First Sunday on the Amazons.—Geographical Question.—Convenient Arrangements of Steamer.—Vast Dimensions of the River.—Aspect of Shores.—Village of Breves.—Letter about Collections.—Vegetation.—Variety of Palms.—Settlement of TajapurÚ.—Enormous Size of Leaves of the Miriti Palm.—Walk on Shore.—Indian Houses.—Courtesy of Indians.—Row in the Forest.—Town of GurupÁ.—River Xingu.—Color of Water.—Town of Porto do Moz.—Flat-topped Hills of Almeyrim.—Beautiful Sunset.—Monte AlÉgre.—Character of Scenery and Soil.—Santarem.—Send off Party on the River Tapajos.—Continue up the Amazons.—Pastoral Scenes on the Banks.—Town of Villa Bella.—Canoe Journey at Night to the Lake of JosÉ AssÚ.—EsperanÇa’s Cottage.—Picturesque Scene at Night.—Success in Collecting.—Indian Life.—Making Farinha.—Dance in the Evening.—Howling Monkeys.—Religious Impressions of Indians.—Cottage of Maia the Fisherman.—His Interest in educating his Children.—Return to Steamer.—Scientific Results of the Excursion.

August 20th.—On board the “Icamiaba.” Our first Sunday on the Amazons; for, notwithstanding the warm dispute as to whether both the rivers enclosing the island of MarajÓ must be considered as parts of the great river, it is impossible not to feel from the moment you leave ParÁ that you have entered upon the Amazons. Geology must settle this knotty question. If it should be seen that the continent once presented an unbroken line, as Mr. Agassiz believes, from Cape St. Roque to Cayenne, the sea having encroached upon it so as to give it its present limits, the Amazons must originally have entered the ocean far to the east of its present mouth, at a time when the Island of MarajÓ divided the river in two channels flowing on either side of it and uniting again beyond it. We came on board last night, accompanied to the boat by a number of the friends who have made our sojourn in ParÁ so agreeable, and who came off to bid us farewell. Thus far the hardships of this South American journey seem to retreat at our approach. It is impossible to travel with greater comfort than surrounds us here. My own suite of rooms consists of a good-sized state-room, with dressing-room and bath-room adjoining, and, if the others are not quite so luxuriously accommodated, they have space enough. The state-rooms are hardly used at night, for a hammock on deck is far more comfortable in this climate. Our deck, roofed in for its whole length, and with an awning to let down on the sides, if needed, looks like a comfortable, unceremonious sitting-room. A table down the middle serving as a dinner-table, but which is at this moment strewn with maps, journals, books, and papers of all sorts, two or three lounging-chairs, a number of camp-stools, and half a dozen hammocks, in one or two of which some of the party are taking their ease, furnish our drawing-room, and supply all that is needed for work and rest. At one end is also a drawing-table for Mr. Burkhardt, beside a number of kegs and glass jars for specimens. This first day, however, it is almost impossible to do more than look and wonder. Mr. Agassiz says: “This river is not like a river; the general current in such a sea of fresh water is hardly perceptible to the sight, and seems more like the flow of an ocean than like that of an inland stream.” It is true we are constantly between shores, but they are shores, not of the river itself, but of the countless islands scattered throughout its enormous breadth. As we coast along their banks, it is delightful to watch the exquisite vegetation with which we have yet to become familiar. The tree which most immediately strikes the eye, and stands out from the mass of green with wonderful grace and majesty, is the lofty, slender Assai palm, with its crown of light plume-like leaves, and its bunches of berry-like fruit, hanging from a branch that shoots out almost horizontally, just below the leaves. Houses on the shore break the solitude here and there. From this distance they look picturesque, with thatched, overhanging roofs, covering a kind of open porch. Just now we passed a cleared nook at the water-side, where a wooden cross marked a single mound. What a lonely grave it seemed! We are now coasting along the Isle of MarajÓ, keeping up the so-called ParÁ river; we shall not enter the undisputed waters of the Amazons till the day after to-morrow. This part of the river goes also by the name of the Bay of MarajÓ.

August 21st.—Last evening we stopped at our first station,—the little town of Breves. Its population, like that of all these small settlements on the Lower Amazons, is made up of an amalgamation of races. You see the regular features and fair skin of the white man combined with the black, coarse, straight hair of the Indian, or the mulatto with partly negro, partly Indian features, but the crisp taken out of the hair; and with these combinations comes in the pure Indian type, with its low brow, square build of face, and straight line of the shoulders. In the women especially the shoulders are rather high. In the first house we entered there was only an old half-breed Indian-woman, standing in the broad open porch of her thatched home, where she seemed to be surrounded with live stock,—parrots and parroquets of all sorts and sizes, which she kept for sale. After looking in at several of the houses, buying one or two monkeys, some parroquets, and some articles of the village pottery, as ugly, I must say, as they were curious, we wandered up into the forest to gather plants for drying. The palms are more abundant, larger, and in greater variety than we have seen them hitherto. At dusk we returned to the steamer, where we found a crowd of little boys and some older members of the village population, with snakes, fishes, insects, monkeys, &c. The news had spread that the collecting of “bixos” was the object of this visit to their settlement, and all were thronging in with their live wares of different kinds. Mr. Agassiz was very much pleased with this first harvest. He added a considerable number of new species to his collection of Amazonian fishes made in ParÁ, already so full and rare. We remained at the Breves landing all night, and this morning we are steaming along between islands, in a channel which bears the name of the river Aturia. It gives an idea of the grandeur of the Amazons, that many of the channels dividing the islands by which its immense breadth is broken are themselves like ample rivers, and among the people here are known by distinct local names. The banks are flat; we have seen no cliffs as yet, and the beauty of the scenery is wholly in the forest. I speak more of the palms than of other trees, because they are not to be mistaken, and from their peculiar port they stand out in bold relief from the mass of foliage, often rising above it and sharply defined against the sky. There are, however, a host of other trees, the names of which are unknown to us as yet, many of which I suppose have no place even in botanical nomenclature, forming a dense wall of verdure along the banks of the river. We have sometimes heard it said that the voyage up the Amazons is monotonous; but to me it seems delightful to coast along by these woods, of a character so new to us, to get glimpses into their dark depths or into a cleared spot with a single stately palm here and there, or to catch even the merest glance at the life of the people who live in the isolated settlements, consisting only of one or two Indian houses by the river-side. We are keeping so near to the banks to-day, that we can almost count the leaves on the trees, and have an excellent opportunity of studying the various kinds of palms. At first the Assai was most conspicuous, but now come in a number of others. The MiritÍ (Mauritia) is one of the most beautiful, with its pendant clusters of reddish fruit and its enormous, spreading, fan-like leaves cut into ribbons, one of which Wallace says is a load for a man. The JupatÍ (Rhaphia), with its plume-like leaves, sometimes from forty to fifty feet in length, seems, in consequence of its short stem, to start almost from the ground. Its vase-like form is peculiarly graceful and symmetrical. Then there is the BussÙ (Manicaria), with stiff, entire leaves, some thirty feet in length, more upright and close in their mode of growth, and serrated along their edges. The stem of this palm also is comparatively short. The banks in this part of the river are very generally bordered by two plants forming sometimes a sort of hedge along the shore; namely, the Aninga (Arum), with large, heart-shaped leaves on the summit of tall stems, and the Murici, a lower growth, just on the water’s edge. We are passing out of the so-called river Aturia into another channel of like character, the river TajapurÚ. In the course of the day we shall arrive at a little settlement bearing the same name, where is to be our second station.

August 22d.—Yesterday we passed the day at the settlement mentioned above. It consists only of the house of a Brazilian merchant,^[51] who lives here with his family, having no neighbors except the inhabitants of a few Indian houses in the forest immediately about. One wonders at first what should induce a man to isolate himself in this solitude. But the India-rubber trade is very productive here. The Indians tap the trees as we tap our sugar-maples, and give the produce in exchange for various articles of their own domestic consumption. Our day at TajapurÚ was a very successful one in a scientific point of view, and the collections were again increased by a number of new species. Much as has been said of the number and variety of fishes in the Amazons, the fauna seems far richer than it has been reported. For those of my readers who care to follow the scientific progress of the expedition as well as the thread of personal adventure, I add here a letter on the subject, written a day or two later by Mr. Agassiz to Mr. Pimenta Bueno, in ParÁ, the generous friend to whom he owes in a great degree the facilities he enjoys in this voyage.

Mon cher Ami:—La journÉe d’hier a ÉtÉ des plus instructives, surtout pour les poissons “do Mato.” Nous avons obtenu quinze espÈces en tout. Sur ce nombre il y en a dix nouvelles, quatre qui se trouvent aussi au ParÁ et une dÉjÀ dÉcrite par moi dans le voyage de Spix et Martius; mais ce qu’il y a de plus intÉressant, c’est la preuve que fournissent ces espÈces, À les prendre dans leur totalitÉ, que l’ensemble des poissons qui habitent les eaux À l’ouest du groupe d’Îles qu’on appelle MarajÓ, diffÈre de ceux des eaux du Rio do ParÁ. La liste des noms que nous avons demandÉe aux Indiens prouve encore que le nombre des espÈces qui se trouvent dans ces localitÉs est beaucoup plus considÉrable que celui des espÈces que nous avons pu nous procurer; aussi avons nous laissÉ des bocaux À Breves et À TajapurÚ pour complÉter la collection.

Voici quelques remarques qui vous feront mieux apprÉcier ces diffÉrences, si vous voulez les comparer avec le catalogue des espÈces du ParÁ que je vous ai laissÉ. À tout prendre, il me parait Évident dÈs À prÉsent que notre voyage fera une rÉvolution dans l’Ichthyologie. Et d’abord, le JacundÁ de TajapurÚ est diffÉrent des espÈces du ParÁ; de mÊme l’AcarÁ; puis nous avons une espÈce nouvelle de SarapÓ et une espÈce nouvelle de Jeju; une espÈce nouvelle de Rabeca, une espÈce nouvelle d’AnojÁ, un genre nouveau de Candiru, un genre nouveau de Bagre, un genre nouveau d’Acary et une espÈce nouvelle d’Acary du mÊme genre que celui du ParÁ; plus une espÈce nouvelle de Matupirim. Ajoutez À ceci une espÈce d’Aracu dÉjÀ dÉcrite, mais qui ne se trouve pas au ParÁ et vous aurez À TajapurÚ onze espÈces qui n’existent pas au ParÁ, auxquelles il faut ajouter encore quatre espÈces qui se trouvent À TajapurÚ aussi bien qu’au ParÁ, et une qui se trouve au ParÁ, À BrÈves, et À TajapurÚ. En tout vingt espÈces, dont quinze nouvelles, en deux jours. Malheureusement les Indiens ont mal compris nos directions, et ne nous ont rapportÉ qu’un seul exemplaire de chacune de ces espÈces. Il reste donc beaucoup À faire dans ces localitÉs, surtout À en juger d’aprÈs le catalogue des noms recueillis par le Major Coutinho qui renferme vingt-six espÈces “do Mato” et quarante-six “do Rio.” Il nous en manque donc au moins cinquante-deux de TajapurÚ, mÊme À supposer que cette localitÉ renferme aussi les cinq espÈces de Breves. Vous voyez que nous laisserons encore ÉnormÉment À faire À nos successeurs.

The Indians here are very skilful in fishing, and instead of going to collect, Mr. Agassiz, immediately on arriving at any station, sends off several fishermen of the place, remaining himself on board to superintend the drawing and putting up of the specimens as they arrive.^[53] He made at TajapurÚ a collection of the leaves and fruit of palms, of which there were several very beautiful ones near the shore. I sat for a long time on the deck watching an Indian cutting a leaf from a MiritÍ palm. He was sitting in the crotch of a single leaf, as safe and as perfectly supported as if he had been on the branch of an oak-tree, and it took many blows of his heavy axe to separate the leaf at his side which he was trying to bring down. The heat during the day was intense, but at about five o’clock it became quite cool and R—— and I strolled on shore. Walking here is a peculiar process, and seems rather alarming till you become accustomed to it. A great part of the land, even far up into the forest, is overflowed, and single logs are thrown across the streams and pools, over which the inhabitants walk with as much security as on a broad road, but which seem anything but safe to the new-comer. After we had gone a little way we came to an Indian house on the border of the wood. Here we were very cordially invited to enter, and had again cause to comment on the tidy aspect of the porch, which is their general reception-room. A description of one of these dwellings will do for all. Their materials are drawn from the forest about them. The frames are made of tall, slender tree-trunks, crossing each other at right angles. Between these are woven long palm-leaves, making an admirable thatch, or sometimes the walls are filled in with mud. The roof overhangs, covering the wide, open porch, which extends the length of one side of the house, and is as deep as a good-sized room; it is usually left open on the sides as well as in front. Within, the rest of the house is divided off into one or more chambers, according to its size. I have not penetrated into these, but can bear testimony to the usual cleanliness and order of the outer room. The hard mud-floor is neatly swept, there is no litter about, and, except for the mosquitoes, I should think it no hardship to sling my hammock for the night under the thatched roof of one of these primitive veranda-like apartments. There is one element of dirt common in the houses of our own poor which is absent here. Instead of the mass of old musty bedding, a nest for vermin, the Indians have their cool hammocks, slung from side to side of the room. One feature in their mode of building deserves to be mentioned. Owing to the submerged state of the ground on which they live, the Indians often raise their houses on piles sunk in the water. Here we have the old lacustrine buildings, so much discussed of late years, reproduced for us. One even sees sometimes a little garden lifted in this way above the water.

But to return to our walk. One of the Indians invited us to continue our ramble to his house, which he said was not far beyond, in the forest. We readily complied, for the path he pointed out to us looked tempting in the extreme, leading into the depth of the wood. Under his guidance we continued for some distance, every now and then crossing one of the forest creeks on the logs. Seeing that I was rather timid, he cut for me a long pole, with the aid of which I felt quite brave. But at last we came to a place where the water was so deep that I could not touch bottom with my pole, and as the round log on which I was to cross was rather rocking and unsteady, I did not dare to advance. I told him, in my imperfect Portuguese, that I was afraid. “Nao, mia branca” (No, my white) he said, reassuringly; “nao tem medo” (don’t be afraid). Then, as if a thought struck him, he motioned me to wait, and, going a few steps up the creek, he unloosed his boat, brought it down to the spot where we stood, and put us across to the opposite shore. Just beyond was his pretty, picturesque home, where he showed me his children, telling me their ages, and introduced me to his wife. There is a natural courtesy about these people which is very attractive, and which Major Coutinho, who has lived among them a great deal, tells me is a general characteristic of the Amazonian Indians. When we took leave of them and returned to the canoe, I supposed our guide would simply put us across to the other shore, a distance of a few feet only, as he had done in coming. Instead of that he headed the canoe up the creek into the wood. I shall never forget that row, the more enchanting that it was so unexpected, through the narrow water-path, overarched by a solid roof of verdure, and black with shadows; and yet it was not gloomy, for outside, the sun was setting in crimson and gold, and its last beams struck in under the boughs and lit the interior of the forest with a warm glow. Nor shall I easily forget the face of our Indian friend, who had welcomed us so warmly to his home, and who evidently enjoyed our exclamations of delight and the effect of the surprise he had given us. The creek led by a detour back into the river, a few rods above the landing where our steamer lay. Our friendly boatman left us at the stairway with a cordial good-by, and many thanks from us at parting.

We left our landing early this morning, and at about half past ten turned into the main Amazons. Thus far we have been in what is called the ParÁ river, and the branches connecting it with the Amazons proper. The proportions of everything in nature amaze one here, however much one may have heard or read about them. For two days and nights we have been following the isle of Marajo, which, though but an island in the mouth of the Amazons, is half as large as Ireland. I add here a second letter from Mr. Agassiz to Mr. Pimenta Bueno, giving a short summary of his scientific progress.

Mon cher Ami:—Je suis extÉnuÉ de fatigue, mais je ne veux pas aller me reposer avant de vous avoir Écrit un mot. Hier soir nous avons obtenu vingt-sept espÈces de poissons À GurupÁ et ce matin, cinquante-sept À Porto do Moz, en tout quatre-vingt-quatre espÈces en moins de douze heures et, sur ce nombre, il y en À cinquante et une nouvelles. C’est merveilleux. Je ne puis plus mettre en ordre ce qu’on m’apporte au fur et À mesure que cela arrive; et quant À obtenir des dessins coloriÉs du tout, il n’en est plus question, À moins qu’À notre retour nous ne passions une semaine entiÈre ici.

August 23d.—Yesterday morning, before reaching the little town of GurupÁ, we passed a forest of Miriti palms; it is the first time we have seen a palm wood exclusive of other trees. In the afternoon we stopped at GurupÁ and went on shore; but just as we landed, a violent thunder-storm burst upon us with sheets of rain, and we saw little of the town except the inside of the house where we took shelter. Mr. Agassiz obtained a most valuable collection of “forest fishes,” containing a number of new species; the Indians enumerate, however, some seventy distinct species of forest fishes in this vicinity, so that, notwithstanding his success, he leaves much to be done by those who shall come after him. We left during the night, and this morning we entered the river Xingu, stopping at Porto do Moz. The water is very blue and dark as compared with the muddy waters of the main river. Here Mr. Agassiz found two collections, one of forest fishes, the other of river fishes, awaiting him, Mr. Pimenta Bueno having sent messengers by the last steamer to a number of ports, desiring that collections should be in readiness for him. The harvest of this morning, however, was such an one as makes an era in the life of a naturalist, for it contained forty-eight new species,—more, Mr. Agassiz said, than it had ever fallen to his lot to find in the course of a single day. Ever since we entered the Amazons the forest seems to me, though more luxuriant, less sombre than it did about Rio. It is more transparent and more smiling; one sees into it, and sees the sunshine glimmering through it and lighting up its depths. The steamer has just left behind the first open land we have passed,—wide, extensive flats, with scarcely a tree, and covered with thick, coarse grass.

August 24th.—Yesterday afternoon we saw, on the north side of the river, the first elevations of any consequence one meets on the Amazons, the singular flat-topped hills of Almeirim. They are cut off as squarely on the top as if levelled with a plane, and divided from each other by wide openings, the sides being shaved down with the same evenness as the summits. Much has been said about the geology of these singular hills, but no one has fairly investigated it. Von Martius landed, and ascertained their height to be about eight hundred feet above the level of the river, but beyond this, no one seems to know anything of their real nature. They are generally represented as spurs of the higher table-land of Guiana.^[55] Last evening was the most beautiful we have seen on the Amazons. We sat on the front upper deck as the crimson sun went down, his broad red pathway across the water followed presently by the pale trembling line of light from the crescent moon above. After the sun had vanished, broad rays of rose-color, shooting almost to the zenith, still attested his power, lending something of their glow also to a great mass of white clouds in the east, the reflection of which turned the yellow waters of the river to silver, while between glory and glory the deep blue sky of night gathered over the hills of Almeirim. This morning at dawn we stopped at the little settlement of Prainha, but did not land, and we are now on our way to Monte AlÉgre, where we shall pass a day and a half.

August 25th.—Monte AlÉgre. We arrived before this town, situated on the north side of the Amazons, at the mouth of the river Gurupatuba, yesterday at about midday, but the heat was so great that I did not go on shore till towards evening. The town is situated on the summit of a hill sloping rather steeply upward from the shore, and it takes its name from a mountain some four leagues to the northwest of it. But though the ground is more broken and various than we have seen it hitherto, the place does not seem to me to deserve its name of Monte AlÉgre (the gay mountain). To me the aspect of the country here is, on the contrary, rather sombre; the soil consists everywhere of sand, the forest is low, while here and there intervene wide, swampy flats, covered with coarse grass. The sand rests above the same reddish drift, filled with smooth rounded quartz pebbles, that we have followed along our whole road. Here and there the pebbles are disposed in undulating lines, as if a partial stratification had taken place; and in some localities we saw indications of the drift having been worked over by water, though not absolutely stratified. Both at sunset and sunrise I took a walk to the village churchyard, which commands the prettiest view in the neighborhood. It is enclosed in a picket fence, a large wooden cross stands in the centre, and there are a few other small crosses marking graves; but the place looked uncared for, grown over, wherever the sand was not bare, by the same coarse, rank shrubs which spring up everywhere in this ungenial soil.^[56] At a little distance from the churchyard, the hill slopes abruptly down, and from its brow one looks across a wide plain covered with low forest, to the mountain on the other side, from which the town takes its name. Looking southward, the foreground is filled with lakes divided from each other by low alluvial lands, forming the level flats alluded to above. Though one of the earliest settlements on the Amazons, this town is, by all accounts, rather decreasing than increasing in population. In the midst of its public square stands what seems at first to be the ruin of a large stone church, but which is, in fact, the framework of a cathedral begun forty years ago, and standing unfinished to this day. Cows were pastured in its grass-grown aisles, and it seemed a rather sad memorial, bespeaking a want of prosperity in the place. We were most kindly entertained in the house of Senhor Manuel, who, finding that the mosquitoes were likely to be very thick on board the steamer, invited us to pass the night under his roof. This morning we are sailing about in the neighborhood, partly for the sake of getting fish, but passing also a couple of hours at a cattle-farm near by, in order to bring on board a number of cows and oxen for the Manaos market. It seems that one of the chief occupations here is the raising of cattle. This, with the sale of fish, cacÁo, and India-rubber, constitutes the commerce of the place.

August 26th.—This morning found us again on the southern side of the river, off Santarem, at the mouth of one of the great branches of the Amazons, the Tapajoz. Here we leave a number of our party. Mr. Dexter, Mr. James, and Mr. Talisman, a young Brazilian who joined our party at ParÁ, go on a collecting expedition up the Tapajoz. Mr. Bourget and Mr. Hunnewell remain at Santarem, the former to make collections, the latter to attend to the repairs of his photographing apparatus, which has met with some disasters. We are all to meet again at Manaos for our farther voyage up to Tabatinga.^[57] We remained at Santarem only long enough to see the party fitted out with a canoe and the necessary supplies, and as they put off from the steamer we weighed anchor and proceeded on our way, reserving our visit to Santarem for our return. As we left the port the black waters of the Tapajoz met the yellow stream of the Amazons, and the two ran together for a while, like the waters of the Arve and Rhone in Switzerland, meeting but not mingling. Instead of returning at once to the main river, the Captain, who omits nothing which can add to the pleasure or the profit of our voyage, put the steamer through a narrow channel, which, on the Mississippi, would be called a “bayou,” but goes here by the name of an “IgarapÉ.” Nothing could be prettier than this “IgarapÉ AssÚ,” hardly more than wide enough to admit the steamer, and bordered on either side by a thick wood, in which are conspicuous the Munguba, with its oval, red fruit, the Imbauba-tree, neither so lofty nor so regular in form as about Rio, and the Taxi, with its masses of white flowers and brown buds. For two days past we have lost the palms in a great degree; about Monte AlÉgre they were comparatively few, and here we see scarcely any.

The shore between Santarem and Obydos, where we shall arrive this evening, seems more populous than the regions we have been passing through. As we coast along, keeping close to the land, the scenes revive all our early visions of an ancient pastoral life. Groups of Indians—men, women, and children—greet us from the shore, standing under the overarching trees, usually trained or purposely chosen to form a kind of arbor over the landing-place,—the invariable foreground of the picture, with the “montaria” moored in front. One or two hammocks are often slung in the trees, and between the branches one gets a glimpse of the thatched roof and walls of the little straw cottage behind. Perhaps if we were to look a little closer at these pictures of pastoral life, we should find they have a coarse and prosaic side. But let them stand. Arcadia itself would not bear a too minute scrutiny, nor could it present a fairer aspect than do these Indian homes on the banks of the Amazons. The primitive forest about the houses is usually cleared, and they stand in the midst of little plantations of the cacÁo-tree, mingled with the mandioca shrub, from the roots of which the Indians make their flour, and occasionally also with the India-rubber-tree, though, as the latter grows plentifully in the forest, it is not often cultivated. The cacÁo and the India-rubber they send to ParÁ, in exchange for such domestic goods as they require. We have passed so close to the shore to-day that it has been easy to make geological observations from the deck. For a considerable distance above Santarem we have followed drift cliffs, resting upon sandstone; the drift of the same reddish color, and pasty, clayey consistence, and the sandstone seemingly the same in character, as that of Monte AlÉgre.

August 27th.—Villa Bella. Last evening we stopped to wood at the town of Obydos, but without landing; keeping straight on to this port, on the southern side of the river, at the mouth of the river Tupinambaranas. Here we were very cordially received by Dr. Marcus, an old correspondent of Mr. Agassiz, who has several times sent specimens from the Amazons to the Cambridge Museum. To-night we are to start in canoes on an excursion to some of the lakes in the neighborhood of this port.

August 28th.—In the porch of an Indian house on the lake JosÉ AssÚ. We passed a pleasant day yesterday at the house of Dr. Marcus, keeping the Sabbath rather after the Jewish than the Christian rule, as a veritable day of rest, lounging in hammocks, and the gentlemen smoking. We returned to the steamer at five o’clock, intending to start at six, in order to have the benefit of the night fishing, said to be always the most successful. But a violent thunder-storm, with heavy rain, lasting almost till midnight, delayed our departure. We loaded the boats, however, before night, that we might be ready to start whenever the weather should clear. We have two canoes, in one of which Mr. Agassiz, myself, and Mr. Burkhardt have our quarters, while Major Coutinho, Dr. Marcus, who accompanies us, and Mr. Thayer occupy the other. The former, which is rather the larger of the two, has a tiny cabin at one end, some three feet high and six feet long, roofed in with wood; the other has also one end covered in, but with thatch instead of wood. In the larger boat we have our luggage, compressed to the utmost, the live stock,—a small sheep, a turkey, and several fowls,—besides a number of barrels and kegs, containing alcohol, for specimens. The Captain has supplied us not only with all the necessaries, but, so far as is possible, with every luxury, for a week’s voyage. All our preparations being made, and no prospect of clear weather, at nine o’clock we betook ourselves to our hammocks,—or those of us who had stowed their hammocks out of reach,—to chairs and benches, and had a broken sleep till three o’clock. The stars were then shining, and everything looked fair for our voyage. The wind had gone down, the river was smooth as glass when we paddled away from the side of the steamer, and, though we had no moon, one or two planets threw a bright reflection across the water to cheer our way. After keeping for some time down the river, we turned, just at dawn, into a very narrow channel leading through the forest. It was hardly day, but perhaps the scene was none the less impressive for the dim half-light in which we saw it. From the verdant walls, which rose on either side and shut us in, lofty trees, clothed from base to summit in vines, stood out here and there like huge green columns, in bold relief against the morning sky; hidden flowers filled the air with fragrance, great roots stretched out into the water, and now and then a floating log narrowed the passage so as just to leave room for the canoe to pass. After a while a broader, fuller light shone under the boughs, and we issued from this narrow pathway into an extensive lake. Here it was found that the large net, which was to have made a part of the outfit of the canoe, had been left behind, and, after calling at two or three Indian houses to see if we could supply the deficiency, we were obliged to send back to Villa Bella for it. In the mean time we moored our boats at the foot of a little hill, on which stands an Indian house, where we stopped to breakfast, and where we are still waiting for the return of our messengers. I must say, that a near view of Arcadia tends to dispel illusions; but it should be added, that this specimen is by no means a favorable one. The houses at TajapurÚ were far more attractive, and the appearance of their inhabitants much neater and more respectable, than those of our friends here. Yet at this moment the scene is not altogether uninviting. Some of the party are lounging in the hammocks, which we have slung under the great porch, as we are to pass several hours here; an improvised rustic table, consisting of a board resting on forked sticks, stands at one side; the boatmen are clearing away the remains of our late repast; the Indian women, dirty, half clad, with their hair hanging uncombed around their faces, are tending their naked children, or kneading the mandioca in a huge trough. The men of the house have just returned from fishing, the morning having been more successful in that respect than was expected, and are now fitting up a rough forge, in which they are repairing some of their iron instruments. In the mean time Science has its sacred corner, where Mr. Agassiz is investigating new species, the result of the morning’s fishing, while Mr. Burkhardt is drawing them.

August 29th.—Finding yesterday that our shelter grew more uncomfortable as the day wore on, and being obliged to wait for the night fishing, we determined to cross the lake to a “Sitio” (as the inhabitants call their plantations) on the other side of the lake. Here we found one of the better specimens of Indian houses. On one side of the house is the open porch, quite gay at this moment with our brightly colored hammocks; adjoining this is a large chamber, opening into the porch by a wide straw, or rather palm-leaf door; which does not swing on hinges, however, but is taken down and put up like a mat. On the other side of the room is an unglazed window, closed at will in the same way by a palm-leaf mat. For the present this chamber is given up to my use. On the other side of the porch is another veranda-like room, also open at the sides, and apparently the working-room of the family; for here is the great round oven, built of mud, where the farinha is dried, and the baskets of mandioca-root are standing ready to be picked and grated, and here also is the rough log table where we take our meals. Everything has an air of decency and cleanliness; the mud-floors are swept, the ground about the house is tidy and free from rubbish, the little plantation around it of cacÁo and mandioca, with here and there a coffee-shrub, is in nice order. The house stands on a slightly rising ground, sloping gently upward from the lake, and just below, under some trees on the shore, are moored the Indian’s “Montaria” and our two canoes. We were received with the most cordial friendliness, the Indian women gathering about me and examining, though not in a rough or rude way, my dress, the net on my hair, touching my rings and watch-chain, and evidently discussing the “branca” between themselves. In the evening, after dinner, I walked up and down outside the house, enjoying the picturesqueness of the scene. The husband had just come in from the lake, and the fire on the ground, over which the fresh fish was broiling for the supper of the family, shone on the figures of the women and children as they moved about, and shed its glow under the thatched roof of the working-room, making its interior warm and ruddy; a lantern in the corner of the porch threw a dim, uncertain light over hammocks and half-recumbent figures, and without, the moon shone over lake and forest. The mosquitoes, however, presently began to disturb the romance of the scene, and, as we were all rather tired from our broken rest the night before, we retired early. My own sleep, under an excellent mosquito-net, was very quiet and refreshing, but there were some of the party who had not provided themselves with this indispensable accompaniment of a hammock, and they passed the night in misery, affording a repast to the voracious hordes buzzing about them. I was awakened shortly after daylight by the Indian women, bringing me a bouquet of roses and jessamine from the vines which grew about the cottage, and wishing me good morning. After such a kindly greeting, I could not refuse them the pleasure of assisting at my toilet, of watching the opening of my valise, and handling every article as it came out.

The night fishing was unfavorable, but this morning the fishermen have brought in new species enough to keep Mr. Agassiz and his artist busy for many hours, so that we are likely to pass another night among these hospitable people. I must say that the primitive life of the better class of Indians on the Amazons is much more attractive than the so-called civilized life in the white settlements. Anything more bald, dreary, and uninviting than life in the Amazonian towns, with an attempt at the conventionalisms of civilization, but without one of its graces, I can hardly conceive. This morning my Indian friends have been showing me the various processes to which the Mandioca is subjected. This plant is invaluable to these people. It gives them their farinha,—a coarse kind of flour, their only substitute for bread,—their tapioca, and also a kind of fermented juice called tucupi,—a more questionable blessing, perhaps, since it affords them the means of getting intoxicated. After being peeled, the roots of the mandioca are scraped on a very coarse grater; in this condition they make a moist kind of paste, which is then packed in elastic straw tubes, made of the fibres of the JacitarÁ Palm (Desmonchus). When her tube, which has always a loop at either end, is full, the Indian woman hangs it on the branch of a tree; she then passes a pole through the lower loop and into a hole in the trunk of the tree, and, sitting down on the other end of the pole, she thus transforms it into a primitive kind of lever, drawing out the tube to its utmost length by the pressure of her own weight. The juice is thus expressed, flowing into a bowl placed under the tube. This juice is poisonous at first, but after being fermented becomes quite harmless, and is then used for the tucupi. The tapioca is made by mixing the grated mandioca with water. It is then pressed on a sieve, and the fluid which flows out is left to stand. It soon makes a deposit like starch, and when hardened they make it into a kind of porridge. It is a favorite article of food with them.

August 30th.—As time goes on, we grow more at home with our rustic friends here, and begin to understand their relations to each other. The name of our host is LaudigÁri (I spell the name as it sounds), and that of his wife EsperanÇa. He, like all the Indians living upon the Amazons, is a fisherman, and, with the exception of such little care as his small plantation requires, this is his only occupation. An Indian is never seen to do any of the work of the house, not even to bring wood or water or lift the heavy burdens, and as the fishing is done chiefly at certain seasons, he is a very idle fellow for a great part of the time. The women are said, on the contrary, to be very industrious; and certainly those whom we have an opportunity of seeing here justify this reputation. EsperanÇa is always busy at some household work or other,—grating mandioca, drying farinha, packing tobacco, cooking or sweeping. Her children are active and obedient, the older ones making themselves useful in bringing water from the lake, in washing the mandioca, or in taking care of the younger ones. EsperanÇa can hardly be called pretty, but she has a pleasant smile and a remarkably sweet voice, with a kind of child-like intonation, which is very winning; and when sometimes, after her work is over, she puts on her white chemise, falling loose from her brown shoulders, her dark skirt, and a rose or a sprig of white jessamine in her jetty hair, she is by no means unattractive in her personal appearance, though I must confess that the pipe which she is apt to smoke in the evening injures the general effect. Her husband looks somewhat sombre; but his hearty laugh occasionally, and his enjoyment of the glass of cachaÇa which rewards him when he brings in a new lot of specimens, shows that he has his bright side. He is greatly amused at the value Mr. Agassiz attaches to the fishes, especially the little ones, which appear to him only fit to throw away. It seems that the other family who have been about here since our arrival are neighbors, who have come in to help in the making of mandioca. They come in the morning with all their children and remain through the day. The names of the father and mother are Pedro Manuel and Michelina. He is a tall, handsome fellow, whose chief occupation seems to be that of standing about in picturesque attitudes, and watching his rather pretty wife, as she bustles round in her various work of grating or pressing or straining the mandioca, generally with her baby astride on her hip,—the Indian woman’s favorite way of carrying her child. Occasionally, however, Pedro Manuel is aroused to bear some part in the collecting; and the other day, when he brought in some specimens which seemed to him quite valueless, Mr. Agassiz rewarded him with a chicken. His surprise and delight were great, perhaps a little mingled with contempt for the man who would barter a chicken for a few worthless fishes, fit only to throw into the river.

Last evening, with some difficulty, we induced LaudigÁri to play for us on a rough kind of lute or guitar,—a favorite instrument with the country people, and used by them as an accompaniment for dancing. When we had him fairly en train with the music, we persuaded EsperanÇa and Michelina to show us some of their dances; not without reluctance, and with an embarrassment which savored somewhat of the self-consciousness of civilized life, they stood up with two of our boatmen. The dance is very peculiar; so languid that it hardly deserves the name. There is almost no movement of the body; they lift the arms, but in an angular position with no freedom of motion, snapping the fingers like castanets in time to the music, and they seem rather like statues gliding from place to place than like dancers. This is especially true of the women, who are still more quiet than the men. One of the boatmen was a Bolivian, a finely formed, picturesque-looking man, whose singular dress heightened the effect of his peculiar movements. The Bolivian Indians wear a kind of toga; at least I do not know how otherwise to designate their long straight robe of heavy twilled cotton cloth. It consists of two pieces, hanging before and behind, fastened on the shoulder; leaving only an aperture for the head to pass through. It is belted around the waist, leaving the sides open so that the legs and arms are perfectly free. The straight folds of his heavy white drapery gave a sort of statuesque look to our Bolivian as he moved slowly about in the dance. After it was over, EsperanÇa and the others urged me to show them the dance “of my country,” as they said, and my young friend R—— and I waltzed for them, to their great delight. It seemed to me like a strange dream. The bright fire danced with us, flickering in under the porch, fitfully lighting its picturesque interior and the group of wondering Indians around us, who encouraged us every now and then with a “MÛito bonito, mia branca, mÛito bonito” (Very pretty, my white, very pretty). Our ball kept up very late, and after I had gone to my hammock I still heard, between waking and sleeping, the plaintive chords of the guitar, mingling with the melancholy note of a kind of whippoorwill, who sings in the woods all night. This morning the forest is noisy with the howling monkeys. They sound very near and very numerous; but we are told that they are deep in the forest, and would disappear at the slightest approach.

September 1st.—Yesterday morning we bade our friendly hosts good-by, leaving their pretty picturesque home with real regret. The night before we left, they got together some of their neighbors in our honor, and renewed the ball of the previous evening. Like things of the same kind in other classes, the second occasion, got up with a little more preparation than the first, which was wholly impromptu, was neither so gay nor so pretty. Frequent potations of cachaÇa made the guests rather noisy, and their dancing, under this influence, became far more animated, and by no means so serious and dignified as the evening before. One thing which occurred early in the entertainment, however, was interesting, as showing something of their religious observances. In the morning EsperanÇa’s mother, a hideous old Indian woman, had come into my room to make me a visit. Before leaving, I was rather surprised to see her kneel down by a little trunk in the corner, and, opening the lid slightly, throw in repeated kisses, touching her lips to her fingers and making gestures as if she dropped the kisses into the trunk, crossing herself at intervals as she did so. In the evening she was again at the dance, and, with the other two women, went through with a sort of religious dance, chanting the while, and carrying in their hands a carved arch of wood which they waved to and fro in time to the chant. When I asked EsperanÇa the meaning of this, she told me that, though they went to the neighboring town of Villa Bella for the great fÊte of our Lady of Nazareth, they kept it also at home on their return, and this was a part of their ceremonies. And then she asked me to come in with her, and, leading the way to my room, introduced me to the contents of the precious trunk; there was our Lady of Nazareth, a common coarse print, framed in wood, one or two other smaller colored prints and a few candles; over the whole was thrown a blue gauze. It was the family chapel, and she showed me all the things, taking them up one by one with a kind of tender, joyful reverence, only made the more touching by their want of any material value.

We are now at another Indian house on the bank of an arm of the river Ramos, connecting the Amazons, through the Mauhes, with the Madeira. Our two hours’ canoe-journey yesterday, in the middle of the day, was somewhat hot and wearisome, though part of it lay through one of the shady narrow channels I have described before. The Indians have a pretty name for these channels in the forest; they call them IgarapÉs, that is, boat-paths, and they literally are in many places just wide enough for the canoe. At about four o’clock we arrived at our present lodging, which is by no means so pretty as the one we have left, though it stands, like that, on the slope of a hill just above the shore, with the forest about it. But it lacks the wide porch and the open working-room which made the other house so picturesque. Mosquitoes are plentiful, and at nightfall the house is closed and a pan of turf burned before the door to drive them away. Our host and hostess, by name JosÉ Antonio Maia and Maria Joanna Maia, do what they can, however, to make us comfortable, and the children as well as the parents show that natural courtesy which has struck us so much among these Indians. The children are constantly bringing me flowers and such little gifts as they have it in their power to bestow, especially the painted cups which the Indians make from the fruit of the Crescentia, and use as drinking-cups, basins, and the like. One sees numbers of them in all the Indian houses along the Amazons. My books and writing seem to interest them very much, and while I was reading at the window of my room this morning, the father and mother came up, and, after watching me a few minutes in silence, the father asked me, if I had any leaves out of some old book which was useless to me, or even a part of any old newspaper, to leave it with him when I went away. Once, he said, he had known how to read a little, and he seemed to think if he had something to practise upon, he might recover the lost art. His face fell when I told him all my books were English: it was a bucket of cold water to his literary ambition. Then he added, that one of his little boys was very bright, and he was sure he could learn, if he had the means of sending him to school. When I told him that I lived in a country where a good education was freely given to the child of every poor man, he said if the “branca” did not live so far away, he would ask her to take his daughter with her, and for her services to have her taught to read and write. The man has a bright, intelligent face, and speaks with genuine feeling of his desire to give an education to his children.

September 3d.—Yesterday we started on our return, and after a warm and wearisome row of four hours reached our steamer at five o’clock in the afternoon. The scientific results of this expedition have been most satisfactory. The collections, differing greatly from each other in character, are very large from both our stations, and Mr. Burkhardt has been indefatigable in making colored drawings of the specimens while their tints were yet fresh. This is no easy task, for the mosquitoes buzz about him and sometimes make work almost intolerable. This morning Maia brought in a superb Pirarara (fish parrot). This fish is already well known to science; it is a heavy, broad-headed hornpout, with a bony shield over the whole head; its general color is jet black, but it has bright yellow sides, deepening into orange here and there. Its systematic name is Phractocephalus bicolor. The yellow fat of this fish has a curious property; the Indians tell us that when parrots are fed upon it they become tinged with yellow, and they often use it to render their “papagaios” more variegated.^[58]

During our absence the commander of our steamer, Captain Anacleto, and one or two gentlemen of the town, among others Senhor Augustinho, and also Father Torquato, whose name occurs often in Bates’s work on the Amazons, have been making a collection of river fishes, in which Mr. Agassiz finds some fifty new species. Thus the harvest of the week has been a rich one. To-day we are on our way to Manaos, where we expect to arrive in the course of to-morrow.