But I have too deeply enjoyed the voyage, not to recommend any naturalist, although he must not expect to be so fortunate in his companions as I have been, to take all chances, and to start, on travels by land if possible, if otherwise on a long voyage. He may feel assured, he will meet with no difficulties or dangers (excepting in rare cases) nearly so bad as beforehand anticipated. In a moral point of view, the effect ought to be, to teach him good-humoured patience, freedom from selfishness, the habit of acting for himself, and of making the best of every thing, or in other words of contentment. In short he should partake of the characteristic qualities of the greater number of sailors. Traveling ought also to teach him distrust; but at the same time he will discover, how many truly good natured people there are, with whom he never before had, or ever again will have any further communication, who yet are ready to offer him the most disinterested assistance.

There are several other sources of enjoyment in a long voyage, which are, perhaps of a more reasonable nature. The map of the world ceases to be a blank; it becomes a picture full of the most varied and animated figures. Each part assumes its true dimensions: continents are not looked at in the light if islands, or those islands considered as mere specks, which are, in truth, larger than many kingdoms of Europe. Africa, or North and South America, are well-sounding names, and easily pronounced; but it is not till having sailed for some weeks along small portions of their coasts that one is thoroughly convinced how large a portion of our immense world these names imply.

It has been said, that the love of the chase is an inherent delight in man – a relic of an instinctive passion. If so, I am sure the pleasure of living in the open air, with the sky for a roof, and the ground for a table, is part of the same feeling: it is the savage returning to his wild and native habits. I always look back to our boat cruises, and my land journeys, when through unfrequented countries, with a kind of extreme delight, which no scenes of civilization could have created. I do not doubt that every traveler must remember the glowing sense of happiness he experienced from the simple consciousness of breathing in a foreign clime, where the civilized man has seldom or never trod.

In calling up images of the past, I find the plains of Patagonia frequently cross before my eyes: yet these plains are pronounced by all most wretched and useless. They are characterized only by negative possessions; without habitations, without water, without trees, without mountains, they support merely a few dwarf plants. Why then, and the case is not peculiar to myself, have these arid wastes taken so firm possession of the memory? Why have not the still more level, the greener and more fertile Pampas, which are serviceable to mankind, produced an equal impression? I can scarcely analyze these feelings: but it must be partly owing to the free scope given to the imagination. The plains of Patagonia are boundless, for they are scarcely practicable, and hence unknown: they bear the stamp of having thus lasted for ages, and there appears no limit to their duration through future time. If, as the ancients supposed, the flat earth was surrounded by an impassable breadth of water, or by deserts heated to an intolerable excess, who would not look at these last boundaries to man’s knowledge with deep but ill-defined sensations?

Many of the losses which must be experienced are obvious; such as that of the society of all old friends, and of the sight of those places, with which every dearest remembrance is so intimately connected. These losses, however, are at the time partly relieved by the exhaustless delight of anticipating the long wished-for day of return. If, as the poets say, life is a dream, I am sure in a voyage these are the visions which serve best to pass away the long night. Other losses, although not at first felt, tell heavily after a period; these are, the want of room, of seclusion, of rest; the jading feeling of constant hurry; the privation of small luxuries, the comforts of civilization and domestic society, and, lastly, even of music and the other pleasures of imagination.

If a person should ask my advice, before undertaking a long voyage, my answer would depend upon his possessing a decide taste for some branch of knowledge, which could by such means be improved. No doubt it is a high satisfaction to behold various countries, and the many races of mankind, but the pleasures gained at the time do not counterbalance the evils. If is necessary to look forward to a harvest, however distant it may be, when some fruit will be reaped, some good effected.

In the morning, we stood out of the Lagoon. I am glad we have visited these islands: such formations surely rank high amongst the wonderful objects of this world. It is not a wonder, which at first strikes the eye of the body, but rather, after reflection, the eye of reason. We feel surprised, when travelers relate accounts of the vast extent of certain ancient ruins; but how utterly insignificant are the greatest of these, when compared to the pile of stone here accumulated by the work of various minute animals.

It is the fate of every voyager, when he has just discovered what object in any place is more particularly worthy of his attention, to be hurried from it.

This was the first night which I had ever passed under the open sky, with the gear of the recado for my bed. There is high enjoyment in the independence of the Gaucho life – to be able at any moment to pull up your horse, and say “Here we will pass the night.”