the San Juan River. On our right lay the little Spanish village of San
Juan del Norte; its five hundred inhabitants may have been wading
through its one street at that moment, for aught we know; the place
seemed to be knee-deep in water. On our left was a long strip of
land--the depot and coaling station of the Vanderbilt Steamship Company.

It did not appear to be much, that sandspit known as Punta Arenas, with
its row of sheds at the water's edge, and its scattering shrubs tossing
in the wind; but sovereignty over this very point was claimed by three
petty powers: Costa Rica, Nicaragua, and "Mosquito." Great Britain
backed the "Mosquito" claim; and, in virtue of certain privileges
granted by the "Mosquito" King, the authorities of San Juan del
Norte--the port better known in those days as Graytown, albeit 'twas as
green as grass--threatened to seize Punta Arenas for public use.
Thereupon Graytown was bombarded; but immediately rose, Phoenix-like,
from its ashes, and was flourishing when we arrived. The current number
of _Harper's Monthly_, a copy of which we brought on board when we
embarked at New York, contained an illustrated account of the
bombardment of Graytown, which added not a little to the interest of the
hour.

While we were speculating as to the nature of our next experience,
suddenly a stern-wheel, flat-bottom boat backed up alongside of the Star
of the West. She was of the pattern of the small freight-boats that
still ply the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. If the Star of the West was
small, this stern-wheel scow was infinitely smaller. There was but one
cabin, and it was rendered insufferably hot by the boilers that were set
in the middle of it. There was one flush deck, with an awning stretched
above it that extended nearly to the prow of the boat. It was said our
passenger list numbered fourteen hundred. The gold boom in California