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returning to Santarem, where we intended to stay for some time. Dr. Richard Spruce, the now well-known traveller and botanist, came out in the same ship with my brother, and was accompanied by a young Englishman, Mr. King, as an assistant and pupil in botany; and as Dr. Spruce was a welleducated men, a most ardent botanist, and of very pleasing manners and witty conversation, we very much enjoyed the short time we were together. My brother was the only one of our family who had some natural capacity as a verse-writer, and I will therefore supplement my rather dry descriptions by some bright verses he sent home, giving his impressions of Para and the voyage to Santarem, which occupied twentyeight days, the distance being about seven hundred miles.


“Well ! here we are at anchor
In the river of Pará;
We have left the rolling ocean
Behind us and afar;
Our weary voyage is over,
Sea-sickness is no more,
The boat has come to fetch us
So let us go on shore.
How strange to us the aspect
This southern city wears 1
The ebon niggers grinning,
The Indians selling wares;
The lasses darkly delicate,
With eyes that ever kill,—
All breathe to us in whispers
That we are in Brazil.

“The streets are green and pleasant,
The natives clad in white;
We miss the noise of coaches,
But miss it with delight.
The hairy sheep is biting
The grass between the stones,
And many a pig is grunting
In half familiar tones;
And through the green janellas *
(Which we should like to raise)
Dark eyes of the senhoras
Upon the strangers gaze.

: * Venetian shutters in place of sashes.

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The far-off roar of the onga,
The cry of the whip-poor-will—

All breathe to us in whispers
That we are in Brazil.

“By many an Indian cottage,
By many a village green,
Where naked little urchins
Are fishing in the stream,
With days of sunny pleasure,
But, oh, with weary nights,
For here upon the Amazon
The dread mosquito bites—
Inflames the blood with fever,
And murders gentle sleep,
Till, weary grown and peevish,
We've half a mind to weep !
But still, although they torture,
We know of cannot kill,—
All breathe to us in whispers
That we are in Brazil.

“And now the wave around us
Has changed its muddy hue,
For we are on the Tapajoz,
And Santarem 's in view;
Fair Santarem, whose sandy beach
Slopes down into the wave,
Where mothers wash their garments,
And their happy children lave.
Now comes the welcome greeting,
The warm embrace of friends,
And here, then, for a season,
The toil of voyaging ends.
The silent Indian sentry,
The mud fort on the hill,——
All breathe to us in whispers
That we are in Brazil.”

We remained at Santarem about three months, including a visit to Monte Alegre, a village on the opposite or north side of the river, where we had heard there were some very interesting caves, and where we found the great water-lily, the Victoria regia, growing abundantly in a backwater of the Amazon. Santarem and Monte Alegre both differ from almost all the rest of the places on the banks of the Amazon in being open country, with rocky hills dotted all over with low trees and shrubs, and with only isolated patches of forest for many miles round. This peculiarity of vegetation was accompanied by an equal peculiarity of insect life, especially in the butterflies, which were almost all different from any I had found at Para, and many of them wonderfully beautiful. Here I first obtained evidence of the great river limiting the range of species. At Santarem I found a lovely butterfly about the size of our largest peacocks or red-admirals, but entirely of different shades of the most exquisite sky-blue of a velvety texture (Callithea sapphirina), while on the opposite side of the river was a closely allied species of an almost indigo-blue colour, and with different markings underneath. Dr. Spruce assured me that, though he had studied all the known plants of the Amazon before leaving England, he felt quite puzzled when collecting at Santarem, because almost every shrub and tree he found there proved to be a new species.

We greatly enjoyed our short residence at Santarem, both on account of the delightful climate, the abundance of good milk, which we could get nowhere else after leaving Para, and for the pleasant friends we met there. The following descriptive verses by my brother may therefore appropriately follow here :—


“I stand within a city,
A city strangely small ;
'Tis not at all like Liverpool,
Like London, not at all.
The blue waves of the Tapajoz
Are rippling at its feet,
Where anchored lie the light canoes—
A Lilliputian fleet.
The scream of parrots overhead,
The cry of the whip-poor-will,
All tell me you're in England,
And I am in Brazil.

“I wander through the city,
Where everything is new :
The grinning, white-toothed negroes,
The pigs of varied hue ;
The naked little children,
With skins of every dye,

Then follows his farewell verses, well expressing the regret we both felt at leaving it.

Some black, some brown, some lighter,
Some white as you or I.

A dozen such in family,
With bellies all to fill,

Would be no joke in England;
'Tis nothing in Brazil . "

his reference to “blue pig" is not imagination only. c y

the quantities of pigs that roamed about the city and suburbs (really little more than a large straggling village) was one whose nearly black skin was seen in certain lights to be distinctly blue; and to have found the real “blue pig,” which under the name of the “Blue Boar” is a not uncommon inn

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I may just note here that

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