And so it was now. At one time we could see, in a curiously arranged clump of trees and vines, the ruins of a Rhenish castle, at another the shattered towers and merloned walls of an enchanted palace. Now it was a rustic chapel by the wayside, and a moment later, as we peered into the darkness of the inner wold, and noted the huge dark tree trunks, it was the massive pillars of a Hindoo shrine. Here it was a Druid trysting-place, there a mermaid’s grot and there again a dryad’s bower or the home of a fairy queen. That Titania was not far distant was evidenced by the swarms of fairies—matter-of-fact scientific men would doubtless call them Pyropheri—fireflies—that, like a thousand stars, flitted through the bloom and the foliage, illuming with their soft radiance the favorite haunt of fairyland.
How we enjoyed the mystery of these vast solitudes! How exquisite the ever-changing chiaroscuro; the wondrous play of light and shade; the warmth, depth and softness of the noble pictures that, at every turn, ravished our delighted gaze! How it all elevated the soul and enjoined recollection of spirit! The impression was in an eminent degree like that experienced beneath the sombre arches of a Gothic cathedral. And why not? Were we not beneath the starry vault of heaven, in the depth of the dark, majestic tropical forest, in the most inspiring temple of the Most High?
When in Orocué, we were told that, on a bright, clear day, the Andes were visible from that place. But owing to the clouds and the mists and the forests that had constantly obstructed our view, we had not yet gotten even a glimpse of this world-famed chain of mountains. Of course, we had seen one of its spurs in the coast range of Venezuela. But this range was not the Cordillera of our boyhood dreams. We longed to see that massive chain that extends in unbroken continuity from Panama to Patagonia. And day by day, as we moved westward, our wistful eyes were ever peering through broken forest or over grass-covered glade, to catch the first view of La Cordillera de los Andes.
While silently sitting on the prow of our launch admiring the countless, ever-changing beauties of that marvelous moonlight night—our last on the Meta,—giving free rein to our fancy, and shifting our course as the meandering river demanded, behold! Suddenly like a vision, the Andes stood before us in all their majesty and glory, looming up to the very heavens. So instant was the apparition that, for a while, we were quite speechless from admiration and awe. “The Andes!” one of us ejaculated, and we were then completely under their magic spell. So agreeable was our surprise and so great our emotion that for a time it was impossible to find words to express our feelings of delight and wonder. We realized, as probably never before, what a feeble instrument language is for conveying one’s innermost thoughts, and how inadequate to express what deeply stirs the soul.
Our adjectives and exclamations were little more than the Indian’s grunt, and less devotional than the Moslem’s phrase, “Allah is great!” Coming from the cold and tame nature of the North to that of the glorious and marvelous equator, we were like Plato’s men, bred in cavern twilight, and then suddenly exposed to the bright effulgence of the noonday sun. We saw things wonderful and unspeakable, but all our superlatives were inarticulate and feeble, matched with the scene before us.
“But what are those lights on the mountain summit, a little to the left?” inquired C., finally breaking the long-sustained silence. On the very crest of the Cordilleras and extending for a considerable distance, was a large number of brilliant lights, like so many electric arcs. It was as if the long rows of arc lamps that illumine the Bay of Naples, as one sees them from an incoming steamer, were raised skyward far above the cone of Vesuvius; or as if the resplendent “White Way” of New York were lifted into cloudland.
At first we thought it was a forest fire, but it was so different from the unsteady, yellowish-red flame of burning trees and vegetation. We had seen such fires along the Orinoco and Meta—as well as elsewhere—and were quite familiar with their appearance. It could not be due to volcanic action, for there were no volcanoes in that direction, unless of extremely recent origin. Besides, the lights before us were quite different from the fitful reflections that molten lava produces from swirling masses of vapor. Might they not actually be the electric lights of Bogotá or of some other city of the Sierras? No, for Bogotá was on the west slope of the mountain range, and there was no town of any size on the eastern declivity. Still less could the lights be due to reflection from the sun, for it had set hours before.
What then was this “midnight gloom still blossoming into fire”? Our curiosity was excited to a high degree, but the apparition seemed to defy all attempts at explanation. We thought of the gleaming light seen by Robert Bruce from the turrets of Brodick Castle, in the isle of Arran, before his landing in Carrick.
We recalled a similar phenomenon, observed by Humboldt on the Cerro del Cuchivano in Venezuela, in which he thought the luminous display observed might be due to the burning of hydrogen and other inflammable gases.[23]
The Indians who live among or near the mountains, relate many wonderful stories about strange lights that are occasionally seen on or in the vicinity of the loftier peaks. “It is a curious thing,” writes Im Thurn, regarding a phenomenon of this kind, seen in the mountains of British Guiana, “that, as I have seen, there actually is an appearance, as of fire, to be seen sometimes up in these mountains, nor was I ever able to form any theory as to its cause.”[24]