After a tour of the land of the Aztecs I embarked at Salina Cruz, that new Pacific port of Mexico whose importance in the commercial world is just beginning to be felt, and started on a journey to the land of the Toltecs. Passage was taken on the good ship Menes of the Kosmos Line, and never were passengers in better hands. There were only five first-class passengers and they made rather a cosmopolitan gathering in the cabin each evening. They were an American, a Scotchman, an Englishman, a Spaniard and a Columbian and these, together with three members of the crew, the captain, doctor and first officer, all Germans, made up the personnel of those who gathered around the table at each meal. I did not mention that there were ten Mexican bulls that had taken passage on the first cabin deck destined for a bull-fight in Guatemala City. As these animals were safely boxed up, however, they were not very sociable on the trip and scarcely made their presence known by even a bellow.

These coasting vessels are unique in the carrying trade. They have an extraordinary amount of deck space and carry everything from mail to fresh lettuce, and perform the functions of a freight steamer and market gardener. Your beefsteak or mutton of to-morrow stands on the hoof in the hatchway below, gazing up at you with inquiring eyes, and, on the upper deck, barnyard fowls blink reproachfully at you through the slats of their double-decked coops. The roustabout crew are Chilean rotos, who look as though they might be pleased to stick a knife between one’s ribs. There are few tourists in the American sense of the word, and the passengers are mostly German, English or Yankee drummers, or engineers bound for railroads or mines in Central or South America, with occasionally a native army officer or merchant travelling from one port to another.

The harbours all along this coast are open roadsteads and the lack of harbour accommodations was evident at the first stop, San Benito, the southernmost port in Mexico, and only a few miles from the Guatemala boundary. The vessel anchored almost a mile from the shore. Because of a high surf it was necessary to wait a half-day before the harbour official could come out, and nothing can be done until this formality is complied with. At last a lighter, pulled by eight brown oarsmen standing up on a running-board, flying a tattered Mexican flag at the rear and a yellow quarantine flag at the fore, approached. San Benito boasts a lighthouse consisting of a light sustained on two high poles, a signal station similar to a band-stand in appearance, and a warehouse. A donkey-engine is employed to pull the boat through the heavy surf by means of a cable. After unloading a mixed cargo and taking on three thousand bags of coffee destined for Hamburg, all of which required three days, the ship steamed to Ocos, the first port in Guatemala. The massive iron pier at this place was destroyed by the last earthquake in 1902, and it required a day to unload the cargo there and take on a few hundred bags of coffee, and then we started for Champerico.

Guatemala is a corruption of an Indian word meaning “a land covered with trees.” And so it seemed, for the whole shore was a dense, impenetrable forest of tropical growth, whose topmost points are the plumes of waving palms, clear to the background of mountains, from which arise many volcanic peaks, making a beautiful and impressive sight. We were aroused in the morning by the snorting and puffing of a little tug which now enlivens the harbor of Champerico and jerks the lighters around with a great show of hustle. Because of the shallow water, it is necessary to anchor out some distance from the shore, and the cargo, as well as passengers, is carried back and forth in these boats. After such a wait as the dignity of the occasion demands, the commandante came out rich in gold embroidered blue coat and yellow-striped red trousers. The captain escorted him into the cabin where a few samples of bottled goods were inspected. A couple of hours later the commandante came out smiling, even if a little less steady on his feet, and we were permitted to land. Landing at this port is, in itself, quite an undertaking, for the passenger is seated in a chair which is whisked over the side of the boat by a steam crane and dropped into a waiting lighter, together with a medley of boxes, barrels, trunks, personal luggage, and various other kinds of impedimenta. The lighter was quickly drawn to the great, lofty pier by the spiteful little tug with which it was connected by a long hawser. When near the pier the hawser was dropped, but the distance was well calculated and the lighter calmly floated to the proper place, and we were lifted up to the pier in another chair by a similar operation. The process is probably less dangerous than it looks, but the passenger breathes freer when the operation is over with and he is safely landed in this land of political disturbances and make-believe money. It cost me seven dollars to land, but when they exchanged six dollars for one Mexican peso, it was not so expensive, for the Mexican eagle on a silver dollar was only worth half as much as the proud bird of Uncle Samuel in the same place.

The piers at Guatemala ports are all the property of private companies operating under concessions, that simply receive passengers at a fixed charge and freight at a given rate for each hundred pounds and transport it to the custom-house, which is invariably at the end of the pier, so that there is no chance for escape from the customs officers. Baggage exceeding one hundred pounds becomes quite a burden as the charges are excessive for the service rendered. The Aduana, or custom-house, is no unimportant factor in the scheme of government here as there is very little that escapes duty, although it is hinted that some of the duties collected never reach the government coffers. Then, in addition to an import customs, there is even an export duty on coffee which gives the little, uniformed officials more to do.

My experience with these officials gave the first insight into the suspicion with which a stranger is regarded in that country during troublous times, and nearly all times are more or less unsettled under the present government. The two officials carefully scrutinized every article. A number of letters that I had received in Mexico attracted their attention, both officials carefully scrutinizing each one until they reached a letter of introduction to “His most Excellent and Illustrious SeÑor Don ——,” a member of the President’s Cabinet, when they carefully placed everything back and politely told me that there was no duty to be paid. The name of one so close to the President seemed to remove all suspicion of smuggling at least. I was obliged to give them my name and destination, as I had already done at the pier, and was met by an officer at the door who conducted me to the commandante’s office, where my whole pedigree was asked; and again at the station the same interrogatories had to be answered. All of these experiences were amusing rather than otherwise, for no discourtesy was shown and all the soldiers were polite. They simply served to break the monotony of tedious travel.

“Is there a revolution in Guatemala now?”

This was about the first question I asked after sitting down to breakfast in the dining-room of a small boarding-house run by a German woman. The question was prompted by definite reports which had reached us at San Benito, Mexico, that ex-President Barillas was at Tapachula with about twenty-five followers “armed to the teeth.” At any time, however, it would be the proper question to ask at breakfast, or not later than dinner, for revolutions are the only things that occur in a hurry down there.

Absolute silence followed the question for some time. Finally, a native Guatemaltecan (thus it is they write it and not Guatemalan) answered with “No, there is no revolution.”

After this man had gone out, an American who had been sitting at the table took up the question and said that there was considerable talk of a revolution because of dissatisfaction, and the government was very much alarmed. He added, “We have to be very careful what we say, as spies are everywhere, and the man who first answered you is one of them.”

Champerico is a town of perhaps fifteen hundred inhabitants and not a very attractive place, as a great part of it is made up of the poor, native quarters. It is usually very hot in the sun, although pleasant in the shade. The railway promised an early escape, but the prospective passengers were informed that the train was off the track just outside the town and it was late in the afternoon before the train finally started. The train only went as far as Retalhuleu that night, about twenty miles, as the engineer would not risk running after it became dark. The country through which the road passed exhibited a rank and luxuriant growth of tropical foliage, the product of a swampy soil and moist climate.

That same evening in the Hotel Pantoja, a very good ten dollar a day hotel, while sitting in the office engaged in conversation with another American, the landlord, who did not understand English, walked by us twice with a warning gesture to be careful what was said. He afterwards explained that there was another American present in the room who was looked upon as a spy. This alleged spy I met on the train later, and he proved to be an aide on the staff of President Cabrera. Although a citizen of the United States by birth, he was a man, who, as I afterwards learned, from personal observation, stood quite high in government circles and would scarcely have been a good man to entrust with any plots against the government of his chief.

We left Retalhuleu the following morning before daylight for the ride to Guatemala City. The distance is about one hundred and fifty miles, but it was a fourteen hour journey according to the schedule, which is a fair illustration of the speed of railroad travel in this country. The train was a mixed one made up of freight and first and second class passenger coaches, the latter being continually crowded with Indians. After a soldier had taken the names and destination of all the passengers the train was allowed to proceed.

The mail coach on this train consisted of a small corner in one car and was in charge of one clerk. This fellow got off at a station for some purpose but lingered a little too long, and the train had started when he reached it. He was afraid to jump on the train in motion and followed us as far as we could see him, waving his hands wildly and racing in the hot sun. The conductor was obdurate and would not stop for him, so the last half day’s run was made without a mail clerk and I do not know what the people did for their mail. As a rule, however, that is not very heavy. The conductor dismissed the matter by saying that “he had no business to leave the train.”

Through this part of the republic the cochineal used to be cultivated extensively. The cochineal is a little insect which clings to the leaves of the nopal, a species of the cactus. The insects on the leaves give it a very peculiar “warty” appearance. Just before the rainy season begins the leaves of the nopal are cut off and hung in a dry place. Then they are scraped, the insects being killed by being baked in a hot oven which gives them a brownish colour and makes a scarlet or crimson dye; or, they are put into boiling water, when they become black and furnish a blue or purple dye. When prepared for market they are worth several dollars per pound, as it is slow and tedious work to separate the insects from the cactus. It is estimated that there are seventy thousand insects to the pound. When you consider that more than a million tons of the cochineal dye were exported in a single year at one time, a slight idea may be gained of the magnitude of the industry before the cheaper chemical dyes destroyed the market for the cochineal. At present the insect is cultivated only for local use, as the natives prefer it to colour their gayly-hued cotton and woollen fabrics. It can be said of it that the colour will stand almost any amount of rain and sunshine and the tints are as beautiful and pure as one could desire.

The greater part of the land along the line of this railway is cultivated after a fashion, but only in a careless and desultory way. None of the towns are very large and the villages poor but fairly numerous. At Escuintla the passengers were obliged to change to the Central Railroad and take the train which had come up from the coast on its way to the capital.

After leaving Escuintla the road skirts around the base of Agua and begins to climb up the mountain range. In the next thirteen miles the road ascends more than twenty-five hundred feet, which takes it into another zone. The track crosses numerous large and deep gorges. The tangled, tropical forests have disappeared and coffee and cane plantations become numerous. The smooth slopes of Agua and Fuego are rich in cultivation. At nearly every station women appear with all kinds of fruits for sale, as well as eggs, cakes, dulces (candies), etc. Never did I eat more delicious pineapples than those secured right here. They were great, luscious, toothsome fruits. Oranges cannot compare with the cultivated and developed fruit of California, but bananas were fine and much better than the fruit generally sold at our own fruit stands.

Lake Amatitlan is passed and a pretty little body of water it is nestling in the hollow of the hills. There are many boiling springs near its shores, which show how near it is to the unsettled forces of nature. The washwomen take advantage of this water heated by nature, as it saves them trouble and fuel and is always ready for use. The villages become more numerous as the city is approached, and factory buildings and the white walls of the haciendas which dot the landscape here and there make a pleasing contrast. Some lava beds are passed showing that nature has created disturbances in the past quite freely. At last the final ridge is passed, and there, nestling in the valley, is the City of Guatemala. Its situation is somewhat similar to the valley of Mexico, though it is not nearly so large; neither are the surrounding barriers of the mountains so high; nor are the lakes present, which gave the City of Mexico the name of the New-World Venice.

A couple of years ago it was impossible to travel by rail all the way from Guatemala City to the Gulf coast, and it was necessary to leave the city on the back of that sadly-wise, much-neglected creature—the mule, for there was no carriage road. This method of travel entails hardships, but I believe that it has its compensations. Byron says:

Two other Americans, residents of the country, were going and invited me to join them. The liveries wanted three hundred dollars each from us for three saddle mules, a cargo mule and mozo (servant). An old Indian in the country furnished the same for sixty-five dollars each—just about five dollars in gold—which was cheap enough for a four days’ journey to the railroad and back.

It was the intention of our party to start at five o’clock in the morning, as we had to cover forty-eight miles that day in order to reach a decent stopping-place for the night. The old Indian did not show up until nearly six, and he then came very much excited for some one had broken into his stable and stolen a saddle and a couple of bridles. He was able, however, to fit us out in fairly respectable style, and we started on our long and—to me—uncomfortable but never-to-be-forgotten journey. It was just at sunrise and the beauty of the picture as we left the city and climbed the encircling girdle of hills will ever remain with me. I could not refrain from looking back several times at the historic old city with its low buildings and lofty churches which seemed to have such an unusual height. The bells were ringing out the mass and all was quiet, for the traffic had not yet begun in the city. In the distance the great volcano Agua looked down upon the slumbering city from its stately, cloud-flecked cone.

A few drivers of oxen had started their awkward trains for the day’s work. The skill with which these drivers guided, turned, stopped, and started these bulky “critters,” who draw their loads entirely from the yokes attached to their horns, is remarkable. No goad or whip was needed, for a long slim stick, and a shrill, sibilant hiss, seemed all that was necessary to guide them. With heads bowed in submission, these mild-eyed beasts of burden and faithful friends of man seemed to obey the carreteros implicitly except when, once in a while, an unruly one might display a slight perverseness. Then it was a revelation to listen to the blood-curdling blasphemy that poured forth in an unremitting stream from the amber-hued driver’s lips.

For about twenty miles there is a rough carriage road, and many journeyed in vehicles that far in order to avoid as much of the long ride on mules as possible. The scenery is beautiful as the road winds along near a stream for a long distance. We caught many glimpses of domestic scenes in the little huts along the road where the chickens, pigs and dogs seemed as much at home in the house, which usually consists of one room, as any of the human members. One writer gives an account of stopping at one of these huts at night. He says that

“ten human beings, twelve chickens, three pigs, and insects innumerable passed the night in a room not more than twenty feet square.” I can well believe in the literal truth of this statement from the sights that I saw all over the country.

The most interesting feature of the journey was the constant stream of men and women on the road, most of them headed for Guatemala City. The visitor to this country who confines his journeying to the iron horse misses these unique experiences and can not get so good an insight into the country and its people as he who is willing to endure a little hardship.

After about a seven hours’ continuous journey we reached a place called Agua Caliente (the warm water) where we were to obtain our dinner. This was an event anxiously awaited by me, for I was saddle-weary and nearly exhausted, not being accustomed to the saddle, and especially to mountain roads. Imagine my disappointment when the “posada” consisted of a poor cottage where a half dozen naked children were running around, none of whom would satisfy the modern conception of cleanliness. The only articles of furniture were some benches and a poor excuse for a table.

Even tables are dispensed with in some of these houses and meals are eaten off the shelves. The fewer the articles of furniture, however, the fewer lurking places are provided for cockroaches, scorpions or centipedes. The kitchen outfit consisted of a sort of stove made of plaster and sticks, a pot or two, a tin pan, a few earthen jugs, and a good metate on which to beat the tortillas into shape.

After some parleying the good housewife prepared for us tortillas, frijoles negros (black beans), some soft boiled eggs, and coffee. These people make a coffee essence by grinding and roasting, or burning, the coffee berries, which are then pulverized and boiled for hours. This essence is placed in bottles which are set on the table along with a jug of hot water so that you can dilute it to suit yourself. Although it tastes rather bitter at first, it has the merit of being a great stimulant, as I can testify from personal experience, and I grew to rather like it. The tortillas are made of corn which has first been soaked in lime water until pasty, and is then rolled, patted and tossed, and made into cakes in appearance about like pancakes. They require more labour in preparation than almost any other kind of food. Black beans are one of the staple foods of the country and will be found not only in the humble cottage of the peon at each meal, but on the table of the rich man at least twice a day.

I wanted a drink of water and so requested of the man of the house as soon as we arrived. “In a moment,” he said. In fifteen or twenty minutes I asked again for the water. The answer was a “momentita,” a little moment. I spoke of it several times, but after an hour and half’s rest we left and the “momentita” had not yet elapsed. It is simply an instance of the character of the people.

Journeying across country by mule, and over a rough road, is not a very sociable way to travel. My mule was the slowest gaited one and persisted in lagging behind about a quarter of a mile until I became too weary to spur him to greater effort. There was scarcely a mile of level road, but it was first up hill and then down, and the latter was hardest on the rider. The path in places was very narrow so that two mules could scarcely pass. On one side would be a sheer declivity of several hundred feet at the bottom of which a roaring mountain stream ran with deafening noise. On the other side was a wall of rock. The mule persisted in walking almost on the very edge much to my discomfort. I let him have his own way, however, according to advice, and had no reason to regret it. A surer footed animal never existed than the little tan mule allotted to me, for on dangerous paths he never made a misstep. Some of the descents were so steep that he was obliged to zigzag across the path to prevent slipping and possible fatality.

As we reached higher altitudes the views became more and more magnificent. We passed through groves of oaks and pines and encountered relatives of the thistle and sunflower that, in this land of botanical exuberance, have attained to the dignity of shrubs and trees. Olive-green mistletoe, in masses several feet in diameter, hung from high branches and there were birds so gay of plumage that they seemed like fragments of a disintegrated rainbow as they floated by us.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when we reached the crest of the mountain. One of my companions pointed out a village in the distance. “That,” he said, “is Sanarate, where we will stop to-night.” It seemed to me that we ought to reach it in about an hour. Our little party started to descend and we were an hour and half in reaching a level surface. Then we crossed a stream, went up a hill and still on, and always on, until darkness had fallen. Had I been alone I should have dropped off under a tree, or at a hut alongside the road, or done anything but go on. And yet I could not be blind to the magnificence of the night, for the skies were brilliant with thousands of stars unseen in these northern latitudes. At times I could forget my troubles and see only the blazing, radiant firmament. Thus it was that I followed the leaders, and finally, weary and aching, we entered the courtyard of a cheery-looking, comfortable hotel where the jolly German host made us welcome to the best his house afforded. Never did the smell of supper seem more refreshing, and never did palatable food taste better than it did that night to me in the fonda of Sanarate.

Here I experienced a sample of a native bed, if such an arrangement of folding sticks and tight-stretched canvas can be called a bed. It is a simple cot of canvas without a mattress, a microscopic pillow, and a few covers. One writer graphically describes his experience with such a cot: “I have tossed on this cot racked with fever, listening day and night to the discords of a neighbouring graphophone hoarsely venting grand opera and negro minstrelsy, my temperature at one hundred and seven, and with two hundred grains of quinine scattered through my anatomy. I wish my worst enemy a no more hideous experience.” I was, however, weary enough to sleep on a stone floor and never slept sounder than I did that night on that hard, unyielding cot, and awakened in the morning refreshed and ready for the remaining twenty-four miles of the journey.

Bright and early the next morning our little cavalcade left this cheerful hostelry and wended its way on toward the Gulf. We were thankful indeed that our lot had been cast in such a pleasant place. This hotel was made possible by the number of foreigners engaged in surveying and grading the new railroad which passed through this village. Few towns of this size in Guatemala can boast of a hotel, and, in the absence of such accommodations, the traveller is either obliged to take refuge at a native hut or in the cabildo, the public hall, which is always free and open to the traveller and is generally anything but an attractive place, for cleanliness is not one of its attributes, as it seems to be no one’s particular duty to look after it.

There were no such steep ascents or descents this day as we had on the first day’s journey through the mountainous region, although we were constantly going down into a lower altitude. Scarcely had we left the village until our path was sheltered from the sun by a wonderful curtain of vegetation that seemed to belong to fairy land. Woven into it were fantastic ferns, lianes that swung from the tops of lofty trees, splendid orchids and bromeliads, and the rustling, waving fronds of many palms. It was such a road as I had never seen before. Reaching the end of this enchanted road I saw my companions disappear down a densely-wooded ravine, for my mule was lagging behind as usual. I did not see them for more than an hour, as the ravine twisted and turned so much that one’s range of vision was very small, although the scenery was beautiful. The path crossed and re-crossed the little stream many times. I grew rather alarmed when the paths forked, but trusted to my nondescript steed rather from necessity than confidence. We finally left the ravine and came out upon the first level road we had travelled since leaving Guatemala City, and there were my companions at just about the regulation distance in advance.

The number of natives travelling on foot the same way we were going was unusually large and kept increasing each mile. All the by-paths contained their quota, who joined those on the main road, like the little rivulets which made up the great stream. All were dressed in their best, for that is usually about all they possess; at least their clothes were freshly washed and looked unusually well. Men, women and children, all in family groups, moved along at a rapid pace as if drawn by a powerful magnet.

The number of Indians kept increasing more and more for the next few miles, each carrying their baskets of food and many stopping along the road to eat. At last we reached a town where a fiesta was in progress, and this seemed to be their Mecca. All along the road from the capital we had noticed decorated arches erected over the road every few miles. A bishop had come to this village and these arches had been erected in his honour. It was the first time for nine years that a clergyman had been in that village. It was the duty of a priest living about thirty miles away to come here at least once each year to perform marriage ceremonies, baptisms, and other religious ceremonies. He started each year, but failed to come because he always got thoroughly saturated with liquor each time before he had travelled this far.

One incident happened here which rather discomfited an American liquor salesman whom I met. He had sent several mule cargoes of liquor over for the train that we were attempting to make in order to ship it to Honduras. It is necessary for each driver in charge of such merchandise to have a “guia” showing that all government fees had been paid. The driver did not have his in proper shape, so the commandante arrested the whole outfit, mules, driver, and whisky. They extracted a few gallons of the liquid cheer to aid in the proper celebration of the priest’s coming, and then let the driver proceed unmolested.

A journey of a few more hours brought us to Rancho San Agustin, or, as it is generally called, El Rancho, the end of our mule journey, for a train at that time ran once a week to Puerto Barrios. This train left El Rancho on Sunday morning at 6.30, taking two days for the one hundred and twenty-nine miles to the Gulf, and just making connection with the weekly mail steamer for New Orleans. Although we had travelled forty-eight miles the first day and twenty-four miles the second day by one o’clock in the afternoon, our boy mozo, who took a different route, and walked all the way, driving the cargo mule loaded with our baggage before him, arrived just about one hour later than we did. Several other passengers for the weekly train were already there, having started a day earlier than ourselves. Our hotel was a big two-story frame building—the first frame building that I had seen in the country. It looked almost colossal by the side of a little thatch cottage in an adjoining enclosure, and had been built by the railroad company for its employees and patrons. It cost only twenty dollars a day at this hostelry in the stage money of the country.

This unfilled gap in the steel highway between the two great oceans was a blessing and delight, for a more interesting region would be hard to find. Across the great Montagua Valley to the north were the beautiful Sierras de las Minas, whose slopes are kept always bright and verdant by perpetual, though ever-changing, clouds and mists. Even though they are not snow-capped and rugged like the Alps, these mountains of Guatemala have a weirdness and fascination that it is hard to describe. Everywhere the cacti-like trees reared their thorny, spreading arms. Though the grasses of the valley were sere and dry, for this was the dry season, they were not dead, for the first few days of summer rains transform them into a carpet of vivid green.

The view from El Rancho is magnificent. It is in a valley on the bank of a stream, while the range of mountains towers above it in the distance. On the slopes the green fields glistened in the sun. Although the sun was hot and dry in the village, over on the hills it was raining, and we could hear peals of thunder and see the bright flashes of lightning which accompanied the tropical outpour. A small stream that came from that direction soon became a raging torrent, thus showing the violence of the storm.

It seemed good to hear the clanging of the bell and the tooting of the whistle of an American locomotive early the next morning. By the noise it made one would think that it was the overland limited impatient to be off. When all was ready we started out and at no time did the train move faster than eight miles an hour. No one of the passengers, however, after looking at the track and rails, where there were scarcely two ties to each rail that would hold a spike in many places, urged the engineer to greater speed. The necessary water for the engine was supplied on several occasions by water carried from a stream to the tender by a bucket-brigade which passed the bucket from hand to hand along to its destination.

El Rancho is just within the border of the tierra caliente, and the graceful cocoanut palm is to be seen there as well as the tree cacti, which increase in size and number according to elevation. The presence of the cacti is a sure indication of a dry season which prevails for several months each year. The green cocoanut furnishes one of the most refreshing and delightful drinks of the tropics. The natives take the cocoanut, chop off the end with a machete, and drink the fluid that it contains directly from the shell. This native weapon shaped somewhat like an old-fashioned corn cutter is a very useful instrument with these people. It answers for a shovel, knife, axe, pump-handle, fishing rod, and weapon of defence as well as offence.

Gualan, fifty-five miles from the starting point, marked the end of the first day’s journey. It is a small town made up of a few adobe buildings and many thatch cottages of natives. It is a picturesque place on the high banks above the Montagua River, which at this point is a very swift stream. A picturesque ferryman attracted my attention and I waited almost an hour to get a good picture of him and his dugout canoe. When he was in position the sun would not shine and when the sun was visible the boatman was missing from the picture, and it was necessary to use the very quickest exposure because of the swiftness of the stream.

A loud-voiced American with a big revolver in his holster, looking like a cheap imitation of the Western desperado, had attracted my attention on the train, and he proved to be the landlord of the half-caste hotel in this town. As it was the only stopping-place in Gualan there was no choice for the traveller. As the evening hours wore away and his stock of liquors was reduced by his own patronage of the bar, the landlord became more noisy and quarrelsome until one man took offence and said a few sharp words which stopped his braggadocia manner. It looked for a while as though the quarrel would end in a shooting, and would have done so, if the landlord had not calmed down and retracted some of his statements.

Many of the Americans scattered down through the tropical countries are not very representative characters. Alienated from all home influences, they set up an alliance with some native woman and abandon themselves to the cheer of the cantina, or saloon. Many of these men perhaps would only drink moderately at home, if at all, but in these tropical climes they let down every bar to vice and pander to their baser natures. I will never forget one American railroad man whom I met in Guatemala City one morning. He had just begun his drinking and was very communicative. We were at the station and he looked around and said: “They try to keep a fellow in a perpetual state of intoxication down here. See! there is a cantina, and there is another, and another. You go to the Plaza and it is cantina everywhere. I have been trying for two years to save enough money to get back to the States, but they won’t let me. Last month, I earned $800 (about $60 in gold) and I have only got a few dollars left.” Later in the day I saw him at the bull-ring throwing paper dollars at a crowd of boys who followed him about until the police drove them away. Soon he will join the ever-increasing band of American tramps that one finds there. Beggars are numerous in the country, but they are not all natives, nor Indians, and the American can be found among them fully as abject and degraded as any others of that class.

There are only a few villages from Gualan to Puerto Barrios and they are not very populous. They looked almost like African towns with their huts made of palm and bamboo. The paths in the villages were all narrow, and grass and weed grown. There were thorns to scratch the bare feet and hooked seeds of plants that cling to the clothes—but this can be duplicated almost anywhere. The building of a hut is a simple proposition, for all the Indian has to do is to go into the forest and cut some bamboo poles and some palm leaves or banana stalks for a roof, and he has all the material necessary. A few poles are set into the ground, establishing the size, and to these, by means of vines, are attached many horizontal reeds or poles. These may be close together or several inches apart, and sometimes mortar or stones are used to fill in the wall. The same style of steep roof is always made. Sometimes the entrance is closed by a hinged door, but a piece of loosely swinging cloth answers the same purpose and does just as well.

After an all-day’s journey we at last reached Puerto Barrios. The nearer we approached the coast the denser became the vegetation and the more impenetrable the forests, or jungles, which is really a more appropriate term.

Near Puerto Barrios and a few miles to the west is the port of Santo Tomas. It is situated on a bay which makes a good harbour and was established in 1843 by a colony of Belgians. Like many tropical colonies it proved a failure because of the lack of foresight on the part of the promoters and an absolute ignorance of tropical conditions and the precautions necessary for health and success. Several hundred people comprised the original colony, but it soon dwindled through deaths and departures until now it is a small village although it is still a port of entry. The railroad terminus being established at its near-by rival sealed the doom of its future prospects, although its natural advantages are probably superior to its more fortunate neighbour. The fate of this colony is simply another illustration of the care and foresight necessary on the part of those seeking to establish colonies in a new country and under conditions so much different from those with which the prospective colonists are familiar.

It would be unfair to the reader and an injustice to the country to leave this coast without a description of Lake Izabal and the river leading to it, for this river rivals the far-famed Saguenay in beauty and grandeur of scenery. It is a sail of less than two hours across the choppy seas of the Gulf of Amatique from Puerto Barrios to Livingston, which is situated at the mouth of the Rio Dulce (the sweet river), the entrance to which is through a high wall of cliffs. For the first few miles after leaving Livingston on the way up the river the shores are lined with some fine banana plantations and a succession of gently sloping and verdant hills that reach an altitude of a thousand feet. To the north are the Sierra de Santa Cruz mountains running parallel to the river, and to the south and in plain view are the more distant Sierras de Las Minas, both of these ranges being covered to their very summits with many shades of rich green foliage. Then after passing a bend in the river the little steamer enters a narrow canyon with towering cliffs on either side, and for several miles there is a succession of scenes of wild beauty.

At one point the rocky walls rise almost perpendicularly from the water to a height of several hundred feet. Instead of barren cliffs, however, the sides are almost completely covered with vegetation so that the rocks are seldom visible. From every foothold springs a dense growth of tropical vegetation and from every crevice hang vines and shrubbery swaying like green curtains in the breeze, and dipping their foliage in the river. Higher up are giant trees, covered with thousands of beautiful orchids, which cast their shadows in the deep blue waters underneath. All of this renders the scene one of dazzling beauty when the overhead skies are clear and the bright sun brings out the contrasts of sunlight and shadow.

At last the towering walls become broken and finally recede, banana plantations again appear, and the river broadens out into the Gulf of Golfete, which is a pretty little body of water about two miles broad and eight or ten miles in length, and is dotted with a number of pretty little green islands. Another connecting stream leads into that inland sea called Lake Izabal. On one bank of this stream stands the old Spanish fort of San Felipe, which was never very formidable and is now only a joke as fortifications go. In the olden time Port Izabal on the lake was the principal port and the approach was protected by this fortification. It is nearly forty-eight miles from Livingston. The high walls stand out boldly, but they are partly covered with climbing vines and mosses. It affords, however, a fine view of Lake Izabal with its broad expanse of blue waters and its shores a seemingly impenetrable jungle, except where a cleared space marks the location of a banana plantation. Its wooded shores are low, but the land rises gently to the background of mountains many miles away. Occasionally showers of short duration follow along the mountain slopes, and when the clouds have passed away the most brilliant of rainbows appears. As there are showers within view almost every day it might almost be called a land of rainbows. The waters of the lake are alive with many varieties of fish, the quiet coves and bays are the haunts of the alligator, while in the jungle may be found the small deer and bear of the country.

The old town of Izabal, once the port and a prosperous place, but now dwindled to a straggling, thatch-roofed village, reposes in perpetual siesta on the southern shore of the lake. Santa Cruz is another village on the north shore, where there is a sawmill and a small collection of native huts and a few better buildings which house the white inhabitant.

A number of small streams pour their waters into Lake Izabal. The principal stream, however, is the Polochic, which is navigable as far as Panzos, a distance of about thirty or forty miles, for light-draught steamers. There is a regular weekly service maintained by a steamer which brings down the mails, passengers and freight from Coban, the capital of Alta Verapaz, to make connection with the weekly steamer sailings for New Orleans. The river is not very wide, the course rather tortuous and the current swift, especially in the rainy seasons, so that boating is quite an exciting experience for the novice. This route was formerly and still is the main trade route for the natives of the Coban and Peten district who bring their produce down the Polochic and Chocon rivers in their dugouts, called pitpans, to the lake and then to the markets of Livingston. It is quite a common sight to pass their boats loaded with cocoanuts, bananas, plantains or other fruits or fish, with the brown native and his wife industriously paddling the same.

There are few places in the world where there is such an abundance of life, both plant and animal, as in the Lake Izabal district. Perennial moisture reigns in the soil and uninterrupted summer in the air, so that vegetation luxuriates in ceaseless activity all the year around. To this genial influence of ever-present moisture and heat must be ascribed the infinite variety of trees and plants. The trees do not grow in clusters or groups of single species as in our northern woods, but the different varieties crowd each other in unsocial rivalry, each trying to overtop the other. The autumn tints of browns and yellows, crimsons and purples, are as unknown as the cold sleep of winter. The ceaseless round of ever-active life might seem to make the forest scenery of the tropics monotonous, but there is such an untold variety and beauty in it that the scene never grows tiresome. The beautiful description of spring with its awakening life by Lowell is applicable every day in the year in this region:—

The last two verses are especially true, for the insect life is almost incredibly abundant. Mosquitoes and sandflies there are in great numbers to annoy the visitor, and beautifully coloured butterflies upon which to feast one’s eyes. I met three naturalists, who were called “bug hunters” by the people, one of whom was making a collection of dragon-flies, and another butterflies, and the third was gathering specimens of ferns. All of them had visited many parts of tropical America, but they found this section the most fruitful field in each line of research. Bugs and beetles, bees and wasps, ants and plant-lice, moths and spiders, and all the other little crawling and flying forms of life are innumerable in the number of individuals and a multitude in the variety of species represented.

The bright sparkling pools are the haunts of myriads of dainty little humming birds. One naturalist has figured that these little fairy-like creatures equal in number all of the other birds together. They may be seen darting in and out among the flowers or, poised on wings, and clothed in their purple, golden or emerald beauty, hanging suspended in the air. Then, after a startled look at the intruder upon their haunts, turning first one eye and then the other, they will suddenly disappear like a flash of light.