|
|
Average One Directory 14
Page 05
On October 19th we came in for a howling storm of wind and rain, waves being produced in the river as high as those that occur in the sea. We tossed about considerably and shipped a lot of water. More immense sand-beaches were passed, and then we came to a region of domed rocks showing along the river bank. At all the _baracaos_, or trading sheds where the _seringueiros_ bought their supplies, the same rubbish was for sale: condemned, quite uneatable ship biscuits sold at 5_s._ a kilo; Epsom salts at the rate of L2 sterling a kilo; putrid tinned meat at the rate of 10_s._ a tin; 1-lb. tins of the commonest French salt butter fetched the price of 10_s._ each. The conversation at all those halting-places where the trading boats stopped was dull beyond words, the local scandal--there was plenty of it always--having little interest for me.
The horseshoe-shaped waterfall was about 300 m. across and some 30 ft. high. When the river is full it must be beautiful, for the east side, which was then absolutely dry, is covered entirely by water, which must form a wonderful series of cascades. When the river is in flood, the waterfall, extending from north-west to south-east, has a total width of 1,000 m. There were some picturesque bits of rugged foliated rock over that great staircase, and huge cracks through which the water gurgled and foamed--those fissures formed not by the erosion of water but by volcanic action, perhaps by an earthquake. The large fall to the north-west, over which the water flows in every season, had on one side of it a steep incline, down which we took the canoe until we came to a drop about 15 ft. high.
What, again, is one to make of Dickens, with his love of private theatricals, his florid waistcoats and watch-chains, his sentimental radicalism, his kindly, convivial, gregarious life? He, again, did his work in a rapture of solitary creation, and seemed to have no taste for discussing his ideas or methods. Then, too, Dickens's later desertion of his work in favour of public readings and money-making is curious to note. He was like Shakespeare in this, that the passion of his later life seemed to be to realise an ideal of bourgeois prosperity. Dickens seems to have regarded his art partly as a means of social reform, and partly as a method of making money. The latter aim is to a great extent accounted for by the miserable and humiliating circumstances of his early life, which bit very deep into him. Yet his art was hardly an end in itself, but something through which he made his way to other aims.
|