During the dry season prickly astricarias, large musaceæ, enormous bamboo-like grasses, white plumed ingas, and scarlet poivreas, are most frequently seen among the numberless plants growing along the margin of the stream. Above the shrubbery of the littoral forest numberless palms tower, like stately columns, to the height of a hundred feet; while others of a lower stature are remarkable for the size of their trunks, on which the foot-stalks of the fallen leaves serve as supports for ferns and other parasites. It stands to reason that in a length of more than 3,000 miles the species of plants must frequently change; yet the low banks of the Amazons, and of its vassals, as soon as they have emerged from the mountains where they rise, have everywhere a similar character. On sailing down the river for hundreds of miles, the eye may at length grow weary of the uniformity of a landscape, which remains constantly the same; but the interest increases as the mind becomes more and more impressed by the grandeur of its dimensions. A broad stream, now dividing into numerous arms, and now swelling into a lake; a dark forest-border, which on so flat a ground seems at a distance like an artificial but colossal hedge: these are the only elements of which the landscape is composed. No busy towns rise upon the banks, and it is only at vast intervals that one finds a few wretched huts, which are soon again lost in the forest; but a sky so brilliant spreads over the whole scene, and the rays of the sun beam upon a nature of such luxuriance, that the traveller, far from feeling the voyage monotonous, proceeds on his journey with increasing interest, and every morn salutes with new joy the majestic wilderness. The boat floats along, borne by the current of the river, which, in the dry season, generally flows at the rate of four English miles in an hour. Even during the night the journey is usually continued, when no special danger claims a greater caution, and a landing only takes place when the desire becomes general to enjoy a perfectly quiet night’s rest, or when a broad sand bank happens to be invitingly near. Generally an island is selected, as affording both greater security from beasts of prey and a clearer ground. The Indians are not obliged to fetch fire-wood from a distance, for trees, drifted by the floods, are constantly found at the upper end of the river-islands, where they remain until the next inundation once more raises them; and thus many of them are ultimately drifted by the ocean currents to distant lands. The Indians sometimes set fire to the whole pile, and then the flames, taking an unexpected direction, may force the company to flee as fast as possible to the raft, and to settle in a safer place, while they continue to blaze over the forest, or to cast a lurid light over the waters.