stumps. The high road from Isabel to
Guatemala upon which we are now travelling
is an example. We, travelling phantoms,
take no harm, we may amuse ourselves with
watching more substantial way-farers. Here
is a party floundering on mules that sink in
mud at every step, up to their knees or
shoulders. The wood grows thicker, and so
does the mud; the shade is deeper and so are
the holes. We come to a stream rattling over
stones, the whole party plunges in and clatters
up its bed. The mules are perpetually falling.
The trees meet overhead; it is like a cathedral
aisle, only instead of organ music there
is the cursing and swearing of the muleteers.
Out again into the road, that is to say, into
the mud-holes, and among the roots of trees.
The colossal roots of the mahogany trees get
sadly in the way. It is almost dark under
the dense branches, but we can all contrive to
see the mud-holes into which our friends are
tumbling. We are working our way up the
Mico mountain at the conclusion of the rainy
season. At length we reach a little clearing
on the top, the only ground on which the sun
can shine, and this is dry. We rest here for
a little while, and then follow to watch the
general tumble of our party down the other
side. They are down at length; in ten hours
they have got through those twelve miles of
road, and they are in a grove of palm trees
on the plain. Plastered from head to foot
with a thick layer of mud, the party we have
watched attain a kindred shelter, a small
rancho, built of mud. Here they eat frijoles,
that is to say, black beans fried in hog's lard,
which are the roast beef of Central America.
Now we may note that those who do not like
hog's lard must not travel in this part of the
world. Lard is to the natives here what
palm oil is to negroes. It enters into every
dish, and if you ask for bread and are able to
get it, it will be brought to you as a matter
of course, smeared with lard, unless you are
extremely vigilant. Good wheat bread can
be got, but it is about three times dearer than
it is in England. Maize is the grain in common
use; they grind it between stones into
a pulp, the women pat it into cakes, and bake
them on a "griddle." These cakes are called
Tortilias, and the daily manufacture of them
forms a good part of the women's household
work. Rounds of beef, and shoulders of
mutton are not to be met with in this country.
An ox is cut up into long strips, in villages,
and dried without any reference to steaks or
sirloins; so that the beef is then bought by
the yard, and eaten, fried in hog's lard
naturally. The upper classes live much upon
vegetables, fruit and sweet-meat. Chocolate
is in common use, and coffee in the neighbourhood
of the plantations. Tea has scarcely
penetrated into this part of the world. So
now you know what you can get to eat if you
should chance to visit Central America, not
as a phantom but in hungry flesh.

We travel on—along the summit of a
mountain range—on either side of us delicious
valleys, whereon winter never trod; here and
there a scenery reminding us of English parks.
The next hour is enlivened by a heavy rain.
It ceases, and we see beneath us the Motagua,
the finest river in Central America, which
forms in the lower part of its course the
boundary between the states of Guatemala
and Honduras. We descend by a steep,
romantic path, and stand upon the margin of
the torrent, where huge mountains compass
us about. A naked Indian sits on the other
bank before a few huts roofed with palm
leaves. He pushes across for us in his canoe.

We turn aside from the high road to Guatemala—
not very far aside—to trace the Copan
River. Copan is but a little village—of
Honduras, for we have just crossed the borders of
that state. It lies in a district famous for its
good tobacco. In Central America the whole
population smokes, men, women, and children;
standing, sitting, and reclining. The wife
goes to bed, on the ox-hide, with a cigar in
her mouth, and the husband with his cigar
will lie with his head at her feet sometimes,
for mutual convenience. Copan is their best
tobacco district.

What Titanic wall is that whose image is
reflected in the river? By the shrubs and
creepers we can climb up to the summit. It
looks like a portion of some massive ruin.
We have climbed, and we stand spell bound.
Step below step, broken by trees, loaded with
shrubs, and lost at last in the luxuriance of
forest, we see the traces of a theatre of
masonry. But from a pillar of broken stone
below, the fixed stare of an enormous
sculptured head encounters us. We descend
wondering, and stand before an altar richly carved.
We seek for more, and find at our first plunge
into the forest a colossal figure frowning down
upon us; it is a statue twelve feet high,
loaded with hieroglyphic and with grotesque
ornament. The grand face seems to be a
portrait—but of whom? We explore farther,
and find more and more of these stone giants,
elbowed from their places by the growth of
trees, some of them buried to the chest in
vegetation, staring through the underwood
with their blind eyes. Monkeys in troops
pass to and fro among them. Who are these
gods or heroes buried in the dark recesses of
the wood? Who raised their monuments?
What Temple, what great city, has existed
here? No man can tell. These figures frowned
before their altars when the Spaniards came.
They speak, as the monuments of Egypt,
about that time when man exulted most in
wrestling against matter, when glory lay in
strength of hand and magnitude of handiwork.
These are the ruins of Copan, and tell
of a past whose history is totally effaced.
Along a row of death's heads, carved in stone,
by other monuments, we pass back to the
outer wall. From the suggestion of what has
been, we return to the examination of what
is. We get back into the high road for