FILIPPE, THE NEGRO 
and mountains was quite straight, barring three much 
eroded mountains standing quite isolated and at a great 
distance from one another. 
One of these solitary elevations was to the southwest; 
another, the castle-like mountain of great height we had 
already observed, stood due west. Then came the long, 
flat line of the plateau, with but a gentle convexity at each 
end. The plateau, dressed in thick forest, stood in the 
middle distance to the west-southwest. Campos of great 
beauty were prominent on its slopes and in the two 
hollows in the immediate vicinity. 
As we wound our way forward, we found masses of 
ferruginous black rock, black debris, and beautiful 
crystals. 
The silence of that wonderful landscape was im¬ 
pressive. The tinkling of my mules’ neck-bells was the 
only cheering sound breaking that monotonous solitude, 
except perhaps the occasional harsh voices of my men, 
urging on the animals with some unrepeatable oath or 
other. 
Filippe, the negro — to be distinguished from the 
other Filippi in my employ, a mulatto — was mounted 
on one of my best mules. He carried a regular armoury 
on his back and round his waist, for not only did he carry 
his own rifle but also mine, besides a pistol and two large 
knives. He rode along, slashing with a long whip now at 
one mule then at another. Occasionally he treated us 
to some of his improvised melodies, not at all bad and 
quite harmonious, although one got rather tired of the 
incessant repetitions. Filippe was a pure negro, born in 
Brazil from ex-slaves. He had never been in Africa. 
His songs interested me, for although much influenced 
naturally by modern Brazilian and foreign airs he had 
heard at Araguary, still, when he forgot himself and his 
surroundings, he would relapse unconsciously into the 
ululations and plaintive notes and rhythm typical of his 
vol. i.— 12 177 
