At last we were ready to start on our long journey up the Orinoco and the Meta, and then across the llanos of Eastern Colombia, and the Cordilleras to far-off BogotÁ. For several days the swarthy stevedores of Ciudad Bolivar had been busy in transferring to our little steamer the freight that had here been accumulating for her during the preceding six months.

For several days, too, our friends and acquaintances had been endeavoring to dissuade us from what one and all pronounced a rash and dangerous undertaking. All meant well, but all were prophets of ill. No one, we were assured, had ever gone to BogotÁ by the route we purposed taking,1 and we were solemnly warned time and again that we were surely risking our health if not exposing our lives. Everything, it was averred, was against the successful termination of our journey, and it would be a miracle if we ever reached BogotÁ alive.

First of all, there were the steaming, miasmatic exhalations in the Orinoco and Meta valleys, from which they were never free, and the ever present danger of yellow fever and other malignant diseases. Even people who were thoroughly acclimated incurred the greatest risk in traveling through this pestiferous, germ-laden atmosphere. How much more then should we, who had so recently come from the chilly north, be exposed, if we still persisted in our foolhardy venture? And then, if we fell sick, as we surely must, we should be in a trackless wilderness, among savages, and far away from medical aid of any kind.

Then there was the torrid climate to take into account. By reason of the intense heat, it would be impossible to travel by day. We should then perforce be obliged to travel by night. And this implied new dangers—dangers of straying from a poorly defined trail, or of falling into ravines, or quagmires, and dangers from wild animals of all kinds, with which the forests and plains were always infested. There was the jaguar, always prowling about, seeking whom he might devour; the labairi and boaquira, serpents whose envenomed fangs bring certain death to their victims, and the dread boa that was pictured as hanging in untold numbers from the branches of the trees in the forests through which we should pass.

A torrid climate, a reeky, malarial atmosphere, a region infested with venomous serpents—all this was bad enough, but this was far from being the sum total of the pests and plagues we should encounter.

There was that ever-present pest—whose name is not legion, but billion—on which travelers in South America have exhausted their supply of adjectives in the vain attempt adequately to express their sentiments. I refer to what the Spaniard has so aptly called the plaga—the plague—the cloud of mosquitoes of many species that constantly torment the traveler, and give him no rest night or day. We had read what various writers on the equinoctial regions had to say of the murderous onslaughts of the mosquito from the time of the early missionaries down to our own, and such reading was far from calculated to reassure one who was about to form a more intimate acquaintance of the plaga in question.2

In a work written on the Orinoco in 1822, Mr. J. H. Robertson, referring to this matter, declares that “the biting, blistering, and intolerable itching” which is produced by clouds of mosquitoes is “indeed enough to make a man mad.” He says that they made the passengers—blacks as well as others, that were on the boat with him, “almost roar with agony,” and that in the morning the “whole body exhibited one mass of small blisters from millions of bites we had received during the night.”3

In a more recent book, by another Englishman, it is stated that the Orinoco is the “paradise of mosquitoes, and the hell of travelers. There, insects of unusual size, and speckled in an ominous and snake-like manner, issued from the bush in millions and assailed every square inch of the exposed skin.... Moreover, they stung through the boots, coat and waistcoat, and drew blood wherever they penetrated.”4

On looking over these works again, we found that the miseries referred to were endured chiefly in the delta of the Orinoco, and not so much in the river above. Yet, strange to say, our experience, so far at least, was the very contrary of all this, although we had passed through the delta three times. On none of these occasions had we ever been molested by a single mosquito or had we ever thought of using a mosquito net. As a matter of fact, nobody ever used such a protection against insects, as there was no call for it. Our natural inference was that the reports about this plaga of the Orinoco were much exaggerated, and we had reason to suspect that the same was true about the terrific heat against which we had so repeatedly been warned.

We had been twice in La Guaira, which Humboldt declared to be one of the hottest places on earth, and had not suffered so much from the elevated temperature there as we had frequently suffered from the sweltering heat that so often oppresses one in New York and Washington. We remembered, too, that another German writer had characterized Ciudad Bolivar, on account of the intensity of the heat prevailing there, as “the exit of hell, as La Guaira is its entrance.” And yet during our sojourn of nearly two weeks in the Orinoco city, we never experienced the slightest discomfort from the temperature, nor did the thermometer ever rise within ten degrees of the temperature often registered in some of our North Atlantic coast cities during the months of July and August.

The truth was, we were beginning to grow quite sceptical about the much vaunted dangers of equatorial travel. From our experience in traveling in other lands, we had learned how prone the majority of those who do not travel are to exaggerate—unconsciously, perhaps—dangers with which they have no personal acquaintance, and how inclined certain travelers are to magnify slight discomforts and trifling occurrences into dangerous and trying adventures, especially when their imaginary deeds of prowess are performed in countries rarely visited, and, therefore, beyond the control of a truthful recorder.5

The little heed we gave to all the dire predictions that had been so freely volunteered and our persistence in going forward on our journey, as we had planned it, evidently led one of our friends to suspect our scepticism, and he accordingly resorted to what he honestly believed to be conclusive evidence of the futility of our purpose and the danger of our undertaking. This was an article that had recently been published in an English magazine which had just reached Ciudad Bolivar. The article was entitled, Adventures on the Orinoco, and contained the following paragraph:—

“For many reasons the Orinoco is one of the most dangerous rivers in the world. Not only are there countless physical dangers in the shape of sunken rocks, wrecks and tree trunks, huge sand banks, ever-changing channels and bewildering currents, but also many living, though often hidden, perils in the form of man, beast or reptile. The higher one ascends, and the farther one penetrates beyond the Maipures rapids into the heart of the Alto Orinoco, the wilder the scene, and the more perilous the river. Sparsely populated as is the vast region above and immediately below the rapids, it is often the home of anarchy and misrule, and always a domain where the passions of men know not the restraints of law, and civilization is still a dream.”

To clinch his argument, our friend assured us that the Meta region—whither we were bound—was far worse than that of the Upper Orinoco. The banks of the Meta were always infested by hordes of savage Guahibos, the terror of eastern Colombia. Hiding in the dense underbrush that skirts the river, the first indication of their presence would be a shower of well-directed, poisoned arrows against the daring intruder into their jealously guarded domains. Only a few months before, a steamer like ours had been attacked near the mouth of the Meta by several hundred Indians and outlaws, and we were exposed to a similar assault from the same quarter, unless we would listen to reason, and desist from our hazardous and reckless enterprise. “Besides,” he added finally, “it is by no means certain that your boat will be permitted to reach its destination. As you know, the government is now engaged in quelling the revolution led by one PeÑalosa. Only a few days ago a large steamer was dispatched to San Fernando, laden with arms and ammunition, and orders have been issued for your boat to call at Caicara and Urbana and be subject to the orders of the army officers there awaiting instructions from the scene of war. If the steamer shall be needed by the government, as now seems more than probable, you will be left wherever the boat happens to be commandeered, and then you will have no means of returning hither except in a dugout, if you are fortunate enough to find one. To continue your course up the river in an Indian canoe, at this season of the year, at the beginning of the rainy season, is, of course, impossible.”

We were not frightened by the thought of meeting the Indians. We had met them before in many places, and had never found them so dangerous as depicted. The thought, however, of being put ashore, in case the government should need our boat, and of being compelled to make our way back to Ciudad Bolivar in an Indian dugout was something that caused us to ponder, but not to hesitate. We had been in similar quandaries before, and, relying on our good luck, which has never failed us in our wanderings, we determined to take our chances. We had faith in our star, and we instinctively felt, in spite of the untoward outlook, that we should in due course arrive safe and sound at OrocuÉ. We recalled and were encouraged by Minerva’s words to Ulysses:—

Finally, long after the hour scheduled for our departure from Ciudad Bolivar, our boat slipped her moorings, and she was soon out in mid-river with her prow directed toward the setting sun. It was the last week in April and the rainy season had already set in—much earlier than usual. The river had been rising rapidly for several days, and we, therefore, had no reason to apprehend danger on the score of shallow water. The usual time for the opening of navigation to the Upper Meta was anticipated by more than a month. This was a favorable omen to begin with. By starting thus in advance of the usual time we should be able to reach the river Magdalena before its high waters would begin to subside. This was of prime importance to us, as it would enable us to escape those long and embarrassing delays that are so frequently occasioned in this river during the dry season.

The word season has been frequently used in these pages, but, strictly speaking, there are in the tropics no such things as seasons as we know them in higher latitudes. In the equatorial regions it is always summer and verdure and bloom are perennial. For the sake of convenience the natives speak of two seasons, the rainy season, known as winter, and the dry season which is called summer. The winter season in the valleys of the Orinoco and the Meta begins about the first of May and lasts until October. The remaining months, constituting the winter and a part of the spring of regions farther north, is known as summer.

Sir Walter Raleigh’s account of the seasons in these parts is so pertinent and so accurate in the main that I give it in his own words. “The winter and the summer,” he writes, “as touching cold and heate differ not, neither do the trees euer, senciblie lose the leaues, but haue alwaies fruite either ripe or green at one time: But their winter onelie consisteth of terrible raynes, and ouerflowings of the riuers, with many great storms and gusts, thunder, and lightnings, of which we had our fill, ere we returned.”7

Our boat was a double-deck stern-wheeler of very light draft—about two feet—and capable of carrying about fifty tons. Her chief cargo was salt, groceries and dry-goods, most of which was destined for OrocuÉ.

Outside of the crew there were but few passengers—not more than eight or ten all told. Among the most congenial were a Colombian from BogotÁ, and a young German, who was traveling in the interest of a large commercial house in Ciudad Bolivar. The crew was a motley one. The majority of them were Venezuelan mestizos. Besides these, there were three or four West Indian negroes, and six or seven full-blooded Indians from the Upper Meta. The latter had come down the river only a few days previously and were now returning with us to their homes. They had been engaged to perform some menial services aboard, for which they received a trifling compensation. They all belonged to the ferocious tribe of Guahibos, about whom we had heard such frightful stories, but these particular members of the tribe we found to be very quiet and harmless. One of them spoke Spanish fairly well, and through him we were able to learn much about the manners and customs of his tribe. He was quite intelligent and took pleasure in telling us about the mode of life and occupations of his people. Later on, especially in OrocuÉ, where we spent ten days, we were able to verify his statements. All his companions aboard, although below the average height, were broad-shouldered, well-formed, and possessed of extraordinary strength and endurance. Judging from the work we saw them do, we were not surprised to learn that they are considered among the best warriors among the savage tribes in this part of South America.

The first place of any special interest on the Orinoco above Ciudad Bolivar is what is known as La Puerta del Infierno—The Gate of Hell. It is nothing more than a contraction of the river where the current is unusually strong, and where, on account of the large rocks in the river bed, there are numerous eddies and whirlpools. From what we had been told, the passage at this point was more difficult and dangerous than shooting the rapids of the St. Lawrence, and the scenery was represented as grand beyond description. The scenery was wild and interesting, but far from sublime or awe-inspiring. The current, it is true, was quite rapid, and our little craft made but slow progress through the surging, seething waters, but there was never any danger. For small sloops or schooners, and especially for curiaras, or dugouts, the passage would doubtless be difficult and somewhat perilous. It is, however, important that the pilot and helmsman should exercise considerable care so as to avoid striking the massive rocks with which the bed of the river is so thickly studded.

Considering the fertility of the soil, and the splendid grazing lands on the north bank of the Orinoco, one is surprised at the sparseness of the population. It is only at long intervals that one sees any signs of human habitations, and then they are of the most primitive character. Mapire and Las Bonitas are two straggling villages whose inhabitants are chiefly engaged in stock-raising. The latter place was also at one time the centre of the tonka bean industry, but most of this trade has been transferred to Ciudad Bolivar.

Of the people of Las Bonitas, the noted explorer Crevaux writes as follows: “Every man here has a cabin, a mandolin, a hammock, a gun, a wife and the fever. These constitute all his wants.”8

Near the confluence of the Apure with the Orinoco is the town of Caicara, with a population of six or seven hundred souls. It is something of a distributing centre for this section of the country. Besides stock-raising and agriculture, which receive considerable attention here, there is quite a trade carried on with the Indians of the interior, who bring into the town certain much valued articles of commerce. Among these are hammocks, made from the leaf of the moriche palm, and ropes made from the fibres of a palm called by the natives chichique—attalea funifera—which are highly prized for their strength, durability, and above all, on account of their being less affected by water and moisture than ropes made from other materials. Large quantities of sarrapia or tonka beans are brought here from the neighboring forests. They are much esteemed as an ingredient of certain perfumes and for flavoring tobacco.

The town has a splendid location, and under a stable and enterprising government would be the centre of a large inland trade. Towering about a hundred and fifty feet above the town is a hill of gneissic granite, on the summit of which are the ruins of a Capuchin monastery, which has been abandoned since the War of Independence.

Our party was here augmented by a Venezuelan hide and cattle merchant. He was a sociable fellow, and reminded us very much of a Colorado or New Mexican cowboy. He left us at Urbana, the last town of any importance, between Caicara and OrocuÉ.

We arrived at Urbana, a town of about the same size and importance as Caicara, shortly after six o’clock in the evening, and were surprised that there was no one at the landing place to meet us. At every other place at which we had stopped, every man, woman and child was out to see us. It is only five or six times a year that a steamer calls at this place, and then only during the rainy season, when the river is high. The place was as silent as the grave, and seemed absolutely deserted. There was not even a dog bark to break the oppressive stillness, and not a single light was to be seen in house or street. On enquiry we were informed that everybody had retired for the night. The sun had just set only a few minutes before, but like the domestic fowl in the back yard, all the denizens of the town had sought rest with the approach of darkness, and, under ordinary circumstances, would not have been seen before dawn the next day. This custom impressed us at first as being very extraordinary, but we afterwards learned that it is not unusual in small interior South American towns. In fact, we soon found ourselves imitating the example of the natives. Shortly after sunset—there is scarcely any twilight in this latitude—we sought our berth or our hammock, and rarely awoke before the caroling of the birds announced the break of another day. Of course, we often had a special reason for retiring as early as we did. A lighted lamp, especially on the Orinoco and the Meta, became at once the centre of attraction for a cloud of insects of all kinds—some of which emitted a most offensive odor. But aside from this we soon became quite accustomed to early slumbers. The ever warm climate seems to predispose to sleep, and, even after a good night’s rest, one would welcome an hour’s siesta after luncheon.

After the steamer whistle had blown several times, and set all the dogs in town to barking, the male population was aroused and came straggling one by one to where we were moored. We were in need of a new supply of provisions, as what we had brought from Ciudad Bolivar was almost exhausted. After making the round of the town, our steward was able, but not without difficulty, to get some eggs, chickens, and a novilla—heifer. This would last us a few days, at the expiration of which we hoped to find a new supply further up the river.

Much, however, as we were concerned about our commissariat, our interest was just then centered in the result of a confidential interview in progress between the captain and an army officer, who was to decide whether we should be permitted to proceed on our journey, or whether our boat should be appropriated for use in the campaign against the revolutionists, who were said to be heading towards the llanos of the Apure. This contingency had, like the sword of Damocles, been hanging over us ever since we left Ciudad Bolivar. Only a few days before, we had met a steamer returning from San Fernando de Apure, whither it had been dispatched with arms and ammunition, and there were grave reasons, so we were informed, for believing that we should be obliged to disembark at Urbana. If we could only reach OrocuÉ, we had every reasonable hope of making the remainder of our transcontinental journey without any special difficulty or danger. If, however, the steamer were now required for military service, we should be obliged to remain in Urbana for an indefinite period, and perhaps—the thought was almost maddening—be forced to abandon entirely an enterprise on which we had so set our hearts.

The suspense, which did not last more than a half-hour—although it seemed a whole day—was finally relieved by the joyful announcement that we should be permitted to continue our journey to OrocuÉ. No one who lives in a country like ours can realize what good news this was to all of us. In the United States, if we miss a train, we can get another a few hours later. There, on the contrary, far off in the wilderness, where the means of communication are so rare, the permission to proceed was like the commutation of a sentence for a long term of imprisonment into the granting of immediate liberty.

After this happy decision had been conveyed to us, we wished to start without a moment’s delay. Hitherto, thanks to the bright moonlight with which we had been favored, we had been able to travel night and day. Now, for the first time, the sky became clouded, and we were obliged, as a precautionary measure, to remain where we were, until the clouds disappeared. To attempt to navigate the river in these parts, where the channel is ever changing, where there are so many sand bars, and so many floating trees and obstructions of all kinds, would be extremely dangerous, and might mean the wrecking of our vessel when we least expected it. Fortunately, the clouds soon passed by, and we were again on our way rejoicing, and rejoicing as only those can realize who have been placed in circumstances similar to ours at that critical juncture.

The scenery along the Orinoco between Ciudad Bolivar and Urbana is quite different from that of the delta. There we have one of Nature’s hothouses on an immense scale, with a luxuriance of vegetation that is not surpassed in any part of the known world. Further up the river there is less variety and richness, and the trees are smaller and fewer in number. One soon observes, also, a marked contrast between the vegetation on the right as compared with that on the left bank. On the right bank the forest land still continues, while on the left bank, for the greater part of the distance, we have the llanos or plains—for many reasons so celebrated in Venezuelan annals. On both sides the land is comparatively low and flat, although here and there, especially on the right bank, there are highlands, and occasionally, when the forest fringing the river permits it, one can see hills and mountains towards the south.

The part of Venezuela south of the Orinoco—known as Venezuelan Guiana—is still practically an unknown land. Humboldt, Michelena y Rojas, Schomburgk, and others, it is true, have explored portions of the upper Orinoco and some of the tributaries, but the impenetrable forest lands through which these rivers pass are still quite unknown.9 As to the territory north of the Orinoco and the Arauca it has been quite well known since the times of the early mission period of Venezuela. Much of it, indeed, was explored by the conquistadores.

The llanos extend southward from the mountain range bordering the Caribbean to the Orinoco and its great tributary, the Meta. They have an area more than four times as great as that of the state of New York and are, in many respects, the most valuable lands of this part of tropical America. And strange as it may appear, they are the most neglected and most undeveloped. Their population and products are less than they were in the days of the early missionaries, and, from present indications, there is little probability that there shall soon be any change for the better. Everywhere are immense savannas, in which are numerous clumps of trees and groves, swamps and lagoons, all teeming with multitudinous forms of animal life. Here—especially along the Apure—bird-life is particularly conspicuous. It is here that occur the most extensive garceros in Venezuela, if not in South America, and it is here that the annual slaughter of the egret is greatest.

Tens of thousands of square miles of the llanos are inundated during the rainy season. Then certain parts of the country present the appearance of immense inland seas. The rivers overflow their banks, and the floods rise almost to the tree tops of the nearly submerged forest. The landscape then is not unlike what it must have been during the Carboniferous Period—immense stretches of dense, luxuriant woodlands in a vast fresh-water sea. It is then that it seems “an unfinished country, the mountains not yet having lent enough material to the llanos to keep them out of water during the entire year.”

For centuries past the llanos have been famous for their immense herds of cattle and horses. It is said that Gen. Crespo, one of the presidents of Venezuela, had no fewer than two hundred and fifty thousand cattle10 on his hatos—ranches—and we were told of an old bachelor who now has a hato that counts a hundred thousand head of cattle, not to speak of an immense number of horses.

During the War of Independence the wild horses and cattle were in some parts “so numerous as literally to render it necessary for a party of cavalry to precede an army on the march, for the purpose of clearing the way for the infantry and guns.”11 And only a few decades ago, we were assured, the number of cattle was so great that they were slaughtered for their hides alone. During recent years, however, owing to the number of revolutions, and the little encouragement afforded by the government to stock raisers, the herds on the llanos have greatly dwindled in size and number.12

Under favorable conditions they could with ease greatly be multiplied, and be made to contribute materially to the world’s beef supply. The unlimited pampas, with their rich, succulent grasses, ten to twelve feet high, are capable of supporting millions of cattle, and there is no reason why they should not be made available for the European and North American markets at much lower prices than the beef that is shipped from Argentina and Australia. Specially constructed cattle boats, of light draft, could be made to ply the Orinoco, the Apure, the Arauca and the Meta at all seasons of the year. Under a settled and progressive government the grazing industry should be the chief source of revenue of the Venezuelan republic. But, as conditions now are, cattle raising is in a most deplorable state. When we asked the Llaneros—people of the plains—along the Orinoco and the Meta why they did not have larger herds on their magnificent savannas, they invariably replied: “What is the use? We get a large herd, and then there is a revolution. The army comes along and appropriates our cattle, and we never get a penny for them.”

During our trip up the Orinoco we tried at a conuco—small farm—to purchase some chickens, but were told by the proprietor that, although he usually had large numbers for sale, he did not then have a single one left. “I heard yesterday that the revolutionists were coming this way”—he had heard of the PeÑalosa outbreak—“and I at once killed all my chickens and gave my family and friends a great chicken feast. If the soldiers had come they would have taken all and would not have given me anything for them.”

There are no better horsemen in the world than the Llaneros of Venezuela and Colombia. They have often been called the Cossacks of South America, and the name is not undeserved. In daring feats of horsemanship their only rivals are the cowboys of our western plains, and the intrepid Gauchos of the pampas of Argentina.

And no one has a greater love for horses than has the Llanero. Like the Arab, he would rather part with his most cherished possessions than dispose of a favorite steed. For one who has met this modern Centaur, or who is familiar with his mode of life, the reason is evident. As the Llanero spends the greater part of his life on horseback, his faithful charger is to him, as to the Arab, not only a companion, but his dearest and most reliable friend. Hence one need not be surprised to hear him exclaim in the words of a llano bard:—

“All his actions and exertions,” declares PÁez, “must be assisted by his horse; for him the noblest effort of man is when, gliding swiftly over the boundless plains and bending over his spirited charger, he overturns an enemy or masters a wild bull.”

Like the character described by Victor Hugo, “He would not fight except on horseback. He forms but one person with his horse. He lives on horseback; trades, buys and sells on horseback; eats, drinks, sleeps and dreams on horseback.”

Give the Llanero a horse, and the equipment of a lance and a gun, a poncho and a hammock, and he is independent. With these he is at home wherever the setting sun may happen to find him. The hammock serves him for a bed, and the poncho for a protection against sun and rain, while with his lance and gun he can easily secure the food he may require. Having these things, he is happy, and although he may be poor in all other worldly goods, he is ever ready merrily to sing

It was the Llaneros who during the war with Spain contributed so much towards achieving the independence of both Venezuela and New Granada. Under their leader, PÁez, they allowed the Spanish army no peace day or night. Armed with their long lances, they seemed to be ubiquitous and pursued their enemies with unrelenting fury. And the novelty of their methods of warfare—an anticipation of those so successfully employed by the Boers in their recent war with England—were such as quite to disconcert those who rigidly adhered to the tactics in vogue in Europe. On one occasion PÁez dislodged a large detachment of Spaniards by driving wild cattle against them, and then, burning the grass by which they were surrounded, utterly destroyed all of them. How like De Wett’s methods in the Transvaal!15

On another occasion it was necessary for Bolivar’s army to cross the Apure, near San Fernando, in order to engage Morillo, whose headquarters were then at Calabozo. But Bolivar had no boats, and the Apure at this point was wide and deep. Besides, the Spanish flotilla was guarding the river at the point opposite to which the patriot forces were marching. Bolivar was in despair. Turning to PÁez, he said, “I would give the world to have possession of the Spanish flotilla, for without it I can never cross the river, and the troops are unable to march.” “It shall be yours in an hour,” replied PÁez. Selecting three hundred of his Llanero lancers, all distinguished for strength and bravery, he said, pointing to the gun-boats, “We must have these flecheras or die. Let those follow Tio16 who please.” And at the same moment, spurring his horse, he dashed into the river and swam towards the flotilla. The guard followed him with their lances in their hands, now encouraging their horses to bear up against the current by swimming by their sides and patting their necks, and shouting to scare away the crocodiles, of which there were hundreds in the river, till they reached the boats, when mounting their horses, they sprang from their backs on board them, headed by their leader, and to the astonishment of those who beheld them from the shore, captured every one of them. To English officers it may appear inconceivable that a body of cavalry with no other arms than their lances, and no other mode of conveyance across a rapid river than their horses, should attack and take a fleet of gun-boats amidst shoals of alligators; but strange as it may seem, it was actually accomplished, and there are many officers now in England who can testify to the truth of it.17

The islands between Urbana and the cataracts of Atures have long been famous for the number of turtles that annually congregate on them. During the dry season they come to these islands by hundreds of thousands, and deposit their eggs in the playas, or sand banks, which are here quite extensive. So great is their number, says Padre Gumilla, that “It would be as difficult to count the grains of sand on the shores of the Orinoco as to count the immense numbers of turtles that inhabit its margins and waters. Were it not for the vast consumption of turtles and their eggs, the river Orinoco, despite its great magnitude, would be unnavigable, for vessels would be impeded by the enormous multitude of the turtles.”18

Humboldt estimated the number which, in his time, annually deposited their eggs on the banks of the middle Orinoco to be nearly a million. Owing to the abandonment of the system of collecting the eggs, that prevailed in the time of the missionaries, the number of turtles is not now so great as formerly. The amount of oil, however, that is still prepared from turtle eggs, is sufficient to constitute quite an important article of commerce. The time of the Cosecha—egg harvest—always brings together a large crowd of Indians of various tribes, besides a number of pulperos—small traders—from Urbana and Ciudad Bolivar.

To our great disappointment, we arrived a few days too late for the harvest. We were able to see no more than a few belated turtles here and there and the abandoned palm-leaf huts that served to protect the Indians from the sun during their temporary residence on these sand banks which have been the favorite resorts of countless turtles from time immemorial. Our steward was fortunate enough to get a large fine turtle, weighing fully fifty pounds, and we had turtle steak and turtle soup that would delight the most confirmed epicure. Our chef, we may add in this connection, took pride in his work, and his skill and attention contributed not a little to the pleasure of our fortnight’s voyage on the little steamer which he served so well.

A matter of ever-increasing astonishment to us was the continued great width of the Orinoco, after we had passed such immense tributaries as the Caroni, the Caura, the Apure, and the Arauca. Near Urbana, six hundred miles from its mouth, it has a breadth of more than three miles. This peculiar feature of the great river has attracted the attention of travelers from the earliest times.

Padre Gilli, a learned missionary, who spent more than eighteen years in the Orinoco region, thus writes of the great river in his informing Saggio de Storia Americana, “One cannot understand how the external appearance of the Orinoco remains practically uniform, except near its source, whether the waters of other rivers are or are not added to it.”19 Depons tells us that the inhabitants attribute to the waters of the Orinoco “many medical virtues, and affirm that they possess the power of dispelling wens and such like tumors.”20 As for ourselves, we made no experiments in this direction. We found the water so muddy from the delta to the Meta, that if a tumbler full of it were set aside for a while, the bottom of the glass became covered with quite a thick layer of yellow sediment. We did not find it to possess the offensive, disgusting odor, due to dead crocodiles, turtles and manatees of which many travelers have complained, but we did take good care never to drink any of it without having it carefully filtered.

On leaving Ciudad Bolivar we had a limited supply of ice in a small refrigerator. This was a real luxury while it lasted. At first we thought it would be difficult to become accustomed to drinking the warm water of the river—it had a temperature of 82° F.—but we soon became quite used to it, and rarely, if ever, thought of the absence of ice.

We had spent nearly two months in Venezuela and were about to enter the neighboring republic of Colombia. During that period we had visited most of the chief cities of the coast and of the interior, and had come into contact with all classes of people. We had talked with them about matters religious, educational, social, economic, political, and only rarely did they manifest any disinclination to express their honest opinions about men and things. Apart from a certain class of professional revolutionists—who have everything to gain and nothing to lose from internecine strife—we found that the great majority of the population is, in spite of what has been said to the contrary, peace-loving and thoroughly sick of the turmoil of which they have so long been the helpless victims. The better element—old Venezuelan families of Spanish descent—which should be the ruling element, but which is too often kept in the background by ambitious adventurers and unscrupulous spoilsmen, have lofty ideals for their country, and long to see it become the home of peace and industry, of progress and culture.

For few, if for any of the countries of South America, has Nature done more than for Venezuela.

She has in the first place the dominating advantage of location. She is nearer to Europe and the United States than any of the other South American republics, and should, under a strong and stable government, enjoy corresponding trade advantages. From her numerous ports on the Caribbean sea, as well as from points on the Orinoco and its affluents, freight can be transferred in a few days to our ports on the Gulf and Atlantic coast, while from La Guaira to Cadiz the distance is but little greater than it is from New York to London.

And what a great commercial future there is for this at present hapless and neglected country when it shall be blessed by wise and progressive rulers! It has soil of marvelous fertility and possesses mineral deposits of all kinds and of untold value. It has tens of thousands of square miles of the best grazing land in the world, capable of supporting millions of cattle. In the lowlands all the productions of the tropics are found and their annual yield could be enormously increased. In the plateaus of the mountain chains are produced the fruits and cereals of the temperate zone—of the best quality and in surprising abundance. Then there are the rare and beautiful woods of its interminable virgin forests; sources of wealth yet untouched and all but unknown, except to the few who have explored this land of marvelous natural resources.

Such are some of Nature’s gifts to Venezuela. But the extent of her bounty is as astonishing as its variety. How few are there who have an adequate conception of the extent of this country? It is a land that is scarcely known to the general reader except in connection with one of its periodic revolutions. And yet it has an area almost seven times as great as that of Great Britain and nearly ten times as great as that of the whole of New England. In extent of territory it equals France, Germany and Italy, Belgium and the Netherlands, Ireland and Switzerland all combined.

And yet, incredible as it may appear, its total population, including Indians—savage as well as civilized—is less than that of New York City. If the population of Venezuela were as dense as that of Belgium the country would count three hundred and fifty-eight million inhabitants.

Sparse as is the population, it is rather a matter of surprise that the number of inhabitants is so great rather than that it is so small. During a period of seventy years there have been no fewer than seventy-six revolutions. During sixty of these years the country has seen two armies almost continually in the field. The poor soldiers, mere puppets of soulless adventurers, rarely knew what they were fighting for. Against their will, they were torn from their homes and families to enable ambitious leaders to get control of the government. The death-rate has been appalling—at times greater by far than the birth-rate. Some of the revolutions, it is estimated, have caused the loss of more than a hundred thousand lives. For this reason, there has been a decrease in the population during the last fifty years instead of an increase. Indeed, it may be questioned whether there are as many inhabitants in the country to-day as there were before the war with Spain, or even at the time it was first visited by Europeans.

It would be difficult to name another country, except possibly Haiti, where, in proportion to the population, war has wrought greater ravages and counted more victims. A country that should be a land of peace and plenty has for generations been an armed camp of contending factions, in which the worst elements have come to the front and in which justice and innocence and respectability have been trampled under foot. With all this were the usual concomitants of such a condition of affairs—atrocities that the pen would fail to describe, deaths from famine and pestilence, deaths from the machete and from imprisonment in dark and foul dungeons.

Like northern Italy, after the death of Frederick II, Venezuela, in the words of Dante, has been for nearly a century

And there was the consequent stagnation of business and paralysis of industry of every kind, and the destruction of property on a scale that seems incredible. Such has been the fate of Venezuela since the time of Bolivar, whom its people hail as the Liberator, as the Washington of South America.

But pitiful as has been the country’s lot, unfortunate as it is to-day, the future is not without hope. Only one thing is necessary to change the present lamentable condition of affairs, and convert Venezuela into a great and happy country. That one thing is a man—a ruler of strong arm and stout heart, who is a patriot in deed as well as in name; a president who, forgetful of self, will devote himself entirely to the development of the country’s resources and to the happiness of his people; a statesman, who will be intelligent enough and forceful enough to bring order out of chaos, and give to a long-suffering people those blessings of civilization which, for generations past, they have known only by name.22

The task is difficult, very difficult, but it is not impossible. It is only a few decades ago since Mexico was as turbulent a country and as noted for pronunciamentos and revolutions as Venezuela is to-day. Lawlessness was rampant, credit was gone, commerce languished and the only railroad was a short one extending from Vera Cruz to the national capital. Within a single generation this has been all changed, and through the efforts of one man—Porfirio Diaz. Under his wise and beneficent guidance, Mexico has emerged from that state of confusion and anarchy from which she had so long suffered, and now occupies an honored position among the nations of the world. Give Venezuela a statesman and a patriot of the stamp of Garcia Moreno or of Diaz, or of our own Roosevelt, and she, too, from being a comparative waste, will be made to bloom as the rose, and, from being a byword among the peoples of the earth, will be enabled to attain to that commercial and economic eminence which is hers by nature and manifest destiny.