The average stranger coming to the United States to see the country very seldom pays a visit to an obscure state capital. The very contrary to this is what I did after I had been but little over a week in Buenos Aires, as I maintain that the only way to see a foreign country properly is to avoid the show places and get out among the people in the smaller cities. Knowing that San Luis was but a short distance from the main line of the Buenos Aires Pacific Railway between Buenos Aires and Mendoza, and is reached by one through train daily in each direction, I decided to stop off there.

I left Buenos Aires at three o'clock one afternoon when the thermometer registered 100.4° Fahrenheit and was soon traversing the flat landscape remindful of the valley of the River Po. The white, cream-colored tile-roofed houses, the small vineyards and vegetable gardens, the long rows of Lombardy poplars, and the oxen hitched to the wagons on the country roads presented a picture that could just as well be that of northern Italy as that of the Province of Buenos Aires. Nearly everywhere in eastern Argentina where the country is well settled, the landscape is decidedly Italian, due largely to the presence of the trees indigenous to the Po Valley, originally brought there by immigrants from that part of Europe.

The train I was on was a very poor one, the first-class compartments being no better than third-class ones in Germany. Thirty-four miles out of Buenos Aires, we reached the town of Pilar, which lies a short distance north of the railroad. Its station is the terminus of the Buenos Aires suburban trains. Eight miles farther on is seen on the crest of a rise of ground to the south, the insane asylum of Open Door, a model of its kind. The method employed for the treatment of the patients is freedom from restraint, with the privilege to do what they please as long as they keep within bounds. The originator of this method of handling the insane believes that by allowing them to follow out their whims, they will eventually become tired of them, and that the confinement of the demented prisoners tends to aggravate their condition. This theory which he put into practice has had good results.

Mercedes, seventy miles from Buenos Aires, with a population of thirty thousand inhabitants, is the junction of three railroads, the Central of Buenos Aires, the Western, and the Buenos Aires Pacific. It is one of the oldest cities in the republic and is the stamping ground of Irish settlers who drifted in here a few generations ago and have become rich. Unlike most Argentine cities, its streets are numbered. Chacabuco, one hundred and thirty-one miles from the capital, was reached about 7.30 P.M. It is a stock-breeding center and is in the midst of a rich agricultural district. One hundred and seventy-nine miles from Buenos Aires is Junin, an important small town from which leads a branch of the Central Argentina Railway to Pergamino and Rosario. The place was formerly called Fuerte Federacion from a fort on the Salado River. As late as 1876 it was attacked by Indians, the last attack having been made on December 10th of that year under the leadership of Pincen. The Indians were badly defeated and fled, leaving behind all the stock they had stolen on the way. A man from Junin who sat directly across the table from me in the dining car informed me that farm lands in the neighborhood of his city were selling at as high as three hundred pesos a hectare. That would make common prairie land worth there fifty dollars an acre. During the night we crossed a corner of the Province of Santa FÉ at Rufino where the dining car was taken off. The train then traversed the southern part of the Province of CÓrdoba and entered the Province of San Luis in the early morning.

Excepting the capital, Villa Mercedes, which was reached at 7 A.M., is the only place of importance in the Province of San Luis. It is a well laid out little city with a fairly good hotel, the Marconi. It was here that I was met by J. D. O'Brien of Detroit who remained with me for some time in the capacity of servant. He had been gymnasium steward on the Vauban, and not liking the British ship's officers, took French leave at Buenos Aires, and decided to try his luck in Argentina. I needed a servant as I had considerable baggage so decided to hire him. He dropped his grip over the railing of the ship's deck one night when nobody was watching, and fearing arrest because he had quit the ship after signing a contract to make a round trip, thought it would be better to get into the country until after the Vauban had sailed. Therefore I had him precede me on the journey, he going to Villa Mercedes the day before. Dr. M. de Iriondo, president of the Bank of the Argentine Nation, had given me a letter to the manager of its branch bank in Villa Mercedes, but unfortunately I did not stop off there.

There was a remarkable change in temperature compared with the previous day, because it was now cool and windy. The country that we now traversed was very much like that of eastern Wyoming, only the soil was better. There seemed to be a lack of water. Cattle grazed the endless pampa; here and there buttes and mountains rose from the plains, their sides covered with coarse grass and sagebrush. At the wayside stations were halfbreeds in ponchos, strong, good-looking fellows. Presently the mountains came down to the railroad track and we were in a sort of an oasis watered by the Chorillo River.

San Luis, the capital of the thinly settled province of the same name, is 493 miles west of Buenos Aires. It is a poor, unpretentious, and uninteresting town of fifteen thousand inhabitants with nothing to attract the ordinary tourist. Its buildings, with the exception of a few on the main streets, seldom attain a height of over one story and are for the most part built of coarse red brick, which here sell for 28 pesos ($11.96) a thousand. Many of these brick buildings are plastered over, but most are not, giving them but a half finished appearance on account of the poor masonry. The original idea of the man who builds a house in most of the cities of the republic is to eventually have the brick stuccoed over, but it is frequently the case that his money gives out, before he gets that far, and he has to forego that luxury. There is also a considerable number of adobe buildings. These are mostly in the outskirts of the city. I also saw a few huts in the outlying districts whose roofs were thatched.

There are no large fortunes in San Luis although my informants told me that there might be one or two men who could boast of possessing the equivalent of one million pesos paper ($427,000.00). There are only seven automobiles in the city, two of them being Cases; two are Fords. The only one that I saw was of the last-named manufacture. When asked if the governor of the province, SeÑor Juan Daract, possessed one, I was told he was too poor to own one, although his monthly salary is 750 pesos paper ($320.25). This would make his yearly salary from governmental sources $3843.00. I was surprised to see horses sell so cheaply, mediocre hack ones bringing only thirteen dollars apiece. Good mules averaged about thirty-two dollars each.

None of the streets of the city are paved. On the main one, San Martin, there are several good buildings, the Bank of the Argentine Nation being the best. It is the newest. The post office, the Federal Court, and the custom house are also possible, although they are but one story high. Nobody should overlook the Casa de Gobierno or Capitol, which is in a class by itself. Its Renaissance faÇade, which faces the Plaza San Martin, and its side which faces one of the main streets contain sockets for nine thousand electric light bulbs. When the building is lighted up in all its external brilliancy, the electric meter which controls the other lights of the city has to be shut off because the electrical plant has not power enough to keep them both going at the same time. So much money was expended on the lavish decorations of the Capitol that there was not enough left to furnish the building.

The two large plazas, Pringles and San Martin, each contain an equestrian statue in bronze erected to the memory of the heroes of their nomenclature. General Pringles, the popular local hero, was born here. The square that bears his name is the handsomest in the city. It is bordered by giant pepper trees whose fragrance perfumes the air. Facing it is the huge unfinished brick basilica, the Matriz, the white dome of which is a landmark for quite a distance, and is visible from all parts of the city. By the side of the Matriz on the Calle Pringles stands a small algorroba tree scarcely twenty feet high. It is enclosed by an iron railing and is held in much reverence by the inhabitants of San Luis, because to this tree, the Guerrero, General JosÉ de San Martin, tied his horse in 1816 on his westward march to Chile, where he overthrew the Spanish dominion at the battles of Chacabuco and Maipu.

There is an interesting old church in San Luis, that of Santo Domingo. It is of Mission style of architecture, and in many respects is similar to San Gabriel Mission near Pasadena, California. Taken as a whole, San Luis differs much from most Argentine cities. Its buildings are of a decided Spanish colonial type of architecture. The city has an antique appearance and is nearly gravelike as to tranquillity.

When I stepped out of the fine spick and span, five-year-old depot, I was in a dilemma regarding which hotel to go to. My guide book, which I never trust, and which I only look at when I desire to kill time, favored the EspaÑol; the landlord of the Marconi at Villa Mercedes recommended to O'Brien the Royal; the sleeping-car conductor on the train praised the Comercio; the cab driver extolled the Mitre, so thither I went. The German photographer, Streich, whom I met later in the day, boosted the Pringles, whose landlady is German.

The Mitre, which is owned by Perez and Iglesias, is leased to two brothers whose prenomens are Pedro and Juan; nobody seems to know their patronymics, although many persons seemed to be on intimate terms with them. I later found out that their surname is Negera. When the fat, loquacious cab driver stopped in front of their one-story hotel, he announced my arrival by bawling out "Pedro!" The person addressed came slouching out of the barroom, unkempt and unshaven, and despite the earliness of the morning fairly drunk. He reeked of alcohol. I thought he was the porter until differently informed. Several times in the course of the morning he came into my room out of curiosity, each time making an excuse. In the early afternoon he sobered up, shaved, and donned a tuxedo. Drunk or sober, Pedro was a worker. He waited on the table, tended bar, made the beds, swept the rooms, and assisted in the cooking, besides doing errands for the guests. I never saw a better hotel man. The rooms opened onto the patios and were kept scrupulously clean, excepting the privy, and even that was much cleaner than in most rural South American towns. The chickens had taken refuge in it to keep away from the lean cats, which eyed them voraciously. Several times I had to drive a yellow cat out of my bedroom. The food would hardly remind an epicure of the menu of Oscar of the Waldorf-Astoria, but as there were many people eating it in the long rectangular dining room with its twenty-five-feet-high ceiling, I imagine it was wholesome. Despite the coldness of the weather (the temperature was no more than 60° Fahrenheit, a drop of 40° from the temperature of Buenos Aires the day before) flies abounded in my bedroom and in the country were myriads of locusts.

Speaking of the yellow cat that persisted in occupying my bedroom, Argentine and Chilean animals have a penchant for human society. They seem to take delight in crawling under the beds and other furniture, and no matter how often they are driven out they persist in returning. A peculiar incident of this nature befell an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Osmond of Rosario. Mr. Osmond has lived many years in Argentina and his business frequently takes him into the Campo, as the flat, endless pampa is called. On one occasion he stopped at an inn no different from the general run of inns found in all the small towns of Argentina. A fat sow entered his room from the patio as he sat writing. He drove her out. Several times during the afternoon he had to repeat the performance as the sow was bound to occupy his room. As he lay asleep that night he was awakened by a rumpus beneath his bed, and lighting a candle to find out the cause of the nocturnal disturbance of his slumbers, discovered that the sow had crawled under his bed and had given birth to a litter of pigs.

The country in the immediate neighborhood of San Luis is extremely fertile, although sometimes it only rains once in a year. The Chorillos River, which rises in the Sierra de San Luis, is dammed, and the water is drawn off by conduits. The main dam is seven miles east of the city and I drove out there to see it. The road passes by the barracks and continues by fine fields of blue blossomed alfalfa in which fat cattle and horses are grazing knee-high. There is a primitive park on the left of the road in which is an artificial lake, on which swains enjoy taking their innamoratas for rowboat rides. A crude attempt at initiating a zoÖlogical garden is borne out by two pens, one of which contains a three-footed hen, the other one being the prison of two sabors, or Argentine lionesses from the Sierra de San Luis. A stranger is surprised at the number of fine-looking saddle horses met on the roads. Nearly everybody rides horseback, many with good grace and ease of movements. The gentry use English saddles; the poorer classes use those of Moorish type. The cab drivers as well as the horsemen gallop their animals through the streets at a mad pace.

The air of San Luis is healthy and invigorating. I was surprised to note the great number of old people to be seen in the city and its environs. In this respect it is exactly the reverse of Buenos Aires. The men and women are fine looking; the girls are beautiful with their laughing black eyes, their faces brown from the sun and wind, with a touch of rosiness to their cheeks; their figures are likewise good. Argentinos and Spaniards alike call the native-born criollos or criollas, according to sex, the word meaning Creoles. It is by no means a word of contempt. There is quite a strain of Indian blood among the inhabitants. Seeing some dark-skinned people by the roadside, I asked my driver if they were Indians. He laughed as he answered: "Son Criollos como yo. Son cristianos." ("They are natives like myself. They are Christians.") The word Indio, meaning Indian, is one of contempt and applies only to the members of the pagan and uncivilized tribes.

There is much natural wealth in the mountains of the province, gold, silver, and sulphur, but nobody cares to take the initiative about exploiting them. The unsettled country greatly resembles the unfertile parts of California, it being a wilderness of mesquite, chaparral, wild sage, and juniper. There is also much cactus, the varieties ranging from the prickly pear to the Spanish bayonet. Everywhere that water strikes the ground, wild flowers and vines spring up in rank confusion, the wild cucumber being common. One of the native bushes has pods on it like a bean, about the same size and shape, but rather oily. Of the fruit trees, the apricot is cultivated; grape vines grow to a large size, but their fruit is inferior to that of Mendoza.

Although the inhabitant of the central provinces of Argentina is invariably of mixed blood, and is lacking in the culture of the inhabitants of the cities, he is more of a gentleman than the majority of those who belong to our select aristocracy. He is patient but by no means humble. Expecting no money remuneration for extending a favor or a courtesy to a stranger, he will willingly go out of his way to do so, but spoken to gruffly, will have nothing more to do with him. In San Luis I asked a cab driver where there was a good barber shop. The one he pointed out was filled, so I went out in search of another one. He saw me and driving down the street, overtook me, and offered to drive me to another one. Arrived at my destination, he refused any remuneration. The son of Pedro Nogera, the hotel proprietor, acted as porter. Upon paying my bill, which was trivial when compared with the services rendered, I offered the boy a small tip. He refused, saying that I had paid for what I had received. Who is there in such stations of life at home that would refuse a tip? Most would be angry if it was not given, and if the sum was too small, would go off grumbling. One of the peasants of San Luis that I consider a gentleman was my regular cab driver. Born in San Luis, he had never been out of the province. His name is Antonio L. RÓjo. In appearance he is of large build, somewhat coarse, and inclined to stoutness. For the sum of one and a half pesos (61 c.) an hour, he agreed to drive me whenever and wherever I wished to go. Although inclined to be loquacious, he showed none of that grossness and vulgarity of character that our cab drivers are apt to demonstrate. This man knew his position and was most attentive in showing me the points of interest of the city and neighboring country. He was also well read in politics but never knocked. Occasionally he would stop and pick from the roadside fruit or flowers indigenous to the country to show me what grew in the neighborhood of San Luis. Upon leaving San Luis, I gave him a tip of five pesos ($2.14). This at first he refused to accept and only took it finally by my literally forcing it upon him. He was so delighted with the money that he took a railroad trip to Balde, nine miles distant, to visit some relatives, and on the way offered to spend some of it to treat me.

Shortly after leaving San Luis, westward on the railroad to Mendoza there is seen to the south the large brackish Lake Bebedero; it keeps in view a considerable distance. The short cut of the Buenos Aires Pacific skirts its southern end. The second station west of San Luis is Balde, a collection of straw and brushwood huts, the abodes of the peasants. One well, which supplies the whole community, has been sunk, water having been struck at a depth of 2119 feet. It is artesian. Fifty-one miles west of San Luis, the Desaguadero River, muddy and deep, lying in a chasm between high clay banks, is crossed. This river forms the boundary line between the provinces of San Luis and Mendoza. The country is a flat wilderness of mesquite which grows much larger than in our southwestern States, probably on account of the superiority of the soil, which here is a light clay. There is a considerable amount of alkali, but not in so marked a degree as in the western plains of North America. The mesquite, which grows to a great size, some of the trees having veritable trunks, is chopped and is used as cord wood and also as fuel on the freight and passenger trains.

La Paz, not to be confounded with the Bolivian metropolis, nor with the Entrerieno town of the ParanÁ River, is reached shortly before one o'clock in the afternoon on the daily passenger from San Luis to Mendoza. It has two thousand inhabitants and is seventy-four miles west of San Luis and eighty-eight miles east of Mendoza. It is important for here begins the cultivated zone which extends as far as the Andes and which is known as the Zona del Riego. The estancia limits and the country roads are all bordered by Lombardy poplar trees, planted closely together. Our North American farmer who plants his fence trees a rod apart would be astonished to here behold them a yard apart. Notwithstanding their proximity to one another, they here attain a goodly height. Some pest seemed to have attacked many of these trees. Many of the leaves were turning brown and the trees dying. It is a curious fact that where this species of tree abounds, goiter is prevalent among the inhabitants. In northern Italy, parts of Hungary and Croatia, and in certain sections of the United States where there are many Lombardy poplars, people are seen with this affliction.