August 17.

We came in sight of the coast of South America about noon, and dropped
anchor in the harbour of Bahia at four P.M.; and about half an hour after
I went on shore with Mr. Lushington, a person of the name of Wilson
taking us in his boat: there was a slave in the boat, and, not knowing
that he understood English, I asked Mr. Wilson several questions about
slaves in general, and he gave me a good deal of information on this
subject, mentioning among other things that the price of a good slave
here varied from 90 to 100 pounds, he happened to state that the slaves
were wretched in their own country, and that frequently large numbers
were sacrificed to their gods. I never saw so fine a burst of natural
indignation as the slave in the boat evinced at this statement; his lip
curled up with scorn, his dark eye grew vividly bright, and his frame
quivered as he made an impassioned reply in Portuguese; I could not
understand all that he said, but caught enough to know the tenor of it,
that "this was not the case; Englishmen or foreigners never visited his
country, so how could they know." It was not so much what he said but the
scornful bitterness of his manner that made an impression on me, not
easily to be effaced.

NIGHT WALK.

I took a night walk in the country this evening and experienced those
wild and undescribable feelings which accompany the first entrance into a
rich tropical country. I had arrived just towards the close of the rainy
season, when everything was in full verdure, and new to me. The luxuriant
foliage expanding in magnificent variety, the brightness of the stars
above, the dazzling brilliancy of the fireflies around me, the breeze