better or prepared a better stew than did many of the Indian women who acted as my cooks during my peregrinations. While traveling in uninhabited districts I drew from my own stores which I always had with me for any emergency. These consisted mainly of crackers, coffee, chocolate, bacon-uncanned-potatoes, cheese and sardines. Canned goods, as a rule, except certain cereals, proved a failure. Whether it was because of the climate, or because they were not sufficiently fresh when I purchased them-they were guaranteed to be just from the factory -I am not prepared to say. In most places, I could get chickens and fresh eggs, not to speak of an abundance of fruit of various kinds. But wherever my provisions came from, I never suffered from hunger more than a few hours at most, and never found it necessary to eat what was unwholesome or repulsive. I always carried a good filter with me to insure pure water, and by this means I never experienced any of the evil consequences which result from drinking the contaminated waters of rivers and streams.

On my way across the Andes to the Amazon, I had, thanks to a thoughtful friend in Lima, a case of good old claret. Nothing during my long and arduous ride across the Cordilleras could have been more serviceable or more agreeable than this choice beverage. It was, especially at the end of the day's journey, more than a grateful draught or stimulant. It was meat and drink, and restored at once the flagging energy of myself and companions and prepared us to enjoy our frugal evening repast, which frequently was nothing more than a dish of chupe or sancocho. Indeed, so beneficial was it as a restorative that, if I were to make a similar journey in the tropics, which is likely, one of the first items on my list of provisions would be a case or two of generous old Bordeaux.

I am aware that some of my readers will think that my experience is tinged with more of the couleur de rose than is found in the narratives of certain South American

travelers, but I have endeavored to give an honest account of persons and things as I found them.

Sterne, in his Sentimental Journey, tells of one Smelfungus, who "traveled from Boulogne to Paris-from Paris to Rome, and so on-but he set out with spleen and jaundice, and every object he passed was discolored or distorted. He wrote an account of them but 'twas nothing but the account of his miserable feelings."

Sterne met this same Smelfungus on his way home "and a sad tale of sorrowful adventures he had to tell," wherein he spoke of moving accidents by flood and field and of the cannibals which each other eat; the Anthropophagi,—he had been flay'd alive and bedevil'd, and used worse than St. Bartholomew at every stage he had come at

"I'll tell it," cried Smelfungus, "to the world." "You had better tell it," said I, "to your physician."

If the genial humorist could read certain books that have appeared on South America, in which its people are traduced and their country misrepresented to such an extent as to provoke from them an indignant protest; if he could read of the dangers from man and beast, that are recounted at such length, and of the extraordinary adventures that are described, but which never had any existence outside the writers' fertile imaginations, he would, I think, be disposed to reiterate for their behoof, the salutary advice he gave Smelfungus.

Owing to the heavy mist that enveloped the ocean, I was unable to get a view of the Polar Star until the second night after leaving the equator. This was the first time I had seen it for many months, and the first glimpse of it was like meeting an old friend. I knew now that we had left the southern hemisphere behind us. The Coal-sack and the Magellanic Clouds are rapidly approaching the southern horizon, and Achernar, Canopus and the Southern Cross, that have so long been my joy at night, follow them pari passu. The Great and the Little Bear rise up over our prow, while

"The Charioteer

And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns

Over Orion's grave low down in the west."

Yes, we are bound for Niflheim, the home of fogs and frosts, but I am glad, for it is also my home, and, none too soon can I reach it, though happy has been my year in the land of flowers and sunshine.

As I have stated, my memories of South America are of the pleasantest, but I should have noted one exception, and it is an important one, although it concerns rather my country than myself personally.

While admiring the marvelous resources of the lands bordering the equator, and observing the enterprise of the Germans, English, French, and Italians in every department of industrial and mercantile activity, I could not but be struck by the backwardness of the United States, where trade opportunities are so exceptional and where there is in Johnsonese phrase, "the potentiality of growing wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice." For, outside of the flourishing corporation of W. R. Grace & Company and a few mines and railways, which are controlled by American capital, the United States, so far as commerce is concerned, is deplorably inactive.

Not once, south of the Caribbean, did I ever see a single steamer fly the stars and stripes, except an armored cruiser in the harbor of Callao. All freight and passenger traffic, even that from the United States, is controlled by British and European companies. Nowhere did I find an American bank. All financial transactions in South America are in the hands of our commercial competitors. The bulk of the great annual trade prize, of more than $2,000,000,000, goes to Great Britain and Europe. Our commerce with Latin-America is gradually growing, it is true, but not by any means at the rate it should, and the balance of trade is still enormously against us.

This deplorable state of affairs is due, in part, to the fact that our people are still ignorant of the marvelous re