Strikes over busy goblets thrown With rose-chains cinctured, girl and boy 'Mid laughing screams of love and joy. Such are the scenes that flashing rise, In heavy midnight, when the spheres, Dotted with ruins, draped and laced Amid which-while his sheep around Or browse or drowse, and a moon in the wane On oleander-bordered streams Stretched in his skin cloak by old walls, Through boughs of willow or of lime Upon the shapes of vanished Time. T. I. THE PAMPAS OF PARAGUAY Two things have recently contributed to direct my attention to the South American tropics. One was the sudden irruption into this country of jerked beef. Jerked beef became immediately the prevailing topic of conversation in ten thousand happy homes. It was at first heard of, not seen; the conditions are now reversed-it has been seen, and is no more heard of. The land was covered with rumours concerning jerked beef. Scientific gentlemen examined it, and agents read their flattering accounts to convivial assemblies gathered to taste it, dished up in many subtle ways, and washed down with copious draughts of many wines. Jerked beef in fact was king, as surely as ever cotton was; but his reign, I fear me, has gone by. What would you? Le roi est mort, vive le roi! Another king will reign in its stead. The second cause of my attention to the tropics was the departure of an emigrant ship to that all too sunny region. Ah, me! Many and many are they who have sailed from this green speck of land in the same direction since the day the old Gaedhlic poet sang his simple farewell. "On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sit in woeful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night. When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, "T is a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go, So many of our countrymen have gone to America, Canada, and Australia, these countries, too, are so familiar to us on account of speaking the same language, that we forget there are other lands to which Irish emigrants resort. Yet it is not their fault that we do forget it. Wherever they go, they are sure to make their voice heard through the press. Not to speak of the United States, Canada, and Australia, Panama has its Star and Gazette, and Buenos Ayres its Standard, conducted by Irishmen. The pages of the latter journal tell us that there is more land there in the possession of emigrants from the County Westmeath alone, than is possessed by all the gentry of that county at home. From other sources, too, I learn that the number of Irish there is very considerable. The country is an interesting one, and might well make the exile forget his native land, if that were not against the instincts nature implants in the human breast. In the fairest land, in the pleasantest hours, some scene, a hill, a brook, an accent, the turn of a tune, silence itself, all or any, will suffice to recall the heart to the land of its birth. Were it not for this and some annoyances, occasional and accidental, in the country, the emigrant might consider himself in a terrestrial paradise. The entrance to it, however, is not altogether prepossessing. As he approaches Buenos Ayres, the first thing that strikes him-strangely, but agreeably-is the freshness of the sea water at a considerable distance from the shore. The second thing that impresses him, disagreeably this time, is the fact that the same sea water is occasionally the recipient of defunct horses, whereof it rejects a few, sending them up to decay upon the shore. And, indeed, this disregard for the carcases of animals-occasioned by their plenty and consequent little value-is the most disagreeable fact, to eyes and nose, of the place. But it may be hoped to disappear in the course of a few years. You forget it when you see the brilliant costumes and strange scenery of the country. There is a gaucho flashing in scarlet and white-scarlet Poncho jacket, and short Turkish breeches; underneath them, white, capacious trowsers ending in a fringe. Your vessel is still a quarter of a mile from land, yet he comes galloping for your luggage in his two-horsed cart, though the water is up to his horses' sides. You hesitate to speak to him, as you are almost ignorant of the language. Try your fortune, however, and the odds are you have his answer in right mellow Irish brogue. For it is a fact that many of those flamingly dressed gauchos are natives of Ireland. The Irish, however, are not to be found among these only; they may be discovered in higher ranks too, aye, in the very highest. The air of the place comports with the name Buenos Ayres, "Good Air", especially when the wind veers to the south-west, and blows from the far stretching Pampas, a reviving, refreshing breeze, though sometimes the "pampero" becomes a hurricane. The town of Buenos Ayres appears to a stranger very singularly built. The streets run straight, parallel, and at right angles, the houses being all built in squares (cuadros) or blocks, as the Americans say, of about five hundred feet in extent. The houses are chiefly one-storied, with flat tops for promenade in the cool hours. The streets themselves present a diversified spectacle. Ladies, famed for their beauty, and charming in attire, gauchos, soldiers (Indians, mulattoes, or negroes), dressed in the same costume, and peons, or labourers (these are no slaves), give them a kaleidoscopish appearance. Around the town, the chief vegetation consists of hedges of aloes and cacti, with here and there the rude, leafless branches of the lumber tree, which bears some resemblance to the wintry oak. Orange and peach trees are more agreeable objects, and to be found in plenty all over the level lands of Buenos Ayres. Pigs are fed with the peaches, the wood is burned. The plain looks beautiful, being covered with bright green grass, and the air is very exhilarating. If the visitor be a jerked beef enthusiast, and comes here to see the preparation of his favourite food, he commits a mistake. That flourishes further down the Plate River (Rio de la Plata) on the opposite or northern side, in Monte Video. There the business is in full vigour; so actively, indeed, is it carried on, that one might well incline to vegetarianism, there is so much slaughter on every side. Imagine an enclosure of about two hundred feet square. Three sides of it enclose bullock-pens, the fourth contains a couple of mataderos or slaughterhouses. Out of the pens the animals are being incessantly driven to be caught in the open space by men on horseback, and on foot with lassos-a long rope with a running noose, which being skilfully flung, catches them round the horns. Thus fettered, they are dragged to the fatal sheds, where, instead of the clumsy felling sledge, a man strikes a knife into the spinal marrow of the neck, and instantly the creature falls without a struggle. So quickly is all this done, that some farmers get over a thousand cattle a day thus despatched. The animals being skinned, the flesh is rapidly sliced off, and their hides and meat are conveyed to the saladeros or salt houses, where the latter is piled up between layers of fine white salt, and afterwards dried in the sun. A great deal of this jerked beef was consumed in the Confederate States by the slave population; war breaking out there, the River Plate gentry had to seek another market for their savoury produce. It is, however, generally used in the West Indies and other hot places, as it keeps so well under the burning sun. The River Plata, a hundred and seventy miles wide at its mouth, is formed, at a short distance above Buenos Ayres, by the confluence of two rivers, the Rio Uruguay, and south of it, running nearly parallel, the Rio Paraná. It is up the latter you must proceed going to Paraguay; indeed, when you reach Corrientes, about a fortnight's sail up the rapid river, it takes the name of the Rio Paraguay, the Paraná coming into it at almost right angles. It is this river which is Paraguay's chief, or rather its only outlet, and when Rosas, the usurping dictator of the Argentine Confederation, thought proper to quarrel with Paraguay, he closed the Paraná against their vessels, and so did them incalculable mischief, throwing back their progress for years. Before getting on board, you may, perhaps, like to adventure out of town over the green plain that encircles it. Horses are plenty, and their pace over the pampas is a gallop. The grass is short and smooth. Short, thistly star intersperse it in clusters, though at considerable distances asunder. There are few trees to break the swelling expanse, and these few, poplars, willows, and peaches, which have been planted in the neighbourhood of some dwelling-place. You will meet with bleached bones, though, plentifully enough; sometimes will see enclosures made of them for entrapping living relatives of the beasts, whose relics they are-horses and oxen. Animal life is, indeed, every❤ where. Birds of many kinds, wild ducks, partridges, snipe, curlews, owls, psewits, hawks, and emus abound. In the trees are mud-nests belonging to a chattering thrush-like bird, and pie-like nests of sticks constructed by parrots. You come upon a village, perhaps, and are attracted to the pretty little church. You enter. Everything at first is just as you expected, but, the mass over, the priest turns to address his congregation. You then find, with some surprise, that he is an Irishman, and you will learn soon that this foreign-dressed congregation is Irish also. Many of those gauchos you have met galloping over the plain, royal looking lads, in scarlet and silver-mounted trappings, silver dollar buttons, chains and bridle-bits, are Irishmen, and staunch patriots too. Indeed, our countrymen pullutate there. And now you bid adieu to Buenos Ayres, having got your passport, a permit to ship your luggage, and had both of them checked again, or visé, an annoyance which, it is hoped, the example of France will soon annihilate. The crew of your vessel are as likely to be Italians VOL. I. THIRD SERIES. 22 as anything else, indeed more likely. Over in these countries Garibaldi, I believe, fought his first skirmishes. To enjoy your fare on board, you must accommodate yourself to the taste of garlic, dry biscuits, and poor wine, twice a day. But you may be happy enough to have a provision of dried peaches, or maté. The latter is the general substitnte for tea in these parts, and is so usual that it merits particular notice. Brought over the long sea-waves, there lies in my desk, whilst I write, a maté "pot". Do not run off with the idea that it at all resembles a coffee or tea-pot. It is a pretty little calabash, flattened by nature (like the globe) at both poles, and ornamented by art with figures of flowers and tendrils, dark and purple, on its yellow skin. A round hole, about an inch in diameter, penetrates the ridge of the circumference, around which aperture you can read the inscription designating its use, "ueiala como fas maté". The maté leaves are put into this, boiling water is added, and the infusion being ready, you insert the bulb of a solende reed-tube. The bulb may be of silver, perforated by small holes; in the one beside me, it is a basket-work of fine filaments, to keep out the leaves. Taking the calabash in one hand, and the tube in the other, you suck up the maté until a slight rattle of air in the bulb tells you to cease. The "pot" is then re-filled for another, and thus passes round a whole company. Very sociable-is it not? Ascending the river, you are first struck by observing small islets in motion, floating down. They are composed of interwoven waterplants, which increase rapidly from small beginnings on account of the luxuriance of vegetation, and soon become too massive for their anchors, more especially after rain, when the current is swollen. Again, the ear is startled at the distance of a mile from the shore by the croaking of frogs-musical enough, no doubt, then, but sufficiently alarming when breaking suddenly upon the traveller at close quarters. You'd be inclined to fancy that you had come into unpleasant proximity with a tiger. The shores, as you set out, are low, sandy, and undulating, but when you approach Garcia Island, at the junction of the Paraná and Uruguay, the richness of the vegetation impresses the mind. It is covered with luxuriant clover, peach-trees abound, and European vegetables grow with great rapidity. Here, too, you see the beautiful fuschia-flowered smilax (sephilitica), which is well known in this country and America, on account of preparations from its roots, by the name sarsaparilla. The roots consist of rhizome, termed by our druggists, chumps, rootlets, and root-fibres. The variety imported from this part of the western continent (chiefly from Brazil) comes in bundles of wrinkled rootlets, about the thickness of a quill, without either chump or root-fibres attached. If, instead of coming with us up the Paraná, you went up the Uruguay, you would very quickly arrive at a northern tributary, the Rio Negro, whose banks are so covered with sarsaparilla plants that they have infused their peculiar taste into the stream itself. You must not suppose this portion of the continent devoid of singing |