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 anhour. 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- 
