from the
intruder. He should have no wish that may not be satisfied, provided he
be native born; what can he wish for that is beyond the knowledge he has
gained from the objects within his reach? The world is his, so far as he
knows it; yet if he have one wish that calls for aught beyond his
limited horizon he rests unsatisfied.

All that was lovely in that tropic isle appealed to me and filled me
with a great longing. I wanted to sing with the Beloved Bard:

Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own,
In the blue summer ocean, far off and alone!

And yet even then I felt its unutterable loneliness, as I have felt it a
thousand times since; the loneliness that starves the heart, tortures
the brain, and leaves the mind diseased; the loneliness that is
exemplified in the solitude of Alexander Selkirk.

Robinson Crusoe lived in very truth for me the moment I saw and
comprehended that summer isle. He also is immortal. From that hour we
scoured the sea for islands: from dawn to dark we were on the watch. The
Caribbean Sea is well stocked with them. We were threading our way among
them, and might any day hear the glad cry of "Land ho!" But we heard it
not until the morning of the eleventh day out from New York. The sea
seemed more lonesome than ever when we lost our, island; the monotony of
our life was almost unbroken. We began to feel as prisoners must feel
whose _time_ is near out. Oh, how the hours lagged!--but deliverance was
at hand. At last we gave a glad shout, for the land was ours again; we
were to disembark in the course of a few hours, and all was bustle and
confusion until we dropped anchor off the Mosquito Shore.

II.

CROSSING THE ISTHMUS

We approached the Mosquito Shore timidly. The shallowing sea was of the
color of amber; the land so low and level that the foliage which covered
it seemed to be rooted in the water. We dropped anchor in the mouth of
the San Juan River. On our right lay the little Spanish village of San
Juan del Norte; its five hundred inhabitants may have been wading
through its one street at that moment, for aught we know; the place
seemed to be knee-deep in water. On our left was a long strip of
land--the depot and coaling station of the Vanderbilt Steamship Company.

It did not appear to be much, that sandspit known as Punta Arenas, with
its row of sheds at the water's edge, and its scattering shrubs tossing
in the wind; but sovereignty over this very point was