_December 20th._—This morning we left Mauhes, accompanied by our Mundurucu Indian and his wife. The President takes them to Manaos, in the hope of obtaining their portraits to enlarge Mr. Agassiz’s collection. I am interested in watching the deportment of these people, which is marked by a striking propriety that wins respect. They have remained in the seat where the Captain has placed them, not moving, except to bring their little baggage, from which the woman has taken out her work and is now busy in sewing, while her husband makes cigarette envelopes from a bark used by the Indians for this purpose;—certainly very civilized occupations for savages. As they speak no Portuguese, we can only communicate with them through the interpreter or through Mr. Coutinho, who has considerable familiarity with the “lingua geral.” They seem more responsive, more ready to enter into conversation now than when we first saw them; but the woman, when addressed, or when anything is offered to her, invariably turns to her husband, as if the decision of everything rested with him. It might be thought that the fantastic ornaments of these Indians would effectually disguise all pretence to beauty; but it is not so with this pair. Their features are fine, the build of the face solid and square, but not clumsy, and there is a passive dignity in their bearing which makes itself felt, spite of their tattooing. I have never seen anything like the calm in the man’s face; it is not the stolidity of dulness, for his expression is sagacious and observant, but a look of such abiding tranquillity that you cannot imagine that it ever has been or ever will be different. The woman’s face is more mobile; occasionally a smile lights it up, and her expression is sweet and gentle. Even her painted spectacles do not destroy the soft, drooping look in the eyes, very common among the Indian women here, and, as it would seem, characteristic of the women in the South American tribes; for Humboldt speaks of it in those of the Spanish provinces to the north.