And he is insecluded in his seclusion, for he can not escape from the intruder.  He should have no wish that may not be satisfied, provided he be native born; what can he wish for that is beyond the knowledge he has gained from the objects within his reach?  The world is his, so far as he knows it; yet if he have one wish that calls for aught beyond his limited horizon he rests unsatisfied.

All that was lovely in that tropic isle appealed to me and filled me with a great longing.  I wanted to sing with the Beloved Bard: 

    Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own,
    In the blue summer ocean, far off and alone!

And yet even then I felt its unutterable loneliness, as I have felt it a thousand times since; the loneliness that starves the heart, tortures the brain, and leaves the mind diseased; the loneliness that is exemplified in the solitude of Alexander Selkirk.

Robinson Crusoe lived in very truth for me the moment I saw and comprehended that summer isle.  He also is immortal.  From that hour we scoured the sea for islands:  from dawn to dark we were on the watch.  The Caribbean Sea is well stocked with them.  We were threading our way among them, and might any day hear the glad cry of “Land ho!” But we heard it not until the morning of the eleventh day out from New York.  The sea seemed more lonesome than ever when we lost our, island; the monotony of our life was almost unbroken.  We began to feel as prisoners must feel whose time is near out.  Oh, how the hours lagged!—­but deliverance was at hand.  At last we gave a glad shout, for the land was ours again; we were to disembark in the course of a few hours, and all was bustle and confusion until we dropped anchor off the Mosquito Shore.

II.

CROSSING THE ISTHMUS

We approached the Mosquito Shore timidly.  The shallowing sea was of the color of amber; the land so low and level that the foliage which covered it seemed to be rooted in the water.  We dropped anchor in the mouth of the San Juan River.  On our right lay the little Spanish village of San Juan del Norte; its five hundred inhabitants may have been wading through its one street at that moment, for aught we know; the place seemed to be knee-deep in water.  On our left was a long strip of land—­the depot and coaling station of the Vanderbilt Steamship Company.

It did not appear to be much, that sandspit known as Punta Arenas, with its row of sheds at the water’s edge, and its scattering shrubs tossing in the wind; but sovereignty over this very point was claimed by three petty powers:  Costa Rica, Nicaragua, and “Mosquito.”  Great Britain backed the “Mosquito” claim; and, in virtue of certain privileges granted by the “Mosquito” King, the authorities of San Juan del Norte—­the port better known in those days as Graytown, albeit ’twas as green as grass—­threatened to seize Punta Arenas for public use.  Thereupon Graytown was bombarded; but immediately rose, Phoenix-like, from its ashes, and was flourishing when we arrived.  The current number of Harper’s Monthly, a copy of which we brought on board when we embarked at New York, contained an illustrated account of the bombardment of Graytown, which added not a little to the interest of the hour.