204 IDLE DAYS IN PATAGONIA 



were actually gazing on it, I could scarcely see it 

 more distinctly; yet other scenes, even those that 

 were beautiful and sublime, with forest, and ocean, 

 and mountain, and over all the deep blue sky and 

 brilliant sunshine of the tropics, appear no longer 

 distinct and entire in memory, and only become 

 more broken and clouded if any attempt is made to 

 regard them attentively. Here and there I see a 

 wooded mountain, a grove of palms, a flowery tree, 

 green waves dashing on a rocky shore nothing 

 but isolated patches of bright color, the parts of 

 the picture that have not faded on a great blurred 

 canvas, or series of canvases. These last are 

 images of scenes which were looked on with won- 

 der and admiration feelings which the Patagon- 

 ian wastes could not inspire but the gray, mo- 

 notonous solitude woke other and deeper feelings, 

 and in that mental state the scene was indelibly 

 impressed on the mind. 



I spent the greater part of one winter at a point 

 on the Kio Negro, seventy or eighty miles from 

 the sea, where the valley on my side of the water 

 was about five miles wide. 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 



