CHAPTER V

SALTA AND TUCUMÁN

Mr. William Boyce, of the Chicago Saturday _Blade_, made a trip to Tucumán and wrote a chapter about it in his book, _Illustrated South America_. This book I read with pleasure and determined that I should visit that city if ever an opportunity presented itself. One morning, armed with credentials and letters of introduction to prominent personages in the far provinces, I boarded the train for Tucumán. Two railroads connect Buenos Aires with Tucumán, the Central of Córdoba and the Central of Argentina. I traveled by a train that runs over the rails of the latter.

Mariano Saavedra, 288 miles north of Buenos Aires is the town where the River Plate scenery ends, and the vast, monotonous plains begin. Up to here through the broad expanse of corn fields, whose limits are bounded by the horizon; past funereal towns of unpointed red brick buildings, the open doors and windows of which have the aspect of morgue entrances and apertures; past mournful cemeteries of blackened crosses; and past peasant houses embowered in groves of weeping willows, the dirty tri-weekly express train sped us by in a cloud of stifling, blinding, eye-smarting, ear-filling dust. At Mariano Saavedra we come to the unbounded, limitless plain of coarse green grass on which myriads of cattle graze. This, the province of Santa Fé, is the true plain of Argentina. From history and from fiction we imagine the great plains to be the central and the southern provinces, consisting of what is geographically the western part of the province of Buenos Aires, the Province of San Luis, and the territory of Pampa. This is not the true fact. In all these geographical divisions are rolling hills, and streams in deep-lying canyons. Here in Santa Fé, I doubt if there is a single hill. A broad landscape, dry and dusty but by no means rainless, and yet fruitful, meets the eye of the traveler. A dark cloud on the horizon approaches, and when overhead breaks into a swarm of locusts, which in many instances destroy in a single day the whole untiring year's work of the farmers. They are not such a pest as they were in former years, but yet a terrible scourge.

At 10:30 P.M. the town of Ceres is reached. This place, a railway division point, is built at the corners of the provinces Santa Fé, Córdoba, and Santiago del Estero, the last-named province being that which the train now enters and which it takes all night to cross. Do not imagine that this dusty, smoky town is named after the Goddess of Agriculture. It is a synonym of all that is evil among human inhabitants, namely overwhelming dust, locomotive smoke, and locusts which dart through the empty windows of the coaches like hot coals, and are pulled out of ones food, beer, hair, pockets, and even underdrawers, of all sizes and shapes from three inches downwards, never failing to expectorate a dark brown sputum, like tobacco juice but purulent.

I sat in the dining car with a young dentist named Hallmann, of German birth but who had an American diploma. He resides at Santiago del Estero where he made twenty thousand dollars at his profession during the last two years. There is only one other dentist in that city, an American, but Hallmann says the latter has no trade because he is drunken. He told me that in Santiago del Estero he was always obliged to accept cash before he pulled a tooth on account of the swindling tendency of the natives. Several months later, I accidentally met Hallmann on the Avenida in Buenos Aires. He had made enough money in Santiago del Estero and was on his way to Philadelphia, where he had formerly practiced, to open up an office.

The Province of Santiago del Estero has an area of 39,764 square miles and a population of 264,911. It is a plain varying from 450 to 550 feet above sea level. Its climate is extremely hot. Most of the surface of the soil is covered with a dense brush of mesquite and quebracho trees, which are cut into cordwood and used as fuel on the locomotives. The capital city is Santiago del Estero, frequently spoken of in Argentina as Santiago. It is an antiquated city of seventeen thousand inhabitants and is one of the oldest towns in the republic having been founded in 1553 by Francisco de Aguirre on the Dulce River. It is the seat of a bishopric, which was created in 1908. The present incumbent is Dr. Juan Martin de Yañiz y Paz. On account of its isolation, Santiago del Estero has not prospered as it should have.

The inhabitants of the Province of Santiago del Estero are mostly dependent for a livelihood on the sale of quebracho. This wood which rarely attains a growth of thirty feet is of a deep red color and is used as a dye wood. Its supply seems inexhaustible but its export is now at a standstill on account of a slump in the market. It thrives in dry climates for in this province where it frequently goes for a stretch of seven months at a time without a rain, it attains its perfection. The northern provinces of Argentina have it over its southern neighbors in the fact that no matter how dry the country is, if it lies within the proper altitudes it is forested.

I have heard the Province of Tucumán spoken of by Argentinos as having a tropical climate. Such is not the truth, but it is, in climate, the nearest approach to the tropics of any of the other Argentine provinces, with the exception of the lowlands of Salta that lie within the La Plata watershed. All nations are apt to exaggerate their endowments of nature, therefore one should not too sharply criticize the Argentinos when they speak of Tucumán as tropical. The Germans call part of Saxony, "Sächische Schweiz," when it bears no more resemblance to Switzerland than does a pot of ink to a bucket of milk. The Uruguayans love to style their land "The Greenland of South America," and even the Paraguayans call their mountains the "Himalaya Mbaracayu." The only similarity of Tucumán to the tropics is the excessive heat in summer, and the prevalence of fevers, the most noteworthy being a form of malaria, named _chuchu_ which is also in Santiago del Estero, Jujuy, and Salta. A more fever-free country is hard to imagine from the lay of the land, yet I am sorry to say that the Argentine Board of Health statistics belie it. Malaria is one of the foremost death-causing ailments in northwestern Argentina. I would, however, class these provinces as being healthy, as there are no other epidemics excepting an occasional sporadic outbreak of smallpox.

Entering Tucumán province from Santiago del Estero, the scenery abruptly changes from the quebracho thicket to large open fields of sugar cane. It was summer when I visited it and the cane was nowhere near its growth. Compared with Cuba, the soil is poorer, the cane sicklier, and the establishments smaller. It is a go-between Cuba and the other islands of the West Indies.

From the city of Tucumán northward the scenery is beautiful. Seated in the dining car of the narrow gauge Central Northern Railroad with an overflowing glass of Rubia beer in front of me, and gazing at the fleeting landscape, I was entranced by the works of God. An endless forest of hardwood, with magnificent spreading tops, yet too small to make saw timber, formed an excrescence on the reddish clay thicker than bristles on Tamworth swine. The undergrowth is thick like that of southern Chile, but here nature is like that of a warmer clime. No towns and but few farmhouses are visible, yet this is a populous country. The houses are hidden away in the forest, and their owners make their living by stock raising, their herds roaming at random in the woods. High green mountains grace the landscape, their lower reaches wooded, while their tops uplifted above the tree line are verdant with grasses. They are like the Paraguayan mountains in contour, domed or serrated but never flat. The rainy season is from December to April. Then the country looks its best. Under such conditions I saw it. The seven months from May through November constitute the dry season, and I was told that then the landscape has a dreary appearance owing to its parched dryness. The cattle seem to thrive even then. They are gaunt, rawboned creatures and even when fat, a man can nearly hang his hat upon their haunches. They have great endurance and are driven across the northern passes into Chile where they sell for nineteen cents a pound live weight. Even with their great shrinkage en route there is quite a profit to this. In the Province of Salta where land cannot get irrigation, it is worthless except for cattle raising owing to the seven months' drought, as water is absolutely necessary for their crops.

To the stations, on the approach of the train, lean dogs and fat sows come, and standing on the platform in front of the dining car, they look longingly at the windows, and with barking and squealing let their presence be known. These animals know exactly what time the trains are scheduled to arrive and depart, where the dining car stops, and at which end of the dining car the kitchen is. This sagacity comes from intuition covering a long period. They are at every station and are especially noticeable at the stop named Virgilio Tedin. The cook and waiters never throw them anything, but instead occasionally douse them with the contents of a bucket of dish water. The passengers are more compassionate, and always throw a piece of biscuit or bone at these animals who pounce upon the castings with squeals of delight. The dogs are afraid of the sows, which although fat are of good fighting material.

Güemes, a town of two thousand inhabitants is the junction for Salta and for Jujuy. Although Salta is on a branch line and Jujuy is on the main one, all through trains go to Salta for it is the largest place. For Jujuy, you have to change. Jujuy, the capital of the small province of the same name, is a miserable, squalid place of six thousand inhabitants, in a hot but healthy valley. It used to have twenty thousand people in the Colonial period, when it was the outpost of Spanish civilization of the La Plata provinces; it then did a brisk trade with Bolivia. The town has no future. Midway between Güemes and Jujuy is the junction of Perico from which place a railroad extends in a northeasterly direction to Oran, in the province of Salta. This is also an old place with many houses in ruins. It has but twenty-five hundred inhabitants and is a shell of its former opulence. It now has a good future because a railroad is being built to connect it with Formosa on the Paraguay River, and much timber and tropical products will be brought in to be exported. Now Oran exports oranges and bananas. Another old Colonial town of crumbling houses is Santiago del Esteca near Metan, a station of the Central Northern Railroad south of Güemes. Santiago del Esteca lies in the midst of a thick forest and communication with the outside world is carried on over a rough wagon road. The Central Northern Railroad ends at La Quiaca, the frontier station at the Bolivian boundary line. From Jujuy northward it is a gradual climb to Abrapampa, over thirteen thousand feet above sea level and then a drop of about three thousand feet to the terminus. The railroad is in some places rack and pinion but the trip for scenic beauty affords but little interest to the tourist for it is over bleak and barren mountains. The trip from Buenos Aires to La Paz, Bolivia, can be made in one week, owing to the excellent stage-coach service of a Bolivian company connecting La Quiaca with Uyuni on the Antofagasta to Bolivia Railroad.

Live hogs in northern Argentina are shipped in the baggage cars of passenger trains, although there seems to be plenty of empty swine wagons. The animals are trussed up by a noose slipped over their snouts, drawn tightly and slipped around their front feet which are bound; the rope is then extended to their hind feet which are already hobbled. I saw half a dozen of these creatures bound this way being taken from the baggage car at Güemes and laid in the sun on the depot platform, when the thermometer stood at 108° Fahrenheit in the shade.

On the spur to Salta the first stop is Campo Santo, meaning "holy ground" or "cemetery." I am told that it is very appropriately named as the fevers here are exceedingly common and are of great virulence.

He who has been to Argentina and has failed to see the Lerma Valley is to be pitied. I have been told that the Cauca Valley in Colombia is one of nature's rare masterpieces, and I would like to have it compared with that of the Lerma by somebody who has seen both. Midway between Güemes and Salta we reach the Lerma River, and the high wooded hills narrow down to a defile, coming to the water's edge in some places which necessitates the train in some places to pass through tunnels. An occasional charcoal burner's hut is seen, but no other habitations. Suddenly the defile ends, the river is crossed, and a long valley several miles wide is entered, its whole floor in a high state of cultivation and dotted with farmhouses. Near at hand are green foothills, which afford pasture for stock. Behind are wooded mountains. The whole panorama is beautified by the high Andes to the west and north whose summits are capped with perpetual snow. The city of Salta is approached; its many towers and Gothic spires, together with its setting at the base of wooded mountains, brings to one's mind visions of cities of Central Europe.

The Province of Salta has an area of 62,184 square miles and had 185,643 inhabitants according to the last census, that of 1914. It is divided into twenty-one departments which are analogous to the counties of our states. There is a great variation of soil and climate ranging from barrenness and frigidity in the high Andes to exuberant vegetation and torrid heats in the department of Oran. The principal industry is the exportation of stock into Chile. A railroad to Chile seems to be the want of the inhabitants. They say that if one were built to Antofagasta, they would need no trade with the rest of Argentina for then all their exports would be sent north by the Pacific boats, and their imports from the United States would be brought in that way, saving a great expense in freight. This is only too true. Argentina is willing that such a railroad should be built, but the Chilean Government has refused permission on the grounds that there would be a great exodus of population from their barren northern provinces to the fruitful country across the Andes, namely Salta and Jujuy. There has always been more or less enmity between Argentina and Chile over a national boundary dispute regarding the limits of the Province of Salta, whose productive soil the first-mentioned country is jealous of. The question once nearly precipitated a war and the statue of the Cristo Redentor is a monument of the pact of peace.

Whenever nature bestows opulence on a country, it invariably endows it with setbacks. This it did in Salta by giving it fevers and venomous snakes. The chuchu fever is the commonest disease and although not so prevalent as in the Province of Tucumán, it is here in a more malignant form. It is conveyed by the bite of the mosquito and much resembles ague, excepting that the body is racked by pains, each day in a different place. It is supposed never to leave the system, quinine availing but little. It weakens the heart and in this way death is caused, but only after several or more years. Some people never have it, and, by the healthy looks of the inhabitants and by the number of aged people to be seen in Salta, I do not believe its effects are as dangerous as is claimed. Among the snake family there are some venomous species, notably the viper and the cascabel. The bite of the latter is synonymous with sure death.

The city of Salta, whose population is estimated at twenty-eight thousand exclusive of a garrison of two thousand soldiers, is one of the best built cities and, for its size, one of the liveliest towns in Argentina. Its streets are paved with creosote blocks as in Paris; it has an electric car system and all the progressive improvements. Its buildings are modern two-story structures, and old houses of the Colonial period with ornate carved wood entrances. On February 20, 1813, General Arenales defeated the Spaniards on a plain north of the town, and a few years ago at a Centennial to celebrate the event, a handsome monument of stone with bronze martial bas-reliefs, surmounted by a female statue of Liberty holding aloft a cross, was unveiled on the battle ground and is regarded by the Saltenos as the pride of their town. The principal plaza of the city is named in honor of the hero, Arenales, and a monument is soon to be placed on the brick base in the center of this square which formerly was graced by a squat obelisk. The principal club of the city is likewise named after the victory, its nomenclature being the 20th of February Club. This edifice faces the plaza and is by far the most modern building in Salta; it is the only building in the city that is three stories high. Many cities of half a million inhabitants cannot boast of so fine a club regarding interior furnishings. The wood carving, which is of Salta oak and cedar is of native workmanship; the Saltenos are famous in that art and I doubt if anywhere woodcarving by hand is done better. The parquet flooring of the club ballroom makes the visitor gasp with amazement when he is told that the work and the wood are all local. On the furniture of this club, which is even equipped with a gymnasium, no expense has been spared. The ballroom chairs of Marie Antoinette style are upholstered with silk, and the massive candelabra are of the choicest Venetian glass. The toilet room, I am pleased to relate, is one of the very few that I visited in Argentina that is kept clean.

The buildings around the Plaza Arenales are all arcaded, but the only one of architectural interest is the old Cabildo, or city hall, of Spanish times. It is a low, squat, long structure of massive walls and with rounded arches forming the arcades. A low, pointed tower rises above the center. The lower floor of this building is now given up entirely to stores while the upper ones are leased for dwelling purposes.

The Hotel Plaza of Ramon Terres is a two-story building at the northeast corner of the square and, although it is by no means a St. Regis, it is good enough for Salta. Unfortunately most of the bedrooms face a glass-roofed courtyard, which besides making them dark, does not allow the entry of much fresh air. The pillows are so hard that the guests are apt to wonder if they are stuffed with brickbats. One of the curious figures that haunted the hotel café was a very old, tall, and thin gentleman of a decidedly noble and dignified appearance. His hair which was abundant, and his well-trimmed beard were silvery white. His clean features, neat black clothes, and derby hat would deceive a person into believing that this old man was a retired Scots professor or German scientist. There was something uncanny about his appearance, for I had never before seen so well-groomed and active a man of an age that I imagined him to be; it was as if he had long ago passed the age limit in which old men die, and yet decided that he would remain on earth a good spell yet. He was always one of the last persons to leave the cafés nights, and the first to enter them mornings; he made the rounds with regularity, and always had a drink before him. I asked the Spanish bartender who he was:

"He was once a very rich man who made his money by cattle dealing in Chile. He spent most of it and now is on an allowance from his relations. He has been in Chile over one hundred times trading stock, and is thinking of going again soon. He is an expert horseman. He is over one hundred years old, and," said the waiter in a confidential undertone, "he is a devil with the women. He chases after all the servant girls and has lewd designs on the chambermaid." This chambermaid, by the way, was terribly good-looking, with dark brown eyes, and rosy red cheeks. I admired the old man's choice.

Salta has some remarkable religious edifices. It is the see of a bishop, who has a palace adjoining the cathedral. The diocese was created in 1806 and comprises the provinces of Salta and Jujuy. The present bishop, José Gregorio Romero, has been the incumbent only since 1915. The inhabitants have the reputation of being very devout, although I observed that all the Catholics with whom I was brought into contact with in Salta, ate meat on Friday. This also applies to the clergy. In the rich, cool, and lofty cathedral, there is a shrine with an image of the crucified Savior, which has a most peculiar history. Years ago there was found on a lonely beach in Chile, two boxes, which had evidently been washed ashore from an unknown shipwreck. One was labeled with the address of a person in Córdoba, and the other was addressed to a Señor del Milagro in Salta. On being opened, the box destined for Córdoba was found to contain an image of the Virgin, while that for Salta contained the Christ. His halo is of wrought gold, and the cross on which He is nailed is of iron. As there was no such person in Salta as "del Milagro," the church appropriated the image which is known as the Cristo del Milagro, and is shown by the sexton.

Two of the oldest churches are those of Merced and of San Bernardo. The church of the Candelaria has the finest façade with a detached campanile, but the most interesting of all is the church and monastery of San Francisco. The cloister has massive walls, seven feet thick. It houses fourteen brown-robed monks of the Franciscan order. Most of them were an unwashed, unkempt lot; the quantity of empty wine and beer bottles in the kitchen yard bore testimony to many libations on their part. The whole monastery is a maze of halls, porches, passageways, staircases, cupolas, belfries, cells, courtyards, and gardens. This confusion arose because a new part was added each time the growth of the monastery warranted it. Into the large garden is turned nightly a large bloodhound, kept ugly by being constantly fed on raw meat. This is to prevent the townspeople from scaling the walls to steal the luscious fruit and grapes which the monks cultivate. In the daytime the dog is kept chained up, but only two or three of the inmates are on friendly enough terms with this modern Cerberus to approach it. The tall campanile of San Francisco is the highest church tower in Argentina.

I had a letter of introduction from Dr. Manuel de Iriondo, president of the Bank of the Argentine Nation and one of the most prominent men in the republic, to the manager of the Salta branch, Señor Francisco Pereyra. I have never met a finer gentleman that Señor Pereyra. Not only did he wine and dine me at his own residence, but he went at great length to entertain me, introduce me to his friends, to the mayor of the city, to the governor of the province, took me out for automobile rides, and when I left Salta loaded me with literature, both statistical and historical of the province and city. Señor Pereyra made me a present of a hardwood cane, the tree from which it is made being indigenous to the Province of Salta, and named San Antonio. Mariano Posse is the name of Pereyra's eighteen-year-old brother-in-law who is going to Buenos Aires in a year to study medicine. I tried to persuade the young man to come to the United States to take a course in one of our universities, which I think will eventually materialize. At the time of this writing, Señor Pereyra has left Salta and is manager of the Bank of the Argentine Nation at Catamarca, the capital of the Andean province of the same name. He had recently, shortly before leaving Salta, the misfortune to lose by death, his wife, an estimable lady. I met Dr. Waldino Riarte, a friend of Señor Pereyra's. Both men were originally from Tucumán. Dr. Riarte is one of the wealthiest and highest standing men in the province, to which position he rose through his own efforts. One of the Salteno's with whom I became acquainted was Dr. Sola, a graduate of the Ohio State University, class of 1904. He has not been in the United States since he graduated. He was sent there to study, by the Argentine Government, and liked it so well that he wants to go back to the United States. He was anxious to hear the results of the collegiate football games for the past few years, as he played on the 'varsity while attending Ohio State.

"Chopp" (pronounced _schop_) is a coined word supposed to be the Spanish translation of the German word _schoppen_. Its nearest English equivalent is our coined word "schuper." Under the arcades of the old Cabildo, a German has established a saloon which he has named "El Bueno Chopp," meaning "The Good Schuper." A native seeing the volume of business which came to the thrifty German, thinking that it all came from the name he gave his place, hung out a sign styling his liquid refreshment emporium, "El Mejor Chopp," which means "The Best Schuper." It happens that in this latter resort, it is impossible to get draught beer in schupers, as the proprietor deals only in bottled goods. He does a poor business compared to that of the German.

In the Bueno Chopp saloon where I would occasionally go for a libation, I met a Dantziger named Holzmann. He inquired of me the names of the North American magazines most widely read by the higher classes of women, whereupon I told him the _Ladies' Home Journal_, Harper's _Bazaar_, and others, giving him their addresses. He later confided to me that the reason for his asking was that he wished through their columns to make an announcement that he intended to get married and he wanted a North American woman for his wife. He said he had taken a passion for women of that nationality, and would accept no others. This passion, I found, had developed from his having become enamored of the photograph of one of our well-known society queens that is frequently flaunted before our eyes in the newspaper columns of the Sunday supplements. Holzmann told me that when he resided in East Africa, he occasionally gave his former wife, when she was unruly, a beating with a hippopotamus hide whip; so I see what sort of fate is in store for his American bride.

Salta years ago had a brewery owned by a man named Glueck. Through mismanagement it failed. The city has 120 automobiles which speaks well for a town of its size and isolation in South America. The wine grown there is supposed to be the best in Argentina, although there has been little done towards putting it on the market.

While I was a guest of the Pereyras' I witnessed a novel sight. After dinner a bat was turned loose in the dining room. This phyllostome Señor Pereyra kept in a large cage and occasionally turned it loose to eat the mosquitoes which are a curse to Salta.

Midway between Salta and Tucumán is the station of Rosario de la Frontera near which are some famous mineral baths. It is quite a winter resort and its waters are bottled and sold all over the republic. Palau is the name of the most widely distributed brand. These waters are naturally carbonated, but are not as strong as Apollinaris or White Rock. One of the finest waters in Argentina is that of Ghino from Tucumán province. It is somewhat like Vichy in taste but is slightly medicated. Its sale, however, is unfortunately local.

The Province of Tucumán derives its name from a legendary Indian cacique named Tucuma, who is supposed to have lived in the plain of the Rio Monteros which flows through the province and which joins the Rio Salí near the city of Tucumán. It is the smallest province of Argentina, having an area of only 8926 square miles. Three-quarters of its surface is level, the remaining quarter which is the western part being hilly and mountainous. Tucumán is the most densely settled portion of Argentina, its population being, according to the census of 1914, 373,073. On account of this density of population the Tucumános like to call their province "The Europe of Argentina." In most of the republic the railroads preceded the settlers; here and also in Salta this is the reverse, for the settlers in these provinces came first. In 1560 the Viceroy of Peru, to whose dominions this part of the country had belonged, declared Tucumán an independent state. It then comprised what are now the geographical divisions of Santiago del Estero, Tucumán, Catamarca, Salta, Jujuy, and Córdoba. In 1782 Salta, Jujuy, and Córdoba were separated from it. In 1821 Catamarca and Santiago del Estero followed suit.

The capital city, also named Tucumán, was founded September 29, 1565, by Diego de Villarroel at the confluence of the Salí and Monteros rivers. In 1585 it was moved to the site that it now occupies. It is situated near the middle of the province, at an elevation of 1453 feet above sea level. The city itself has a population of about one hundred thousand inhabitants, but it is a distributing point for a much greater population for at no great distance from it are numerous towns, large sugar factories with their colonies of workmen. In shape the city is nearly square. It is eighteen blocks long from north to south and fourteen blocks wide from east to west. The streets are wide, and the newer ones, especially the boulevards which bound the limits, are lined with trees, sycamores being in the majority. Four blocks west of the eastern city limits is the Plaza Independencia, the center of mercantile, religious, and diverting activity. On it stands the cathedral, another church, the capitol, at least ten large cafés, and a couple of moving picture shows, while in the neighborhood on a street named Las Heras are the best shops.

Las Heras, an east and west intersector, is the main business street, although the one which parallels it one block to the south, and which is named Calle 24 de Setiembre, is the street which divides its intersectors into different nomenclatures in the manner of the Calle Rivadavia in Buenos Aires. South of Calle 24 de Setiembre, the streets that cross it have different names than the elongations of them that run north of it. On Calle Las Heras are the important banks. The next business streets in order according to their commercial worth are Mendoza, which parallels Las Heras one block north of it, Laprida, and Maipu, the two last named being cross streets. Calle Maipu is devoted to second class-shops; the third-class shops and the slums, which are vile, although not so vile as the slums of Córdoba, are at the extreme western end of Las Heras near the Central of Córdoba Railroad station.

The religious edifices, although their external appearances are imposing and have double towers and domes of light blue porcelain tile, are not worth visiting unless to pray in, as their interiors offer no more artistic attractions than thousands of their kind elsewhere.

The capitol is by far the finest building in the city. It is three stories high on the outside, and four on the inside (for the courtyards are sunk one story below the street level), and occupies a considerable area. It is by no means the finest capitol building that I have visited, but as it is the newest, having been just completed, it is probably the best equipped. Though it is built in the business section of the city where it cannot show off to its best advantage, it however, makes the capitol at Lansing, Michigan, look like 30 cents. In Argentine, as it is almost impossible to get marble, all the provincial capitols are built of brick, solidly, so as to stand forever. The Argentine brick is not pleasing to the eyes, as it is rough. To embellish the buildings of this material they are given a coating of drab stucco cement.

I visited the Governor, Dr. Ernesto Padilla, a tall, handsome, affable man about forty years old. He is quite an archeologist, and in a room adjoining his private office in the capitol he has installed his private collection of Indian antiquities of the province. It is a most remarkable collection of pottery, ornaments, etc. Near Tafí a large stone has been recently discovered with Indian scrolls, hieroglyphics, and drawings. A North American photographer residing in Tucumán went out to see this stone. With chalk, he outlined the rather indistinct drawings and then took a photograph of it. This photograph is reproduced on pages 635 and 637 of my previous work, _Illustrated, Descriptive Argentina_.

Dr. Padilla introduced me to General O'Donnell, the military commander of the province. A curious fact is that this general cannot speak the English language, having been born in Argentina. I held a letter of introduction to Señor S. A. Wyss, manager of the Hilaret y Cia sugar mill at Santa Ana, the largest in South America, and also one to Mr. Stewart Shipton, manager of the Corona mill at Concepción. Both mills are several hours' distant from Tucumán, and in trying to catch the train for Concepción, I went to the wrong depot. Dr. Padilla afterwards told me that it would have been useless for me to have gone to either of those places, because there were sugar mills much nearer to the city. He wrote me a letter of introduction to Señor Alfredo Guzman, the richest man in the province, who has a mill at a town also named Concepción, which is only a twenty minutes' drive from the capital. He likewise wrote me a letter to Dr. Juan C. Nougués, who has a mill at San Pablo, which I visited. There are two kinds of sugar districts in the Province of Tucumán, one on the plains like that of Señor Guzman's estate, and one in the hills like the one at San Pablo.

Tucumán is a hot place, both climatically and morally. In the latter line are the Crystal Palace and the Moulin Rouge, while in the former line, the thermometer often rises above the comfortable point. The night I arrived it registered 106° Fahrenheit in the shade. It was so hot that I thought I would cool off by walking down the Calle Laprida. The one-story houses are so constructed that in front of each window an iron balcony extends to the sidewalk; the railings of these are of wrought iron, or marble. Here sit the belles on hot summer nights airing themselves. They certainly need to, for as I strolled down the street the stench that was wafted from them to me was nearly asphyxiating. It is the odor that is present in the summer when the human body is unfriendly to soap, water, and the scrub brush. Some of these beauties sat behind shutters in the darkness, but I was aware of their presence, although I could not see them.

In 1914, there was founded in Tucumán a university, at the head of which is Dr. Juan B. Teran. So far, the university is incomplete, for of the five departments of instruction which it will have when completed, only two are at present running. These are the pedagogical department, and that of mechanics, agriculture, and chemistry. The latter has an agricultural experimental station near the city, at present in charge of a North American, Dr. William E. Cross. Its chemical and bacteriological laboratory is the best in the republic. The University of Tucumán to-day is more like a polytechnical institute and agricultural combined than that which we generally think of by the word "university."

As to hotels, Tucumán has one of the best in South America, the Savoy. It, together with two separate buildings, one a roulette casino, and the other a large theater, is the property of the Da Rossa Company, a Portuguese syndicate. The Savoy is leased to a Frenchman, R. Eluchand, and is managed by Señor Scheindl formerly of Vienna. It is Mr. Scheindl's sister whose portrait appears on the Austrian twenty crown note; she was supposed to be the most beautiful girl in Austria. The Savoy is a large affair of 116 rooms, most of which have a bath in connection. It is on the Boulevard Sarmiento in an excellent but not central location. It is finely equipped, and is like a palace with its large courtyard enclosed by pillared balconies. The hotel has been a "white elephant" because it is too fine for the city. Mr. Scheindl tells me that in the hotel line, the Tucumános always want something for nothing, and when the inhabitants give their big balls at the Savoy, he either runs behind or else only breaks even; otherwise, if he insisted that they pay what he thought would be just, they would boycott him in the future. The other hotels which are in the central part of the city are the Europe, the Paris, and the Frascati, the first mentioned being the best. The Frascati is owned by the Palladini brothers, one of them, Attilio, having been former manager of the Savoy. When I knew Attilio Palladini several years ago, he was the courier of the Parque Hotel in Montevideo, and quit it to be head portier of the Hotel Savoy in Buenos Aires.

In Tucumán itself, there is nothing of interest for the sightseer. It is only a large commercial town in a fine agricultural district dependent on the sugar industry. Contrary to the fabrications the stranger will hear elsewhere in Argentina knocking it, saying that it is a fever hotbed, it is a sanitary place for the person that has the price to indulge in mineral waters as beverages, for its own water is not potable, owing to the sediment and dust that it contains. Talking with business men about investment of capital in Tucumán, there does not seem to be much encouragement in the manufacturing line. A flour mill would undoubtedly pay, and there is a splendid opportunity to start a steam laundry, as there is a constant complaint about the present one. It does its work poorly and charges exorbitant prices. It is said that a small ice plant in one of the neighboring towns, which would supply the wants of the inhabitants of the thickly inhabited districts, would also pay. A brewery has started in Tucumán, named the Cerveceria del Norte (Northern Brewery). It is controlled by the Quilmes people and has a large enough capacity to supply entire Argentina if necessary. Its brands of beer from light to dark are Rubia, Tucma, and Oran. Rubia is very palatable.

I became acquainted with a photographer in Tucumán, Mr. Henry A. Kirwin of New York. He came down here as a photographer eight years ago, and wants to get back home. He says it is much easier for a man to get down there than to get back. He seems to have a fair business, photographing machinery at the different mills and at the railroad yards at Tafí Viejo. Many of his photographs of family groups have yellow chemicals smeared over the faces of the clients on the plates. I asked him why this was.

"You see," said he, "most of the natives have Indian blood. It is supposed to be much nicer if this origin would be unknown, therefore I have to put this chemical on the plates so their faces will have a decidedly European cast in the photograph."

It is customary for the relatives of dead persons to have photographs taken of their once beloved. Mr. Kirwin had a choice collection of these local corpses which he insisted on showing me; there were over sixty. Among them were some "tasty" specimens, some being victims of the bubonic plague in 1913. Some were unrecognizable, charred masses of flesh that had been human before the subjects perished in a fire, while others were the gruesome countenances of cadavers whose faces were partially eaten away by cancer.

While in Mendoza, I thought the canine population was excessive. It is small compared with that of Tucumán. In this city every criolla has two or more Mexican hairless dogs, and the number of hybrids between bulldog, Great Dane, whiffet, and old hound is appalling. Three hundred thousand dogs is, I think, a low estimate of the canine inhabitants of the city. None are muzzled; but few are fed; and all run after bicycles, automobiles, and wagons. They make night hideous by howling, and fighting about the possession of putrid bones, mule dung, and garbage.

From Tucumán there is a trip that the visitor should not fail to miss. This is the twenty-mile automobile ride to the settlement and summer resort of Villa Nougués, 4225 feet above the plain on which the city is built. Nougués is situated not far from the summit of the wooded mountains southwest of Tucumán. The road leads due west, and then swerves to the south past populous farming country and through the village of Yerba Buena to the sugar mill and colony of San Pablo, where Dr. Nougués has his palatial mansion, and private church. His beautiful estate lies on gently sloping ground two miles east of the wooded mountains. All provisions for the summer colony and hotel at Villa Nougués must be taken up by wagon or by automobile from Tucumán. Most of the heavy trucking is done by means of ox carts. Early in the morning we met at San Pablo several of these oxcarts plodding slowly up the country road, and at night on our return to the city we met these same teams only halfway up the mountain, so hard is the pull on the beasts. When the road reaches the mountains it makes a serpentine, and then zigzags upward through the semi-tropical forest abounding with orange and crimson cannas. Every so often through the umbrageous trees and giant ferns, a panorama is to be had of the plain of Tucumán with its rectangular fields of sugar cane and small towns with their _usines_.

Arrived at the settlement of Villa Nougués is the hotel where parties from the city come up on hot days to enjoy the cool invigorating air. Seated on the porch of Dr. Teran's house, which is near the hotel, in company of Dr. Teran, Governor Padilla, Señor Scheindl, and a rich sugar planter named Rouges, we looked across the broad long plain, styled the "Europe of Argentina," and I learned many interesting facts. The valley of the Rio Salí which crosses the province from north to south, is fed by twenty-five rivers which flow into it from the west to the east. The Salí flows southward and is finally lost in a large brackish lake, the Mar Chiquita in the Province of Córdoba. The great industrial and agricultural plain, with its sugar mills among which are the usines of San José, San Antonio, San Pablo, Paraiso, and countless others and its railroad workshops at Tafí Viejo, has a cultivated area of two hundred and fifty thousand acres. It was originally thickly forested as can be testified by occasional uncleared patches. Here civilization preceded the railroad, and only in the poorer part of the province in the direction of Santiago del Estero did the railroad come first. This valley is the cradle of Argentine liberty, for here the Spaniards having gone through the country like a steam mower, were finally decisively beaten in battle, and July 9, 1816, at Tucumán, the Argentine Confederation was born.

Three kilometers west of Villa Nougués is the summit of the foothills. Looking west from this summit, the vista of the San Javier Valley, with its forested mountains, and with its wooded detached hills rising from the midst of cultivated river bottoms, Alpine pastures, and numerous streams, is like that of the Inn in Tirol, although it is here even more beautiful. The Catamarca mountains, snow-capped domed Aconquija, and the bleak Andes form the western background, behind which the sun sinks in the aureate splendor of a fireball. This is one of the finest views in the world and should be seen in the late afternoon.