“Here the forest secular, decked with festoons of divers climbers, of beautiful and brilliant colors, and the broad meads carpeted with fragrant flowers, form an august temple, which creation raises to God, to whom it offers delicious perfumes for incense, and, as an oblation, brings the delicate fruit matured by the summer’s sun.”

In these words of the Bolivian poet, D. Manuel JosÉ CortÉs, might aptly be described the extensive forests and plains of which OrocuÉ is the centre. Everywhere is that same exuberance of vegetation and profusion of vari-colored bloom that are so characteristic of the basin of the Meta. While lost in silent admiration of the countless floral beauties that on every side met our delightful gaze, we could but compare the scene to a ruined Eden,

In the garden adjoining our house were citrus trees laden with golden fruit, bananas of many varieties and a large mango tree, whose branches were bending under the weight of its richly tinted, luscious drupes. Near by was a noble old ceiba, while but a short distance away was a tall Jacaranda—of the trumpet-flower family—literally enveloped in a reddish-violet mantle of papilionaceous flowers, and filling the air round about with perfume not unlike that of the orange blossom or the jasmine. Everywhere we went some new floral display was awaiting us. All along our path we found an unending variety of laurels and myrtles; trees and shrubs and herbs of the RubiaciÆ family. There were splendid representatives of the genera Cassia and Mimosa, and clumps of the ever-present moriche, together with other species of palm equally attractive and majestic. Frequently these were joined by delicate festoons of liana, many of which were weighted down with orchids and epiphytes of the rarest beauty and fragrance.

OrocuÉ is the capital of the district of that name in the National Territory of the Meta, and the seat of a prefecture. It is located on the left bank of the Meta, on an eminence about thirty feet above the surface of the river, and sufficiently high to guarantee it against inundations during the rainy season. Being less than five degrees from the equator, the climate is warm but, during our stay, it was never uncomfortable, and at no time did the thermometer ever rise above 82° F. The population is about six hundred. The place is healthful, and malignant fevers are rare. The streets are wide, and some of the houses are well-built and comfortable. Most of them are constructed of bamboo plastered over with clay. The roof is thatched with the broad leaves of the moriche palm or preferably with those of the palma de cobija, also known as the palma de sombrero—hat palm. This is what scientists call Copernicia1 tectorum, and is preferred to any other leaf because it is not readily inflammable. Such a roof lasts ten or twelve years, and is impervious to water. During our sojourn in OrocuÉ it rained regularly for several hours every day and, although the downpour at times was very heavy, never once did we observe a single drop of water to pass through the roof. Everything in our rooms remained as dry as if the roofs had been made of tile or slate.

Many of these bamboo-palm houses are constructed without the use of a single nail. Studs and cross beams, laths and rafters, are tied together and held firmly in place by bejucos, those wonderful natural cords and cables which are found in such profusion in every tropical forest, and which, in the hands of the natives, serves such an endless variety of purposes.

Some years ago the town possessed what the inhabitants considered a large and beautiful church. It was constructed of the same materials as the other buildings of the town and occupied a conspicuous position on the plaza. In consequence of recent revolutions and other disturbances, it had been greatly neglected, and, at the time of our visit, was rapidly falling into ruins. The people had not had a pastor for some years, but were hoping to have one soon. They, however, received every few months the ministrations of a priest from a neighboring mission, and longed for the time when they could have a resident pastor and see their church restored to its pristine condition.

There was a small school for boys, attended by about twenty young mestizos, but none for girls. There was a movement on foot to secure the services of some nuns to teach the girls, and the mothers of the children awaited their arrival with the greatest impatience. The monjas—nuns—have a wonderful influence over the children, and young and old are thoroughly devoted to them.

OrocuÉ has an aduana, or customhouse, and is the centre of a flourishing grazing district, in which there are numerous hatos and fundaciones,2 containing from two to twenty thousand head of cattle. Cattle, hides and rubber, together with the coffee, which is brought from the foothills of the Andes, constitute the principal articles of export.3

The neighboring Indians manufacture large and beautiful hammocks from the leaves of the Cumare and other palms and bring them here and exchange them for anything that may strike their fancy. Although I had brought a German hammock with me, I procured one of these Indian chinchorros, and found it during the remainder of my journey in South America the best investment I could have made. Nothing contributed more to my comfort when I desired a siesta, and when I wished to escape the filth and insect pests to which, in my wanderings, I was so frequently exposed.

Of the many objects brought to OrocuÉ for barter by the Indians few had greater interest for us than the weapons employed by them in the chase and in war. Among these the chief ones were their poisoned arrows and blowguns. A friend made us a present of some of them, but owing to the inconvenience of transporting them, we were unable, much to our regret, to take them with us.

For a long time the mystery connected with the virulent poison, known as curare, urari woorali, etc., with which the Indians poison their arrows, remained unsolved, notwithstanding the efforts of men of science to determine its source and composition. Early travelers gave the most fantastic accounts of its composition and manufacture. According to them it was a concoction more uncanny than that prepared from

Indeed, so carefully did the Indians engaged in its manufacture guard the secret of its preparation that it was not until a few decades ago that the true character of this deadly compound was first understood. Boussingault suspected but did not prove the existence of strychnine in curare.4 Humboldt was probably the first to suspect its true nature.5 It is now known that neither snake’s teeth nor stinging ants form its active principle, as was formerly supposed, but that its venomous properties are due to the presence of curarine, a bitter crystalline alkaloid obtained from the plant Strychnos toxifera, or other plants of this genus, found throughout equatorial America. Its virulence is manifested only when it is administered through the skin. It then paralyzes the motor nerves, and, if the poison be sufficiently strong, it produces death by suffocation.

The Indians in OrocuÉ, as everywhere else along the Meta and Orinoco, were a subject of never-ending study for us. Most of the inhabitants of OrocuÉ are Indians or mestizos, and it would be difficult to find anywhere a gentler or more peaceful people. The town was founded by the Salivas Indians, whose nasal language the early missionaries found so difficult to master, but whose gentle nature and amiable disposition were ever the subject of the highest eulogies. Remnants of this tribe are still found in this territory, as are also representatives of the Piapocas, Tunebos, Yaruros, Cuivas, and the once powerful yet friendly Achaguas.

The tribe, however, that counts the greatest numbers, is the Guahibos, whom certain imaginative travelers would have us believe are as fierce as pumas or jaguars. The truth is, however, that, although some of them are more or less nomadic in their habits, and decline to live with the racionales—whites—they are, as a rule, peaceful and industrious. Sr. Jorge Brisson, an engineer for the Colombian government, who a few years ago thoroughly explored this country—the Casanare—speaks of them as being muy agricultores y muy trabajadores—hard-working tillers of the soil.

That they are peaceful and harmless is evidenced by the fact that the owners of the scattered conucos along the Meta are rarely, if ever, disturbed by these much maligned Indians. In many of the isolated habitations, which we visited on our way up the river, we found only women and children. The men were occupied elsewhere, and were sometimes absent for weeks at a time. This, certainly, would not be the case if the Guahibos were the cruel, relentless savages they are so often represented to be. Not once in our journeyings up the Meta and its affluents did we hear of any atrocities committed by these Indians, or even of any complaints against them, although we took particular pains to inform ourselves about the matter. All the reports about their robberies and murders were confined to those we had heard a thousand miles down the river and from people who probably never saw a Guahibo in their lives, and who would not recognize one if they were to see one.

It is true that now and then a cow or a calf may disappear from some of the Conucos and fundaciones and that their disappearance is always credited to the Indians. Even if this suspicion were verified, an occasional theft of this kind—all the circumstances considered—should not be so surprising. We do not need to go beyond the boundaries of our own country to find cases of cattle stealing. And the poor Indian, often cheated and wronged, may, without being a casuist, easily persuade himself that he is justified in seeking occult compensation. This is often his only safe method of making reprisals for damage done him in person and property, and he would be more than human, if he did not occasionally resort to it if he thought he could do so with impunity.

“The fact is,” says Brisson, “the poor creatures have heretofore been very badly treated by those who claim to be civilized, and flee in terror when they see a white man. The question now is not to civilize them but to win their confidence. The problem would easily be solved if this delicate task were confided to the missionary priests. They would bring it to a successful issue much sooner than could government officialdom.”6

Contrary to what is often imagined, the Indians who visit the settlements along the Meta and the Orinoco are always decently if but scantily clad. In their forest homes, however, their raiment usually consists of a simple lap-cloth. On occasions of feasting or public rejoicing they make an addition to their toilet. This consists in painting their bodies with various dyes, but chiefly with the yellowish-red annatto, which is obtained from the pulp of the fruit of the arnotto tree, Bixa Orellana. They frequently cover their persons with the most fantastic designs. Indeed, it is only when thus decorated that the true children of the forest consider themselves properly dressed. They would be ashamed to appear before strangers otherwise.7

“Tigers and serpents,” observes Mr. Brisson, “are bug-bears of the same family as Indios bravos”—savages. It is certain that the tiger—jaguar—is fond of heifers and calves. But herdsmen will tell you, that in order to get rid of one, it is at times necessary to follow him for a fortnight before being able to find and kill him. This is sufficient to prove that the tiger is never the first to attack a man in the llanos of Casanare, where it has food in abundance. “Serpents are met with only casually.”8

I was glad to find one writer, who is so familiar with the country as is Sr. Brisson, to speak thus of the wild beasts most dreaded and of the still more dreaded Indios bravos, for it harmonized perfectly with my own experience.

We were one day talking with our host in OrocuÉ about the stories told by travelers and writers regarding the jaguars of the South American forests. He smiled, and said, “I have lived in this country thirty-five years. I have several hatos in various parts of the country, which I visit frequently. In doing this I am obliged to travel much through the forests and plains. I have often journeyed up and down the Orinoco, and the Meta from Trinidad to BogotÁ, and, believe me, during all these years, I have never seen but one jaguar and that was in passing.” How different his experience from that of those who, after a short excursion into the interior of South America, where they rarely leave the beaten track used for centuries, have, nevertheless, such wonderful adventures to relate; such miraculous escapes from savage beasts and more savage Indians!

Our host was a Venezuelan of Spanish descent, and a splendid type of the old Spanish school. He had spent a part of his youth in Germany, and was a man of education and refinement. He was untiring in his delicate attentions to us during our sojourn in OrocuÉ, and made us quite forget that we were so far from home and what we so often fancy are the indispensable necessities of civilization. He had been eminently successful in business. Besides owning the largest business house in OrocuÉ—which is a distributing point for the great Casanare territory—he is the proprietor of several of the largest hatos in the country and counted his cattle by tens of thousands. In addition to all this, he has various other interests that yield him a handsome income. He enjoys the reputation of being a millionaire, and the reputation is apparently justified.

How he could content himself to live in this isolated quarter of the world—“six months from everywhere,” as one of his clerks expressed it—when he could enjoy all that money could command in the capitals of the Old or the New World, was a mystery to us, and yet he seemed to be perfectly happy here, and to have no desire to live elsewhere. Was it the ever dominant feeling that “There is no place like home,” that made him prefer OrocuÉ to Paris or London? Quien sabe?

The only Europeans living here were three Germans. Two of them had arrived but a few months before our visit, while the third had been here for nearly twenty years. This latter was also as much attached to OrocuÉ as was our host. The year before he had visited his family and friends in Hamburg and Berlin. “But,” he said, “I had heimweh—got homesick—for OrocuÉ, and came back much sooner than I intended. The noise and bustle and hurry and high-pressure of Europe were quite unendurable, and I was more than delighted when I got back to dear old OrocuÉ.” He, too, had realized that there is no place like home. And he, also, like our host, was educated and cultured; was interested in science and literature and passionately fond of music. He had several musical instruments in his house—among others a piano—on all of which he was a skillful performer.

“What wonderful men these Germans are!” I said to myself, when I saw these three men in the prime of life burying themselves away off here in the wilderness, so far away from friends and country. But this is not an unique instance of young Germans going to distant lands to engage in business and to contribute thereby towards that wonderful development of trade and influence for which the Vaterland is becoming so famous. In every part of Venezuela which we visited, we found it the same. The greatest and most successful business houses are in the hands of Germans.

In all parts of South America you will find Germans, and find them, too, successful in their enterprises, and often getting more than their share of the trade of this vast continent. But they deserve success, for they have earned it, and know how to make sacrifices when they are necessary to attain it, or to reach the goal for which they are striving—to become the dominating commercial power of South America. If the United States would display but a tithe of the energy and enterprise exhibited by Germany, it would not now occupy in the southern continent the humiliating position it does among the great mercantile nations of the world, and among our friends of the great Latin American republics. It is not too late to retrieve our loss, but, to do so, we must change our policy and our methods of doing business, and conduct them along the lines recommended by such alert and far-seeing statesmen as Blaine, Root and Roosevelt.

After a delightful week spent in OrocuÉ we were ready to start for Barrigon or Puerto Nuevo on the Rio Humea, an affluent of the Meta. To go there by a bongo9 during the rapidly rising water, would require from fifteen to twenty days. It would be necessary to pole it—or pull it along by ropes in certain places—the entire distance. Besides this, owing to its limited quarters, such a boat would be extremely uncomfortable. Fortunately for us, and thanks to the kind offices of our host, we were able to have the use of a fine and commodious petroleum launch, which would convey us to our destination in a week.

It was with genuine regret that we said Adios to the good people of OrocuÉ and to the kind friends who had made our sojourn there so pleasant and profitable. They were all at the landing to see us off, and speed the parting guests with the touching words, Vayan Uds. Con Dios—May you go with God. To these fervent words of farewell came from our little crew the cordial response, Y con la Virgen, and with the Virgin Mother.

Our captain was a bright and courteous and most obliging young Colombian from BogotÁ. The pilot was a Venezuelan half-breed from the town of Barcelona. This “son of Barcelona,” as he described himself, had fled from his native country, on account of the continued revolutions, to seek peace in OrocuÉ. The cook was also a mestizo, while his assistant was a strong, broad-shouldered Guahibo, who, far from being an unfeeling savage, was one of the kindest and most thoughtful persons one could meet. He was ever ready to serve us and was never more happy than when he observed that his delicate attentions were fully appreciated.

The launch’s commissariat consisted of a liberal supply of tasajo—salt, dried beef—cassava bread, coffee, panela10 and various kinds of fruit. Anticipating our needs at this part of our journey we had, before leaving the Port-of-Spain, laid in a supply of claret and canned goods of various kinds. Aside from the butter and condensed cream and some of the fruit preserves, the canned goods were a disappointment. Although they were guaranteed to be fresh from the factory, they were unfit for use. What we really enjoyed more than anything else, and always found fresh and wholesome, was our supply of coffee, sugar and crackers. For our cafÉ in the morning nothing more was desired.

Coffee was always served on the launch, when we were ready to start on the day’s journey, which was usually at sunrise. Desayuno—breakfast—we took at about ten o’clock. For this we always landed, as it was more convenient and more agreeable to do our cooking on shore than aboard. It was, indeed, quite romantic to have one’s breakfast served under a broad-spreading ceiba, or in the midst of a clump of stately palms, or in the shade of a group of graceful bamboos. And not the least picturesque feature about it was Antonio—our ever-active and obliging Guahibo.

Whenever possible, we stopped for desayuno and comida—dinner—at a hut or cottage on the river’s bank. We ordinarily passed several of them in the course of the day, for the banks of the upper Meta count many more inhabitants than does the lower part of the river. Usually there was only a single cottage, but occasionally we passed a caserio consisting of five or six cottages. But whatever the number they were always of the simplest construction possible. Sometimes the house was nothing more than a palm-thatched shed, composed solely of a roof, with eaves extending almost to the ground, resting on short supports. Sometimes the owners of these humble habitations were Indians, sometimes mestizos. But whether Indians or mestizos, we were cordially received and invited to make ourselves comfortable in the best hammock in their possession. With them the hamaca is the one indispensable article of furniture in every dwelling, even the poorest. It takes the place of our rocking-chair, sofa and bed. According to the Colombian poet, Madrid, the hammock was invented by the Indians—

—a race suave, gentle and benign—and even when all else fails them they have their hammock to comfort them in misfortune, banishing their trouble in its oblivious embrace. The poet, like many others, evidently shares the Indian’s fondness for the hammock, as the best verses he ever wrote was his poem La Hamaca.11

There were several reasons for stopping at one of these native huts when we could conveniently do so. We were thus enabled to get fresh fruit, eggs and chickens, and have them cooked as well. We had no complaint to make of our own cooks, but we soon discovered that the Indian and mestizo women were far better. I shall never forget our surprise and pleasure at the manner in which a young Indian woman prepared for us roast chicken, and that, too, in a remarkably short time. I never tasted a more tender or better flavored fowl in the best restaurants of New York or Paris. And she had no stove or oven in which to roast it. Her sole utensil was a wooden spit over a few coals surrounded by three stones about seven or eight inches in diameter. And all was as clean as it was enjoyable.

All the furniture of the house is as primitive as the fireplace on which the meals are cooked. Often the only utensils of metal are a pot, or kettle, and a machete, which takes the place of a knife in cutting. When the hammock is not used one sits on the ground or on a log that serves as a bench. Occasionally we were offered the carapace of a large turtle in lieu of a chair. When the hammock is not used, an ox hide, or a rush mat, or a large palm leaf serves as a bed. Often the poor people sleep on the bare ground.

Aside from the single metal kettle above mentioned, all other culinary utensils are made from the fruit of the calabash tree. It is the species known to botanists as Crescentia Cujete and is called by the natives totumo. The fruit is used at various stages of its growth according as it is employed for making small or large utensils. The younger and smaller fruits are fashioned into spoons, those of medium size serve for drinking vessels, while the largest full-grown fruits—often eight inches in diameter—are used for dishes and platters.12 They also furnish a kind of musical instrument resembling the castanet. But marvelous to relate, they are also employed for lanterns of a most original kind. After the shell is pierced with a large number of small holes it is filled with those wonderful Cocuios—fireflies—that are found in such numbers in the tropics. Such a lantern seen at a distance is not unlike the familiar Chinese lantern, and, considering the nature of the illuminant, gives a surprising amount of light.

A house, such as the one just described, is the lodging place of the dogs, and poultry, and not infrequently of the pigs also. The poultry roost upon the crosspieces immediately under the roof. The other animals occupy their own corner, and no one seems to be molested by their presence. Benzoni, in speaking of the habits of the Indians he saw, remarks in his quaint fashion: “They all sleep together like fowls, some on the ground and some suspended in the air.”13

Every house is surrounded by a number of fruit trees. Among these the platano and the banana are the most conspicuous, and are never wanting, for they supply a large part of the food of the inhabitants of the tropics. Equally important are maize and yuca.14 The latter is used for making bread. In certain parts of the tropics no other kind of bread is obtainable. To me it has a very insipid taste, somewhat like that of bran or cellulose. Schomburgk considered that it had a deleterious effect on the stomach, but there are few, I think, that share his view. Certain it is, that its use as food is universal in the tropics, and it is one of the three plants—yuca, maize and the platano—that one is always sure to find in every conuco—even that of the poorest Indian. These three articles are his staff of life. The natives also eat fish and flesh of various kinds, it is true, but as the three plant products named are quite sufficient to sustain life, and as they require little care after they are once planted, many people make little or no effort to secure other kinds of food. They are content with little and seem to enjoy the living of the simple life fully as much as some of our friends in the North enjoy talking and writing about it.

Often, too, where one would least expect it, one will find beautiful flower gardens around the most unpretentious habitations. Of the flowers that we in the North are most familiar with—not to mention countless peculiarly tropical species—those we most frequently observed were roses, jasmines, dahlias, pinks, violets, dracenas, gladioli and gardenias. The large rose bushes, or rather rose trees—they are so huge—one sometimes sees in the hot, dry climate of the tropics are truly remarkable. They sometimes attain a height of twenty feet, and one may count on a single bush as many as a thousand buds. From such a bush one may pluck a hundred beautiful roses every day in the year without any apparent diminution in the number on the parent stem.

While journeying up the Orinoco and Meta, we several times tried our luck at fishing, but our efforts were always attended with the most ignominious failures. Outside of a few minnows we caught absolutely nothing. One of our crew once caught a fish about two feet long resembling a pickerel and this was the only time that we ever tasted fresh fish all the time we were on the river.

No sooner had the hook sunk into the water than the bait was taken. There was a momentary nibble, and presto! the bait had disappeared. On investigation we found that we had to deal with the terrible Caribe—that voracious little fish about which so many extraordinary stories are related. In crossing rivers the natives dread the attacks of this serrasalmonine marauder more than they do the gymnotus, the stingray or the cayman. They have very sharp, trenchant teeth, usually swim in schools, and, when attracted by blood, will attack men and the larger animals without hesitation. And so fierce and rapid is their combined action that their attack usually means death to the victim.

We had often heard and read of their snapping fishhooks in twain but had classed this statement among the stories of the monkey-bridge class—stories that entertained us during our early school days, and which, I doubt not, still perform the same function for the rising generation in certain parts of the world.

But, while pondering our ill success with rod and line, we discovered one evening, after vainly trying for an hour to get at least one specimen of the finny tribe—and exhausting all our bait in the attempt—that our hook—a good-sized one, too—was snapped in two as neatly as if it had been cut by a pair of pliers. We examined the part of the hook that remained attached to the line and we found that it was actually cut, not broken on account of defective material.

On further inquiry, I found that several men of science who had visited these parts, and had, presumably, investigated the matter, had positively stated that the Caribe was capable of severing fishhooks with the greatest ease. Thus Mr. H. M. Myers does not hesitate to affirm that the Caribe is “able to sever ordinary hooks as if they were but slender threads,”15 and Dr. Carl Sachs declares that “even thick steel fishhooks do not withstand their teeth.”16

Both in the Orinoco and in the Meta we saw quite a number of porpoises—toninas, the Spaniards call them—quite as large and as playful as any we ever saw in the ocean. The natives say they are the friends of man, and defend him from caymans when he happens to be in the river.17 One thing is certain and that is that caymans and crocodiles both quickly make their escape when the porpoise appears. It is probably, because the sluggish and indolent caymans, ferocious as they are by nature, have an instinctive dread of the noisy and impetuous evolutions of these delphinine cetaceans, especially when they move in schools.

We were often surprised by the large flocks of ducks, of many different species, which we saw along the Meta. They seemed to be most numerous near sunset when, occasionally, they flew across the river by thousands. So great, indeed, was their number at times that we could compare them only with the immense flocks of pigeons that, during our boyhood days, used to darken the sky during their season of migration. Many of these ducks, as articles of food, compare favorably with our mallard and canvasback. Truth to tell, the only time we regretted not having a shotgun with us was when we saw these clouds of edible birds passing over our heads within easy reach. This was particularly the case when our food supply was running short, or when we desired a change of diet, or something different from carne frita—fried beef that has been salted and dried—and sancocho.18

Among the singing birds peculiar to the tropics are two that deserve special mention. There are the campanero or bellbird, and the flautero or flute bird.

Of the bellbird, Waterson writes as follows: “He is about the size of a jay. His plumage is white as snow. On his forehead rises a spiral tube nearly three inches long. It is jet black, dotted all over with small white feathers. It has a communication with the palate, and when filled with air, looks like a spire; when empty it becomes pendulous. His note is loud and clear, like the sound of a bell.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“With many of the feathered race, he pays the common tribute of a morning and an evening song; and even when the meridian sun has shut in silence the mouths of the whole of animated nature, the campanero still cheers the forest. You hear his toll, and then a pause for a minute, then another toll, and then a pause again, and then a toll, and again a pause. Then he is silent for six or eight minutes and then another toll, and so on. Acteon would stop in mid-chase, Maria would defer her evening song and Orpheus himself would drop his lute and listen to him; so sweet, so novel, and romantic is the toll of the pretty snow-white campanero.”19

So closely indeed does the note of the campanero resemble the sound of a bell that the traveler can easily fancy that there is a chapel in the depths of the forest, and that the faithful are being called to prayer. The bellbird has a near relative in the herrero, or blacksmith bird, whose note is like that produced when an anvil is struck by a hammer.

The flautero, or flute bird, is quite small and of a grayish color. Its notes are surprisingly sweet and mellow, and closely resemble those of a sweet-toned flute, whence its name. One who hears this feathered songster for the first time would easily believe that he is listening to a skillful flute player, and not to the song of a tiny bird. The refrain of its song is fairly well expressed in the following notes:

Unfortunately for us, we were often obliged to listen to sounds that were not so agreeable as those of the flautero or campanero. These were the raucous, discordant, never-ending noises produced by frogs and toads. In OrocuÉ they always began their cacophonous serenade at nightfall, and kept it up uninterruptedly until the following morning. I could then realize that Padre Rivero had good cause for regarding them as among the greatest nuisances with which he had to contend. Their confused, strident notes—base, tenor, contralto, soprano—kept up the entire night were, he assures us, enough to split one’s head. Some of these amphibians we heard at OrocuÉ were on the opposite side of the river from us, more than half a mile distant. They were in very truth what Lowell has so well characterized as

The wonderful depth and fertility of the dark, loamy soil in the valley of the Meta was ever a source of wonder to us. Along the river banks it usually formed a layer of four or five feet, and not infrequently seven or eight feet. And the vegetation was everywhere an evidence of this fertility. At Platanales, a conuco at which we spent a night, we saw a grove of several acres of the largest and most prolific bananas and plantains we had ever encountered anywhere. At another conuco, farther up the river, where we stopped for breakfast, we saw several acres of corn that was rapidly maturing. And what corn! Never did I in Kansas or Nebraska see such ample stalks or so large ears and grains. It was a revelation to us, and exhibited in a most striking manner the wonderful, future possibilities of this marvelously fertile, yet unknown land.

Near every dwelling, however humble, along the Meta, we observed a large cross made of tastefully and often artistically plaited palm leaves. The material was yet quite fresh and the crosses had evidently been erected only a few days before we passed by. In design and workmanship they reminded us of those seen in parts of Italy on Palm Sunday. On inquiry, we found that they had been erected on the third of May, the feast of the Invention of the Holy Cross.

“Why is this cross placed here?” I asked of an Indian woman, while she was preparing our desayuno. “Para que no nos pegue el chubasco,”—in order that the chubasco—wind squall—may not strike us, she replied without hesitation. I asked many others at divers places the same question and invariably received a similar reply.

These poor people were not able to erect the beautiful shrines one so frequently sees in the Catholic countries of Europe, and so their simple faith found expression in these palm-leaf crosses, on which they had evidently put their best and most careful work, of which they often seemed justly proud.

On passing by a particularly large and beautiful cross of this kind my mind reverted to a shrine near the lighthouse of Savona, an ancient town near Genoa. Here there is a statue of the Madonna, twelve feet high, under which are inscribed two Sapphic verses, expressing in rhythmic numbers the same idea that was uppermost in the mind of the good Indian woman when she braided and placed in position this symbol of redemption. The verses were composed by Gabriello Chiabrera, “the prince of Italian lyric poets,” who was a native of Savona. They are remarkable in that they are both “good Latin and choice Italian,” and have the same meaning in both languages. They read as follows:

The only place of any importance between OrocuÉ and BarrigÓn is Cabuyaro, a small town of about two hundred inhabitants. It cherishes the hope of becoming the eastern terminus of the long-projected railroad from BogotÁ to the Meta. This would no doubt be a good terminal point, as the town is favorably located, and the river is sufficiently deep to permit the passage of good-sized vessels. As at the other towns we passed, the steamer may moor within a few feet of the river’s bank.

Cabuyaro, however, is not the only place ambitious to become the terminus of the BogotÁ Eastern railroad. It has several rivals, some of which are little more at present than rude huts in the wilderness. Among these is BarrigÓn, which also rejoices in the high-sounding name of Puerto Nuevo. It has, certainly, an advantage over Cabuyaro in that it is much nearer the capital. When this railway, which has been in contemplation for many years, shall have been completed, it will be possible to go from BogotÁ to the Meta in ten hours. At present it takes six days to make the trip, and a very trying and tiresome one it is.

While our cooks were preparing comida—dinner—we visited the town. As we were passing a neat-looking house on the plaza, next to the church, a woman standing at the door, surrounded by her family, observing that we were strangers, insisted on our partaking of the hospitality of her home. She gave orders at once to have dinner prepared for us, and was deeply disappointed when she learned that our captain had made arrangements for us to dine elsewhere. She then said: “You must do us the honor of taking at least a cup of coffee in our humble home. We cannot let you depart without something.” Before she had finished speaking, one of her daughters, a bright, modest girl of about sixteen, had started to boil the water, and in a short time we were served with as good coffee as we had ever tasted anywhere during our journey.

The kindness and simplicity of these good people were admirable. They were much interested in our journey, and could not understand what could induce us to undertake such a long trip. They were most eager to hear about our own country, and showed an intelligent interest in persons and things that quite surprised us. Soon a number of their neighbors called and each one was duly presented to the viajeros—travelers—and served also with a cup of the aromatic beverage which our hostess knew so well how to prepare. Although we had become accustomed to the generous hospitality of the good people we had everywhere met along the Meta, the cordial reception given us by the people of Cabuyaro during our short stay among them impressed us in a special manner, and made us feel that it is particularly among primitive peoples, among those in the depth of the forest, or in the solitude of the desert, that hospitality is not only regarded as a duty but is also esteemed a pleasure.

How often, when partaking of the simple fare of our kindly hosts in tropical America, were we forced to compare their never-failing hospitality with that of the Greeks of Homeric times! Then nothing was too good for the honored guest, for he might be a god in disguise, or, if not a god, he was at least a friend of the gods. Like the early Christians, who treated their guests as if they might be angels who had come upon them unawares, our Meta hosts always gave us the best at their disposition, and expressed their regret that they were unable to do more. Their home was ours as long as we chose to remain, and their every act showed that they were pleased to be honored—as they expressed it—by the strangers’ visit.21

Before leaving OrocuÉ, we had telegraphed to Villavicencio to have saddle and pack mules ready for us on our arrival in BarrigÓn, which, as planned, was to be the morning after our arrival at Cabuyaro. As, however, we had been delayed a day by trouble with the engine, and loss of our anchor, we could not hope to reach our destination without traveling all night. Fortunately, there was a full moon and a cloudless night. And our crew, the captain notably, were ready and willing, regardless of their own comfort, to do anything in their power to enable us to reach BarrigÓn at the appointed time.

Never shall I forget our last night on the Meta. C. and I were sitting on the prow of our launch, which was moving merrily along the broad river—as broad as ever, apparently—which, under the bright rays of the moon, shone like molten silver. There was no murky vapor to obscure the fair face of the queen of night, or dim her glowing form. Surrounded by the myriad stars of heaven, she reigned supreme. Then, more truly than ever before in our lives, could we say with Saint Augustine, that we saw “the moon and stars solace the night.”22

The air was balmy and impregnated with sweetest perfumes and rarest balsamic odors, wafted from the dark, impervious forest walls that rose in silent majesty on either shore. The sleeping mimosas that had folded their leaves for the night, the ethereal jambos, figs, and laurels, the dark crowns of the jaca and the manga, the slender shafts of bamboo tufts, the dim crests of the palm, trellised vines and liana festoons, defiled before us in rapid succession, and, in the shades of night, assumed the most fantastic shapes and magic combinations.

As we glided along the glassy stretches of the river there was nothing to mar the perfect stillness that pervaded the scene, except the muffled pulsations of our engine, too feeble to wake an echo from the neighboring banks. The time, the place, the freshness of earth and the splendor of heaven lent themselves to reverie, and stirred the fancy to unwonted activity. Frequently on the Orinoco we had amused ourselves by watching the odd and whimsical shapes assumed by the clouds, especially before or after a chubasco, or at the time the sun was dropping below the horizon. Then the imagination, quickened to action, would discover, in the rapidly changing clouds, animal forms varying from the bear and the eagle to the griffin and the dragon.

And so it was now. At one time we could see, in a curiously arranged clump of trees and vines, the ruins of a Rhenish castle, at another the shattered towers and merloned walls of an enchanted palace. Now it was a rustic chapel by the wayside, and a moment later, as we peered into the darkness of the inner wold, and noted the huge dark tree trunks, it was the massive pillars of a Hindoo shrine. Here it was a Druid trysting-place, there a mermaid’s grot and there again a dryad’s bower or the home of a fairy queen. That Titania was not far distant was evidenced by the swarms of fairies—matter-of-fact scientific men would doubtless call them Pyropheri—fireflies—that, like a thousand stars, flitted through the bloom and the foliage, illuming with their soft radiance the favorite haunt of fairyland.

How we enjoyed the mystery of these vast solitudes! How exquisite the ever-changing chiaroscuro; the wondrous play of light and shade; the warmth, depth and softness of the noble pictures that, at every turn, ravished our delighted gaze! How it all elevated the soul and enjoined recollection of spirit! The impression was in an eminent degree like that experienced beneath the sombre arches of a Gothic cathedral. And why not? Were we not beneath the starry vault of heaven, in the depth of the dark, majestic tropical forest, in the most inspiring temple of the Most High?

When in OrocuÉ, we were told that, on a bright, clear day, the Andes were visible from that place. But owing to the clouds and the mists and the forests that had constantly obstructed our view, we had not yet gotten even a glimpse of this world-famed chain of mountains. Of course, we had seen one of its spurs in the coast range of Venezuela. But this range was not the Cordillera of our boyhood dreams. We longed to see that massive chain that extends in unbroken continuity from Panama to Patagonia. And day by day, as we moved westward, our wistful eyes were ever peering through broken forest or over grass-covered glade, to catch the first view of La Cordillera de los Andes.

While silently sitting on the prow of our launch admiring the countless, ever-changing beauties of that marvelous moonlight night—our last on the Meta,—giving free rein to our fancy, and shifting our course as the meandering river demanded, behold! Suddenly like a vision, the Andes stood before us in all their majesty and glory, looming up to the very heavens. So instant was the apparition that, for a while, we were quite speechless from admiration and awe. “The Andes!” one of us ejaculated, and we were then completely under their magic spell. So agreeable was our surprise and so great our emotion that for a time it was impossible to find words to express our feelings of delight and wonder. We realized, as probably never before, what a feeble instrument language is for conveying one’s innermost thoughts, and how inadequate to express what deeply stirs the soul.

Our adjectives and exclamations were little more than the Indian’s grunt, and less devotional than the Moslem’s phrase, “Allah is great!” Coming from the cold and tame nature of the North to that of the glorious and marvelous equator, we were like Plato’s men, bred in cavern twilight, and then suddenly exposed to the bright effulgence of the noonday sun. We saw things wonderful and unspeakable, but all our superlatives were inarticulate and feeble, matched with the scene before us.

“But what are those lights on the mountain summit, a little to the left?” inquired C., finally breaking the long-sustained silence. On the very crest of the Cordilleras and extending for a considerable distance, was a large number of brilliant lights, like so many electric arcs. It was as if the long rows of arc lamps that illumine the Bay of Naples, as one sees them from an incoming steamer, were raised skyward far above the cone of Vesuvius; or as if the resplendent “White Way” of New York were lifted into cloudland.

At first we thought it was a forest fire, but it was so different from the unsteady, yellowish-red flame of burning trees and vegetation. We had seen such fires along the Orinoco and Meta—as well as elsewhere—and were quite familiar with their appearance. It could not be due to volcanic action, for there were no volcanoes in that direction, unless of extremely recent origin. Besides, the lights before us were quite different from the fitful reflections that molten lava produces from swirling masses of vapor. Might they not actually be the electric lights of BogotÁ or of some other city of the Sierras? No, for BogotÁ was on the west slope of the mountain range, and there was no town of any size on the eastern declivity. Still less could the lights be due to reflection from the sun, for it had set hours before.

What then was this “midnight gloom still blossoming into fire”? Our curiosity was excited to a high degree, but the apparition seemed to defy all attempts at explanation. We thought of the gleaming light seen by Robert Bruce from the turrets of Brodick Castle, in the isle of Arran, before his landing in Carrick.

We recalled a similar phenomenon, observed by Humboldt on the Cerro del Cuchivano in Venezuela, in which he thought the luminous display observed might be due to the burning of hydrogen and other inflammable gases.23

The Indians who live among or near the mountains, relate many wonderful stories about strange lights that are occasionally seen on or in the vicinity of the loftier peaks. “It is a curious thing,” writes Im Thurn, regarding a phenomenon of this kind, seen in the mountains of British Guiana, “that, as I have seen, there actually is an appearance, as of fire, to be seen sometimes up in these mountains, nor was I ever able to form any theory as to its cause.”24

Sir Martin Conway records a more remarkable case of this character. “Long after the sun had set and darkness had come on, Illampu glowed red like fire, and all the people in town saw it. Such a sight none had ever beheld. In great terror they ran to the church and the bells were rung. They thought the end of the world had come.”25

My own conclusion regarding the luminous phenomena, that occupied our attention for at least an hour, during the night to which I refer, is that they were of electric origin. The mountain in front of us seemed to be a vast condenser from which the electricity was escaping by a silent glow or brush-discharge on an immense scale. The color and the steadiness of the lights, as well as their durability, were evidence of this. They were probably of the same nature as the corposant of St. Elmo’s fire, sometimes seen on the spars or yards of a ship.26

We slept little that last night on the Meta. Earth and sky were so beautiful, and there was so much to engage our attention that it was a late hour before we sought repose.

Early in the morning we left the Meta and entered the Humea, passing the Rio Negro on our left. In Europe or America these two affluents of the Meta would be considered good-sized rivers. Both of them are navigable for some distance, but like hundreds of other rivers in South America, are practically unknown, except to those who live in their immediate vicinity.

About nine o’clock our pilot blew a loud, prolonged blast on his conch which served him for a horn or call-instrument, and, looking ahead of us, we saw gathered on the banks the entire population of BarrigÓn—a negro woman, her three daughters and a young man, likewise a negro. We expected, of course, to see also our mules and our arrieros—muleteers—but they were nowhere visible. They evidently had not arrived. To describe our disappointment and dismay would be impossible. We felt as if we were about to be marooned, or left in a penal colony. What did it all mean?