gating the coast of the Pacific, from Peru to the Gulf of California, and has made valuable notes, which he intends publishing in France; and he told me that during the summer months, from November to May, the strong north winds which sweep over the Lake of Nicaragua pass with such violence through the Gulf of Papajayo, that, during the prevalence of these winds, it is almost impossible for a vessel to enter the port of San Juan. Whether this is true to the extent that Captain D'Yriarte supposes, and if true, how far steam tugs would answer to bring vessels in against such a wind, is for others to determine. But at the moment there seemed more palpable difficulties.

I walked along the shore down to the estuary of the river, which was here broad and deep. This was the proposed termination of the great canal to connect the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. I had read and examined all that had been published on this subject in England or this country; had conferred with individuals; and I had been sanguine, almost enthusiastic, in regard to this gigantic enterprise; but on the spot the scales fell from my eyes. The harbour was perfectly desolate; for years not a vessel had entered it; primeval trees grew around it; for miles there was not a habitation. I walked the shore alone. Since Mr. Bailey left not a person had visited it; and probably the only thing that keeps it alive even in memory is the theorizing of scientific men, or the occasional visit of some Nicaragua fisherman, who, too lazy to work, seeks his food in the sea. It seemed preposterous to consider it the focus of a great commercial enterprise; to imagine that a city was to rise up out of the forest, the desolate harbour to be filled with ships, and become a great portal for the thoroughfare of nations. But the scene was magnificent. The

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sun was setting, and the high western headland threw a deep shade over the water. It was perhaps the last time in my life that I should see the Pacific; and in spite of fever and ague tendencies, I bathed once more in the great ocean.

It was after dark when I returned to my encampment. My attendants had not been idle; blazing logs of wood, piled three or four feet high, lighted up the darkness of the forest. We heard the barking of wolves, the scream of the mountain-cat, and other wild beasts of the forest. I wrapped myself in my poncha and lay down to sleep. Nicolas threw more wood upon the burning pile; and, as he stretched himself on the ground, hoped we would not be obliged to pass another night in this desolate place.

In the morning I had more trouble. My gray mule running loose, and drinking at every stream, with her girths tight, had raised a swelling eight or ten inches. I attempted to put the cargo on my macho, with the intention of walking myself; but it was utterly impossible to manage him, and I was obliged to transfer it to the raw back of the cargo-mule..

At seven o'clock we started, recrossed the stream at which we had procured water, and returned to the first station of Mr. Bailey. It was on the River San Juan, a mile and a half from the sea. The river here had sufficient depth of water for large vessels, and from this point Mr. Bailey commenced his survey to the Lake of Nicaragua. I sent Nicolas with the mules by the di rect road, and set out with my guide to follow, as far as practicable, his line of survey. I did not know, until I found myself in this wilderness, how fortunate I had been in securing this guide. He had been Mr. Bailey's pioneer in the whole of his exploration. He was a dark VOL. I.-3 E

Mestitzo, and gained his living by hunting bee-trees, and cutting them down for the wild honey, which made him familiar with all the water-courses and secret depths of almost impenetrable forests. He had been selected by Mr. Bailey out of all Nicaragua; and for the benefit of any traveller who may feel an interest in this subject, I mention his name, which is José Dionisio de Lerda, and he lives at Nicaragua.

It was two years since Mr. Bailey had taken his observations, and already, in that rank soil, the clearings were overgrown with trees twelve or fifteen feet high. My guide cleared a path for me with his machete; and working our way across the plain, we entered a valley which ran in a great ravine called Quebrada Grande, between the mountain ranges of Zebadea and El Platina. By a vigorous use of the machete I was enabled to follow the line of Mr. Bailey up the ravine to the station of Panama, so called from a large Panama-tree near which Mr. Bailey built his rancho. Up to this place manifestly there could be no difficulty in cutting a canal; beyond, the line of survey follows the small stream of El Cacao for another league, when it crosses the mountain; but there was such a rank growth of young trees that it was impossible to continue without sending men forward to clear the way. We therefore left the line of the canal, and crossing the valley to the right, reached the foot of the mountain over which the road to Nicaragua passes. A path had been opened for carrying Mr. Bailey supplies to that station, but it was difficult to find it. We took a long draught at a beautiful stream called Loco de Agua, and my guide pulled off his shirt and commenced with his machete. It was astonishing how he found anything to guide him, but he knew a tree as the face of a man. The side of

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the mountain was very steep, and besides large trees, was full of brambles, thorn-bushes, and ticks. I was obliged to dismount and lead my macho; the dark skin of my guide glistened with perspiration, and it was almost a climb till we reached the top.

Coming out into the road, the change was beautiful. It was about ten feet wide, straight, and shaded by the noblest trees in the Nicaragua forests. In an hour we reached the boca of the mountain, where Nicolas was waiting with the mules under the shade of a large tree, which threw its branches fifty feet from its trunk, and seemed reared by a beneficent hand for the shelter of a weary traveller. Soon we reached another station of Mr. Bailey. Looking back, I saw the two great mountain ranges, standing like giant portals, and could but think what a magnificent spectacle it would be to see a ship, with all its spars and rigging, cross the plain, pass through the great door, and move on to the Pacific. Beyond, the whole plain was on fire; the long grass, scorched by the summer's sun, crackled, flashed, and burned like powder. The road was a sheet of flame, and when the fire had passed the earth was black and hot. We rode some distance on the smoking ground along the line of flame, and finding a favourable place, spurred the mules through; but part of the luggage took fire, my face and hands were scorched, and my whole body heated.

Off from the road, on the edge of the woods, and near the River Las Lahas, was another station of Mr. Bailey. From that place the line runs direct over a plain till it strikes the same river near the Lake of Nicaragua. I attempted to follow the lines again, but was prevented by the growth of underwood.

It was late in the afternoon, and I hurried on to

reach the Camino Real. Beautiful as the whole country had been, I found nothing equal to this two hours before entering Nicaragua. The fields were covered with high grass, studded with noble trees, and bordered at a distance by a dark forest, while in front, high and towering, of a conical form, rose the beautiful volcano of the island. Herds of cattle gave it a home-like appearance.

Toward dark we again entered the woods, and for an hour saw nothing, but at length heard the distant sound of the vesper bell, and very soon were greeted by the barking of dogs in the suburbs of Nicaragua. Fires were burning in the streets, which served as kitchens for the miserable inhabitants, and at which they were cooking their suppers. We passed round a miserable plaza, and stopped at the house of the Licenciado Pineda. A large door was wide open; the licenciado was swinging in one hammock, his wife and a mulatto woman in another. I dismounted and entered his house, and told him that I had a letter to him from Don Manuel de Aguila. He asked me what I wished, and when I told him a night's lodging, said that he could accommodate me, but had no room for the mules. I told him that I would go to the cura, and he said that the cura could do no better than he. In a word, his reception of me was very cool. I was indignant, and went to the door, but without it was dark as Erebus. I had made a long and tiresome journey through a desolate country, and that day had been one of extreme labour. The first words of kindness came from the lady of the licenciado. I was so tired that I was almost ready to fall; I had left San José with the fever and ague, had been twelve days in the saddle, and the last two nights I had slept in the open fields. I owe it to