CROSSING THE HILLS.
in the light of an undertaking. The scenery is grand. Majestic and rugged mountain tops covered with dazzling white snow lie round on all sides, and as the train winds round the slopes, over valleys and ravines, an endless succession of strange rocky forms are passed. Just before coming to Las Cuevas the train stops at a little station, where there is a small hotel patronised by mountaineers and excursionists who desire to spend a day or two among the rugged peaks. It is nearly nine thousand feet above sea-level, and quite near to the railway track—a curious compact mass of stones and gravel forms a natural bridge over a small river. This bridge gives its name to the station—Punta del Inca. Many passages in the journey are awe-inspiring, and as the route follows that taken by San Martin on his famous march into Chili a good idea can be formed of the difficult nature of his undertaking. Great brown hills, destitute of vegetation, rocky and sandy, predominate. Immense boulders, which threaten to fall at any moment, hang menacingly over the track, which is protected in many places by stout iron sheds. Fallen boulders and rocks brought down by storms and the melting snows lie scattered in wild disorder over the valleys. The scenes are full of a melancholy which even the bright sunlight reflected from the snowy peaks cannot dispel. The distant peak of Aconcagua rising to the enormous height of nearly twenty-three thousand feet, comes into view from time to time as the train winds around its tortuous course. At the highest points reached by the line many of the passengers suffer from the “mountain sickness,” but only a few resolve to brave the “Straits” in future rather than repeat the Andean journey. At Soldado, the frontier station, the customs examine the baggage, and at Los Andes carriages are changed, and the journey down to Santiago and Valparaiso, through richly wooded slopes, is accomplished in about four hours. The traffic between Chili and Argentina is steadily increasing, and the establishment of the Trans-Andean Railway has done much to bring about a more intimate friendship between the two nations.
A GLIMPSE OF ACONCAGUA.
The history of the Argentine nation has followed similar lines to those of its sister republics. The conquest by the Spaniards was followed by a long colonial period, which came to an end when the people, after a desperate struggle, won their independence. Since then it has had its wars with neighbouring States, and, like all the rest of the republics, innumerable internecine quarrels. But of late years more peaceful counsels have prevailed, and the settlement of the boundary dispute with Chili, through the more sensible medium of arbitration, is a good augury for the future. Out of the war for independence a great and commanding personality emerges. General San Martin might almost be called the Brutus of South America—the noblest of them all. The Argentines recognise this, and have expressed their admiration and gratitude by erecting a statue to him in the public square of every town in the country, an act which though admirable is apt to bore the traveller. Brave, patriotic, able in warfare, and unselfish are the qualities which can be ascribed in all fairness to San Martin. In many respects he may be overshadowed by Bolivar, but he had none of the latter’s weakness, none of his faults or crimes. His sole aim was to drive the oppressor out of his native land, and he not only succeeded in doing this, but also materially assisted in breaking the power of Spain in Chili and Peru. When his great task was accomplished he retired quietly from the scene of conflict, disdaining to compete for power with self-seeking, unscrupulous politicians. His was a mind utterly incapable of intrigue, so he was content to leave the wily Bolivar to his desperate devices and his colossal dreams of empire.
TRAVELLERS BY A RIVER-SIDE.
CHAPTER XVI
The Camp
TO a European the farms of South America offer such contrasts to those he is familiar with in his own country that he finds it difficult to become accustomed to the immense areas of treeless plains that constitute the estancias of the New World. Everything is on a large scale there. A vast territory, now gently rolling like a heaving sea, now flat as an unruffled lake, with few objects to break the eternal straightness of the distant horizon. The atmosphere and the many illusions it creates offer the greatest variety, however, and as day succeeds day with ceaseless regularity ever changing effects of light and colour diversify the aspect of the landscape. The roads through these unbounded plains are wide-extended tracks, fenced in from the private pastures of the estancias, going generally straight for scores of miles. Driving along these tracks behind four horses in a light covered trap the stranger’s ear is open to receive the softest sound, and eyes to note the slightest variations presented. The silence is broken by the fluttering flight of parrots, pigeons, and small brown owls disturbed from their solemn doze by the approaching team, moving on from perch to perch, always settling ahead to be disturbed again. The lowing of the cattle, the swift stampede of groups of wild horses, and the vast hum of insects break faintly upon the ear. Along the track and in the adjacent fields the whitening bones of animals stare out from the rich verdure that has not quite enwrapped them. These pathetic reminders of the fate that overtakes many of the herd are very plentiful, for whenever an animal dies in the camp, the skin only is removed by the gaucho or cowboy, who comes across it in his daily round, and the carcase is left for the hawks and other carrion-eaters, who lose no time in stripping it of flesh, time and the elements slowly completing the dissolution, and eventually removing the last vestiges of the animal’s existence.