CHAPTER VIII. 



SNOW, AND THE QUALITY OF WHITENESS. 



IN August, the April of the Argentine poets, we had 

 some piercingly cold weather, followed by a fall of 

 snow. Heaven be praised for it ! for never again, 

 perhaps, shall I see earth transfigured by the breath 

 of antarctic winter. I had spent the night in the 

 village, and it was a strange and weirdly beautiful 

 sight, when, on rising next morning, I beheld roads, 

 housetops, trees, and the adjacent hills, white with 

 a surpassing unfamiliar whiteness. The morning 

 was mild, with a dull leaden sky ; and suddenly, as 

 I stood in the street, the snow began to fall again, 

 and continued for about an hour. Most of that time 

 I spent standing motionless, gazing up into the air, 

 peopled with innumerable large slow-descending 

 flakes : only those of my English readers who, like 

 Kingsley, have longed for a sight of tropical vege- 

 tation and scenery, and have at last had their long- 

 ing gratified, can appreciate my sensations on first 

 beholding snow. 



My visit to Patagonia so far had been rich in ex- 

 periences. One of the first, just before touching its 

 shores, but after the ship had struck on the hidden 

 rocks, was the effect of whiteness as seen in a tumul- 



