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The Sea and the Jungle   By: (1873-1958)

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First Page:

THE SEA AND THE JUNGLE

BY H. M. TOMLINSON

NEW YORK E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE

Published, 1920, BY E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY

All Rights Reserved

First Printing, October, 1920 Second Printing, September, 1921

THE SEA AND THE JUNGLE

Being the narrative of the voyage of the tramp steamer Capella from Swansea to Para in the Brazils, and thence 2000 miles along the forests of the Amazon and Madeira Rivers to the San Antonio Falls; afterwards returning to Barbados for orders, and going by way of Jamaica to Tampa in Florida, where she loaded for home. Done in the years 1909 and 1910.

DEDICATED TO THOSE WHO DID NOT GO

The author is indebted to the editors of the English Review , the Pall Mall Magazine , the Morning Leader , and the Yorkshire Observer , for permission to incorporate such parts of this narrative as appeared first in their publications.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. 1 II. 98 III. 185 IV. 246 V. 271 VI. 324

THE SEA AND THE JUNGLE

I

Though it is easier, and perhaps far better, not to begin at all, yet if a beginning is made it is there that most care is needed. Everything is inherent in the genesis. So I have to record the simple genesis of this affair as a winter morning after rain. There was more rain to come. The sky was waterlogged and the grey ceiling, overstrained, had sagged and dropped to the level of the chimneys. If one of them had pierced it! The danger was imminent.

That day was but a thin solution of night. You know those November mornings with a low, corpse white east where the sunrise should be, as though the day were still born. Looking to the dayspring, there is what we have waited for, there the end of our hope, prone and shrouded. This morning of mine was such a morning. The world was very quiet, as though it were exhausted after tears. Beneath a broken gutter spout the rain (all the night had I listened to its monody) had discovered a nest of pebbles in the path of my garden in a London suburb. It occurs to you at once that a London garden, especially in winter, should have no place in a narrative which tells of the sea and the jungle. But it has much to do with it. It is part of the heredity of this book. It is the essence of this adventure of mine that it began on the kind of day which so commonly occurs for both of us in the year's assortment of days. My garden, on such a morning, is a necessary feature of the narrative, and much as I should like to skip it and get to sea, yet things must be taken in the proper order, and the garden comes first. There it was: the blackened dahlias, the last to fall, prone in the field where death had got all things under his feet. My pleasaunce was a dark area of soddened relics; the battalions of June were slain, and their bodies in the mud. That was the prospect in life I had. How was I to know the Skipper had returned from the tropics? Standing in the central mud, which also was black, surveying that forlorn end to devoted human effort, what was there to tell me the Skipper had brought back his tramp steamer from the lands under the sun? I knew of nothing to look forward to but December, with January to follow... Continue reading book >>




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