^-li Last, Pataooiiia ! 



•3 



out, aud the water at the bows was barely waist 

 deep, we were lowered by means of ropes into the 

 sea, and quickly waded to the shore. 



We were not long in scrambling up the dunes to 

 get a sight of the country beyond. At last, Pata- 

 gonia ! How often had I pictured in imagination, 

 wishing with an intense longing to visit this soli- 

 tary wilderness, resting far off in its primitive and 

 desolate peace, untouched by man, remote from 

 civilization ! There it lay full in sight before me — 

 the unmarred desert that wakes strano^e feelino's 



o o 



in us ; tke ancient habitation of giants, whose foot- 

 prints seen on the sea-shore amazed Magellan and 

 his men, and won for it tlie name of Patagonia. 

 There, too, far away in the interior, was the place 

 called Trapalanda, and the spirit-guarded lake, on 

 whose margin rose the battlements of that mysterious 

 city, which many have sought and none have found. 

 It was not, however, the fascination of old 

 legends that drew me, nor the desire of the desert, 

 for not until I had seen it, and had tasted its 

 flavour, then, and on many subsequent occasions, 

 did I know how much its solitude aud desolation 

 would be to me, what strange knowledge it would 

 teach, and liow^ enduring its effect would be on my 

 spirit. Not these tilings, but the passion of the 

 ornithologist took me. Many of the winged wan- 

 derers with which I had been familiar from child- 

 hood in La Plata were visitors, occasional or 

 regular, from this grey wilderness of thorns. In 

 some cases they were passengers, seen only when 



