He sacrificed his life in 1855, for the good of his fellow-
townsmen, when Cameta was devastated by the cholera; having
stayed behind with a few heroic spirits to succour invalids and
direct the burying of the dead, when nearly all the chief
citizens had fled from the place. After he had done what he
could, he embarked for Para but was himself then attacked with
cholera, and died on board the steamer before he reached the
capital. Dr. Angelo received me with the usual kindness which he
showed to all strangers. He procured me, unsolicited, a charming
country house, free of rent, hired a mulatto servant for me, and
thus relieved me of the many annoyances and delays attendant on a
first arrival in a country town where even the name of an inn is
unknown. The rocinha, thus given up for my residence, belonged to
a friend of his, Senor Jose Raimundo Furtado, a stout florid-
complexioned gentleman, such a one as might be met with any day
in a country town in England. To him also I was indebted for many
acts of kindness.

The rocinha was situated near a broad grassy road bordered by
lofty woods, which leads from Cameta to the Aldeia, a village two
miles distant. My first walks were along this road. From it
branches another similar but still more picturesque road, which
runs to Curima and Pacaja, two small settlements, several miles
distant, in the heart of the forest. The Curima road is beautiful
in the extreme. About half a mile from the house where I lived,
it crosses a brook flowing through a deep dell by means of a long
rustic wooden bridge. The virgin forest is here left untouched;
numerous groups of slender palms, mingled with lofty trees
overrun with creepers and parasites, fill the shady glen and arch
over the bridge, forming one of the most picturesque scenes