The next place of importance is San Luis, capital of the province of that name, at a still higher elevation. The dead level aspect has now changed to gentle undulations. The long gray shadows on the horizon are the peaks of the Andes, at a distance of one hundred and fifty miles. In this city there has recently been located an observatory by the Carnegie Institution of Washington. The purpose of this observatory is to observe the motion of all stars of the seventh magnitude in the southern heavens, and several American scientists are in charge of the work. A few miles beyond San Luis is an artesian well two thousand feet deep, which was sunk by the government and yields an immense supply of water. The pampa grass now stands in clumps and bare spots become more frequent. The railroad changes its direction time and again instead of taking a bee-line for some distant point. The stony character of the soil increases, but at last a land of vines and tall poplars is entered, and it is not long until the train rolls into the station at Mendoza.
“Hotel Grande.”
This was the instruction I gave to my cab driver at the station in Mendoza after my baggage had been deposited in the vehicle by a portero.
“No hay,” he answered, meaning that there was no such hotel.
I then told him to take me to the best hotel in the city. When we arrived at the hotel selected by him I saw an imposing building on the opposite side of the plaza with “Hotel Grande” upon it in large letters, and instructed my Jehu to drive me over to it. The secret of the matter is that the other hotel paid the driver a peso for each guest. There is only one good thing to be said about the cabs in Mendoza, and that is, the fares are cheap—if you know the established rates. A few years ago a tramway company laid tracks and began operations. Enraged at this intrusion upon their rights the cab owners began a war of fares. They lowered their charges to the level of the rates of the tram line, and announced that they would carry passengers to their very doors for the same price as the street car line would deposit them at the nearest corner, which might be blocks away. The deserted and abandoned rails which one may see in a few places proclaim the glorious victory of the cab owners. Although the fares have advanced somewhat since the abandonment of the street railroad they are still remarkably low.
A GLIMPSE OF THE ANDES FROM MENDOZA
Mendoza is one of the most picturesque cities in Argentina. It is an oasis in the midst of a stony desert. There is hardly a drier climate in the world, and, where the rainfall alone is depended upon, nothing will grow. Lying at the very foot of the lofty Andes range, it is the westernmost city of the republic. The streets are quite wide and the buildings are almost without exception of one story. The reason for this is the earthquake. The greatest disaster of that kind happened in 1861, and the inhabitants have been haunted ever since by fear of a return of such a holocaust. The tremors which occasionally occur are a constant reminder of the dangers; and the ruins of the great cathedral, whose walls crashed down upon the crowd of supplicants who had gathered within for protection, still stand as a warning. Reports vary greatly concerning that disaster. The most generally credited figures are that of a population of twenty thousand no less than twelve thousand met with death. It is difficult to believe, in the face of similar modern disasters, that any such proportion of fatalities occurred either from the earthquake, the fires that followed or the lawlessness which prevailed in the confusion of the next few days. It is said that many fell victims to the assassin’s knife when they were trying to escape with their few earthly belongings. The new houses have all been built of mud bricks with an extra amount of straw or cane mixed in, and the one-storied walls are made very thick. The result is an elasticity that is considerable of a safeguard against the earth’s tremblings.
The old ruined town lies about a mile from the new town and is a mass of ruins, scarcely a single house remaining intact. There is something sadly depressing about these heaps of fallen stones, broken arches and sightless windows—relics of the old Spanish-Moorish architecture. The old city covered about two hundred acres and contained seven churches and three convents. The first shocks levelled almost every building to the ground. They are a place of frequent pilgrimage and one may still find burning candles in nooks and corners, placed there by devout relatives of those who were hurled unshriven into the beyond. Surely purgatory cannot long retain the souls of those who were overtaken by death while at worship, even though they were unprepared to leave this world.