take a hearty drink of the delicious cool liquid. A Boliviano from Tupiza, who was travelling with us for company, warned me against such a rash act as drinking cold water at this altitude. I had noticed that no one in this region ever touches cold water, and I thought the universal prejudice against it was founded on a natural preference for alcohol. So I laughingly enjoyed my cup of cold water and assured him that there could be no harm in it. An hour later we reached Laja Tambo, a wretched little poste, standing alone on the edge of a tableland twenty miles from Potosí. The altitude was about thirteen thousand feet. The sun had been very warm, and soon after alighting on the rough stone pavement of the inn yard, I arranged the thermometers so as to test the difference in temperature between sun and shade. The temperature in the sun at noon was 85° F. In the shade it was 48° F. Scarcely had I taken the readings when I began to feel chilly. Hot tea followed by hot soup and still hotter brandy and water failed to warm me, notwithstanding the fact that I had unpacked my bag and put on two heavy sweaters. A wretched sense of dizziness and of longing to get warm made me lie down on the warm stones of the courtyard. I grew rapidly worse, and was soon experiencing the common symptoms of soroche, puna, or mountain sickness. The combination of vomiting, diarrhœa, and chills was bad enough, but the prospect of being ill in this desolate poste, twenty miles from the nearest doctor, with nothing better than the usual accessories of a Bolivian tambo, was infinitely worse. Somehow or other, I managed to persuade Fermin to saddle and load the animals and put me on my mule, where I was determined to stay until we should reach Potosí.

The last thing to do before leaving the tambo was to pay the bill, and this I proceeded to do in the Bolivian paper currency which I had purchased in Tupiza. Alas, one of the bills was on a bank situated two hundred and fifty miles away in La Paz, a bank, in fact, in which the postillon did not have much confidence. The idea of having a servile Quichua postillon decline to receive good money was extremely irritating, and I tried my best, notwithstanding my soroche, to force him to take it. He persisted and I was obliged to find another bill in my wallet. I suppose my hand trembled a little with chill or excitement and in taking out the bill I partly tore it.

This would not have mattered had the tear been in the middle, but it was nearer one end than the other and the Indian refused to accept it. I had no other small bills and was at a loss to know what to do. In the meantime, Fermin and the pack-mules had left the inclosure of the tambo and started for Potosí while Mr. Smith was just outside of the gate waiting for me. So I rolled up the sound bill which the Indian had declined to receive, gave it to him, and while he was investigating it, made a dash for the road. He was too quick for me, however, and gripped my bridle. Exasperated beyond measure, I rode him against the wall of the tambo and made him let go long enough to allow me to escape. It seemed on the whole a lawless performance, although the bank-note was perfectly good. I fully expected that he would follow us with stones or something worse, but as he was only a Quichua he accepted the inevitable and we saw no more of him.

In the face of a bitterly cold wind we crossed the twenty-mile plateau that lies between Laja Tambo and the famous city of Potosí. On the plain were herds of llamas feeding, but these did not interest us as much as the conical hill ahead. It was the Cerro of Potosí, the hill that for two hundred and fifty years, was the marvel of the world. No tale of the Arabian Nights, no dream of Midas, ever equalled the riches that flowed from this romantic cone. Two billion ounces of silver is the record of its output and the tale is not yet told.

Rounding the eastern shoulder of the mountain, we passed several large smelters, some of them abandoned. Near by are the ruins of an edifice said to have been built by the Spaniards to confine the poor Indians whom they brought here by the thousands to work in the mines. The road descends a little valley and runs for a mile, past the ruins of hundreds of buildings. In the eighteenth century, Potosí boasted a population of over one hundred and fifty thousand. Now there are scarcely fifteen thousand. The part of the city that is still standing is near the ancient plaza, the mint, and the market-place.

Our caravan clattered noisily down the steep, stony streets until we reached the doors of the Hotel Colon where an attentive Austrian landlord made us welcome, notwithstanding the fact that one of the party was evidently quite ill. I could not help wondering whether an American hotel-keeper would have been so willing to receive a sick man as this benighted citizen of Potosí. The paved courtyard was small, but the rooms on the second floor were commodious and so much better than the unspeakably forlorn adobe walls of Laja Tambo, that I felt quite willing to retire from active exploration for a day or two. Fortunately, I fell into the hands of a well-trained Bolivian physician, who knew exactly what to do, and with his aid, and the kind nursing of Fermin and Mr. Smith, I was soon on my feet again.

CHAPTER X

POTOSÍ

We found the Government House, or Prefectura, to be a fine old building dating back to colonial days. Probably the most interesting person that has ever occupied it was General William Miller, that picturesque British veteran who fought valiantly through all the Peruvian Wars of Independence, receiving so many wounds that he was said to have been “honeycombed with bullets.” At the end of the wars he was appointed Prefect of Potosí, and it was during his incumbency that the great liberator Simon Bolivar made his visit. There is a vivid description of it in Miller’s “Memoirs.” When Bolivar arrived in sight of the far-famed mountain, the flags of Peru, Buenos Aires, Chile, and Colombia were unfurled on its summit. As he entered the town, twenty-one petards were exploded on the peak, an aërial salute “that had a very singular and imposing effect.” “Upon alighting at the Government House, under a grand triumphal arch, decorated with flags, the reception of His Excellency was according to the Hispanic-American taste. Two children, dressed as angels, were let down from the arch as he approached, and each pronounced a short oration! Upon entering the grand saloon, six handsome women, representing the fair sex of Potosí, hailed the arrival of His Excellency, crowned him with a wreath of laurel, and strewed flowers, which had been brought from a great distance for the occasion.” This was followed by seven weeks of bull-fights, grand dinners, balls, fireworks, illuminations, and other signs of public rejoicing, which would seem to have surfeited even a person so fond of pomp and adulation as the great liberator.

Opposite the Government House, on the east side of the plaza, is a curious many-arched arcade which incloses a new plaza, the work of an ambitious prefect. The tall column surmounted by a statue, that stands as the only ornament in the new plaza, once stood in the centre of the old, but was moved to its new position by the Prefect who decided that his work would be incomplete unless properly graced by a monument.

On a corner of the new plaza is Potosí’s only bookshop. Judging by the stock in trade, the principal customers are school children and lawyers. The book trade was dull when we were there, but considerable interest was shown in other departments of the store where toys and picture post cards were on sale.

Near by is the “University” where second-rate secondary instruction is given to poor little boys who sit on damp adobe seats in badly-lighted, foul-smelling rooms. It was once a convent, but the church connected with it has long since been transformed into a theatre. The only attractive thing about the “University” is the charming old convent garden where rare old flowers still try to bloom.

Opposite the “University” is the club. Here there are billiard tables (it is really remarkable how many billiard tables one finds scattered all over South America, even in the most inaccessible places) and a bar. The custom of serving a little felt mat with each drink is resorted to, and when a member chooses to stand treat, he goes about and gathers up all the mats in sight and takes them to the bar where he cashes them with his own money, or some that he has recently won. The bar was well patronized. And no one is to blame but the climate, which is the worst in South America.

Although Potosí is in the Tropics, the highest recorded temperature here in the shade on the hottest day ever known, was 59° F. The city is nearly thirteen thousand five hundred feet above the sea, almost as high as Pike’s Peak. Every afternoon cold winds sweep down through the streets striking a chill into one’s very marrow. A temperature of 22° F. is not unknown, yet none of the houses have stoves or any appliances (except soup) for warming their shivering inhabitants. As the prevailing temperature indoors is below 50° F., almost every one wears coats and hats in the house as much as outdoors, or even more so, for a brisk walk of a block or two at this altitude makes one quite warm, and in the middle of the day the sun is hot.

Wherever we wandered in this fascinating city, our eyes continually turned southward to the Cerro, the beautifully colored cone that raises itself fifteen hundred feet above the city. It is impossible to describe adequately the beauty of its colors and the marvellous way in which they change as the sun sinks behind the western Andes. I hope that some day a great painter will come here and put on canvas the marvellous hues of this world-renowned hill. Pink, purple, lavender, brown, gray, and yellow streaks make it look as though the gods, having finished painting the universe, had used this as a dumping-ground for their surplus pigments. In reality, the hand of man has had much to do with its present variegated aspect, for he has been busily engaged during the past three hundred years in turning the hill inside out. Much of the most beautifully colored material has been painfully brought out from

the very heart of the hill through long tunnels, in man’s effort to get at the rich veins of silver and tin which lie within.

The discovery of silver at Potosí was made by a llama driver about the middle of the sixteenth century. It was soon found that the mountain was traversed by veins of extremely rich ore. After the gold of the Incas had been gathered up and disposed of, Potosí became the most important part of all the Spanish possessions in America. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, when New York and Boston were still undreamed of, Potosí was already a large and extremely wealthy city. It attracted the presence of hundreds of Spanish adventurers including many grandees. In short it had taken on all the signs of luxury that are common to big mining camps. Grandees in sumptuous apparel rode gayly caparisoned horses up and down the stony streets, bowing graciously to charming ladies dressed in the most costly attire that newly-gotten wealth could procure. On feast days, and particularly on great national holidays, like the King’s birthday, elaborate and expensive entertainments were given.

If it were not for the great expanse of ruins and the very large number of churches, it would be difficult to realize to-day that for over a century this was the largest city in the Western Hemisphere. The routes which led to the Bolivian plateau became the greatest thoroughfares in America. Money flowed more freely than water. In fact, the Spaniards found great difficulty during the dry season in supplying the city with sufficient water to use in washing the ore and in meeting the ordinary needs of a large population. Consequently, they went up into the hills above the city and built, at great expense, a score of dams to hold back the water that fell during the rainy season and preserve it for the dry.

Immediately following the Wars of Independence and the consequent opening of the country to foreign capital, a wild mining fever set in among London capitalists. Greedy and ignorant directors took advantage of the cupidity of the British public to enrich themselves, while incidentally working the mines of Potosí with disproportionately expensive establishments. So eager was the public to take stock in Potosí that shares which at the outset were quoted at 75 or 80, rose incredibly in the short space of six weeks. Some of them went up above 5000. As was to be expected, this speculative fever was followed by a panic which ruined not only the stockholders but those unfortunates like Edmund Temple, who had gone to Potosí in the employ of one of the wildcat companies, and those South Americans that had honored their drafts on London.

Then followed a long period of stagnation. But as railroads came nearer and cart-roads began to multiply, transportation became cheaper and new enterprises sprang up.

Any one is at liberty to secure a license from the proper authorities to dig a mine in the side of the mountain, provided he does not interfere with the property of someone else. The records show that since the Cerro was first discovered licenses have been issued for over five thousand mines. It is easy to imagine what a vast underground labyrinth exists beneath those many-colored slopes. Most of the openings, however, have been closed by avalanches of refuse from mines higher up the hill.

One day I was invited to visit several new mines that had recently been opened by a Chilean Company. In one mine, at an altitude of about fifteen thousand feet, I undertook to crawl into the depths for five hundred yards in order to see a new vein of silver ore that had recently been encountered. The exertion of getting in and out again at that altitude was terrific, yet the miners did not appear to feel it. They wear thick knitted caps which save their heads from the bumps and shield them from falling rocks. Their knees are protected by strong leather caps. Their feet they bind in huge moccasins. Those that carry out the ore frequently wear leather aprons tied on their backs. The workmen are a sordid, rough-looking lot who earn and deserve very good wages. Sometime ago when tin was higher than it is now, a large number of new mines were opened and unheard-of prices were paid for labor. Now that the price of tin has fallen, it is extremely difficult to get the Indians to accept a lower scale of wages. Consequently, most of the new mines have had to be closed.

In the old days, the tin was discarded as the eager Spanish miners thought only of the silver. But now the richer veins of silver have become exhausted, and although some are being worked, most of the activity is confined to the tin ore. At the top of the cone there is an immense quantity of it; the only difficulty is how to get it down to the smelters in the valley between the hill and the city.

In this valley runs a small stream of water that comes from the hill reservoirs. Attracted by its presence, most of the smelters have located themselves on one side or the other of the little gorge. There are innumerable small ingenios worked by the Indians in a very primitive fashion. Some of them are scarcely more than a family affair. Besides these there are twenty-eight large smelters, and all of them devoted more to tin than to silver. Not one of these is owned by a Bolivian. A few belong to English capitalists, more to Chileans, and the largest of all to a Frenchman who has constructed an aërial railway to bring the ore from high up on the mountainside to his furnaces. The never ending line of iron buckets adds a curiously modern note to the ruins over which they pass. Ore is also brought down on the backs of donkeys and llamas. The workmen are mostly Quichuas. Some of them are evidently not city bred, for they dress with the same pigtails and small clothes that they wore when Spanish conquistadores forced them to take the precious metal out of the hill without any thought of reward other than the fact that they were likely to die sooner and reach heaven earlier than if they stayed quietly at home. The product of this smelter is shipped both as pure tin in ingots and also as highly concentrated and refined ore.

The most picturesque feature of the valley was a small chimney smoking lustily away all by itself, high up on the opposite hillside, like a young volcano with a smoke stack. In order to get a good draft for

the blast furnaces, the smoke is conducted across the stream on a stone viaduct, enters the hill by a tunnel, and ascends a vertical shaft for one hundred and fifty feet to the chimney which then carries it thirty feet further up into the air. The tunnel does just as good work in the way of producing a draft as though it were a modern brick chimney, two hundred feet high, but the effect is uncanny, to say the least.

We found among the boarders at the Hotel Colon a group of young Peruvian and Chilean mining engineers who were very congenial. They made the best of their voluntary exile, and although none of them enjoyed the fearful climatic conditions, they managed to make their surroundings quite tolerable with hard work, cheerful conversation, birthday dinners, and social calls.

The courtyard of the hotel was a fine example of the prevailing mixture of old and new. The roof was covered with beautiful large red tiles whose weight had crushed down the rafters in places so as to produce a wavy effect. Meanwhile the shaky old balcony that ran around the court connecting the rooms on the second floor, was sheltered from the rain by strips of corrugated iron! The fine old stone-paved patio was marred by a vile wainscoting painted in imitation of cheap oil-cloth. In one corner stood a little old-fashioned stove where arrieros, who need to make an early start, cook their tea without disturbing the hotel servants. An archway running under the best bedrooms of the second floor, led out to the street. Another archway led in to the filth of the backyard where, amid indescribable scenes and smells, six-course dinners were prepared for our consumption. It was a miracle that we did not get every disease in the calendar.

Opposite the hotel was a fine old building with a wonderfully carved stone gateway and attractive iron balconies jutting out with stone supports from each second-story window. It is now the residence and warehouse of one of the largest importers in Bolivia. Once it was the abode of a Spanish marquis. The exquisitely finished exterior bears witness to the good taste of its builder and the riches and extravagance that once ran riot in Potosí.

So also do the beautiful towers, all that are left standing of the Jesuit church. The church itself has disappeared, but the solidly constructed, exquisitely carved stone towers remain as silent witnesses to the power of that Christian order that did most to advance the cause of civilization in South America.

Unquestionably the most picturesque part of Potosí is the market-place and the streets in its immediate vicinity. Hither come the miners and their families to spend their hard-earned wages. Here can be purchased all the native articles of luxury: coca, chupe, frozen potatoes, parched corn, and chicha (native hard cider made from anything that happens to be handy). The streets are lined with small merchants who stack their wares on the sidewalk against the walls of the buildings. There are no carriages and few horseback riders, so that one does not mind being crowded off the sidewalks by the picturesque booths of the Quichua merchants.

In the streets flocks of llamas driven by gayly-dressed Indians add a rare flavor not easily forgotten. The llamas move noiselessly only making little grunts of private conversation among themselves; quite haughty, yet so timid withal, they are easily guided in droves of fifty by a couple of diminutive Indians.

To see these ridiculous animals stalking slowly along, looking inquisitively at everyone, continually reminded me of Oliver Herford’s verses about that person in Boston who

In the immediate vicinity of the market-place every available inch on each side of the street is used by the small tradesmen. They are allowed to erect canopies to protect their goods from the sun and rain, and the general effect is not unlike a street in Cairo. On one corner are piled up bolts of foreign cloth, their owners squatting on the sidewalk in front of them. On another corner, leaning against the white-washed walls of a building, is a native drug store. The different herbs and medicines exposed for sale in the little cloth bags are cleverly stacked up so as to show their contents without allowing the medicines to mix. The most conspicuous article offered for sale is coca, which is more to the Quichua than tobacco is to the rest of mankind.

The market-place itself is roughly paved with irregular stone blocks and is surrounded by arcades where are the more perishable European goods. The vendors of Indian merchandise squat on the stones wherever they can find a place and spread out before them their wares, whether they consist of eggs or pottery, potatoes or sandals.

It is the custom to arrange the corn and potatoes in little piles, each pile being worth a real, about four cents in our money, the standard of value in the market-place. Under umbrella-like shelters are gathered the purveyors of food and drink, their steaming cauldrons of chupe surrounded by squatting Indians who can thus get warmed and fed at the same time.

The Quichua garments are of every possible hue, although red predominates. The women dress in innumerable petticoats of many-colored materials and wear warm, heavy, colored shawls, brought together over the shoulders and secured with two large pins, occasionally of handsome workmanship, but more often in the shape of spoons. Generally they are content with uninteresting felt hats, but now and then one will have a specimen of a different design, the principal material of which is black velveteen, ornamented with red worsted and colored beads. On their feet the women usually wear the simplest kind of rawhide sandals, although when they can afford it, they affect an extraordinary footgear, a sandal with a French heel an inch and a half high, and shod with a leather device resembling a horse shoe.

Near the market-place is an interesting old church, its twin towers still in good repair. Services are rarely held here, and it was with some difficulty that

we succeeded in finding the sexton, who finally brought a large key and allowed us to see the historical pictures that hang on the walls of two of the chapels. They are of considerable interest and appeared to date from the sixteenth century. We commented on the fact that a large painting had recently been removed and were regaled with a story of how a foreign millionaire had bribed some prelate or other to sell him the treasured relic!

In the eighteenth century Potosí boasted of sixty churches but of these considerably more than half are now in ruins. The ruined portion of the city lies principally to the east and south. A few strongly built churches or church towers are still standing amid the remains of buildings that have tumbled down in heaps.

Several of the old convents and monasteries, however, are still in a flourishing condition. To us the chief interest consisted of their collections of fine old paintings and their beautiful flowers. Nothing was more refreshing in this mountainous desert than to walk in their lovely green gardens.

The principal object of interest in the city, however, is the Casa Nacional de Moneda, the great mint, which was begun in colonial days to receive the plunder that the Spaniards took out of the hill by means of the forced labor of their Indian slaves. It covers two city blocks, and is really a collection of buildings covered by a massive roof and surrounded by a high wall with only one entrance. The front is striking. At regular intervals along the roof are little stone ornaments like funeral urns. The few windows are carefully guarded with iron bars. On either side of the elaborately decorated façade of the two-storied portal are wooden balconies over which projects the heavily timbered roof covered with large red tiles.

As one enters the great building from the street and passes between heavy doors into a large courtyard, the first thing that attracts one’s attention is an enormous face, four feet in diameter, which looks down at the intruder from over an archway that leads to a second courtyard. The gigantic face has a malicious grin yet bears a distinct resemblance to Bacchus. Who put it here and what it signifies does not seem to be known. Suffice it to say that many of the Quichuas before starting on a journey, come to this courtyard and make obeisance to the face, throwing down in front of it a quid of coca leaves just as they used to do to the rising sun in the time of the Incas.

The courtyard is surrounded by an arcade with massive arches over which runs the carved wooden balustrade of the second-story balcony. In the second patio, which is also paved with cut stones, a tiny narrow-gauge railway is used to carry silver ingots from the treasure-room to the stamping-machines. In one of the buildings is a physics laboratory. In another a little gymnasium. In still a third, a collection of minerals. All of which are evidences that here are the beginnings of a school of mines that is being built up under the able direction of an intelligent young Bolivian engineer who received his training at Notre Dame University in the United States. In one old building are still standing the great wooden machines that were formerly used in the process of hammering out the silver. In a large room on the second floor of another building are kept the vellum-bound records of the mint and all the dies which have been used for the past two hundred years. According to the records, the value of the silver taken from here in the colonial days amounted to about one billion dollars. Most of the stamping was done by hand. The Bolivian government has cleared out two or three of the buildings and installed modern machinery, imported from the United States.

One of the most remarkable features of the mint is the size and condition of the huge timbers that support the roof. They are as sound to-day as they were two hundred years ago when, with infinite labor, they were brought across the mountains from the distant forests of the Chaco.

The roof is surmounted by a number of small sentry-boxes which are connected by little paths and stairways that lead to all parts of the structure. In the old days, it was necessary not only to protect the “money-house” against possible attacks from without, but to make sure that the Indians, who were assigned to work in the mint, did not escape from the attics where they slept at night.

I crawled through several of these attics where not even an underfed Indian could stand upright. The roof was scarcely four feet above the floor. In the corners were rude fireplaces where they may have cooked their chupe, with dried llama dung as their only fuel. The rooms were dark, even in midday. The tiny peek-holes that served as windows admitted scarcely any light. Altogether it was as wretched a dormitory as could possibly be imagined.

The view from the roof was most interesting. The romantic cone of the mountain-of-silver rises to the south beyond the graceful towers of the cathedral. East of it are the hills where the Spaniards built their famous reservoirs. Further east are higher hills which have been the scene of several bloody encounters in the unprofitable civil wars that have devastated Bolivia. Here on the battle-field of Kari Kari, several hundred unfortunate Indians, fighting for revolutionary leaders with whose selfish aims they had little sympathy, fell victims to the unfortunate habit of appealing to arms instead of ballots.

North of us, in the foreground, is the picturesque market-place, while northwest, in the distance, the old trail for Oruro and Lima winds away through the barren hills. To the west the far extending vista discloses a wilderness of variegated hills and mountain ranges. While all around, the quaint old arched roofs, rolling like giant swells of the Pacific, are surrounded by the narrow streets, the red-tiled houses, and the ruinous towers of the ancient city.

CHAPTER XI

SUCRE THE DE JURE CAPITAL OF BOLIVIA

On the road we met long strings of llamas, donkeys, and mules laden with every conceivable shape of basket, bag, and bundle bringing from the fertile valleys to the eastward, potatoes, maize, wine, green vegetables and fruits, the produce that feeds Potosí.

Further evidence of the extent of this traffic and the number of arrieros that continually pass over this road is the frequency of little chicherias, wretched little huts built of stone and mud, baked in the sun, and thatched with grass or bushes, where “chicha” can be bought for a penny a gourd.

On the bare ground in front of one of them a woman had pegged down the framework of a hand loom and was beginning to weave a poncho. Near her the family dinner of chupe was simmering away in a huge earthen-ware pot, supported on three stones, over a tiny fire of thorns and llama dung. Other picturesque jars filled with chicha awaited her customers.

We lunched at what Baedeker would call “a primitive thermal establishment,” a favorite weekend resort for German clerks in the importing houses of Potosí. A swimming-pool that affords opportunity to luxuriate in the warm sulphur water attracts many visitors, as it is practically the only place in southern Bolivia where one can get a hot tub bath.

The proprietor of the Baths, a type of Englishman that in the Pacific Ocean is called a “beach comber,” was an amusing old vagabond who made a great fuss ordering his half-starved Indians to prepare us a suitable meal. Our expectations were aroused to a high pitch by his enthusiasm, but the quality of the food was not any better than that of

the ordinary native inn. There was one very marked difference, however. We were not met by any declaration of “no hay nada.”

Our second stopping-place was Bartolo, a small town of a thousand inhabitants, chiefly Quichua Indians, and a picturesque old church surrounded by a wall made of stone arches. We arrived on a Sunday evening and found the tambo already so full of travellers that there was no room for us or our beasts. The Prefect of Potosí had given us a circular letter requesting the masters of all the post-houses on our route to accord us “every facility for our journey.” We soon found the letter to be of little avail, for when there was any difficulty such as lack of accommodation or of fodder we were invariably informed that the master of the poste was away attending to some business in another village. As our letter, however, included also the governors of towns, we now asked to be directed to the house of the Gobernador of Bartolo and found that worthy gentleman bidding good-bye to some Sunday visitors with whom he had been partaking freely of brandy and chicha. He was at first inclined to be insolent, and although he had a comparatively large house, declared that he had no room for us and that we must return to the inn. As the situation approached that point where it was becoming necessary to use force in order to secure shelter for the night, an obliging guest, who had possession of the largest room in the inn, learning from Fermin, the Gaucho, that we were delegados, offered us the use of his quarters while he sought accommodation among his acquaintances in the town.

In the meantime, the family of the tipsy governor had sobered him up enough to make him realize that he had shown discourtesy to the bearer of a government passport and he came to the inn with profuse offers of entertainment which we unfortunately could not accept.

We left Bartolo early the next morning. The dust had been laid by thunder-showers in the night and the crisp mountain air was most refreshing. Occasionally we passed the ruins of a rude stone cairn erected in colonial days to measure the leagues between Sucre and Potosí. Fermin had never been beyond Potosí, so we were obliged to fall back upon the service of guides or postillons from here on. They cannot be taken farther than from one poste to another, generally six leagues or twenty miles. They receive a regular tariff of four cents per league, and a small gratuity besides.

For this munificent sum of a little over a cent a mile, they are supposed to assist in catching and saddling the animals, to hold the packs while they are being loaded, and then to run beside the trotting pack-animals, ready to help if the loads become loosened, constantly at hand, a willing slave to the arriero and a guide to the traveller. Generally lightly clad with the regulation Quichua small clothes, that look as though made of meal-sacks, they march or lope along cheerily, now and then blowing lustily on an ox-horn, which they carry slung over the shoulder as a badge of their position.

The postillons will not budge unless their tariff is paid in advance, for they have learned through centuries of experience that while the traveller with a stout whip, mounted on a good animal, with the authority of the government at his back, can force them to go the required distance after the fee has been paid, they have no means whatever of forcing him to pay after he has arrived at his destination and has no further need of their services. The first postilion we had, recognizing the fact that our arriero was a stranger in this part of the country and that we were foreigners, ran far ahead of the little caravan, and would have disappeared among the thorny shrubs of the arid hillside had we not galloped after him and threateningly ordered him to return to his post at the heels of the mules. The next one proved to be a good fellow and did his work well, notwithstanding the dust which was his portion during most of the day.

This morning we passed a field in which alpacas that looked like overgrown woolly dogs were feeding. As the sparse foliage increased, we met numerous flocks of sheep watched over by diminutive children in shawls and ponchos who ran away and hid behind rocks when they saw us coming.

About the middle of the morning we came to the edge of a plateau and enjoyed a wonderful view of fertile valleys, whose waters flow rapidly down to the Pilcomayo. It seemed difficult to realize that a Bolivian landscape could have any other color than brown. Our descent was now rapid, and the temperature grew warmer except when we encountered a small hail-storm.

After passing the scene of a battle in the unsuccessful revolution of General Camacho, a militant politician with whom Bolivia had considerable difficulty in the ’90’s, we stopped for lunch at a tumbled-down hostelry called Quebrada Honda, in honor of a deep little valley whose steep sides rise abruptly from a roaring mountain torrent. Squatting on the ground in front of the tambo was a Quichua woman weaving a bright-colored poncho.

In the afternoon we passed some primitive dwellings which consisted of huge flat boulders under which excavations had been made leaving them partially supported by piles of stones at the corners. The method did not seem to have proved successful, for in most cases, the roof, too heavy for the supports, was lying on the ground.

About five o’clock we arrived at the poste of Pampa Tambo. We found a postilion in charge; the “master of the poste was absent” as usual. The postilion decided to charge us three times the regular rate for forage and Fermin protested vigorously, but in vain. Although it was a matter of only a dollar or so, I decided to see whether my letter from the Prefect of Potosí would make any difference with his attitude toward us. The sight of the official seal, and an emphatic threat that he would get himself into trouble if he persisted in his outrageous demands, gradually brought him to lower the price until it came within two or three cents of the regular tariff.

Hardly had we settled the dispute when a violent thunder-storm came up. This was the last day of November and the rainy season was beginning. From now on we had showers nearly every afternoon.

In the evening a party of foreigners arrived, consisting of a wealthy Franco-Boliviano and his two sons who were on their way home from Paris. They amused us by their elaborate preparations to supply themselves with drinks and edibles. Little alcohol stoves were kept busy making hot toddy, and drinks without number soon produced a very drowsy party.

We got an early start the next morning and, in an hour after leaving Pampa Tambo, came in sight of the great river Pilcomayo which is associated with the tragic death of the French explorer, Creveaux. The Pilcomayo rises west of Potosí, receives the turbid waters that have passed through Potosí’s smelters, flows east and then southeast towards Paraguay, finally joining the Paraguay River just above Asuncion. Were it not for the gigantic morass, the Estero Patino, which interrupts its course for about fifty miles, it would serve as a convenient means of communication between the mining region of Bolivia and the Rio de la Plata. Most of its course is through the Gran Chaco, a debateable land that has been only partly explored.

East of the Andes, where the affluents of the Pilcomayo are almost interlaced with those of the Mamoré, in the watershed between the basins of the Amazon and the Paraná, lies a region of rich tropical forests with possibilities of development that appeal very strongly to far-sighted Bolivianos. The conditions are tropical, the soil is fertile, and there is an abundance of rain. There are, however, in this region, many tribes of wild Indians of whom little is known and who have shown no desire to encourage the advent of strangers. Transportation is exceedingly difficult.

We found that a suspension bridge had been built across the Pilcomayo at its narrowest and deepest point, but owing to the tardiness of the wet season, we were able to ford the stream lower down and save a détour of several miles. After crossing the river we rode up a dry gulch in which an attempt at cultivation by means of irrigating ditches was producing both pomegranates and peaches.

An hour’s ride beyond the river brought us to Calera, a little hamlet of Indian huts with a very primitive tambo. We had counted on resting here during the middle of the day, but there was absolutely nothing to be had either for man or beast. We could have unloaded and unpacked our own supplies, but there is no point in eating when your mules cannot eat, and so we pushed on, twelve miles further, to the town of Yotala. Our path crossed a low range of barren hills and then descended a thousand feet or more by a steep, winding path to the river Cachimayo which we forded without difficulty. In this little valley we found many attractive plantations, the fincas or country houses of the wealthy residents of Sucre. Extensive irrigation has transformed the bed of the valley into what seems like a veritable paradise, so great is its contrast with the barren region around about.

Yotala is an old Spanish town, much more dead than alive. There was an inn, misnamed a “restaurant,” where there was nothing to be had in the way of food for any of us. Fermin finally succeeded in finding a poor widow who had a little fodder for sale and was willing to let the mules eat it in her back yard. As for ourselves, we had to fall back as usual on canned goods, just as though this were an isolated poste, twenty miles from anywhere, instead of being a town of several thousand inhabitants. We spread out our little lunch on the stones of the plaza under two trees.

As it was noon, and the sky cloudless, the sun shone with considerable ferocity. Presently a slovenly official with an expression on his face that said plainly he was not quite sure whether we were distinguished travellers who ought to be looked after or only vagabonds who should be driven off, came and inquired if we were French merchants. On receiving a negative reply he seemed rather relieved and withdrew to the shade of his own house. Of course if we had whispered the magic words “delegados de los Estados Unidos,” all would have been different.

After the mules had had a rest we covered the remaining six miles to Sucre, passing on the way a number of large fincas. One of them seemed to bear a distant resemblance to a pleasure park. Statues of men and animals, summer houses, pagodas, and a small intramural railway whose imitation locomotive was a small automobile in disguise, lent the place a festive air which was increased by one or two minarets and other fantastic towers. We learned afterwards that this was La Glorieta, the seat of the Prince and Princess of Glorieta. The story, as told us by a pleasant old lady in Sucre, is as follows:—

It seems that the head of the richest family in Bolivia, who is also the leading banker of Sucre, wearying of republican simplicity, decided to make a large donation to the Pope. Soon afterwards his great generosity was rewarded with the title of “Prince of Glorieta.” Unfortunately, our presence in this part of the world was not properly made known to this Bolivian royal house and I am unable to give an adequate description of the beauties of Glorieta. They have, however, been published by the owners in a pamphlet, and from all that I could hear, Glorieta has a distant resemblance to Coney Island.

After passing Glorieta, we crossed a small cañon, climbed the sides of a deep gorge, and suddenly found ourselves at the city gates.

Sucre has a population of twenty thousand souls, including fifty negroes, and two or three hundred foreigners, a large number of whom are Spaniards engaged in mercantile business. There are two or three hotels here, and we were in some doubt as to which might offer the best welcome. After a vain effort to locate the Prefect and get his advice, we decided to go to the Hotel Colon where we found large comfortable rooms on the second floor, facing the plaza. The proprietor was most polite and attentive. The only fault that we had to find with him was his continual spitting. The fact that there were no cuspidors and that he was ruining his own carpet did not deter him in the least. Perhaps he had rented the furnishings.

It is superfluous to speak of the filth of the kitchen