In the southern part of the continent are the treeless plains of the Pampas, extending from about 20 degrees south latitude for a distance of fully two thousand miles into Patagonia, and averaging in width five hundred miles. Stretching, as do these plains, across a large portion of the South Temperate Zone, they present great varieties of climate. The northern portion is watered by the River La Plata and its tributaries. To the south of Buenos Ayres the rivers are fewer and of less extent. The north-western Pampas consist of slightly undulating and dry plains, though interspersed with vast tracts on which lofty thistles rear their heads—useful, however, as fuel to the inhabitants. Further on, to the west, is a wide-extending pastoral district; and yet beyond, reaching to the foot of the Cordilleras, the soil is well-suited for agriculture. The pastoral region is almost a dead level, with large shallow salt-lakes,—one of them measuring fifty miles in length by twenty in width. Scarcely a tree is to be found throughout this region, and but few permanent water-courses. To the north extends a salt desert for upwards of one hundred miles, with a width of two hundred miles. It is crossed by the River Salado, which, rising in the Cordilleras, falls into the Plata, to the south of which rises a number of step-like terraces, sterile during the heats of summer, but covered with verdure after the rains of spring. Huge boulders, brown grass growing in tufts, and low spine-covered bushes, diversify the surface. In this inhospitable region transitions from heat to cold are very great. Now the traveller is panting under the intense heat of the sun's rays; and anon an icy blast rushes across the plain, compelling him to draw close around his body his thick poncho, for protection against its chilling influences.

Further to the south are found large swamps and lagoons, one of them having an area of one thousand square miles, its surface covered with aquatic plants. In the rainy season, the rivers, overflowing their banks, inundate the plains—leaving behind, however, a thick deposit of fertilising soil, from which, as elsewhere, rich crops are capable of being produced. Further on, to the south, the Pampas, over which the yet savage and untamed Patagonians roam, and hunt the huanacu and ostrich, is generally higher and drier.

The South American continent, it will thus be seen, consists of several distinctly different descriptions of country:—the long line of the Cordilleras, with their snow-capped peaks and their lofty punas or high table-lands, and the narrow strip of arid soil at their western base; the three separate mountain-systems of Venezuela, Guiana, and the Brazils; the mighty forests bordering the great rivers and their tributaries, to which must be added the wooded heights of the inter-tropical regions, where tall trees, including several palms, flourish at an elevation of many thousand feet above the level of the ocean; and lastly, the wide-extending regions of the Llanos and the Pampas. These, as might be supposed, present great varieties of animal life—though scarcely so great as might have been expected, when it is remembered that they extend from 10 degrees north to 50 degrees south latitude. Several species indeed are found far to the north of the equator, and also near the southern end of the continent. But to give an idea of these different regions, they must be described in detail.



PART THREE, CHAPTER THREE.

VALLEY OF THE AMAZON.

Standing on the eastern spur of the Andes, between 3 degrees and 4 degrees south of the equator, the eye of the traveller may see in imagination a vast valley, clothed with a dense forest, stretching towards the far-distant Atlantic. Behind him, on the west, tower the lofty peaks of the Cordilleras; on his left, in a northerly direction, appear the mountains and highlands of Venezuela and Guiana; while to the south rise the serras and table-lands of the Brazils. It is the Valley of the Amazon, in which more than half of Europe might be contained. Down the centre flows a mighty stream, the tributaries of which alone contain a bulk of water greater than all the European rivers put together.

Upwards of five hundred miles away to the south of the spot where the traveller stands, is the little lake of Lauricocha, near the silver-mines of Cerro de Pasco in Peru, just below the limit of perpetual snow—14,000 feet above the level of the sea. This lake has the honour of giving birth to the mighty stream: its waters forming the River Tunguragua, which, roaring and foaming in a series of cataracts and rapids through rocky valleys, flows northerly till it reaches the frontier of Ecuador. It then turns suddenly to the east, which direction it maintains, with a slightly northerly inclination, for two thousand miles—its volume greatly increased by numerous large streams, each of which is by itself a mighty river—till, attaining a width which may vie with that of the Baltic, it rushes with such fierce force into the Atlantic as to turn aside on either hand the salt-waters of the ocean. Thus the seaman approaching the shore of South America, when still out of sight of land, may lower his bucket and draw up the fresh-water which, it may be, has issued forth weeks before from the sides of the Andes. The whole length of the river, following its main curves, is but little under three thousand miles, while the tributaries from north to south stretch over seventeen hundred miles.

The basin of the Amazon may be considered like a shallow trough lying parallel to the equator, the southern sides having double the inclination of the northern, the whole gently sloping eastward. The channel of the river lies rather to the north of the basin, some hills rising directly above its waters; while the falls of several rivers to the south are two hundred miles above their mouths. Two thousand miles from its mouth the depth of the river is never less than eighteen feet, while many of its tributaries at their embouchures are of equal depth; and at the junction of the great rivers the hollows of its bed attain a depth of twenty-four fathoms. At Tabalingua, two thousand miles from its mouth, it is a mile and a half broad; and lower down, at the entrance of one of its tributaries—the Madeira—it measures three miles across. Still further to the east its sea-like reaches extend to the north for ten miles, with still wider lake-like expanses, so that the eye of the voyager can scarcely reach the forest-covered banks on the opposite side; while if the River Para is properly considered one of its branches, its measurement from shore to shore, across a countless number of islands, is one hundred and eighty miles—equal to the breadth of the widest part of the Baltic.

After receiving the waters of numerous streams, many of which flow for considerable distances parallel with its shores, and are united by a network of channels, it is joined by its most considerable northern tributary—the Rio Negro. This stream, rising in the mountains of Venezuela, and passing amidst the Llanos, robbing the Orinoco of part of its waters, has already, before it reaches the Amazon, flowed for a course of one thousand five hundred miles. It is called the Negro from its black colour. It is here not less than nineteen fathoms deep, and three thousand six hundred paces broad. The next great affluent is the Yapura, which, rising in the mountains of New Granada, takes a south-easterly course for one thousand miles, its principal mouth entering the Amazon opposite the town of Ega; but it has numberless small channels, the streams of which, two hundred miles apart, flow into the great river. The upper part of the Amazon is frequently called the Solimoens, which name it retains as far south as the mouth of the River Negro.

About sixty miles further east, its largest southern affluent—the gigantic Madeira—unites its milky waters with the turbid stream of the main river. One branch, the Beni, rises in the neighbourhood of the ancient Cuzco in Peru, near Lake Titicaca, its whole extent from the centre of the province of Bolivia being nearly the length of the Amazon itself. At its mouth it is two miles wide and sixty-six feet deep; and five hundred miles up it is a mile wide. Numerous islands are found in its course: for nearly five hundred miles it is navigable for large vessels, when a cataract intervenes. Were it not for this, there would be a free navigation from the centre of the province of Bolivia to the ocean, embracing islands the size of many of the Old World provinces, and widening into broad lakes. The monarch of waters flows on between its low forest-clothed banks till, four hundred miles from its mouth, it reaches the Strait of Obydos, where it is narrowed to two thousand paces. Through this channel its waters rush with immense force, calculated at five hundred thousand cubic feet in one second—sufficient to fill all the streams in Europe, and swell them to overflowing. No plummet has hitherto sounded the depth of its bed at this point, the force of the stream probably rendering the operation almost impracticable.

Its last two great tributaries are the Tapajos, six times the length of the Thames, and the Xingu, twice that of the Rhine; while further east a narrow channel unites it with the River Para, into which flows the broad stream of the Tocantins. This river, rising in the Minas-Geraes, six hundred miles from Rio Janeiro, is one thousand six hundred miles long, and ten miles wide at its mouth. Opposite to Para is the large island of Marajo; and if Professor Agassiz is right in supposing that the continent once extended much further to the east than it now does, this island may properly be considered in the centre of the mouth of the river, and the River Para might then properly be called one of its true embouchures. But only a few of the streams which feed the Amazon have been named. Numberless other rivers swell its waters, united to it by countless channels which form a wonderful network throughout the whole region, joining also many of the main rivers together, with the intricate navigation of which the natives alone are acquainted.

These curious water-paths, or igarapes, as they are called, are often so narrow that the branches of the lofty trees meet overhead, enabling the traveller in his canoe to proceed for miles together sheltered from the noonday sun. Here and there a glimpse of the sky can be discovered through the umbrageous foliage overhead, while birds of gay plumage flit to and fro, or sit perched on the branches uttering their strange and varied cries. In the intervals, or sometimes forming the termination of the water-path, numerous pools of various sizes exist—some a few yards across, others expanding into lakes—filled mostly by the overflowing of the main river during the rainy season. They are the habitations of a great variety of fishes. Here several species of turtles and alligators swarm in vast numbers; electric eels, too, abound in them, as well as many of the other curious water-creatures of that region. Water-fowl and various other aquatic birds dwell on their banks, while on the surface of their placid waters float the wide-spreading leaves and magnificent blossoms of the Victoria Regia, as also of other lilies and water-plants.

SCENES ON THE AMAZON.

The chief feature of the Lower Amazon is the vast expanse of smooth water, of a pale yellowish-olive colour, bearing on its bosom detached masses of aquatic grass floating down like islands, sometimes mixed with huge trees, their branches and roots interlocked, and often carrying among them wild animals, which, unconscious of their character, have there taken refuge from their foes, or have ventured thither in search of prey. The timid stag and fierce jaguar are sometimes thus entrapped and carried out to sea. At even and morn flocks of parrots and large and yellow macaws, fly backwards and forwards, uttering their wild and hoarse cries; herons and rails frequent the marshes on its banks; while all night long the cries of gulls and terns are heard over the sandy banks where they deposit their eggs, while they may be seen during the day sitting in rows on floating logs gliding down the stream, motionless and silent, as if contemplating the scenery. There are divers and darters, too, in abundance. Now and then a huge manatee comes gliding by, its cow-like head rising to breathe the upper air; while dolphins, porpoise-like, rear their backs above the surface, or leap half out of the water as they swim up the stream. On the low banks, huge alligators with open jaws are basking in the sun, or leisurely swimming across the river.

THE RAINY SEASON.

This magnificent region enjoys a perpetual summer, its various fruits coming to maturity, according to their character, at different periods throughout the year. It has, however, its wet and dry seasons. The rain occurs at one time in the Upper Amazon, and at another in the Lower,—greatly swelling the volume of water in the main stream, which, unable to find its way towards the ocean, rushes through the countless channels and igarapes, overflowing the lower portions of a vast district called the Gapo. The waters begin to rise in February, and progress inch by inch until the middle of June, gradually swelling the rivers and lakes, when, these becoming filled, the lower lands and sand-banks are overflowed even far-away in the interior. The forests are traversed by numerous gullies, which in the dry season are wide dells, but now become transformed into broad creeks, through which canoes can proceed to great distances under the shade of the lofty trees.

At this period of the year the inland pools are frequented by swarms of turtle, as well as alligators, and shoals of fish which leave the main river; while the flocks of wading birds migrate northerly, thus greatly dispersing the food on which the natives depend for their existence. The fishermen who have been employed during the dry months in catching turtle and fish on the sand-banks return to their villages, though some employ themselves in collecting the Brazil-nut and wild cacao, which are now ripe.

About the first week in June, the flood has risen sometimes to the height of forty feet above the usual level of the river, when it now begins to subside. The rains, however, do not fall continuously, though very heavy at times. Several days of beautiful sunny weather generally intervene. The fine season begins with a few days of brilliant weather—the rays of the sun breaking forth among the passing clouds. Towards the middle of July the sand-banks again appear, flocks of gulls and other water birds fly by, and the gaily-plumaged inhabitants of the forest come forth into full activity and life.

STORMS.

The navigation of the Amazon is not free from danger. Fierce storms arise; black clouds gather over the blue expanse, suffused anon with a lurid yellow tinge, and the fierce whirlwind howls along the river-banks, tearing the placid stream into masses of foam; the tall trees bend before the blast, and huge branches are wrenched off and hurled into the water. The long-legged waders and other water birds, unable to face it, throw themselves on the ground, and cling with claws and beak to the sand to escape being carried helplessly away.

THE POROROCCA.

Sometimes, too, the destroying pororocca—a vast wave rising across the whole width of the stream, to the height of twelve or fifteen feet— sweeps up the stream. Advancing noiselessly over the deeper portions of the river-bed, it rises into an angry billow, with a fearful roar when passing over a shallow, or meeting any impediment in its course. A French traveller describes an island where he and his companions had rested on their voyage down the stream. They had happily gone over to the mainland on the previous evening, when, as they stood on the shore, the pororocca was heard approaching. Onward it came till the island was reached, when, with an angry roar, it burst into masses of foam, and swept over the devoted spot, carrying in its fierce embrace not only the whole mass of vegetation, but overturning the foundations of the island itself, so that in a few seconds not a vestige remained. Sometimes, too, the higher banks of the Upper Amazon, crowned by lofty trees, are worn away by the rapid current, increased during the rainy season, continually passing beneath them, till the upper portions, deprived of their support, fall over with a terrific roar into the stream, dragging with them their neighbours. The earth trembles with the concussion, the waters hiss and foam and rush furiously over the impediments in their course. Sometimes miles of the bank thus give way, the sound being heard far up and down the stream. Occasionally a canoe and its crew— who, to avoid the current, have been toiling close along the bank—have been thus overwhelmed; while others, descending, unaware of the obstruction, have been dragged by the furious whirlpool thus formed amid the tangled branches, and destroyed.



PART THREE, CHAPTER FOUR.

CHARACTER OF VEGETATION ON THE BANKS.

A dense vegetation, though somewhat varied in character, rises like a lofty wall of verdure along the banks of the mighty stream, from the base of the Andes to its mouth in the Atlantic. There, where the influence of the sea-breeze is felt, the ever-present mangrove of the tropics forms a thick belt round the shores of its numberless islands. Higher up, various palms of many graceful forms appear, interspersed with numberless other trees, some bearing huge pods a yard long, others vast nuts and other curious fruits,—the banks below fringed either with giant grasses and broad-leaved bananas, or here and there with the large wide heart-shaped leaves of the aninga growing on the summit of tall stems, or in other places with the murici of a lower growth close to the water's edge. Among the most remarkable is the white-stemmed cecropia, the lofty massaranduba, or cow-tree, often rising to the height of one hundred and fifty feet; the seringa, or india-rubber tree, with its smooth grey bark, tall erect trunk, and thick glossy leaves. The assai-palm, with its slender stem, its graceful head and delicate green plumes, is at first more numerous than any other. Now appears the miriti, or mauritia—one of the most beautiful of its tribe, with pendent clusters of glossy fruit, and enormous spreading fan-like leaves cut into ribbons; the jupati, with plume-like leaves forty feet and upwards in length, graceful in the extreme, starting almost from the ground. Here is seen also the bussu, with stiff entire leaves, also of great length, growing upright from a short stem, close together, and serrated along their edges. Higher up still, while the palms become less numerous, other trees take their places. Among them appears conspicuous the majestic sumaumera, its flat dome rounded, but not conical, towering high above the forest. The branches of this tree are greatly ramified and knotty, and the bark is white. Conspicuous, too, is the taxi, with brown buds and white flowers; while the margin of the water is thickly fringed by a belt of arrow-grass, or frexes—so called by the Portuguese—six feet in height. Its name is given in consequence of being used by the Indians in making arrows for their blowpipes.

Amid this wonderful mass of forest vegetation grows an intricate tracery of lianas and climbing sipos, some running round and round the trees, and holding them in a close embrace; others hanging from branch to branch in rich festoons, covered with starlike flowers, or dropping in long lines to the ground,—often to take root and shoot upwards again round a neighbouring stem, or drooping like the loose cordage of a ship swinging in the breeze. Often they form so dense and impenetrable a thicket from the ground upwards that a way must be cleared with an axe to proceed even a short distance from the banks towards the inner recesses of the forest.

THE GAPO.

On the Gapo, or submerged lands, however, a considerable difference in the vegetation appears. The palms are here often more numerous than in other parts. This is the region where the cacao-tree and prickly sarsaparilla grow. Here the underwood is less dense, the sipos retiring to weave their tracery among the upper branches alone. Though during the dry season the vegetation springs up with wonderful rapidity, it is swept away by the next overflow.

Here the lovely orchis tribe adorn the gloomy shades with their brilliant flowers. Among the most beautiful is the oncidium, of a yellow hue, often seen—apparently suspended in air between the stems of two trees—shining in the gloom, as if its petals were of gold. In reality it grows at the end of a wire-like stalk a yard and a half long, springing from a cluster of thick leaves on the bark of a tree; others have white and spotted blossoms, growing sometimes on rotten logs floating on the water, or on moss and decayed bark just above it. Still more magnificent is the Flor de Santa Ana, of a brilliant purple colour, emitting a most delicious odour.

Peculiar and strange is this region of the Gapo. When the waters are at their height it can be traversed in all directions. The trees which grow on it, and the animals which here have their abodes, appear to differ from those of other districts.

Let us accompany the naturalist Wallace, in his canoe, through a district of this description; now forcing our way under branches and among dense bushes, till we get into a part where the trees are loftier and a deep gloom prevails. Here the lowest branches of the trees are level with the surface of the water, many of them putting forth flowers. As we proceed we sometimes come to a grove of small palms, the leaves being now only a few feet above us. Among them is the maraja, bearing bunches of agreeable fruit, which, as we pass, the Indians cut off with their long knives. Sometimes the rustling of leaves overhead tells us that monkeys are near, and we soon see them peeping down from among the thick foliage, and then bounding rapidly away. Presently we come out into the sunshine, on a lake filled with lilies and beautiful water-plants, little bladder-worts, and the bright blue flowers and curious leaves with swollen stalks of the pontederias. Again we are in the gloom of the forest, among the lofty cylindrical trunks rising like columns out of the deep water; and now there is a splash of fruit falling around us, announcing that birds are feeding overhead, and we discover a flock of parrakeets, or bright blue chatterers, or the lovely pompadour, with its delicate white wings and claret-coloured plumage. Now, with a whir, a trogon on the wing seizes the fruit, or some clumsy toucan makes the branches shake as he alights above our heads.

This region, as might be supposed, is not destitute of inhabitants. Several tribes of Indians dwell within it all the year round. Among them are the Purupurus and Muras tribes, who, spending most of their time in their canoes, in the dry season build small huts on its sandy shores; and when the waters overflow it, form rafts, which they secure between the trees, sleeping in rude huts suspended from the stems over the deep water, and lighting their fires on masses of mud placed on their floating homes. They subsist entirely on fish, turtle, and manatee.

Several species of trogons are peculiar to this submerged region. The curious black umbrella-bird is entirely confined to it, as is also the little bristle-tailed manakin. Several monkeys visit it during the wet season, for the sake of its peculiar fruits; and here the scarlet-faced urikari has its home.

For miles and miles together the native traverses this region in his canoe, passing through small streams, lakes, and swamps, scraping the tree trunks, and stooping to pass between the leaves of the prickly palms, now level with the water—though raised on stems forty feet high—while everywhere round him stretches out an illimitable waste of waters, but all covered with the lofty virgin forest. In this trackless maze, by slight indications of broken twigs or scraped bark, he finds his way with unerring certainty.

"This curious region," says Wallace, "extends from a little above Santarem to the confines of Peru, a distance of about 1700 miles; and varies in width on each side of the river from one to ten or twenty miles."

TRIP UP AN IGARAPE INTO THE INTERIOR.

Let us leave the mighty stream, and wander amidst the picturesque windings of an igarape, into the depths of the forest, with Professor Agassiz. Passing into its narrow entrance, the lofty trees arching overhead shelter the voyager in his light canoe from the glaring heat of the noonday sun. The air is cool and refreshing. Not a ripple stirs the water, save that caused by the paddles of the Indian crew. Clumps of the light and exquisitely graceful assai-palm shoot up everywhere on either side from the denser forest. Here and there the drooping bamboo dips its feathery branches into the water, covered sometimes to their very tips with the purple of convolvuli; yellow bignonias carry their golden clusters to the very summits of some of the more lofty trees; while white-flowering myrtles and orange-coloured mallows border the stream. Life abounds in this quiet retreat. Birds and butterflies are numerous on the margin of the water. Crabs of every variety of colour and size sit on the trunks of decaying logs, watching for their prey,— to make their escape, however, with nimble feet, when pursued.

Or let us start before daylight, on a calm morning, along the banks of a larger tributary, to proceed towards the heights of the Sierra Erere. As dawn begins to redden the sky, large flocks of ducks and of a small Amazonian goose may be seen flying towards the lake. Here and there we see a cormorant, seated alone on the branch of a dead tree; or a kingfisher poises himself over the water, watching for his prey. Numerous gulls are gathered in large companies on the trees along the river-shore. Alligators lie on its surface, diving with a sudden splash at the approach of the canoe. Occasionally a porpoise emerges from the water, showing himself for a moment, and then disappearing. Sometimes a herd of capybaras, resting on the water's edge, are startled at our approach.

There sits, on the branch of an imbauba, rolled-up in its peculiar attitude, a sloth, the very picture of indolence, with its head sunk between its arms. The banks, covered in many places with the beautiful capim-grass, afford excellent pasturage for cattle.

Now we turn into an inner stream, or igarape, often having to make our way with difficulty amid islands of capim-grass. Now we pass through a magnificent forest of the beautiful fan-palm—the miriti—overshadowing many smaller trees and innumerable shrubs, bearing light conspicuous flowers. Among them are numerous Leguminosae—one of the most striking, the fava, having a colossal pod.

The whole mass of vegetation is interwoven with innumerable creepers, amid which the flowers of the bignonia, with their open trumpet-shaped corollas, are conspicuous. The capim is bright with the blossoms of the mallow growing in its midst, in some places edged with the broad-leaved aninga—a large aquatic arum. Through these forests, where animal life is no less rich and varied than the vegetation, our canoe glides silently for hours.

The sedgy grasses on either side are full of water birds. One of the most common is a small chestnut-brown wading bird—the jacana—whose toes are immensely long in proportion to its size, enabling it to run over the surface of the aquatic vegetation as if it were solid ground. It is their breeding season—January. At every turn of the boat we start them up—usually in pairs. Their flat, open nests generally contain five flesh-coloured eggs, streaked in zig-zag with dark brown lines. Among the other waders are a snow-white heron, another ash-coloured, and a large white stork. The ash-coloured herons are always in pairs—the white always singly, standing quiet and alone on the edge of the water, or half hidden in the green capim. The trees and bushes are full of small warbler-like birds. The most numerous and interesting is one which builds a very extraordinary nest, considering the size of the bird. It is known among the country people by the name of pedreiro, or the forneiro—both names referring to the nature of its habitation. This singular nest is built of clay, and is as hard as stone—pedra; while it is the shape of the mandioca oven—forno—in which the country people prepare their farina. It is about a foot in diameter, and stands edgewise upon the branch or crotch of a tree. Among the smaller birds are bright tanagers, and a species resembling the canary. Humming-birds are scarce, though here and there a few appear; while countless numbers of parrots and parrakeets fly overhead in dense crowds, at times drowning every other sound with their noisy clatter.

Birds of prey are not wanting. Among them is the red hawk, about the size of a kite—and so tame, that even when a canoe passes under the branch on which he is sitting, he does not fly away.

Among the most striking are the gallinaceous birds. The commonest is the cigana, to be seen in groups of fifteen or twenty perched on trees overhanging the water, and feeding upon berries. At night they roost in pairs; but in the daytime are always in larger companies. In appearance they have something of the character of both the pheasant and peacock, and yet do not closely resemble either. With the exception of some small partridge-like gallinaceous birds, the representatives of this family in Brazil belong to types which do not exist in any other parts of the world. Here the curassow, the jacu, the jacami, and the unicorn resemble as much the bustard and other ostrich-like birds as the hen and pheasant.

The most numerous insects to be met with are dragonflies; some with crimson bodies, black heads, and burnished wings; others with large, green bodies, crossed by blue bands.

THE CAMPOS.

Although the forests cover generally the whole length and breadth of the Amazonian Valley, there are here and there, on the higher ground, open dry plains with scanty vegetation,—the ground in the water-courses or gullies, formed of clay, being baked by the heat of the sun into slate-like masses. One of these spots we now reach. The most prominent plants of this sandy or clayey region are clusters of cacti and curua palms—a kind of stemless, low palm, with broad leaves springing, vase-like, from the ground. Here also grow wild pineapples; and in broad sunlight numerous humming-birds delight to sport and feed upon the blossoms of the various plants which find no room to bloom in the darker shades of the forest.

GEOLOGY OF THE AMAZONIAN VALLEY.

Professor Agassiz remarks that no formation—known to geologists— resembling that of the Amazon exists on the face of the earth. Its extent is stupendous. It stretches from the Atlantic shore through the whole width of Brazil into Peru, to the very foot of the Andes—one vast extent of red sandstone, capped by a yellow-ochred clay; not only along the banks of the main river, but forming the sides of those of its tributaries, to their far-off sources, probably over the whole basin of the Paraguay and the Rio de la Plata. How are these vast deposits formed? is the question. The easiest answer, he observes, and the one which most readily suggests itself, is that of a submersion of the continent at successive periods—to allow the accumulation of these materials—and its subsequent elevation. This explanation is rejected, for the simple reason that the deposits show no signs whatever of a marine origin. No sea-shells, or remains of any marine animal, have as yet been found throughout their whole extent—over a region several thousands of miles in length, and from five to seven hundred miles in width. It is evident, he considers, that this basin was a fresh-water basin, these deposits fresh-water deposits. It is true that calcareous layers thickly studded with shells have been found interspersed with the clay; but though supposed to be marine fossils, he recognised them for what they really are—fresh-water shells of the family of the Naiades. As their resemblance is very remarkable, the mistake as to their true zoological character is natural: indeed, many travellers have confounded some fresh-water fishes from the Upper Amazon of the genus of Pterophyllum with the marine genus Platax. He considers that the immense glacier which probably existed at the same time that ice, thousands of feet thick, covered the centre of Europe, must have been formed in this valley, and then, ploughing its bottom over and over again, and grinding all the materials beneath it into a fine powder, must ultimately have forced its way through the colossal sea-wall which it had built up eastward into the Atlantic.

A DAY AND NIGHT ON THE AMAZON, WITH THEIR SIGHTS AND SOUNDS.

Day is beginning to dawn, the birds are astir, the cicada have begun their music; flocks of parrots and macaws, and other winged inhabitants of the forest, pass by in numbers, seeking their morning repast; beautiful long-tailed and gilded moths like butterflies fly over the tree-tops. Rapid is the change from the dark night. The sky in the east assumes suddenly the loveliest azure colour, across which streaks of thin white clouds are painted. The varied forms of the numberless trees, imperceptible during the gloom of night, now appear, the smaller foliage contrasting with the large glossy leaves of the taller trees, or the feathery, fan-shaped fronds of palms. For a time the fresh breeze blows, but flags under the increasing power of the sun, and finally dies away, the heat and electric tension of the atmosphere becoming almost insupportable.

The heat increases as the day draws on. Languor and uneasiness seize on every one;—even the denizens of the forest betray it by their motions. By this time every voice of bird or mammal is hushed. Only in the trees is heard at intervals the whir of the cicada. The leaves, so soft and fresh in the early morn, now become lax and drooping. The flowers shut their petals. The natives, returning to their huts, fall asleep in their hammocks, or, seated on mats in the shade appear too languid even to talk. White clouds now appear in the east, and gather into cumuli, with an increasing blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horizon becomes rapidly black, the dark hue spreading upwards. Even the sun is at length obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind is heard through the forest swaying the tree-tops. A vivid flash of lightning bursts forth, then a crash of thunder, and down streams the deluging rain. The storm soon ceases, leaving the bluish-black motionless clouds in the sky till night. Meantime all nature is refreshed, but heaps of flower petals and leaves are seen under the trees.

Towards evening life revives again. The noises of the forest animals begin just as the sun sinks behind the trees, leaving the sky above of the intensest shade of blue. The briefest possible twilight commences, and the sounds of multifarious life come from every quarter. Troops of howling monkeys, from their lofty habitations among the topmost branches—some near, some at a distance—fill the echoing forest with their dismal noise; flocks of parrots and blue macaws pass overhead, the different kinds of cawing and screaming of the various species making a terrible discord. Added to them are the calls of strange cicada—one large kind perched high on the trees setting up a most piercing chirp. It begins with the usual harsh jarring tone of its tribe, rapidly becoming shriller, until it ends in a long and loud note resembling the steam whistle of a locomotive engine. A few of these wonderful performers make a considerable item in the evening concert. The uproar of beasts, birds, and insects lasts but a short time; the sky quickly loses its intense hue, and the night sets in. Then begin the tree-frogs—Quack, quack! Drum, drum! Hoo, hoo! These, accompanied by melancholy night-jars, keep up their monotonous cries till late at night.

The night, however, is not given over to darkness. In every forest path, across the calm waters of the igarapes, along open spaces, in the village as well as in spots remote from man's abode, the whole air is full of bright and glittering lights of varied hue; now darting here, now there, like meteors flashing through the sky—now for a moment obscured, to burst forth again with greater brilliancy. Beautiful as is the English glow-worm, the fire-flies and fire-beetles, the elaters of the tropics, far surpass them in brilliancy. Their light is redder and more candle-like, and being alternately emitted and concealed, each of the tiny vermilion flames performing its part in the aerial mazy dance, the spectacle is singularly beautiful. In the marshy districts is seen the large elater, which displays both red and green lights; the red glare, like that of a lamp, alternately flashing on the beholder, then concealed as the insect turns his body in flight, but the ruddy reflection on the grass beneath being constantly visible as it leisurely pursues its course. Now and then a green light is displayed, and then the mingling of the two complementary colours, red and green, in the evolutions of flight, surpasses description. Even the brilliant elaters, however, will scarcely enable the traveller to find his way amid the darkness through the forest.

Wallace describes a midnight walk he was compelled to take. He was barefooted, every moment stepping on some projecting root or stone, or treading sideways on something which almost dislocated his ankles. Dull clouds could just be distinguished in the openings amid high-arched, overhanging trees, but the pathway was invisible. Jaguars, he knew, abounded, deadly serpents were plentiful, and at every step he almost expected to feel a cold gliding body under his feet, or deadly fangs in his leg. Gazing through the darkness, he dreaded momentarily to encounter the glaring eyes of the jaguar, or to hear his low growl in the thicket. To turn back or stop were alike useless. Unpleasant recollections of the fangs of a huge dried snake's head he had just before examined, would come across his memory; and many a tale of the fierceness and cunning of the jaguar would not be forgotten. Suddenly he found his feet in water, and then he had to grope for a narrow bridge it was necessary to cross. Of its height above the water, or the depth of the stream, he was utterly ignorant. To walk along a plank four inches wide, under such circumstances, was a nervous matter. He proceeded, however, placing one foot before the other, and balancing steadily his body, till he again felt himself on firm ground. Once or twice he lost his balance, but happily he was only a foot or two from the ground and water below—though, had it been twenty it would have been all the same. Half-a-dozen such brooks and bridges had to be passed, till at length, emerging from the pitchy shade upon an open space, he saw two twinkling lights, which told him that the village was ahead.

But we were describing a tropical day. Night is over. The sun rising again in the cloudless sky, the cycle is completed—spring, summer, and autumn, as it were, in one tropical day. The days are more or less like this throughout the year. A little difference exists, between the dry and wet seasons. The periodical phenomena of plants and animals do not take place at about the same time in all the species, or in the individuals of any given species, as they do in temperate countries. The dry season here is not excessive, nor is there any estivation, as in some tropical countries. In these forests the aspect is the same or nearly so every day in the year—budding, flowering, fruiting, and leaf-shedding, are always going on in one species or other. The activity of birds and insects proceeds without interruption, each species having its own breeding-times. The colonies of wasps, for instance, do not die off annually, leaving only the queens, as in cold climates, but the succession of generations and colonies goes on incessantly. It is never either spring, summer, or autumn, but each day is a combination of the three. With the day and night always of equal length, the atmospheric disturbances of each day neutralise themselves before each succeeding morning. With the sun in its course proceeding midway across the sky, and the daily temperature the same within two or three degrees throughout the year, how grand in its perfect equilibrium and simplicity is the march of nature under the equator!

"Oppressive, almost fearful, is the silence and gloom of the Brazilian forest," says Bates. "The few sounds of birds are of that pensive or mysterious character which intensifies the feeling of solitude, rather than imparts a sense of life and cheerfulness. Sometimes, in the midst of the stillness, a sudden yell or scream will startle one. This comes from some defenceless fruit-eating animal, which is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or stealthy boa-constrictor. Morning and evening howling monkeys make a most fearful and harrowing noise, under which it is difficult to keep up one's buoyancy of spirit. The feeling of inhospitable wildness which the forest is calculated to inspire, is increased tenfold under this fearful uproar. Often, even in the still hours of mid-day, there is a sudden crash, resounding afar through the wilderness, as some great bough or entire tree falls to the ground. Sometimes a sound is heard like the clang of an iron bar against a hard hollow tree, or a piercing cry rends the air. These are not repeated, and the succeeding silence tends to heighten the unpleasant impression which they make on the mind. The natives believe it is the curupira— the wild man of the forest—who produces all the noises they are unable to explain. He is a mysterious being,—sometimes described as a kind of orang-outang, covered with long shaggy hair, and living in trees; at others, he is said to have cloven feet and a bright red face. He has a wife and children, who, as well as himself, come down to the plantations to steal the mandioca."

Such is a faint outline of some of the more prominent features of the great Amazonian Valley—the most interesting portion of the southern half of the New World. No verbal descriptions can do justice to the reality—although drawn, as some of the above are, by master hands. We will next range along the mighty Cordilleras to the ancient kingdom of the Incas, looking down on the Pacific shores; and then, again descending from the mountain heights, take a brief glance at the debased human beings who people the valley, and pass in review the more interesting of the countless wild creatures which inhabit its forests and waters. Afterwards we will traverse Venezuela, Guiana, the rest of the Brazils, and the wide-spreading level regions to the south of that vast country, the river-bound province of Paraguay, the territories of the Argentine Republic, the wild district of the Gran Chaco, the far-famed Pampas, and the plains of Patagonia.



PART THREE, CHAPTER FIVE.

THE CORDILLERAS.

The voyager sailing from the Atlantic into the Pacific Ocean passes a dark granite headland rising nearly three thousand feet out of the water, and which may be distinctly seen at a distance of sixty miles. It is Cape Horn—the southern end, broken off by the Strait of Magellan, of that range of mighty mountains which runs in a northerly course along the western coast of South America, rising into lofty pinnacles—the summits of many covered with perpetual snow—sinking at length only at the northern extremity, where the narrow Isthmus of Panama unites the two continents. Again it gradually rises in Mexico, and runs on under the name of the Rocky Mountains, at a less elevation and a greater distance from the sea, till it sinks once more into the snow-covered plains of the Arctic region. We must, however, confine ourselves to the South American portion of the range. For the entire distance its summits are distinctly seen from the ocean, many at a distance of upwards of a hundred miles. Between their base and the shores of the Pacific there is, however, a level tract, in some parts consisting of arid plains, from fifteen to fifty miles in width. In crossing them the traveller finds not a drop of water to quench his raging thirst, nor a blade of grass to feed his weary steed. Among the rocky caverns of those mountain heights the savage bear has its abode, the mighty condor takes its flight from their rugged peaks into the blue ether, and the cold-looking llama, the vicuna, and alpaca find ample pasturage. In the lower, the fierce jaguar ranges amidst its forests of graceful palm-trees, the terrible alligator dwells on the banks of its streams, and the anaconda watches for its prey; while bananas, yams, mandioc, and all the fruits of a tropical clime, attain perfection. This mighty range, however, does not run its length in one distinct line, but separates; in some parts with deep valleys between them, like that of the Puncu of Avisca, while at others there are vast table-lands; again, however, to unite and spread out into numerous rugged sierras.

The western portion of these ranges is properly the Cordilleras; while the eastern, which slopes towards the wide-extending plains of Brazil, forms the true Andes. The southern portion skirts the bleak shores of Patagonia in a single sierra, for a distance of nearly one thousand miles, in some parts rising to the height of seven thousand feet above the ocean. Entering Chili, the mountains rise higher and higher, till they culminate in the mighty peak of Aconcagua, the most lofty height of the whole range.

At the boundary-line of Bolivia the chain separates into two portions, enclosing the great table-land of Desuguadero, thirteen thousand feet above the sea. At one end of this lofty region is the city of Potosi, rising above the clouds—the highest in the world, erected amid the groans and tears of the hapless natives compelled to labour at its far-famed silver-mines. At the other is found Cuzco, the ancient capital of the Incas. Between them lies the Lake of Titicaca, the centre of bygone Peruvian civilisation.

Running still parallel with the coast, and looking down upon the modern city of Lima, the range passes through Peru till it again divides in three portions at the confines of the equator, where it once more forms two lines, which rise in that magnificent congregation of mountains which surround the famous Valley of Quito. Here no less than twenty-one volcanoes rear their lofty summits, many of them crowned with perpetual snow, amid which Chimborazo and Cotopaxi are pre-eminent.

To the north of the equator, the Cordilleras again form one vast ridge, and passing through New Granada, spread out like the branches of a palm through Venezuela and along the northern shores of the continent washed by the Caribbean Sea.

The whole of this vast range, from Cape Horn to Panama, gives evidence of the hidden fires which glow beneath its base, and by which it was originally created. Fifty-one volcanoes are found along the line. Of the twenty which surround the Valley of Quito, three are active, five dormant, and twelve are supposed to be extinct. By far the larger number rise out of the eastern range; indeed, the western contains only one active volcano, but out of it tower the peerless Chimborazo, and Pichincha with its deep crater. The whole region is subject to terrific earthquakes, which have from time to time shaken down its cities, caused huge waves to flow over the level land, and destroyed countless thousands of its inhabitants. Chimborazo was long supposed to be the most lofty mountain on the globe. It is 21,420 feet high; but Aconcagua in Chili rises to the height of 23,200 feet. Several of the summits of the Himalayan range in Asia are over 25,000 feet; and Kilima Njaro, the most lofty peak in Africa, is about the same altitude as Chimborazo. Chimborazo, for solitary grandeur—and from the excessive steepness of its sides, which has prevented the foot of man from reaching its summit—stands, however, unrivalled.

From the lofty heights over which we have thus rapidly passed, numberless streams take their rise, rushing and foaming down their steep sides to feed those mighty rivers which, flowing across the continent, seek an outlet in the far-distant Atlantic. On the western side, comparatively few and insignificant rivers cross the narrow plains into the Pacific. Thus the inhabitants of the tropical portions have to depend on artificial irrigation for the cultivation of the land.

What mighty force must have been required to raise those mountains to their present elevation,—and how fearful must be the fires which still rage beneath their bases! Gigantic, however, as they seem to human eyes, the most lofty could be represented on a globe six feet in diameter by a grain of sand, less than one-twentieth of an inch in thickness. How insignificant then must the proudest works of man appear—what a mere speck himself—to One who looks down from on high on this earth of ours!

On examining their sides in various parts, proof is afforded that these vast mountains have been heaved upwards from beneath the ocean. Shells are found 1300 feet above the sea, covered with marine mud. On a beach elevated 2500 feet above the Pacific, numerous species of patella and other shells can be picked up, identical with those obtained on the coast with the living animal inhabiting them. At Huanuco, in Peru, there is a coal-bed existing at the height of 14,700 feet. Shells have also been found at the height of 13,000 feet; and on the side of Chimborazo there is a salt spring 13,000 feet above the ocean.

The surface of the great lake of Titicaca—the largest piece of fresh-water in South America—is 12,795 feet above the Pacific; an elevation greater than that of the highest peaks of the Pyrenees. In the neighbourhood of this lake, remains exist which speak of the advanced state of civilisation of the inhabitants before the appearance of the Incas, with whose latter history alone we are acquainted. So completely is the lake surrounded by mountains, that, though fed by numerous streams, not the smallest rivulet escapes to find its way either into the Pacific or Atlantic. One large river, however, the Desaguadero, flows out of its south-west corner, and disappears in the swampy Lake Aullagas in the south of Bolivia. Its superabundant water must, therefore, be taken off by evaporation, excessive in that elevated region. High above it, amid chilling mists and biting storms of driving snow, are found the silver-mines of Potosi and Pasco.

However, before we wander further amid the giddy precipices and snow-capped summits of this mighty range of mountains, we will descend for a time to the lower world, and glance round its southern extremity and along its western shores, bathed by the waters of the wide-stretching Pacific.



PART THREE, CHAPTER SIX.

SOUTHERN AND WESTERN SHORES OF THE CONTINENT.

Tierra Del Fuego appears as if a mountain region had been partly submerged in the ocean, so that deep inlets and bays occupy the place where valleys would have existed had its base still been above the sea. The greater portion of the mountainsides are covered, from the water's edge upwards to the elevation of 1500 feet, by one wide-extending forest of evergreen beeches. Scarcely a level spot is to be found throughout the whole country; and so dense is the wood, and encumbered by the trunks of fallen trees and waterfalls, that it is scarcely possible to penetrate it. Here and there on the western side, and in the Strait of Magellan, the forest disappears, and magnificent glaciers extend down to the very water's edge. The mountains on the north side rise to the height of 4000 feet, with one peak above 6000 feet high, covered with a mantle of perpetual snow; while numerous cascades pour their waters through the woods into the narrow channel below. It is scarcely possible to imagine anything more beautiful than the beryl-like blue of these glaciers, especially contrasted with the dead white of the upper expanse of snow.

The inhabitants of this region are among the lowest in the scale of human beings, living in wretched hovels, composed often merely of boughs and leaves, their only clothing scanty pieces of skin, worn on one side, to defend themselves from the icy winds.

These evergreen forests, consisting of only two or three species of trees, with several Alpine plants growing on the heights above them, continue round the coast for six hundred miles or more northward of Cape Horn, till, in the more northern and warmer latitudes, they give place to semi-tropical vegetation. Now stately trees of various kinds appear, with smooth and highly-coloured bark, loaded with parasitical plants; while large and elegant ferns, and numerous and arborescent grasses, entwine the trees into one entangled mass. Palm-trees appear in latitude 37 degrees; and an arborescent grass, very like the bamboo, three degrees further north.

In many places the ocean washes the base of the Andes, or huge spurs project from the mountains; and in others a narrow belt alone is left between them and the water. The whole of Chili, indeed, consists of a narrow strip of land between the Cordilleras and the Pacific; while this strip is often traversed by several mountain lines, which in some parts run parallel to the great range. Extending to the south, between these outer lines and the main Cordilleras, we find a succession of level basins, generally blending into each other by narrow passages.

In the neighbourhood of Valparaiso, above which Aconcagua (23,000 feet in height) looks down on the Pampas on one side and the blue Pacific on the other, is the beautiful valley of Guillota, thoroughly irrigated and brought under cultivation. It has, during the whole summer, the hot sun striking down from a cloudless sky. It is only in these parts where the nature of the streams affords means of irrigation that vegetation can exist.

Further north, the western shore is in many parts very arid; and about latitude 20 degrees south the burning desert commences, extending 540 leagues—almost to the Gulf of Guayaquil—and varying in width from three to twenty leagues. Over this region of death, heaps of stone or mounds of sand are alone seen, except where, at wide intervals, some mountain stream, fed by the melting snows of the lofty peaks, finds its way into the ocean. It is only in the neighbourhood of these rivers that man can venture to take up his abode. On the banks of most of them have been built the few cities which exist near the sea in Peru. For some miles the traveller finds not a drop of water, no trace of vegetation. His weary horse sinks, overcome with the pangs of thirst and the fatigue of dragging its limbs through the soft sand. Through this region the mule can alone be trusted, as, like the camel of the Eastern desert, it will longer endure fatigue and want of water. Here, as in the deserts of Africa, violent winds stir up the sand, forming vast columns, as terrible in their effects as the flames of the prairie. Rising to a hundred feet in height, they are seen approaching, whirling through the air, till the unhappy traveller finds himself surrounded by an overwhelming mass, and, unable to breathe, sinks exhausted on the ground. Flight alone can save him. Many have here perished. On several occasions, troops attempting to cross the desert have been overwhelmed. Others have lost their way when traversing the sandy plains, and have wandered about, in vain seeking for water to quench their burning thirst. On one side is the salt ocean, on the other the rocky precipices of the mountains. Wandering on for hours and hours, at length, exhausted, they have abandoned themselves to despair. These sand-storms occur more especially during the heats of summer, so completely altering the appearance of the country, by covering it with large hillocks, that the most experienced guides find it at times impossible to discover their way; and perhaps, when searching for it, another storm arises, and once more spreads the mounds over the level plain.

In some places the whole soil is covered with a thick crust of salt, white and hard, giving the country the appearance of being covered with snow. For months and months together, in many parts not a drop of rain falls. At length a shower descends, and, as if by magic, the grass springs up in spots where not a blade was before visible; and for a short time the whole country puts on a green mantle, soon, however, to be withered up by the burning heat.

Northward of this desert region, the land on the shores of the Gulf of Guayaquil and its neighbourhood is covered with the richest vegetation, supported by the numerous streams which descend from the Andes of Quito and Columbia.



PART THREE, CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE INDIANS OF THE CORDILLERAS.

Leaving the burning sand-coast, we will ascend once more the steep sides of the Cordilleras to those fertile tracts found at an elevation of many thousand feet above the ocean; but, before describing the brute creation and the vegetable products of this interesting region, we should properly take a glance at the human beings inhabiting it.

When, in 1524, the Spaniards first reached the western coast of South America, of which they were soon to become the conquerors, they found a people greatly advanced in civilisation. They consisted of two distinct races; the one, known as the Incas, showing a decided superiority in intellectual power over the other. Whence they came is unknown; but a tradition existed, that two persons—husband and wife—had appeared some four hundred years before that period in the neighbourhood of Lake Titicaca, announcing themselves as the Children of the Sun. The husband, Manco Capac, taught the men the arts of agriculture; and his wife, Mama Oello (mama, meaning mother), initiating her own sex in the mysteries of weaving and spinning. The wise policy which regulated the conduct of the first Incas (kings, or lords), was followed by their successors, and under their mild sceptre a community gradually extended itself along the surface of the broad table-land, which asserted its superiority over the surrounding tribes.

Fine cities sprang up in different parts of their kingdom, connected by well-formed roads, suited to the nature of the country. Their capital was Cuzco, at some distance to the north of the lake, in latitude 14 degrees south; while the city next in importance to it was Quito, in a rich valley, beneath the equator. These cities were connected by two roads; one passing over the grand plateau, and the other along lowlands at the borders of the ocean. The first was conducted over mountain-ridges, frequently buried in snow; galleries were cut through the living rock; rivers crossed by suspension-bridges; precipices scaled by stairways; and deep ravines were filled up with solid masonry.

This road was upwards of fifteen hundred miles long; and stone pillars, to serve the purpose of mile-stones, were erected at intervals of about a league along the route. Its breadth was about twenty feet. In some places it was covered with heavy flagstones; and in others, with a bituminous cement, which time has rendered harder than the stone itself. Where the ravines had been filled with solid masonry, the mountain torrents have eaten a way beneath it, leaving the superincumbent mass still spanning the valley like an arch. The suspension-bridges—instead of which wretchedly inferior ones of wood are now used—were composed of the tough fibres of the maguey; a species of osier, possessing an extraordinary degree of tenacity and strength. The fibres were woven into cables of the thickness of a man's body, which were then stretched across the water, and conducted through rings or holes cut in immense buttresses of stone raised on the opposite banks of the river, and there secured to heavy pieces of timber. Several of these enormous cables bound together, side by side, formed a bridge—which, covered with planks well secured, and defended on each side by a railing of the same material, afforded a safe passage for the traveller. The length of this aerial bridge, sometimes exceeding 200 feet, caused it—confined as it was only at the extremities—to dip, with an alarming inclination towards the centre; while the motion given it by the passenger created an oscillation frightful to one whose eye glanced down into the dark abyss of waters, that foamed and tumbled many a fathom beneath.

Over these roads a system of communication throughout the country was kept up by running postmen, called chasquis. Along the roads small buildings were erected, within five miles of each other, at which a number of chasquis were stationed. They were trained to the employment, and selected for their speed and fidelity. As the distance each had to perform was small, he ran over the ground with great swiftness, and messages were carried along all the routes at the rate of a hundred and fifty miles a day. The chasquis not only carried despatches, but brought fish from the distant ocean, and fruits, game, and other commodities, from the warm regions on the coast.

It is not our province to describe the gorgeous temples, palaces, and convents, in which the Virgins of the Sun resided, and the numerous other public buildings, extensive remains of which still exist scattered throughout the region. The glory of the Incas has departed. But few of their descendants remain, and their blood has generally mingled with that of their conquerors.

THE NATIVE INDIANS.

The tribes over whom they ruled are still to be found, though in diminished numbers, and debased by the cruel system of oppression under which they long groaned. The native inhabitants of the central region of the Andes are known as the Quichuas, and their chief characteristics are common to the greater number of the tribes along the whole extent of the range. Though the languages of the different tribes vary, they are probably derived from the same source. The head of the Quichua is an oblong longitudinal, somewhat compressed at the sides. He has a low and very slightly arched forehead; a prominent, long, aquiline nose, with large nostrils. The mouth is large, and the teeth very fine, while the lips are not thick; the chin is short, but not receding; cheek-bones not prominent, eyes horizontal and never large, eyebrows long, the hair jet-black—and, though thick, straight and coarse, yet soft. He has little or no beard. In stature they seldom reach five feet. The chest is long, broad, deep, and highly arched. The hands and feet are small. The colour is between olive, brown, and bronze,—somewhat like that of the mulatto. Though their chests are broad, and their shoulders square, their arms are weak—their chief strength existing in their backs and legs. Mild, generous, and submissive, they have existed when a fiercer race would have been exterminated; but, on several occasions, they have shown that they can be goaded into revolt. About the year 1770, under Tupac Amaru, they broke into rebellion, when, had they possessed better arms and more discipline, they might, with the courage they exhibited, have driven the Spaniards from the country. The rebellion was put down with the atrocious cruelties to which the Spaniards have invariably subjected this unhappy race.

On the eastern slopes of the Andes are found savage tribes, wearing few or no clothes, painting their skins, and ornamenting themselves with the coloured feathers of birds. Towards the southern end of Chili, the fierce Araucanians inhabit the mountains. Beyond them are the large-limbed Patagonians, clothed in skins; and at the extreme end, the wretched Fuegans, living in nearly a state of nature, on seals and fish.

The race supposed to have been the most civilised before the time of the Incas were the Aymaras, whose descendants still inhabit the shores of Lake Titicaca. Their language differs from the Quichua, though evidently a sister-tongue.

This expanse of water, already mentioned, is about eighty miles long and forty broad. Numerous rivers flow into it; in some places it is very deep, but in others so shallow that there is only just room to force the balsas through the rushes. It abounds in fish of peculiar form, and in aquatic birds. Several islands rise above its surface. That of Titicaca, from which it takes its name, is most celebrated.

During one of the several occasions when the Indians rose against their taskmasters to free themselves from the mita—a system which compelled one-seventh part of the male population to labour in the mines—the lake, for a long time, afforded them a place of refuge. In some places along the shores, beds of rushes exist nine leagues long and one broad. In the midst of them there is an island, to which lanes were cut through the tangled mass. This watery labyrinth was navigated by the Indians in their balsas; and, secure in their retreat, they contrived to make inroads on the Spanish towns in the neighbourhood for a length of time. (These balsas are composed of reeds, tightly fastened together on the sides, in the form of boats, and are propelled both by sails and paddles.) Several of the Indian chiefs were at length captured and executed. This, however, only exasperated the rebels, who, under an enterprising leader, attacked the bridge over the Desaguadero, and carried off the heads of their chiefs, which had been stuck on poles above it. The Spanish troops sent against them waded to some islets, but the Indians, hovering round them in their balsas, prevented them from advancing further. At length the Spaniards embarked in twenty balsas, and came in sight of the native squadron. The Indians, however, going in and out among the lanes and rushes, baffled their oppressors, cutting off several Spanish balsas. A party of cavalry also, advancing into the swampy ground, was suddenly surrounded and cut to pieces, with a loss to the Indians of only three men.

These outbreaks, and the far more important rebellion under Tupac Amaru, show that Spanish tyranny had not entirely succeeded in crushing the spirit of the Indians. During the civil wars which for so long devastated the Spanish provinces of South America, the Indians fought with a courage fully equal to that of the whites.

THE PUNA.

An elevated region called by the Quichuas the Puna, or "the uninhabited," must be described. A scanty vegetation covers these vast plains. Man can with difficulty breathe on them, or produce the means of existence. Barley, though cultivated, seldom ripens; the chief plant which grows to maturity being the maca, which has tuberous roots, and is used like the potato. In consequence of the diminished pressure of the air, water begins to boil at so low a temperature that neither meat, potatoes, nor eggs, can be sufficiently cooked. From the same cause, those unaccustomed to the rarefied air are afflicted with an attack called the vela—consisting of headache, nausea, and producing even spitting of blood, and other disorders of the mucous membrane. Horses suffer in the same way; and cats are so affected that they die in violent convulsions. There is another complaint, called the chanu, affecting the skin of the hands and face, as well as the eyelids; when, the skin breaking, blood flows from every opening. The surumpe, by which travellers are affected—the inflammation of the eyes caused by the reflection from the snow—is still more painful. Often the agony which even an Indian suffers from it is so great, that he has been known to sit down and utter cries of anguish; while, occasionally, total blindness has been the ultimate consequence.

But it is time that we should turn to the brute creation existing in these regions, noticing the interesting specimens of the vegetable kingdom as we proceed in our survey. As the camel is the characteristic animal of the sandy deserts of Arabia and Africa, the royal tiger of the jungles of Bengal, and the kangaroo of the wide-extending plains of Australia, so the llama brings to our recollection the lofty plateaus of the Andes, and the mighty condor its still higher peaks.



PART THREE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE WILD ANIMALS OF THE CORDILLERAS.

THE LLAMA.

It is on the above-mentioned bleak table-land that the llama, with its kindred—the alpaca, vicuna, and huanucu—are found. The historian of the conquest calls them the sheep of Peru, but the llama is more allied in its characteristics to the camel of the desert. In outward form, except that it has no hump on its back; in the structure and cellular apparatus of the stomach, which enable it to abstain for a long time from water; in the expression of its large full eye; in the mobility and division of the upper lip; in its fissured nostrils; in the nature of its teeth; and in its long woolly clothing and slender neck,—the llama has a strong resemblance to the camel of the deserts of Arabia. While the camel's feet, however, are formed for passing over the burning sands or level ground, and are therefore broad and cushioned, those of the llama, to enable it to climb the rugged crags of the Cordilleras, are slender, elastic, and claw-tipped. The llama has indeed been rightly called the camel of the mountains, and was employed by the ancient Peruvians—as it is at present—as a beast of burden. The load laid upon its back rests securely upon a bed of wool, without the aid of girth or saddle. It cannot carry more than from eighty to one hundred pounds. If overladen it will lie down, and nothing will induce it to rise till it has been relieved of its burden.

The llamas move in troops of five hundred or even one thousand, and thus, though each individual carries but a little, the aggregate is considerable. The whole caravan travels at a regular pace—passing the night in the open air without suffering from the cold—marching in perfect order, and in obedience to the conductor. Thus they proceed over rugged passes from twelve to fifteen miles a day. They were especially employed in bearing the produce of the mines of Potosi to the coast, often in places where the hoof of the mule could find no support. It was estimated, after the conquest, that 300,000 were thus employed. As they never feed after sunset, it is necessary, when journeying, to allow them to graze for several hours during the day. They utter a peculiar low sound, which at a distance resembles, when the herd is large, the tone of numerous Aeolian harps. On seeing any strange object which excites their fears, they immediately scatter in every direction, and are with difficulty reunited. The Indians treat them kindly, ornamenting their ears with ribbons, and hanging little bells about their necks. When any of them, over-fatigued, fall to the ground, their conductors endeavour by every gentle means to induce them to proceed. In spite, however, of the kind treatment they receive, numbers, from the heat of the coast region, which they cannot stand, annually perish.

When offended, the llama shows its anger by turning its head at its driver, and discharging a saliva with a bad odour in his face. It is about the size of the stag. It carries its long neck upright, constantly moving its long ears. The animals vary in colour. Some are of a light brown, the under part being whitish; others dappled; but they are seldom found quite white or black. In consequence of the introduction of the mule and horse into the country, which have superseded them in many places as beasts of burden, their price seldom exceeds three or four dollars. The flesh of the llama is eaten; and as many as 4,000,000 were, in days gone by, annually killed for food.

THE ALPACA.

The alpaca is smaller than the llama, and somewhat resembles the sheep. It has a long, soft, fine fleece of a silky lustre. In the domestic breeds the wool falls in large flakes reaching down to the knees. This wool was employed by the ancient Peruvians for weaving a kind of cloth. It approximates in character to silk, and a large quantity is now exported to Europe for the manufacture of shawls and other delicate fabrics. Immense herds of the llama or alpaca were held by the Peruvian government, and placed under the protection of herdsmen, who conducted them from one quarter of the country to another, according to the season. They were exclusively the property of the Incas; as were the vicunas, which roam in native freedom over the frozen ranges of the Cordilleras.

THE HUANUCU.

The huanucu is considerably larger than the llama, which it so much resembles, that it was formerly considered to be the same animal in a wild state. The body is brown, with the under parts white; the face is of a blackish-grey, approaching to white about the lips. The fleece is shorter and not so fine as that of the llama. The huanucus are very shy, and only when caught young can they be tamed—and even then they can rarely be induced to carry burdens. They generally live in small troops of from five to seven. Not unfrequently they may be seen scaling the snow-covered peaks to a height which no other living thing save the condor can reach. They find sustenance in the ychu, a species of grass which grows all along the great ridge of the Cordilleras, from the equator to the southern limits of Patagonia.

THE VICUNA.

The vicunas are very beautiful and graceful creatures, with the habits of antelopes. They have long, slender necks, and rich fawn-coloured coats, with patches of white across the shoulders and inside the legs. The wool is shorter and more curly than that of the three other species, and, from its extreme fineness, is of much greater value.

During the dry season, when the grass of the plains has withered, they descend to the swampy ground below. One male is followed by a dozen or more females, over whom he watches with the most faithful care. Should he apprehend danger, he utters a loud, shrill cry of alarm, and rapidly advances. The herd then collecting, moves forward slowly; but immediately they discover the approach of an enemy they wheel round and fly—at first at a slow pace, frequently looking round, and then away they dart, fleet as the wind, the male covering their retreat. Should their protector be wounded, the females return and keep circling round him, uttering piercing notes of sorrow, and remain to be shot rather than desert their companion.

Although it is only when enraged that the llamas and huanucus spit upon those near them, the vicunas and alpacas invariably eject saliva and undigested food—which has a peculiarly disagreeable smell—upon all who approach them.

Vicunas in vast numbers are found ranging over the more remote and lofty regions of the Puna, where they are able to find a safe retreat from the attacks of man. They have, however, a very formidable enemy in the ravenous condor, who frequently robs them of their young.

These two wild species the Peruvian peasants were never allowed to hunt, they being as much the property of the government as if enclosed within a park. Only on stated occasions, once a year, great hunts took place under the superintendence of the Inca, or his principal officers. They were never repeated in the same quarter oftener than once in four years, that time might be allowed for the waste occasioned by them to be replenished. At the time appointed the whole surrounding population— sometimes, it is said, amounting to nearly ten thousand men—formed a circle round the area which was to be hunted over. Armed with spears, they gradually closed in, destroying the beasts of prey, and driving the huanucus, vicunas, and deer towards the centre, where the male deer and the huanucus were slaughtered. Their skins were reserved for various useful manufactures; and their flesh, cut into thin slices, was distributed among the people, who converted it into chasqui, or dried meat (constituting then, as it does now, the principal animal food of the lower classes of Peru).

The vicunas are hunted at the present day. A member from each family of the Puna villages joins the hunting party, forming altogether a band of about one hundred persons. They carry poles with cordage. The poles are placed in the ground, and united by ropes at about the height of two feet, forming a circle of half a league in circumference, enclosing a space called the chasqu. Coloured pieces of rag are attached to the ropes, which are moved about by the wind. Some of the hunters are on horseback, others on foot. Each man is armed with the well-known bolas; which consists of three balls of lead, two of which are heavy and one lighter, attached to a long leathern thong knotted together at one extremity. The hunter takes the lighter ball in his hand, and swings the other two in a wide circle over his head. When at a distance of fifteen or twenty paces from the animal, the lighter is let loose, when the three fly in circles towards it, encompassing it in their snake-like folds. Thus prepared, the hunters disperse, forming a circle several miles in circumference, driving all the vicunas before them towards the entrance of the circle. As soon as the animals have entered, it is closed. The vicunas, afraid to spring over the ropes with the coloured rags fluttering in their faces, are attacked by the hunters with their bolas, the hind-legs being generally aimed at. The huanucus, which are much wilder, invariably leap the barriers and escape, when frequently the vicunas follow their example. As soon as the animals within the chasqu are killed, it is carried off and again erected at a distance of twelve or more miles, when the same operation is gone through. Thus from one hundred to three hundred animals are killed during the chase, which generally lasts for a week.

Notwithstanding the opposition from the Peruvian government, a large herd of alpacas were, some years ago, successfully carried to the coast and shipped off to Australia, where, in a high and dry district, they appear to be flourishing.

THE CONDOR.

The traveller standing on the rocky heights of the Cordilleras, at an elevation which Etna does not surpass, though still with many a snow-capped mountain round him, may see, on one of the dizzy pinnacles amid which he stands, a vast bird. It is the condor, the largest of the vulture tribe; the monarch of the birds of that region. He may know it by the glossy black colour, tinged with grey, of its body; the greater wing-coverts, except at the base and tips, and the quill-feathers being mostly white. Round the neck is a white ruff of down; the skin of the head and neck is excessively wrinkled, and is of a dull reddish colour with a tinge of purple. Surmounting the forehead is a large, firm comb, with a loose skin under the bill which can be dilated at pleasure. Now it expands its wings, nine feet from tip to tip. Off it flies from its rocky perch, now appearing to sink with its own weight; but, gradually rising, it soars aloft, even above the glittering dome of Chimborazo, no vibration seen in its powerful wings. Higher and higher it soars, till it appears a mere speck in the blue ether; then, lost to the sight of human eye, darts rapidly downwards towards the sultry coast of the Pacific, there to prey upon the putrefying carcasses of animals it may espy from afar.

On that lofty pinnacle, or some jutting ledge near it, the female has laid its two eggs, and here it rears its young. The eggs are large and white, and laid upon the bare rock. The young are covered with a whitish down, and, it is said, are unable to fly for an entire year. Few other birds can fly to so great a distance above the earth. It appears to respire as easily in the most rarefied air as on the seashore. They do not live in pairs, like the eagle, but several are generally found together. When an animal falls dead, a number of the vast birds are soon seen coming from afar to feast on the carcass.

Great as is the altitude to which the condor can fly, and although it ranges through clouds and storms to the southern end of the Andes, it is not found to the north of Panama.

The condor is a true vulture, gorging itself on dead and putrid carcasses. It will also attack the young llama, as well as lambs and calves, which it carries away in its powerful talons. This makes it dreaded and hated by the shepherds of the hills and plains alike, who seek its destruction by a variety of means. Firearms are, however, useless, as its thick and strongly-constructed coat of feathers will turn aside a bullet. Besides, it is so tenacious of life, that one has been known to receive several bullets in its body, and to have lived a considerable time afterwards. The shepherds train their dogs to give notice of the approach of a condor; and the moment one appears in the sky, they look upwards, and bark violently till their masters appear. Among other modes which the natives employ to capture it, they kill an old mare—which they have an idea is better than a horse—and allow the bird to gorge itself. It then becomes so sluggish, that they can without difficulty throw their bolas round its neck and legs. It also sleeps so soundly, that they frequently manage to approach it when at roost, and capture it in the same way.

In the province of Abacay, in Peru, another method is employed. A native fastens a quantity of putrid flesh to a fresh cow-skin, under which he lies hid with a supply of rope. When the condor pounces down upon the meat, and remains gorging himself, the native fastens its legs by means of the rope to the skin. As soon as this is done, he creeps from beneath it. The frightened bird in vain attempts to escape. Immediately the hunter's companions, rushing forward, throw their bolas over the bird, and make it captive. Frequently several are thus caught at the same time.

The cruel and disgusting custom of bull-baiting is still kept up in the country, and the condors are employed to add to the terror and sufferings of the unhappy bull. Before the unfortunate animal is driven into the circus, his back is laid bare with a lance, and one of the birds, which has been starved for a week or more, is bound upon it. The famished condor immediately attacks the raw, quivering flesh of the poor beast; and while it is thus engaged, the bull is driven into the midst of the arena, to afford amusement to the savage spectators.

There is among the mountains a natural funnel-shaped excavation, sixty feet in depth, and about eighty feet in diameter at the top. The Indians place, on the edge of the pit, the putrid body of a mule, so balanced that it will easily fall over. In a short time it is discovered by numbers of condors, which, darting down, greedily attack it. Tugging and pulling at the flesh, they soon draw it over the edge, when it falls to the bottom of the pit. Not to be disappointed of their prey, they hold tightly to the body, and descend with it. Here, having gorged themselves, they are unable to rise again to the mouth of the pit, and are speedily killed with stones and sticks by the natives who collect round it, or are drawn captive to the surface. Dr Tschudi, in his Travels, mentions having seen twenty-eight birds at one time thus destroyed.

They are caught in a similar manner in other places, and brought down to the coast, where they are sold for a few dollars; and often thus find their way to Europe. It was long an unsettled point whether the condor discovers the dead animals on which it feeds by the power of sight or of scent; but Darwin, by several experiments, has settled the question in favour of the bird's keenness of vision.

A number of condors were kept captive in a garden, secured by ropes. Wrapping up a piece of meat in white paper, and holding it in his hand, he walked up and down in front of the birds; but they took no notice of it. He then threw it down in front of an old male bird; but it was still disregarded. He then pushed it with a stick till it touched the condor's beak, when the paper was torn off with fury, and every bird in the row began struggling and flapping its wings to reach the food. Under the same circumstances, no dog would have been deceived.

The condor is said formerly to have been worshipped in Peru. Perhaps the Peruvians, seeing it descend through the air from beyond their sight, supposed it a celestial messenger from the sun, which they worshipped. If so, their descendants treat it in a very different way to what they must then have done.

A condor ordinarily measures nine feet from tip to tip of the wings, and slightly over four feet from beak to tail.



PART THREE, CHAPTER NINE.

THE VEGETABLE PRODUCTIONS OF THE CORDILLERAS.

CHINCHONA OR PERUVIAN BARK.

The chinchona (it is erroneously spelt cinchona) tree constitutes the type of a natural order (Chinchonaceae), which also includes ipecacuanhas and coffees.

On the western slopes of Chimborazo, and in several other regions extending from the wooded heights of Merida and Santa Martha, at the northern end of the Cordilleras, as far as the Republic of Bolivia, 19 degrees south, the chinchona-tree has its range. Vegetation in the Cordilleras within the tropics reaches to a much greater height than in higher latitudes. The sun's rays have there great power in heating the soil; while the mists drawn from the broad Pacific, rising above the plains, rest upon the lofty sides of the mountains. The warm and humid atmosphere thus created is especially favourable to the growth of certain trees and shrubs. Among others is the chinchona-tree, from which quinine is obtained. It is generally found growing at a height of from 6000 feet to 10,000 feet above the ocean.

It would have been strange had not the native Peruvians been acquainted with the qualities of the bark. The Quichua name for the tree, quina-quina—"bark of barks"—shows that they believed it to possess medicinal properties; indeed, there is little doubt that they were aware of its febrifugal qualities, though they might not have attached much importance to them. Through them, probably, the Spanish colonists in the neighbourhood of Loxa first discovered its virtues. It was, however, but little known till the year 1638, when the wife of the Count of Chinchon, Viceroy of Peru, lay sick of an intermittent fever in the palace of Lima. The corregidor of Loxa, who had himself been cured of an ague by the bark, hearing of her sickness, sent a parcel of powdered quinquina bark to her physician. It was administered to the Countess Anna, and effected a complete cure. She, in consequence, did her utmost to make it known. Her famous cure induced Linnaeus long afterwards to name the whole genus of quinine-yielding trees Chinchona, in her honour. The Jesuit missionaries, who had learned its virtues, also sent parcels of the bark to Rome, whence it was distributed to members of their fraternity throughout Europe by the Cardinal de Lugo. Hence it was sometimes called Jesuits' bark, and sometimes Cardinal's bark. For many years, however, great opposition was made by European physicians to its use. Some Protestants, indeed, went so far as to decline taking it, because it was favoured by the Jesuits. Although the bark was used for many years, it was not till Dr Gomez, a surgeon in the Portuguese navy, in 1816 isolated the febrifugal principle, and called it chinchonine, that its true value became known. But the final discovery of quinine, as it is now used, is due to the French chemists Pelletier and Caventon, in 1820. It is a white substance, without smell, bitter, fusible, and crystallised.

Chinchonine is of less strength than quinine, and is used in mild cases of intermittent fever; but in severe cases, the use of quinine is absolutely necessary. Since the discovery of the medicinal properties of this bark, it has proved an inestimable blessing to the human race. For many years the bark itself was used as a febrifuge; but quinine, which is extracted from it, is of still greater value in curing or preventing ague. On various occasions it has rendered great service by preserving the health of troops. Many lives were saved by it in the disastrous Walcheren expedition. In India it is now universally used with the same beneficial effect; and several African explorers have been enabled to prosecute their journeys through pestiferous regions by its frequent use. Dr Livingstone, among others, speaks of it as the chief remedy he has employed when attacked by sickness on his journeys.

Most of the Chinchonae, when growing in good soil, and under favourable circumstances, become large forest-trees. When crowded, they frequently run up to a great height without a branch; while at the upper limit of their zone, they become mere shrubs.