Our sojourn in BogotÁ was much briefer than we could have wished it to be. Its intellectual atmosphere impressed us deeply, and the culture and refinement of its people charmed us beyond expression. During our journey, we had visited many places in which we would have desired to tarry longer, had it been possible, but so far no place had so completely captivated us as Colombia’s famous metropolis—no place from which we were so loath to depart.

“What a pity,” we said, “that Colombia and Colombians are not better known in our own country! It would be better for them and better for us.” With special truth can one reiterate of the inhabitants of this little-known republic what Senator Root has said of the people of South America in general:—

“Two-thirds of the suspicion, the dislike, the distrust, with which our country was regarded by the people of South America, was the result of the arrogant and contemptuous bearing of Americans, of people of the United States, for those gentle, polite, sensitive, imaginative, delightful people.”

The Senator, as President Roosevelt’s representative, did much, during his visit to our sister continent, to remove misunderstandings and establish more cordial relations between the United States and Latin America. And the Bureau of American Republics is contributing much towards completing and extending his work. It is, therefore, to be hoped, that soon “the suspicion, the dislike, the distrust” will be eliminated forever and succeeded by an era of mutual respect and indissoluble friendship.

Our luggage—small in amount, be it said—was conveyed from our hotel to the depot, a few blocks distant, by a good-natured Chibcha Indian. He asked for his service the sum of forty dollars, which, to his great delight, was paid promptly and without question. “Muchisimas gracias, mi amo. Que Vd vaya bien!” Many thanks, my master. Farewell! were his parting words, as he passed out of the station with his hat in his hand and a smile lighting up his face.

“Forty dollars for carrying a little luggage a few squares! Why, that,” one would say, “was down-right robbery.” Not at all, when you are accustomed to paying such prices, and we had become quite accustomed to them, ever since we had entered Colombian territory. As a matter of fact, we found the peon’s bill very moderate.

In the beginning, however, it must be confessed that we were surprised at some of the bills presented us for payment. The first one was for the washing of some linen in a town on the Meta. The work was done by an Indian woman, for which a charge was made of two hundred and forty-five dollars. This bill, large as it was, did not frighten us as much as one that Mark Twain tells of in his Innocents Abroad, when during his visit to the Azores, one of his traveling companions was charged some thousands of milreis for a modest repast. We should have paid it without comment, but found that the articles in question had been washed only and not ironed. When we remarked upon this apparent forgetfulness or neglect, the tawny laundress informed us that it was not the custom there for the same person to do both washing and ironing, and referred us to a neighbor of hers as one quite competent to complete the work she had begun. Unfortunately, as it had been raining continuously for several days, and our laundress had no way of drying the things she had washed, except in the sun—which had obstinately refused to appear—and as we were obliged to take our departure without delay, the wearing apparel aforesaid was neither ironed nor dried.

But the washer-woman’s bill, which seems exorbitant, requires an explanation. It was all a mere matter of the rate of exchange, which, in Colombia, during the time of our visit, was ten thousand. That means that the peso—dollar—had a value of just one centavo—one cent. Some years ago the rate of exchange was much higher. Now, however, there is a well-founded hope, that the financial condition of the country will soon be on a more satisfactory basis, and that before many years elapse, it can be put on a gold basis. The present legal tender of the country is paper currency and gold coin. Outside of the large cities one never sees anything but paper money. I have known the peons in several cases to refuse coin because they thought it was counterfeit—so long is it since gold coin has been in circulation.

The present financial condition of the republic is a striking commentary on the havoc wrought by the numerous revolutions that have devastated the country and ruined its credit. One of the most difficult of the many difficult tasks that confront the administration is that of restoring the nation’s credit, and of getting the rate of exchange back to par. It is, however, making a noble effort, and all well-wishers of Colombia trust its endeavors will be crowned with success.

As one may imagine, it is necessary for the traveler to carry with him quite a bulky package of bills in order to live in even the most modest fashion. A mule or a cart was not, however, required to transport our funds, as Hazard, in his work on Haiti, says was indispensable in that ill-fated land, where a hundred dollars in gold was exchanged for several sacks of bills—huge bags—not unlike bundles of rags or waste paper.

To us it was always interesting to hear the peons talk of their fortune of hundreds or thousands of dollars. It seemed to give the poor fellows special satisfaction to deal in large figures and to speak of large sums, as if they were all rising millionaires. The monetary crisis had this redeeming feature, if no other, that it afforded the beggar in the street the pleasure of seeing dollars in his alms where, before the revolution, he would have found only so many cents. The sturdy market women we saw on the way from Caqueza to BogotÁ talked in a most happy way of their prospects of realizing forty dollars a piece for their chickens and fifteen dollars a dozen for their eggs, while their husbands were rejoicing in the thought that they would receive a thousand dollars for a heifer and two thousand or more for a milch-cow. They never used the words “cents”; it was always “pesos”—dollars. Happy people, who find such delight in names and appearances!

There are but few railroads in Colombia, and their total mileage at the time of our visit was less than five hundred miles. Many roads are projected and have been for decades past, but the numerous revolutions have prevented their construction. The one from BogotÁ to FacatativÁ, our first objective point on the way to the Magdalena, is only twenty-five miles in length. There is, however, a well-grounded hope that this can at an early day be connected with the line that is building from Girardot.1 When this shall have been accomplished it will be possible to reach BogotÁ without the long overland ride on horse- or mule-back that has been necessary since the time of Quesada.

But far from regretting the lack of a through train to the Magdalena, we were rather glad that we were obliged to have recourse to a less expeditious mode of locomotion. It required more time, it is true, to make the trip, and was more fatiguing, but it gave us an opportunity of seeing the country to greater advantage and of getting better acquainted with its people. Indeed, the journey down the Cordillera from BogotÁ to Honda was but the proper complement of that from the llanos up to the Sabana that lies at the foot of the nation’s capital. It gave us an opportunity of comparing conditions on the eastern slope of the Oriental Andes with those prevailing on the western, and we have always considered ourselves fortunate in having been able to explore from the saddle the interesting country that lies between the Meta and the Magdalena. As I now think, it was, in many respects, the most delightful and instructive part of our wanderings in South America.

The track and rolling-stock of the Sabana railway are, as might be expected, of the most primitive kind. The roadbed has received little attention, and the cars and engine are scarcely fit for service. But all this can be condoned when one is familiar with the untoward conditions that, for so many years, have militated against improvements of all kinds. The transportation of the rails, cars and locomotives from Cambao, on the Magdalena, to the plateau, when the cart road between the two points was little better than a bridle-path, was in itself a Herculean task, and as we journeyed to Honda, it never ceased to excite our wonder. Great improvements, however, are promised as soon as connection shall be made with the branch, now approaching completion, from Girardot. Then the transportation of heavy freight will be a trifling task in comparison with what it has been hitherto.

The Sabana of BogotÁ resembles somewhat the plain of Caracas except that it is far more extensive than the Venezuelan plateau. Both have been regarded as the beds of lakes that have long since disappeared. Whatever may be said about the existence of a lake in the vale of Caracas, it seems now quite certain that there never was any great body of water, such as has so long been imagined, occupying the region now known as the Sabana de BogotÁ.2 Recent investigations appear to have decided this much-debated question against Humboldt and those who accepted his views regarding this matter.

We were much interested in the haciendas through which the train passed, as well as in the homes of their owners and in the picturesque villages along the road. There were broad acres devoted to the cultivation of wheat, barley, maize and potatoes, and extensive pastures, over which roamed large flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. These cattle, so we fancied, were the lineal descendants of those brought to EspaÑola by Columbus at the time of his second voyage. And the swine we saw—there could be little doubt about it—could claim, as their ancestors, those which Belalcazar had brought with him from Quito, as the hens, that cackled and clucked as we sped by, were the offspring of those carefully guarded by Federmann during his famous expedition from Coro to Santa Fe de BogotÁ.3

Aside from the Humboldt oak, with its majestic crown of ever-green foliage, and the ubiquitous Eucalyptus, there are no trees of any magnitude in the Sabana. Its flora, however, is particularly rich in shrubs and plants. Among them were the beautiful passion flower, Passiflora Antioquensis, blossoming the year round, and a peculiar species of blackberry—Rubus Bogotensis—ever clothed with a vari-colored mantle of snow-white bloom and ripening fruit, realizing Shelley’s idea of the millennium, where

The meadows are carpeted with various species of clover and succulent grasses, and, along the hedges and walls, one finds an endless variety of fuchsias, verbenas, mallows, asters, buttercups, lupines, lilies, lobelias, irises, morning-glories and passion flowers. The last two plants and certain varieties of roses are great favorites in the garden and around the house, as are also violets, pinks, jasmines and heliotropes. We observed several habitations, some of them the humble cots of poor Chibchas, that were almost concealed in magnificent bowers of climbing clematis, passion flowers and morning-glories.

On the eastern slope of Suma Paz, we frequently had occasion to admire the wealth and brilliancy of bloom around some of the homes which we passed, or when we enjoyed the hospitality of their courteous inmates, but nowhere did we see more beautiful floral exhibits than greeted us on the Sabana de BogotÁ.

Much, however, as we were interested in the fauna and flora of this region, and the people who now inhabit it, we found our minds constantly reverting to pre-Colombian times, and picturing to ourselves the condition of this plain and its inhabitants at the period of the arrival of the conquistadores.

When Quesada and his intrepid followers reached this beautiful plateau, they found it inhabited by a tribe of Indians to whom they gave the name Muiscas, because they frequently heard them pronounce this word, or Moscas, a Spanish word, similar in sound, signifying flies, because they said these Indians were as numerous as flies.4

They occupied the tablelands in the central part of New Granada. The territory under the jurisdiction of their zipas—chiefs—was elliptical in form and equaled in area the kingdom of the Netherlands. They numbered about one million inhabitants, and, according to the early chroniclers, they counted no fewer than a hundred and thirty thousand warriors. The number of fighting men was doubtless far below this figure. It seems certain, however, that at the date of the arrival of the Spaniards they were in the apogee of their power, and were making progress towards a condition of culture approaching that of the Aztecs and Incas.

The dominions of the last zipas of BacatÁ extended from Simijaca to Pasca and from Zipacon to the llanos. Although united by ties of language and beliefs, customs and laws, similar in character and revealing a common origin, they formed an aggregation of small states, generally independent, rather than a compact and well-organized commonwealth.

The Chibchas, or Muiscas, were preËminently an agricultural people. They had no domestic animals, except the dog—not even the llama. Their chief articles of food were maize, potatoes5 and quinoa, which the natives of Colombia have long since discarded for rice. Besides these staples they had many other vegetables peculiar to the country and a great variety of luscious and wholesome fruits. They also had game in abundance.

They cultivated cotton, from which they made their clothing, the material of which often exhibited various colored designs. In this respect they were far in advance of the surrounding tribes, who had no more to cover them than have the wildest children of the tropical forest to-day.

Their houses were of wood, with thatched roofs not unlike many of those we saw along our route from the llanos to the Magdalena valley. When the Spaniards arrived they had just begun to use stone in the erection of a few of their buildings, presumably temples, which apparently were never completed.

As might be surmised, their commerce was limited. They bartered to some extent with the neighboring tribes, especially those west of the Magdalena. From these they obtained gold in exchange for salt, emeralds and textile fabrics. With the Chimus of Peru, they were the first to use gold as a medium of exchange. Their currency consisted not of stamped coins, but of disks of the precious metal without any kind of marking. They had a limited intercourse with the people of Quito and had some slight knowledge of the great Inca kingdom farther south.

Regarding the culture of the Chibchas, we can say what the Marquis de Nadaillac says of the people in general—“We know very little.”6 But we know enough to be warranted in affirming that many erroneous notions have long prevailed concerning them, and that the claims that have been made for them as a civilized people have been greatly exaggerated.

According to Duquesne—to whose fanciful theories the great Humboldt unfortunately gave his support—and to the school that for a century made Duquesne’s views their own, the Chibchas were acquainted with the use of the quipus, and had a system of numbers and hieroglyphics and a complicated calendar. Their priests were represented as the depositaries of astrological and chronological science, and as experts in astronomical and meteorological observations. The people were lauded for their advanced knowledge of architecture and praised for their courts of justice. In the temple of Sogamuxi, they would have us believe, were preserved the national annals and the chronicles of their civilization. Their general material progress and intellectual status was commented on as something quite comparable with the best that obtained in Mexico or Cuzco.

We have but two sources of information respecting the much-debated question of Chibcha culture. These are a comparative study of the early chronicles—no one or two of them will suffice—and an examination of the few stone monuments the Chibchas have left us, together with their pictographs, ceramic ware and objects of gold and copper found in their places of sepulture. The chronicles that we must rely on are those left us by Quesada, Castellanos, Padre Simon and Piedrahita, all of which have already been quoted, together with those left us by Padre Bernardo Lugo, Juan Rodriguez Fresle, a son of one of the conquistadores, and Fray Alonso de Zamora, of BogotÁ.

As a result of a critical study of these chronicles and monuments, the distinguished Colombian writer, Don Vicente Restrepo, has demonstrated that most of the claims that have been made for Chibcha culture are utterly devoid of foundation in fact. His conclusions, which can be given in a few words, are:—

“The Chibchas had no stone buildings and their knowledge of architecture was therefore limited to the erection of the simplest structures of wood.

“They had no quipus, like that of the Incas, no alphabet, and no writing of any kind, either figurative, symbolic or ideographic. Neither had they any chronology or archives.

“The petroglyphs and pictographs found in limited7 numbers in various parts of the country, far from recording the migrations and hunts of the aborigines and the cataclysms which they are supposed to have witnessed, are nothing more than rude geometrical designs and fantastic figures which are repeated in the most confused manner, according to the infantile caprice of the one who carved or painted them.”

Concluding his discussion of these meaningless figures, which certain writers have so long insisted were true hieroglyphics, awaiting some Champollion or Rawlinson to decipher, Sr. Restrepo does not hesitate to assert that the rude “attempts at drawing these ill-formed figures of animals, and these pothooks, similar to those traced by an inexperienced child, can reveal nothing to historic science. They never exhibit that order and sequence which are the certain index of genuine writing. They never reproduce even the simplest scenes of Indian life, such for example as a religious ceremony, the chase, or warriors fighting.

“Mute by reason of their origin, and condemned to eternal silence by the unconscious hand that traced them, the magic wand of science will never be able to make them speak.”8

If we accept the classification and definitions of the various grades of culture, as given by Morgan in his great work on Ancient Society,9 as many profound thinkers do, we shall be forced to conclude not only that the Chibchas were not civilized, but that they had not even reached the upper status of barbarism.

Civilization implies the existence of a phonetic alphabet or, at least, of hieroglyphics akin to those of the Egyptians, and the use of these in the production of written records. The Chibchas, as we have seen, had neither an alphabet nor written records of any kind.

Neither had they any knowledge of the process of smelting iron ore. As the use of iron is the chief characteristic of the third, or upper, period of barbarism, the Chibchas, according to Morgan, should be considered as representatives of the middle status of barbarism, like the ZuÑis and the Mayas, or like the lake-dwellers of ancient Switzerland, or the early Britons before they learned the use of iron from their more advanced neighbors in Gaul.10

It took us two hours to make the run from BogotÁ to FacatativÁ, the western terminus of the Sabana railway. Here we took luncheon. For a place that has so long been the centre of traffic between the capital and the Magdalena, the town has no reason to boast of its restaurants or hotels. They are about as poor in every way as could well be imagined. A town in Italy or Switzerland, frequented by so many travelers as FacatativÁ, would have not one but several hostelries where its patrons would have every convenience and comfort. Let us hope that Colombia will soon witness an improvement in this respect, not only in this place but all along the chief lines of travel. It is much needed, and along no route more than that connecting BogotÁ with Honda.

At the time of the conquest, FacatativÁ was a Muisca stronghold, and what are said to be the ruins of an old Indian fortress are still shown to the curious visitor. One may also see some rocks on which are carved certain figures long supposed to be Chibcha hieroglyphics. We have already learned what value is to be ascribed to these and similar inscriptions in other parts of the country.

After luncheon we prepared to start for Chimbe, where we intended to pass the night. We had telegraphed the day before to our arriero to have in readiness the necessary saddle and sumpter mules. They were waiting for us on our arrival and we were much gratified to find that both animals and peons were all that could be desired. Those who have traveled in the Andes know how important it is to have good mules and servants, and how much it adds to the comfort and pleasure of one’s journey.

From the time we had left our launch on the Meta, we had been singularly fortunate in always having good animals and honest, reliable men to take care of them and attend to our wants on the way. To our devoted and watchful muleteers and their assistants we owed much of the enjoyment that was ours during our wanderings over mountain and plain, and we shall always hold their obliging disposition and prompt service in grateful remembrance.

It affords me special pleasure to render them this tribute, as they are often, I have reason to believe, much misunderstood, especially by people who are not familiar with their language, and frequently held responsible for delays and contretemps of which they are in no wise responsible. Judging by our own experience, the arieros and peons of South America are, as a class, far better than they are usually represented and are deserving of more recognition and better treatment than is usually accorded them by those who require their humble but often too poorly recompensed services.

The saddle generally used in the mountains closely resembles the McClellan saddle and is called a galÁpago. For obvious reasons an English hunting saddle—silla—could not be used where the roads are constantly leading up and down steep mountains—bergauf, bergab, as a German traveler phrases it—and where even on a cavalry saddle it is at times extremely difficult for one to retain one’s position.11

The saddle is usually covered by a pellon or shabrack, made either of sheepskin, or horsehair dyed black and neatly braided at the ends. Attached to the saddle are several bags or pockets—bolsas. These are of the greatest convenience for carrying many things necessary on long journeys. In them the natives stow away cheese, cakes of maize, papelon, and the never-forgotten supply of aguardiente, without which a journey of any length is considered impossible.

The stirrups are curiosities. They are usually of brass or bronze in the shape of a shoe, but frequently they are in the form of the basket hilt of a claymore. The stirrups of one of the saddles I used were curiously embossed, and as large as a good-sized bell. But whatever their design, they are admirably adapted for service in the mountains where the paths are so narrow that one is frequently exposed, without such protection, to having one’s feet crushed when his mule approaches too near the rocky wall that flanks one side of the road. The danger is especially great when one meets a herd of cattle or a caravan of pack-mules. Then the rider suddenly finds his mule crushing him against the steep rocks on one side of the path, to avoid being thrown over a precipice which is yawning beneath him on the other side along which the approaching animals pick their way with a skill that is marvelous. We often had reason to be thankful that our feet were protected by these fantastic and cumbersome estribos—stirrups—as otherwise we should have suffered serious bodily injury. Like the leather hoods of wooden stirrups, such estribos also keep the feet dry.

The riding equipment, however, of a Colombian horseman is not complete without huge brass or bronze rowel-spurs—espuelas—and a pair of zamoros—bag-trousers—often made of leather or goatskin. They are not unlike the chaparejos12 of a New Mexican cowboy, and serve as a protection against rain and mud, and the thorns of the shrubs and brush along the wayside.

From FacatativÁ to El Alto del Roble, some miles to the west, the road slightly rises. At the latter point, nearly five hundred feet above BogotÁ, one has a glorious view of the Sabana, of the chain of Suma Paz, and of the Central Cordillera away beyond the Magdalena.

From El Roble—the oak—so named from the number of ever-green oaks seen there, the descent towards Chimbe is marked by quite a steep grade. A good carretera, or carriage road, extends from FactativÁ to Agua Larga, and this much-needed highway is to be prolonged as far as the Magdalena. The present plan is to construct the road in such wise that traction cars can be used on it for the transportation of both freight and passengers, and at the time of our passage the road, under the direction of English engineers, was being pushed forward towards completion with a display of energy that augured well for ultimate success.

Only a few minutes after we began our descent on the western declivity of El Roble we observed a change in the temperature. We were passing from the tierra frÍa to the tierra templada, and a thermometer was scarcely necessary to indicate our rate of progress towards lower altitudes. Aside from the marked change in the atmosphere, there was a corresponding one in the flora.

Near the summit of El Roble we were gratified in finding large patches of strawberries. They were sweet reminders of home, as they were of the same species as our own fragrant Fragaria. These slender mountain runners did not, however, bear the large fruits afforded by our Illinois or Florida plants, but rather the small scarlet, but richly flavored, berries one meets in an uncultivated state in Italy and Russia.

Further on our way we came across another reminder of our own country. This time it appeared in the form of long, dark-gray tufts and festoons of that curious epiphyte—Tillandsia usneoides—popularly known in the Gulf States as Spanish moss and in Jamaica as old man’s beard. The natives in Colombia call it barba de palo—tree-beard—a much more picturesque epithet than any of those mentioned, and another one of countless instances of the wonderful faculty the Indian has of giving expressive names to the objects that specially strike his fancy.

As we reached a still lower level, our attention was arrested by the beauty and luxuriance of the palms and tree ferns that graced our path. The fern trees were as remarkable for their size as for the delicacy of their plume-like fronds. The trunks of some of them were twelve to fifteen feet high and the leaves of their wondrous crowns—like veritable leaves of emerald gauze—were at times as long as the trunk was high. Gazing at these bizarre forms of vegetable life, with their dark, rough, leaf-scarred trunks, so unlike those of surrounding trees, we could easily imagine ourselves in a forest of those giant paleozoic SigillariÆ and Lepidodendrons that contributed so largely towards the formation of the lower coal measures.

We never made any attempt to enumerate the divers species of palms that were ever in view from the paramo to the ocean. But wherever we saw them, whether on the elevated Andean plateau or in the humid valleys of the Orinoco and the Magdalena, they were for us, as they were for LinnÆus, “the princes of the vegetable world.” Decked with a mantle of eternal youth, with smooth, straight trunks like the marble shafts of Athens or Palmyra, they were not only the glory of forest and savanna, but they were also for us, as for Martius, a symbol of immortality.

At Agua Larga our road bifurcated, the new and better branch veering off to the right at a slight angle, and the old one continuing with a similar turn to the left. Although a bright young seÑorita, who happened to be near the parting of the ways, declared that the old road was the one that led to Chimbe, our objective point, we chose the new one, and for the first time since we had left the Meta, we went astray. We did not discover our error until we had gone several miles, when an old man, who was repairing his humble cot by the wayside, corroborated the seÑorita’s information.

There was then nothing left for us but to retrace our steps. The mistake was quite a blow to the topographical instinct of one of our party, who had, during our long trip, particularly prided himself on the unerring indications of his organ of locality, which rendered, he said, the assistance of a guide superfluous. At the same time, it was quite trying to the patience of all of us, as we were tired, hungry, and wished to arrive at Chimbe before sundown. It was now quite evident that we could not possibly reach our destination before nightfall. We then realized to our sorrow the truth of Balboa’s words, when writing to the King of Spain—”Llega el hombre hasta donde puede y no hasta donde quiere”—One goes as far as one can and not as far as one wishes to go. And, recalling what the seÑorita had told us, we had likewise a forcible reminder of the verity of Sancho Panza’s saying: “Though a woman’s counsel isn’t worth much, he that despises it is no wiser than he should be.”

After getting back to the bifurcation of the road, we found that the older branch, which we should have taken, was little better than a rough, rocky stairway, the steps of which had been rendered extremely slippery by a heavy rainfall a few hours before. C., our dashing and debonair cavalier, was still suffering from the effects of this downpour, for having lost his waterproof sombrero, specially designed for travel in the tropics, he had nothing left but a light straw hat, which afforded the head no more protection than a sieve.

Truth to tell, he was suspected of intentionally discarding his waterproof headgear, as, in his estimation, it did not comport with the dignity of a caballero who would trace his lineage back to one of the noblest grandees of Spain, and who, during his journey from Trinidad, had been the recipient of special attention from young and old as well. He seemed to be the special favorite of well-to-do matrons, particularly in the towns and cities in which our sojourn was somewhat protracted. Was it that they would fain have seen in the handsome young traveler a prospective son-in-law? Not being a mind reader, I must leave the question unanswered. As a veracious narrator of occurrences by the way I can only state facts and let the reader draw his own conclusions.

But what a road it was, that now lay between us and Chimbe! To us, in the declining rays of the setting sun, it appeared like a cobblestone track after it had passed through a dozen earthquakes and had then been set at an angle of forty-five degrees with the horizon.13 Even our mules, which were usually prepared for any kind of a path where they could find a foothold, frequently balked at the more difficult sections of this much-neglected highway. Comparing the part we were now traversing with the more improved road we had left at Agua Larga, we could not but recall the words of an Irish engineer, regarding certain highland roads, as recorded in Scott’s A Legend of Montrose:—

And yet this was the camino real, the royal highway from the Magdalena to the national capital. President Reyes was doubtless right when he publicly stated, some years ago, that it was now in a worse condition than it was before the War of Independence.

But it was also, and this afforded us some compensation for our discomfort, the Muisca trail—the same that the subjects of the Zipa of BacatÁ and those of the Caciques of Hunsa and Sugamuxi made use of during their bartering expeditions to the tribes beyond the Magdalena. Along this trail they, for generations, carried their stores of salt, textile fabrics and emeralds, and brought back, in exchange for them, from the placers of what is now known as Antioquia, those treasures of gold that so excited the cupidity of the conquistadores, and which, by many of them, were considered as an adequate reward for all the hardships they had endured to secure their possession.

Finally, after a long, tiresome breakneck ride over that “royal” but infinitely rugged road—

We arrived at Chimbe where, fortunately, we found an appetizing repast, and what we were then willing to consider clean and comfortable beds, awaiting us.

Early the next morning, after a refreshing sleep, we were again in the saddle and on our way to Guaduas, where we purposed spending the night. After a brisk ride of a few hours through a picturesque country, we reached the town of Villeta, situated in a charming and fertile valley. Here we had a hasty breakfast and were then on our way up the prolonged and precipitous slopes of Cune and Petaquero.

The Muisca trail, like the path we followed from the llanos to the Sabana de BogotÁ, was to us an interesting example of the manner in which the Indians traced out their roads. Having neither blasting powder nor dynamite, they were perforce obliged to go around the rocks that were in their way. But in spite of this, owing to their thorough familiarity with the country, they always succeeded in finding the shortest routes from one point to another. They made it a rule, however, never to get far away from a water supply, and, for this reason, their roads nearly always kept close to the water courses of the regions through which they passed. The conquistadores, who had to be always on the alert against the Indians, and who took every precaution against surprise and ambuscade, avoided swamps and lowlands, and kept rather to the commanding ridges of the country on their line of march. As a consequence, the best roads in Colombia to-day are those traced out by the old Muisca traders and by Quesada in the north and Robledo, Almaguer and Belalcazar in the west and south.

On our way to Guaduas from Chimbe, we observed a number of small plantations of sugar cane, and near by there was usually a trapiche, a primitive contrivance for extracting the juice from the cane. It consisted of a thatched shed under which was a cumbersome, creaking machine consisting essentially of three vertical cylinders of wood which were kept in motion by a span of mules or a yoke of oxen driven by a boy. The cane was fed into the machine by a couple of women, and the juice was received into a wooden trough. From this it was transferred into a boiler, if panela—crude sugar—was desired. More frequently, however, it was conveyed to a still, in order to be converted into aguardiente, a crude distillate, rich in alcohol, of which the natives, the country over, consume large quantities.

But fond as the inhabitants are of aguardiente, and guarapo, the fermented juice of the sugar cane, or a mixture of sugar and water which has undergone fermentation, the most popular drink, especially among the poorer classes, is chicha. This is to the greater part of South America what pulque is to Mexico and beer to Germany—the national beverage. It has been so from time immemorial. Chicha was as much esteemed by the Muiscas, before the arrival of the Spaniards, as it is to-day; for then, as now, no festivity or celebration was considered complete without a liberal supply of this enlivening potation.

Padre Rivero, referring to the love of drink, especially of chicha, among the Indians, says, “Drink is their life, their glory, and the acme of their happiness.” The earlier historians have much to say of the frightful orgies, as the result of over-indulgence in chicha, that obtained among all classes on the occasions of national festivals, or the celebration of a victory over an enemy. It is said to be used to excess to-day, as much as in former times, but of this I cannot speak from personal observation. All the way from Villavicencio to Honda, we saw countless estancos and estanquitos—licensed bars—of the type of our lowest dram shops, where chicha is the principal drink sold; but, although we saw many people, men and women, congregated about these places, we never saw a single case of drunkenness or any serious disturbance of any kind. This was not because no one had been drinking while we were present. All had been imbibing more or less freely, but they seemed so accustomed to the use of their favorite beverages that they were no more affected by them than are the people of France and Italy by the drinking of the wines of their respective countries.15

From what, the reader will ask, and how, is chicha prepared? It is made from Indian corn and by an extremely simple process. It is, indeed, the same method as was employed before the conquest.

First of all, the grains of maize are moistened by water and allowed to sprout, just as barley is treated in the manufacture of beer. After this the product is dried and roasted in a large earthen jar. Then by means of a piedra de molar—a kind of crude mortar—like the metate, which the Mexican uses for reducing maize to meal, the grains are ground, and then put into hot water and allowed to ferment. As a result of germination and the action of hot water, the starch of the maize is converted into sugar. This, by fermentation, is next changed into alcohol, which gives to chicha its intoxicating property. This is less noxious than that which is produced by boiling the maize and adding to the chicha thus obtained a certain amount of panela, or molasses.16

When properly prepared, it is an agreeable and wholesome drink, not unlike cider or light beer. I have frequently seen it used at meals by the best families—people who would never think of serving at their table a harmful or intoxicating beverage. BÜrger, I know, condemns it, because he asserts it is rich in fusel oil, and because, he maintains, it has a brutalizing effect on those who use it as a beverage. Not having seen a reliable chemical analysis of chicha, I am not prepared to accept his view of the subject. The same writer, it may be remarked, decries cassava bread, because, he will have it, it is composed for the most part of cellulose.

On our way from Villeta to Guaduas, we were obliged to pass two lofty mountain crests, El Alto del Trigo and El Alto del Raizal. It was then again for the hundredth time that we admired the sagacity of the mule, and the importance of having one that is familiar with service in the mountains. If the camel deserves the epithet—“ship of the desert,” the mule is entitled to being considered the aeroplane of the mountains. For the way he scales the highest peaks, almost rivaling the condor in the altitudes he is capable of attaining, and the manner in which he, with perfect security, glides along the narrow, dizzy paths of the precipitous mountain slopes, is a matter of ever-increasing wonder. We never, I confess, became quite reconciled to the habit all mules have of keeping on the side of the path next to the precipice—except when they meet animals coming from the opposite direction, when they instinctively crowd closely to the over-hanging mountain—but we soon learned that the mule had as much care for his safety as we had for our own, and then the danger, we at first so much dreaded, became more apparent than real. It is curious, but a fact, that a mule left to himself will almost always follow in the footsteps made by his predecessor, and no persuasion can induce him to deviate from the beaten path. So regular and so constant is his pace that one could almost determine in advance the number of steps he will make from one point to another.

He rarely stumbles and still more rarely does he fall. And no matter how deep may be the chasm along whose brink he carefully feels his way, he never suffers from vertigo nor makes a false step. Certain travelers tell us blood-curdling stories about their mules losing their balance and plunging headlong into dark, deep ravines, but during all my travels among the Andes, I never heard of such a thing and, from what I know of the supreme carefulness of the mule when in dangerous places, such an accident seems most unlikely. If he is overloaded, he files a protest by lying down and refusing to rise until relieved of a part of his burden. Occasionally, too, when he reaches a suitable level spot, he may take it into his head to have a roll, and he incontinently proceeds to gratify this inclination before his rider is aware of his intention.

I recall particularly how disconcerted and disgusted C. was on one occasion, when his mule, on arriving at a specially dusty place in the road, lay down without giving the slightest notice of his purpose and proceeded to take a roll, before his rider was able to extricate himself from his uncomfortable position. For a proud caballero who, when he happened to be the cynosure of a group of admiring seÑoritas and faded dames of quality, would fain pose as a scion of Castilian nobility, this was an indignity that merited condign punishment. The consequence was that whenever, thereafter, C. noticed a suspicious movement in his mount, he forthwith proceeded to ply him with a tough, pliable rod from a coffee bush, which had the effect of distracting, at least temporarily, the mule’s attention to matters of greater moment.

Among the many objects that were to us a source of constant wonder and delight in the tropics were the butterflies. We met them in countless species in the most unexpected places, especially during our journeyings in the lower altitudes. Here we found them of the most brilliant hues and of every color of the spectrum. In some districts, as for instance between the Nevada de Santa Marta and the sea, there are at times clouds of them, and their number is then comparable only with the millions of medusÆ that people certain parts of the ocean. At times owing to their prodigious numbers and their gorgeous colors, one could, without a great stretch of the imagination, fancy one’s self gazing at fluttering bits of a shattered rainbow. The largest and most beautiful is the Morpho Cypris, having an expanse of wing of fully six inches, a bright cobalt-blue above, and ocellated underneath.

According to Hettner,17 the people around Muso, where the celebrated emerald mines are located, will have it that there is a mysterious relationship between the mineral emeralds buried in the earth and “animal emeralds” that flit through the air. How like the fancy of the aborigines of Trinidad—that the glittering colibris formerly occurring in such numbers in that island were the souls of departed Indians!

Quite rivaling the butterflies in splendor and adornment are the beauteous humming birds that are met with from ocean level to mountain summit. Poets and naturalists have essayed in vain to portray their marvelous richness of coloring and their magic evolutions as they dart from flower to flower, or balance themselves above some bright fragrant corolla while drawing from it its precious nectar. As well might the painter try to transfer to canvas the glories of the setting sun as to copy the iridescent hues of such glowing mites of the feathered tribe as the Ruby Throat or the Fiery Topaz. Truly, they as well as the noted paradiseines of New Guinea should come under the expressive designation of birds of Paradise.18

After a hard day’s ride we reached Guaduas just as the sun had dropped behind the mountain to the west. Guaduas in Spanish signifies bamboos, and the town was given this name on account of the large number of these giant, tree-like grasses that formerly grew in and about the place. Even now numerous clumps of bamboo may be seen here, especially along the many water courses which intersect the delightful valley in which the town is located.

It is really remarkable for how many purposes the bamboo is used in the equatorial regions. It is employed in building houses, bridges, rafts, fences, for making planks, beams, rafters, bedsteads, benches, tables, buckets and small vessels for holding molasses, aguardiente and other fluids, and for various other domestic utensils too numerous to mention. Indeed, to the poorer classes of the Colombian Andes, it is almost as useful as is the banana plant to the native of Uganda, who contrives to get from it everything he uses except meat and iron.

In the plaza of the town there is a monument erected to the patriotic heroine, Policarpa Salavarrieta, who was shot in BogotÁ during the War of Independence, by order of the viceroy, for the part she took in assisting those who were fighting against the mother country. Throughout Colombia her memory is held in benediction, and the story of her tragic death has been a favorite theme for poet and historian as well.

Our first view of Guaduas, in its charming setting of perennial verdure, illumined by the crimson glow of the setting sun, was a picture of surpassing charm. It bodied forth all the tranquillity, verdancy and loveliness which Humboldt found in Ibague than which

The spell was broken, however, when we entered the town. We then found to our regret that it was another of so many instances where

So favorably situated and with so agreeable a climate, it could easily be made one of the most delightful places of residence in the republic. Let us hope that this is what it shall be in the approaching dawn of a new era.

Before leaving BogotÁ, we had been told by a noted English traveler to be on the lookout for a remarkable view towards the west, from the summit of El Alto del Sargento. “Be sure not to miss it,” he said, “for from that point you will behold one of the most magnificent panoramas in the world.” We were at first inclined to regard this statement as the usual exaggeration of the tourist, but were, nevertheless, eager to contemplate a prospect so famed for beauty and sublimity.19

In order to reach the crest of the mountain, before the clouds gathered about El Sargento, which usually occurs about midday, we made an early start from our posada, where we had found commodious and fairly comfortable quarters, and were soon on our way up the last of the Serranias—mountain ridges—that separated us from the Magdalena valley.

It was about eleven o’clock when we arrived at the summit of El Sargento. We had just rounded a tree-covered eminence, that concealed the view towards the west, when all of a sudden, there burst upon our vision, what was, to me at least, the most superb spectacle I had ever contemplated. C. and I instinctively stood still in silent rapture. As the picture appeared to us, it surpassed by far all that had been said in its praise. Not even half the truth had been told. Our emotion was too great for words, and, as we paused in mute admiration, one of us at least recalled a similar experience enjoyed by three other travelers in the Guadarrama mountains of Spain. It is thus recorded in Longfellow’s The Spanish Student:20

In the foreground beneath our feet, was the wooded slope of El Sargento. In the distance, near the mountain’s base, were the picturesque towns of San Juan and Ambalema. Further on, like an immense opalescent band, was the meandering Magdalena. Beyond it were the broad plains of Mariquita, which extended as far as the foothills of the Central Cordillera. Over and above these, veiled in an azure haze, and piercing the clouds, were the snow-crowned mass of Ruiz and the Mesa de Herveo, and slightly to the left, but towering above all the neighboring peaks, was Tolima, the giant of the Colombian Andes.21

But it was not merely the physical features just mentioned, that produced the admirable picture that held us spellbound. It was the marvelous combination of light and shade, the position of the sun in the heavens, and the strange optical illusions caused by the bright and fleecy clouds that constantly swept over the landscape. These factors gave rise to an ever-changing perspective, and at times, exaggerated distances and magnitudes in the most extraordinary manner. Each change developed a new picture and each one was, if possible, more beautiful than that which it replaced. It seemed as if the genius of the Andes wished to give us, as we were leaving his domain, a series of dissolving views on a stupendous scale. View succeeded view with kaleidoscopic rapidity, all distinguished by color-schemes of supreme delicacy and splendor. At one time we caught a glimpse of a cloud-grouping that recalled Raphael’s Disputa. Perhaps in his Umbrian home Nature had gladdened the great artist’s soul with a similar view. Perhaps he had caught it from some lofty peak of the Apennines while gazing at the apparition of the morning sun from beneath the blue waters of the Adriatic.

Who can tell? What we do know is that he has reproduced in the exquisite creations of his transcendent genius just such cloud-effects as rejoiced our vision on that memorable day when we bade adieu to the Eastern Cordilleras. Never before had mountain scenery occasioned us keener delight. Only once before had it been my privilege to contemplate a vista at all approaching the one that unfolded itself before us in the picturesque valley of the Magdalena. That was long years ago, as I stood on the summit of Mt. Parnassus. It was a balmy morning in summer. “Rosy-fingered dawn” was just making her appearance beyond the plain where Troy once stood, and was hastening to gladden by her smile the islands of the Ægean and the one-time famous land of Hellas. Then I beheld, spread out before me, the greater part of Greece, together with the countless islands that engirdle it. It was a panorama which I then thought was unequaled in the wide world. But beautiful, sublime, glorious as it undoubtedly was, it has since yielded the palm to the unrivaled vista that greeted us from the summit of El Sargento.

“How Turner and Ruskin,” we exclaimed, “would have reveled in such scenic splendor! How it would have delighted the heart of Claude Lorrain, the painter of idyllic scenes and the master of aerial perspective! What ecstatic joy would not Gaspard and Nicholas Poussin, Ruysdael and Corot, have experienced in the presence of such exuberant vegetation, such sparkling streams and fleece-like clouds, such grandiose mountains with their spotless mantles of eternal snow!”

And how such a spot as El Sargento would have appealed to the esthetic soul of St. Benedict or to such lovers of wild nature as St. Bruno, or St. Francis, the poverello of Assisi! Had they found such a place, it would undoubtedly have been chosen as a site for a temple, like our Lady of the Angels, or a monastic retreat like that of Monte Casino or the Grande Chartreuse.22

We were still under the spell of the matchless pictures engraved on our memories long after we had started on our way down the mountain. Before we had realized it, we had passed from the tierra templada to the tierra caliente. We were again in the dense and luxuriant forests of the lowlands—in a region of perpetual summer, like unto that which we had left behind us in the valleys of the Meta and the Orinoco. We had left the habitat of the coffee plant and the oak and were now in the territory of the cacao and the tolu tree, the vanilla vine and the moriche palm. Far above and behind us, on lofty mountain peaks where sunbeams “glide apace with shadows in their train,” were the favorite haunts of the fleet and sporting Oreades. Our path was now through a dense, gloomy forest where Silence and Twilight,

It was in such a sombre forest as this, we fancied, where, under the influence of a fertile soil, perpetual warmth and humidity, the teeming earth, in later geologic time, fed the countless monsters that depended on her bounty. It was amid such surroundings that they were wont to hold high carnival, or engage in that struggle for existence which resulted in the survival of the fittest, until finally all were swept away by some fatal agency of which we know so little. Had we seen a megatherium or a mylodon or a megalonyx crossing our path, or observed a mastodon pushing his bulky form through the dense underbrush; had we seen a screaming pterodactyl passing over our heads, or beheld a giant iguanodon floundering in the morass by the wayside, or browsing on the succulent crowns of the Mauritia flexuosa, we should have regarded it all as in perfect keeping with our environment.

Our reveries were suddenly disturbed by the soft, dulcet notes of the tiple. Only a short distance ahead of us, reclining against a mango tree, was an amorous young mestizo, who was fondly gazing on his dusky querida, while thrumming his instrument. She, during the serenade24 of her ardent suitor, sat on the door-sill of a bamboo dwelling with a palm-thatched roof, having seemingly no thought beyond satisfying the cravings of two little nude, paunchy, bananniverous urchins, apparently her brother and sister—Pablo and Julia by name—who, like ebony statuettes, were standing at her knee and clamoring for another banana from a bunch suspended from a rafter above the cabin door.

Farther on was another cabin, from which issued coarser notes of shouts and laughter. It was a chicheria, and the chicha there served was evidently the cause of the good nature and general merriment that prevailed. We then discovered that we were on the outskirts of a small pueblo, just across the river from the goal of our day’s journey. Our long, yet delightful ride across the oriental Andes was at an end. Crossing a steel suspension bridge, the noblest structure of the kind in the republic—which here spans Colombia’s great waterway—we were in Honda, the head of navigation for the lower Magdalena.