Summary

J. A. Hammerton The real Argentine: Notes and Impressions of a Year in the Argentine and Uruguay

All in a death-dumb, autumn-dripping gloom, comes to mind in Buenos Ayres on one of these days, but, alas, the autumn dripping is not from branchy trees to fragrant, leaf-laden loam, nor is it “death-dumb.” It drips from gaunt iron frames, from broken plastered walls, from tram-cars, from horses’ harness. A billiard cue taken from the rack will feel as though it had been lying in the bath, and the boots which you have not been wearing for a few days will show patches of white and green mould.
But it is true that between April and November there may be many days of sunshine
Source: Gutenberg

J. A. Hammerton The real Argentine: Notes and Impressions of a Year in the Argentine and Uruguay

Truer would it be to say that the spirit of the Argentine—that intangible something which permeates a whole people and marks them off from others—can best be discovered in walking about the streets, mingling with the throng, listening to the casual remarks of passers-by. You will notice, not once or twice, but scores of times in any day—that is, if you notice anything—the curious habit of men in conversation rubbing together the forefinger and thumb of the right hand.
Source: Gutenberg

J. A. Hammerton The real Argentine: Notes and Impressions of a Year in the Argentine and Uruguay

To the untravelled British provincial, who has shipped straight from some English port to the River Plate, I can well imagine the Argentine metropolis is the greatest wonder of the world. The most devoted admirer of Buenos Ayres that I met during my stay there was a gentleman from Kilmarnock, Scotland. He had never seen London; had never previously been out of his native Scotland; but his ten years in the Argentine capital had convinced him that it stood unique in the world and in all time as the most glorious example of the power of man in the making of cities.
Source: Gutenberg

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