May you find in these leaves of my writing,
what Robinson Crusoe found in his Experience
on the desert island—namely, "something to
comfort yourselves from, and to set in the
Description of Good and Evil, on the Credit
Side of the Account."—Farewell.

THE END OF THE FIRST PERIOD.

CARABOBO.

BEFORE leaving Valencia, that pearl of
Venezuelan cities, I resolved to visit the field
of Carabobo. The name is little familiar to
English ears, yet here Bolivar fought the battle
which decided the liberties of the South American
republics, and here British valour achieved
a victory which deserves to be recorded in
bronze and marble.

The battle-field is situated about eighteen
miles south of Valencia. As I foresaw it would
take some time to examine the ground, besides
four or five hours at least for going and returning,
and as a tropical sun in August is not agreeable,
I determined to drive rather than ride.
"What easier!" exclaims my European sightseer.
"Order a carriage, and the thing is done."
Carriages, however, being non-existent in
Valencia, I was obliged to make search for a
roofed vehicle of any description. At last my
choice was a nondescript, strongly suggestive of
the disasters which shortly took place. Into this
I mounted with two or three friends about six
o'clock on the morning of the 29th of August,
186—. We all lit our cigars, gave the word
to old Domingo the driver, and started with a
shock that broke one of the traces, and enabled
us to get well to the end of our first cigars
before even leaving the door.

To say that the streets of Valencia are not
adapted for wheels, is to speak in the mild
form which the Greeks thought advisable in
discoursing of anything preternaturally bad.
On this principle, one might say that these
streets are paved, just as the Furies were called
Eumenides. I had made up my mind to be
"jolted to a jelly," but another form of martyrdom
was reserved for us. At the first turning
there was a chasm, into which we were all
but precipitated. At last we cleared it with
a portentous jerk, but the triumph cost us
so many fractures as to entail a delay which
lasted through another cigar. We then got
on pretty well through a street and a square,
but only to find ourselves in a narrow lane,
shelving laterally at an angle of thirty degrees,
and full of holes and heaps of broken flagstones.
Here we smashed the pole, and the driver went
off for a fresh one, and did not return till we
had consumed a third cigar.

The sun was already hot before we were off
the stones. The road lay in the centre of a
valley, which extended north and south as far
as eye could reach, and was bounded to east
and west by richly wooded ranges of
mountains, some twenty miles apart, and from one
thousand to five thousand feet high. This
valley cuts at right angles the far narrower one
in which Valencia is built. At its northern
extremity is the Lake of Tacaragua, and thence
to the field of Carabobo, a distance of twenty-
eight miles, there is a succession of plantations,
many of them uncultivated since the late war it
is true, and now unprofitable to the owners, but
not the less luxuriant and pleasing to the eye.
Were it not for snakes, insects, a vertical sun,
fever, and a too rank crop of liberty, this valley
would be Paradise. So we thought, and, falling
into a benignant humour, we exchanged
civil words with all we met. These were, for
the most part, ragged fellows driving mules or
asses, or mounted on miserable jades of horses,
yet the usual salutation by which they were
addressed was, "Good morning, general;"
"Good morning, doctor."

It was past ten o'clock A.M. before we got to
a posada, which is the sole habitation near the
Pass of Carabobo. The landlord was only a
colonel, but in respectability of appearance he
quite thrust several of the generals we had met
into the shade. We asked what we could have
for breakfast. Like innkeepers everywhere, he
informed us we could have whatever we liked;
but on our proceeding to name various
desirable dishes, it turned out that none of them
were forthcoming, and, in the end, we subsided
into a meek acquiescence in eggs, which were,
in truth, the only thing procurable. For this
ovation, and two bottles of wretched wine of
the country, the worthy colonel charged us only
twenty-one shillings; so that we did not pay
much more than a shilling an egg.

Having feasted after this fashion, we sallied
forth to reconnoitre the locality in which the
battle was fought. It was now past eleven, and
the fierce sun made us appreciate what the
combatants must have suffered from the heat on the
memorable 24th of June, 1821. The English,
at least, must have been sorely tried; but as
for the natives, we had just then a proof of their
powers of endurance, for a party of travellers
went by, among whom were several girls, who
had but a light mantilla drawn over their
heads.

And here, after the fashion of the immortal
Cervantes, it might be allowable to request the
reader to suspend his interest in the battle of
Carabobo, and turn aside to a lengthy episode
in which could be related an adventure or love
passage that befel one or other of our party
then, or on some other occasion, or which it
might be adroitly pretended that one of the said
travellers, à propos or otherwise, recounted to
us. But, to say truth, the sun was making
havoc of my patience, and, so far from seeking
matter for an episode, I besought the cicerone
of the party to tell us all he knew, and to be
brief about it, as I wanted to get under shelter
again as fast as possible. The old general,
however, had his own way of telling the story,
and was not to be thwarted.

"You will never understand the battle," said
he, "nor appreciate it, unless you know