A land as feverish to the imagination as to the body is Panama. It is a land making a fitting environment to the deeds of conspiracy, piracy, loot, cruelty, and blood that have principally made its history for centuries. This gloomy, God-forsaken isthmus is a nightmare region. One descriptive writer has truly said of it that it is a land where the flowers have no odour, the birds no song; where the men are without honour and the women without virtue. He is not far wrong. The birds, brilliant as is their plumage, have no musical notes. The dense forests teem with bright-hued parrots, parroquets, and other birds, which squeak and scream but do not sing. There are beautiful orchids to be found in the swamps and jungles--fair to look upon, but they have no odour. The oranges have green skins instead of golden, the plantains must be fried to make them fit to eat, the reptiles and insects are often venomous, and myriads of parasites are ever ready to invade the human body and bring disease and death. In the atmosphere itself is something suggestive of the days of the old pirates and their fiendish cruelties and orgies. There is no life in the air; it is depressing, damp, miasmatic, and intensely hot. For a great part of the year thunder-showers succeed each other all day long and half the night, with sheet lightning all around the horizon after dark. There is practically no twilight, day passing almost instantly into night. It is no wonder that this uncanny land has made its residents degenerate into plotters, revolutionists, murderers, and thieves. Its aspect is one of darkness, treachery, and curse. President Roosevelt had something to say on these recurring criticisms in a message to Congress in January 1906. He wrote:--