“The Heart of the Andes”/Part 12

The tawny slope of road in the left foreground leads us back to another tangle of forest. All the drooping, waving, tossing, prodigal luxuriance of the glade on the right is here repeated in half-distance, — another denser maze, wellnigh impenetrable, in which we may discern the tree fern, now familiar, and may feel that our previous studies have taught us to know “dingle and bushy dell” and “every bosky bourn of this wild wood from side to side.” A vista, or cleft, across its intricacy, rather suggested than patent, tells us where the path leads towards the Llano and the Hamlet, and the same vista opens to connect the nearest glows and flashes of white light with the radiance of the Dome. Forth from the forest the Road dashes bright as another cataract, and yet a warm surface of trampled earth. An infinite gemminess of flowers scintillates along its course; — there seems no spot where the eye may not catch a sparkle. The same brilliancy gilds the rocks which support the road on the right, and overhang the abyss. Nothing in the picture is truer or more marvellously salient in color and form than the purple crag, with sunlight broken by cross-shadows, lying upon its hither front. Nothing is more boldly characterized, and more full of fresh and vigorous feeling, than the sweep of the road, accurately and precisely defined in all its structure, and bathed in mellow sunlight and mellower shade.

Just at the top of the ascent stands a cross, — a token of gratitude for labor past, and rest achieved. Such crosses are usual among the passes of the Andes, wherever a height has been overcome. The natives pause and repose, and say a thankful Ave, as the two figures in the picture seem to be doing. Their presence is a cheerful incident, and their bright pouchos throw in a dash of gay tropical color. To us also the cross, prominent against its dark background, has sweet symbolical meaning, sanctifying the glories of the spot; and, as in the old saintly legends flowers sprang up under the feet of martyrs, so here a spontaneous garland has grown to wreathe this emblem of sacrifice and love.

Observe next how exquisitely the sloping side of the road toward the dim precipice on the left clothes itself with a mossy verdure, and how the moss thickens and streams down into the chasm, meeting the slender line of sapphire water that trickles from a crevice in the steep. Foremost of all the picture the Artist has set up his trophy in the broken shaft, — the stem of some ancient monarch of the forest. Upon this he has flung his last brilliant spoils. The scarlet orchis stands out like a plume from a tuft of other air-plants, a fall of draping creepers hangs from above, strange rich forms of plants cluster about its base, and, fastened by a fillet of large leaves, each distinct upon its own shadow, one burning white blossom gleams, midway the column, like a jewel upon an argent shield. Upon a branch just by, in bravery of lustrous green plumage, sits the “royal bird of the Incas,” and below gay butterflies twinkle. Through some cleft of forest, beyond the verge of the picture, one trenchant sunbeam strikes, and, falling upon this propylon shaft, seems to set upon the whole great work the sun’s final signet of approval.