"IDLE DAYS IN PATAGONIA." 207 



on a level, mentally, with the wild animals he preys on, and which in turn 

 sometimes prey on him. If the plains of Patagonia affect a person in this 

 way, even in a much less degree than in my case, it is not strange that 

 they impress themselves so vividly on the mind, and remain fresh in 

 memory, and return frequently, while other scenery, however grand or 

 beautiful, fades gradually away, and is at last forgotten." Again, in 

 describing a winter spent on the Rio Negro, he continues: "The valley 

 alone was habitable, where there was water for man and beast, and a thin 

 soil producing grass and grain ; it is perfectly level, and ends abruptly at 

 the foot of the bank or terrace-like formation of the higher barren plateau. 

 It was my custom to go out every morning on horseback with my gun, 

 and, followed by one dog, to ride away from the valley ; and no sooner 

 would I climb the terrace and plunge into the grey universal thicket, than 

 I would find myself as completely alone and cut off from all sight and 

 sound of human occupancy, as if five hundred instead of only five miles 

 separated me from the hidden green valley and river. So wild and soli- 

 tary and remote seemed that grey waste, stretching away into infinitude, 

 a waste untrodden by man, and where the wild animals are so few that 

 they have made no discoverable path in the wilderness of thorns. . . . 



" Not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but day after day, I returned to this 

 solitude, going to it in the morning as if to attend a festival, and leaving 

 it only when hunger, thirst and the westering sun compelled me. And 

 yet I had no object in goings (Italics the present writer's.) In this last 

 clause we have the key to the mental picture engraved by Patagonia on 

 Hudson's mind. For, as the title of his very readable book, "Idle Days 

 in Patagonia," implies, unlike Darwin, he was an idler, as must become 

 apparent to any one who will take the trouble to read his book. Gifted 

 with no mean literary talent and with no doubt a first-rate knowledge of 

 ornithology, but somewhat deficient in a knowledge of general natural 

 history, he found himself, through an unfortunate accident, compelled to 

 remain for several months in a district not especially rich in ornithological 

 material. Here he spent days, weeks, and even months, dreaming away 

 his time in a most interesting region, adding little to our actual knowl- 

 edge of its recent fauna or flora, and nothing concerning that past life, 

 over the fossilized remains of which he and his horse must have stumbled 

 daily, so abundant are they in the rocks of that region, as he climbed the 

 slope. He spent each day in undisturbed dreams, while lying at ease on 



