For a while all is as it was when Hernan Cortez, in the year 1525, came to this shore after his terrible march from Mexico. There was even then a little village on the high bluff; and he found two of his countrymen gathering _sapotes_ (_Lucuma mammosa_) to save the little colony of Spaniards, a few leagues farther south, from starving. Waiting in the early dawn for the landing-boats, I cannot but recall the ancient times; imagination sinks the great steamer into the little caravel, and the feelings of the _conquistadores_ are mine for the time. Soon the white sails drop out from the foliage, the canoes are seen rapidly approaching, and the chatter of Caribs, both men and women, banishes all daydreams. The “Progreso,” once a Buzzard Bay racer, sails rapidly out and takes on board her cargo,—my friend, his mother, and myself, and traps of no light weight. Her bows are soon turned landward, and as she glides along, all the features of the shore unfold,—the coco-palms of marked luxuriance, the thatched houses with shining white walls, the limestone cliff almost covered with convolvulus and other foliage, the narrow beach, the canoes of various size and shape. We turn a point, and the town of Livingston is before us, and we are in the mouth of the Rio Dulce. On the shore the only prominent building is the custom-house, built before Livingston was declared a free port; and in front of this is a low, dilapidated wharf, at which our tender landed us, the water being not more than fifteen inches deep. The tides here are less than a foot, so that shoal-water keeps boats of any size at a distance, making landing difficult. It was comforting to know that a charter for a wharf had been obtained, and that our successors may land with greater ease. We did not find the heat greater than on the steamer in the offing, and even the necessary bustle and trouble in getting luggage transferred to the backs of men did not cause discomfort. The custom-house and a few offices occupy the front of an amphitheatre with very steep sides, above which is the town. Springs burst from the gravel and furnish pools for the washerwomen, whose sturdy, yet graceful forms, barely concealed by their scanty garb, are very attractive. Some stood in the clear pools, others bent over the washing-stones, some played with their children in the water, while others climbed the steep path to the town, carrying a head-burden of great weight. [Illustration: Barrack Point, Livingston.] Our abode was on the Campo Santo Viejo, the burial-hill of former days, and right across our path lay the empty tomb of a son of Carrera, the former President of Guatemala; as we passed this we noted the admirable mortar with which its bricks were laid,—so strong that no brick can be cut out whole. On this resting-place of perished Caribs the foreign inhabitants of Livingston dwell. It is the west end of the town, and overlooks both the river and the native town, where are also the stores and the hotels.