I Suffered From Another Attack Of Fever At This Camp, Brought On By The Neighbourhood Of The Vile Delta, The Look Of Which Sickened The Very Heart In Me.

On the 7th of January we struck camp, and turned our faces eastward, and for me, home!

Yet regretfully! There had been enough happiness and pleasure, and pleasantest of social companionship found on the shores of the lake for me. I had seen enough lovely scenes which, siren-like, invited one to quiet rest; gentle scenes, where there was neither jar nor tumult, neither strife nor defeat, neither hope nor disappointment, but rest-a drowsy, indolent, yet pleasant rest. And only a few drawbacks to these. There was fever; there were no books, no newspapers, no wife of my own race and blood, no theatres, no hotels, no restaurants, no East River oysters, no mince-pies, neither buckwheat cakes, nor anything much that was good for a cultivated palate to love. So, in turning to say farewell to the then placid lake and the great blue mountains, that grew bluer as they receded on either hand, I had the courage to utter that awful word tearlessly, and without one sigh.

Our road led up through the valley of the Loajeri, after leaving its delta, a valley growing ever narrower, until it narrowed into a ravine choked by the now roaring, bellowing river, whose resistless rush seemed to affect the very air we breathed. It was getting oppressive, this narrowing ravine, and opportunely the road breasted a knoll, then a terrace, then a hill, and lastly a mountain, where we halted to encamp.

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