Belize is on the coast of the free Indians, in
the Bay of Honduras. South of it lie the
five independent and quarrelsome states
forming the Republic of Central America.
Guatemala and Honduras side by side;
Guatemala with a coast-line on the Pacific,
and a bit of coast on the Atlantic; Honduras
with Atlantic coast along the bay named
after it. Under these lies first, San Salvador,
with the Pacific forming its sea-margin.
Then Nicaragua, with a long coast on the
Pacific, and containing lakes, but with a very
little piece of coast on the Atlantic. The
great part of the Atlantic coast line from
Honduras southward is in possession of
the Mosquito Indians. Costa Rica in the
narrowest part of the Central American
Isthmus, occupies the breadth from sea to
sea, but has by a great deal its longest coast
line on the Pacific side. Then comes the
remainder of the Isthmus, including the line
of railway between Chagres and Panama, but
Central America does not extend so far. We
will begin our travels at Belize and ramble
southward, until we take ship again in Costa
Rica at Punta Arenas on the Pacific side, for
reasons hereinafter to be mentioned.

Here we are, then, near the British settlement,
as we before said, after having felt how
water can dash down between the tropics;
raining, not cats and dogs, but tigers and
rhinoceroses. Belize appears to rise out of
the sea as we approach; a range of white
houses running for a mile along the shore—
government house at one end, barracks at the
other; a picturesque bridge, somewhere about
the middle, crosses a river which divides the
settlement. At the mouth of the river, on an
island, is a little fort. There is a church
spire, and, behind all, a background made by
groves of cocoa-nuts. Vessels at anchor in
the harbour, rafts of mahogany, canoes
paddled to and fro, and there is the government
dory made out of the trunk of a
mahogany tree. Belize lives upon mahogany.
The mahogany cutters are free blacks, who
form the staple population of the town. There
is a Court of Justice in Belize. Seven Judges
sitting on heavy mahogany chairs, seven
ordinary men of business, sit to hear causes.
There are plenty to be tried; there is a jury
to try them, but there's not a lawyer in the
settlement. The merits of each case are fairly
brought out, by mutual explanations, and
shrewd questioning. The decisions are
founded upon homely common sense, and the
strict purpose of protecting honest men. The
suitors have a right of appeal from this court
to England, but they make no use of it. How
many appeals would there be in the English
courts if every suitor knew, that go into what
court he might, he would find the law to be the
synonym of justice?

We walk among the bustle of Belize, then
step into our Phantom Ship, and sailing
slowly up the Belize River, one turn shuts
the Bridge from sight—and we are in the
deepest solitude. The dense forest, motionless,
and silent; the swift river by which, but
a few miles farther up, the aboriginal Indians
are dwelling; the sky obstructed by thick
boughs; these are the scene in which no
living thing appears to be astir, except a
quiet pelican. The solitudes beyond are
almost unexplored; we did not come out to
explore them, so we let the current float us
back into the bustle of Belize, and through
Belize, till we can hoist our ghostly white
sail and put out to sea again.

Our voyage is a short one. In the extreme
corner of Honduras Bay we find the Rio
Dolce. Mountains clothed up to their very
summits with the brightest foliage, are parted
by an ample stream; we pass between them,
we are enclosed on all sides by a forest wall.
The course of the broad stream is hidden by
its windings; trees, piled upon trees environ
us, the rocks are hidden by luxuriance of
shrubs that burst forth out of every crevice.
The air is odorous of fruits and flowers. The
plumage of the cocoa-nut, the huge stems of
the cotton trees, are bound together by a
network of parasites, whose crimson blossoms
cover them, whose runners hang in festoons
from the boughs and dip into the placid water.
There are orange trees and lemons,
pineapple, banana, plantain; but there is no song
of birds. We float for nine miles, buried thus
within a scene of solemn beauty, catching now
and then a gleam of sunset on our faces, and
then the mountains part on either hand; for
we have reached the broad lake, Golfo Dolce,
into which the River Dolce first flows from
the heights of Guatemala. The lake, studded
with islands, is now glorious before the setting
sun. We steer for the little port of Isabel—
a port, of Guatemala, on the Gulf—behind
which mountain rises above mountain—there
we land. The removal of a mud bar from the
mouth of the harbour would make this one of
the best ports in the world. The small population
here at present is composed of Indians,
negroes, people of mixed blood, and a few
Spaniards. Not far from Isabel there is another
port, St. Thomas, with a sheltered harbour.
We wait for morning and pass on, leaving our
ship to find its way without a pilot or a crew,
round Cape Horn and wait for us on the
Pacific coast of Costa Rica. We are now in
Guatemala, the most northern state, and on the
high road to its capital. This road takes high
ground at the very outset, for it begins by
running up the Mico Mountains.

Starting from Isabel, and passing a small
suburb, we cross a marshy plain, and then in
a few minutes drive into primeval forest. In
central America, roads mean lanes cut by axe
into the otherwise impenetrable wood, just
wide enough to give room for the mules to
meet and pass each other. The stems of the
trees are not dug out, the path is not made
level by an artificial process, but it is trodden
into by the mules, washed into by the rains,
and bristles with a chevaux-de-frise of mighty