At last we were homeward bound.  We had been seven weeks in the island.  We had promised to be back in England, if possible, within the three months; and we had a certain pride in keeping our promise, not only for its own sake, but for the sake of the dear West Indies.  We wished to show those at home how easy it was to get there; how easy to get home again.  Moreover, though going to sea in the Shannon was not quite the same ‘as going to sea in a sieve,’ our stay-at-home friends were of the same mind as those of the dear little Jumblies, whom Mr. Lear has made immortal in his New Book of Nonsense; and we were bound to come back as soon as possible, and not ‘in twenty years or more,’ if we wished them to say—­

’If we live,
We too will go to sea in a sieve,
To the Hills of the Chankly bore.’

So we left.  But it was sore leaving.  People had been very kind; and were ready to be kinder still; while we, busy—­perhaps too busy--over our Natural History collections, had seen very little of our neighbours; had been able to accept very few of the invitations which were showered on us, and which would, I doubt not, have given us opportunities for liking the islanders still more than we liked them already.

Another cause made our leaving sore to us.  The hunger for travel had been aroused—­above all for travel westward—­and would not be satisfied.  Up the Orinoco we longed to go:  but could not.  To La Guayra and Caraccas we longed to go:  but dared not.  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.  If you get to Sta.  Fe de Bogota, you will not be content till you cross the Andes and see Cotopaxi and Chimborazo.  When you look down on the Pacific, you will be craving to go to the Gallapagos, after Darwin; and then to the Marquesas, after Herman Melville; and then to the Fijis, after Seeman; and then to Borneo, after Brooke; and then to the Archipelago, after Wallace; and then to Hindostan, and round the world.  And when you get home, the westward fever will be stronger on you than ever, and you will crave to start again.  Go home at