2IO Idle Days in Patagonia. 



mountain, and over all the deep blue sky and 

 brilliant sunsbine 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 colour, 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 wonder and 

 admiration — feelings which the Patagonian wastes 

 could not inspire — but the grejr, monotonous soli- 

 tude 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 Rio 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 habit- 

 able, where there was water for man and beast, and 

 a thin soil j^i'oducing grass and grain ; it is per- 

 fectly 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 morn- 

 ing on horseback with my gun, and, followed by 

 one dog, lo ride away from the valley ; and no 

 sooner would 1 climb the terrace and plunge into 

 the grey universal thicket, than I would find myself 

 as comjjletely alone and cut off from all sight and 

 sound of human occupancy as if five hundred instead 



