Thanks to Spanish Republican barbarism, the only regular communication with that once magnificent capital of Northern Venezuela was by a filthy steamer, the Regos Ferreos, which had become, from her very looks, a byword in the port.

On board of her some friends of ours had lately been glad to sleep in a dog-hutch on deck, to escape the filth and vermin of the berths; and went hungry for want of decent food.

Caraccas itself was going through one of its periodic revolutions-- it has not got through the fever fit yet--and neither life nor property was safe.
But the longing to go westward was on us nevertheless.

It seemed hard to turn back after getting so far along the great path of the human race; and one had to reason with oneself--Foolish soul, whither would you go?
You cannot go westward for ever.

If you go up the Orinoco, you will long to go up the Meta.