name. Over the course of weeks the songstress leads him on merry chases, shows him some of the wonders of the woods, and ultimately saves his life. They fall in love, of course, but Rima does not understand her feelings. She lives with her 'grandfather' and wants to find her mother's people so they can explain what is happening to her.The three undertake a trip to find Rima's lost people with no success. She returns alone to her wood. I won't finish the tale in case you want to read it.Green Mansions was originally published in 1916. The author is W. H. Hudson. I have never seen another book of his but this one has always stuck with me. I have a 1944 edition which includes charming, primitive illustrations. This is the kind of book you cannot help but love - it is so well written and the tale is very compelling. If you can, look it up.
    • 4/5
      This book reads well on many different levels. Many are the references to other literature and the prose is very lyrical and deep. Highly recommend.
    • 5/5
      When I began to reread Green Mansions recently I instantly remembered why it impressed me so much. More than most other authors Hudson is able to instill the sense of wonder through his protagonist Abel who, while living by the Orinoco river in Venezuela, is drawn to the forest lands by strange bird-like singing. There he discovers a young girl named Rima and it is her story that takes up much of the remainder of the novel. Hudson based Rima and her lost tribe on persistent rumors about a tribe of white people who lived in the mountains. Temple paintings often showed light-skinned people, and Spanish Conquistadors were at first thought to be gods. I first read this novel when I was in high school and the memory of its' evocative and lyrical prose has lingered over the intervening decades. The story is one of people who are almost in an original state of nature, a romantic, if flawed, view that suggests their world may be better than civilization.Green Mansions is one of the few novels ever to become an undisputed classic during the author's lifetime. It is a book I found to be truly enthralling and full of romantic magic making it a great read.
    • 4/5
      A hunting tale about the complications of peoples' first contacts. I read this when I was a teenager, so the details are a bit foggy now, but I still find the story haunting and the ending shocking.
    • 4/5
      This is a classic, beautifully written, ultimately tragic story of love, and then revenge, in the South American jungle. Does Abel represent civilized man, who, when his ultimate desire - a higher level of consciousness - is taken from him, reverts to the savages with whom he originally consorts? The story is described as a "romance" but it's not the heaving bosom/throbbing manhood type, and the ending is rather shocking.
    • 5/5
      The tale of GREEN MANSIONS is set within the frame of memoir narration. The narrator and purported "author" of the "Prologue" claims to be publishing the story, told to him by Mr.Abel, in order to illuminate the mystery of Mr. Abel's identity and the discovery, on his death, of a closed room in his house containing a decorated funerary urn.As a young man, Mr. Abel had participated in an failed coup d'etat in Venezuela. Fleeing into the wilderness of Western Guayana, he takes up residence in a remote Indian village where he hopes to find peace in communing with nature. The Indians warn Abel that the pristine woodland area he has discovered is a dangerous place haunted by a daughter of theDidi. Scoffing at their superstitions, Abel continues to frequent the forest and becomes intrigued by a warbling sound which follows him and seems almost to communicate with him. One day he chances upon a young girl playing with a bird. Her iridescent other-world like appearance enchants him.When one of the Indians discovers that Abel has seen the girl, he is delighted and offers his sister as a wife in return for thedeath of the dread daughter of the Didi who has thwarted the Indians' hunting in the forest. Abel is appalled at the suggestion of any violence touching the pristine apparition he has seen. He continues to haunt the forest and is teased by the warbling voice, but he does not catch sight of the girl again until she stops him from killing a deadly coral snake.Abel is so enthralled with her presence that he forgets about the snake, which bites him when he treads upon it. While trying toreturn to the Indian village for help, Abel loses consciousness. When he awakes, he is in the hut of an old man named Nuflo, who says that he and his granddaughter, Rima, had brought Abel to the hut. Abel finds it hard to believe that the demure girl speaking Spanish is the same creature who warbled him through the forest. But as he recovers, she joins him in his rambles in the forest, where she again becomes the elusive warbler. Nuflofinally reveals to Abel that Rima is not actually his granddaughter but was given into his care by her dying mother.Although Rima appears and disappears at whim, she spends more time with Abel, and a bond between them begins to grow. Finally she asks him what is beyond the land that is visiblefrom the top of the mountain, Ytaioa. In an improvised geography lesson, Abel mentions the Riolama mountain range on the borderof Guayana. The name brings immediate recognition to Rima: "Riolama! Riolama!...That is the place I am seeking! There wasmy mother found--there are her people and mine! Therefore I was called Riolama--that is my name!" She is determined to go toRiolama and convinces Abel and Nuflo to accompany her on the long and difficult journey.When they reach the spot where Nuflo had found Rima's mother, it becomes apparent to Abel that she must have been the lone survivor of a disaster. He convinces Rima to return to theforest and live with him. She agrees, but insists on going ahead of the slow-journeying men to ready a place for them. When Abel and Nuflo finally return, they find that his hut has been destroyed. Searching for Rima in the forest, Abel findsan Indian hunting and returns with him to the Indian village to find out what has happened to Rima. Kua-ko' tells him that the daughter of the Didi had returned to the forest and found them hunting there. When she climbed to the top of a tree to frighten them, Runi ordered the tribe to set fire to the tree and Rima was killed.Bent on revenge, Abel flees to Managa's village and subsequently leads the enemy tribe in a raid on Runi's village.All in the village are killed. His revulsion and horror at whathe has done leaves Abel half-mad and scrabbling in the forest for mere survival. Among the ashes of the burnt tree, he findsRima's charred bones and gathers them together. His last act of devotion to Rima is to make a pot, decorated with forestmotifs, in which to carry her remains back to civilization. After a delirious journey, he finally reaches the coastal Georgetown; there Abel finally reaches some peace with himself and with the spirit of Rima.As an allegory, GREEN MANSIONS explores humanity's search for meaning in relationship with the natural world. Abel, aseveryman, flees from civilization into the wilderness where he encounters both the idealized and brutal aspects of the naturallife. Rima, who communicates with the animals and will allow none to be harmed, represents an Edenic harmony between humankindand nature. The Indians, on the other hand, exist in a fallen nature from which they must violently wrest the means for survival. Abel yearns to join with the golden-age visionrepresented by Rima, but he cannot communicate on her level, and the relationship is doomed. When he loses his vision, Abel regresses to the brutal level of the Indians and further to the level of an animal hunting for grubs to eat. It is only when he gathers up Rima's ashes and remains, that he begins his long roadback to a human consciousness. He must absolve and forgive himself in order to regain the grace offered by Rima.Beyond the allegorical aspects of GREEN MANSIONS, Hudson's strong naturalism and evocative descriptions of the landscapesand wildlife of the South American forests underline a contrast between the pristine wildernesses encountered by Abel and theEuropeanized civilization from which he originally fled. The Indians seem to fall somewhere in the middle -- they are by nomeans idealized savages, and the civilized Abel finds them brutal and degraded. The only human connection he makes in the Indian village is with the old woman, Clacla, whom he patronizes and humors. But these Indians too have been touched by the intrusion of the Europeans. There is a subtle warning implicit in Abel's rhapsodizings on the scenery; he senses the ongoing and impending destruction of the wilderness. That which is about to be lost is most precious.W.H. Hudson considered himself not a novelist but a "field naturalist who writes down what he sees." Born in Argentina of American parents, he was from his earliest days fascinated by nature. His expertise in the local flora and fauna led to a contract with the Smithsonian Institution to collect bird skins and to correspondence with Zoological Society of London which published his letters on the birds of Argentina in the Society's”Proceedings." In 1874 he moved to England hoping to support himself by writing about nature. Finding it difficult to obtain work as a naturalist in England, he turned to writing novels. His first, THE PURPLE LAND THAT ENGLAND LOST(1885, relates the adventures of a ”gaucho" on the Argentine pampas. A CRYSTAL AGE(1887) chronicles the difficulties of a modern man coming into contact with a utopian society which lives in harmony withnature. Although both novels were unfavorably received initially,each anticipates some of the themes of GREEN MANSIONS. Turning back to naturalistic writing, Hudson successfully published a number of essay collections including: ”The Naturalistin La Plata" (1892), ”Birds in a Village" (1893), ”Idle Days in Patagonia" (1893), ”Argentine Ornithology" ( 2 volumes, 1888-89) and ”Birds and Man" (1901). GREEN MANSIONS was published in England in1904 to critical acclaim but no popular success. Not until its publication in 1916 in the United States did Hudson achievefinancial success. Hudson transports the reader into the great South American forests that even in his lifetime were fast disappearing before the inroads of civilization. Undoubtedly the exoticlocale is one of the enduring attractions of the novel. The elusive character of Rima, while reminiscent of European woodlandsprites, also evokes the fragile purity of nature untouched by human incursions. The romantic appeal a lure to earlier generations of readers, is, however, underpinned by a strong ecological consciousness in the novel. Hudson's adventure story is a tale prophetic of the ongoing dangerous incursions into the South American wildernesses. Rima's fiery death anticipates the fiery clearing of the South American forest land for development. The elegiac tone of the novel underlines not only Abel's failure to attain union with the pure animistic spirit of Rima, but also the failure of modern humanity to comprehend the crucial role that nature plays in the survival of humankind itself.
    • 2/5
      I loved WH Hudson's "Purple Land." This flight of fancy , though, was unutterably turgid rubbish.When 23 year old Abel is involved in a political coup, he flees retribution to the most distant parts of southern Venezuela.Living with Indians, exploring the local forests, he encounters the girl/ wood nymph Rima....a magical, saintly, otherworldly creature of an unpleasingly fey, irrational and unknowable demeanour.Oof...by golly it dragged on...

    Book preview

    Green Mansions - W.H. Hudson

    XXII

    CHAPTER I

    NOW that we are cool, he said, and regret that we hurt each other, I am not sorry that it happened. I deserved your reproach: a hundred times I have wished to tell you the whole story of my travels and adventures among the savages, and one of the reasons which prevented me was the fear that it would have an unfortunate effect on our friendship. That was precious, and I desired above everything to keep it. But I must think no more about that now. I must think only of how I am to tell you my story. I will begin at a time when 1 was twenty-three. It was early in life to be in the thick of politics, and in trouble to the extent of having to fly my country to save my liberty, perhaps my life.

    Every nation, someone remarks, has the government it deserves, and Venezuela certainly has the one it deserves and that suits it best. We call it a republic, not only because it is not one, but also because a thing must have a name; and to have a good name, or a tine name, is very convenient—especially when you want to borrow money. If the Venezuelans, thinly distributed over an area of half a million square miles, mostly illiterate peasants, half-breeds, and indigenes, were educated, intelligent men, zealous only for the public weal, it would be possible for them to have a real republic. They have instead a government by cliques, tempered by revolution; and a very good government it is, in harmony with the physical conditions of the country and the national temperament. Now it happens that the educated men, representing your higher classes, are so few that there are not many persons unconnected by ties of blood or marriage with prominent members of the political groups to which they belong. By this you will see how easy and almost inevitable it is that we should become accustomed to look on conspiracy and revolt against the regnant party—the men of another clique—as only in the natural order of things. In the event of failure such outbreaks are punished, but they are not regarded as immoral. On the contrary, men of the highest intelligence and virtue among us are seen taking a leading part in these adventures. Whether such a condition of things is intrinsically wrong or not, or would be wrong in some circumstances and is not wrong, because inevitable, in others, I cannot pretend to decide; and all this tiresome prolusion is only to enable you to understand how I—a young man of unblemished character, not a soldier by profession, not ambitious of political distinction, wealthy for that country, popular in society, a lover of social pleasures, of books, of nature—actuated, as I believed, by the highest motives, allowed myself to be drawn very readily by friends and relations into a conspiracy to overthrow the government of the moment, with the object of replacing it by more worthy men— ourselves, to wit.

    Our adventure failed because the authorities got wind of the affair and matters were precipitated. Our leaders at the moment happened to be scattered over the country —some were abroad; and a few hot-headed men of the party, who were in Caracas just then, and probably feared arrest, struck a rash blow: the President was attacked in the street and wounded. But the attackers were seized, and some of them shot on the following day. When the news reached me I was at a distance from the capital, staying with a friend on an estate he owned on the River Quebrada Honda, in the State of Guarico, some fifteen to twenty miles from the town of Zaraza. My friend, an officer in the army, was a leader in the conspiracy; and as I was the only son of a man who had been greatly hated by the Minister of War, it became necessary for us both to fly for our lives. In the circumstances we could not look to be pardoned, even on the score of youth.

    Our first decision was to escape to the sea-coast; but as the risk of a journey to La Guayra, or any other port of embarkation on the north side of the country, seemed too great, we made our way in a contrary direction to the Orinoco, and downstream to Angostura. Now, when we had reached this comparatively safe breathing-place—safe, at all events, for the moment—I changed my mind about leaving or attempting to leave the country. Since boyhood I had taken a very peculiar interest in that vast and almost unexplored territory we possess south of the Orinoco, with its countless unmapped rivers and trackless forests; and in its savage inhabitants, with their ancient customs and character, unadulterated by contact with Europeans. To visit this primitive wilderness had been a cherished dream ; and I had to some extent even prepared myself for such an adventure by mastering more than one of the Indian dialects of the northern states of Venezuela. And now, finding myself on the south side of our great river, with unlimited time at my disposal, I determined to gratify this wish. My companion took his departure towards the coast, while I set about making preparations and hunting up information from those who had travelled in the interior to trade with the savages. I decided eventually to go back upstream, and penetrate to the interior in the western part of Guayana, and the Amazonian territory bordering on Colombia and Brazil, and to return to Angostura in about six months’ time. I had no fear of being arrested in the semi-independent, and in most part savage region, as the Guayana authorities concerned themselves little enough about the political upheavals at Caracas.

    The first five or six months I spent in Guayana, after leaving the city of refuge, were eventful enough to satisfy a moderately adventurous spirit. A complaisant Government employé at Angostura had provided me with a passport, in which it was set down (for few to read) that my object in visiting the interior was to collect information concerning the native tribes, the vegetable products of the country, and other knowledge which would be of advantage to the Republic; and the authorities were requested to afford me protection and assist me in my pursuits.

    I ascended the Orinoco, making occasional expeditions to the small Christian settlements in the neighbourhood of the right bank, also to the Indian villages; and travelling in this way, seeing and learning much, in about three months I reached the River Meta. During this period I amused myself by keeping a journal, a record of personal adventures, impressions of the country and people, both semi-civilised and savage; and as my journal grew, I began to think that on my return at some future time to Caracas, it might prove useful and interesting to the public, and also procure me fame; which thought proved pleasurable and a great incentive, so that I began to observe things more narrowly and to study expression. But the book was not to be.

    From the mouth of the Meta I journeyed on, intending to visit the settlement of Atahapo, where the great River Guaviare, with other rivers, empty themselves into the Orinoco. But I was not destined to reach it, for at the small settlement of Manapuri I fell ill of a low fever; and here ended the first half-year of my wanderings, about which no more need be told.

    A more miserable place than Manapuri for a man to be ill of a low fever in could not well be imagined. The settlement, composed of mean hovels, with a few large structures of mud, or plastered wattle, thatched with palm leaves, was surrounded by water, marsh, and forest, the breeding-place of myriads of croaking frogs and of clouds of mosquitoes; even to one in perfect health existence in such a place would have been a burden. The inhabitants mustered about eighty or ninety, mostly Indians of that degenerate class frequently to be met with in small trading outposts. The savages of Guayana are great drinkers, but not drunkards in our sense, since their fermented liquors contain so little alcohol that inordinate quantities must be swallowed to produce intoxication; in the settlements they prefer the white man’s more potent poisons, with the result that in a small place like Manapuri one can see enacted, as on a stage, the last act in the great American tragedy. To be succeeded, doubtless, by other and possibly greater tragedies. My thoughts at that period of suffering were pessimistic in the extreme. Sometimes, when the almost continuous rain held up for half a day, I would manage to creep out a short distance; but I was almost past making any exertion, scarcely caring to live, and taking absolutely no interest in the news from Caracas, which reached me at long intervals. At the end of two months, feeling a slight improvement in my health, and with it a returning interest in life and its affairs, it occurred to me to get out my diary and write a brief account of my sojourn at Manapuri. I had placed it for safety in a small deal box, lent to me for the purpose by a Venezuelan trader, an old resident at the settlement, by name Pantaleon—called by all Don Panta—one who openly kept half a dozen Indian wives in his house, and was noted for his dishonesty and greed, but who had proved himself a good friend to me. The box was in a corner of the wretched palm-thatched hovel I inhabited; but on taking it out I discovered that for several weeks the rain had been dripping on it, and that the manuscript was reduced to a sodden pulp. I flung it upon the floor with a curse, and threw myself back on my bed with a groan.

    In that desponding state I was found by my friend Panta, who was constant in his visits at all hours; and, when in answer to his anxious inquiries I pointed to the pulpy mass on the mud floor, he turned it over with his foot, and then, bursting into a loud laugh, kicked it out, remarking that he had mistaken the object for some unknown reptile that had crawled in out of the rain. He affected to be astonished that I should regret its loss. It was all a true narrative, he exclaimed; if I wished to write a book for the stay-at-homes to read, I could easily invent a thousand lies far more entertaining than any real experiences. He had come to me, he said, to propose something. He had lived twenty years at that place, and had got accustomed to the climate, but it would not do for me to remain any longer if I wished to live. I must go away at once to a different country—to the mountains, where it was open and dry. And if you want quinine when you are there, he concluded, smell the wind when it blows from the south-west, and you will inhale it into your system, fresh from the forest. When I remarked despondingly that in my condition it would be impossible to quit Manapuri, he went on to say that a small party of Indians was now in the settlement; that they had come, not only to trade, but to visit one of their own tribe, who was his wife, purchased some years ago from her father. And the money she cost me I have never regretted to this day, said he, for she is a good wife—not jealous, he added, with a curse on all the others. These Indians came all the way from the Queneveta mountains, and were of the Maquiritari tribe. He, Panta, and, better still, his good wife, would interest them on my behalf, and for a suitable reward they would take me by slow, easy stages to their own country, where I would be treated well and recover my health.

    This proposal, after I had considered it well, produced so good an effect on me, that I not only gave a glad consent, but, on the following day, I was able to get about and begin the preparations for my journey with some spirit.

    In about eight days I bade good-bye to my generous friend Panta, whom I regarded, after having seen much of him, as a kind of savage beast that had sprung on me, not to rend, but to rescue from death; for we know that even cruel savage brutes and evil men have at times sweet, beneficent impulses, during which they act in a way contrary to their natures, like passive agents of some higher power. It was a continual pain to travel in my weak condition, and the patience of my Indians was severely taxed; but they did not forsake me; and, at last, the entire distance, which I conjectured to be about sixty-five leagues, was accomplished; and at the end I was actually stronger and better in every way than at the start. From this time my progress towards complete recovery was rapid. The air, with or without any medicinal virtue blown from the cinchona trees in the far-off Andean forest, was tonic; and when I took my walks on the hillside above the Indian village, or later, when able to climb to the summits, the world as seen from those wild Queneveta mountains had a largeness and varied glory of scenery peculiarly refreshing and delightful to the soul.

    With the Maquiritari tribe I passed some weeks, and the sweet sensations of returning health made me happy for a time; but such sensations seldom outlast convalescence. I was no sooner well again than I began to feel a restless spirit stirring in me. The monotony of savage life in this place became intolerable. After my long listless period the reaction had come, and I wished only for action, adventure—no matter how dangerous; and for new scenes, new faces, new dialects. In the end I conceived the idea of going on to the Casiquiare river where I would find a few small settlements, and perhaps obtain help from the authorities there which would enable me to reach the Rio Negro. For it was now in my mind to follow that river to the Amazons, and so down to Para and the Atlantic coast.

    Leaving the Queneveta range, I started with two of the Indians as guides and travelling companions; but their journey ended only half-way to the river I wished to reach; and they left me with some friendly savages living on the Chunapay, a tributary of the Cunucumana, which flows to the Orinoco. Here I had no choice but to wait until an opportunity of attaching myself to some party of travelling Indians, going south-west, should arrive; for by this time I had expended the whole of my small capital in ornaments and calico brought from Manapuri, so that I could no longer purchase any man’s service. And perhaps it will be as well to state at this point just what I possessed. For some time I had worn nothing but sandals to protect my feet; my garments consisted of a single suit, and one flannel shirt, which I washed frequently, going shirtless while it was drying. Fortunately I had an excellent blue cloth cloak, durable and handsome, given to me by a friend at Angostura, whose prophecy on presenting it, that it would outlast me, very nearly came true. It served as a covering by night, and to keep a man warm and comfortable when travelling in cold and wet weather no better garment was ever made. I had a revolver and metal cartridge box in my broad leather belt, also a good hunting-knife with strong buckhorn handle and a heavy blade about nine inches long. In the pocket of my cloak I had a pretty silver tinder-box, and a match-box—to be mentioned again in this narrative—and one or two other trifling objects: these I was determined to keep until they could be kept no longer.

    During the tedious interval of waiting on the Chunapay I was told a flattering tale by the village Indians, which eventually caused me to abandon the proposed journey to the Rio Negro. These Indians wore necklets, like nearly all the Guayana savages; but one, I observed, possessed a necklet unlike that of the others, which greatly aroused my curiosity. It was made of thirteen gold plates, irregular in form, about as broad as a man’s thumb-nail, and linked together with fibres. I was allowed to examine it, and had no doubt that the pieces were of pure gold, beaten flat by the savages. When questioned about it they said that it was originally obtained from the Indians of Parahuari, and Parahuari, they further said, was a mountainous country west of the Orinoco. Every man and woman in that place, they assured me, had such a necklet. This report inflamed my mind to such a degree that I could not rest by night or day for dreaming golden dreams, and considering how to get to that rich district, unknown to civilised men. The Indians gravely shook their heads when I tried to persuade them to take me. They were far enough from the Orinoco, and Parahuari was ten, perhaps fifteen, days’ journey further on—a country unknown to them, where they had no relations.

    In spite of difficulties and delays, however, and not without pain and some perilous adventures, I succeeded at last in reaching the upper Orinoco, and, eventually, in crossing to the other side. With my life in my hand I struggled on westward through an unknown difficult country, from Indian village to village, where at any moment I might have been murdered with impunity for the sake of my few belongings. It is hard for me to speak a good word for the Guayana savages; but I must now say this of them, that they not only did me no harm when I was at their mercy during this long journey, but they gave me shelter in their villages, and fed me when I was hungry, and helped me on my way when I could make no return. You must not, however, run away with the idea that there is any sweetness in their disposition, any humane or benevolent instincts such as are found among the civilised nations: far from it. I regard them now, and, fortunately for me, I regarded them then, when, as I have said, I was at their mercy, as beasts of prey, plus a cunning or low kind of intelligence vastly greater than that of the brute; and, for only morality, that respect for the rights of other members of the same family, or tribe, without which even the rudest communities cannot hold together. How, then, could I do this thing, and dwell and travel freely, without receiving harm, among tribes that have no peace with and no kindly feelings towards the stranger, in a district where the white man is rarely or never seen ? Because I knew them so well. Without that knowledge, always available, and an extreme facility in acquiring new dialects, which had increased by practice until it was almost like intuition, I should have fared badly after leaving the Maquiritari tribe. As it was, I had two or three very narrow escapes.

    To return from this digression I looked at last on the famous Parahuari mountains, which, I was greatly surprised to find, were after all nothing but hills, and not very high ones. This, however, did not depress me. The very fact that Parahuari possessed no imposing feature in its scenery seemed rather to prove that it must be rich in gold: how else could its name and the fame of its treasures be familiar to people dwelling so far away as the Cunucumana?

    But there was no gold. I searched through the whole range, which was about seven leagues long, and visited the villages, where I talked much with the Indians, interrogating them, and they had no necklets of gold, nor gold in any form; nor had they ever heard of its presence in Parahuari, nor in any other place known to them.

    The very last village where I spoke on the subject of my quest, albeit now without hope, was about a league from the western extremity of the range, in the midst of a high broken country of forest and savannah and many swift streams; near one of these, called the Curicay, the village stood, among low scattered trees—a large building, in which all the people, numbering eighteen, passed most of their time when not hunting, with two smaller buildings attached to it. The head, or chief, Runi by name, was about fifty years old, a taciturn, finely formed, and somewhat dignified savage, who was either of a sullen disposition or not well pleased at the intrusion of a white man. And for a time I made no attempt to conciliate him. What profit was there in it at all? Even that light mask, which I had worn so long and with such good effect, incommoded me now: I would cast it aside and be myself —silent and sullen as my barbarous host. If any malignant purpose was taking form in his mind, let it, and let him do his worst; for when failure first stares a man in the face it has so dark and repellent a look that not anything that can be added can make him more miserable; nor has he any apprehension. For weeks I had been searching with eager, feverish eyes in every village, in every rocky crevice, in every noisy mountain streamlet, for the glittering yellow dust I had travelled so far to find. And now all my beautiful dreams—all the pleasure and power to be —had vanished like a mere mirage on the savannah at noon.

    It was a day of despair which I spent in this place, sitting all day indoors, for it was raining hard, immersed in my own gloomy thoughts, pretending to doze in my seat, and out of the narrow slits of my half-closed eyes seeing the others, also sitting or moving about, like shadows or people in a dream; and I cared nothing about them, and wished not to seem friendly, even for the sake of the food they might offer me by-and-by.

    Towards evening the rain ceased; and rising up I went out a short distance to the neighbouring stream, where I sat on a stone, and casting off my sandals, laved my bruised feet in the cool running water. The western half of the sky was blue again with that tender lucid blue seen after rain, but the leaves still glittered with water, and the wet trunks looked almost black under the green foliage. The rare loveliness of the scene touched and lightened my heart. Away back in the east the hills of Parahuari, with the level sun full on them, loomed with a strange glory against the grey rainy clouds drawing off on that side, and their new mystic beauty almost made me forget how these same hills had wearied, and hurt, and mocked me. On that side, also to the north and south, there was open forest, but to the west a different prospect met the eye. Beyond the stream and the strip of verdure that fringed it, and the few scattered dwarf trees growing near its banks, spread a brown savannah sloping upwards to a long, low, rocky ridge, beyond which rose a great solitary hill, or rather mountain, conical in form, and clothed in forest almost to the summit. This was the mountain Ytaioa, the chief landmark in that district. As the sun went down over the ridge, beyond the savannah, the whole western sky changed to a delicate rose-colour that had the appearance of rose-coloured smoke blown there by some far off-wind, and left suspended—a thin, brilliant veil showing through it the distant sky beyond, blue and ethereal. Flocks of birds, a kind of troupial, were flying past me overhead, flock succeeding flock, on their way to their roosting-place, uttering as they flew a clear, bell-like chirp; and there was something ethereal too in those drops of melodious sound, which fell into my heart like raindrops falling into a pool to mix their fresh heavenly water with the water of earth.

    Doubtless into the turbid tarn of my heart some sacred drops had fallen—from the passing birds, from that crimson disc which had now dropped below the horizon, the darkening hills, the rose and blue of infinite heaven, from the whole visible circle; and I felt purified and had a strange sense and apprehension of a secret innocence and spirituality in nature—a prescience of some bourn, incalculably distant perhaps, to which we are all moving; of a time when the heavenly rain shall have washed us clean from all spot and blemish. This unexpected peace which I had found now seemed to me of infinitely greater value than that yellow metal I had missed finding, with all its possibilities. My wish now was to rest for a season at this spot, so remote and lovely and peaceful, where I had experienced such unusual feelings, and such a blessed disillusionment.

    This was the end of my second period in Guayana; the first had been filled with that dream of a book to win me fame in my country, perhaps even in Europe: the second, from the time of leaving the Queneveta mountains, with the dream of boundless wealth—the old dream of gold in this region that has drawn so many minds since the days of Alonzo Pizarro. But to remain I must propitiate Runi, sitting silent with gloomy brows over there indoors; and he did not appear to me like one that might be won with words, however flattering. It was clear to me that the time had come to part with my one remaining valuable trinket—the tinder-box of chased silver.

    I returned to the house, and going in seated myself on a log by the fire, just opposite to

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