We were in the saddle at seven, expecting a hard day’s journey. The road was bad enough, muddy even when steep. In places it was paved; but this was worse still. The flowers were interesting, and the splendid butterflies were flitting all the way. A fine passion-flower which Frank gathered for me, and a cypress-vine (_Ipomœa_), were among the old friends in a new place. Several trains of pack-mules on their way to Guatemala City passed us, and we had to use care to avoid being bruised by their loads, which they did not hesitate to push into us if not driven aside. As Mabel had cast a shoe, Frank walked almost all the way, using the mare occasionally as a bridge when the stream to be forded was wide. As we came out on the northern slope of El Mico we had an attractive view of the Lago de Izabal, and later of the town itself, where we arrived early in the afternoon, finding quarters in the posada of Señora Juana, an ancient mulattress. Her house, at the extreme east end of the town, was large and ruinous; but we had a comfortable and cool room and a very decent comida. In the garden the señora had roses, gardenias, caladiums, hibiscus, and the Mexican vine (_Antigonon leptopus_). The town, with its white houses, low level, and ditched streets, reminded us of Belize; but while the capital of British Honduras is alive, Izabal is dead. On the hill westward was a fort, with lighthouse and town-bell. At 5 and 6 A.M., and at 6, 8, and 9 P.M., the fort made a noise. The wharf at the custom-house was long, but had only two feet of water, so shallow is the lake at this side. The shore was sandy, and the water clear. The principal streets are lighted by _gaz_ (kerosene); and as the ditches on either side are worse than the gutters in New Orleans, this is a necessary precaution. In the photograph of Izabal, taken from the end of the dilapidated wharf, the fort is seen on the hill above the large warehouse; at the right is the cluster of buildings belonging to Mr. Potts,—a gentleman who has a fine collection of native orchids in his garden, the only one in all the republic who seemed to take much interest in horticulture. The church is just behind this dwelling, and on the hill at the extreme right of the view is the Campo Santo. In the foreground the corroded piles show well the action of wood-destroying animals in the tropical fresh waters. [Illustration: Izabal.]