often recovered the trail,
until the bank of a water-course was reached, to which the flying criminal
had taken. The trail was lost; the soldiers would have turned back; but
Calebar had no such thought. He patiently followed the course of the
_acequia_ for a few rods, and suddenly halting, said to his companions,
"Here is the spot at which he left the canal; there is no trail,--not a
footprint,--but do you see those drops of water upon the grass?" With this
slight clue they were led towards a vineyard. Calebar examined it at every
side, and bade the soldiers enter, saying, "He is there!" The men obeyed
him, but shortly reported that no living being was within the walls. "He
is there!" quietly reiterated Calebar; and, in fact, a second more
thorough examination resulted in the capture of the trembling fugitive,
who was executed on the following day.--There can be no doubt regarding
the literal exactness of this anecdote.

At another time, we are told, a party of political prisoners, incarcerated
by General Rosas, had contrived a plan of escape, in which they were to be
aided by friends outside. When all was ready, one of the party suddenly
exclaimed,--

"But Calebar! you forget him!"

"Calebar!" echoed his friends; "true, it is useless to escape while he can
pursue us!"

Nor was any flight attempted until the dreaded trailer had been bribed to
fall ill for a few days, when the prisoners succeeded in making good their
escape.

He who would learn more of Calebar and his brother-trailers, let him
procure a copy of the little work that now lies before us,[1] in the shape
of a tattered duo-decimo, which has come to us across the Andes and around
Cape Horn, from the most secluded corner of the Argentine Confederation.
Badly printed and barbarously bound, this "Life of Juan Facundo Quiroga"
is nevertheless replete with the evidence of genius, and bears the stamp
of a generously-cultivated mind. Its author, indeed, the poet-patriot-
philosopher, Don Domingo F. Sarmiento, may be called the Lamartine of
South America, whose eventful career may some day invite us to an
examination. Suffice it now to say, that he was expelled by Rosas in 1840
from Buenos Ayres, and that he took his way to Chile, with the intention
in that hospitable republic of devoting his pen to the service of his
oppressed country. At the baths of Zonda he wrote with charcoal, under a
delineation of the national arms: _On ne tue point les idees_! which
ins