Arrival at Callao—Quarantine—The war between Chili and Peru—Aspect of Lima—General Lynch—Andean railway to Chicla—Valley of the Rimac—Puente Infernillo—Chicla—Mountain-sickness—Flora of the Temperate zone of the Andes—Excursion to the higher region—Climate of the Cordillera—Remarks on the Andean flora—Return to Lima—Visit to a sugar-plantation—Condition of Peru—Prospect of anarchy.

The steam-whistle, sounding about daybreak on April 15, announced that we were again wrapped in fog. As the Islay advanced at half speed the fog lightened without clearing, until about nine a.m. we made the island of San Lorenzo, and, as the haze finally melted away into bright sunshine, found ourselves half an hour later in the harbour of Callao. The moment was exciting for those who, like myself, approached as strangers the shore which had in our childhood seemed so strange, so adventure-fraught, so distant. Already some one had pointed out the towers of the Cathedral of Lima, with the Cordillera apparently so near that the mountains must begin outside the gates. All stood on deck prepared to land—some already looking forward to luncheon in the city of Pizarro—and waiting only for the usual formalities of the visit of the sanidad. At length the officials came, and, after the usual parley over the ship’s side, it became apparent that the visit was no mere formality. At last the ominous word quarantine was heard, received at first with mere incredulity, as something too absurd, but at last taking the consistence of a stern fact. Since the outbreak of yellow fever among the troops at Truxillo, the Chilian authorities have naturally become nervously anxious to protect the occupying army from this danger, and every precaution is put in force. Under these circumstances, a ship coming from Guayaquil was naturally an object of suspicion. There certainly was not at the time any epidemic fever at that place; but, if reports be true, sporadic cases are not unfrequent, and that city is rarely, if ever, quite free from malignant zymotic disease. At last the discussion was closed, by a definite order that we should repair to the quarantine ground under the lee of the island of San Lorenzo.

Up to this time we had scarcely given attention to the scene immediately surrounding us; yet the harbour of Callao is at any time an interesting sight, and at this moment its aspect was peculiarly expressive. Although the Chilian forces had before this time become absolute masters of the entire seaboard of Peru, and there was no reason to apprehend any renewal of the struggle by sea, the memorials of the desperate encounters which marked the earlier phase of the war were here still fresh. Near the shore in several different directions were the wrecks of ships which had sunk while the captors were endeavouring to bring them into harbour, the masts sticking up idly above water and doing the duty of buoys. Still afloat, though looking terribly battered and scarcely seaworthy, was that remarkable little ship, the Huascar, looking a mere pigmy beside the warships in the harbour from which the Chilian, American, French, and Italian flags were flying, England being for the moment unrepresented.

The naval war between Chili and Peru was conducted at such a distance from Europe, and its causes were so little understood, that it excited but feeble interest. Even the circumstance that, in an encounter brought about by the incompetence and rashness of a British commander, the pigmy Peruvian force was able with impunity to inflict an affront on the national flag, scarcely excited in England more than momentary surprise. Nevertheless the story of the war, which yet awaits an impartial chronicler,5 abounds with dramatic incident. The record is ennobled by acts of heroic bravery on both sides, while at the same time it suggests matter for serious consideration to the professional seaman. The important part which small fast ships, carrying one or two heavy guns only, may play in the altered conditions of naval warfare has been often pointed out, but has been practically illustrated only in the war between Chili and Peru. It does not seem as if the importance of the lesson had been yet fully appreciated by those responsible for the naval administration of the great European powers.

For the remainder of the day, and during the whole of the 16th, we lay at anchor about half a mile from the shore of the island of San Lorenzo, a bare rough hill, mainly formed, it would seem, of volcanic rock overlaid in places by beds of very modern formation. All naturalists are familiar with the evidence adduced by Darwin, proving the considerable elevation of the island and the adjacent mainland since the period of the Incas, as well as Tschudi’s arguments going to show that in more recent times there has been a period of subsidence.

Of the objects near at hand the most interesting were the large black pelicans which in great numbers frequent the bay or harbour of Callao, attracted, no doubt, by the offal abundantly supplied from the town and the shipping. Seemingly indefatigable and insatiable, these birds continued for hours to circle in long sweeping curves over the water, swooping down on any object that attracted their appetite. The body appears to be somewhat slighter than that of the white pelican of the East, but the breadth of wing and length of the neck are about the same. When on the wing the plumage appears to be black, but in truth it is of a dark bluish slate colour.

Our detention in quarantine might have been prolonged but for the fortunate circumstance that the contents of the mail-bags carried by the Islay were at this moment the object of anxious curiosity to the Chilian authorities, and to the representatives of foreign powers. The position of affairs was already sufficiently critical, and the attitude recently assumed by the Government of the United States had added a new element of uncertainty to the existing difficulties. Mr. Hurlbut, the last American representative, had died, and Mr. Trescott, who supplied his place, was ostensibly charged with the attempt to bring about a peace between Chili and Peru, but was supposed to be chiefly intent on extricating his Government from a position into which it had been led by a series of proceedings which had neither raised the national reputation nor secured the good-will of either Chili or Peru.

While we lay off the harbour, watched day and night by the crew of a launch stationed beside us to prevent communication with the land, we received three successive visits from the officers of the American man-of-war lying in the harbour, who approached near enough to hold conversation with our captain. The message was a request, finally conveyed in somewhat imperious terms, that the dispatches addressed to the American envoy should at once be delivered. The American foreign office is not, I believe, accustomed to forward diplomatic dispatches in a separate bag, but merely uses the ordinary post. Our captain properly declined to take the responsibility of opening the mail-bags, which he was bound to deliver intact to the postal authorities as soon as we were admitted to pratique. The result was that on Monday, just as we were beginning to be seriously uneasy at the prospect of a long detention, a steam launch was seen to approach, having a number of officials on board. A seemingly interminable conversation between these and the captain and medical officer of our ship finally resulted in a Chilian medical man coming on board to make a careful examination of the ship, the crew, and the passengers. After we had been duly marshalled and inspected—the first-class passengers on the spar-deck, the others on the main-deck—the welcome announcement, “Admitted to pratique,” ran through the ship. Not much time was lost in moving up to the proper moorings in the harbour, some two miles distant, and about noon we were set on land close to the custom-house.

The boatmen, the porters, and the nondescript hangers-on about the quays of a port, formed a strange and motley assemblage, in whose countenances three very distinct types of humanity—the European, the negro, and the South American Indian—were mingled in the most varied proportions, scarcely one denoting an unmixed origin. The arrangements at Callao are convenient for strangers. The custom-house officers, though unbribed, gave no trouble, and the rather voluminous luggage of six English passengers was entrusted to a man who undertook for ten soles (about thirty-three shillings) to convey the whole to the chief hotel in Lima. No time was left to see anything of Callao. A train was about to start; and in half an hour we were carried over the level space—about seven and a half miles—that separates Lima from the port of Callao.

Occupied by the forces of her victorious rival, and shorn of most of the almost fabulous wealth that once enriched her inhabitants, Peru can, even in her present ruined state, show a capital city that impresses the stranger. It is true that the buildings have no architectural merit, that most of the streets are horribly ill-paved, and that at present there is little outward appearance of wealth in the thoroughfares; in spite of all this the general aspect is novel and pleasing. Although violent earthquakes have rarely occurred in this region, slight shocks are very frequent, and remind the inhabitants that formidable telluric forces are slumbering close at hand. Hence, as a rule, the houses have only a single floor above the ground, and cover a proportionately large space. As in Southern Spain, all those of the better class enclose a patio, or courtyard, partly occupied by tropical trees or flowering shrubs. Fronting the street, or the plaza, a long projecting balcony, enclosed with glass, enables the inmates to enjoy that refuge from absolute vacancy which is afforded by gazing at the passers-by, and which seems to supply the place of occupation to much of the population even in Southern Europe.

With scarcely an exception, the numerous churches are vile examples of debased renaissance architecture, fronted with stucco ornamentation in great part fallen to decay. Not long before our arrival, I believe under the Chilian administration, they had been all freshly covered with whitewash, cut into rectangular spaces by broad bands of bright blue. In the streets near the great plaza there was much apparent animation during the day; but the shops were closed an hour before nightfall, and after dark the city was hushed into unnatural silence. The fair LimeÑas, as to whose charms travellers have been eloquent, and who used to throng the public drives and walks towards sunset, were no longer to be seen. To exhibit themselves would be to display indifference to the misfortunes of their country. Some might be observed, indeed, during the morning hours, plainly dressed in black, going either to church or on some business errand; but they were so closely wrapped up in a manta as to be completely disguised.

On landing in Peru, the one question which completely engrossed my mind was whether or not it would be possible for me, in the present state of the country, to reach the upper region of the Andes.

To a naturalist this great chain must ever be the dominant feature of the South American continent. To its structure and its flora and fauna are attached questions of overwhelming importance to the past history of our planet, and, however little a man may hope to effect during a flying visit, the desire to gain that degree of acquaintance which actual observation alone can give becomes painfully intense. I was aware that what had formerly been a long and rather laborious journey had of late years been reduced to a mere excursion by the construction of two lines of railway, leading from the sea-coast to the upper region. That which, if free to choose, I should have preferred starts from the coast at Mollendo, and, passing the important town of Arequipa, traverses the crest of the Cordillera, and has its terminus at Puno, on the Lake of Titicaca, in the centre of the plateau which lies between the two main ridges of the Andes. The region surrounding this great lake, which here divides Peru from Bolivia, must offer objects of interest only too numerous and too engrossing for a traveller whose time is counted by days. Although the level of the lake is some 12,800 feet above the sea, the peaks of Sorata rise above its eastern shores to a further height of nearly 10,000 feet; and lake steamers give access to most of the inhabited places on its shores—no slight matter when it is remembered that the lake measures more than a hundred miles in length.

The second line, which, starting from the city of Lima, is carried nearly due east along the valley of the Rimac, was designed to open communication by the most direct route between the capital and the fertile region on the eastern slopes of the Andes—called in Peru the MontaÑa—as well as with the rich silver region of Cerro de Pasco. The crest of the Cordillera, or western ridge of the Andes, is scarcely eighty miles from Lima in a direct line, but the most practicable pass is somewhat higher than the summit of Mont Blanc. The road was to pierce the pass by a tunnel 15,645 feet above the sea-level, and thence to descend to the town of Oroya on the high plateau that divides the two main ridges. As the line was laid out, the distance from Lima to the summit-level was only 97 miles, and that to Oroya 129 miles.

Considered merely as engineering works, these lines, which owe their existence to the enterprise of an American contractor and the skill of the engineers who carried out the undertaking, may fairly be counted among the wonders of the world. The Oroya line, the more difficult of the two, unfortunately remained unfinished. Although the loans contracted in Europe by the Peruvian Government more than sufficed to defray the cost of all the industrial undertakings that they were professedly intended to supply, it is scarcely necessary to say that a large portion disappeared through underground channels, leaving legitimate demands unprovided for. The stipulated instalments due to Mr. Meiggs, the great contractor, remained unpaid, and, in the midst of the difficulties in which he was thus involved, his death put a final stoppage to the works. The line had been completed and opened for a distance of about eighty miles from Lima, as far as the village of Chicla, 12,220 feet above the sea. From that time forward Mr. Meiggs devoted his energies to the boring of the tunnel at the summit, probably under the impression that if that were once finished the Peruvian Government could scarcely fail to provide the funds necessary to complete the line on either side.

I had found it impossible to ascertain before leaving England what had been the fate of these magnificent works since the ravages of war had devastated the region through which they are carried. Various quite inconsistent stories had reached me through the passengers from Panama, Guayaquil, and Payta. Traffic, said some, continued on both lines just as before the war; traffic, said others, had been completely stopped by order of the Chilian authorities; others, finally, asserted that the Oroya line had been so damaged by either belligerent as to be rendered permanently useless.

Before I had been many hours on shore, I was able to get authentic information which relieved my mind from further anxiety. The southern line, from Mollendo to Puno, was open; but Arequipa, the chief place on the way, was still in possession of the Peruvians, who occupied it in some force. With permits, to be obtained from the commanding officers on both sides, it might be possible to go and return, supposing no fresh outbreak of hostile movements of the troops on either side. The news as to the Oroya line was even more satisfactory. The whole line was occupied by the Chilian forces, there being a detachment at Chicla, with outposts on the farther side of the pass. The line had been for some time closed to traffic, but had been re-opened a few days before our arrival. With a permit, to be obtained from the chief of the staff in Lima, there would be no difficulty in proceeding to Chicla.

My decision was speedily taken. Under the most favourable circumstances, the time necessary to reach Puno and return to the coast, with the not improbable risk of detention, was more than I could afford. Further than this, as Puno lies on the plateau remote from the mountains, I should see but little of the characteristic flora of the Andes, unless I could reach some place on the eastern shore of the Lake of Titicaca, whence access could be had to the flanks of the Sorata Andes.

Some description of the Lake of Titicaca which I had read as a boy still dwelt in my mind, and the memoirs and conversation of the late Mr. Pentland had long made the peaks of Sorata objects of especial interest to me. There could, however, be no doubt that the faint hope of beholding them which had lingered till then must be renounced, and I was too happy at the prospect of achieving a short visit to the more accessible part of the chain to have leisure for any keen regret.

Having ascertained that the trains to Chicla departed only every second day, returning thence on the alternate days, I arranged to start on the 20th. During the two intermediate days, I had the opportunity of making several agreeable acquaintances. Sir Spencer St. John, the English minister, had lately returned to Europe, and the legation was temporarily under the charge of Mr. J.R. Graham, who had recently acted as chargÉ d’affaires in Guatemala. Among other kind attentions which I have to acknowledge, Mr. Graham was good enough to introduce me to Don Patricio Lynch, commander-in-chief of the Chilian forces in Peru.

The object of boundless admiration from his own followers, and of still more unmeasured denunciation from his enemies, General Lynch is undoubtedly the most remarkable man who has come to the front during the late unhappy war in South America. Like most of the men who have acquired military renown in that part of the world, he is of Irish extraction, his grandfather having settled in Chili early in the present century. Having served as a young man for a time in the English navy, he was promoted by the Chilian Government, some time after the outbreak of the war, to a naval command. The operations at sea had, up to that time, been on the whole unfavourable to Chili, and the successes which finally changed the aspect of the war by sea were largely ascribed to the energy and ability of Admiral Lynch. Passing from the sea to the land, he so much distinguished himself in various daring encounters with the enemy that he was finally promoted to the chief command of the Chilian forces in Peru, and at this time was virtually dictator, with absolute rule over the whole coast region occupied by the Chilian army.

However open to discussion might be the policy adopted by the Chilians towards the conquered country, there was a general agreement as to one matter of no slight importance. The population of Lima and the surrounding districts is composed of the most varied constituents—native Indian, negro, and the mongrel offspring of the intermixture of these with European blood, to all which of late years has been added a large contingent of Chinese immigrants. It is not surprising that, under inefficient administration, there should have arisen from the dregs of such a population a large class either actually living by crime or ready to resort to outrage as favourable opportunities might arise. On the other hand, the Chilian army, for which there was but a small nucleus of regular troops, had to be largely recruited from among the loose fish of the floating population of South America, and naturally included no small number of bad subjects, ready to make the utmost use of the license of war. For many years past the police of Lima was notoriously inefficient; robberies were frequent, and there were many spots in the neighbourhood of the city where it was considered unsafe to go unarmed even in broad daylight. It was not unreasonably feared that in such conditions the occupation of the city by the Chilians would have results disastrous for the safety of the numerous foreign residents and the peaceful citizens. It was through the energy and capacity of General Lynch that the apprehended reign of disorder was averted. An efficient police was at once established, speedy capital punishment was awarded in every case of serious outrage, and with stern impartiality a short shrift was allotted alike to the Peruvian marauder and the looter wearing Chilian uniform. It was admitted on all hands that the city had never before been so safe, while, at the same time, the ordinary municipal work of cleansing, watering, and lighting the streets and public places had been visibly improved under the stimulus of vigorous administration.

My reception by the Chilian general was all that I could desire. He at once expressed his readiness to assist my objects in every way, and carried out his promise by giving me a letter to the officer commanding the detachment at Chicla, with instructions to provide horses and guides and all needful protection for myself and my companion. I failed to detect in General Lynch any of the characteristics, usually so persistent, of men of Irish descent. The stately courtesy and serious expression, reminding one of the bearing of a Castilian gentleman, were not enlivened by the irrepressible touches of liveliness that involuntarily relieve even a careworn Irishman from the pressure of his environment. One particularity in the arrangements at head-quarters struck me as singular; but I afterwards understood that it was merely the transference to Peru of the ordinary habits of Chili. The head-quarters of the general were fixed in the former palace of the Spanish viceroys. A sentry in the street paid no attention as, in company with Mr. Graham, I entered the first court, and it appeared that every one, or, at least, every decently dressed stranger, was free to pass. Through an open door we entered the first of a suite of large rooms, and advanced from one to another without encountering a human being, whether guard or attendant, until in the last room but one, seemingly by accident, a secretary presented himself, who at once ushered us into the cabinet of the general. In the case of any public man in Europe, to say nothing of the chief of an army of occupation constantly assailed by the fiercest denunciations, and left thus easy of access, some fanatic or madman would speedily translate the popular hatred into grim deed.

Among the acquaintances made in Lima, I must mention the name of Mr. William Nation, a gentleman who, amidst many difficulties, has acquired an extensive knowledge of the fauna and flora of Peru, and has observed with attention many facts of interest connected with the natural history of the country. After my return from Chicla, Mr. Nation was kind enough to accompany me in two short excursions in the neighbourhood of the city, and I am further indebted to him for much valuable assistance and information.

Soon after eight a.m. on the morning of April 20, I started from the railway station at Lima, in company with my friend W——, who was fortunately able to absent himself for some days. The country lying between the coast and the foot of the Cordillera appears to the eye a horizontal plain, but is, in fact, a slope inclining towards the sea, and rising very uniformly about seventy feet per mile.6 This ancient sea-bottom extends for a distance of fully fifteen miles from Lima into the valley of the Rimac, which, in approaching the coast, gradually spreads out from a narrow gorge to a wide valley with a flat floor. At the same time the river gradually dwindles from a copious rushing torrent to a meagre stream, running in many shallow channels over a broad stony bed, until it is finally almost lost in the marshes near Callao. Its waters are consumed by the numerous irrigation channels; for it must be remembered that along the western side of the continent, for a distance of nearly thirty degrees of latitude, cultivation is confined to those tracts which can be irrigated by streams from the Andes. Keeping pretty near to the left bank of the Rimac, the railway runs between two detached hills, formerly islands when the sea stood a few hundred feet above its present level. That on the north side is called the Amancais, and another less extensive mass rises south of the river.

Throughout the greater part of the year these hills, as well as the lower slopes of the Cordillera, appear, as they did to me, absolutely bare of vegetation; but in winter, from June to September, slight showers of rain are not unfrequent, and the fogs, denser than in other seasons, rest more constantly on the hills, and doubtless deposit abundant night-dews on the surface. The seeds and bulbs and rhizomes awake from their long sleep, and in a few days the slopes are covered with a brilliant carpet, in which bright flowers of various species follow each other in rapid succession.

Alongside of the railway runs a broad road covered to a depth of a couple of feet with volcanic sand, with occasional loose blocks of stone. The struggles of the few laden animals that we saw in passing, as they toiled along this weary track under a scorching sun, suggested a thought of the wonderful changes which modern inventions have already effected, and are destined to effect in the future, throughout every part of the world. The track before our eyes was, until the other day, the sole line of direct communication between Lima and the interior of Peru. The passage of men and animals had in the course of centuries reduced the original stony surface to a river of fine sand, and by no better mode of transport had the treasures of Cerro de Pasco, and the other rich silver deposits of the same region, been carried to the coast to sap the manhood and energy of the Spanish settlers in Peru, and help to achieve the same result in the mother country.

The American railway car, which is not without its drawbacks for ordinary travellers, is admirably suited to a naturalist in a new country. No time is lost in opening and shutting doors. Standing ready on the platform, one jumps off at every stoppage of the train, and jumps up again without delay or hindrance. I was able to appreciate these advantages during this day, and to add considerably to my collections by turning every moment to account. At first the vegetation was, of course, extremely scanty; but I was interested by finding here some representatives of genera that extend to the hotter and drier parts of the Mediterranean region, such as Boerhavia and Lippia.

Not far beyond the station of Santa Clara, near to which is a large sugar-plantation, the slopes on either side of the valley become more continuous, and gradually approach nearer together. The first trace of vegetation visible from a distance was shown by one of the cactus tribe, probably a Cereus, and as we ascended I was able to distinguish two other species of the same family.

At many points in the valley, always on slightly rising ground, shapeless inequalities of the surface marked with their rough outline all that now remains of the numerous villages that in the days of the Incas were scattered at short intervals.

As we advanced, the slopes on either side became higher and steeper, but were still apparently nearly bare of vegetation until we reached Chosica, about twenty-six miles from Lima, 2800 feet above the sea. At this place it was formerly the custom to halt for breakfast, but since the line has been re-opened, the only eatables to be found are the fruits, chiefly bananas and granadillas, which Indian women offer to the passengers.

Henceforward the line is fairly enclosed between the slopes on either hand, everywhere rough and steep, but, as is the nature of volcanic rocks, nowhere cut into precipices. The gradient becomes perceptibly steeper, being about one in thirty-three in the space between Chosica and San BartolomÉ—about thirteen miles. Here the change of climate begins to be distinctly marked. It is evident that during a great part of the year the declivities are covered with vegetation, though now brown from drought, and they show the occasional action of running water in deep furrows and ravines. Here the engineers engaged on the railway first confronted the serious difficulties of the undertaking. Following the line from San BartolomÉ to Chicla, the distance is only thirty-four miles, but the difference of level is 7317 feet, and the fifty-one miles between this and the summit-tunnel involve an ascent of 10,740 feet. The gradient is very uniform, never, I believe, exceeding one in twenty-six, the average being about one in twenty-eight. Some of the expedients adopted appear simple enough, though quite effectual for the intended purpose. Very steep uniform slopes have been ascended by zigzags, in which the train is alternately dragged by the locomotive in front, and then (the motion being reversed), shoved up the next incline with the engine in the rear. In one place I observed that we passed five times, always at a different level, above the same point in the valley below.

Among the more remarkable works on the line are the viaducts by which deep and broad ravines cut in the friable volcanic rocks have been spanned. The iron beams and girders that sustain these structures appear much slighter than I have seen used in Europe. In crossing one barranca, on what is said to be the loftiest viaduct in the world, I stood on the platform at the end of the car: there being no continuous roadway, the eye plunged directly down into the chasm below, over which we seemed to be travelling on a spider’s web.

For a distance of about eight miles from San BartolomÉ the railway keeps near to the bottom of the valley, between slopes whereon a distinct green hue is now visible, and some trickling rivulets are perceived in the channels of the ravines. On the opposite, or northern, slope are still distinctly seen the terraces by which in ancient days the industrious Indian population carried cultivation up the precipitous slopes to a height of more than fifteen hundred feet above the bed of the valley. For in this land, before the Spaniard destroyed its simple civilization and reduced the larger part to a wilderness, the pressure of population was felt as it now is in the southern valleys of the Alps. The fact that terrace cultivation commenced precisely in the part of the valley where we now find streamlets from the flanks of the high mountains above, which might be used for partial irrigation, tends to show that no considerable change of climate has occurred.

Before reaching the Surco station (forty-eight miles from Lima, and 6655 feet above the sea) the road finally abandons the Rimac, and commences the seemingly formidable ascent of the declivity above the left bank. For some distance a projecting buttress with a moderate slope enabled the engineers to accomplish the ascent by long winding curves; but before long we reached the first zigzags, which are frequently repeated during the remainder of the ascent. The tunnels are frequent, but fortunately for the most part short, as the rate of travelling is necessarily slow, and the artificial fuel used gives out black fumes of a stifling character. A further change of climate, welcome to the botanist, was now very obvious. Although the soil appears to be parched, it is clear that some slight rain must recur at moderate intervals. Vegetation, if not luxuriant, finds the needful conditions, and in the gardens of Surco tropical fruits, such as bananas, cherimolias, oranges, and granadillas, are cultivated with tolerable success. Of the indigenous plants in flower at this season the large majority were CompositÆ, chiefly belonging to the sun-flower tribe (HelianthoÏdeÆ), a group characteristic of the New World.7 It was tantalizing to see so many new forms of vegetation pass before one’s eyes untouched. Most of them were indeed finally captured, but several yet remain as fleeting images in my memory, never fixed by closer observation.

About one p.m. we reached the chief village of the valley, San Juan de Matucana, fifty-five miles from Lima, and about 7800 feet above the sea. The train halted here for twenty minutes, and we discovered that very tolerable food is to be had at a little inn kept by an Italian. Hunger having been already stilled, the time was available for botanizing in the neighbourhood of the station, and, along with several cosmopolite weeds which we are used to call European, I found a good many types not before seen. Owing to the accident of having left my gloves in the carriage, I unwisely postponed to collect one plant not seen by me again during my stay in Peru. This was a small species of Tupa, a genus now united to Lobelia, with flowers of a lurid purple colour, which is said to have the singular effect of producing temporary blindness in those who handle the foliage, and I had been assured by Mr. Nation that he had verified the statement by experiment.8 We were here in the intermediate zone, wherein many species of the subtropical region are mingled with those characteristic of the Andean flora. Hitherto the most prevalent families, after the CompositÆ, had been the SolanaceÆ and MalvaceÆ. These have many representatives in the Andean flora, but henceforward were associated with an increasing proportion of types of many different orders.

As we continued the ascent in the afternoon our locomotive began to show itself unequal to the heavy work of the long-continued ascent, whether owing to defects in construction or, as seemed more probable, to the bad quality of the fuel supplied. Two stoppages occurred, required, as we learned, to clear out tubes. A considerable ascent was then achieved by a detour into a lateral valley above Matucana, returning to the Rimac at a much higher level, as is done on the Brenner line between Gossensass and Schelleberg.

Up to this time the scenery had fallen much below my anticipations. Owing to the nature of the rocks, there was an utter deficiency in that variety of colour and form that are essential elements in the beauty of mountain scenery. A still greater defect is the entire absence of forest. Along the course of the Rimac bushes or small trees, such as Schinus molle, two Acacias, Salix Humboldtiana, and others, are tolerably frequent; but on the rugged surface of the mountain slopes nothing met the eye more conspicuous than the columnar stem of a cactus, or dense rigid tufts of what I took to be a Bromeliaceous plant, most probably a species of Puya. The sun had set, and darkness was fast closing round us when the train came suddenly to a standstill, and the intelligent American guard informed us that a delay of at least twenty minutes was required to set the locomotive in working order.

The accident was in every way fortunate. We had just reached the Puente Infernillo, by far the most striking scene on the whole route, rendered doubly impressive when seen by the rapidly fading light. The railway had here returned to the Rimac, and is carried for a short distance along the right bank. In front the river rushes out of a narrow cleft, while on either hand the mountains rise to a prodigious height, with a steeper declivity than we had as yet anywhere seen. With a lively recollection of the Via Mala, the gorge of Pfeffers, and other scenes of a similar character, I could bring to mind none to rival this for stern sublimity. The impassable chasm that seemed to defy further advance, the roar of the river in the deeply cut channel below, the impending masses that towered up above us, leaving but a strip of sky in view, combined to form such a representation of the jaws of hell as would have satisfied the imagination of the Tuscan poet. To a botanist the scene awoke very different associations. Before it became quite dark I had captured several outposts of the Andean flora, not hitherto seen. The beautiful TropÆolum tuberosum, with masses of flowers smaller, but even more brilliant, than those of the common garden species, climbed over the bushes. A fleshy-leaved Oxalis, the first seen of a numerous group, came out of the crevices of the adjoining rocks, and Alonsoa acutifolia, which I had never seen but in an English greenhouse, was an additional prize.

Night had completely fallen as we resumed our journey, and although my curiosity was much excited in the attempt to follow the course of the line, I utterly failed to do so. Watching the stars as guides to our direction, where these were not cut off by the frequent tunnels, I could only infer that we were constantly winding round sharp curves, at times near the bottom of a deep ravine, with the roar of a torrent close at hand, and soon after working at a dizzy height along the verge of a precipice, with the muffled bass of a waterfall heard from out of the depths. Even after I had travelled the reverse way in broad daylight, I remained in some doubt as to the real structure of this part of the line. So far as I know, the first application of a spiral tunnel in railway construction was on the line across the Apennine between Bologna and Florence, but the spiral is there but a semicircle; you enter it facing north, and emerge in the opposite direction at a higher level. A similar device has been more freely resorted to in the construction of the St. Gothard line; but on this part of the Oroya line, completed before that of the St. Gothard was commenced, the spiral, if I mistake not, includes two complete circles, at the end of which the train stands nearly vertically above the point from which it started. It is by no means altogether a tunnel, as the form of a great projecting buttress has allowed the line to be carried in great part along a spiral line traced upon its flanks.

Nearly two hours after sunset we at length reached the terminus at Chicla, very uncertain as to the resources of that place in point of shelter and food. We had had the pleasure of meeting in the train Mr. H——, a distinguished German statesman, who had travelled with us in the Islay on his way from California to make the tour of South America. He was accompanied by Baron von Zoden, the German minister at Lima. As their object was merely to see the railway line, they intended to return on the following morning; but meanwhile we resolved to confront together any difficulties that might arise.

The architecture of Chicla is remarkably uniform, the only differences being in the size of the edifices. Stone, brick, tiles, slate, and mortar are alike unknown. Planks are nailed together around a framework, the requisite number of pieces of corrugated iron are nailed to some rafters on the top, and the house is complete. After stepping from the railway car and scrambling up a steep bank, we found ourselves before the chief building of the place, a so-called hotel, kept by a worthy German whose ill fortune had placed him on the borderland, where for some time the place was alternately occupied by small parties of Chilian or Peruvian troops. Besides some rooms on an upper floor occupied by the people of the house, the hotel consisted of two large rooms on the ground floor, where food and drink were supplied to all comers, with an adjoining kitchen. For such fastidious travellers as might require further sleeping accommodation than a cloak in which to roll themselves, and a floor on which to stretch their limbs, a long adjoining shed was provided. This was divided by thin partitions into four or five small chambers, each capable of holding two beds. Supper was before long provided; and when we afterwards learned the difficulties of our host’s position, our surprise was excited more by the merits than by the defects of the entertainment.

We had been assured at Lima that, on going up to Chicla, we should be sure to suffer from the soroche, by which name the people of South America denote mountain-sickness, familiar to those who ascend from the coast to the plateau of the Andes. Knowing the height of Chicla to be no more than 12,220 feet above the sea, and never having experienced any of the usual symptoms at greater heights in Europe, I had treated the warning with derision so far as I was personally concerned, though not sure what effect the diminished pressure might have on my companion. I have described elsewhere9 my experience at Chicla, which undoubtedly resulted from a mitigated form of mountain-sickness, the symptoms being felt only at night, and passing away by day and in exercise. They were confined to the first two nights, and after the third day, during which we ascended to a height of more than two thousand feet above Chicla, they completely disappeared.

With regard to mountain-sickness, the only matter for surprise, as it seems to me, is that it is not more frequently felt at lower elevations, and that the human economy is able so readily to adapt itself to the altered conditions when transferred to an atmosphere of say two-thirds of the ordinary density, where the diminished supply to the lungs is aggravated by the increased mechanical effort requisite to move the limbs, and raise the weight of the body in an attenuated medium. Observation shows that the effects actually produced at great heights vary much with different individuals, and that in healthy subjects the functions after a short time adapt themselves to the new conditions. It is obvious that this process must have a limit, which has probably been very nearly attained in some cases.

In spite of some statements lately published, I am inclined to believe that the utmost limit of height compatible with active exertion will be found to lie, according to individual constitution, between twenty and twenty-five thousand feet. As regards our experiences at Chicla, the difficulty is to account for the fact that the effects produced while the body is at rest should disappear during active exercise; and whatever the nature of the disturbance of the functions, this was not accompanied by any discernible derangement of the respiration or the circulation. It appeared to me that the seat of disturbance, such as it was, was limited to the nervous system.

On the evening of our arrival we met at the hotel the commandant of the Chilian detachment, and on presenting my letter from the commander-in-chief, he was profuse in offers of assistance. It was speedily arranged that we should start on the following morning, to ride as far as the tunnel at the summit of the pass to Oroya, where I promised myself an ample harvest among the plants of the higher region of the Andes. When morning broke, after a sleepless night with a splitting headache, I found or fancied myself unfit for a hard day’s work; and, my companion being in much the same plight, we sent at an early hour to request that the excursion should be postponed till the following day. By the time, however, that we had dressed and breakfasted, the troubles of the night were all forgotten. A new vegetable world was outside awaiting us, and we were soon on the slopes above the station, where, in the person of my friend W——, I had the advantage of a kind and zealous assistant in the work of plant-collecting.

Deferring to a later page some remarks on the vegetation of the Cordillera, I need merely say that of this first delightful day the morning hours were devoted to the steep declivity of the mountain overhanging the left bank of the stream, while the afternoon was given to the less precipitous but more broken and irregular slopes on the opposite, or right, bank.

Having soon made the discovery that the supplies at Chicla were very limited, we had taken measures to procure a few creature comforts through the obliging conductor of the train, which left Chicla, in the morning, and was to return from Lima on the following evening. A far more serious deficiency was at the same time apparent. I had quite underrated the quantity of paper required to dry the harvest of specimens that I was sure to collect here, and no one but a botanist can measure the intensity of distress with which I viewed the prospect of losing precious specimens, and seeing shapes of beauty converted into repulsive masses of corruption, for want of the material necessary for their preservation. I addressed an urgent note to Mr. Nation, on whose sympathy as a brother naturalist I could safely count, telling him that unless I could find two reams of suitable drying-paper on my return, I should infallibly require accommodation in a lunatic asylum at Lima.

The scenery at Chicla is wild, but neither very beautiful nor very imposing. As in the lower valley of the Rimac, the slopes of the mountains are steep, but the summits are deficient in boldness and variety of form. Those lying on the watershed of the Cordillera, at a distance of fifteen or twenty miles, apparently range from seventeen to eighteen thousand feet in height, and on the first day of our visit showed but occasional streaks and patches of snow, while the sombre tints of the rocks exhibited little variety of hue even in the brightest sunshine.

Although the stream at Chicla is the main branch of the Rimac, its volume is here much reduced, not having yet received the numerous tributaries that fall into it between this place and Matucana. It is here no more than a brawling torrent, swelling rapidly after even a very moderate fall of rain, but prevented from ever dwindling very low by the snows, of which some patches at least remain at all seasons on the upper summits of the Cordillera. In a country without wood, and where the art of building in stone had made little progress, one of the most serious obstacles to any advance in civilization must have arisen from the difficulty of crossing the streams by which the upper ranges of the Andes are everywhere intersected.

The art of constructing suspension bridges must have originated in the subtropical zone of Eastern Peru, where the abundance of climbing plants with long, flexible, tough stems supplied the requisite materials. These, being light and easily transported, were everywhere used in the valleys of the Andes to sustain hanging bridges, of which the roadway was formed of rough basket-work. The only change that has resulted from the introduction of European arts is that of late years iron wire is used instead of flexible lianes to sustain the bridges; but the roadway is still made of basket-work, which is rapidly worn by the feet of passing men and animals, and the natives have a disagreeable habit of stopping up the holes, not by mending the basket-work where this has begun to give way, but by laying a flat stone over the weak place. Being very slight and not nicely adjusted, these bridges swing to and fro under the feet of a passenger to an extent that is at first rather startling, but, as in everything else, habit soon makes one indifferent. Our first experience this afternoon was very easy, as the bridge connecting the station with the pueblo, or village of Chicla, was new and more solid than usual.

The little village, altogether composed of frail sheds, was occupied by the Chilian detachment of about two hundred men, posted here to guard the railway line. Four houses, larger than the rest, wherein the officers had established themselves, were adorned with conspicuous painted inscriptions worthy of the hotels of a great city. The Fonda del Universo informed the public that it contained “apartamentos para familias,” and the rival establishments were no way inferior in the stateliness of their titles and the inducements offered. It must be recollected that Chicla is the first halting-place on the main, almost the only, line of communication between the coast and a magnificent region, as large as England, and teeming with natural resources—the montaÑa of Central Peru. Before the war the hostelries of Chicla were often crowded, and the accommodation doubtless appeared sumptuous to the wearied travellers who had been contending with the hardships of the journey from the interior, and the passage of the double range of the Andes.

I have already said that the supplies at our hotel were somewhat scanty. Inquiries for eggs were met by the reply that the Chilian soldiers had killed all the poultry, and milk was not to be thought of, because the cows had all been driven to a distance to save them from the Chilians. But these were only trifling inconveniences. The experience of our German landlord was full of graver matter. A foreigner in the interior of Peru during this abominable war is placed between the devil and the deep sea. Having no one to protect him, his property is at the mercy of lawless soldiery; he is an object of suspicion to both parties, and his life is in constant peril. Our host owed to a fortunate accident that he had not been shot by a Peruvian party under the suspicion of having given information to the enemy. He was certainly no lover of the invader; but, like every foreigner in Peru, he looked forward with undisguised dread to the day when the Chilians should depart.

If one had not recollected how very slowly and imperfectly the elementary rules of health have made way in Europe, it would have been hard to understand how men of education and intelligence, such as the great majority of the Chilian officers, should neglect the simplest precautions for preserving the health of themselves and their men. We had heard that the troops at Chicla had lost many men owing to a severe outbreak of typhoid fever, though the disease had recently almost disappeared. The cause was not far to seek. The ground all around the village was thickly strewn with the remains of the numerous baggage animals that had fallen from overwork, and the beasts that had been slaughtered by the soldiers. In South America the only sanitary officials are the carrion-eating birds. Near the coast the removal of offal is chiefly accomplished by the gallinazo, a large black vulture; in the Andes the condor takes charge of all carrion, and travels far in quest of it. It is likely that in the noisy neighbourhood of a detachment of soldiers the birds were shy of approach. If the remains had been dragged a short distance away from the village, they would have been quickly disposed of. As it was, the carcases were allowed to accumulate close to the sheds in which the men were lodged until they bred a pestilence. Things were mended, they said, at the time of our visit, yet, warned by vile emanations, I found the carcase of a horse lying close beside the baraque in which we slept; and it was only after energetic remonstrances that I succeeded in having it removed to some distance, where, doubtless, the condors made a savoury meal.

We were not curious to inquire too particularly what animal had supplied the material for our evening repast. It was enough that the skill of the Chinese boy who acted as cook had converted it into a very eatable dish. The work of the establishment seemed to be conducted altogether by two boys—the Chinese cook and a young German who acted as waiter. It was curious to notice that the intercourse between the two was carried on in English, or what passed as such. On many another occasion during my journey I observed the same thing. Throughout America, and I believe that the same is true in most countries out of Europe, English has become the lingua franca, the general medium of communication between people of different nationalities.

Having felt perfectly well all day, and inclined to believe that the discomforts of the previous night had arisen from some accidental cause, we had no hesitation in renewing the arrangement for an excursion to the Tunnel en la cima, and the Chilian commandant readily promised to send two horses, with a soldier who was to act as guide and escort, at seven o’clock on the following morning. Rather late, after some hours’ work in laying out the plants collected during the day, I lay down to sleep, but in a short time awoke with a severe headache, accompanied by ineffectual nausea, the light supper being already digested. It was an undoubted case of mountain-sickness, which had to be borne through the sleepless dark hours until daylight summoned us to rise. As on the previous day, the operations of washing and dressing chased away the symptoms, and before seven o’clock we were ready to start. At half-past seven we began to lose patience, and despatched a messenger to ascertain the cause of delay. No answer coming, we resolved to go in quest of the promised steeds, and, shouldering the impedimenta, proceeded across the stream to the pueblo. We soon discovered that no order had been given the night before, and that the commandant had not yet made his appearance. The messenger had not ventured to awake him, and thought it safest to await events. Having discovered the high-sounding name of the “hotel” where he lodged, I lost no time in proceeding to the double-bedded room shared by our commander with a brother officer, and rousing them both from sleep. Profuse excuses in excellent Spanish, with a promise that not a moment should be lost, were but a poor salve for my growing impatience, though policy required some faint effort at politeness, which had to be maintained through what seemed intolerable and interminable delays, until we at last got under way at ten o’clock.

It was indeed aggravating to find an excursion, to accomplish which any naturalist would gladly traverse an ocean, maimed and curtailed by the indolence which is the curse of the American Spaniard. One circumstance, indeed, helped to moderate the keenness of my disappointment. Rather heavy rain had fallen throughout the night, and the mountains about the head of the valley, previously almost clear of snow, were now covered pretty deep down to the level of about fifteen thousand feet. I already judged that it would be difficult, starting so late, to reach the summit tunnel, if sufficient time were to be reserved for botanizing. With snow on the ground the vegetation would be concealed, and the chief interest of the expedition lost, so that I readily made up my mind that we should not attempt to reach the summit of the pass.

We had not gone far on the track when we came to a suspension bridge, over which our soldier-guide rode as a matter of course. Seeing the frail structure swing to and fro under the horse’s feet, I confess that I felt much inclined to dismount and cross on foot; but in such cases one remembers that whatever men or animals are accustomed to do they are sure to do safely, and I rode on, admiring the judgment with which my horse avoided the weak places in the basket-work under his feet.

The track is well beaten, and in easy places broad and even; but here and there, where it climbs over some projecting buttress of rock, is rather rougher and steeper than I have ever seen elsewhere in mountain countries on a path intended for horsemen, excepting, perhaps, some choice spots in the Great Atlas. It was impossible to push on rapidly, for we overtook a succession of long trains of baggage-animals—mules, donkeys, and llamas—moving towards the interior at a rate of little over two miles an hour. As it was only in favourable places that it was possible to pass, our patience went through many severe trials.

At about thirteen thousand feet above the sea we passed two farmhouses, evidently constructed by European settlers, plain but neat in appearance, and the fields better kept than one could have expected in a spot so remote, each with a clump of well-grown trees of the Peruvian elder. Higher up the scenery was constantly wilder, desolate rather than grand, and with no trace of the presence of man until we reached Casapalta, a small group of poor sheds now occupied by an outpost of Chilian soldiers, nearly fourteen thousand feet above the sea.

We had now evidently reached the true Alpine region. At the head of the valley in front fresh snow lay on the flanks of the mountains where the dark rugged masses of volcanic rock were not too steep to allow it to rest, and the higher summits in the background were completely covered. The slopes near at hand were carpeted with dwarf plants thickly set, rising only a few inches from the surface. The only exception was an erect spiny bush, growing about eighteen inches high, with dark orange flowers, one of the characteristic Andean forms—Chuquiraga spinosa.

The guide seemed disposed to halt here, but we had not yet reached our goal, and we pushed on for about three miles, to a point about 14,400 feet in height, where it seemed judicious to call a halt. For some time the horses had begun to show symptoms of distress. The spirited animal which I rode panted heavily in ascending the gentle slope, and at last was forced to stop and gasp for breath every thirty or forty yards. Near at hand a slender stream had cut a channel through some rough rocks, and promised a harvest of moisture-loving Alpine plants; and opposite to us, on the northern side of the valley, a wild glen opened up a vista of snow-covered summits, of which the more distant appeared to reach a height of about eighteen thousand feet.

It was now about one o’clock, and, our light early breakfast being long since forgotten, we hastily swallowed our provision of sandwiches formed of the contents of a sardine-box, which, flavoured with the pure cold water of the stream, seemed delicious. Although the sun which had shone upon us during the morning was now covered with clouds, and we were very lightly dressed, no sensation of cold was felt at this height, and I do not believe that the thermometer at any time during the day fell below 50°. Doubtless the feverish excitement of those unique two hours of botanizing in a new world left no space for sensitiveness to other influences. The mountain-sickness of the previous night was utterly forgotten, and no sensation of inconvenience was felt during the day.

Reserving some remarks on the botany of this excursion, there is yet to be mentioned here one plant of the upper region so singular that it must attract the notice of every traveller. As we ascended from Casapalta we noticed patches of white which from a distance looked like snow. Seen nearer at hand, they had the appearance of large, rounded, flattened cushions, some five or six feet in diameter, and a foot high, covered with dense masses of floss silk that glistened with a silvery lustre. The unwary stranger who should be tempted to use one of these for a seat would suffer from the experiment. The plant is of the cactus family, and the silky covering conceals a host of long, slender, needle-like spines, that penetrate the flesh, easily break, and are most difficult to extract. Unfortunately, the living specimen which I sent to Kew did not survive the journey.

At about three o’clock it was necessary to think of returning. Several precious plants had been passed on the way and remained to be collected, and it was only prudent to return to our quarters before night, which here falls so abruptly. Soon after we started along the descending track, a whirring sound overhead caused us to look up. Two magnificent condors swooped down from the upper region, and, wheeling round about forty feet above our heads, described a half circle, and, having satisfied their curiosity, soared again to a vast height, till they seemed mere black specks in the sky. Meanwhile my horse, fresh after the long halt, and apparently delighted at the prospect of returning to pleasanter quarters, broke into a gallop, and throughout the way it cost me some trouble to restrain his impatience.

As we drew near Chicla, there being yet half an hour of daylight, we dismounted and dismissed our guide with the horses, thus being able to secure several plants not seen elsewhere. One of these was a solitary plant of the common potato, growing in a wild place among dwarf bushes near the stream. I do not, however, attach any importance to the fact as evidence on the disputed question of the true home of a plant which in South America has been cultivated from remote antiquity. The valley of the Rimac has doubtless been a frequented highway since long before the Spanish conquest, and, as we know, the plant spreads easily in favourable conditions. As far as I know, all the evidence as to the plant being indigenous in Peru and Bolivia is open to suspicion, and the only part of the continent where it can be said to be certainly a native is Southern Chili and the sub-Alpine region of the Chilian Andes.

The excursion to the upper region apparently completed the work of acclimatization. We slept soundly, and no symptoms of soroche was afterwards experienced. When I sallied forth on the morning of the 23rd in quest of breakfast, which was made luxurious by a tin of Swiss milk received by the train from Lima, I found my friend W—— conversing in English with a Chilian officer. This gentleman, introduced as Captain B——, the son of English parents, was about proceeding in command of a small detachment to occupy some place beyond the Cordillera. The number of Englishmen in the Chilian service is not small, and there is no part of South America where the conditions of climate, the habits of life, and the character of the people seem to be so well suited to our countrymen.

One of the sights of Chicla was the daily despatch of trains of laden animals towards the interior. In the opposite direction the traffic was very limited, for since the war the working of the silver mines about Cerro de Pasco has been suspended, and little of the produce of the montaÑa now makes its way to the coast. But, war or no war, the wants of the inland population, living in a region which produces nothing but food and raw material, must in some measure be supplied. There was nothing very new in seeing goods packed on the backs of mules and donkeys, but the llamas and their ways were a continual source of interest. If the body be somewhat ungainly, the head with its large lustrous eyes may fairly be called beautiful. They vary extremely in colour. The prevailing hues are between light brown and buff, but we saw many quite white, and a few nearly black, with a good many mottled in large patches of white, and dark brown. The legs appear weak, and the animal can bear but a light burthen. On the mountain tracks, the load for a mule is three hundred pounds, that for a donkey two hundred pounds, while a llama can carry no more than a hundred pounds; and when any one attempts to increase the load, the animal lies down and moans piteously. He seems, indeed, not yet thoroughly resigned to domesticity, and there is a note of ineffectual complaint about his bearing and about all the sounds which he emits. One morning I was so much struck by what appeared to be the wailing of a child or a woman in distress, that I followed the sound until, behind a rock, I discovered a solitary llama that had somehow been separated from his companions. The advantage of the llama in the highlands of Peru, where fodder is scarce and must often be carried from a distance, is that he is able to shift for himself. Where the herbage is so coarse and so scanty that a donkey would starve, the llama picks up a living from the woody stems of the dwarf bushes that creep along the surface.

Supposing that most of the plants growing on the slopes around Chicla had been collected two days before, I expected to find it expedient to go to some distance from the village on the 23rd. But I had formed an inadequate idea of the richness of the Andean flora. Commencing with a ridge of rocks on the opposite side of the valley, only a few hundred yards from the ground before traversed, I found so many new and interesting forms of vegetation that at the end of three or four hours of steady work I had ascended only four or five hundred feet above the village, and I believe that ample occupation for a week’s work to a collector might be found within one mile of the Chicla station.

As already arranged, we decided to return to Lima on the morning of the 24th of April. If other engagements had not made this necessary, the condition of my collections would have forced me to retreat. It was certain that without a speedy supply of drying-paper a large portion must be lost. As we were despatching an early breakfast, we were struck by the appearance of a tall, vigorous, resolute-looking man, booted up to the thighs, who had arrived during the previous night. He turned out to be a fellow-countryman, one of that adventurous class that have supplied the pioneers of civilization to so many regions of the earth. This gentleman had settled in the montaÑa of Eastern Peru, at a height of only about four thousand feet above the sea. His account of the country was altogether attractive, and it was only after entering into some details that one began to think that a man of a less cheerful and enterprising disposition might have given a less favourable report. The place which he has selected is only some twenty leagues distant from the river Ucayali, one of the great tributaries of the Maranon, which is destined hereafter to be the channel for direct water-communication between Eastern Peru and the Atlantic coast. At present the only obstacle to communication is the fact that the country near the river is occupied by a tribe of fierce and hostile Indians, who allow no passage through their country. The climate was described by our informant as quite delightful and salubrious, the soil as most fertile, suitable for almost all tropical produce, and many of the plants of temperate regions, and the supposed inconveniences as unimportant. Jaguars are, indeed, common, but the chief objection to them is that they make it difficult to keep poultry. Poisonous snakes exist, but the prejudice against them is unreasonably strong. No case of any one dying from snake-bite had occurred at our informant’s location.

One drawback he did, indeed, freely admit. There was scarcely any limit to be set to the productive capabilities of the country, but, beyond what could serve for personal consumption, it was hard to say what could be done with the crops. He was then engaged in trying the possibility of transporting some of the more valuable produce of his farming to Lima. The journey had been one of extreme difficulty. In some of the valleys heavy rains had washed away tracks and carried away bridges, and he had been driven back to seek a passage by some other route. About one-half of his train of mules with their loads had been carried away by torrents, or otherwise lost; but our buoyant countryman, now virtually arrived at his journey’s end, seemed to think the experiment a fairly successful one. He had received no news from England since the beginning of the previous November, so that one or two newspapers five weeks old were eagerly accepted.

The return journey from Chicla to Lima was easy and agreeable, but offered little of special interest. I noticed a curious illustration of the effects of the sea-breeze on vegetation even at a distance of thirty or forty miles from the coast. As we descended, I observed that the acacias which abound in the middle zone of the valley were densely covered with masses of the white flowers of a climbing Mikania, quite masking the natural aspect of the shrub. I thought it strange that this appearance should not have struck me while on my way ascending the valley. On closer attention, I saw that the Mikania was entirely confined to the eastern side of the acacia, so that the same shrub, looked at from the western side, showed no trace either of the leaves or flowers of the visitor. On reaching the Lima station, I was kindly greeted by Mr. Nation, who at once relieved my most pressing anxiety by telling me that I should find two reams of filtering paper awaiting me at my hotel.

Having given in the twenty-second volume of the Journal of the LinnÆan Society a list of the plants collected during my excursion in the Cordillera, it is needless to overload these pages with technical names, and I shall content myself with a few general remarks on the vegetation of this region, amidst which I passed a brief period of constantly renewed admiration and delight. In the first place, the general character of the flora of Chicla differed altogether from my anticipations, for the simple reason that the climate is completely different from what might, under ordinary conditions, be expected. I had seen reason to conjecture that, in ascending from the Pacific coast to the Cordillera, the rate of diminution of mean temperature would be less considerable than in most other parts of the world, but I was no way prepared to find it so slight as it really is. During the time of my visit, the mean temperature at Lima, 448 feet above the sea, was very nearly 70°, while the annual mean appears to be 66·6° Fahr.10 The mean temperature at Chicla at the same season was estimated by me at 54°, with a maximum of 65·7°, and a minimum of 42°, and the first figure probably approximates to the annual mean. For a difference in height of 11,774 feet this would give an average fall of 1° Fahr. for 935 feet of elevation, or 1° Cent. for 512 metres; whereas, as is well known,11 the ordinary estimate found in physical treatises, resulting chiefly from the observations of Humboldt, would give for Equatorial America a fall of 1° Fahr. for about 328 English feet of increased altitude, or 1° Cent. for 180 metres. This rate of decrease would give a fall of 36·6° Fahr. in ascending from Lima to Chicla, whereas, as we have seen, the difference is probably little more than one-third, certainly less than one-half, of that amount. It is, therefore, with some astonishment that the stranger, arriving in this region of the Cordillera, finds himself amidst a vegetation characteristic of the Temperate zone,12 and that many of the most conspicuous species are such as in mid-Europe require the protection of a greenhouse. Amongst the more attractive and characteristic of the Andean flora, I may mention five species of Calceolaria, Alonsoa, two fine LoasaceÆ (one with large deep orange flowers and stiff hairs that penetrate the gloves, the other a climber with yellow flowers), several bushy SolanaceÆ, and a beautiful clematis, which may hereafter adorn European gardens.

Along with many types of vegetation peculiar to the Andes, or more or less widely diffused throughout the Western continent, it was very interesting to a botanist from Europe to find so large a proportion of the indigenous plants belong to types which characterize the mountain vegetation of our continent. Of the genera in which the plants collected by me are to be classed, fully one-half belong to this category, and these genera include more than an equal proportion of species. I find, indeed, that fully sixty per cent. of the species in my collection belong to European genera, but that, with trifling exceptions, the species are distinct and confined to the Andean region. The reasonable conclusion is that the types which are thus common to distant regions must be of very great antiquity, and that the ancestors of the existing species must have spread widely at a very remote period of the world’s history. Most of the plants in question belong to genera having very numerous species, of which it may be presumed that the parent forms possessed a strong tendency to variation.

The only tree seen at Chicla is a species of elder—Sambucus Peruviana of botanists—not widely differing from the common black elder of Europe.

Along with the numerous allies of the Old-World flora that characterize the indigenous vegetation, it was somewhat remarkable to find, in the upper valley of the Rimac, a number of cosmopolitan weeds, most of them common in Europe, which appear to have become thoroughly naturalized. Most of these, which are also found in the coast region of Peru, were undoubtedly introduced by the Spaniards; but there are a few, such as the common chickweed, whose wide diffusion throughout the world seems to me to be more probably due to transport by birds. To the botanist, the most interesting features in the Andean flora are supplied by the great family of CompositÆ. To this belong nearly one-fourth of all the plants collected by me, and nearly one-third of those found in the higher Alpine region; and, as far as available materials allow me to judge, I believe these to be about the true proportions for the higher parts of the Andean chain. It is further remarkable that of the thirteen tribes into which the 780 genera and 10,000 species of this family have been divided, all but the two smallest tribes—CalendulaceÆ and ArctotideÆ—are represented in the Andes. To the European botanist, the most interesting group is that of the MutisiaceÆ, which is especially characteristic of the South American flora. Of 420 known species belonging to this tribe, fully 350 are exclusively American, the remainder being distributed through Australasia, and from South Africa to Southern Asia. They exhibit many unfamiliar forms very unlike what we are used to find elsewhere in the world. One of the first plants which I gathered was a tall, straggling climber with pinnate leaves ending in a tendril. I naturally thought of the vetch tribe, but I observed that the leaves were without stipules, and that the leaflets were not articulated to the midrib. Great, however, was my surprise when, on finding a flowering specimen, it revealed itself as a composite belonging to the genus Mutisia.

Next to the CompositÆ, the grasses are of all the natural orders the most largely represented in the Andean flora, but with the difference that nearly all belong to genera common to the mountain regions of Europe. The species are indeed different, but the general aspect does not strike the European botanist as presenting any marked features of novelty.

One further characteristic of the flora of Chicla is the great variety of species to be found within a small area. In this respect it seemed to me to rival the flora of Southern Spain and Asia Minor, which are known to be exceptionally rich in endemic forms. I am, of course, unable to judge whether in this part of the Andes the species are localized to nearly the same degree as in those parts of the Mediterranean region, and it is at least possible that the individual species which I saw crowded together at Chicla may have a relatively wide geographical range. The only social species, in some places covering large patches on the steep slopes, is a lupen growing in dense bushy masses.

Again guarding myself from the temptation to draw positive inferences from very slight opportunities for observation, I may add a few remarks on what I saw of the flora of the upper or Alpine zone of the Cordillera. This appears to be far more sharply defined at its lower limit than that which I shall designate as the temperate zone. In the latter, although the nights are at all seasons cool, actual frost is rarely experienced, and snow never lies on the ground. In the upper or Alpine zone, on the contrary, night frosts recur not unfrequently throughout the year, snow falls from time to time, more frequent in winter—from May to August—but does not lie long enough to provide a season of complete rest to the vegetative organs. To the influence of these conditions we may probably attribute the chief characteristics of the flora. With scarcely an exception, the species of this zone are stunted in growth, rising but a few inches from the surface, but have much developed prostrate or creeping woody stems, or underground rhizomes. Compared with the middle, or temperate, zone, the species generally belong to the same natural groups. Some of the families, however, which are characteristic of the middle zone, such as LoasaceÆ, VerbenaceÆ, and SolanaceÆ, do not appear to reach the higher region.

Of forms characteristic of the Alpine region of mountains in the Old World I observed several; e.g. Geranium, Astragalus, Valeriana, Draba, a saxifrage, and a very small gentian.

To sum up my impressions as to the flora of the western slopes of the Cordillera, I should say that it appears to be naturally divided into three well-marked zones. The lower, or subtropical, extending to about eight thousand feet above the sea, characterized by deficient rainfall, moderate heat continued throughout the year, and a complete absence of cold, the thermometer rarely falling below 50°. The species here mainly belong to genera characteristic of the flora of tropical America, but, owing to the climatal conditions, are limited in number, and do not include groups requiring much moisture.

The middle, or temperate, zone, extending from about eight thousand to about thirteen thousand feet above the sea, possesses a very varied flora which includes many groups characteristic of the Andes, and entirely or mainly confined to that range, with representatives of numerous genera that are widely diffused through the temperate regions of the northern hemisphere, and a smaller number of representative species of groups belonging to the tropical American flora. The climate of this region is marked by the absence of all extremes of temperature. Cool nights, in which frosts are infrequent and of short duration, alternate with days wherein the shade temperature rarely surpasses 70°. The division between the temperate and subtropical zones is marked rather by the more frequent, though moderate, rainfall, which in the former recurs at intervals throughout the year, than by any marked change of temperature. Hence there may be distinguished a rather broad intermediate zone in which many of the characteristic forms of each meet and are intermingled; but this does not appear to be defined by any genera, or even by more than a few species peculiar to it, and does not deserve to be treated apart in a general survey of the flora.

The upper, or Alpine, zone of the Cordillera, extending from about thirteen thousand feet to the utmost limit of vegetation, is well defined by the circumstance that night frosts here recur throughout the year, and snow lies at least occasionally on the surface, while a somewhat greater amount of aqueous precipitation, in the form of rain or snow, combined with diminished evaporation, maintains a moderate degree of moisture in the soil. The proportion borne by some groups of the characteristic Andean flora as compared with the entire vegetable population is here larger than in the temperate zone, but other types better adapted to the climate of the latter zone are here nearly or altogether wanting. The forms common to the north temperate zone are present in about an equal proportion, while the representatives of the tropical flora are but very few.

With reference to the opinion expressed by writers of authority, and especially by Engler,13 that the Andean flora is exceptionally rich in endemic genera and species, and to the explanation which would account for the facts, first, by the greater facility afforded for the extension of new varieties in dry climates, where the soil is not continuously covered by the existing vegetation; and, secondly, by the isolation of the summits, favouring the development of special local forms, I may venture on some sceptical remarks.

When we are struck by the large number of genera and species that are exclusively confined to the Andean flora, we are apt to forget the vast extent of the region which we are contemplating. Even if we exclude the mountains of Central America, and also those of Southern Chili, from Araucania to the Straits of Magellan, we have in the Andes a mountain region considerably more than three thousand miles in length, and from two hundred to over five hundred miles in breadth. This vast region is as yet far from being sufficiently explored to enable us to fix the geographical limits of its genera and species with any precision; but it appears to me that, while a very large number of genera are limited to the Andes as a whole region, the range of most of them within the limits of that region is very wide. I am further disposed to form a similar opinion as to the distribution of the species if compared to what is found in some other mountain districts. If we were to find in South America anything like the variety of species limited to very small areas that is encountered in Southern Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Southern Persia, where on each mountain that we ascend we find several well-marked local species, differing from those in similar stations a few miles distant, the catalogue of the Andean flora would have to be extended to three or four times its actual length.

Fully agreeing, as I do, with Engler in his general conclusion that dry climates are more favourable than moist ones to the development of new varieties, which are the ancestors of future new species, I must remark that in the Andes, so far as we know, the species with very restricted area abound more in the upper zone, where the soil is relatively moist, than in the drier middle or lower zones. Nor does it appear that isolation of the summits can be with reason invoked as an explanation. The most marked feature in the range, and one that geologists have perhaps not taken enough to heart, is the extremely continuous character of the crest of the range, especially on the western side, as is evidenced by the fact that from Colombia to Southern Chili there are so very few passes below the limit at which snow frequently lies on the surface. For a rational explanation of the facts as to the distribution of mountain floras, we are forced to assume that the various agencies which are in daily operation—birds and land animals, winds, etc.—are competent to effect the transference of the great majority of species from one mountain to another not very far removed; and if that be true in districts where peaks are separated by arms of the sea or by intervals of low country having a very different climate, the process must be still easier in a chain so continuous as that of the Andes.

On the evening of the 24th I had the advantage of meeting the representatives of nearly all the European powers then present at Lima at the table of Don R. C——, a native gentleman of large fortune and influential position. The entertainment might properly be described as sumptuous, and, excepting in some royal palaces, could not easily be matched in Europe. One feature, indeed, was unique, and appealed to the susceptibility of a botanist. The vases heaped with choice specimens of tropical fruits could scarcely have been seen out of Peru. The occasion was not one on which political questions could with propriety be discussed, but I was struck by the complete agreement amongst men of various nationalities, whose duty it was to know the real state of things, as to the formidable prospect of anarchy and disorder that must ensue whenever the Chilian forces should be withdrawn from Lima and the adjoining provinces—a prospect, I need scarcely add, that has been since fully realized.

Soon after sunrise on the 25th Mr. Nation was good enough to call for me. We had agreed to make a short excursion along the bed of the Rimac, the best, if not the only, ground near the city where one can form some idea of the indigenous vegetation of the low country. As happens elsewhere, the river has carried down seeds or roots of many plants of the valley, which find a home on its broad gravelly bed, while the continual moisture has enabled many species of the plain, elsewhere dried up at this season, to maintain a vigorous growth. The little expedition was full of interest, and, with the aid of Mr. Nation’s extensive local knowledge, I was able to make acquaintance with many forms of vegetation not hitherto seen. It was necessary to return early to the town, as my Chicla collections required many hours of diligent work until nightfall, when I had the pleasure of joining an agreeable party at the house of Mr. Graham, the British chargÉ d’affaires.

Among other scientific or social engagements, I called on the following day upon M. Lombardi, the author of a voluminous work on Peru, of which three large volumes have already appeared. M. Lombardi is a man of varied and extensive acquirements, especially in natural history, and in the course of frequent travels through the interior has accumulated a large mass of new materials of no slight value. Unfortunately, his work has been planned on a scale needlessly vast and costly; and now that the funds, at one time freely supplied by the Government, are no longer forthcoming, the prospect of its completion seems rather uncertain. The drawings and dissections of many species of plants from the higher regions of the Andes not hitherto figured, which M. Lombardi was good enough to show me, appeared to be very carefully executed, and their publication, in whatever form, would be welcomed by botanists.

I had accepted an invitation to visit on the 27th a hacienda belonging to Don R. C—— and his brothers at a place called Caudivilla, about twenty miles north of Lima. In company with an agreeable party of the officers of two Italian frigates then stationed at Callao, we started by the railway which runs parallel to the coast from Lima to Ancon and Chancay. At a station about three miles from the hacienda, we left the main line, and were conveyed to our destination on a private line of railway belonging to the estate. This is a tract of flat country about eight miles long by four in breadth, extending to the base of the outermost spurs of the Cordillera, and watered by a stream from the higher range in the background. It is almost exclusively devoted to sugar-cultivation, and in the large buildings which we inspected the whole process of extracting sugar and rum from the cane was proceeding on a large scale, and with the aid of the most complete machinery and apparatus. Although some fifteen hundred workmen are employed upon the works, it appeared as if human labour played but a small part in the processes wherein steam power was the chief agent. Trains of small trucks, laden with sugar-cane cut to the right length, were drawn up an incline, the contents of each tilted in turn into a huge vat, wherein it was speedily crushed. We followed the torrent of juice which constantly flowed from this reservoir through a succession of large chambers until it reached the final stage, in which, purified and condensed, it is at once converted into crystals of pure sugar when thrown off by the centrifugal action of a rapidly revolving axis, while the colourless pellucid product which is to furnish the rum of commerce was conveyed into vessels whose dimensions would put to shame the great tun of Heidelberg. I confess to having felt less interest in the industrial results of this admirably conducted estate, than in what I was able to learn of the human beings employed and their relations to their employers; and I found here matter for agreeable surprise. The workmen are partly agricultural labourers engaged in the sugar-plantation and other outdoor work, partly those employed in and about the factory. Among them were representatives of various races, the Chinese being perhaps in a majority, but with a considerable proportion of negroes and half-caste natives of Peru. I was struck at first with a general air of well-being among all the working people, and I found this easily accounted for when I saw more of the arrangements made for their benefit.

Among other departments we were shown the hospital, small, but perfectly clean and airy, in which there were only three or four patients, and a school with a cheerful-looking young mistress surrounded by jolly-looking little children, who came forward unasked to display their acquirements in spelling. But what particularly pleased me was the large eating-house, or restaurant, where we found hundreds of workmen at their midday meal. They were not marshalled at long tables, but sitting in small groups round separate tables, every man choosing his own company, and calling for the dish which he preferred. Seeing these men, each with his napkin, enjoying his selected food, I could not help thinking that in the article of diet they are better off than a traveller in many parts of Europe, to say nothing of the population of the British Islands. I was assured that no profit whatever was made on this branch of the establishment. There was no pretence of philanthropy, but simply the intelligent view that as a mere matter of business it answered best that the working men should feel themselves to be well off. In point of fact, the mere threat to discharge a man from his employment is usually found to be sufficient to maintain order and industry.

There was little time available for botanizing here, and, the ground being all under cultivation, little of any interest to be found. On the way back I secured one of the beautiful reeds (Gynerium) which abound in tropical America. Herbarium specimens give little idea of a grass which, in moist situations, is from twenty to twenty-five feet in height, and whose flowering panicle is from four to five feet long.

On the following day, April 28, Mr. Nation again acted as my guide in a short walk about the outskirts of the city on the south and south-west sides. Nothing could be more uninviting than the appearance of the ground, which consists of volcanic sand, in most places completely bare of vegetation, but strewn with the refuse of the city, skeletons of cattle, and all sorts of rejectamenta, which make it the favourite resort of the black gallinazo (Cathartes atratas), the universal scavenger in this part of South America. The bird is deservedly protected by the population, which probably owes to its activity protection from pestilence. On the banks of some ditches and drains, and on some patches of waste land moistened by infiltration, we found several interesting plants. It was not evidence of the good character of the lower class in Lima to observe that on these occasions Mr. Nation carried a loaded revolver in his breast-pocket.

Amongst various items of information received from Mr. Nation, I was especially interested in the facts which he had observed in the neighbourhood of Lima regarding the disintegration of the exposed volcanic rocks. As he was kind enough to give me a written memorandum on the subject, along with specimens of the objects referred to, I think it better to give the substance in his own words.

“In one of the earlier editions of his ‘Principles of Geology,’ Sir Charles Lyell, on the authority of Mr. Cruikshank, speaks of the evidence afforded of a considerable rise of land in the neighbourhood of Lima by the appearance of the surface of hard green sandstone rocks hollowed out into precisely the forms which they assume between high and low water mark on the shores of the Pacific, while immediately below these water-worn lines are ancient beaches strewn with rounded blocks. One of these cliffs appears on the hill behind the BaÑos del Pingro, about seven hundred feet above the contiguous valley; another occurs at Amancaes, about two hundred feet above the sea;14 and others at intermediate elevations.” Mr. Nation remarks that, having seen these appearances soon after his arrival at Lima, continued observation during more than twenty-five years has satisfied him not only that the hollows spoken of in the surface of the rocks are larger than they were, but that many new ones have been formed during the interval. He is satisfied that the appearances, which, he admits, exactly resemble those caused by the sea on shore rocks, are due to subaËrial action. The chief agent, in his opinion, is a cryptogamic plant growing on the surface of the rock. During a great part of the year, when dense fogs prevail at this elevation, the plant is in active vegetation. In the alternations of relative dryness and dampness of the air the cells swell and mechanically remove scales from the surface, which are seen to accumulate rapidly in the course of a single season.

Having submitted a specimen of the cryptogam in question to the eminent lichenologist, Mr. Crombie, I am informed that the plant belongs to the group of lowly organized lichens, now distinguished as the Ephebacei, but formerly referred to the AlgÆ. In the absence of fructification, Mr. Crombie is unable to decide whether the specimen should be referred to Sirosiphon or Spilonema; but he is sceptical as to the possibility of any direct chemical action upon the rock arising from the growth of the lichen. Some indirect action may, in his opinion, be due to retention of moisture on surfaces covered by the lichen. This opinion is strengthened when it is remembered that the rock is not affected by carbonic acid, which might be derived from the air, or by vegetable acids which might be formed by the decomposition of the lichen. I am disposed to think that vicissitudes of temperature play a great part in the disintegration of rock surfaces, and such action must be increased by alternations of moisture and dryness which must occur where, during a great part of the year, the hills are covered with fog in the morning and exposed to the sun in the afternoon.

In connection with this subject I may remark that, in countries where the rainfall is very slight or altogether deficient, we are apt to be misled by the appearance of the surface, and to much overrate the real amount of disintegration. In the drier parts of the Mediterranean region, especially in Egypt, as well as in Peru and Chili, we constantly see rocky slopes covered with fine dÉbris which represent the accumulated work of many centuries, remaining in situ because there is no agency at work to remove it, while in countries where the slopes are frequently exposed to the action of running water fresh surfaces are subjected to the action of the atmosphere, and the comminuted materials are carried to a distance to form alluvial flats, to fill up lakes, or ultimately to reach the sea-coast. A somewhat similar remark may be made with regard to rock surfaces habitually covered with snow and very rarely exposed to heavy rain. I have often observed in the Alps and Pyrenees that, when the snow disappears during the short summer of the higher regions, we generally find the surface covered with small fragments of the underlying rock, not removed by the slow percolation of water during the melting of the snow. The same phenomenon long ago attracted the attention of Darwin during his short excursion across the passes of the Chilian Andes.

I regretted much that my very short stay at Lima left me no time to visit the places where these curious appearances may be observed; but I trust that they may engage the attention of some future traveller more competent than myself to thoroughly investigate them.

The morning of the 29th of April, my last day in Peru, was fully employed in needful preparations. As is usual in South America, I was troubled by the dilatory habits of the natives. The passport, which was promised in the morning, and without which, as I was told, I should not be allowed to depart, was not forthcoming until late in the afternoon; and at length I went, after bidding farewell to my travelling companions and to some new friends, by the four-o’clock train to Callao, too late to have any time for visiting the surroundings of that curious place. The Ayacucho steamer of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company had already left her moorings, and lay in the outer harbour. Having hurried on board rather after the hour named for departure, I found that my haste was quite superfluous, as we were not under way till long after dark, about nine p.m.

I quitted Lima full of the interest and enjoyment of my brief visit, but full also of the sense of depression necessarily caused by the condition of a country whose future prospects are so dark. The ruinous war, and the occupation of the best part of Peru by a foreign army, are far from being the heaviest of her misfortunes. It may even be that they afford the best chance for her recovery. The immediate prospect is that of a feeble military despotism, tempered by anarchy. It seems possible that amongst the classes hitherto wealthy, and now reduced to comparative want, men of a type superior to the ordinary political adventurer may come forward; some strong man, with resolute will and clear insight, may possibly arise, and re-establish order in the midst of a moral chaos; but of such a deliverance there is as yet no promise. Conversing with men of very different opinions, I was unable to hear of any man whose name inspired confidence. Some such feeling had existed with regard to the President Pardo, but when he was assassinated no serious attempt was made to detect and punish his murderers. The only opinion which appeared to obtain general assent was that the worst of the adventurers who have been the curse of Peru was the late dictator Pierola.

One thing, at least, appears certain: if Peru is to be rescued from anarchy and corruption, it must be through the influence of a single will—by a virtual, if not a formal, autocracy. To believe that in such a condition of society as exists here progress can be accomplished by representative institutions seems to me as gross a superstition as the belief in the divine right of kings.

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