composed of Government buildings and hotels, but there was a street
of shops of no mean order, and a handsome square, called the "Piazza
1871," embellished with an equestrian statue of the President. Round
about this national monument were a large number of seats, and, hard
by, a _café_ and band stand. Here, I soon found, was the center of
life in the afternoons and evenings. Going along a fine avenue of
trees for half a mile or so, you came to the "Golden House," the
President's official residence, an imposing villa of white stone with
a gilt statue of Aureataland, a female figure sitting on a plowshare,
and holding a sword in the right hand, and a cornucopia in the left.
By her feet lay what was apparently a badly planed cannon ball; this,
I learned, was a nugget, and from its presence and the name of the
palace, I gathered that the president had once hoped to base the
prosperity of his young republic on the solid foundation of mineral
wealth. This hope had been long abandoned.

I have always hated hotels, so I lost no time in looking round for
lodgings suitable to my means, and was fortunate enough to obtain a
couple of rooms in the house occupied by a Catholic priest, Father
Jacques Bonchrétien. He was a very good fellow, and, though we did
not become intimate, I could always rely on his courtesy and friendly
services. Here I lived in great comfort at an expense of fifty dollars
a month, and I soon found that my spare fifty made me a well-to-do man
in Whittingham. Accordingly I had the _entrée_ of all the best houses,
including the Golden House, and a very pleasant little society we had;
occasional dances, frequent dinners, and plenty of lawn tennis and
billiards prevented me feeling the tedium I had somewhat feared, and
the young ladies of Whittingham did their best to solace my exile. As
for business, I found the bank doing a small business, but a tolerably
satisfactory one, and, if we made some bad debts, we got high interest