136 TRAVELS ON THE RlO NEGRO. \Seftemba\ 



only two families inhabiting it, a blacksmith, and a Brazilian, 

 who bore the title of Capitao Vasconcellos, a good-humoured, 

 civil man, who treated us very well the day we remained with 

 him. For dinner we had turtle, with silver knives and forks, 

 but our table was a mat on the ground. In the afternoon the 

 Capitao got drunk with his old friend Senhor L., and then 

 became very violent, and abused him as a vile, unworthy, 

 skulking Portuguese villain, and used many more epithets, of 

 which the language has a copious store. Senhor L., who 

 prides himself on never getting intoxicated, took it very coolly, 

 and the next morning the Capitao expressed his heartfelt 

 contrition, vowed eternal friendship, and regretted much that 

 he should have given the " estrangeiro " so much reason to 

 think ill of his countrymen. 



Proceeding on our journey, we entered on a labyrinth of 

 small islands, so flooded that they appeared like masses of 

 bushes growing out of the water. Though Senhor L. is well 

 acquainted with the river, we here almost lost our w T ay, and 

 met another canoe which had quite done so. As it was late, 

 we stayed at a point of dry land for the night, and hung our 

 hammocks under the trees. The next day we called at the 

 house of a man who owed Senhor L. some money, and who 

 paid him in turtles, eight or nine of which we embarked. 



The two shores of the river had only been seen for a 

 moment. Again we plunged into a sea of islands, and channels 

 opening among them often stretched out to the horizon. Some- 

 times a distant shore continued for days unbroken, but was at 

 last found to be but a far-stretching island. All was now again 

 alluvial soil, and we sometimes had a difficulty in finding dry 

 land to cook our meals on. In a few days more we reached 

 Barcellos, once the capital of the Rio Negro, but now depopu- 

 lated and almost deserted. On the shore lie several blocks of 

 marble, brought from Portugal for some public buildings which 

 were never erected. The lines of the old streets are now 

 paths through a jungle, where orange and other fruit-trees are 

 mingled with cassias and tall tropical weeds. The houses that 

 remain are mostly ruinous mud-huts, with here and there one 

 more neatly finished and white-washed. 



We called on an old Italian, who has the reputation of being 

 rich, but a great miser. He was, however, merry enough. He 

 gave us coffee sweetened with molasses, and pressed us to stay 



