“Rotten lemons, iron filings, and saltpetre, by all that is abominable! Ah, faith! there must have been poison in the cup.”
“Wash it out and try again,” said Uncle Richard; “although, I tell you, I believe the cup is perfectly clean.”
The dominie made a second attempt, with the same result.
“You find it taste somewhat like vinegar?” asked Uncle Richard.
“Indeed I do,” answered Mr Laffan. “Is it always like this?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard; “it comes in its present state out of the mountain, and you were not far from the truth in your description, as when analysed it is found to be acidulated, nitrous, and ferruginous. So completely does it retain these qualities, that in the Cauca, several leagues below where it falls into that river, not a fish is to be found, as the finny tribe appear to have as great a dislike to it as yourself.”
The dominie, to satisfy himself, carried away half a bottle, for the purpose of analysing it on his return home.
Proceeding up the valley, we visited, in succession, three waterfalls, one of which came down over a perpendicular cliff, with a descent of a couple of hundred feet. We then bent our steps homewards, stopping by the way to dine and rest our animals at a farm belonging to Uncle Richard, and which it was one of the objects of our excursion to visit. The building was entirely of wood, with wide projecting eaves, supported by posts united by a railing, which gave it a very picturesque appearance. Around the house was an enclosure for the poultry, of which there was a great profusion. Indeed, it would have been difficult for a hen-wife to know her hens. Outside this was another enclosure for cattle and horses. In a smaller paddock were several llamas, which are not indigenous to this part of the country. They had been brought from Upper Peru, where they are used as beasts of burden, and were here occasionally so employed. It was a pretty rural scene.
“It’s lovely, it’s lovely! In truth, it reminds me of Old Ireland, barring the palm-trees, and the cacti, and the chirramoyas, and the Indian corn, and those llama beasts,” exclaimed Mr Laffan. Then looking at the Indian women who were tending the poultry, he added, “And those olive damsels. Ah, young gentlemen, you should see my own fair countrywomen, and you would acknowledge that through the world you couldn’t meet any beings so lovely under the blue vault of heaven—whatever there may be above it in the form of angels; and they are as modest as they are good.”
Mr Laffan continued to expatiate on the perfections of green Erin’s Isle, its mountains, lakes, and rivers, a theme in which he delighted, until his eyes glistened, and his voice choked with emotion, as he thought of the country he might never again see.