A SUMMER JOURNEY TO BRAZIL. NEW YORK TO LISBON. Five winters in succession without one summer is an experience which I recall with pleasure these hot days! How did I manage it? Just crossed the equator to Brazil in May, back to New York in November, down to Brazil in May again and back once more in October. Many people “who loved geography when they were young” have still no realizing sense of the reversal of the seasons south of the equator, and do not know how interesting a voyage they might easily make if they went “up and down in the world,” instead of going around it. Everybody who is fortunate enough to have the money to do it has treated himself or some of his family to a trip around the world, and missionaries and commercial men have added to the list until we all speak with familiarity of life and travels in China and Japan, India and Egypt; but what American ever started for a pleasure trip to the southern half of his own hemisphere! Why not? I have gone there by two different ways, and for variety recommend them both. Suppose you go in May--as you can most comfortably and with the largest number of new experiences--by way of the American Line to Southampton, England; thence, sailing from that same Southampton harbor, to Rio de Janeiro by the English Royal Mail Line. You find yourself leaving England in a good-sized, well-built steamer named for some river, “Nile,” “Danube,” “Magdalena,” or “Clyde,”--let us say the “Nile,”--and evidently made for different seas from the North Atlantic. Your cabin may be 7 × 10 feet, its walls on the gangway made of slats like blinds slightly open for ventilation; and the wide decks covered with permanent awnings suggest a summer veranda. This line of steamers makes the trip from England to Buenos Ayres in twenty-four days, and winter and summer they must heat the cabins at one end of the trip for the comfort of the passengers; for at one end it is winter if at the other you find summer. You will arrive at Rio de Janeiro at the end of seventeen days. Out of the English Channel, stopping at Cherbourg for a few passengers from Paris, across the Bay of Biscay, it takes from Friday morning till Sunday to reach the quaint Spanish harbor of Vigo. Perhaps, so far, there will have been in the ship’s company one or two wine merchants who now leave for Oporto. Here you will receive your first instalment of emigrants, Spanish peasants, going to the Argentine Republic, the women with black hair and eyes and the most brilliant colors in their clothes. They may have nothing on their feet but their heads will be tied in kerchiefs, suggestive of a tulip-bed for hues.