210 Ldle Days in Patagonia. 
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 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 grey, 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 producing 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, to ride away from the valley; and no 
sooner would ‘J climb the terrace and plunge into 
the grey universal thicket, than I would find myself 
as completely alone and cut off from all sight and 
sound of human occupancy as if five hundred instead 
