. . . .

The Central American is lazy. The only exercise he ever takes is
to occasionally produce a Revolution. When his feet begin to swell
and there are premonitory symptoms of gout, he "revolushes" a
spell, and then serenely returns to his cigarette and hammock under
the palm-trees.

These Central American Republics are queer concerns. I do not of
course precisely know what a last year's calf's ideas of immortal
glory may be, but probably they are about as lucid as those of a
Central American in regard to a republican form of government.

And yet I am told they are a kindly people in the main. I never
met but one of them--a Costa-Rican; on board the Ariel. He lay
sick with fever, and I went to him and took his hot hand gently in
mine. I shall never forget his look of gratitude. And the next
day he borrowed five dollars of me, shedding tears as he put it in
his pocket.
. . . .

At Panama we lose several of our passengers, and among them three
Peruvian ladies, who go to Lima, the city of volcanic eruptions and
veiled black-eyed beauties.

The Senoritas who leave us at Panama are splendid creatures. They
learned me Spanish, and in the soft moonlight we walked on deck and
talked of the land of Pizarro. (You know old Piz. conquered Peru!
and although he was not educated at West Point, he had still some
military talent.) I feel as though I had lost all my relations,