The length of the island of Marajo is about one hundred and twenty miles; its breadth averages from sixty to eighty. Much of it is well wooded, but far the larger part is campo, covered during the wet season with coarse tall grass. At that time the whole island is little more than a labyrinth of lakes. In summer the superabundant waters are drained by numerous igaripés, and, rain rarely falling, this watery surface is exchanged for a garden of beauty in some parts, and into a desert upon the campos. The population of the island is large, consisting mostly of Indians and half-breeds. Some of the towns, however, are of considerable size, but most of the inhabitants are scattered along the coast and upon the igaripes. Four hundred thousand cattle roam over the campos, belonging to various proprietors, the different herds being distinguishable by peculiar marks or brands. The estate of which Jungcal forms part numbers thirty thousand cattle, and a great number of Indians and blacks are employed in their care, keeping them together, driving them up at proper seasons to be marked, and collecting such as are wanted for exportation to the city. These men become extremely attached to this wild life, and are a fearless, hardy race, admirable horsemen, and expert with the lasso. When horses abounded, it was customary to drive the marketable cattle towards the Pará side of the island, whence transmission to the city was easy; but at present they are shipped from Jungcal, or other places still more remote, thus causing great waste of time, and ruining the quality of the beef.

Our delightful visit at Magoary had incited a desire for further adventure, and, ere a week had elapsed after our return, we were preparing to visit Caripé. Profiting by past experience, we secured a small canoe, having, instead of a cabin, merely an arched covering towards the stern, denominated a tolda, and affording sufficient shelter for short voyages. This was manned by two stout negroes. Caripé is nearly opposite Pará, distant about thirty miles, but separated by many intervening islands. Among these, thirty miles may be a short distance or a very long one, as the tides favour; for there are so many cross currents running in every direction, that it requires great care to avoid being compelled to anchor and lose much time. As to pulling against the tide, which rushes along with a six-mile velocity, it is next to impossible.

We left Pará at midnight, two hours before low tide; and, falling down about eight miles, received the advancing flood, which swiftly bore us on its bosom. There were two others of our party besides A — and myself; and one taking the helm, the rest of us stretched our toughening bodies upon the platform under the tolda, determined to make a night of it.

Morning dawned, and we were winding, in a narrow channel, among the loveliest islands that eye ever rested on. They sat upon the water like living things; their green drapery dipping beneath the surface, and entirely concealing the shore.

We arrived at Santarem about midnight, and anchored off the house of Captain Hislop, waiting for the morning. The Captain was absent, but had left orders to place his house at our disposal; therefore, without further ceremony, we took possession, and breakfasted once more upon the delightful Santarem beef. We called upon our friend Senhor Louis, and were gratified to find that he had not forgotten us in our absence, but had made for us a good collection of insects, and other matters in which we were interested. He pressed us much to protract our stay, as did Mr. William Golding, an English resident, who called upon us; but our loss of time at Villa Nova obliged us to make all speed to Pará.

The large black monkey which had been given us two months before, and whose society we had anticipated with mingled emotions, had gone by the board about a week previous, “lying down and dying like a man,” as the old lady said. To console our bereavement somewhat, she sent down to the galliota a pair of young, noisy, half-fledged parrots, and a pavon or sun-bird. Senhor Louis added a basket of young paroquets and a pair of land-turtles, and Mr. Golding a pretty maraca duck. Thus we were to have no lack of objects for sympathy or entertainment for the remainder of our voyage.

We had arrived in the midst of the wet season, and all night the rain poured incessantly. But as the sun rose the clouds broke away, and our first view was rendered still more agreeable by the roseate mist that draped the tree-tops and lingered over the city. Anchored about us were vessels of various nations and strange-looking river craft, under whose thatched roofs whole families seemed to be living, and upon which green parrots and macaws were clambering and screaming.

Canoes, bound to the market, were constantly passing, loaded with all kinds of produce. Fine-looking buildings, of three and four stories’ height, faced the water, all yellow in colour, and roofed with red tiles. Vast cathedrals and churches, covered with the mould of age, shot up their tall spires, their walls and roofs affording sustenance and support to venerable mosses and shrubs of goodly size. Garden walls were overhung with creeping vines, like ancient ruins. Vultures were leisurely wheeling over the city, or in clusters upon the house tops, spreading their wings to the sun. Mid the ringing of bells and the discharge of rockets, a long procession was issuing from the church of San Antonio; and a Babel of sounds from dogs and parrots, and strange tongues, came over the water.

At about nine o'clock the doctor of the port visited us; and soon after an official of the custom-house examined our passports, and left with each of us a notification to present ourselves, within three days, to the chief of police, and to obtain from him a licence of residence.

Taüaü is one of the estates of Archibald Campbell, Esq., and by his invitation we made arrangements for spending a few days there in company with Mr. Norris. The distance from Pará is one tide, or about thirty miles nearly south, and upon the river Acará. We left the city late in the afternoon in the same canoe and with the same boatmen who accompanied us to Caripé. Just above the city the Guamá flows in with a powerful current, setting far over towards the opposite islands. Passing this we entered the stream formed by the united waters of the Mojú and Acará, and a few miles above turned eastward into the latter— a quiet, narrow river, winding among comparatively lofty banks and through large and well-cultivated plantations. The clear moonlight added inexpressibly to the charm of this voyage, silvering the trees and casting long shadows over the water. The blacks struck up a song, and the wild chorus floated through the air startling the stillness. Frequently the same song came echoed back, and soon was heard the measured sound of paddles, as some night voyager like ourselves was on his way to the city.

One cannot sail upon these streams, where unreclaimed nature still revels in freedom and beauty, without feeling powerfully the thickly clustering associations connected with them, and having often before his mind the scenes that have here transpired since white men made this the theatre of their avarice and ambition.

While we were at Barra, Senhor Gabriel, one of the dignitaries of the place, and a very agreeable gentleman, returned from an exploring expedition up one of the smaller rivers which flow into the Rio Negro between Barra and the Branco. Nothing had previously been known of the region lying adjacent to this stream, for vague traditions of hostile Indians had deterred even the adventurous frontiers-men from attempting its exploration. The Senhor described it as a beautiful rolling country, in many parts high, and covered by forests of magnificent growth. It was uninfested by cárapanás, and never visited by fevers; nor were there troublesome Indians to molest settlers.

The Senhor gave us the skin of a large black monkey which he had killed during this excursion, and the nest and eggs of a white-collared hummer, the Trochilus melivorus. The nest was composed of the light down growing upon the exterior of a small berry, and surpassed anything we had seen in bird-architecture. The eggs were tiny things, white with a few spots of red.

The Rio Branco is another interesting stream which sends its wealth to Barra. Its head-waters are in the highlands towards Guiana, and it flows through one of the loveliest and most desirable regions of tropical America. There are many settlements upon its banks, and an extensive traffic is carried on in cattle and produce.

On Monday, the twenty-second of January, two hours before daylight, we started for the port. ‘Hezoos led the way, carrying before him all my luggage, rolled up in a baquette, being simply a cowhide, after the fashion of the country. At daylight we heard behind us the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and Don Manuel de Aguila, with his two sons, overtook us. Before the freshness of the morning was past we reached the port, and rode up to the old hut which I had hoped never to see again. The hammock was swinging in the same place. The miserable rancho seemed destined to be the abode of sickness. In one corner lay Señor D'Yriarte, my captain, exhausted by a night of fever, and unable to sail that day.

Dr. Drivin was again at the port. He had not yet disembarked his machinery; in fact, the work was suspended by a mutiny on board the English brig, the ringleader of which, as the doctor complained to me, was an American. I passed the day on the seashore. In one place, a little above high-water mark, almost washed by the waves, were rude wooden crosses, marking the graves of unhappy sailors who had died far from their homes. Returning, I found at the hut Captain Jay, of the English brig, who also complained to me of the American sailor. The captain was a young man, making his first voyage as master; his wife, whom he had married a week before sailing, accompanied him. He had had a disastrous voyage of eight months from London; in doubling Cape Horn his crew were all frostbitten and his spars carried away.

I rose about an hour before daylight, and was in my saddle by break of day. We watered our mules at the River Flores, the boundary-line of the states of Costa Rica and Nicaragua. In an hour we reached Skamaika, the name given to a single hut occupied by a negro, sick and alone. He was lying on a bedstead made of sticks, the very picture of wretchedness and desolation, worn to a skeleton by fever and ague. Soon after we came to another hut, where two women were sick with fever. Nothing could be more wretched than these huts along the Pacific. They asked me for remedios, and I gave them some quinine, but with little hope of their ever benefiting by it. Probably both the negro and they are now in their graves.

At twelve o'clock we reached the River St. John, the mouth of which was the terminating point of the great canal. The road to Nicaragua crossed the stream, and ours followed it to the sea, the port being situated at its mouth. Our whole road had been desolate enough, but this far surpassed anything I had seen; and as I looked at the little path that led to Nicaragua, I felt as if we were leaving a great highway. The valley of the river is about a hundred yards broad, and in the season of rain the whole is covered with water; but at this time the stream was small, and a great part of its bed dry. The stones were bleached by the sun, and there was no track or impression which gave the slightest indication of a path.

The next day we were obliged to wait for our muleteer. Our guide of the night before had stolen one of our bridles; and here we found the beginning of an annoyance which attended us throughout Central America, in the difficulty of buying anything ready made. There was a blacksmith who had a bit partly made, but had not charcoal enough to finish it. Fortunately, during the day an Indian arrived with a backload, and the bridle was completed. The headstall we bought of a saddler, and the reins, which were of platted leather like the lash of a whip, we were lucky enough to obtain ready made. The arrival of the charcoal enabled the blacksmith to fit us out with one pair of spurs.

At Zacapa, for the first time, we saw a schoolhouse. It was a respectable-looking building, with columns in front, and against the wall hung a large card, headed,

with a long list of complicated articles, declaring the rewards and punishments. The school, for the government of which these regulations were intended, consisted of five boys, two besides the decurions and monitor. It was nearly noon, and the master, who was the clerk of the alcalde, had not yet made his appearance.

It was broad daylight when we woke, without any machete cuts, and still in undisturbed possession of the town. My first thought was for the mules; they had eaten up their sacate, and had but a poor chance for more, but I sent them immediately to the river for water. They had hardly gone when a little boy ran in from the church, and told us that la gente were in sight. We hurried back with him, and the miserable beings on the steps, with new terrors, supposing that we were friends of the invaders, begged us to save them. Followed by three or four trembling boys, we ascended to the steeple, and saw the Cachurecos at a distance, descending the brow of a hill in single file, their muskets glittering in the sunbeams. We saw that it was not the whole of Carrera's army, but apparently only a pioneer company; but they were too many for us, and the smallness of their numbers gave them the appearance of a lawless predatory band. They had still to cross a long plain and ascend the hill on which the town was built. The bellrope was in reach of my hand; I gave it one strong pull, and telling the boys to sound loud the alarm, hurried down. As we passed out of the church, we heard loud cries from the old women in the house of the cura; and the old men and children on the steps asked us whether they would be murdered.

Turning away from the church, we passed the brow of a hill, behind which was a collection of huts almost concealed from sight, and occupied by our friends of the night before. Very soon we commenced ascending a mountain. At a short distance we met a corpse borne on a rude bier of sticks, upon the shoulders of Indians, naked except a piece of cotton cloth over the loins, and shaking awfully under the movements of its carriers. Soon after we met another, borne in the same way, but wrapped in matting, and accompanied by three or four men and a young woman. Both were on their way to the graveyard of the village church. Ascending, we reached the top of a mountain, and saw behind us a beautiful valley extending toward Hocotan, but all waste, and suggesting a feeling of regret that so beautiful a country should be in such miserable hands.

At half past twelve we descended to the banks of the Copan River. It was broad and rapid, and in the middle was a large sandbar. We had difficulty in fording it; and some of the baggage, particularly the beds and bedding, got wet. From the opposite side we again commenced ascending another ridge, and from the top saw the river winding through the valley. As we crossed, by a sudden turn it flowed along the base, and we looked directly down upon it. Descending this mountain, we came to a beautiful stream, where a gray-haired Indian woman and a pretty little girl, pictures of youth and old age, were washing clothes. We dismounted, and sat down on the bank to wait for the muleteer.