It  is  not  easy  to  impart  an  adequate  idea  of  the  Mother  of
Waters,  buried  as  it  is  in  a  tropical  forest,  amid  scenes  inde
scribably  picturesque  and  sublime.  As  for  that  portion  of  the
aqueduct  along  which  we  have  come,  another  time  must  ]be
taken  to  examine  it  particularly.  There  is  a  moral  influence
about  it  in  such  a  day  as  this.  An  emblem  of  youth  and  in
nocence,  its  crystal  current  gushes  and  sparkles  as  from  excess
of  joy,  running,  leaping,  and  changing  its  course  and  its  speed
as  in  wantonness  of  play.  A  kindred  feeling  arises,  we  wot  not
how,  within  us.  Buoyant  and  elastic,  pleased  with  ourselves
and  all  about  us,  heaven  and  earth  seem  one.  Exulting  in  our
being,  emotions  such  as  swell  in  angels'  breasts  heave  in  ours,
and  burst  out  into  ejaculations  of  praise.  To  hypochondriacs
the  Mai  de  Agua  would  prove  a  fountain  of  health,  and  effica
cious  as  the  pool  of  Siloam.  Melancholy  would  leave  them
ere  they  reached  it.  Like  the  lepers  of  old,  they  would  be  heal
ed  by  the  way.
Having  so  much  work  before  us,  we  could  linger  no  longer.
As  we  pressed  on,  the  road  became  less  and  less  inviting.  It
was  well  enough  for  men  who  have  tame  tigers  to  ride  on,  but
not  for  timid  travelers  on  nags  of  the  equus  genus.  I  preferred
leading  mine  to  mounting  him.  After  a  while,  a  neat  little  line
of  embankment  appeared,  running  along  the  right  of  the  path.
