286 The Naturalist in Nicaragua 
the mines after escorting young Mr. Seemann to the port, 
and who could find no place to rest in, excepting an old 
hammock, kept his long arms going round like a windmill, 
every now and then wakening every one up with a loud 
crack, as he tried to bring his flat hand down on one of his 
tormentors. A mosquito, however, is not to be caught, even 
in the dark, in such a way. It holds up its two hinder legs 
as feelers; the current of air driven before a descending blow 
warns it of the impending danger, and it darts off to one side, 
to renew its attack somewhere else. The most certain way 
to catch them in the dark is to move the outstretched finger 
cautiously towards where one is felt, until a safe striking 
distance is reached. But what is the use of killing one when 
they are in myriads? None whatever, excepting that it is 
some occupation for the sleepless victim. The black gentle- 
man was a thinker and a scholar, and used to amuse himself 
at the mines by writing letters addressed to Mr. Jacob Elam, 
Esgqre. (himself), in which he informed himself that he had 
been left legacies of ten, twenty, or thirty thousand pounds, ~ 
a few thousand more or less costing nothing. Pondering 
during that weary night over the purpose of creation, he 
startled me about one in the morning with the question, 
‘“‘ Mr. Belt, sir, can you tell me what is the use of mosquitoes? ” 
“To enjoy themselves and be happy, Jacob.” 
“Ah, sir! if I was only a mosquito!” said Jacob, as he 
came down with another fruitless whack. 
At the first cock-crow we were up, and as the cheerful 
dawn lighted up the east, we were in our saddles, and the 
miseries of the night were but the jests of the morning. The 
mules even seemed to be eager to leave that dismal swamp, 
where malaria hung in the air, and mosquitoes did their best 
to drive mankind away. The dry savannahs were before us, 
our hearts were young as the morning, the tormenting spirits 
of the night had flown away with the ‘darkness, and jest and 
banter enlivened the road. We reached Acoyapo at nine 
o’clock; my good friend Don Dolores Bermudez lent me a 
fresh mule, and, riding all day, I reached Santo Domingo in 
the evening. 
I have little more of interest to relate. Years had sped 
on at Santo Domingo; and the time approached when I 
