he
olive, but the bark resembles that of the birch. It reaches the greatest
elevation of any tree on the globe. Then followed shrubby fuchsia,
calceolaria, eupatoria, and red and purple gentians; around and on the
Arenal, a uniform mantle of monocotyledonous plants, with scattered
tufts of valeriana, viola, and geranium, all with rigid leaves in the
characteristic rosettes of super-alpine vegetation; and on the
porphyritic and trachytic sides of Chimborazo, lichens alone. Snow then
covers the last effort of vegetable life.[15] The change in the
architecture of the houses indicated, likewise, a change of altitude.
The open bamboo huts, shingled with banana leaves, were followed by
warmer _adobe_ houses, and these, in turn, by the straw hovels of the
mountain-top, made entirely of the long, wiry grass of the paramos.

[Footnote 15: According to Sir J. Hooker, among the flowers which adorn
the slopes of the Himalayas, rhododendrons occupy the most prominent
place, and primroses next. There are no orchids, neither red gentians,
but blue. Organic life ceases 3000 feet lower than on the Andes; yet it
is affirmed that flowering plants occur at the height of 18,460 feet,
which is equivalent to the summit of Chimborazo in point of temperature!
The polylepis (_P. racemosa_) is one of the _Sanguisorbaceae_; in Quichua
it is _Sachaquinoa_.]

Leaving the Arenal, we rapidly descended by the usual style of
road--stone stairs. But down we went, as all the goods for Quito, "the
grand capital," have done since the Spanish Conquest. The old road from
Beirut to Damascus is royal in comparison. The general aspect of the
eastern slope is that of a gray, barren waste, overgrown with _paja_;
but now and then we crossed deep gulleys, whose sides were lined with
mosses and sprinkled with calceolarias, lupines, etc. In our descent we
had before us the magnificent Valley of Quito, and beyond it the eastern
Cordillera. Below us was Riobamba, and far away to the right the deep
gorge of the Pastassa. Nevertheless, this is one of the loneliest rides
earth can furnish. Not a tree nor human habitation is in sight. Icy
rivulets and mule-trains are the only moving objects on this melancholy
heath. Even "Drake's Plantation Bitters," painted on the volcanic cliffs
of Chimborazo, would be a relief.

At last we reached our rude accommodations for the night. It was a
solitary mud tambo, glorying in the euphonious name of Chuquipoyo. The
court-yard was a sea