The surface of the Gran Chaco is throughout of a champaign character. It may be described as a vast plain. It is not, however, a continuation of the Pampas, since the two are separated by a more broken tract of country, in which lie the sierras of Cordova and San Luis, with the Argentine settlements already mentioned. Besides, the two great plains differ essentially in their character, even to a greater extent than do the Pampas themselves from the desert steppes of Patagonia. Only a few of the animal and vegetable productions of the Gran Chaco are identical with those of the Pampas, and its Indian inhabitants are altogether unlike the sanguinary savages of the more southern plain. The Chaco, approaching many degrees nearer to the equator, is more tropical in its character; in fact, the northern portion of it is truly so, lying as it does within the torrid zone, and presenting the aspect of a tropical vegetation. Every inch of the Chaco is within the palm region; but in its northern half these beautiful trees abound in numberless species, yet unknown to the botanist, and forming the characteristic features of the landscape. Some grow in forests of many miles in extent, others only in “clumps,” with open, grass-covered plains between, while still other species mingle their graceful fronds with the leaves and branches of dicotyledonous trees, or clasped in the embrace of luxuriant llianas and parasitical climbers form groves of the most variegated verdure and fantastic outlines. With such groves the whole surface of the Chaco country is enamelled; the intervals between being occupied by plains of rich waving grass, now and then tracts of morass covered with tall and elegant reeds, a few arid spots bristling with singular forms of algarobia and cactus, and, in some places, isolated rocky mounds, of dome or conical shape, rising above the general level of the plains, as if intended to be used as watch-towers for their guardianship and safety.
Such are the landscapes which the Grand Chaco presents to the eye—far different from the bald and uniform monotony exhibited in the aspect of either Prairie or Pampa; far grander and lovelier than either—in point of scenic loveliness, perhaps, unequalled on earth. No wonder, then, that the Indian of South America esteems it as an earthly Elysium; no wonder that the Spaniard dreams of it as such,—though to the Spanish priest and the Spanish soldier it has ever proved more of a Purgatory than a Paradise. Both have entered upon its borders, but neither has been able to dwell within its domain; and the attempts at its conquest, by sword and cross, have been alike unsuccessful,—equally and fatally repulsed, throughout a period of more than three hundred years. At this hour, as at the time of the Peruvian conquest,—as on the day when the ships of Mendoza sailed up the waters of the Parana,—the Gran Chaco is an unconquered country, owned by its aboriginal inhabitants, and by them alone. It is true that it is claimed, both by Spaniard and Portuguese; and by no less than four separate claimants belonging to these two nationalities. Brazil and Bolivia, Paraguay and the Argentine Confederation, all assert their title to a slice of this earthly paradise; and even quarrel as to how their boundary lines should intersect it!
There is something extremely ludicrous in these claims,—since neither one nor other of the four powers can show the slightest basis for them. Not one of them can pretend to the claim of conquest; and far less can they rest their rights upon the basis of occupation or possession. So far from possessing the land, not one of them dare set foot over its borders; and they are only too well pleased if its present occupants are contented to remain within them. The claim, therefore, of both Spaniard and Portuguese, has no higher title, than that some three hundred and fifty years ago it was given them by the Pope,—a title not less ludicrous than their kissing the Pope’s toe to obtain it!
In the midst of these four conflicting claimants, there appears a fifth, and that is the real owner,—the “red Indian” himself. His claim has “three points of the law” in his favour,—possession,—and perhaps the fourth, too,—the power to keep possession. At all events, he has held it for three hundred years against all odds and all comers; and who knows that he may not hold it for three hundred years more?—only, it is to be hoped, for a different use, and under the influence of a more progressive civilisation.
The Indian, then, is the undoubted lord of the “Gran Chaco.” Let us drop in upon him, and see what sort of an Indian he is, and how he manages this majestic domain.
After having feasted our eyes upon the rich scenery of the land,—upon the verdant plains, mottled with copses of “quebracho” and clumps of the Caranday palm,—upon landscapes that resemble the most lordly parks, we look around for the mansions and the owners. The mansion is not there, but the owner stands before us.
We are at once struck by his appearance: his person tall, and straight as a reed, his frame muscular, his limbs round and well-proportioned, piercing coal-black eyes, well-formed features, and slightly aquiline nose,—and perhaps we are a little surprised at the light colour of his skin. In this we note a decided peculiarity which distinguishes him from most other tribes of his race. It is not a red Indian we behold, nor yet a copper-coloured savage; but a man whose complexion is scarce darker than that of the mulatto, and not at all deeper in hue than many a Spaniard of Andalusian descent, who boasts possession of the purest “sangre azul;” not one shade darker than thousands of Portuguese dwelling upon the other side of the Brazilian frontier.
And remember, that it is the true skin of the Chaco Indian we have before our view,—and not a painted one,—for here, almost for the first time, do we encounter the native complexion of the aboriginal, undisfigured by those horrid pigments which in these pages have so often glared before the eyes of our readers.
Of paint, the Chaco Indian scarce knows the use; or, at all events, employs it sparingly, and only at intervals, on very particular and ceremonial occasions. We are spared, therefore, the describing his escutcheon, and a positive relief it is.
It would be an interesting inquiry to trace out the cause of his thus abstaining from a custom almost universal among his race. Why does he abjure the paint?