ly warmth. Returning in December, she proceeded to
compile a narrative of her experiences, which was published in 1843,
under the title of "Travels of a Viennese Woman to the Holy Land," and
immediately obtained a worldwide popularity. Its merits, however, are
not of a literary character; its attractiveness is due entirely to its
simplicity and straightforwardness. The reader at once discovers that he
is dealing with a writer who makes no attempt to deceive, who neither
diminishes nor exaggerates, nor adapts her facts to preconceived
opinions. To this we may add that Madame Pfeiffer, though an accurate,
is not a profound observer.

From the sultry heat of the East she next betook herself to the sullen
cold of the North; and the result of her wanderings in 1846 was a lively
book upon Scandinavia and Iceland, describing perils which few men would
care to confront, with evidently unaffected enjoyment.

But these comparatively short excursions were but preliminary to the
great enterprise of her life, the prologue, as it were, to the five-act
drama, with all its surprises, hazards, amazing situations, and striking
scenes. The experience she had acquired as a traveller she resolved to
utilize in the accomplishment of a tour round the world, and on this
notable adventure she set out in June, 1846, being then in her fiftieth
year, on board the _Caroline_, a Danish brig, bound for Rio Janeiro. She
arrived at the Brazilian capital on the 16th of September, and remained
there for upwards of two months, exclusive of the time devoted to
excursions into the interior. On one of these excursions she narrowly
escaped the murderer's knife. She and her companion, in a lonely spot,
were overtaken by a negro, who, with a lasso in one hand and a long
knife in the other, suddenly sprang upon them, and gave them to
understand, more by gestures than words, that he intended to murder
them, and then drag their bodies into the forest. They had no arms,
having been told that the road was perfectly safe; their only defensive
weapons were their parasols, with the exception of a clasp knife, which
Ida Pfeiffer instantly drew from her pocket and opened, resolved to sell
her life as dearly as possible. They parried their adversary's blows as
long as they could with their parasols, but these did not long avail;
Madame Pfeiffer's broke in the struggle, leaving only a fragment of the
handle in her hand. The negro, however, dropped his knife; the
courageou