Nothing could be grander than the sight of this great river pent into a narrow compass, and occasionally becoming more like an immense waterfall than a river, but I was in continual fear of coming to more places where the water would be over the track, and perhaps of finding myself unable to get any farther.  I therefore failed to enjoy what was really far the most impressive sight in its way that I had ever seen.  “Give me,” I said to myself, “the Thames at Richmond,” and right thankful was I, when at about two o’clock I found that I was through the gorge and in a wide valley, the greater part of which, however, was still covered by the river.  It was here that I heard for the first time the curious sound of boulders knocking against each other underneath the great body of water that kept rolling them round and round.

I now halted, and lit a fire, for there was much dead scrub standing that had remained after the ground had been burned for the first time some years previously.  I made myself some tea, and turned Doctor out for a couple of hours to feed.  I did not hobble him, for my father had told me that he would always come for bread.  When I had dined, and smoked, and slept for a couple of hours or so, I reloaded Doctor and resumed my journey towards the shepherd’s hut, which I caught sight of about a mile before I reached it.  When nearly half a mile off it, I dismounted, and made a written note of the exact spot at which I did so.  I then turned for a couple of hundred yards to my right, at right angles to the track, where some huge rocks were lying—­fallen ages since from the mountain that flanked this side of the valley.  Here I deposited my knapsack in a hollow underneath some of the rocks, and put a good sized stone in front of it, for I meant spending a couple of days with the shepherd to let the river go down.  Moreover, as it was now only December 3, I had too much time on my hands, but I had not dared to cut things finer.

I reached the hut at about six o’clock, and introduced myself to the shepherd, who was a nice, kind old man, commonly called Harris, but his real name he told me was Horace—­Horace Taylor.  I had the conversation with him of which I have already told the reader, adding that my father had been unable to give a coherent account of what he had seen, and that I had been sent to get the information he had failed to furnish.

The old man said that I must certainly wait a couple of days before I went higher up the river.  He had made himself a nice garden, in which he took the greatest pride, and which supplied him with plenty of vegetables.  He was very glad to have company, and to receive the newspapers which I had taken care to bring him.  He had a real genius for simple cookery, and fed me excellently.  My father’s 5 pounds, and the ration of brandy which I nightly gave him, made me a welcome guest, and though I was longing to be at any rate as far as the foot of the pass into Erewhon, I amused myself very well in an abundance of ways with which I need not trouble the reader.