The Pampas and Andes: A Thousand Miles' Walk Across South America

by Nathaniel H. Bishop

FOOTNOTES:

[1] General Rosas, late president of the Argentine Republic, owned an estancia, south of Buenos Ayres, that contained seventy-four square leagues.—Darwin’s Voyage.

[2] In conversation with many gauchos who break in colts for the estancieros, I have been informed this is the price paid them for their labor, and in hard times even a less sum is paid. This was in the far interior of the pampa provinces.—Author.

CHAPTER VII.
LIFE ON THE PAMPAS.

At sunrise on the day but one following that mentioned at the close of the preceding chapter, I left the house of my hospitable friend, after bidding farewell to my amiable hostess, and proceeded with Mr. G. to a plaza on the outskirts of the town, from whence all troops of carts or mules take their departure for the interior provinces of the country.

We entered the square in time to find Don José Leon Perera, the patron or owner of the caravan, who was reclining upon a skin beneath the cart that contained his personal property, enjoying his cigarito, and finishing his fifth maté. This gentleman received his visitors with a pompous wave of the hand, and requested us to be seated, pointing at the same time to an old wheel lying not far off upon the ground.

Some minutes having passed in exchanging compliments, after the manner of the country, Mr. G. informed the patron that he had with him a young man who had come from El Norte with the intention of crossing the pampas, and that he proposed accompanying the caravan on foot; moreover, as he was inexperienced, it would be necessary to place him beneath his (Don José’s) protecting care. At mention of my crossing the plains on foot, Don José, with a stare of astonishment, declared it could not be done. To the second proposition—that of his assuming my guardianship—he acquiesced, however, and mentioned upon what terms I could accompany him. For the use of a horse (in case I should need an animal), and a place in a cart for my baggage, seventeen dollars would be required of me—a sum sufficient to have purchased two ordinary horses, at the prices which they then were sold at.

Four dollars were demanded for the supply of meat, of which I was to have an ample allowance; and besides this sum, a fee of one dollar was to be given to a native—a fellow of villanous appearance—who was to be my compañero (companion) and cook. It was to be his particular duty to see that his protégé was well attended, well fed, and guarded from all harm if the Indians should attack the caravan. Of course I was to believe that great valor would be exhibited, and much blood be spilled, by the brave individual who was to be my protector. My new guardian and the other drivers of the carts differed widely from the inhabitants of the pampa provinces. They belonged in the northern part of the republic, in the distant province of Santiago, and spoke the ancient language of their fathers,—the Quichua,—while the patron and two or three natives of the lower states conversed in the Spanish or common language of the country. Knowing that I should be unable to converse with Don José or his peons while upon the journey, I made a number of inquiries in relation to the manner of living, and what I might expect on the trip, all of which, with the assistance of Mr. G., were comprehended by the natives, and I was answered that luxurious living, sympathizing friends, and unalloyed enjoyment were to be the accompaniments of my journey across the pampas. The anxiety that had caused me many sleepless nights previous to the interview with the patron and his Indian peons now disappeared, and I looked forward to opportunities for gleaning, in a rich field, a harvest of information and valuable facts not yet familiar to my adventurous countrymen.

Matters having been settled by my paying Don José in advance the full demands he made, Mr. G. took me aside, and prayed God speed me on my way. “If you have money with you,” said he, “by no means let it be seen, as these drivers do not bear a good name, and they would not scruple to rob you should opportunity offer. The patron I believe to be honest, and while he is with the troop you have nothing to fear.” He then bade me farewell, pressed my hand cordially, and we parted.

Towards noon about one hundred oxen were driven into the plaza, when each peon, having received his allotted six, conducted them to his cart. A piece of tough wood, six or seven feet in length, five inches in width, and three in thickness, served as a yoke; it was laid on the neck, just back of the animal’s horns, and lashed securely to them by a long strip of raw hide, thus causing the whole strain to come upon the head and neck, instead of upon the shoulders, as is customary with cattle that are yoked as in the United States.

The carts were most cumbrous affairs, and in appearance were not unlike a rancho, or native hut, set upon wheels. The body consisted of a framework of sticks covered upon the sides and back with small reeds, and roofed with cattle hides, which rendered them secure against the heaviest rain. The carts, which probably exceeded twelve feet in length, were only four feet wide, and, being mounted upon two wheels of extraordinary diameter, were sufficiently novel and striking to my uneducated eyes. The only iron used in their construction consisted of a few scraps used to strengthen the nave of the wheel; all the other parts were fastened together by bands of hide, and wooden pins. The heavy tongue rested upon the yoke of the first pair of oxen, and from it ran long ropes of hide, which connected with the yokes of the second pair and leaders.

The method of driving the oxen practised by these people is most barbarous. There projects, a few feet from the roof, running forward of the cart, a portion of the ridge-pole, from which is suspended, by a piece of lasso, a becket that swings to and fro with the motion of the cart. This becket supports a heavy cane, nearly thirty feet in length, having at the end a sharp iron nail that serves to quicken the movements of the leaders; above the second pair is another goad, differing from the first by projecting from a wooden cone that hangs beneath the cane-pole.

This instrument is called the picano grande, and it requires a skilful hand in its guidance, in consequence of its weight and the constant oscillatory motion when the wagon is moving. The driver holds one end in his right hand, and, by constant thrusts, drives it into the animals without mercy. By lifting the end of the picano, the part outside the becket is lowered, and the perpendicular goad touches the backs of the second pair, while in his left hand the driver holds the picano chico (little goad), and spurs the tongue oxen, or those nearest the wagon, upon which the severest labor falls. The principle upon which the cattle are guided is also peculiar. If the driver wishes the ox to turn to the left, the goad is applied to that side, and the animal follows the direction pricked upon him; if to the right, the picano is applied to that side, with a similar result. I have seen the unfortunate beasts goaded until the blood trickled from their wounds; but still they followed the instrument, upon whichever side they felt its sharp sting. With small carts, having but one pair of oxen, the driver sits upon the yoke and tongue of the vehicle, picano in hand, with his legs coiled beneath him à la Turque.

Everything was in readiness for the journey, but the butcher had not arrived with the meat for provisions, a delay at which the patron gave vent to many a carramba of impatience. Shortly, however, a little, ricketty, two-wheeled cart, lashed together with strips of hide, was driven into the plaza, and its owner distributed the expected meat among the different carts. While he was thus employed, some women, carrying a little tinsel-covered Santa, passed around the caravan, and each peon devoutly kissed the garments of the image, to insure, as I supposed, a prosperous journey.

At last the caravan commenced its march, and we bade farewell to Rosario and to civilization, Don José the patron and Don Manuel the capataz leading the caravan, on horseback.

First following them were, creaking loudly, fourteen clumsy carts loaded with yerba, sugar, iron, and other merchandise. Next came fifteen or twenty spare oxen, as many horses, with about a dozen mules, driven by an old guide, two youngsters, and the carpenter of the troop, who also acted as assistant capataz. I walked in advance of the patron, though he advised me to enter the cart, as walking, he said, was injurious to the system.

Our course lay over a level country covered with fine grass, which, having been pastured by cattle, was very short. After journeying four miles, we came to a halt; the oxen were unlashed, and allowed to feed by the roadside, while the men kindled a fire of thistles, roasted a strip of meat, and took their gourds of Paraguay tea.

The manner of cooking meat on the pampas is worth a moment’s attention. After an animal has been killed, the meat is cut into pieces, without any regard to anatomy, or to the butcher’s “regular cuts,” and an iron spit called the asador is run longitudinally through each strip. The asador is stuck into the ground close by the fire, and, being carefully watched, the steak is gradually cooked in a manner that would gain no discredit in a well-regulated kitchen. The result of this method of cooking is that none of the juices of the meat are lost.

When our asados were sufficiently roasted, the chief took them from the fire, and, driving the point of the spit into the ground, invited me, with a profound salaam, to commence my repast. Cutting a small piece from the roasted strip, and taking it upon the point of my knife, I put it, as a matter of course, into my mouth. At this the group around me broke into a boisterous laugh, and one swarthy fellow volunteered his services in teaching me how to eat à la gaucho. Drawing from his belt that inseparable companion which the gaucho never parts with—a long knife—the fellow cut off a strip of meat, and, holding one end with his fingers, dropped the other into his mouth; then followed a quick upward stroke with the knife, so close to his lips that I involuntarily started, severing the meat, and leaving a huge piece between his teeth. This feat was accomplished so rapidly that it astonished me; but as I found that it was the universal custom among the peons, I attempted to imitate them. But on the first trial the blade of my knife came in contact with the end of my nose, cutting it enough to draw blood. At this a loud laugh went through the group, at the expense of “Bostron the gringo,” which name they insisted upon calling me, notwithstanding my efforts to show that Boston, and not Bostron, was my native city.

After the usual siesta, we continued our journey. Nothing of importance occurred until sunset, when, as I glanced across the plain, it seemed to at once become endowed with life. As the sun sank below the horizon, the owners of innumerable little burrows, which I had noticed through the greater part of the afternoon all over the plains, came out of the holes in such numbers as to astonish the uninitiated. As I watched one of the holes, I saw first a little round head, enlivened by a pair of black, twinkling eyes, peeping out; then followed a dusky body, and, finally, the animal, having become satisfied that our intentions were not unfriendly, sat by his doorway with the greatest nonchalance imaginable; but in a moment, after observing us curiously, he scampered off to join the hundreds, if not thousands, that were playing about in the grass around us.

Sometimes we saw an old female trotting along with four or five young ones on a visit to a neighbor; and frequently we saw some of these reunions, in which, while the old people were exchanging compliments, the juvenile members of the family chased each other merrily about the mounds.

These animals, which bore some resemblance to the marmots, were called by the natives bizcacha. The species is the Lagostomas trichodactylus of naturalists. Its habits are similar to those of the proper marmots; in size it exceeds the opossum of North America.

About the entrance of the burrows I noticed that a quantity of rubbish is usually collected, such as the bones of deceased relatives and of other animals, mixed with thistles, roots, &c. These bizcachas are found all over the pampas, as far south as the confines of Patagonia, beyond which, however, they have never been observed.

The singular habit of collecting all compact substances about their burrows seems peculiar to these animals. A traveller’s watch, which had been lost, was found at the entrance to one of their domiciles, the animals having dragged it from the camp near by.

Darwin says the bizcacha is found as far north as 30° south latitude, and “abounds even to Mendoza, and is there replaced by an Alpine species.”

It is not an inhabitant of the Banda Oriental, east of the Uruguay River.

The following accounts of North American species will be interesting to the reader, since they give a good idea of the habits of nearly allied species. Audubon and Bachman, in their Quadrupeds of North America, say of the prairie dog, “This noisy spermophile, or marmot, is found in numbers, sometimes hundreds, of families together, living in burrows on the prairies; and their galleries are so extensive as to render riding among them quite unsafe in many places. Their habitations are generally called dog towns, or villages, by the Indians and trappers, and are described as being intersected by streets (pathways) for their accommodation, and a degree of neatness and cleanliness is preserved. These villages or communities are, however, sometimes infested with rattlesnakes and other reptiles which feed upon these animals. The burrowing owl (Surnia cunicularia) is also found among them. Occasionally these marmots stood quite erect, and watched our movements, and then leaped into the air, all the time keeping an eye on us. Now and then, one of them, after coming out of his hole, issued a long and somewhat whistling note, perhaps a call or invitation to his neighbors, as several came out in a few moments. They are, as we think, more in the habit of feeding by night than in the daytime.”

Lieutenant Abert, who observed the prairie dog in New Mexico, says it does not hibernate, “but is out all winter, as lively and as pert as on any summer day.” Another observer states that it “closes accurately the mouth of its furrow, and constructs at the bottom of it a neat globular cell of fine dry grass, having an aperture at the top sufficiently large to admit a finger, and so compactly put together that it might almost be rolled along the ground, uninjured.”

Perhaps different winter temperatures in different localities may govern the habit of hibernation.

The following sketch, from Kendall’s narrative of the Texan expedition to Santa Fé, is so interesting that I present it to the reader:—

“We sat down upon a bank, under the shade of a mesquit, and leisurely surveyed the scene before us. Our approach had driven every one to his home in our immediate vicinity, but at the distance of some hundred yards the small mound of earth in front of each burrow was occupied by a prairie dog, sitting erect on his hinder legs, and coolly looking about for the cause of the recent commotion. Every now and then, some citizen, more adventurous than his neighbor, would leave his lodgings, on a flying visit to a friend, apparently exchange a few words, and then scamper back as fast as his legs would carry him. By and by, as we kept perfectly still, some of our near neighbors were seen cautiously poking their heads from out their holes, looking craftily, and at the same time inquisitively, about them. Gradually a citizen would emerge from the entrance of his domicile, come out upon his observatory, peek his head cunningly, and then commence yelping, somewhat after the manner of a young puppy, a quick jerk of the tail accompanying each yelp. It is this short bark alone that has given them the name of dogs, as they bear no more resemblance to that animal, either in appearance, action, or manner of living, than they do to the hyena.

“Prairie dogs are a wild, frolicsome, madcap set of fellows when undisturbed, uneasy, and ever on the move, and appear to take especial delight in chattering away the time, and visiting from hole to hole to gossip and talk over each other’s affairs; at least, so their actions would indicate. When they find a good location for a village, and there is no water in the immediate vicinity, old hunters say they dig a well to supply the wants of the community. On several occasions I crept close to their villages without being observed, to watch their movements. Directly in the centre of one of them I noticed a very large dog, which, by his actions, and those of his neighbors, seemed the chief or big dog of the village. For at least an hour I watched this village; during this time the large dog received at least a dozen visits from his fellow-dogs, who would stop and chat with him a few minutes, and then run off to their holes. All this while he never left his seat at the entrance to his home, and I thought that I could perceive a gravity in his deportment not discernible in those by whom he was surrounded. Far is it from me to say that the visits he received were upon business, or had anything to do with the local government of the village, but it certainly appeared so.”

The bizcacha does not live alone, for in each burrow I found a pair of small owls, of the species known by the name of the “Burrowing Owl of South America” (Athene cunicularia, Molina). As these birds are somewhat peculiar in their habits, and some few errors have crept into the writings of various authors regarding them, I will, for the information of those interested, present the following sketch of their habits, the result of observations which I made during my long journey.

I first met with this owl on the banks of the River San Juan, in the Banda Oriental, one hundred and twenty miles west of Montevideo, where a few pairs were observed devouring mice and insects during the daytime. From the river, travelling westward thirty miles, I did not meet a single individual, but after crossing the Las Vacas, and coming upon a sandy waste covered with scattered trees and low bushes, I again met with several.

Upon the pampas of the Argentine Republic they are found in great numbers, from a few miles west of Rosario, on the Paraná, latitude 32° 56′ south, to the vicinity of San Luis, where the pampas end, and a travesia or saline desert commences.

On these immense plains of grass it lives in company with the bizcacha. The habits of this bird are said to be the same as those of the species that inhabits the holes of the marmots upon the prairies of western North America. But this is not strictly correct, for one writer says of the northern species, “we have no evidence that the owl and marmot habitually resort to one burrow;” and Say remarks that “they were either common, though unfriendly, residents of the same habitation, or that our owl was the sole occupant of a burrow acquired by the right of conquest.” In this respect they differ from their South American relatives, who live in perfect harmony with the bizcacha, and during the day, while the latter is sleeping, a pair of these birds stand a few inches within the main entrance of the burrow, and at the first strange sound, be it near or distant, they leave their station, and remain outside the hole, or upon the mound which forms the roof of the domicile. When man approaches, both birds mount above him in the air, and keep uttering their alarm note, with irides dilated, until he passes, when they quietly settle down in the grass, or return to their former place.

While on the pampas, I did not observe these birds taking prey during the daytime, but at sunset the bizcachas and owls leave their holes, and search for food, the young of the former playing about the birds as they alighted near them. They do not associate in companies, there being but one pair to each hole, and at night do not stray far from their homes.

In describing the North American burrowing owl, a writer says that the species “suddenly disappears in the early part of August,” and that “the species is strictly diurnal.”

The Athene cunicularia has not these habits. It does not disappear during any part of the year, and it is both nocturnal and diurnal, for though I did not observe it preying by day on the pampas, I noticed that it fed at all hours of the day and night on the north shore of the Plata, in the Banda Oriental.

At longitude 66° west our caravan struck the great saline desert that stretches to the Andes, and during fourteen days’ travel on foot I did not see a dozen of these birds; but while residing outside the town of San Juan, at the eastern base of the Andes, I had an opportunity to watch their habits in a locality differing materially from the pampas.

The months of September and October are the conjugal ones. During the middle of the former month I obtained a male bird with a broken wing. It lived in confinement two days, refusing to eat, and died from the effects of the wound. A few days later a boy brought me a female owl, with five eggs, that had been taken from her nest, five feet from the mouth of a burrow that wound among the roots of a tree.

She was fierce in her cage, and fought with wings and beak, uttering all the while a shrill, prolonged note, resembling the sound produced by drawing a file across the teeth of a saw. I supplied her with eleven full-grown mice, which were devoured during the first thirty-six hours of confinement.

I endeavored to ascertain if this species burrows its own habitation, but my observations of eight months failed to impress me with the belief that it does. I have conversed with intelligent persons who have been familiar with their habits, and never did I meet one that believed this bird to be its own workman. It places a small nest of feathers at the end of some occupied or deserted burrow, as necessity demands, in which are deposited from two to five white eggs, which are nearly spherical in form, and are a little larger than the eggs of the domestic pigeon.

In the Banda Oriental, where the country is as fine, and the favorite food of the owl more plentifully distributed than upon the pampas, this bird is not common in comparison with the numbers found in the latter locality. The reason is obvious. The bizcacha does not exist in the Banda Oriental, and consequently these birds have a poor chance for finding habitations. On the pampas, where thousands upon thousands of bizcachas undermine the soil, there, in their true locality, the traveller finds thousands of owls. Again, along the bases of the Andes, where the bizcacha is rarely met with, we find only a few pairs. Does the hole, from which my bird was taken, appear to be the work of a bird or quadruped? The several works that I have been able to consult do not, in one instance, give personal observations relative to the burrowing propensities of this owl; from which fact, it will be inferred that it never has been caught in the act of burrowing.

We continued our journey while the sun left in the western heavens beautiful clouds of purple and gray as souvenirs of his company through the bright, warm day.

Around us on the plains were many animals in droves and herds, all preparing for the night. Troops of wild colts galloped homeward past us at the heels of their anxious mothers, who occasionally halted as if to dispute our right of passage through their territory. Darkness now set in, and soon the caravan halted for the night. I made my bed upon a raw hide, spread upon the top of the cargo in the cart, and was soon fast asleep; but I was shortly awakened by Don Facundo, who climbed into the cart, coughing loudly, and saying, by dumb show, pointing towards the south-west, that a pampero had commenced blowing. The wind, which was accompanied by rain and hail, violently shook the old cart, and whistled dolefully through its reed-covered sides. The don’s cough had increased alarmingly, and he shivered with cold. “Compañero,” he continually called out, giving me a poke to signify something that his ignorance of the Spanish language would not allow him to express more intelligibly, for he spoke only the tongue of his native province—the Quichua. I at last handed him my overcoat—an act of generosity that I afterwards regretted, for, though I applied several times for its restoration during the journey, he would not give it up, but ate, slept, and worked in it until we had crossed the country, and it was no longer serviceable.

CHAPTER VIII.
LIFE ON THE PAMPAS—CONTINUED.

The night passed drearily away, and glad enough was I when day dawned, and the caravan was prepared to start.

Before we began to move, I retired to my cart, and changed my clothes, appearing before my companions in the unconfined and comfortable garb of a sailor.

The moment the peons, who were clustered around the fire, beheld me, they shouted to each other “Montenero!” a word which at that time I did not comprehend, but which, as I learned some months later, was the name of a particular class of bandits, who, about 1817, under the leadership of Artizas, filled the republic with consternation. Probably my sailor’s dress resembled that of the robbers.

As the heavy mist rolled off the pampas, we discerned two shepherds driving their flocks to another pasture; and, as there was no hut in sight, they had probably passed the night sleeping upon their saddles, a common custom of the herdsmen. As a specimen of his skill, the younger of the two spurred his horse after a ram, the patriarch of the flock, and, as he drew near it, swung the lasso a few times around his head, and the fatal noose fell over the neck of the animal. Dismounting from his horse, the gaucho jumped upon the ram, which began to run for dear life. As they scampered over the plain, I could plainly see pieces of wool flying from the animal’s fleecy sides, as the rider plied his sharp, heavy spurs.

But rams were evidently not created for saddle-beasts, for the animal stumbled in his flight, upsetting, in a most ludicrous manner, his rider, who sprawled upon the turf.

Our caravan was now in motion. As we proceeded on our course, the pampa gradually became more undulating, and was covered with a coarser herbage, shooting up in clumps to the height of a foot or more.

Soon after sunrise we met a party of eight horsemen from Mendoza, one of whom was armed with a spear, which was ornamented with a flag. About ten o’clock we passed a miserable estancia house, built of burnt bricks; we halted near it for the purpose of greasing the wheels of the carts. This was attended to by the capataz. He first cut into thin slices a pound of white native soap, and, after pouring hot water upon it, added a little salt, when he beat the whole together with a bunch of reeds drawn from the sides of the cart. While stirring this mixture, he would not permit me to look into the pail, but, turning his back on me, leaned over the mixture, muttering to himself, and making crosses over it, acting as if afraid that I would discover the recipe for the wheel-grease.

Before noon the caravan was again in motion. Three half-starved dogs that accompanied us gave chase to several deer that appeared in sight, but they were unable to approach them. These deer (Cervus campestris) are very common on the pampas. They have one habit which is common to the antelopes of North American prairies. When a person approaches them, they seem anxious to make his acquaintance, drawing near, and scrutinizing him with much curiosity. They are a small species, are of a yellowish-brown color on the upper parts, and white beneath the body. They are hunted by the gauchos in parties, who pursue and capture them with the boliadores.

A species of parrot (Psittacus patagonus) was observed flying in large flocks northward. At another time, I observed one or two very small species, of a green color, with grayish-white breasts. I have seen the same species in the Banda Oriental, flying in flocks of considerable size.

The clearness of the atmosphere gave great effect to the mirages that we constantly behold around us. Twice we seemed to see large lakes far in advance of our caravan, but they vanished utterly upon our moving nearer them.

On our right, in the distance, the mirage so much resembled the ocean, that our carpenter, who had been in Buenos Ayres, pointed to it, exclaiming, “El mar!” (the sea).

Since leaving Rosario, we had met, along the road, flocks of small white gulls, feeding on carrion; but they, during this day’s march, became more scarce, and soon disappeared entirely, and we saw no more of them on the pampas. The little ponds of water before noticed were now rarely encountered, and it became necessary, therefore, to lay in a stock before going farther. Each cart was supplied with a long earthen jar, lashed on behind, which held five or six gallons; these jars were filled; and these, with one or two demijohns stowed inside, comprised our water supply,—enough to last several days.

About three o’clock in the afternoon a long, dark cloud of dust appeared above the horizon in advance of our troop, and the patron, beside whose horse I was walking, informed me that it was “una tropa de Mendoza.” In the course of the next half hour it made its appearance in the road before us.

The troop presented a picturesque appearance as it slowly toiled along in divisions of ten carts each. The procession was headed by four or five asses, with pack-saddles and loads, and by a number of mules without luggage, driven by gauchos. After these followed the two divisions of carts, filled to such a degree with hides that their drivers were entirely hidden by them. This troop carried, as usual, a stock of firewood, consisting of heavy branches and gnarled stumps, which were lashed to the roofs of the carts. The relays consisted of thirty oxen and a few old cows, which were also under the guidance of a crew of almost savage gauchos. At sunset we passed a little knoll, conspicuous in the midst of the vast plain, surmounted by a small dwelling; beyond it lay an extensive pantana (swamp), that we were obliged to traverse, although the labor it cost us was not inconsiderable. Several yokes of oxen were detached from the after carts, and connected with those of the leading ones, when, with a vast amount of uproar and merciless goading, each cart was drawn, in turn, through the mire.

We encamped beyond the pantana, and supped upon sliced pumpkins, boiled with bits of meat, and seasoned with salt. I would remark here that the gauchos never use salt with roasted meat, but frequently sprinkle it into a stew, if the heterogeneous messes which they compound and boil in iron pots are worthy of that title.

Our meal was served in genuine pampa fashion; one iron spoon and two cow’s horns, split in halves, were passed around the group, the members of which squatted upon their haunches, and freely helped themselves from the kettle.

Even in this most uncivilized form of satisfying hunger there is a peculiar etiquette, which the most lowly peon invariably observes. Each member of the company in turn dips his spoon, or horn, into the centre of the stew, and draws it in a direct line towards him, never allowing it to deviate to the right or the left.

By observing this rule, each person eats without interfering with his neighbor. Being ignorant of this custom, I dipped my horn into the mess at random, and fished about in it for some of the nice bits. My companions regarded this horrid breach of politeness with scowls of impatience; they declared, with some warmth, to the capataz that gringos did not know how to eat, and, “as they lived upon dogs in their own distant country, they come to the great Argentine Republic to get food and grow fat on the gauchos.” I apologized as well as I could, and endeavored, during the remainder of the meal, to eat according to gaucho etiquette.

As night came on, a brilliant scene was developed before us. As far as the eye could reach, we beheld the ruddy glow of a distant conflagration of the pampa herbage. Fortunately it did not approach us, but after giving us a view of one of the most sublime and magnificent sights in nature, it faded at last away into the south.

During the night I suffered much from the cold.

I was awakened on the following morning (Sunday) by my peon, who gave me to understand, by gestures, that the asado was prepared. As I joined the company at the fire, the patron approached us with a poncho filled with watermelons, which he had purchased at the estancia house on the mound; of these we ate heartily, and they were delicious.

As the pieces of rind fell to the ground, they were eagerly devoured by the dogs, and by two little children that accompanied the troop. I often pitied these little neglected creatures, and shared with them my fare. I gave them a portion of my share of the melons, and their gratitude was warm and demonstrative: they were going to Mendoza with their mother, the wife of one of the drivers.

This was the first Sunday spent on the road; and as there was a plenty of thistles for our fire, and good grass for the cattle, the day was passed without leaving camp, the gauchos amusing themselves with a pack of cards.

I had with me an illustrated Testament. The peons, after gazing intently upon a picture of the crucifixion, declared that I was a Cristiano, and invited me to play cards with them.

During the next day we saw a plenty of wire-grass, and at least thirty deer grazed within a mile of the wagons. No cattle were to be seen. The wind, which blew from the north-east, was very warm. Our course was west.

In a halt which we made during the day’s travel, I turned my blanket into a poncho, by cutting a hole in the middle, and thrusting my head through the aperture. When the gauchos saw my new garment, they shouted in admiration; and one or two, who could speak a little Spanish, exclaimed, “Gaucho, Bostron!”

At dark we camped near a corral, or cattle-yard, formed of the tunas, a species of wild cactus. At supper we ate our last morsel of meat brought from Rosario; the bones were heated upon the fire, then broken, and the marrow greedily eaten by the men.

Throughout the night the mosquitos and flies tormented me, until I was obliged to roll my head in a blanket.

At dawn the troop set out, in the midst of a heavy shower, without eating, and kept on until Don José commanded a halt, in order to kill an old cow which had been purchased at an estancia the day before.

We camped near a collection of mud-huts, surrounded by a gigantic growth of cactus, and called Guardia de la Esquina. It was the first place we had met that approached the dignity of a village; but its qualifications for that title were extremely limited.

Half a mile south of the Esquina a low brick structure, resembling in form two sugar-boxes,—one set on its side, and the other placed perpendicularly against it,—stood alone on the plain. A melancholy story is connected with this structure.

Don B, a rich estanciero, owned many miles of the surrounding country; and the report that he had much money buried in the earth about his brick casa excited the cupidity of the Indians. They came from the south in a large party, ransacked the place, and carried away the hoarded treasure, after cutting the throats of the don, his child, and sixteen peons, all of whom were afterwards buried in a common grave.

While several of the men were slaughtering the cow, the carpenter, with two or three others of the troop, guided by a man sent from the Esquina, visited the hole in which the bodies lay. The earth had fallen in as the bodies had undergone decomposition, for they had been buried in the usual manner of the pampas, without any other covering than the clothes worn at the time of death. On reaching the spot, the gaucho from the town conversed at length with our men; but the substance of his conversation was unintelligible to me. The carpenter threw off his poncho, and commenced digging in good earnest, with a heavy hoe, which he had brought from the carts.

Two little crosses marked the spot where father and child were laid. As his implement sank deep into the earth, a dull, crushing sound announced that it had buried itself in the skull of a man, and the digger drew forth the tool with a human head, greatly decomposed, upon it. The hoe had entered between the jaws. At the sight a sickening sensation came over me; but the Santiagueños, who had left their work, and were grouped around the grave, laughed at my sensations, and scraped away the matted hair from the ghastly head, which was still red with blood, with their knives, which they returned to their sheaths without cleaning. It was a disgusting picture—the natives, with their bare legs and breasts besmeared with the blood of the animal they had just butchered, passing the head from hand to hand, and joking at a calamity that should have excited their pity and commiseration.

The head of the child was also exhumed, and the two were placed in a bag to be taken to Mendoza, where the priests could pray over them; for so long as they remained uninterred in the panteon (consecrated burying-ground), the souls that once animated them would be kept from the land of bliss.

The attack by the Indians had occurred only a short time before our visit, and the prints of their horses’ hoofs were not obliterated from the spot where the butchery was done.

Our caravan continued its course until nine o’clock, and passed Cabeza del Tigre, a place well known as having been the scene of a transaction equally lamentable with the one just recorded. The facts were related to me by a gentleman in whose word I placed great confidence.

Three English merchants who had made large fortunes in California were returning to England, and, having their treasures with them, would not risk a passage around Cape Horn, but landing at Valparaiso, crossed the Cordillera to Mendoza, and there, in as private a manner as possible, engaged for the passage of their property in a large troop of carts bound to Rosario.

Far better would it have been, as it proved, had they trusted to the ocean, rather than to have attempted crossing, with their treasures, a country inhabited by a treacherous and lawless people. Despite all their efforts to keep the matter secret, it became known that a party of “gringos” from the land of gold were about to cross the pampas. The English character is proverbially daring; the three merchants pursued their course, regardless of the reports of the natives and the advice of friends. The great travesia was crossed, and they passed through the provinces of San Luis and Cordova in safety; but when they reached the vicinity of Cabeza del Tigre, several hundred Indians, mounted on horseback, and armed with spears, met them on the road and offered battle.

The patron ordered the carts to be formed into a square, and the peons got within its protection. The three white men and the patron and capataz fought desperately. The Englishmen were armed with double-barrelled guns, and for a time kept the enemy at bay; one of them shot a cacique (chief), and this for a time kept the tide of battle in their favor.

At that period, Cabeza del Tigre was a military fort; the report of the guns aroused the soldiers, but for a time they were undecided how to act, through fear of the savages. At a moment when a vigorous attack by all the peons would have decided the battle, and some soldiers were even seen in the distance, galloping towards the spot, the Indians, with a desperate effort, succeeded in despatching the Englishmen, secured their treasure, and, before the small military force arrived, hurried away beyond their reach.

The amount of money carried off by the Indians was reported to have been many thousand doubloons. Though this sum seems large, the amount taken must have been considerable, for my informant said that, for several weeks after the event had transpired, Rio Quarto and El Moro were visited by parties of Indians, who were readily admitted as peaceful visitors, their purpose being to exchange gold onzas for silver, as they obtained more in bulk of the latter metal by the transaction. The silver coin was manufactured into rings and other trinkets. Those intended for the ears were several inches in diameter, and so heavy that they required to be supported by fastenings to the hair of the head.

However lightly the peons regarded Indian murders at the Esquina, their faces assumed a very different expression from that of mirth, when, during the next day, a troop of mules from the interior passed us, and the patron informed our company that the savages had cut the throats of eleven soldiers not far from the very road that we were on. Their boisterous mirth was over; and during the several succeeding days I do not remember of having heard a single song, or a light word, in the company. They all looked dubious enough; one or two tried to amuse themselves by drawing their knives across their throats in a significant manner before me, but their efforts only made me smile, and provoked the other members of the party.

During the next day we passed over a country destitute of pasturage; but the road ran along the River Quarto for an eighth of a mile, and we had, therefore, some muddy water to drink.

At this place the river trended to the west; the right bank was about twenty-five feet in height, and as steep us a wall; the left side was sloping and covered with vines, thorn-bushes, and gigantic cacti, which in one place formed a natural enclosure, in which I passed fully an hour, in watching the movements of a bird resembling our turtle-dove. The river was about twenty feet wide, and had a sluggish current.

We passed at dusk the hamlet of Saladillo, but could not catch a glimpse of it, though Don Manuel wished me to visit it with him; for, said he, “Hay mucho pan, mucho queso, e muchas muchuchas tambien”—“There is a plenty of bread and cheese, and also a great many young ladies.”

Upon the pampas, winds from opposite quarters frequently meet and form little whirlwinds, that sometimes take up a large cloud of dust, which helps to relieve the monotony of the journey; but these clouds of dust not only settle upon the weary travellers, covering them with the fine powder, but render them exceedingly thirsty. Such was my condition, when, wayworn and weary, the orders were spoken to halt and prepare to camp. We had arrived at the borders of a salt lagoon, which was filled with wild fowl. The confused sounds that came from hundreds of ducks, teals, loons, white cranes, sand-pipers, and plovers, made it a second Babel. Around the borders of the lake the soil was white with saline matter, and covered with the footprints of the bizcacha, and I observed that the grass was trodden down into little paths leading from their burrows to the water.

Our last cow had been eaten, and we had already fasted twenty-four hours, when we prepared to camp, and I was only too glad when the directions were given to slaughter an ox; and, judging by the alacrity with which the men set about executing their orders, they were as glad as myself of the prospect of breaking their fast.

The animal was thrown down and butchered; its blood was allowed to run into a hole dug for the purpose, and suffered to clot, when it was placed in a bladder, and suspended from the roof of a cart, to be kept for the purpose of coloring the handles of the small goads—the picanos chicos—of the drivers. While a portion of the men were attending to this work, others were engaged in caring for their cattle, and others were lighting a fire, which, as other fuel was not to be had, was made of the argols of cattle. Soon huge pieces of the meat were steaming and crackling before the heat, and before darkness had completely enveloped us, we were luxuriating on fresh beef and some matés.

Supper over, we took refuge in the carts, and although the noise of the wild fowl on the lake was continued, which to my ears was a very sweet music, I confess I was soon asleep.

On the next morning, bright and early, we again took up our march, and through that day and the next pushed on over the plains.

From the hamlet of Saladillo, sixty miles westward, we met but two or three huts and a few salt lagoons. Near one of the latter, six black-necked swans flew over my head, and I noticed many other fowls that are common in North America, such as the stilt, green-winged teal, pin-tailed duck, and the great blue heron. The road was everywhere covered with saline matter, and the reflection of the sun’s rays upon it was painful to the sight.

As we passed a mud hut near one of the lagoons, a woman came out to sell melons and pumpkins. I visited the hut, but, although it was far neater than the majority of ranchos on the pampas, it was a miserable place to live in, for the fleas and chinchas were far too numerous for comfort. The hut was twelve feet long and seven feet high; it was a mere framework of sticks lashed together with strips of hide, and covered with cornstalks, reeds, and mud. It contained two beds propped against the wall; three or four bottles, a couple of spoons, and an iron kettle with the maté, were the contents of one corner, and the only furniture the cabin contained. I noticed long strings of sliced pumpkins drying in the sun; these vegetables keep many poor peons from starving during the winter time. They are very generally grown, and are used throughout the country.

The woman appeared to be frugal and industrious, for she had cultivated a large patch of melons, and raised numerous families of hens, turkeys, and muscovy ducks. And I would remark, in passing, that this woman was not an exception, as regards general fitness for the duties of life, to her sex throughout the republic; indeed, they seem better fitted to act in any responsible position, or attend to any duty, than the men; for of the large class called chinos (pronounced cheenows), produced by intermarriage of the Spanish and Indians, that cover the pampas, and compose the lower classes in the more civilized towns, the women are the most energetic and faithful.

Our march for several days was monotonous and eventless. Late in the afternoon of Tuesday, April 10, we camped on the open plain, one mile distant from the little town of Punta del Sauce (Willow Point), so called from the scattered willows around it. It contains between two and three hundred inhabitants, as Don José informed me. The people must have been sharp-sighted, for we had hardly come in sight of the place before we saw the townsfolk approaching us.

Among the many visitors was one that very particularly attracted my attention, and for some minutes puzzled me to decide as to which sex it belonged. It was astride a one-eared donkey, which it halted before our party, without dismounting. While this person conversed with the patron in gutturals, I had a fair opportunity to survey its ugly features and shapeless form. The head was enormous, and the hair stuck out in every direction in wiry curls. The swarthy face, huge lips, and large bright eyes showed that the negro blood prevailed over the Indian. What added still more to its ferocious expression was the long, projecting incisors, which, when the creature spoke, caused it to resemble a wild beast more than a human being. It wore a calico tunic, unbuttoned behind, from the skirts of which protruded a thick pair of round legs, that drummed the sides of the jackass, in lieu of whip or spur. When Don José informed me that it was una señorita (a woman), I uttered an exclamation of surprise. But I had not seen all the beauties, for during the remainder of our journey we fell in with several others, counterparts of this woman, and, if possible, still more ugly and disagreeable. During our stay at Punta del Sauce, several young women (half Indian) brought a poor quality of salt to sell, together with cheese and melons. I gave an old Indian, who was one of our drivers, and who had on several occasions shown me a kindness, a pound of the best salt that I could procure. After tasting it, he put it carefully aside, perhaps with the intention of selling it, as he did not use any on the road. While the patron’s back was turned, Don Facundo, my cook and attendant, sold my meat to a woman of the village for a few ears of corn; but, as I did not understand his Quichua language, it was useless for me to remonstrate. The don, with his messmates, feasted upon their new dish without extending an invitation to its should-be rightful owner, who was obliged to fast for the next thirty-six hours. The rascals told Don José some lie to account for the loss of my meat, and that was the last of it.

Again we took up our line of march. On the next day we came again to the river, and I noticed that its banks were in some places perforated with the burrows or holes of parrots. In this place the water was clear, and I did not notice any saline deposit upon its banks.

The woman in our caravan, of whom I have spoken before, on this day fell and drove a splinter into her foot; and, as she could not extract it, I offered my services as medico. As I was successful, she seemed overwhelmed with gratitude, and from that time she was almost the only friend that I had among the people of the troop.

During our journey on this day, as they were riding along, the patron and capataz entered upon a geographical discussion, and as their opinions differed widely, they called upon me to decide between them; but as Don José had the reputation of a great scholar among his men, I did not dare to give him any opinion of my own, and they went on in the same tone as before.

“Where is Bostron?” asked the capataz.

“Bostron is in France, to be sure,” replied the other.

“That cannot be, because France is a great way off, and has not got any moon; and the gringo told me, the other night, that there is a moon in Bostron, and North America is in the same place.”

“Fool!” exclaimed the scholar, “North America is in England, the country where the gringos live that tried to take Buenos Ayres.”

Each was confident that he was right, and, believing that

“Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise,”

I left them to themselves.

The caravan dragged on its weary pace; at length, as darkness came on, the peons, looking out of their wagons, shouted, as they pointed ahead of us, “La Reduccion!” “Reduccion!”

Soon we drew near the town, which lay surrounded with fields of corn. As we approached the place, old women and young people came out to meet us, bringing soft cheese, salt, and unripe melons for sale. When we reached the outskirts, Don José wheeled his mule and dismounted; each peon cried “Sh-u-u-ah!” to his oxen, and the tired caravan halted for the night. On the next morning we again took up the march, and made considerable progress before sunrise; but the wind from the north soon came laden with a most horrid heat, and we were obliged to come to a pause, luckily close beside a river, the valley of which was filled with tall flags and willows. The water was very clear, and ran over a bed of sand, filled with scales of mica and quartz.

At dusk we prepared to cross the stream (the Rio Quarto) at Paso Durazno (Peach Pass). At this ford the river, which was very wide and shallow, has a swift current and a stony bed. We intended to spend the night on the opposite side, so that we could have a fair start next day. The men stripped themselves, and stood in a line from one bank to the other. As each cart was drawn slowly past by the oxen, the cruel fellows goaded them until the blood trickled from the punctures, at the same time yelling loud enough to be heard a mile at least. Beyond the river was a hill covered with bushes, and called by the natives San Bernardo, and to the right of the road a small collection of ranchos surrounded by patches of corn.

From the summit of San Bernardo I caught sight of the distant tops of the Cerro Moro, resembling a silver cloud in the clear heavens. During the evening we occupied ourselves in drawing trunks of trees from the river valley, and lashing them to the outside of the carts, and in filling the jars behind the carts with water, preparatory to a dry march.

While we were at supper, three pampa Indian women passed the camp. Two were very masculine in appearance, the third young and handsome. They were dressed in loose gowns. As they passed they smiled, apparently at the consternation their appearance produced among the peons, who seemed ready to sink into the ground with fear at the presence of supposed spies. The women were from the pampas, and were on their way to the village of Rio Quarto. The excitement which their advent created among our people was a long time in being lulled, and even when I sought my bed in the cart I heard the eager and animated voices of the peons, who were busily engaged in preparing for an onslaught from the dreaded savages.

CHAPTER IX.
FROM RIO QUARTO TO CERRO MORO.

On Saturday, April 14, we unlashed our oxen before Rio Quarto. All along the road the patron and capataz had spoken of this village, which they described as being very beautiful, filled with fine white-washed houses, and inhabited by a wealthy class of people, many of whom owned thousands of cattle which were pastured upon estancias outside the village. Besides, it was here that the great Indian battles had taken place: both the gentlemen failed to inform me that the Indians were generally the victors, not the Cristianos, as they called the citizens of the village.

The woman, with her two children, who had travelled with us, set out for a visit to the village, and, bent upon exploring the place, I accompanied them.

Rio Quarto is situated upon a plain, and differs but little in its general appearance from the other towns. It is laid out in a regular manner, and is shut in by a mud wall two or three feet in thickness, and five or more in height. The wall is surrounded by a broad trench about four feet deep, which serves as a defence against the Indians. It was hard for me at first to understand the value of this dry ditch; but I learned afterwards that no more formidable defence was needed against an attack from the savages; for, during engagements, they never leave the backs of their horses, and as they cannot leap the ditches, nor scramble out of them when in, they avoid the obstacles with care.

At the time of our visit to Rio Quarto, there was no little commotion among the people; for news had been received of a projected Indian attack, and the news seemed to be continued by the recent intelligence that the savages had drawn off from other places, and were concentrating near the town.

The garrison had been reënforced by soldiers sent by the governor of the province. These troops, in their ignorance and alarm, had loaded an old iron gun in a most singular manner; for they had first put in several pounds of lead balls and slugs, then rammed in a heavy wadding, and finally charged with powder. I judged from their manner of loading cannons, that their efficiency as soldiers, should an attack be made, would prove of little value.

The houses of Rio Quarto are built of mud, and thatched with dry grass; the streets are of mud, the walls are of mud, and the ideas of the people are muddy thick. They seem merely to exist, rather than live with any idea of what living is. The few rich men of the village own the cattle that feed in the surrounding country, while the poorer classes support themselves as best they can, living on a meagre diet of pumpkins, peaches, corn, and rarely, meat. They sometimes labor for their wealthier townspeople, but usually sleep the time away. All the persons that I met were squalid in appearance, and the children were half naked.

The gardens about the town contained but little more than quince or peach trees. At the corners of the streets were filthy pulperias (small shops), and the only decent building in town was the church in the plaza, which was surmounted by a dome, steeple, and cross. On the side of the building, in place of windows, hemispherical holes were cut, and covered with muslin; in fact, the only glass that I saw was in the two or three street lamps. As it was Saturday, the vigilantes were sweeping the plaza with a large hide, attached to the surcingle of a horse which was driven around the square.

Having fasted since the day before, I purchased some bread made in the place, and shared it with my companions. It was poor in quality, and contained no small amount of sand and sticks. The flour had been brought on mules from Mendoza, three hundred and eighty miles distant, and bread was something of a luxury in Rio Quarto.

After quite a stay, nearly a day in length, we left Rio Quarto. Our route lay over an undulating pampa, covered with long grass, but scarcely a herd of cattle could be seen, and for miles we met with no evidence that human beings inhabited the country. Water was seldom found, but the small quantities that we discovered lay in little hollows of two or three inches in depth, and was of a better quality than any that we had met with on the road.

The herdsmen are extremely dirty in their habits, and those who performed the duty of drivers in our caravan were particularly filthy; many of them, indeed, showed no token of ablutions performed for many weeks.

While the troop halted to rest the oxen close by a pool of water, I could not resist the temptation to bathe, and, stripping myself, enjoyed the luxury of a good bath, which had been denied me for more than a fortnight. I then washed my linen, and returned to the men who were sitting around the fire, solacing themselves with a round of matés. They laughed heartily at my ideas of cleanliness, and asked, through Don Manuel, my interpreter, what opinion I had formed of themselves, who could cross the pampas and return again—a journey of eighty days—without once applying water to their skins. I replied that it was my opinion that they were very dirty fellows, and suited for the country in which they lived. At this answer they again laughed, and replied that white skins, like those of all foreigners, were exceedingly inconvenient, because of the great attention required for retaining its color.

The next day was Sunday, but the caravan kept on its way as usual.

Throughout the whole day the sun poured down its scorching rays, and the hot wind from the north was accompanied by myriads of mosquitos and minute black flies.

We had nothing left of the ox that had been finished the day before, save the head, which had hung upon the outside of one of the carts for four days, and was in a decomposed state. The sight of the filthy cranium caused me to wonder why it was not thrown away, for I never dreamed that it was intended for any use; but it was not to be wasted.

We had not eaten anything since the morning of the previous day; but at noon a halt was ordered, a quantity of dried argols of cattle were collected, a fire was kindled with flint and steel, which the herdsman always carries in his belt, and an old iron kettle, belonging to one of the carts, was partly filled with water, and placed above the coals. When it was properly adjusted, the men piled the dry dung around the bottom so as to retain the heat beneath it, and soon the water was bubbling and beginning to boil. The old and decomposed head of the ox was now brought to the fire. Its contents—the brains, &c.—were scooped out, and thrown into the pot, and with the addition of a little salt the stew was complete. At any other time the sight of such a mess would have disgusted me, but things were changed now, and, faint with hunger, I watched the boiling of the stew with no little interest.

At last Facundo, the cook, who had stood beside the kettle during the whole time, and had occasionally tasted the dish with his horn spoon, and as often had declared it “excellent,” summoned the party to dinner. I remember well that I scrambled with the others to get at it, but I only procured a very small portion, which I was obliged to swallow so hot that I scalded my tongue severely.

The meal was finished in a much shorter time than I have occupied in describing it, and soon each driver harried off to lasso his oxen, which they lashed to the yokes, and we were again in motion.

About three o’clock we drew up beside some rough hammocks of earth to feed the cattle; the country was more undulating, and was here covered with wire-grass, which the cattle at once began to feed upon. I had here a first view of the Sierra of Cordova, the boundary line of the provinces of Cordova and San Luis.

The patron had purchased an old cow a few days before at San Bernardo, and having stinted the men as long as possible, he now decided to kill her. This was no easy matter, for the cow was as stubborn and furious as any bull, and had only been kept manageable by attaching her by a strap of hide to another animal equally fierce and ungovernable. These two animals had required particular care to prevent them from straying from the troop.

The strap that bound the two brutes together was cut asunder, and Don Manuel, the best gaucho of the party, set off in full chase of the doomed cow, swinging the lasso above his head, and urging on his horse by repeated applications of the enormous spurs that adorned his heels. When within eight or ten yards of the animal, the valiant don, with a fiercely uttered ca-jo, let fly the lasso, and at the same time wheeled his horse.

The cow, continuing on her headlong course, was suddenly brought up by the fatal noose tightening around her neck, and she went tumbling to the ground.

It was a wonder to me that the fall did not break her neck. She arose, bewildered, to her feet, and for an instant paused; but quickly divining the cause of her entrapment, she lowered her head, and made a run at the don and his horse; but the little animal that he bestrode having been well trained, was in a gallop before the cow drew near, and the lasso kept as tight as ever. The victim now uttered a loud bellow, and charged blindly at one of the cart-wheels: the force of the shock with which she struck rendered her wild with rage. She bellowed until the tightened noose choked all utterance, when she renewed her charges upon the men, horses, and carts. The patron now called loudly upon Maistro Ramon, one of the leading men, and, mounting his mule, Maistro galloped to the rescue.

The cow stood at bay, tossing up the earth with her nose, and stamping wrathfully with her hoofs; but her new assailant was a skilful gaucho. He started her, and threw his noose around one of her hind legs, when, galloping in opposite directions, the two men tripped the animal up, and stretched her upon the ground.

One of the peons fastened her four hoofs together with a piece of hide, and another man officiated as butcher. With his long knife he despatched her, and in half an hour she was skinned, cut up, and divided among the carts. When the meat was cooked I ate a moderate-sized piece, and strolled away from the men, who were gormandizing beside the fires, to watch the curious feast that the birds of prey were making upon the refuse parts of the cow.

Whether some of the birds of prey discover their food by means of sight or scent, has long been an unsettled question, some naturalists affirming that the former sense is their principal guide, and others that the latter is the only one.

Audubon, in his Ornithological Biography, gives some accounts of interesting experiments that he made with the turkey-buzzard, proving that this bird is attracted only by the organs of vision to its food. Other writers have offered other observations, corroborative of Audubon’s position. And I would here present a fact that came to my observation, concerning one of the most common South American birds, helping to show that Audubon was correct in his opinion.

Before the cow was butchered, I searched the plain, but not a single caracara (Polyborus Brasiliensis), the well-known carrion-lover of the pampas, was visible. There was no wind stirring, and had there been, the scent of the fresh offal of the cow could certainly not have been carried to any distance. But the cow had hardly been butchered when a single caracara was seen on the horizon. He had hardly alighted beside the offal when another and another were distinguished, coming in the path of the first. For half an hour they continued to arrive, all coming from one direction, and as one alighted upon the carcass another came in view, flying straight to the spot where the others were collected. I remained watching them for a long time, and when I left there were at least fifty birds on the spot, and the line of flight was still unbroken; each new comer being greeted by the others with their indistinct guttural ca-ra-ca-ra! Now, of course, all these birds had not been attracted by the sense of smell, for the supposition that the scent of the newly killed animal could have travelled miles in a few moments is simply preposterous.

The birds must have been flying in air, on the lookout for food, and, as they are filled with a most wonderful vision, on seeing the first one hurrying in one direction, the natural inference must have been—if birds draw inferences—that he was hurrying to something to eat. The birds nearest him followed him, others followed them, and they arrived at the slaughter-ground in the order in which they started for it—the nearest first, and the farthest last.

Perhaps a more extended account of the caracara will not be uninteresting to the reader.

The caracaras feed upon anything that comes in their way, gleaning carrion like the buzzards, and killing other birds like the hawks. I even once saw one attack a lamb, but the old dam interfered, and after receiving some rebuffs from the bird, succeeded in protecting her offspring from her enemy.

This bird possesses an unenviable reputation as a thief among the gauchos, and, as it kills young birds, lambs, even seizes the game that the hunter has just killed, it is far from being a favorite with any class of the people.

It inhabits an extended geographical range. I have seen it in south-western Texas and in most parts of South America. This species is the “Mexican Eagle.” A fine bird, indeed, for the emblem of a nation!—it is emblazoned upon the Mexican flag; but we of the North must not be too critical, for we still retain upon our banner and coin that selfish thief, the bald-headed eagle—the most relentless robber and pirate of our rapacious birds.

The caracara is sometimes found in company with the Gallinazo (Cathartes atratus), also known to the people on the Plata as the carrion crow. This latter bird is found north of the Rio Negro in various localities, not being met with except near the rivers and damp places. I did not observe them about Buenos Ayres, but found them afterwards common dwellers about the vicinity of Mendoza, along the bases of the Andes. The habits of the turkey-buzzard are so well known that I will not dwell further upon them here. I have noticed that the species seems to be tamer on the southern continent than it is on the northern. It has the extended range of one hundred degrees of latitude.

Though somewhat repulsive from the offensive odor which it receives from its food, this bird is one of the most useful species. As a scavenger and remover of decaying animal matter in the tropics it is invaluable, and it is properly protected and cared for in many cities.

At noon, April 6, we reached the mountain range that had loomed up before us for several days, and camped at its base. The sierra terminated in low hills, barren and destitute of verdure, save where occasional clumps of dwarf trees grew about their bases. A little rivulet, taking its rise in the mountains, flowed down through a deep fissure in the soil, and afforded good water for the cattle.

We remained at this comfortable camp through the remainder of the day and night, but started early the next morning.

The monotony of our journey was disturbed by the arrival and passing of a troop of sixty mules loaded with little barrels of sugar and hide bales of yerba (tea). This troop was driven by six men, and was bound to Mendoza. Like similar parties, the troop was headed by an old mare carrying a bell, the sound of which keeps the animals from straying away.

Though the mule is a stubborn creature, it has a very strong affection for the madrina, as the mare is called, and follows her like a colt. I have often watched two large troops approaching each other from opposite directions, in some place where the road was very narrow, as in a mountain defile, and have been surprised to witness the absence of all bewilderment on the part of the animals. Though both troops were crowded together, each mule kept with his own party, and followed the sound of the madrina’s bell, even in the darkest night.

Having wound around the point of a sierra, our caravan kept on until dusk, when we camped for the night, supping upon beef and four armadillos, which the peons had caught during the day in the grass.

The armadillo is a singular animal, both in appearance and mode of living. Four species are found upon the pampas. In Buenos Ayres they are known by the general name of peluda. Darwin applies this term to a particular species—Dasypus villosus.

The gauchos call the female armadillo Mulita, which name Darwin uses to distinguish a separate species. The male is called Cinquizcho.

As my readers doubtless are aware, the body of the animal is protected by a coat of hard scales, consisting of several divisions, adapted to the locomotion of the animal. Its head is pointed, and is scantily clothed with little tufts of hair which grow out between the scales. The feet and legs are short, giving the animal, when walking, a waddling gait, similar to that of the tortoise. The toe nails are sharp, and admirably shaped for rapid burrowing in the ground.

All the armadillos, with the exception of one species, which is nocturnal in its habits, are diurnal, retiring to their burrows at dusk, and coming forth at dawn to feed upon the roots of grass, insects, worms, &c.

Their burrows do not exceed eight feet in depth. In these retreats the female brings forth four or five young, which follow her, soon after birth, in her journeyings upon the plains. When man approaches them, if near a burrow, they retire into it; but when they are distant from home they endeavor to hide in the grass until all danger is past. While in most localities these animals were found, to the south of Rosario and Mendoza they were very numerous. The females of one species that I frequently met had two mammæ. I think the others had four or six.

The flesh of the armadillo is white and delicate, and has the flavor of young pork. The peons cook the animal by dividing the two shells at the junction, and burying the whole in hot ashes and coals, and allowing it to bake until thoroughly done.

Darwin, in his account of these animals, says that three species of armadillos are found in this country, while a fourth species, the Mulita, does not come as far south as Bahia Blanca. Of these first mentioned are the Dasypus minutus, or Pichy; the D. villosus, or Peludo; and the D. apar, or Mataco. The Pichy is found several hundred miles farther south than any species.

The Apar, commonly called mataco, is remarkable by having only three movable bands, the rest of its tessellated covering being nearly inflexible. It has the power of rolling itself into a perfect sphere, like one kind of English wood-louse. In this state it is safe from the attack of dogs; for the dog, not being able to take the whole in its mouth, tries to bite one side, and the ball slips away. The smooth, hard covering of the mataco offers a better defence than the short spines of the hedgehog. The pichy prefers a very dry soil, and the sand plains near the coast, where for many months it cannot taste water, are its favorite resort. It often tries to escape notice by squatting close to the ground. In the course of a day’s ride near Bahia Blanca several were generally met with. The instant one was perceived it was necessary, in order to catch it, almost to tumble off one’s horse, for in the soft soil the animal burrowed so quickly that its hinder quarters would almost disappear before we could alight. It seems almost a pity to kill such nice little animals; for, as a gaucho said, while sharpening his knife on the back of one (the gauchos often use a portion of the armadillo’s armor for a knife hone), “Son tan mansos” (they are so quiet).

Another writer informs us that the armadillos “burrow to the extent of thirteen or fourteen feet, descending in an abruptly sloping direction for some three or four feet, then taking a sudden bend, and inclining slightly upward. Much of their food is procured beneath the surface of the earth. They possess carnivorous tastes, and feed upon dead cattle, insects, snails, snakes, as well as upon roots. The giant armadillo, according to one writer, digs up dead bodies in the burial grounds.”

“When hunting these animals,” says Waterton, “the first point is to ascertain if the inhabitant of the burrow is at home, which is discovered by pushing a stick into each hole, and watching for the egress of mosquitos. If any come out, the armadillo is in his hole. A long rod is thrust into the burrow in order to learn its direction, and a hole is dug in the ground to meet the end of the stick. A fresh departure is taken from that point, the rod is again introduced, and by dint of laborious digging the animal is at last captured. Meanwhile the armadillo is not idle, but continues to burrow in the sand in the hopes of escaping its persecutors. It cannot, however, dig so fast as they can, and is at last obliged to yield.”

While we were lying behind the fire, after supper, a loud, creaking noise in the distance announced the approach of a caravan from Mendoza. As it drew near our dogs commenced barking, and were answered by the mule of the captain of the caravan with a loud bray. While the concert continued, other mules and asses took up the strain, and our camp was “vocal with melodious sounds” as the caravan came in sight. As they passed I counted sixteen wagons heavily laden with cargoes of hides.

A fresh breeze from the east was springing up as I lay down on my hide amid dogs and sleeping natives, and as I dozed away, it seemed difficult to decide which of the two was the most agreeable bedfellow; for as it grew colder, and a sharp frost came on one dirty fellow crowded me off my hide, and a still more filthy dog, covered with fleas, crept under my blanket, from the shelter of which no moderate effort of mine could remove him. At last, becoming desperate amid dirt and flea-bites, I dislodged the intruder by a kick sharp enough to cause him to cry out, and arouse his master Facundo, who waxed exceedingly wrathful at such demonstrations on his dog by a “gringo.”

Early the next morning the caravan was on the march, and for an hour our course led over high hills and across one small stream that flowed from the sierra behind us. After crossing these hills I observed beyond, along the bases of some low mountains, a few fields of corn and a number of mud huts, where dwelt, in all their indolence, a party of natives—half Indians, half Spanish, or Christians, as Don Manuel called all his countrymen on the pampas.

As our troop trudged slowly along, some fifteen men, women, and children followed in our track, offering to sell corn, soft cheese, and a few loaves of bread, very small, and containing a goodly proportion of sand. These loaves had not been baked in the ashes after the more primitive fashion of the country still practised in many parts, but in Egyptian-shaped ovens, built of adobes (sun-dried bricks), and plastered within and without with mud. I purchased a sample of the bread, which proved even tougher than the meat of the old cow, and was not half as clean; but being a new article of food to us, it, proved a luxury not to be despised. One woman, who exchanged corn with the drivers for meat, presented me with nine ears of the corn. Knowing from the experiences of the journey, that after a feast comes a fast, I hid the corn inside a pair of boots among the rest of my baggage in one of the wagons, and felt well armed against the hungry time that was sure to follow.

An hour later the caravan halted. While the cattle were grazing, overpowered by the long walk under a hot sun, I lay down to take a short siesta, from which, on awakening, I discovered that somebody had carried off my little stock of food.

From this occurrence I never afterwards stored food, but ate whatever came into my possession.

At dusk two well-dressed travellers, who proved to be Frenchmen, came up to our encampment, and made inquiries regarding the road. They reported that serious trouble had occurred near San Luis among the farmers, the Indians having cut the throats of fourteen persons! This intelligence caused much speculation among the drivers, and, as before, a general gloom pervaded the whole company.

As soon as everything was arranged in camp for any emergencies that might occur, I rolled myself up in my blanket, and soon forgot all troubles in sleep.

CHAPTER X.
FROM RIO QUARTO TO CERRO MORO—CONTINUED.

While all around me seemed to offer danger in some form, I grew lighter at heart every day that we further penetrated the country, for everything was novel and captivating to the fancy. I was at last among a strange people, and their habits and mode of life, and the many incidents that were constantly occurring, were full of interest to me. Although my heart was light, and I trudged along cheerfully and with courage, my companions in the caravan were but little calculated to make the trip a pleasant one; and I must say that they did not try to change their evidently disagreeable nature.

The rations I received from the tall Santia gueño, my “protector and firm friend,” were selected from the toughest and driest portions of the meat, while he devoured my living, and at the same time, at meals, called the attention of the whole company to the unsuccessful attempts I made at mastication.

At times, when indignation caused me to reply in no gentle terms to their conduct, in a tongue different from theirs, I perceived my folly, for it only served to draw out more jibes and greater insults from the fellows.

When we were in motion, to avoid uncongenial company, I started in advance of the troop, and kept far ahead of it. Sometimes I improved these opportunities to brood over the ill-treatment of the men; but at sight of a wild animal, or a gaucho pursuing a colt across the plains, an instant revival of my spirits took place, and my whole senses were awakened to things around me.

I usually had enough to occupy my mind; sometimes I was studying the habits of birds or insects, at others following with my eyes the movements of a herd of cattle, or gazing upon the mirage in the distant horizon, in which our caravan was reflected with wonderful distinctness.

I have said that the peons had not treated me with great friendliness lately; but since we left Rio Quarto their coolness grew more noticeable, and at length I began to fear that we should not part without a collision, in which case I knew I could depend on but two people in the whole caravan, the old Indian and the woman spoken of in a preceding chapter.

These two had always treated me kindly, while all the others had given me uneasiness in some way or other.

Before the troop had left Rosario, my friend, Señor G., cautioned me against showing money, and I had followed his advice, having departed from it only on one or two occasions. When near Rio Quarto, not wishing to be thought penurious, I had imprudently purchased more than my share of the pumpkins and melons, which served to regale the peons at night, when collected around the camp-fires; and this had caused the ignorant fellows to suppose that there was mucha plata (much money) in my possession. And this was the cause of their ill-feeling towards me.

Several times they were particularly anxious to know if I had friends in Mendoza, and who were the persons that would receive me on the arrival of the troop in that town. I at last found it necessary to introduce to their consideration a character as new to myself as he was to them. One night, when we were lying around the fires, I, after describing my home and friends, casually remarked that one of them, a medico, the distinguished Dr. Carmel, of Mendoza, was anxiously awaiting my arrival, and that his apprehensions for my safety would increase until I reached the town.

To the reader whose conscience has never been subjected to violence, this subterfuge may appear unmanly; but, in justice to myself, I was obliged thus to impose upon the peons, and the result fully proved it.

Under Dr. Carmel’s strong (prospective) arm and influence I found more peaceful hours, and suffered less from annoyance than if his name had never been mentioned, or if the villanous fellows had been left in their first belief; which at the same time was correct, that I was a friendless gringo, to whom they might offer any insult without fear of punishment. In what manner was I, a solitary stripling, to protect myself against more than a score of barbarians, in the very heart of a country to the languages and localities of which I was a total stranger, unless by subterfuge?

But my troubles were not yet over.

While walking, as usual, one day, in advance of the carts, which came slowly creaking behind, my attention was directed to Juan, the little son of my female friend, who came running after me. Juan spoke only broken Spanish; but upon reaching my side he commenced a voluble discourse, which, however, I gave little notice to, supposing it to be merely childish prattle. At length the boy took my hand, and demanded my attention.

From what he said, I could, indeed, glean but little; but it was enough to confirm my suspicions, which I had had for some time, that some rascality was being planned by the drivers. From mispronounced words and broken sentences, I received warning not to eat with the capataz at the fire,—“Sta malo no come con él,”—and to be cautious when with the men. Juan said that his mother had sent him to tell me this. The little fellow was about to communicate something further regarding his mother, when he suddenly became silent, and squeezed my hand. I looked around, and beheld Chico, the servant of the capataz, close upon our heels; he had stealthily approached, without attracting our notice.

“Why do you walk?” interrogated little Juan.

To this question the swarthy Chico, half Indian, half negro, made no answer; but he uttered a sly laugh, that meant a good deal. We walked on for upwards of an hour, during which time the half-breed kept close behind us.

Watching favorable opportunities, Juan informed me that the capataz had sent his servant to prevent us from conversing; and seeing that he was determined to remain by us, I at length, with the boy, rejoined the troop.

When the caravan halted for the night, I walked over to the fire where the China woman was seated; but two or three gauchos from our own fire followed me, and engaged the woman in conversation.

In the aspect of affairs now, I confess I was somewhat alarmed, and more than ever felt the want of a companion on whom I could depend. The words of a foreign merchant, with whom I had conversed in Buenos Ayres, were recalled most forcibly to me. “My boy,” he said, “you don’t know whither you are going. When you get among the gauchos, you will find much trouble and danger.” And I acknowledge that I now felt he spoke the truth.

The men still kept the woman aloof from me. I determined to take things coolly, and await events.

Don Manuel came to the fire late in the evening, and, taking his meat in his hand, galloped off in the dark to see to the cattle. I now missed Don José, the patron, whose protecting arm was to be my support in danger. On inquiring of Facundo, my cook, he pointed off into the gloom, and uttered the Spanish word “Estancia,” by which I understood that the patron was at some one of the great cattle-farms lying off the road.

I now felt that I was unprotected, indeed; and when the hour arrived for our lying down to sleep, I was uncertain as to whether or not I should remain unmolested through the night. But the time for the attempt on my purse, if not life, had evidently not arrived. I was permitted to fall asleep, which I did at last; and our whole party evidently accompanied me in my visit to the land of dreams, for nothing was heard among us, and no one moved (if they had I would have been awakened in an instant) until daybreak.

When the sun was just appearing above the horizon, the capataz came galloping up to the carts, and soon the word was spoken to get up the oxen and mules, and prepare to start.

I remained in the cart to write in my journal until the ugly-visaged Facundo appeared to inform me that my breakfast was ready. As I approached the group that was huddled about the fire, not one of them deigned to notice me, save one big fellow, who, with an obsequiousness that I knew to be assumed, pointed to the breakfast.

The strips of meat had been removed from the fire, and the spit, in a separate piece, was stuck into the ground, waiting for me. This was an unusual attention, for I generally shared my meat with the capataz, or with Facundo. The capataz sat smoking by the fire, but the patron had not yet returned from the estancia. I offered my steak to Don Manuel; but he courteously declined, appearing to lack appetite. He refused a second similar offer, and continued smoking.

Determined not to be balked by him, as I wished to prove my suspicions that mischief was afoot, I informed him that he lacked politeness, and that I would not eat without him. The effect of my words upon the company was of such a character that I could no longer doubt their intentions.

At length Don Manuel, seeing that I suspected something, cut off from the extreme edge of the steak a mouthful or two, and ate it, upon which I cut from the opposite side a little larger piece, and ate it leisurely. I then cut off another piece, and, pretending to eat it on the way, left the party, and retired to the cart to finish my writing, throwing the meat in the grass on the way.

Fifteen or twenty minutes passed, at the end of which time I was compelled to put aside paper and pen, for a strange sensation of weakness came upon me, rendering me unable to move—a helpless prisoner in the cart.

Violent pains, that racked my head, were followed by strong vomitive symptoms; but I was still helpless.

While the oxen were being harnessed, I made a second effort to leave the cart, but I could not rise. Soon the villanous Facundo entered, and, bidding me, in no gentle tones, to keep quiet, and not kick around, he started his oxen, and, with the rest of the caravan, we were again in motion.

I soon fell into a delightful sleep, and dreamed most pleasant dreams. At one moment I was moving through the air, light, free from human bonds, a very spirit; my whole senses were intoxicated with most delicious sensations. Again I beheld most beautiful visions and most gorgeous colors. At last I seemed to have been transported back to my native village, and kind friends were grouped around me. The voice of welcome greeted me, all trouble seemed ended. A clear, sweet voice sang a well-remembered song, which seemed to be the very essence of melody, so ravishingly did it fill upon my ear.

Gradually the voice grew indistinct, then loud and harsh, and I returned to consciousness to recognize the tones of Facundo, who was singing to himself. His discordant words were uttered in a long-drawn cadence, commencing in a low, mournful strain, and ending with a couplet and groans.

The following syllables will give an idea of his song. They were repeated so many times that I shall hardly forget them:—

“Que pur ma no yepe—oh—AH—OUGH.
Ya, ke, pur, se, va, yah—oh—OH—AH—OUGH.”

Facundo continued groaning, either for his own pleasure or for my discomfort, during the greater part of the time that I lay sick in the cart.

At our first stopping-place, about two hours after breakfast, the woman sent me, by little Juan, a tea that she had prepared from some herbaceous plant of the pampas, to gather which she had walked all the morning behind the carts.

I felt much better after drinking the tea, but did not entirely recover from my sudden illness for several days. I subsequently learned that it was not unusual for the Santia gueños to revenge a fancied insult, or to annoy one whom they have a dislike for, by administering poison, sometimes in sufficient quantities to destroy life, and at other times in a quantity sufficient to produce only sickness. They had undoubtedly taken advantage of the absence of the patron to treat me as they did.

The first time I sallied forth from confinement I was received in a characteristic manner by the drivers, who clapped their hands to their stomachs, and questioned me with impudent gestures if I was not ill, and what was the trouble. The good woman only said, compassionately, “Pobre cito” (poor fellow).

During my sickness I continued to write daily, much to the annoyance of Facundo, who looked threateningly at my notes, as if he suspected his name was there. I even went so far as to ask him how he spelt his name, which was a useless question enough; for had he been disposed to inform me, he could not, since he knew not one letter from another.

My illness cost me but little time, and I was soon able to resume my pedestrian journey, and by night of the same day I was nearly well.

Our journey had been through the day across a hilly country. As evening drew near, we reached a watering-place, which afforded an abundance of feed around it, and the caravan was halted, and camp prepared.

At supper I was cautious to eat only of the food that I saw the others partake of, which they observing, I noticed that glances and meaning smiles were exchanged among them.

Early the next morning we were again in motion.

The country was still broken, and we met several deep gullies, which we crossed with great labor, it being necessary to attach extra yokes of oxen to the carts to effect a passage. One of these gullies was so dangerous, on account of the steepness of its sides, that a pair of oxen were fastened behind the cart to prevent it from gaining too great a velocity in its descent.

Near this latter pass was a five by six stone hut, roofed with sticks and mud, which served as a post house, where the galloping courier receives his fresh horse. Two women, with low foreheads and heavy features, came out of the cabin, followed by an old man, the postmaster, to stare at us, and inquire if the drivers had any sugar or yerba to exchange with them. For what articles they proposed to barter I could not conceive, as the open side of the hut showed an interior destitute of everything like comfort; for it contained only an old hide and bedding, and one cheese, that rested upon a swinging shelf made of canes bound together with hide thongs.

Like many of the poor gauchos, the postman smoked bad Tucuman tobacco, rolled up in a narrow piece of corn-leaf, a material that is preferred by some to the coarse linen paper manufactured in Europe for the South American market.

Among the hills that bounded our northern horizon, and which some travellers would classify as mountains, the wind blows almost constantly with great force from various quarters. The smallest of the hills were well grassed over, and wherever the ruts entered the soil near them it showed a sandy gravel. Upon the plains to the south was the richer pasturage, with a soil better fitted for cultivation.

At night we encamped close by the hamlet of El Moro, situated, as I believe, not far from the foot of Cerro Moro, a chain of low mountains.

At daylight the next morning the caravan wound down among the hills to a level pampa, with barren mountains to the north.

The Mendoza diligence passed, drawn by six tired horses. Besides drawing his share of the weight of the carriage, each animal carried upon his back a postilion, who did not fail to use whip or spur as necessity demanded.

The plain that we were upon was covered with immense piles of decomposed granite, how placed in such positions it is difficult to surmise. The thorn and algarroba tree grew abundantly. Our course for the remainder of the day continued over the pampa, with hills growing more distinct each hour in the distance: a strong wind blew steadily from the Cerro until dark, when it died away, and a calm, lovely night succeeded.

The following day we left the plains, and travelled through a hilly country, which gradually became more and more irregular as we approached the River Quinto, which stream we reached about noon, and halted on its banks for dinner.

The country near the river was sandy, and covered with scattered thorn-bushes. The banks of the Quinto, at the ford where we camped, were high, and almost perpendicular. The bed of the river appeared to be formed of quicksand in agitation, and the current was very strong. A few mud huts were close to the river on each side, and their occupants had a great quantity of beef cut in strips, drying for winter use, together with sliced pumpkins, which two articles of diet form the principal support of the people; the sterility of the soil will not support a healthy crop of corn.

Large flocks of parrots, of a species that dig holes in the banks in which to deposit their eggs, like our northern bank swallows (Cotyle riparia), filled the air with loud cries, and gave some appearance of life to the scene. The town of Rio Quinto was not far off; but as the road lay in a different direction, I did not get a glimpse of it, but, judging by the few lazy natives that I saw, who appeared as if laboring under mental derangement, with two prominent traits visible,—selfishness and idleness,—I did not feel that I was losing much in not visiting the place.

Dinner over, we prepared to move. Crossing the river, we found the ascent of the opposite bank the most difficult to surmount of any obstacle we had met on the road; great exertions were made to get the carts up the rise, and the oxen were most terribly goaded by the drivers. One peon, with loud imprecations, thrust his goad into an animal so far that it could not be withdrawn until the iron was pulled out of the goad-stick, when the man caught it, and jerked so fiercely, that when it came from the wound the blood followed it in a little stream. This exhibition of brutality afforded satisfaction to the other drivers, who laughed at the fellow as he cursed the ox for being the cause of the breaking of his new picano. At last we were all across the river and in motion.

The high plain upon the opposite side was covered with thorns and algarroba, save here and there some spot more fertile than the rest, which sustained a growth of coarse grass. In crossing this tract the wheels of the carts sank into the deep ruts to the hubs, and raised clouds of dust that were almost choking.

I covered myself with a woollen poncho, for I well knew that it was doubtful if an opportunity to bathe would again present itself before we reached San Luis, the great town of the interior. During the afternoon a little boy passed us, driving to his house by the river a flock of goats and sheep; the last-named animals looked very ragged, from the custom of the people, who still adhere to the old practice of pulling out the wool from the skin instead of shearing, at such times and in such quantities as they need it.

As the moon was a few days old, the caravan kept on until eight o’clock, when it encamped on the travesia.

The cattle were driven a long distance from the road to feed, but no pasturage was to be had, and at about one o’clock I was aroused by the approach of the cattle, and the loud cries of the drivers, who shouted “Fuera! fuera!” as they drove the teams to the carts.

The moon had set, and the night was very dark; but the necessity of moving at once was obvious, for there was no water nor grass to be had for many miles, and both must necessarily be obtained at the earliest moment for the hungry and thirsty beasts.

We got under way at once, and travelled by landmarks with which the drivers were acquainted. As we moved along the plain, the noise of the caravan aroused hundreds of parrots from a roosting-place among the branches of a clump of algarrobas. An Indian stampede could not have created a more confused or louder noise than that of the frightened parrots, as they hovered over us in a cloud.

CHAPTER XI.
SAN LUIS AND THE SALINE DESERT.

We travelled through the remainder of the night, and until near eleven o’clock on the following day, when we encamped at a place in which there was a fair pasturage and some water. Here we tarried until the morning of the next day, when we filled our vessels with water, harnessed up the teams, and started.

Our course lay through a country that was dreary in the extreme, and we had no incidents or experiences that were worthy of a notice here.

My readers have found in these pages so many mentions of a certain individual, the capataz, that they, perhaps, would like to know him better.

As capataz, Don Manuel Montero commanded the troop when the patron, or owner, was absent, and his services as baqueano, or guide, were of the utmost importance to the welfare and success of the caravan. Don Manuel had not the swarthy complexion of the Indian peons, but could prove his superiority of birth and family in comparison to theirs by a hue that would have been pronounced in the United States decidedly yellow, that is, if his physiognomy could have been divested of dirt so as to exhibit the true color; for the don loved not pure water externally applied, and would have been but a poor patron of hydropathy, even could he have been convinced of its wonderful virtues. He was of middle stature, and sat with great dignity upon his pampa steed, which he rarely left during the day; for, being a true gaucho, he always kept the saddle except when he was eating or sleeping. These two necessary duties he attended to while reclining on the ground—a position that he always assumed when off duty. To sleep within a hut or cart was beneath his gaucho dignity.

His hair hung in long black locks, excelled in jettiness only by those of Facundo, my cook. His toilet was attended to at such times as the same operations were necessary for the comfort of his dog Choco, when master and animal shared the use of the same toilet articles. I might write a treatise upon his comb, in which I could speak of its decayed and broken parts; of its lusty and lively inhabitants that played hide-and-seek between the teeth; of a brawny, lively creature from the hair of Don Manuel struggling for mastery with another from the shaggy coat of dog Choco.

As a guide the don’s skill was unrivalled. Like most baqueanos he was grave and reserved in manner, and conversed but little with the other gauchos.

He was familiar with every mile of the road from the banks of the Paraná to the rocky bases of the Andes. He could not, like the geographer, tell the exact longitude, in numbers, of the principal towns of the republic, but he knew where they were situated, and could travel towards them without missing the true direction in the darkest nights.

Don Manuel never offered his advice in a boisterous manner, as though in authority, but quietly said to the patron, “Three leagues to the right of the road are about thirty squares of good grass, and farther on to the left is a small lagoon of water not yet dried up.” His word was always respected, and the usual answer of the patron was, “Do as you please, Don Manuel; I have confidence in your judgment.”

A native author gives the following description of the baqueano, which will correctly apply to Don Manuel:—

“If lost upon the plain, he dismounts, and by examining the soil decides upon his latitude, and tells his companions the distance that they are from habitations. If this is not enough, he pulls grass from different localities and chews the roots, decides upon their proximity to some pond or rivulet, fresh or salt, and departs in search of it, to decide upon his position.

“General Rosas can tell by taste the grass of every farm south of Buenos Ayres.

“The guide likewise announces the nearness of the enemy when within ten miles of him, and the direction from which he is coming, by means of the movements of birds, and by the deer and wild llamas that run in certain directions. When the enemy is near at hand he observes the dust, and by its thickness counts the force. He says they number two thousand, five hundred, two hundred, as the case may be, and the chief acts under this instruction, which is almost invariably correct.

“If the condors and vultures flutter in a circle in the air, he can tell if there are any persons hid, or if there is an encampment recently abandoned, or if the cause of their movements is merely a dead animal.”

Such is the true baqueano, and such was Don Manuel. At noon we halted near a couple of cerros, the commencement of the San Luis chain of mountains, The peons killed an ox, but as there was no grass for the cattle we did not remain long enough to cook an asado. This was the more aggravating, since we had none of us eaten anything since the morning of the previous day.

At two o’clock the caravan again halted—this time to water the animals from a stream that flowed through a quebrada (valley), along which were scattered a few ranchos, whose inhabitants lived on pumpkins and porridge, the latter being valued at one real per quart. A troop from Mendoza passed us at this encampment, and I took advantage of the opportunity to get rid of some cut reals, that are current in Rosario, for several bunches of grapes. This troop had also packed in wicker baskets oranges and figs, a quantity of which I purchased to divide with my friends, the old Indian and the squaw. I offered a bunch of grapes to Facundo, but his sour disposition would not allow him to accept.

From the river the road wound over a plain abounding in thorn trees and cacti. Here also grew a low plant bearing red berries, and resembling peppers in taste. The fruit was eagerly sought for by the peons, who, throughout the remainder of the journey, seasoned their stews with it.

At the end of the plain the barren mountains of San Luis rose abruptly, and seemed to form a barrier to farther progress. We entered a narrow cleft in the chain, and wound through it for an eighth of a mile, the voices of the drivers echoing among the rocks with fine effect. But great was my surprise when we passed from the defile to an elevated plain, to see stretched out below us the town of San Luis, with its white plastered dwellings, half hidden, and shaded by tall rows of poplars, and groves of green willows. It brought to mind the days of the conquest, so finely described by Prescott, and I pictured the city below me as another Cuzco, inhabited by the children of the Incas.

But this was not all. Another sight caught my eye, and filled me with joy. Far in the distance a dim, blue line, pencilled upon the heavens, told me that I had obtained my first view of the Andes—that mighty range of mountains which traverses two continents and a dozen countries, though known by different names.

What emotions were aroused within me as I gazed at that faint streak that seemed floating in the air, for below it all was enveloped in clouds! What visions it awoke of steep precipices, dark gorges, and rushing streams of water falling in cascades from heights unattainable by man! I pictured myself in the act of toiling up a narrow path, or sliding down the sides of a cerro on the snow. I longed to be there, and wondered whether from the lofty summit of the Cordillera I should be able yet to gaze upon the distant waters of the great Pacific.

Above the hazy line two points arose into the clearer heavens, and from their sublime appearance particularly attracted my attention. The highest of these peaks, which lies to the north of west of Mendoza, was the famed Aconcagua, which, rising above the line of eternal snows, attains an elevation of twenty-three thousand nine hundred feet: higher by two thousand five hundred feet than that monarch of the Andes, Chimborazo. The other peak lies to the south of Aconcagua, and runs up sharply into the heavens. It has been measured by a recent traveller, who gives it an elevation of twenty-two thousand four hundred and fifty feet above the level of the sea, or not so high as Aconcagua by fourteen hundred and fifty feet.

As I viewed the distant picture with enthusiasm, the caravan that came lumbering behind was forgotten, until a rough shake, and the words, “Esta dormiendo?” aroused my attention. Looking around I beheld the grinning features of the capataz, who exclaimed, “La Cordillera de los Andes, que cosa tan rica!” (The Cordillera of the Andes, what a rich thing!)

As we descended to the town, a party of equestrians, male and female, passed on the canter, and entered before us. The caravan encamped alongside the mud wall that defended the property of the inhabitants, and I remarked that the women who visited the troop did not come as venders of produce, but as visitors. These females were gayly and tastefully dressed, but their morals were questionable. As there were no seats near the fire, our capataz gallantly offered one of the fair visitors his hat for a substitute; but she, with the others, preferred their own mode of sitting, and squatted, à la Turque, upon the sand, where they made themselves sociable, and when supper was ready joined in the meal, eating their meat without knives or forks, but using their fingers instead.

San Luis is the largest town upon the road from Rosario to Mendoza. It is the capital of the province of the same name, and contains about two thousand inhabitants. This place has varied greatly in its population within the present century. In 1825 it had two churches, now it has but one, and this, I afterwards learned, was not well supported—which fact accounts for its being so immoral a place.

For many years San Luis had been governed by an old, ignorant fellow, just such a man as Rosas was accustomed to place over the interior provinces, in order that they might remain in a degraded state, and thus be more submissive to his power. A new governor, a man of education and energy, had taken the place of the old one just removed, and under his influence it was hoped that the condition of the people of the province might be improved. Formerly a tax of five dollars was imposed upon every cart that passed through the province, but it has been lowered to a more reasonable sum.

No town on the pampas has suffered from the depredations of Indians as San Luis. While I was in San Juan, two or three months later, I became acquainted with several Puntaños, as the people of this place are called, and from them received much information regarding these encroachments.

The Indians usually surprise the town about an hour before daybreak, and not only seize what property they can remove, but also carry off into captivity the wives and sisters of the male portion of the inhabitants. While one party is engaged in sacking the town, another party drives off all the mares they can find, as mare’s flesh is used as food among them, and if they take horned cattle, it is only to sell them to Chilenos, who cross the Andes by the most southern pass—the Planchon. Great numbers of women and children have been carried off during these frays.

There was living in San Luis, at the time our troop passed through the place, an old woman who was stolen when a child from her friends. She lived many years with her captors, serving them as a menial, or slave. Twice she attempted to escape, but each time was retaken, and for both attempts her feet were skinned by the brutal savages. She made a third attempt, however, which was successful. Her captors were away, hunting guanacos, a species of llama. Secreting about her person a quantity of dried mare’s flesh, she set out for a little lake, telling the squaws that she was going to draw water. As soon as the lake was reached she struck out boldly into the pampas, shaping her course in the direction of San Luis.

The Indians, fortunately, did not overtake or find her, and after many days of wandering, she fell in with some gauchos, who took her to San Luis, and restored her to her friends.

Another occurrence that was related to me will not be without interest to the reader.

During the California excitement a great number of foreigners accompanied caravans from Buenos Ayres to Mendoza, en route for the land of gold. Two or three of these caravans were troubled by the Indians while on the passage to San Luis.

At last one troop of twenty carts, which was accompanied by a large number of foreigners, mostly French and English, started from Buenos Ayres, and as the men were armed with double-barrelled guns and six-shooters, they were continually on the qui vive for an opportunity to test their weapons against the long spears and boliadores of the Indians.

Scouts were always on the watch, but not an Indian was seen. At length, just before they reached the mountains of San Luis, they were met by flying horsemen and terrified women from the town, who informed them that the savages were among the mines of La Carolina, some sixteen or eighteen leagues to the north, and were plundering without mercy. As the party were debating as to their proper action, the news was brought that the Indians, harassed by a few troops sent by the governor, were on the retreat. The caravan was at once drawn into a defile of the mountains, and the white men prepared for action.

Soon the Indians were descried coming at a rapid rate, in one body. Behind each savage were one or more female prisoners lashed to the rider. “It was an awful sight,” said the narrator of the story to me, “when we beheld the strangers point their long guns at the approaching party, among which were our friends, bound to their relentless captors.”

Unaware of the proximity of strangers, on came the galloping party. Suddenly they fell back in confusion, but too late for retreat, for the discharge of nearly two hundred guns scattered death among them. In an instant the horses were freed from their savage riders, who lay upon the plain in the last agonies.

Great credit was given to the foreigners who had done such service to the province; and, followed by hundreds of the natives, they marched the carts into the plaza of San Luis, and there remained several days, feasting daily upon eight oxen that were presented them by the governor. My informant said that such was the skill of the strangers in the use of fire-arms, that not a bird flew over the plaza but it was shot while flying, much to the astonishment of the townsfolk, who will never forget the visit of the strangers.

At San Luis de la Punta the pampas end. On the next morning, the 27th of April, when we left the town, our course lay over a travesia (desert), which was wooded, for the first few leagues, with the black algarroba (mata-gusano), and many other species of low thorn trees and bushes. The road was filled with deep ruts, and as the heavy wagons passed along they raised clouds of dust, that made travelling an almost insupportable task. At night the cattle had to be driven some miles from the road to a place where a little pasture was found. We did not eat meat during the day, but I found that many of the cacti bore a fruit at the top, which, though nearly tasteless, was better than nothing. Near where we encamped, three peons were loosening a patch of land with the rough plough of the country. They were preparing to dig a receptacle for the water that falls during the summer time, and just, behind two or three ranchos were two of these old pools, out of which our oxen and men drank, the capataz paying six and one fourth cents per head for each animal. The water could not have been a foot in depth, and what kept it from soaking into the ground I could not tell, as the soil was porous rather than clayey.

We resumed our march on the following morning without any breakfast, and kept on until noon, when the cattle were driven to a distant pasture, and the peons cooked an asado. We again watered the oxen at another dirty pool, paying the same price per head. I was thirsty, but before I could get at the water the cattle were crowded in the pool, and I returned to the cart without any. Don Facundo furnished me with a bottle to fill. I gave it to a dirty urchin, who seized a stick, and wading into the muddy pool, drove the oxen right and left until he had space enough left to fill the demijohn. This he succeeded in doing, but the contents were such a mixture that, to avoid swallowing dirt, sticks, &c., I was obliged to strain it through my teeth.

I noticed in this part of the country a species of cactus that had previously escaped my observation. It grows about eighteen inches high, spreads out in large, broad leaves, and is fed upon by cochineal insects, which the natives gather, and sell at a low price. It bears a fruit which resembles, in form and color, the pine-apple, and is about twice the size of a hen’s egg. Inside the skin is a white pulpy substance, filled with small black seeds, and pleasant to the taste.

The little pepperish berry became more abundant, and, taking advantage of the opportunity, the peons put large quantities in their stews, which rendered it so fiery to the taste that I was frequently obliged to go supperless.

The travesia which we were now upon was covered, in greater or less quantity, with a peculiar saline mineral which was new to me. I saved a small quantity of it, and when I returned to the United States, presented it to a scientific, association, with the following account of the locality in which it is found:—

“This peculiar mineral is found mixed with the soil, in greater or less abundance, from San Luis de la Punta (a town on the western side of the pampas of the Argentine Republic, where the grass plains properly end, and the travesia, or desert, commences) to the foot of the Andes.

“San Luis lies in latitude 33° 16′ south, longitude 66° 27′ west, and is the capital of the province of the same name. From this town westward the soil is almost worthless, until the River Mendoza is reached, where irrigation commences.

“The soil is very light and dry, and not in the least compact. This is probably caused by the dryness of the atmosphere and absence of water; for when I crossed that part of the country, no water was found save that which had been caught and retained in holes in the ground by the natives. Stones are rarely met with, and where they are found I did not observe the salt.

“There are several spots on the travesia between San Luis and Mendoza furnishing a poor quality of grass, which is fed upon by the cattle which are driven across the continent to the coast.

“With the exception of these spots the country between the above named towns, and extending many leagues to the north and south, is a desert waste, covered with a low growth of thorn bushes and a few species of gnarled trees, some of which bear pods.

“The mineral penetrates the earth from a few inches to a couple of feet in depth. It is particularly abundant at certain places east of the town of San Juan, where the ground is covered with a thin incrustation. It is here that the reflection of the sun’s rays is exceedingly painful to the eyes, and the inhabitants are constantly affected with inflammation of those organs.

“The soil for cultivation must first be prepared, and the mineral removed. The native method of doing this is very simple. The water is conducted from the Rivers Mendoza and San Juan (which take their rise in the Cordillera) through an acquia, or canal, around squares of level land, at irregular intervals of time, and, to use their own expression, they wash off the salitre (saltpetre). Then a plough, constructed of two pieces of wood, is brought into service, and it turns up from six to eight inches of the soil, which goes through the same washing process as the first.

“After two or three repetitions of this operation, a shallow soil is obtained, partially free from salitre, in which wheat, clover, pumpkins, melons, &c., are raised. The remaining salitre, according to the belief of the natives, is exhausted by successive crops, and after several years of tillage the soil is suitable for the vine. Oranges, peaches, quinces, olives, figs, &c., flourish. Within a few years large tracts of land have been made exceedingly fertile by the process above described, and could the New England plough be introduced there, the process would be far more effective.”

The following analysis of the salt was made by Dr. A. A. Hayes, of Boston, a gentleman well known in scientific circles for the care and accuracy with which he conducts all analyses:—

“The specimen was a white, crystalline solid, formed by the union of two layers of salt, as often results from the evaporation of a saline solution, when the pellicle formed on the surface falls to the bottom. Along the line of junction crystal facets are seen, but the forms are indistinct. These crystals readily scratch calc spar, and dissolve without residue in water, affording a solution, which, by evaporation at 150° Fahr., leaves the salt with some of the original physical characters. It readily parts with a portion of water by heat, and when the temperature is raised to redness, it fuses quietly into a transparent, colorless, anhydrous fluid. On cooling, an opaque, white, crystalline solid remains. In this climate the specimen attracts moisture, and therefore has not a fixed amount of water constituent.

“It consists of water, sulphuric acid, soda, magnesia, chlorine. Mixed with it are traces of crenate of iron and lime, with sandy grains of earth.

“One sample afforded—

Water,	16.420
Sulphuric acid,	49.658
Soda,	23.758
Magnesia,	9.904
Chlorine,	.260
	100.000

“Three fragments from different masses were taken, and the following substances found:—

Water,	16.42	18.84	19.60
Sulphate of soda,	48.00	45.82	45.74
” ” magnesia,	34.20	33.19	33.31
Chloride sodium,	1.21	1.79	1.16
Crenates lime and iron with silicic acid,	0.17	0.30	0.13
Sand,		0.06	0.06
	100.00	100.00	100.00

“The varying amounts of water given are illustrative of the absorptive power of the salts in the atmosphere of this place. Dried at 90° Fahr., the amount of water was 15.20 in 100 parts, which exceeds by four parts the proportion necessary to form proto-hydrates of the two salts present.

“Analysis does not show the two sulphates to be in definite proportions in the masses, but the crystals may be a double salt, composed of one equivalent of sulphate of soda and one equivalent of sulphate of magnesia, each retaining an equivalent of water. In the masses, the closest approximation is 42 parts of sulphate of magnesia found, instead of 46 parts required.”

The communication presented embraces interesting facts. These saline deserts cover extended areas in different parts of South America, and, so far as the author has been able to learn, the saline matter differs in kind at the different points. The tendency of saline matter contained in any soil is to rise through the aid of moisture to the surface, where, the water escaping, the salt is deposited. This effect, contrary to the gravitating influence, is the most common cause of deserts, and may be exerted everywhere when the evaporation of water from a given surface becomes much greater than that surface receives in the form of rain and dew. The cultivation of saline deserts, by washing down the saline matter, exhibits the opposite action of water in restoring fertility, and it is by no means essential that the water should contain organic, matter to insure the full effect, as the soil of deserts generally contains all the organic matter of many years’ accumulation.

An interesting inquiry naturally presents itself to the traveller while crossing this peculiar desert. By what means was the salt deposited? Two theories have been advanced by gentlemen who have visited the travesia, both to account for its presence.

Mr. Bland, the North American Commissioner, who visited the Argentine Republic in 1818, thinks that these plains “may have been gently lifted just above the level of the ocean, and left with a surface so unbroken and flat as not yet to have been sufficiently purified of its salt and acid matter, either by filtration or washing.”

Sir W. Parish’s idea of the origin of the salt is different. He says, “But is it not more likely to have been washed down from the secondary strata, which form the base of the Andes, in which we know that enormous beds of salt abound, particularly in those parts of the Cordillera where the greater number of the rivers rise which run through the pampas, and which are almost all more or less impregnated with it?”

While crossing the pampas I occasionally noticed that the water of some of the streams was brackish, but as we approached the Andes the water of the rivers was pure, and free from salt. The San Juan and Mendoza Rivers, both of which may be called great torrents, bring down alluvial mud in their currents; but I never was able to detect any saline properties either in the mud or water. The natives, however, have assured me that there are many salt mines in the Andes.

CHAPTER XII.
ON THE TRAVESIA.

On the 28th of April our caravan crossed the River Desaguadero, and upon the western bank the peons killed an ox, and we ate for the first time since the morning of the previous day. At noon we reached the limits of artificial irrigation, which is carried on extensively in the neighborhood of Mendoza. Along the road ran a shallow ditch, four feet wide, and containing about two inches of water, which, when the canal is full, fertilizes the soil in the vicinity.

Beyond the Desaguadero, forty leagues from Mendoza, lay the hamlet of La Paz, upon the outskirts of which we encamped for the night. Very different was this hamlet from the others we had passed, which looked old and squalid, the houses seeming ready to crumble in pieces, and little vegetation, save in San Luis, was to be seen. Here everything looked neat, and a degree of comfort prevailed that was refreshing to the eye of the traveller who had just crossed a dreary country. This comfortable and fresh appearance was the result of irrigation, for very little rain falls on this great travesia, which covers many thousand miles of territory in the provinces of San Luis, Mendoza, and San Juan; and wherever the water of rivers can be turned from their natural course to fertilize the broad waste lands, there little spots of verdure appear, and the labor of the farmer is crowned with success.

The whole township of La Paz was divided into square pastures, around which ran a wide canal. Along the borders of these grew tall poplars, that served to fence in and protect the herds of cattle that had been brought from San Luis to fatten on alfalfa, a species of clover. Our patron was so parsimonious that he refused to purchase good pasturage for the cattle, which were growing weaker each day on miserable fare, but ordered the capataz to drive them to a piece of waste land, upon which grew a scanty supply of dry grass.

The next day we encamped a few leagues beyond the village, where I bought, and shared with the peons, a couple of pumpkins, some coarse bread, and a quantity of dried figs, that had been brought from Mendoza. Our road the next day led through woods of thorns and algarrobas, and occasionally over an open plain.

Just before dark we had a fine view of the distant Andes, which were now distinctly visible. The most lofty peaks were covered with snow, although in many places dark lines showed where the rocks remained yet uncovered.

The wind blew direct from the west, and coming from the snowy mountains, was very chilly. All night I turned and rolled upon my hide in great discomfort from the cold that benumbed my limbs. On the next day, May 1st, the peons stopped to kill an ox close to Las Casitis, a village larger and better than the last one we passed three days before.

While the troop rested, a broad-faced, good-looking fellow beckoned from over a fence of thorns and cornstalks for me to come and dine with him. I accepted his kind invitation, and he showed me his hut and grounds; the former was built of cornstalks, and was well thatched.

Upon the rafters, that projected, and formed a platform outside the hut, were piles of dried pumpkins, melons, &c.

He informed me that he had commenced improving the land one year before, and by hard labor, he, together with his wife and children, had a home, and were more plentifully supplied with the comforts of life than any other rancho on the road between Rosario and Mendoza.

The canal that ran past his hut watered beds of onions, beans, garlic, and many other vegetables not often found on the road.

His wife, a dark-complexioned woman, with “para servir à vd,” welcomed me to their cabin, and spread upon a trunk of an algarroba a small piece of white cloth, and upon this placed a dish containing a stew of beans, onions, corn, and meat, well-seasoned with garlic. They would not receive anything for their kindness, but when I left presented me with a fine pumpkin, which I in turn gave to the peons.

From this place we travelled very slowly until four o’clock, when we halted to feed the oxen. The peons, though they had eaten heartily three hours before, roasted large slices of meat, and ate a quantity during the next half hour that would have astonished the followers of Graham. These people can go without eating for an astonishing length of time; but when an opportunity offers for gormandizing, they will rival Claudius Albinus himself. I dare not mention how many steaks, each averaging two pounds, Facundo could devour in a day; nor should I wish to state that he thought nothing of eating three pumpkins at a single meal.

At dusk the creaking of wheels and loud cries of men announced that a troop from Mendoza was approaching, and a young man came galloping in advance, and greeted our patron as an old acquaintance. The oxen of the troop, fresh from Mendoza, contrasted strangely with our lean animals, some of which could scarcely walk.

The next morning we were on the road very early, for it now became evident that unless our journey was soon terminated our cattle would give out; and the carts thus situated would be in an unlucky situation.

The next town was Santa Rosa, once the headquarters of the Jesuits, who held religious sway over all the pampa territories when the country was under the control of Spain.

The place was nothing more than a collection of mud huts and corn ranches. The inhabitants, however, supported a small store.

The only signs of life in the hamlet were from a party of women weaving, and two or three half-Indian girls chasing a flock of goats and sheep. The country around the place was covered with low bushes, and, judging by appearances, I concluded that the place had seen its best days. Many poor families were supported by a flock of twenty or thirty goats and sheep, the latter providing sufficient wool, from which their garments were made; and as the goats breed twice a year, they had plenty of animal food to satisfy their wants. Beyond this place our caravan entered a straight, broad road, shaded with tall poplars, which were planted in regular rows on each side of the street, and afforded a pleasant shade for the traveller.

Following the road for two or three miles, we encamped for the night in Alto Verde, where were the best houses seen by us since leaving Rosario. The frames were of poplar, and were well put together, the roof projecting sufficiently to form a veranda. All articles of food were cheaper here than at any of the towns passed by our troop. Three or four large watermelons were given for a medio (6¹⁄₄ cents), and two loaves of bread for the same amount of money.

During the day following we passed scattered houses, and large pastures of alfalfa, separated from each other by fences of growing poplars. Our patron, now felt compelled to purchase fodder for the oxen, and he obtained the privilege of pasturing them for the night, and until the day following, for three dollars; which, considering the number of animals (over one hundred), was a very small sum.

As we encamped in the highway, we were disturbed in our slumbers all the night by the numerous troops of mules and racing gauchos who were continually passing and repassing, while flocks of wild fowl flew over our carts, shaping their course to the south. The following morning we reached Villa Nueva. The roads were very sandy, which gave great trouble to the oxen. Before taking our last meal we halted for the night.

On the next morning we started very early, following a lonely road, without seeing a rancho. About noon we crossed the River Mendoza, which, at the place of crossing, was narrow, with a current setting to the northward. I had some difficulty in effecting a passage without getting wet.

While the carts were forming a double line, and commencing other preparations for halting, I disrobed, and, under cover of some stunted bushes, bathed in the cold stream.

This was the third bath that I had enjoyed since leaving Rosario. The peons laughed derisively at a gringo who could not travel eight hundred miles without washing himself. These disgusting fellows, with one or two exceptions, had not applied water to their skin for more than forty days, and did not intend to cleanse themselves until the troop was close upon Mendoza.

From a few mud houses beyond a rising ground, not far from the river, came several men and women, bringing peaches and melons in their ponchos, together with baskets of native manufacture, filled with two kinds of grapes, one variety of which was the white Muscatel. At different points near this river my attention had been attracted by a disease very prevalent among the people, which exhibited itself in the form of a large swelling upon the throat, and was called by the natives the coté (goitre).

One poor fellow, who had a very large coté, informed me that it was caused by drinking the water of the stream, and that large swellings had come out upon his thighs, from laboring several weeks in the water.

A young cow that had been purchased on the road was the only tender meat that we had eaten since leaving Rosario. The peons gorged themselves until they could eat no more, and ate, perhaps, more than they would have done had not the patron been absent; he had gone to Mendoza in order to advertise in the only paper in the province that his troop would make its entrée into the Plaza Nueva on the following day.

Owing to our proximity to the great town, several of the Santia gueños changed their minds about ablutions, and busied themselves in making preparations for the entrée. I watched their movements with considerable interest, for in making their toilet the comb of Don Manuel passed around the group, and received generous patronage, the little dog that belonged to my friend and the woman coming in for their share of its use.

The ball having once been set in motion, the excitement to appear neat became so great that some of the peons actually shook the dust out of their chiropas, and put on clean drawers, that had been long kept for some great occasion. While the men beat their ponchos upon the wagon-wheels, the woman entered a cart to make her toilet; and so changed was her appearance an hour after, when she appeared clad in a new calico dress, with her hair neatly plaited in two braids, after the fashion, formerly, of young girls in our own country, that I involuntarily raised my sombrero, which attention she very pleasantly acknowledged. But, as is usually the case with mothers, she had expended the principal part of her labor and finery upon her little girl, whose appearance had been greatly improved.

The Caravan at Rest.—[Page 182].

An hour before she had run along the banks of the river barefooted, and with hair streaming in the wind; but now, with hair smoothly combed, and little body decked out in a gay tunic, her black eyes sparkling with fun, she seemed to have been transformed from a wild Indian girl into an interesting little lady.

After again eating, the troop moved on until sunset, passing several dilapidated houses, and two or three dirty pulperias (stores). Our camping-ground proved to be a bad selection, as it was on a low plain, part morass, and covered with tall weeds. The peons tried to compel me to fill the jars with water at a pond, the direction of which they pointed out to me in the dark; but I informed them, through a little fellow that spoke Spanish, that, as I was aware of our proximity to Mendoza, all further orders from them would be disregarded. Furthermore, I stated that there were people in the town which we were soon to enter who could converse equally well in English and in Spanish, and if they, the peons, attempted any more insulting acts, the matter would be exposed. This answer they evidently did not relish, for they became very angry, and conversed among themselves in their own language, evidently making threats of some kind against me.

Before retiring, I conversed with the old Indian, who was my friend, and he promised to receive my little property, snugly packed in a canvas bag, into his cart.

The night passed without any incident, and when daylight came we were already on the march. As the troop was not to enter the town until the following morning, I partook of an asado for the last time, and, discarding my pampa costume, and dressing after the fashion of civilized men, I set out in advance of the company for Mendoza, which was twelve miles distant. The whole plain, over which our road lay, was covered with a curious bush, growing in clumps from three to six feet in height, and bearing a yellow pod, resembling in shape a screw. The houses that were scattered along the road were built in the old Spanish style. When within three or four miles of the town, a continuous line of buildings commenced, which was broken only by green pastures of alfalfa, surrounded by mud walls and extensive vineyards, the vines of which bent to the ground from the weight of the fruit they bore.

Upon the walls of the houses, suspended from canes, hung, drying in the sun, bunches of the fruit just mentioned; and, seeing a great number of casks and barrels in almost every yard, I judged that each farmer manufactured his own wine.

Oranges, lemons, limes, peaches, and olives were everywhere abundant, while occasionally the eye rested with pleasure upon a pomegranate, or palm-tree.

Within the yards, surrounded by high enclosures, were piles of melons and pumpkins; and ranges of jars, filled with olives just stripped from the trees, stood beneath the verandas of the houses.

The people seemed very hospitable. Twice the proprietors of different quintas came out, and persuaded me to enter their residences and partake of food, saying that everything they possessed was at my disposal, and that the foreigners received their great respect.

“How knew you that I was a foreigner?” I asked.

“By your countenance and your walk,” was the reply.

An old man detained me a long time to inquire the prices of North American goods.

“What is the value of this article in your country?” he asked, holding up to my view a cheap earthen mug.

“About a medio,” I replied.

“What rogues!” he exclaimed. “In Mendoza they charged me three times that sum. Tell me, friend, why did you neglect to bring some with you? You would have been a rich man soon.”

The day was the Sabbath, which is regarded as a holiday in this country. The pulperias by the roadside were thronged by the gauchos, some gambling, and others dancing to the sound of the guitar, while a few lay drunk upon the ground. About two o’clock, after leaping several streams of water that ran along the streets, I entered Mendoza, and, after many unsuccessful inquiries, found myself in the calle de comercio, where I luckily met with a Frenchman who spoke a little English, and to him made known my wishes regarding my proposed journey across the Andes to Chili.

The Frenchman informed me that an English physician, Dr. D., who had resided several years in Mendoza, and had ingratiated himself into the favor of the government, was just the person to apply to, as he could give me any information relative to the Chili road. At the moment the doctor himself came up, mounted upon a fine horse, and returning from a visit to the country.

I handed him the letters given me by Mr. Graham, and inquired if either of the two persons to whom they were directed were in Mendoza; he returned them to me, rather brusquely saying that he was not an American physician; and as for Mr. Allen Campbell, he had left two months ago for Santa Fé. In as delicate a manner as possible, I informed Dr. D. of my object in visiting his adopted country; that I was a stranger, and unacquainted with the language, and hinted that if some person conversant with the dialect would make inquiries regarding troops of mules that might be leaving for Chili, he would be doing me a favor that I could not too highly appreciate. To this the doctor drew himself up stiffly, and replied, impatiently,—

“If you wish to cross to Chili, the only method of procuring necessary information is to inquire of the native merchants, who often send troops across the Cordillera. According to the last accounts the mountains were passable, though the Chili mail has not yet arrived.”

I answered, “Doctor, I am unacquainted with the language, save the little I have acquired upon the road; and if several days are lost by me in fruitless inquiry, the mountains will be closed, and I shall be obliged to remain here for the next six months.”

“Very well,” he answered, touching his horse at the same time with his silver spurs. “It is only among the merchants that you will receive the information.” And he was soon out of sight.

The Frenchman, who had been a listener to the conversation, exclaimed, energetically, “Vat a tam fool! He might speak one word, and find plentee mules going to Chili: he much puffed up with practeese. Come to my home, and I will find you a troop of mules to-morrow. I loves the Americans; they is tam goot fellows!”

On our way to his lodgings, my new acquaintance suddenly remembered that there was a party of North Americans in town, and at my request he led me to their house. They were professional gentlemen, my guide said, but of what particular branch of science he could not tell. Never was I more surprised than when the Frenchman introduced me to four young men, whose flag, as it waved above their house, announced them as the Circo Olimpico (Olympic Circus), from North America. The director of the company, Mr. Daniel H., of Utica, New York, had left the States for Mexico thirteen years before, and was with the American army through the war between the two republics.

After peace had been established, he freighted a small vessel, and, landing upon the northern coast of South America, had since travelled over nearly all the countries of the continent.

Of the original number that left with him, he was the only survivor. As soon as one performer had died, or retired from the profession, some strolling provistero was always found to fill the vacancy.

While the company travelled in the upper countries of Bolivia, Peru, New Granada, and Ecuador, success followed them; for silver is more plenty among the middle and poorer classes of those republics that abound in rich mines than in the Argentine Republic. Here their good fortune deserted them. They had crossed over the vast pampa country, and, by giving here and there a granfuncion, had taken money enough to enable them to reach Mendoza. Mr. H. informed me that he should follow along the sierras of the Andes, and cross the great travesia that covers several of the upper provinces, until he reached Potosi, and from Bolivia the company would cross the Cordillera to Peru, where better luck would surely meet them.

Being the latest arrival from North America, I had to answer many questions, as they had not heard from that country since leaving the Paraná, twelve months before. At dusk a negro band played an air that was very popular in the United States nine years before. With all the facilities of communication that exist between the two countries, the song and accompanying music had just reached Mendoza, a town supposed by its inhabitants to be first in the scale of civilization and refinement.

The following morning I visited the Plaza Nueva, where the carts of our caravan were discharging their cargoes, and received from the old Indian my bag.

We parted pleasantly, and I only regretted that my present to him could not have been as great, proportionately, as my regard for him. The patron and capataz commended me to the care of my Maker, and wished that many years might be added to my life, to which civil speech I made an appropriate reply. As for the peons, they said nothing, nor even comforted me with a single glance or nod of good feeling.

CHAPTER XIII.
MENDOZA.

Two or three days were passed in inquiring for a troop of mules bound for Chili, but no information could be obtained of any, and I afterwards learned that the last troop of the season had left Mendoza on the day after my arrival, and had barely succeeded in reaching Chili with their lives.

For twenty-one days the Andes were enveloped in clouds, the dark and portentous appearance of which was terrible to behold. I passed hours of each day in watching the fierce temporales, as the natives called them, that came rolling along the summit of the sierras from the regions of Cape Horn, covering, in their mad career, whole ranges of mountains in a mantle of snow. To have attempted a passage at that time would have been certain death; so with all the philosophy that could be drawn from irremediable disappointment, I became resigned to my fate to remain in the interior of the country until the genial sun of another spring should melt the snow-drifts that blocked up the passes of the Andes.

The old Spanish town of Mendoza is situated in latitude 32° 51′ south, longitude 67° 57′ west, at the foot of the eastern declivity of the Andes. It was laid out in cuadras, or squares, the sides of which were one hundred and fifty yards long. It contained, at the time of my visit, nearly ten thousand inhabitants. Of the two plazas the Independence was the most celebrated, because of the fountain it contained. This fountain, however, was dry when I was there, the aqueduct having become choked with leaves and stones; it had been permitted to remain in this useless state for some time, and I was of the opinion that it would still continue dry, as no attempt was made to clear it out, and no plan was discussed by which it might in the future be again in operation.

The Alameda, a much-talked-of public walk on the side of the town nearest the mountains, was resorted to by all classes. An artificial canal flowed beside the principal walk, watering a row of fine poplars, beneath which were a few stone seats, where I often sat and watched the different classes of the Mendozinos promenading after the siesta.

In a little mud hut, kept by a Chilino, I was surprised to find a luxury not often met with in southern countries. Ice was brought from the mountains on mules, and the inhabitants were enabled to enjoy their creams at a trifling expense. It was in the Alameda that I sometimes had a glimpse of the governor of the province of Mendoza—Don Pedro Pascual Segura. He was a man small in stature, and this characteristic seemed to be general in the different traits of his character, for he was of little energy, and had, consequently, little of the rascality of his predecessors. He was literally small in everything, as the following incident will show.

The Mendoza band belonged to the government, and Don Pedro had disposed of their services by contract, for a certain sum of money, to the theatrical company of Señor Rodenas, who had established himself in the town a short time before my arrival. The North American Circus Company came into the place soon after, and the director presented the governor his compliments and a season ticket to the performances. As the circus company wished to perform on the same evening as the company of Señor Rodenas, and by so doing could not obtain the services of the band, the governor, without further ceremony, broke the contract with the theatre, and ordered half the musicians to the house of the North Americans. This unjust act greatly injured the native performers, who were poor, and had but just arrived from a distant part of the country.

The houses of Mendoza were one story high, and, unlike those of Buenos Ayres, were built of adobes, which were covered with mud and whitewashed. These, like the dwellings of that city, had a dreary, prison-like appearance. The patio, or yard, was in the centre of the building, and was accessible by a large, heavy door, called the puerto-calle. A door from each room opened into the yard, where, in the summer months, the household, including servants, usually slept, for the climate near the mountains has not the heavy dews of the pampas. The roofs were generally of mud, plastered upon canes, bound together by strips of hide, which rested upon a rough frame of willow, poplar, and a hard kind of wood resembling the algarroba. The adobes were made near the spot where the building was to be erected when sufficient material could be procured. Mud, trodden fine by horses and mixed with straw, was placed in moulds about twenty by eight inches, and four or five deep, and, after being removed, the adobe was allowed to dry in the sun’s heat for two or three weeks. Outside the town a rough, square brick was made, which served to floor the houses of the rich, and was covered by a carpet of European manufacture.

The town, at the time of my visit, was liberally supplied with churches, and had a convent. The priests bore a much better character than those of the northern countries of the continent, as in most places where Catholicism exists they have a strong influence over the lower classes, and fill the narrow streets of the town with processions, much to the annoyance of every one who is obliged to kneel uncovered as they pass along. One foreigner told me that when he entered the place for the first time, he halted his horse in the plaza, through which a crowd of people were hurrying with lighted candles and crucifixes. The priest observing that he did not recognize, by humiliating himself, the respect due them, sent a vigilante, who threatened to run him through with the bayonet if he did not dismount from his horse and kneel upon the ground. There being no protecting power nearer than Buenos Ayres, or Santiago in Chili, a foreigner must go through these debasing forms, do homage to man, or feel the point of the bayonet or sword, “for there is no protection for gringos in the provinces north and west of Buenos Ayres.”

This I had told me more than once by officers of the government of this republic that pretends to copy the principles that have been expounded by Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Lafayette. I always kept a bright lookout when abroad, and the instant the shaven heads of the good fathers appeared I turned the first corner, and stopped not until two squares were between us.

At a certain season of the year a mock Christ was crucified by the priests. The deluded people, believing it to be the true Savior, wept as they beat their breasts, and cried out with compassion. At these and other services of the church, as the mass and vesper prayer, the men formed a very small portion of the congregation, but the women were constant attendants, and were continually at the confessional.

One young lady with whom I was acquainted made it a rule to confess three times a week. This she continued to do for the space of one year, when good Father Maximo became so weary of her appearance or of her sins, that he told her to come once in seven days, and he would pardon the whole at once. Every morning the early riser met with little parties of females returning from early mass, chatting pleasantly as they proceeded to their homes. Each female who could afford it had a servant, who followed behind with an alfombra (mat), upon which the lady sat while in church. The children always went on before, that they might be under the eye of the matron who watched them, particularly if they were young ladies, with a degree of vigilance equal to that of the dueñazas of old Spain.

While speaking of churches and church-goers I will not omit mentioning a few facts relative to one Padre A. and his family, whose fame is wide-spread in the other provinces of the republic. This A. was a priest in the church of San Domingo, and, breaking his vow, acquainted Rosas with the thoughts and actions of those who had unbosomed themselves to him.

His villanous character began to show itself, and throwing aside the padre’s cloak, he took the sword, and became one of the bloodiest generals that Mendoza had ever supported. His deeds of cruelty made him known throughout the country. His family, which had, during his career, enjoyed a notoriety, sank into obscurity after his death.

Several years since, a daughter of the padre, who had distinguished herself for her licentious conduct, performed a journey, in company with her sister and another young lady,—all wild girls,—that proved no less disastrous than it was foolish in design.

The three girls, attired in gaucho costume, set out on horseback, and not with side-saddles, to cross the Cordillera of the Andes. The trip was successful. They entered Chili without meeting any obstacle to mar their happiness, and after having passed a few weeks with friends, started to return to the Argentine Republic. The guides warned them of coming temporales, but they had tarried from home too long to protract their stay; perhaps to be obliged to remain in Chili until the winter’s snows were gone. They entered the mountains, and somewhere near the Cumbre pass, a storm broke upon them, and only two of the females escaped with their lives.

Each church in Mendoza had several bells, which were far from melodious, having a tinkling sound, and the manner in which they were rung reminded me of our national air. But the people were well satisfied with these discordant sounds, and one of the priests, who had returned from a visit to England, on being asked how he liked that country, replied,—

“England is a fine country, superior to ours in everything save one—the English do not know how to chime their bells.”

A theatre of two stories in height had been built under the supervision and at the expense of a certain “scientific gentleman,” and though the building was but a whitewashed structure, it raised the gentleman to enviable fame. He was pointed out to me as a profound man, a geologist and astronomer, and furthermore the government would not raise a wall or dig an acquia without first consulting Don Carlos’s opinion. Though a native of the country, he assumed to be an Italian, but did not succeed in convincing the people to that effect when I left Mendoza. I was told that the don had acquired his principal knowledge of engineering, &c., while assisting Lieutenant Archibald Macrae, of the United States Naval Astronomical Expedition, two or three years before, in taking the altitudes of certain places in the Andes. Don Carlos occasionally turned aside from his researches in science, and amused himself, or became the amuser of the more talented portion of the Mendozinos. Once he collected an eager crowd of people by mounting the roof of a house, and pretending, by means of the needle of the compass, to determine the course and distance of a comet, which, with fiery tail, looked so ominously as to cause many of the gaucho population to believe that the town was about to be destroyed.

I was convinced that the Mendozinos were the most peaceable and hospitable people of the republic, and showed more respect to foreigners than was customary where the old dogmas and customs of the Spanish prevailed. I could not perceive any difference between the higher classes of this town and those of Buenos Ayres in the matter of complexion.

They had as light skins as any Spaniard that I had met in the last named city, and generally retained the purity of blood. The lower classes differed, however. They were of every type that exists in the republic west of Paraná and south of latitude 28°, being composed of peons of the different provinces, while the blood of the Indian and negro courses through the veins of many. They were very immoral and exceedingly ignorant, but were kind-hearted and courteous to strangers. Much time was wasted in dancing and other frivolous amusements. The females of all grades embroidered with skill, and showed great taste in the selection of their patterns. The bonnet was not worn, but a shawl, covering the head and falling gracefully about the form, supplied its place, the temperature being so mild and uniform that no warmer head covering was needed.

I noticed that the ladies painted their cheeks in an extravagant manner; a custom that we should not suppose would have gained entrance to such an isolated place. In San Juan, one hundred and fifty miles to the north, I saw nothing of this, and was told that it was of rare occurrence.

Mendoza was a very healthy place at the time I was there. I learned that many persons, troubled with complaints that usually end in consumption, after residing there a few years were restored to health.

But there was one form of disease which was said by the physicians to be incurable, and which in our own country would lead to a desertion of the site.

This was the goitre of the medical fraternity, and, as I have before mentioned, is known among the people as the coté. The disease appeared in the form of a large swelling on the throat, which was caused by the mineral qualities of the River Mendoza.[3] The canals that supplied the citizens of the town ran through nearly every street, and each family procured their water from them.

The richer portion of the inhabitants had filters, or drip-stones, through which the water was allowed to pass, and become free from all vegetable matter. Now the question presented itself to me, Did the water, in passing through the fine drip-stone, rid itself of any of its mineral properties? and I was led to the opinion that it did, from noticing the fact that the richer classes, having their water thus filtrated, were rarely troubled with the goitre, while the poor people, who drank from the canal itself, presented the disease in all its forms upon them. In fact, the goitre seemed to be a part of their person, for every sixth or seventh female, and now and then a man, that I met during a morning walk, exhibited the disagreeable symptoms.

At San Vicente, a small village, four miles from the town, the goitre could be examined in all its forms; “for,” said an individual to me while in Mendoza, “I fully believe that every fourth woman in the place is affected by it.” It was not a rare thing to see a large swelling on both sides of the throat, so large as to be absolutely disgusting. There was in the neighborhood of Mendoza a spring of fine water, but only a few of the citizens took advantage of its existence.

Mendoza had, when I was there, a good school for the instruction of the young, who, like most creoles, acquired knowledge very quickly. A young Englishman was at the head of the establishment, and in all respects the school seemed prospering. Besides the school there was a public library containing three or four thousand volumes, which, if consulted, could not fail to be of benefit to the inhabitants, who were extremely ignorant of things unconnected with their immediate vicinity. The people had recently started a newspaper, “El Constitucional,” and, judging by the pompous leaders of the gentleman who occupied the editorial chair, a stranger would have been led to believe that Mendoza was the greatest and most important city on the globe.

For their press, types, etc., they were indebted to Mr. Vansice, formerly of Utica, N. Y., who came to this country several years before, and by his energy became of great assistance to the government of the province. He remodelled many old forms, and liberalized the ideas of the people to such an extent that they encouraged him to revisit North America, and obtain many articles, the introduction of which have facilitated the different kinds of labor in which the people were engaged; and following out this plan to a greater extent, a company was forming, the object of which was to send to the United States for machines, tools, &c. Mr. Vansice furnished two other provinces, also, with printing materials, and used all possible effort to establish a public press on a substantial basis.

Patagonians. (From a Photograph.)—[Page 207].

After filling offices of dignity and honor, he retired to the miserable little village of San José del Moro, where he resided with his native wife, carrying on a profitable business in English goods, which were brought from Valparaiso.

While I was in Mendoza, the celebration and festivities of the 25th of May, the independence day of the republic, took place, and were celebrated with unusual enthusiasm. For several days previous the people were engaged in preparing for the festivities, though not half of the lower classes knew for what reason the celebration was made, so ignorant were they of their country’s history. The government, for one hundred dollars, secured the services of the North American performers, and under their direction a ring of adobes was constructed in the centre of the plaza, and close beside it a rostrum for the governor, his suite, and the musicians. The news of the granfuncion that was to take place spread far into the country, and three days prior to the 25th the gauchos came galloping into town from all parts of the province. At sunrise, on the great day, I visited the plaza in which the populace was pouring, the whole forming a most picturesque scene.

Gauchos, gayly attired, were mounted upon horses decked out with silver ornaments, and tails braided with ribbons, and galloping about in little parties. Some farmers came into town, accompanied by their wives and daughters, and it was no uncommon thing to see two women, each with a child in her arms, riding on the same horse with a man. At such galas one sees a degree of life and animation not to be met with at other times; for, as soon as the festival is over, the people sink into a most indolent state, and remain so until the next dia de fiesta arouses them to life and action.

The school-boys sang the national hymn, and the governor swore to support the constitution, after which a military review took place. The several companies, as they marched around the plaza, were preceded by a trumpeter, who blew terrific blasts as the occasion required. All the foot soldiers carried old English muskets, the cavalry being armed with short carbines or lances.

Two cannon, the only pieces of artillery in the province, were drawn by foot-soldiers, dressed, like the others, in white pantaloons and jackets, and from beneath the former hung the frill of the gaucho drawers. While the review was taking place, the bells of all the churches were pealing in their usual manner, and rockets were constantly sent off though the sun shone brightly, which, of course, did not heighten the pyrotechnic display. Nearly every house showed a flag, and among them I observed the English colors floating from the house of the courteous (?) English physician.

During the day many of the gauchos attempted to climb a greased pole erected in the plaza, upon the top of which money had been placed; but not one succeeded in gaining the coveted prize. The only decoration in the plaza was a hexagonal figure, resembling a Chinese lantern, and covered with white cloth. Upon each side was painted a figure, one of Liberty, one of Justice, and another, a portrait of General Urquiza and our own Washington, side by side.

The stand was decorated with the flags of the South American republics, and the only foreign one was that of the United States, which floated over the figure of Washington, beside which was a quotation from one of his speeches delivered to the American people.

The circus performance passed off to the delight of all, and the equestrians who could so skilfully perform upon a galloping horse were declared by the gauchos to have been trained for the occasion by his satanic majesty.

Just after the 25th, the Mendozinos were thrown into a great excitement by the announcement that a cacique, attended by fifty of his men, had left his native plains of Patagonia, and was rapidly approaching the town.

Upon the receipt of the news, the governor called together all the musicians, and sent them to escort the savages into Mendoza. The chief encamped outside the town, and, having obtained an interview with the governor, presented, in the most barefaced manner, a petition from his tribe which any other government would have recognized as an insult, and treated it as such. He wished to be told how much per month his tribe would be allowed if they would not steal any more.

Instead of sending them off about their business, or seizing them, the governor treated them like spoiled children, promising them an allowance if they behaved well, and distributing presents among them, after which they were escorted to their own country, fourteen days’ travel from Mendoza, by a party of soldiers commanded by an officer.

A day or two before the departure of these Indians, while I was transacting some business in a store, the chief entered, followed by two of his tribe. This beardless savage was dressed in a full English suit, that he had undoubtedly stolen somewhere, as his tribe were notorious robbers.

He addressed me, through an interpreter, in broken Spanish.

Probably suspecting that I was a foreigner, he asked if “Ropa” (Europe) was not my home. He had no knowledge of any other country, but supposed that all foreigners came from the same land on the other side of a great water. I told him concerning my native land, and in the course of the conversation remarked that we had a great many Indians, but that they generally used fire-arms; at which he probably set me down as being as great a liar as himself.

According to his own story, he was a good man, a rich man, and a friend to humanity, and to foreigners in particular, he had the same hypocritical way of talking as the natives of Mendoza, and I came to the conclusion that they had mutually assisted each other in their education.

After scrutinizing the various objects about him, he at length asked me, with a grunt, to lend him four reals. Of course I refused him; but I was curious to learn more of him, and my refusal was not made in the most decided tone possible. He smiled grimly, and commenced telling a long story of his beautiful house (?) far away in Patagonia, where I should always be a welcome visitor. He had vast numbers of ostriches and guanacos running about his grounds, all of which should be at my disposal if I would but accompany him back to the pampas. He liked foreigners, because they were braver than the gauchos. Pausing in the midst of his harangue, he gave me a punch in the ribs, and asked to be accommodated with three reals. I again refused. Taking up the thread of his story, he continued at great length, finally promising to bring me a tame guanaco when he returned to Mendoza. Here followed another poke, and a request for two reals, then one, and finally promising to be content with a medio. I gave it to him, and he left me.

The circus performers intended leaving Mendoza for San Juan, a town lying one hundred and fifty miles to the north, and earnestly wished me to accompany them. To me it mattered little whether I remained four months in Mendoza or any other place; but before accepting their invitation I called upon the correo, or Chilian courier, to see if I could possibly cross the Cordillera with him. The correo was away on the passage, and the postmaster-general believed that he was detained by the temporales that had been raging, and would not return for several weeks.

In crossing the mountains during the winter season, four men form the correo. One carries the mail, another wood, another provisions, &c. They do not leave either side oftener than once a month, and are sometimes a whole month in performing the journey, as they are frequently shut up in the snow-huts that are scattered along the road for many days at a time.

The casuchas, or snow-huts, are scattered along the trail at irregular distances. These huts are built of brick with an entrance so constructed as to be above the drifting snow. The post party left Mendoza on mules, or horses, and proceeded into the mountains as far as the depth of snow would permit. Peons then took back the animals, leaving the correo to continue the journey on foot. This was the custom at the time of my visit. Upon reaching the main chain of the Andes, the state of the atmosphere was carefully studied, and if the result proved favorable they ascended the Cordillera.

When upon the western side of the chain, the party sometimes adopted an ingenious method for facilitating their progress. Each man carried with him a square piece of hide, upon which he sat, and descended the inclined surfaces with much ease and great rapidity. After reaching Santa Rosa, the first town upon the western side, the correo mounts a horse, and gallops to Santiago, the capital of the republic, which is about twenty leagues from the village.

Upon the 5th of June the correo had not returned; and as there was no possibility of my crossing into Chili, I consented to go to San Juan, and set out about dusk with the circus manager and one of his men for a quinta outside the town, from which we were to start the next morning. The owner of the quinta had agreed to take charge of the company’s mules and baggage, and act as guide to our party while crossing the dreary travesia. We passed, by moonlight, the burial-ground on the outskirts of the town, and reached the muleteer’s house, where we found the family sleeping in the yard,—men, women, and dogs, promiscuously.

As I probably shall not in this volume again have occasion to refer to the town of Mendoza, I will here speak of its destruction, which, as my readers doubtless are aware, occurred in 1861, from an earthquake. This most terrible catastrophe, in which thousands of human beings lost their lives, has rarely found a parallel in the history of the western hemisphere.

A recent traveller, who visited the place after the calamity, says, in describing the ruins,—

“I arose at an early hour, and sallied forth to see and contemplate the ruins of the doomed city.

“I walked along the fine avenue of poplars (the Alameda) for about a hundred yards, and turned into the right; a few paces brought me into the nearest street, where I was absolutely struck dumb and immovable with horror at the scene which presented itself.

“As I gazed along the whole length of that street, not a single house was there to be seen standing; all was a confused mass of ‘adobes,’ beams, and bricks.

“The street was filled upon a level with what remained of the walls of the houses on either side, which at a glance accounted for the fearful number of victims—upwards of twelve thousand—entombed beneath the ruins of that fatal 20th of March, 1861.

“From the plaza I turned towards the north, and there saw the only edifice, or rather portion of one, that had remained entire: it was the theatre, which, having had a considerable quantity of timber in its construction, remained partially uninjured. I ascended to the roof, and got a fine view of the entire city. For a mile around on every side nothing but a chaotic mass of ruins was visible,—the débris of a large city razed to the ground in an instant! On the left were the ruins of what had been once a fine church, ‘Santo Domingo,’ the altar and a portion of the arch being the only remaining traces of its former sacred character.

“Looking away towards the south might be seen the still partially-erect walls of ‘San Francisco,’ another fine church, which boasted of the largest bell in the city. This bell was pitched from its position to a considerable distance by the shock, and stuck between two towers on the north side of the building, where it may be still seen, wedged in so firmly that all attempts at removing it simply by lifting have failed. On approaching ‘Santo Domingo,’ in order to examine it more closely, I saw lying about its ‘precinct’ several human skeletons, and portions of the human form protruding from beneath the masses of masonry. I was almost sickened by the sight, and moved quickly away. In many parts of the city I saw the same horrible exhibition,—skulls, arms, legs, &c., lying about, some still undecayed, especially near a convent on the south side of the city.”

A gentleman who was buried under the ruins, and afterwards extricated, in describing his experiences, says,—

“I stood at a table (about half-past eight, P. M.) in the centre of the room, and was in the act of lighting a cigar, when the shock, preceded by a low, rumbling noise, was first felt. It was slow for a moment in the beginning; but from the noise, I concluded it was going to be something more than ordinary; so I rushed into the street, and ran down the middle, intending, if possible, to reach the Alameda. I had run only some twenty paces when I felt as if I had been struck a heavy blow on the back of the head, and was borne down to the earth in a moment. I knew that the town was infested with rats and vermin of all kinds, and that, sooner or later, they would not fail to find me out amongst the thousands of victims entombed, like myself, beneath at least six feet depth of ‘adobes.’”

Mr. Hinchliff, who visited Buenos Ayres, in writing of the earthquake, says,—

“M. Bravart, a French savant of some eminence, who had foretold the destruction of the city by an earthquake, was himself among the victims. The principal watchmaker in Buenos Ayres, which is about eight hundred miles distant from the scene of this awful calamity, told me a curious fact in connection with it. One day he observed with astonishment that his clocks suddenly differed twelve seconds from his chronometers; and when the news arrived, about a fortnight later, he found that the pendulums of the former had been arrested at the moment of the destruction of Mendoza.”

Since my return to the United States I received a letter from Don Guillermo Buenaparte, of San Juan, in which he spoke at considerable length of the earthquake. He wrote me that when he approached Mendoza, three or four days after the catastrophe, the stench rising from the dead bodies beneath the ruins was perceived at a distance of several miles from the town. He found gauchos from the plains robbing the wounded, and searching among the rubbish for plunder. When he reached the public square of the city he found more than a hundred women, all mentally affected, many entirely bereft of their reason; all were praying on their knees, asking the Holy Mary to intercede for the lost souls of their countrymen who had, prior to the fall of the doomed city, united with others from San Luis, and had attacked and butchered many of their political enemies (some four hundred) of San Juan. The unfortunate lunatics seemed to think that God had overthrown their city to avenge the murder of San Juaninos. A political conspiracy was being planned in the city at the time it was destroyed.

Such a spectacle as the above needs no comment.

At four o’clock of the next morning after our departure from Mendoza, the muleteer aroused us, and bade us prepare for the journey; and an hour later we were journeying along the base of the lofty Andes, that towered above our heads.

Two hours’ ride brought us to the travesia, over which we journeyed, passing close to a great lake that is supplied by two streams that flow from the Cordillera.

Much of the water is absorbed by the soil about the lake; and as but very little escapes through one or two outlets, it has been called by the natives “El Guana Cache,” or the Consuming Lake.

I afterwards saw specimens of fishes that had been taken from its waters, which were offered for sale in San Juan by the half-starved peons during the winter season, when provisions were very dear. If the specimens did not belong to the genus Nematogenys of Girard, they were closely allied to it.

At night our party stopped beside a rude hut, inhabited by a poor gaucho. The hut contained a curious family of men, women, children, dogs, goats, and fowls. The poor owner begged for a little sugar as a remedio.

Throughout the following day our course was over the same dreary desert, and at night we were glad to arrive at a post-house within a few leagues of San Juan.

By noon of the next day our party entered the town, which is still more isolated than Mendoza, being one hundred and fifty miles north of the principal road to Chili.