Voyage from Callao to Valparaiso—Arica—Tocopilla—Scenery of the moon—Caldera—Aspect of North Chili—British Pacific squadron—Coquimbo—Arrival at Valparaiso—Climate and vegetation of Central Chili—Railway journey to Santiago—Aspect of the city—Grand position of Santiago—Dr. Philippi—Excursion to Cerro St. Cristobal—Don B. VicuÑa Mackenna—Remarkable trees—Excursion to the baths of Cauquenes—The first rains—Captive condors—Return to Santiago—Glorious sunset.

The voyage from Callao to Valparaiso was accomplished under conditions as favourable to the comfort and enjoyment of the passengers as that from Panama to Callao. The Ayacucho is a larger ship than the Islay, but built on a nearly similar plan, and except towards the end of the voyage, when we took on board a detachment of Chilian soldiers returning to Valparaiso, we had no inconvenience from overcrowding. I was very fully occupied in the endeavour to preserve and put away in good condition the rather large collections made during my stay in Peru. Notwithstanding the character of the climate, I found the usual difficulty felt at sea in getting my paper thoroughly dry, and for several days the work was unceasing. It had the effect of preventing my going ashore at two or three places which at the time appeared to me uninteresting, but which I afterwards regretted not to have visited.

By daylight on the morning of April 30 we were off Tambo de Mora, a small place near the mouth of the river Canete, which, at some seasons, is said to bring down a large volume of water from the Cordillera. After a very short stay we went on to Pisco, a more considerable place, but unattractive as seen from the sea, surrounded by sandy barren flats. It is, however, of some commercial importance, being connected by railway with Yca, the chief town of this part of Peru; and we remained in the roads about three hours, pursuing our voyage in the evening.

Our course on May 1 lay rather far from land, this being the only day during the voyage on which we did not touch at one or more ports. Under ordinary circumstances all the coast steamers call at Mollendo, the terminus of the railway leading to Arequipa, and thence to the highlands of southern Peru and the frontier of Bolivia. Arequipa being at this time occupied by a Peruvian force, and communication with the interior being therefore irregular and difficult, Mollendo was touched only on alternate voyages of the Pacific steamers.

I was impressed by the case of a Bolivian family on board which seemed to involve great hardship. An elderly father, with the manners and bearing of an educated gentleman, had taken a numerous family, chiefly young girls, with several servants, to Europe, to visit Spanish relations, and was now on his way to return to La Paz. The choice lay for him between the direct land journey from Arica, involving a ride of some two hundred miles through a difficult country, partly almost a desert, and partly through the defiles of the Cordillera, or returning by another steamer to Mollendo, and thence making his way between the hostile Chilian and Peruvian forces to the shores of his native lake of Titicaca. There was, in the latter case, the additional difficulty that Mollendo is about the worst port on the western coast of America. It is, in fact, an open roadstead, and, although there is little wind, the swell from the Pacific often breaks with a heavy surf upon the shore, and serious accidents are not infrequent. As all seamen are agreed, the terminus of the railway should have been fixed at Quilca, about the same distance from Arequipa as Mollendo, and, as usual in Peru, the selection of the latter is attributed to a corrupt bargain.

Early on May 2 we cast anchor opposite Arica. There is nothing deserving to be called a harbour; but a projecting headland on the south side of the little town protects the roadstead from the southerly breeze and the swell, which was here scarcely perceptible. On landing, I hastened along the shore on the north side, where a fringe of low bushes and some patches of rusty green gave promise to the botanist, and broke the monotony of the incessant grey which is the uniform tint of the Pacific coast from Payta to Coquimbo. As at very many other places on the coast, the maps indicate a stream from the Cordillera falling into the sea at Arica, but the traveller searches in vain for running water, or even for a dry channel to show where the stream ought to run. Nevertheless, Arica, unlike the places farther south, does actually possess fresh water in some abundance. The water from the Cordillera filters through the sandy belt of low country near the coast, and there are springs or wells sufficing not only for the local demand, but also for the wants of Iquique, a much more considerable place more than eighty miles distant. The little steamer whose office it is to carry the weekly supply of water to the Iquique people was taking her cargo on board at the moment, and one was at a loss to imagine what would happen if any mischance should befall the steamer or the engine. It is certain that under the intelligent rule of the Incas, many places now parched were made habitable by aqueducts carrying water from the mountains, and there are probably many other places where water might be procured by boring; but the porous character of the superficial soil makes this an uncertain resource, and the general uniformity of all the deposits gives little prospect of Artesian wells.

Near to the town are a few meagre attempts at cultivation in the shape of vegetable gardens, surrounded by ditches, into which it seems that a little water comes by infiltration. A few grasses and other herbaceous plants, mostly common tropical weeds, were to be found here. Elsewhere, the ground was, as usual on the coast, merely sand, with here and there clumps of bushes about six or seven feet in height, chiefly CompositÆ of the characteristic South American genera, Baccharis and Tessaria. A bush of CÆsalpinia Gilliesii, with only a few of its beautiful flowers left, the ornament of hot-houses in Europe, struck one as a strange apparition on this arid coast.

The position of Arica, connected as it is by railway with Tacna, the centre of a rich mineral district, possessing the best anchorage on this part of the Pacific coast, and a constant supply of good water, must some day make it a place of importance. The headland which commands it is crowned by a fort, on which the Peruvians had planted a good many guns, and its seizure by the Chilians was one of the first energetic blows struck during the war.

For some reason, not apparent, the great waves which flow inland after each considerable earthquake shock have been more destructive at Arica than at any other spot upon the coast. Three times the place has been utterly swept away, and one memorial survives in the shape of the hull of a large ship, lying fully a mile inland, seen by us a few miles north of the town as we approached in the morning. On each occasion the little town has been rebuilt close to the shore. Experience has not taught the people to build on the rising land, only a few hundred yards distant. Each man believes that the new house will last his time—AprÈs moi le deluge, with a vengeance!

At Arica the coast-line, which from the promontory of Ajulla, about 6° north latitude, has kept a direction between south-east and south-south-east for a distance of about twelve hundred English miles, bends nearly due south, and maintains the same direction for nearly double that distance. It is in the tract lying between Arica and CopiapÒ that the conditions which produce the so-called rainless zone of the Pacific coast have had the maximum effect. In that space of about six hundred miles (farther than from Liverpool to Oporto) there is no inhabited place—with the possible exception of Pisagua—where drinkable water is to be had. Nowhere in the world is there such an extensive tract of coast so unfitted for the habitation of man. But this same region is rich in products that minister to human wants, and man has overcome the obstacles that seemed to render them inaccessible. Besides mines of copper, silver, and lead, the deposits of alkaline nitrates, whose extent has not yet been fathomed, richly reward the expenditure of labour and capital. One after another industrial establishments have arisen along the coast at places suitable for the embarkation of produce, and some of these have already attained the dimensions of small towns. The Ayacucho called at no less than nine of these places, and there are two or three others that are occasionally visited. At a few of them, as at Iquique, the water-supply is partially or altogether conveyed by sea, but most of them subsist by distillation from sea-water.

As may well be supposed, there is little in these places to interest a stranger, and a description of one may serve for all. Some more or less extensive works, with one or several tall chimneys, are the most prominent feature. Near to each establishment are three or four clean-looking houses for managers and head agents, of whom the majority appear to be English. Grouped in narrow sandy lanes near at hand are the dwellings—mere sheds built of reeds—of the working people. In some of the more considerable places an iron church, in debased sham-Gothic style, has been procured from the United States, and has been set up in a central position, with the outline of a plaza in front of it, and several drinking-shops clustered near.

The aspect of the coast is not less monotonous than that of the inhabited places. The sea-board is nearly a straight line running from north to south, and, except at Mejillones, I saw no projecting headland to break its uniformity. Nearly everywhere what appears to be a range of flat-topped hills from about eight to fifteen hundred feet in height, of uniform dull grey hue unbroken by a single patch of verdure, forms the background. In truth, these seeming hills are the western margin of the great plateau of the desert of Atacama, which at its edge slopes rather steeply towards the Pacific coast, sometimes leaving a level margin of one or two miles in width, sometimes approaching within a few hundred feet of the shore. I find it difficult to form a conception of the causes which have led to this singular uniformity in the western limit of the volcanic rocks of the plateau. Whether we suppose the mass to have been originally thrown out from craters or fissures in the range of the cordillera by subaËrial or submarine eruptions, we should think it inevitable that the western front should show great irregularities corresponding to greater volume of the streams of eruptive matter in some parts.

Admitting—what may be held for a certainty—that, whatever may have been the original conditions, the whole region has since been submerged, and that marine action would have levelled surface inequalities, it is not easy to understand how the uniformity in the western front could have been brought about during the period of subsequent and comparatively recent elevation. If this had occurred along an axis of elevation near to the present coast-line, the effect must have been to produce a coast-range parallel to that of the Andes, with a watershed having an eastern as well as a western slope, and accompanying disturbance of the strata, such as we find on a great scale in western North America. Some indications of such action may be seen in Chili, south of CopiapÒ, and further to the south, but I am not aware of any fact to justify a similar supposition respecting this part of the coast of South America.

On the morning of May 3 we were anchored in front of Pisagua, which, being the port of TarapacÀ, the chief centre of the nitrate deposits, is at present an active place. The houses are rather more scattered than usual, some of them being built on rising ground, apparently above the reach of earthquake waves. The range of apparent hills, fully fifteen hundred feet in height, rises steeply behind the little town, and the monotonous slope is broken by a long zigzag line marking the railway to TarapacÀ. Some steep rocks rising from the sea to the south of the anchorage were in great part brilliantly white, recalling the appearance of quartz veins, or beds of crystalline limestone, dipping at a high angle. Thinking the existence of such rocks on this coast very improbable, I was anxious to inspect them; but when I was told that the time of our stay would merely allow of a short visit to the town, I did not care to land. The same appearances are common along the coast, and I soon afterwards ascertained that they are produced by the droppings of sea-birds—the same which, when accumulated in large masses, form the guano deposits of the detached rocks and islets of the coast.

In the afternoon we reached Iquique, which is, I believe, the largest of the unnatural homes of men on this coast. Some one who had gone ashore here returned, bringing copies of two newspapers, by which the public of Iquique are kept informed as to the affairs of the world. I had already seen with surprise, and had many further opportunities for observing, the extent to which the newspaper press in South America has absorbed whatever literary capacity exists in the country. Of information there is not indeed much to be gathered from these sheets; but of grand sentiments and appeals to the noblest emotions the supply seems inexhaustible. I regret to own that experience in other parts of the world had already made me somewhat distrustful of such appeals; but the result of my study of South American newspapers culminated in a severe fit of moral indigestion, and I do not yet receive in a proper spirit any appeal to the noblest sentiments of my nature.

I am far from supposing, however, that with those who read literature of this kind the debilitating effect attributed to it by some critics necessarily ensues. Some at least of the heroic virtues have survived. For a man to die for his country may not be the highest form of heroism, but in every age it has drawn forth the instinctive admiration of his fellows; and it is not at Iquique that one should think of making light of it. These waters, which, during the late war, witnessed the fight between the Esmeralda and the Huascar,15 would, in another age of the world, have become as famous as those of Salamis.

On the morning of May 4 we called at Huanillos, a small place of recent growth, not marked on any map that I have seen. It lies within a few miles of the mouth of the Loa, which, as laid down on maps, appears to be a considerable stream, rising in the Cordillera and traversing in a circuitous course the Bolivian part of the Atacama desert. I naturally inquired why the mouth of such a river had not been selected as the site of a port. I was informed that, in spite of the maps, no water flows through the channel of the river, and that what can be obtained by digging is brackish and unfit for drinking. Whether this arises from the fact that the trials have been made too near the shore, within reach of the infiltration of sea-water, or that all the water traversing the region inland becomes impregnated with saltpetre, I am unable to decide; but it seems probable that careful examination of the water, some of which undoubtedly finds its way underground from the Cordillera to the Pacific coast, might add considerably to the resources of the country. The cost of conveying water direct from the mountains to certain points in the interior, and thence to the coast, would possibly be repaid by the saving in fuel now used for the distillation of sea-water, to say nothing of the probability that some portions of the surface would become available for cultivation. The experience of the Isthmus of Suez, where a constantly increasing area near the course of the freshwater canal has become productive, should, I think, encourage the attempt.

About midday we reached Tocopilla, another place of recent creation, consisting of a large establishment with several chimneys and the usual group of sheds for the workmen. Steep rocky slopes rise close behind, and it seemed possible to see something of the conditions of life on this part of the coast without going beyond sight and hearing of the steamer. Being told that our stay was to be short, but that the steam-whistle would be sounded a first time exactly a quarter of an hour before our departure, I shouldered my tin vasculum and went ashore. Passing the houses, I at once steered for the rocky slopes behind. Here at last I found what I had often heard of, but in whose existence I had almost ceased to believe—a land absolutely without a trace of vegetable life. Among the dolomite peaks of South Tyrol I had often been told that such a peak was absolutely bare of vegetation, but had always found a fair number of plants in clefts and crevices. I had been told the same thing at Suez of the burnt-up eastward face of Djebel Attakah, where even on the exposed rocks I had been able to collect something; but here I searched utterly in vain. Not only was there no green thing; not even a speck of lichen could I detect, though I looked at the rocks through a lens. Even more than by the absence of life, I was impressed by the appearance of the surface, which showed no token that water had ever flowed over it. Every edge of rock was sharp, as if freshly broken, and on the steep slope no trace of a channel furrowed its face.16 The aspect is absolutely that of the scenery of the moon—of a world without water and without an atmosphere. I saw no insect and no lizard, no living thing, with the strange exception that on the rocks nearest the houses there were several small birds, which appeared to be rather shy, and which I was not able to approach. I was afterwards told that these birds live on the grain which they are able to steal or to pick out from the manure in the stables, where a few horses and mules are kept for the needs of the place. Assuming this to be correct, the arrival of the birds at such a place remains a mystery.

A passenger who had spent some time at this singular place further told me that the horses, constantly fed on dry grain, and receiving but a scanty ration of distilled sea-water, usually become blind, but do not otherwise suffer in health. He added a story to the effect that some palings which had been painted green were found a few days after covered with marks of teeth, and with the paint almost completely removed. The mules, attracted by the colour, had sought the refreshment of green food, and had vainly gnawed away the painted surface.

However singular the aspect of nature in this place might be, it could not long detain a naturalist. A world without life is soon found to be monotonous; and after clambering about for some time, and satisfying myself that there was nothing to be found, I turned to the shore, where broken shells and other remains of marine animals presented at least some variety. Seaweeds appeared to be scarce, but some were to be seen in the little pools left among the rocks by the retreating tide.

Just as I was about to collect some objects which might have been of interest, the steam-whistle of the Ayacucho summoned me to return to the ship. As I was by this time at some distance from the landing-place, I hurried back under a blazing sun, and reached the ship within less than twenty minutes, only to find that haste was quite superfluous, as we did not start until more than an hour later.

The sun had already set when we reached Cobija. This was, I believe, the first place inhabited on this part of the coast. Before the late war, Bolivia held the coast from the mouth of the Loa to the Tropic of Capricorn, a tract of about one hundred and sixty miles, rich in mineral wealth, the whole of which, along with the adjoining provinces of Peru, is now annexed to Chili. Cobija, which was a place of some importance, is now much reduced, and little business seems to be carried on there.

Early on the 5th of May we were before Antofagasta, now the most thriving place on this coast, if a place can be said to thrive which exists under such unnatural conditions. It is, however, slightly better off than its neighbours to the north. A gentleman who resided here for some time assured me that at intervals of five or six years a heavy fall of rain occurs here. At such times not only the coast region, but the Atacama desert lying between the Cordillera and the sea is speedily covered with fresh vegetation, which after a few months is dried up and disappears. At such times the guanacos descend from the mountains, and actually reach the coast.

We must, without my attention being called to the fact while in my cabin, have turned back to the northward after leaving Antofagasta, as in the dusk we were before Mejillones, which lies fully thirty miles north of the former place. It stands on a little bay, well sheltered from the south by a considerable rocky promontory, and, as I had been led to expect, the ground is here broken and irregular, offering more promise of safe retreat for the indigenous vegetation than anywhere else on this coast. I had looked forward with interest to an hour or two on this more promising ground, and it was a disappointment to be unable to profit by a comparatively long stay, for we remained at anchor after nightfall, embarking cargo and some passengers until midnight. For the third time within twenty-four hours we crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, and thenceforward remained in the south temperate zone. But in this region the term is in no way specially appropriate to the coast climate of Chili, for nothing can be more truly temperate than that of the so-called tropical zone which we were now leaving. During the voyage from Callao the thermometer properly shaded had but once (while anchored at Arica) reached 70° Fahr. It usually stood by night at 64° to 65°, and at about 68° by day, except occasionally when exposed to the cool southern breeze, when it fell rapidly on two occasions, marking only 62·2°.

My aneroid barometer by Casella, graduated only to 19 inches, and therefore useless during my visit to the Cordillera, did not appear to have suffered, as these instruments often do, by the reduced pressure. It did not vary during seven days by so much as one-twentieth of an inch from the constant pressure 29·9, and agreed closely with the ship’s mercurial barometer. Perhaps, owing to the fact that my observations were not sufficiently frequent and recorded with sufficient accuracy, I failed to detect on this coast of America the daily oscillations of pressure, which in this latitude probably amount to about one-twentieth of an inch.

On the 6th of May we reached Taltal, a small place, the general aspect of which reminded me of Tocopilla, and my first impression on landing was that this was equally devoid of vegetable and animal life. But on reaching the rocky slope, which rises very near the landing-place, I at once perceived some indications of water having flowed over the surface, and in the course of the short half-hour which was allowed ashore I found three flowering plants, two of them in a condition to be determined, the third dried up and undistinguishable. In the evening we touched at ChaÑeral, a place rising into importance as being the port of a rich mining district. The southerly breeze had been rather stronger than usual during the afternoon, and some passengers complained of the motion of the ship. An addition of seventy tons of copper in the hold, which was shipped here by torchlight, appeared to have a remarkable effect in steadying the vessel.

We reached Caldera early on the 7th, and remained for five or six hours. This is the port of CopiapÒ, the chief town of Northern Chili—the only one, indeed, which could have grown up under natural conditions. A considerable stream, the Rio de CopiapÒ, which drains the western slope of the Cordillera, passes by the town. Caldera, the port, is not at the mouth of the river, but several miles further north, and water is doubtless conveyed there in some abundance, as, for the first time since leaving Arica, a few bushes in little enclosed gardens could be descried from the harbour, and I was afterwards shown two stately trees, the ornament of the place, which were nearly fifteen feet in height. I went inland about a mile and a half, visiting a slight eminence where the rock, evidently very recent, crops out at the surface, and one or two other promising spots. Most of the country was covered with sand, in places soft and deep, and anywhere else in the world I should have thought it wretchedly barren, but after my recent experience the meagre vegetation appeared almost luxuriant.

There is much interest attaching to the flora of this desert region of South-western America. The species which grow here are the more or less modified representatives of plants which at some former period existed under very different conditions of life. In some of them the amount of modification has been very slight, the species, it may be presumed, possessing a considerable power of adaptation. Thus one composite of the sun-flower family, which I found here, and also at Payta, is but a slight variety of Encelia canescens,17 which I had seen growing luxuriantly in the gravelly bed of the Rimac near Lima, and along that river to a height of six thousand feet above the sea. In this parched region the plant is stunted, and the leaves are hoary with minute white hairs, which may serve as a protection against evaporation. The same species, with other slight modifications, extends to all the drier portions of the western coast as far south as Central Chili. A dwarf shrub with yellow flowers like those of a jessamine, but with very different two-horned fruit, called Skytanthus, was an example of a much greater amount of change. Its only allies are two species in tropical Brazil, very different in appearance, though nearly similar in essential structure. We may safely conclude that a long period has elapsed since these forms diverged from a common stock, and that many intermediate links have perished during the interval.

Several of the ships composing the British Pacific squadron were lying at Caldera at this time, and after returning from my short excursion ashore, I went on board the Triumph, Captain Albert Markham, bearing the flag of Admiral Lyons, commander-in-chief. With regret I declined the admiral’s hospitable invitation to accompany the squadron to Valparaiso, but I was unable to refuse Captain Markham’s kind suggestion that, as his ship was under orders to return to England on the arrival of the Swiftsure, then expected, I should become his guest on the passage from Valparaiso to Montevideo. The Triumph having been detained in Chilian waters many weeks longer than was then expected, I was afterwards forced to forego the agreeable prospect of a voyage in company with an officer whose varied accomplishments and extensive observation of nature under the most varied conditions make his society equally agreeable and instructive.

Leaving Caldera soon after midday, the Ayacucho reached Coquimbo early on the following morning. With only the exception of Talcahuano, this is the best port in Chili, being sheltered from all troublesome winds, and affording good anchorage for large ships. The town of La Serena, the chief place in this part of Chili, stands on moderately high ground about two miles from the sea, and may be reached in about twenty minutes from the port by frequent trains which travel to and fro. We were warned that our stay was to be very short, and that those who went to the city could not remain there for more than half an hour. I had no difficulty in deciding to forego the attractions of the city, whatever they might be, for a far more tempting alternative offered itself. The range of low but rather steep slopes that rises immediately behind the chief line of street was actually dotted over with bushes, veritable bushes, and the unusual greenish-grey tint of the soil announced that it was at least partially covered with vegetation. In the spring, as I was assured, the hue is quite a bright green. To a man who for the preceding week had seen nothing on land but naked rocks or barren sand, the somewhat parched and meagre vegetation of Coquimbo appeared irresistibly attractive. I could not expect to add anything of value to what is already known, through the writings of Darwin and other travellers, respecting the evidences of elevation of the coast afforded by the raised terraces containing recent shells, whose seaward face forms the seeming hills behind the town, and I felt free to give every available moment to collecting the singular plants of this region.

One of the minor satisfactions of a naturalist in South America arises from the fact that the inhabitants are so thoroughly used to seeing strangers of every nationality, and in the most varied attire, that his appearance excites no surprise and provokes no uncivil attentions. Going about almost always alone, with a large tin box slung across my back, I never found myself even stared at, which, in most parts of Europe, is the least inconvenience that befalls a solitary botanist. The amount of attention varies, indeed, in different countries. In Sicily and in Syria one is an object of general curiosity, and one’s every movement, as that of a strange animal, watched by a silent crowd; but it is only in Spain that the inoffensive stranger is subject to personal molestation, and the little boys pelt him with stones without rebuke or interference from their seniors, who nevertheless boast of their national courtesy.18 Fortunately it nowhere occurs to the most ill-disposed populations that a shabbily dressed man, engaged in grubbing up plants by the roots, can be worth robbing. Usually regarded as the assistant to some pharmacist, the botanist is, I think, less subject to molestation than the follower of any other pursuit; his only difficulty being that, if ignorant of the healing art, he cuts a poor figure when applied to for medical advice.

Quite unnoticed, I made my way through the long street of Coquimbo, and, at the first favourable opportunity, turned up a lane leading to the slopes above the town. The first plant that I saw, close to the houses, was a huge specimen of the common European Marrubium vulgare, grown to the dimensions of a much-branched bush four or five feet high. It is common in temperate South America, reaching a much greater size than in Europe. The season was, of course, very unfavourable, the condition of the vegetation being very much what may be seen at the corresponding season—late autumn—in Southern Spain, before the first winter rain has awakened the dormant vegetation of the smaller bulbous-rooted plants. Nevertheless, I found several very curious and rare plants still in flower, some of them known only from this vicinity, and among them a dwarf cactus, only three or four inches in height, with comparatively large crimson flowers just beginning to expand.

At length, on the morning of May 9, the voyage came to an end as we slowly steamed into the harbour of Valparaiso, which, with the large amount of shipping and the conspicuous floating docks, gives an impression of even greater importance than it actually possesses. The modern town, built in European fashion, with houses of two and even three floors above the ground, on the curved margin of the bay partly reclaimed from the sea, and the older town, chiefly perched on the edge of the plateau some two hundred feet above the main street, and divided by the deep ravines (quebradas) that converge towards the bay, have been described by many travellers; but I do not remember to have seen any sufficient warning as to the frightful peril to which the majority of the population is constantly exposed. Over and over again earthquakes have destroyed towns in western South America. Houses built of slight materials, with a ground floor only, or at most with a single floor above it, may fall without entailing much loss of life; but it is frightful to contemplate the amount of destruction of life and property that must ensue if a violent shock should ever visit Valparaiso. And the peril is twofold; the great wave which is the usual sequel of a violent earthquake, would inevitably destroy whatever might survive the first shock in the crowded streets of the lower town.

After overcoming the preliminary difficulties of landing and passing my luggage through the custom-house, I proceeded to the Hotel Colon, in the main street, kept by a French proprietor to whose lively conversation I owed much information and amusement during my short stay. Some three hours were occupied by a few visits, a stroll through the chief streets, and the despatch of a telegram to Buenos Ayres. Not choosing to incur the heavy expense of a telegram from Valparaiso to England, I had availed myself of the courtesy of the officials of the Royal Mail Steamboat Company to arrange that a telegram from Valparaiso to Buenos Ayres should be forwarded by post from the latter place, thus saving fully three weeks’ time. In the afternoon I climbed up one of the steep tracks leading to the upper part of the town, where the population mainly consists of the poorest class. The houses were small and frail looking, but fairly clean, and I nowhere saw indications of abject want, such as may too often be witnessed in the outskirts of a large European city.

Valparaiso has all the air of a busy place, with some features to which we are not used in Europe. Along the line of the narrow main street tramcars are constantly passing to and fro. The names over the shops, many of which are large and handsome, are mainly foreign, German being, perhaps, in a majority; but the important mercantile houses are chiefly English, and, except among the poorer class, the English language appears to be predominant. All people engaged in business acquire it when young, and very many of Spanish descent speak it with fluency and correctness. The Hotel Colon stands between the main street and a broad quay, part of the space reclaimed from the margin of the bay, and my windows overlooked the busy scene, thronged from daylight till evening with a crowd of men and vehicles. It was somewhat startling to see frequent railway trains run through the crowd, with no other precaution than the swinging of a large bell on the locomotive to warn people to get out of the way.

I started soon after daylight on the 10th for a botanical excursion over the hills behind the town, and, as I had rather exaggerated expectations of the harvest to be collected, I had engaged a boy to carry a portfolio wherein to stow away what I could not conveniently carry for myself. Though I moved slowly, as naturalists generally do, my companion soon grew tired, or pretended fatigue, and after an hour or so I sent him back to the hotel with the portfolio well filled.

The flora of Central Chili is denominated by Grisebach that of the transition zone of western South America; but, except in the sense that it occupies a territory intermediate between the desert region to the north and that of the antarctic forests to the south, the term is not very appropriate. On the opposite side of the continent, the flora of Uruguay, Entrerios, and the adjoining provinces, may be truly said to offer a transition between that of South subtropical Brazil and that of the pampas region, most of the genera belonging to one or other of those regions, the one element gradually diminishing in importance as the other assumes a predominance. In this respect the Chilian flora presents a remarkable contrast, being distinguished by the large number of vegetable types peculiar to it, and having but slight affinities either with those of tropical or antarctic America.

Of 198 genera peculiar to temperate South America, the large majority belong exclusively to Central Chili, and these include several tribes whose affinity to the forms of other regions is only remote. Two of these tribes—the VivianeÆ and FrancoaceÆ—have even been regarded by many botanists as distinct natural orders; and many of the most common and conspicuous species will strike a botanist familiar with the vegetation of other regions of the earth as very distinct from all that he has known elsewhere. With only a few exceptions, these endemic types appear to have originated in the Andean range, whence some modified forms have descended to the lower country; several of these, as was inevitable, have been found on the eastern flanks of the great range, and it is probable that further exploration will add to the number; but it is remarkable that as yet so large a proportion should be confined to Chilian territory.

Grisebach has fixed the limits of that which he has called the transition zone at the Tropic of Capricorn to the north, and the thirty-fourth parallel of latitude to the south; but these in no way correspond to the natural boundaries. As I have already pointed out, the flora of the desert zone, extending from about the twentieth nearly to the thirtieth parallel of south latitude, shows a general uniformity in its meagre constituents. It is about the latitude of Coquimbo, or only a little north of it, that the characteristic types of the Chilian flora begin to present themselves, and these extend southward at least as far as latitude 36° south, and even somewhat farther, if I may judge from the imperfect indications of locality too often afforded with herbarium specimens.19

In discussing the causes that have operated on the development of the Chilian flora, the same eminent writer has been misled by incomplete and erroneous information as to the climate of the region in question, and more especially as to the distribution of rainfall, which is no doubt the most important factor. It is true that the peculiar character of the Chilian climate makes it very difficult to express by averages the facts that mainly influence organic life. Between the northern desert region, where rain in a measurable quantity is an exceptional phenomenon, and the southern forest region, extending from the Straits of Magellan to the province of Valdivia, Central Chili has in ordinary years a long, dry, rainless summer, followed by rather scanty rainfall at intervals from the late autumn to spring. About once in four or five years an exceptional season recurs, when rain falls in summer as well as winter, and in which the total fall may be double the usual amount, and at longer intervals, usually after a severe earthquake, storms causing formidable inundations occur, when in a few days the rainfall may exceed the ordinary amount for an entire year. When several such storms are repeated in the same year, we may have a total rainfall of three or four times the ordinary average.20 Such seasons appear to recur six or seven times in each century, and it is clear that, according as the meteorologist happens to include or exclude such a season in his data, the figures expressing the average must vary very largely. Inasmuch as plant life is regulated by the ordinary conditions of temperature and moisture, we are less liable to error in taking the results which exclude exceptional seasons.

In discussing, therefore, the conditions of vegetation in Central Chili, it seems safe to conclude that the averages given in the following table, extracted from the careful work of Julius Hann, “Lehrbuch der Klimatologie,” are above rather than below the ordinary limit. I find, indeed, that while the average rainfall at Santiago during the twelve years from 1849 to 1860 was 419 millimetres, or nearly 16½ English inches, the average for the six years from 1866 to 1871 was 299 millimetres, or less than 12 inches. It is evident that the indigenous vegetation must be adapted to thrive upon the smaller amount of moisture expressed by the latter figures.

The following table, compiled from Hann’s work, gives the most reliable results now available, and shows the mean temperature of the year, of the hottest and coldest months, the extremes of annual temperature, and the rainfall for the chief places in Chili, with a few blanks where information is not available. The maxima and minima do not express the absolute extremes attained during the entire period for which observations are available, but the means of the annual maxima and minima. The temperatures are given in degrees of Fahrenheit’s thermometer.

Places.	South latitude.	Mean temperature of the year.	Mean temperature of January.	Mean temperature of July.	Maximum temperature.	Minimum temperature.	Rainfall in inches.
La Serena (Coquimbo)	29° 56'	59·2°	65·1°	53·1°			1·6
Valparaiso	33° 1'	57·6°	63·1°	52·5°	77·9°	45·0°	13·5
Santiago (1740 feet above sea-level)	33° 27'	55·6°	66·2°	45·0°	87·6°	30·4°	14·5
Talca (334 feet above the sea)	35° 36'	56·5°	70·2°	45·0°			19·7
Valdivia	39° 49'	52·9°	61·5°	45·0°	84·0°	29·5°	115·0
Ancud, Island of Chiloe (164 feet above the sea)	41° 46'	50·7°	56·5°	45·9°			134·0
Punta Arenas21 (Straits of Magellan)	53° 10'	43·2°	51·3°	34·9°	76·3°	28·4°	22·5

This table brings out very clearly the influence of the cold southern currents of the ocean and air in reducing the summer heat of the western side of South America; for, while the winter temperatures are not very different from those of places similarly situated on the west side of Europe and North Africa, those of summer are lower by 8° or 10° Fahr., and the mean of the year is lower by 6° or 7° than that of places in the same latitude on the east side of South America. It is also apparent that much of what has been stated in works of authority as to the climate of this region is altogether incorrect. In his great work on the “Vegetation of the Earth,” Grisebach gives the mean temperature of Santiago as 67·5°, or nearly 12° higher than the mean result of ten years’ observation, and the rainfall as over 40 inches, or nearly three times the average—more, indeed, than three times the average—of ordinary seasons.

Arriving in Chili about the end of the long dry season, I had but very moderate expectations as to the prospect of seeing much of its peculiar vegetation, and I was agreeably surprised to find that there yet remained a good deal to interest me, especially among the characteristic evergreen shrubs, having much of the general aspect of those of the Mediterranean region, though widely different in structure from the Old-World forms. One or two slight showers had fallen shortly before my arrival, and as a result the ground was in many places studded with the golden flowers of the little Oxalis lobata. This appears to have a true bulb, formed from the overlapping bases of the outer leaves, in the centre of which the undeveloped stem produces one or more flowers, which appear before the new leaves. The surface of the dry baked soil was extremely hard, costing some labour to break it with a pick in order to collect specimens, and it is not easy to understand the process by which a young flower-bud is enabled to force its way to the upper surface. The open country on the hills near Valparaiso is bare, trees being very scarce, and for the most part reduced to the stature of shrubs with strong trunks; but in the ravines, or quebradas, that descend towards the coast some of these rise to a height of twenty or twenty-five feet.

One of the objects of my walk over the hills was to obtain a good view of the Andes, and especially of the peak of Aconcagua, the highest summit of the New World. I had had a glimpse of the peak from the sea on the previous morning, but light clouds hung about the entire range during this day, and I was unable to identify with certainty any of the summits. The distance in an air line is about one hundred English miles, and I was struck by the clearness of the air in this region as compared with what I had seen from the coast of Ecuador or Peru. Every point that stood out from the clouds was seen sharply defined, as one is accustomed to observe in favourable weather in the Mediterranean region.

Returning to the town, I took my way along one of numerous deep ravines that have been cut into the seaward surface of the plateau. Though they are witnesses to the energetic action of water, they are often completely dry at this season; yet they exercise a marked influence on the vegetation. The shrubs rise nearly to the dimensions of trees, and several species find a home that do not thrive in the open country. I was specially interested in, for the first time, finding in flower the Winter’s bark (Drimys Winteri), a shrub which displays an extraordinary capacity of adaptation to varying physical conditions, as it extends along the west side of America from Mexico to the Straits of Magellan, and also to the highlands of Guiana and Brazil, accommodating itself as well to the perpetual spring of the equatorial mountain zone as to the long winters and short, almost sunless, summers of Fuegia. The only necessary condition seems to be a moderate amount of moisture; but even as to this there is wonderful contrast between the long rainless summer and slight winter rainfall of Valparaiso, and the tropical rains of Brazil on the one hand, and the continual moisture of Valdivia and Western Patagonia on the other. This is one of the examples which goes to show how much caution should be used in drawing inferences as to the climate of former epochs from deposits of fossil vegetable remains. This instance is doubtless exceptional, but there is some reason to think that what may be called physiological varieties—races of plants which, with little or no morphological change, have become adapted to conditions of life very different from those under which the ancestral form was developed—are far less uncommon than has been generally supposed.

It is to me rather surprising that a shrub so ornamental as the Winter’s bark should not be more extensively introduced on our western coasts. It appears not to resist severe frosts, but in the west of Ireland and the south-west of England it should be a welcome addition to the resources of the landscape gardener. Although voyagers have spoken highly of its virtues as a stimulant and antiscorbutic, it does not appear to have held its ground in European pharmacopeias, and I believe that the active principle, chiefly residing in the bark, has never been chemically determined.

On May 11 I proceeded to Santiago. Mr. Drummond Hay,22 the popular consul-general, who at this time was also acting as the British chargÉ d’affaires at the legation at Santiago, was so fully occupied at the consular court that I was able to enjoy little of his society; but he was kind enough to telegraph to the Hotel Oddo at Santiago to secure for me accommodation. With the usual difficulty of effecting an early start, which appears to prevail everywhere in South America, I reached the railway station in time for the 7.45 a.m. train. For some distance the railroad runs near the sea, passing the station of ViÑa del Mar, where many of the Valparaiso merchants have pretty villas. I was more attracted by the appearance of the country about the following station of Salto, where rough, rocky ground, with clumps of small trees and the channels of one or more streams, promised well for a spring visit. But I was at every turn reminded that I had fallen on the most unfavourable season. After the long six or seven months’ drought the face of the country was everywhere parched, and the only matter for surprise was that there should yet remain some vestiges of its summer garb of vegetation.

The direct distance from Valparaiso to Santiago is only about fifty-five miles, but the line chosen for the railway must be fully double that length. The country lying directly between the sea-coast and the capital is broken up by irregular masses, partly granitic and partly formed of greenstone and other hard igneous rocks. These in Europe would be regarded as considerable mountains, as the summits range from six thousand to over seven thousand feet in height, but they nowhere exhibit the bold and picturesque forms that characterize the granite formation in Brazil. On either side of this highland tract two considerable streams carry the drainage of the Cordillera to the ocean. The northern stream, the Rio Aconcagua, bears the same name as the famous mountain from whose snows it draws a constant supply even in the dry season. Some sixty miles further south, the Maipo, draining a larger portion of the Andean range, flows to the coast by the town of Melipilla. The valley of the Maipo offers a much easier, though a circuitous, railway route to Santiago than that chosen by the Chilian engineers, which for a considerable distance keeps to the valley of the Aconcagua. The stream is reached near to Quillota, a place which has given its name to this part of the valley.

Travelling at this season, I was not much struck by the boasted luxuriance of the vegetation of the vale of Quillota; but I could easily understand that the eye of the stranger, accustomed to the arid regions of Peru and Northern Chili, must welcome the comparative freshness of the landscape, in which orchards of orange and peach trees alternate with squares of arable land. Of the few plants that I could make out from the railway car what most attracted my attention was the frequent recurrence of oval masses of dark leaves, much in the form of a giant hedgehog three or four feet in length and half that height, remarkably uniform in size and appearance. The interest was not diminished when I was able, at a wayside station, to ascertain that the plant was a bramble, on which I failed to find flower or fruit, but which from the leaves can be nothing else than a variety of the common bramble, or blackberry, introduced from Europe.

At the station of Llaillai (pronounced Yaiyai) we met the train from Santiago, and were allowed a quarter of an hour for breakfast. The arrangements were rather rough, but the food excellent—much superior, indeed, to what one commonly finds at an English refreshment-room. This is a junction station, and a train was in readiness to take passengers from Santiago or Valparaiso by a branch line up the valley of the Aconcagua to San Felipe and Santa Rosa de los Andes. The Santiago train here leaves that valley, and, turning abruptly to the south, commences a long and rather steep ascent of the ridge that divides the basin of the Maipo from that of the Aconcagua. To our right rose the Cerro del Roble, about 7250 feet in height, one of the highest of the coast range.23

Here I first encountered the characteristic aspect of the hilly region of Central Chili. A tall columnar cactus (Cereus Quisco) is the most conspicuous plant. Sometimes with a solitary stem, but usually having two or three together from the same root, they stand bolt upright from fifteen to twenty-five feet in height. Next to this the commonest conspicuous plant is a large species of Puya, belonging to the pine-apple family, with long, stiff, spiky leaves, and these two combined to give a strange and somewhat weird appearance to the vegetation. Here and there were dense masses of evergreen bushes or small shrubs, and more rarely small solitary trees. Among these was probably the species of beech (Fagus obliqua of botanists) which the natives call roble (or oak), there being, in fact, no native oaks in America south of the equator; but in a passing railway train I could not hope to identify unfamiliar species. Both here and elsewhere in Chili, I noticed that the quisco is almost confined to the northern or sunny slopes; while, as Darwin observed, the tall bamboo grass (a Chusquea) prevails on the shady sides of the hills.

The summit level, according to Petermann’s map, is 4311 feet (1314 metres) above the sea, and thenceforward there is a continuous gradual slope of the ground towards Santiago. The country shows few signs of population, and the larger part of the surface is left in a state of nature, and used only for pasturage in winter. In this arid region cultivation is nearly confined to the valleys of the streams that descend from the Cordillera. The stony beds of the streams passed by the railway were almost completely dried up, and I think that I saw water in one spot only on the whole way between the Aconcagua and the Mapocho.

Any want of interest or variety in the nearer landscape was amply made up by the increasing grandeur of the views of the Cordillera as we approached the capital of Chili, rendered all the more imposing by fresh snow, which extended down to the level of ten or eleven thousand feet. Although it does not include several of the highest summits of the Andes, the range which walls in the province of Santiago to the east is probably the highest continuous portion of the great range; for in a distance of seventy miles, from near the Uspallata Pass to the Volcano of Maipe, I believe that there is but one narrow gap where the crest of the chain falls below the level of nineteen thousand feet.24 To the eye, however, the outline seen from the plain is very varied, and by no means gives the impression of a continuous wall. Huge buttresses, with peaked summits, not much inferior in height to the main range, project westward, and in the bays between them form Alpine valleys, which send down streams to fertilize the country. By these buttresses the peak of Tupungato, 20,278 feet in height, the highest summit of this part of the chain, is concealed from Santiago, and I doubt whether it is anywhere visible from the low country on the Chilian side.

Soon after twelve o’clock the train reached the station at Santiago, and I found Mr. Flint, the obliging German proprietor of the Hotel Oddo, in readiness with a carriage to take me to his hotel. The first impression of Santiago, irrespective of the grandeur of its position, is that of a great city. The houses, consisting only of a ground floor, or at most with a single floor overhead, built round an enclosed court, or patio, cover a large space, and the town occupies three or four times the area that an equal population would require in Europe. It is laid out, even more regularly than Turin, in square blocks of nearly the same dimensions, so that the ordinary way of reckoning distances is by quadras. One enters the town by the Alameda, a straight street, with fine houses on one side and a public garden on the other, nearly two miles in length, along which, at intervals, are statues of the men who have earned the gratitude of their country, the most conspicuous being the equestrian statue of General O’Higgins, the foremost hero of the war of independence.

Turning at right angles into one of the side streets, we soon reached the Hotel Oddo, unpretending in appearance, which was recommended to me as being quieter and more comfortable than the Grand Hotel. This, which was close at hand, occupies the upper floor of a fine pile of building, that fills one side of the Plaza Major, or great square of the city. There seems to be an uneasy feeling that at the first severe shock of earthquake this monument of misplaced architecture may be levelled to the ground, to the destruction of all its inmates.

My first visit in Santiago was made to Don Carlos Swinburne, an English merchant, long established in the city, who has acquired the universal respect and regard of all classes, and whose well-earned personal influence has been on several occasions effective for the mutual benefit of his native land and his adopted country. To his kindness and courtesy I am under many obligations. Later in the day I proceeded to call upon Dr. Philippi, the veteran naturalist, to whom we owe so much of our knowledge of the flora and fauna of Chili.

In Santiago, as in most other South American towns, the first thing that a stranger should do is to learn the routes of the tramcars, which constantly ply through the principal arteries. Hackney coaches are to be found, and are sometimes indispensable, but they are heavy cumbrous vehicles, ill hung on high wheels; one travels slowly and suffers a severe jolting over ill-paved streets. To say nothing of economy, the tramcar runs smoothly at a brisk pace, is usually clean and commodious, and is generally used by all classes of the population. The main point is to take care not to travel in the opposite direction from that intended; but here, with the great landmarks of the Andes always in view, it is not easy to go wrong as to the points of the compass.

To find Dr. Philippi I was directed to a house of modest appearance within the precincts of the Quinta Normal. This establishment is intended to combine the functions of a horticultural garden and a model farm, but the greater part of the grounds appears to be laid out as ornamental pleasure-ground. A large handsome building, originally constructed for a great industrial exhibition, has been turned to good account as a museum of natural history. I was received by Professor Federigo Philippi, who now worthily fills the chair of Natural History in the University of Santiago, from which, after a tenure of many years, his father has retired. Between naturalists none of the ordinary formalities of introduction are required, and cordial relations grow up rapidly. Knowing that Dr. Philippi had already reached an advanced age, I was apprehensive that some infirmity might have chilled the ardour of his interest in science; but I was agreeably disabused when from an adjoining room the professor called his father to join our conversation. I found a man who, although in his seventy-sixth year, was still full of vigour of mind, and I had full opportunity on the following morning to assure myself that this is sustained by abundant physical energy.

Time slips by rapidly in a conversation on subjects of mutual interest, and when, after arranging for a short excursion with Dr. Philippi, I returned homeward, the setting sun was lighting up the heavens with the beautiful tints that are more common in the warm Temperate zone than in other regions of the earth. Low as are the houses, they were just high enough to shut out all but occasional glimpses of the Cordillera from the street; but when I reached the great plaza I came to the conclusion, which I still retain, that Santiago is by many degrees the most beautifully situated town that I have anywhere seen. Rio Janeiro, Constantinople, Palermo, Beyrout, Plymouth, all have the added beauty that the sea confers on land scenery; but such a spectacle as is formed by the majestic semicircle of great peaks that curve round Santiago, lit by the varying tints of day and evening, is scarcely to be matched elsewhere in the world. In position, as in plan of building, I was reminded of Turin; but here the Alps are nearly twice as high, and at half the distance. Further than that, the low country at Turin opens to the east, and, although glorious sunrise effects are not seldom visible, they never rival the splendours of the close of day.

On the following morning, May 12, I started with Dr. Philippi in a hackney coach for an excursion to the Cerro San Cristobal, an isolated hill rising about one thousand feet above the valley of the Mapocho. We crossed that stream by a very massive bridge, constructed to resist the formidable flood poured down the channel after heavy rains, and for about three miles followed the right bank along a rough road deep in the sand formed by the disintegration of the volcanic rocks. We were glad to leave our vehicle at some mills at the foot of the hill, and spent some three hours very agreeably in clambering up and down the rough slopes. The shrubs were much the same as those which I afterwards saw elsewhere in similar situations, but I was fortunate in being introduced to them by one so familiar with the flora as my excellent companion. Among these, as well as the herbaceous plants, the CompositÆ prevail over every other natural order. Two common species belong to the tribe of MutisiaceÆ, unknown in Europe, and almost confined to South America. The bushy species of Baccharis, a genus very widely spread in the New World, but not known elsewhere, were also very common. An acacia (A. Cavenia) approached more nearly to the dimensions of a tree. It has stiff, spreading, and very spiny branches, and is widely spread throughout the drier parts of temperate South America. Among the few herbaceous plants in flower I was fortunate in seeing the pretty Gynopleura linearifolia. This belongs to a tribe of the passionflower family, very distinct in habit and appearance, which has been by some eminent botanists ranked as a distinct natural order under the name MalesherbiaceÆ. It includes only two genera with ten or twelve species, all exclusively natives of Chili or Peru. A veil of morning haze or mist, not uncommon at this season, hung over the city and marred the completeness of the grand view from the summit of the Cerro. Though easily explained, the seeming opacity of a thin stratum of vapour seen from above, as I have often noticed in the Alps, is remarkable. Before we started, and after our return, the haze over the city was scarcely perceptible. Not only did the sun shine brightly in the town, but the outlines of the neighbouring peaks were perfectly distinct. Looking down from the upper station, the slight differences in the intensity of the comparatively feeble light proceeding from the various objects on the surface, by which alone they are made visible, were concealed by the haze which reflected a portion of the comparatively strong light received from the sky, just as when looking from the outside at a window which reflects the light from the sky, we cannot distinguish objects within.

In the afternoon Mr. Swinburne was good enough to accompany me in a visit to Don Benjamin VicuÑa Mackenna, one of the most conspicuous and remarkable of the contemporary public men of Chili. His career has been in many ways singular. In early life he took part in two attempts of a revolutionary nature. Fortunately for themselves, the Chilians have gained from their own and their neighbours’ experience a fixed aversion to revolution, and, while acknowledging the existence of abuses, have felt that violent change is certain to entail worse evils. Both attempts failed, and the leaders were condemned to death, the sentences being judiciously commuted to temporary exile.

Since his return, Mr. Mackenna has done good service as head of the municipality of Santiago, has been a prominent member of the legislature, and was, in 1881, the unsuccessful candidate for the presidency of the republic. But it is chiefly by his fertility as a writer that Mr. Mackenna has secured for himself an enduring reputation. Gifted with keen intelligence and a marvellously retentive memory, his readiness to discuss in turn the most varied topics, whether by speech or pen, is quite phenomenal. Besides being a constant contributor to newspapers and periodicals, he has published over a hundred volumes, most of them devoted either to illustrate the history or to promote the progress of his native country. I was most kindly received, and my only regret, on this and subsequent occasions, was that the shortness of my stay prevented me from enjoying more fully the society of this interesting man. From the room—in itself a library—reserved for the spare copies of his own works, I selected four volumes out of the many which he was kind enough to place at my disposal.

On the following day Mr. VicuÑa Mackenna was kind enough to devote several hours to taking me to various objects of interest in the city, beginning with the natural history museum at the Quinta Normal. Rightly supposing that they would be of interest, my guide afterwards took me to see the most remarkable trees of the city, each of which possesses some historic interest. In an old and rather neglected garden attached to the palace of the archbishop is the finest known specimen of the peumo, the most important indigenous tree of Central Chili. Popular tradition affirms that under this tree, in 1640, Pedro de Valdivia, the founder of Santiago, held a conference with the native Indian chiefs, in which they agreed to allow the strangers a certain territory for settlement. It is undoubtedly very ancient, and is divided nearly from the ground into a number of massive branches spreading in all directions, so as to form a hemisphere of dark green foliage rather more than sixty feet in diameter. The tree belongs to the laurel family (Cryptocarya Peumus of botanists), and is densely covered with thick evergreen leaves impenetrable to the sun. The red oval fruits are much appreciated by the country people, but they have a resinous taste unpalatable to strangers.

In the garden of the Franciscan convent we saw a very fine old Lombardy poplar, from which it is said that all those cultivated in Chili are descended. The story runs that a prior of the convent, who visited his brethren at Mendoza, some time in the seventeenth century, found there poplar trees introduced from Europe, and which in that denuded region were the sole representatives of arboreal vegetation. The sapling which he carried back on his return across the Andes grew to be the tree which still flourishes in the convent at Santiago. To judge from its appearance, the story is no way improbable.

In the patio of a fine house in the city are two remarkably fine specimens of the Eucalyptus globulus, a tree now familiar to visitors at Nice and many other places in the Mediterranean region. It has been of late extensively planted throughout the drier parts of temperate South America, and promises to be of much economic value. The pair which I saw here had been planted seventeen years before, and, like twins, had kept pace in their growth. The height was about sixty feet, and the girth at five feet from the ground about seven feet.

As a specimen of one of the better houses in Santiago, Mr. V. Mackenna took me to that of one of his cousins, who with his family was at the time absent in the country. The building included three small courts, or patios, each laid out with ornamental plants well watered. The reception-rooms, very richly furnished in satin and velvet, as well as the apartments of the family, were all on the ground floor, most of them opening into a patio. Over a part of the building were small rooms constructed of slight materials for the use of servants, so that the risk of fatal injuries even in a severe earthquake seemed to be but slight.

I was told the history of the owner of this fine house, which, from what I afterwards heard, was no more than a fair sample of the economic condition of Chilian society. Many of the older Spanish families are large landowners, and, in spite of vicissitudes due to droughts and occasional inundations, derive settled incomes from property of this kind. But the prodigious wealth that has flowed from the rich mining districts has proved a temptation too strong to be resisted, and there are comparatively few of the wealthier class who have not engaged in mining speculations. It is needless to say that along with some great prizes there have been many blanks in the lottery, and the result has been that the fortunes of families have undergone the most extraordinary vicissitudes. People get used to a condition of society where the same man may be rich to-day, reduced nearly to pauperism a year later, and then again, after another short interval, rolling in wealth. It is to be feared that the effect, if continued for a generation or two, will not be favourable to progress in the higher sense.

The existence of a class not forced to expend its energies on acquiring wealth, and having some adequate objects of ambition, is still the most important condition for the advancement of the human race. We may look forward to other conditions of society when, having found out the extremely small value of most of the luxuries that now stimulate exertion, men will be able peacefully to develop a healthier and happier social state, in which labour and leisure will be more equally distributed; but this is yet in the distant future, and perhaps the greatest difficulty in its attainment will arise from premature attempts to impose new conditions which, if they are to live, must be of spontaneous growth.

One of the marked features of Santiago is the steep rock of Santa Lucia rising abruptly near the eastern end of the Alameda. It has been well laid out with winding footpaths, and has a frequented restaurant. The view of the snowy range on one side and the city on the other can scarcely be matched elsewhere in the world.

On reaching Santiago, I was mainly preoccupied with the question of how to use my short stay with the best advantage so as to see as much as possible of the scenery and vegetation of the great range, consistently with the promise I had given before leaving home to avoid all risks to health. From the abundance of fresh snow along the range, it was obvious that the precipitation on the higher flanks of the Cordillera must be considerably greater than it is in the low country, where only one or two slight showers had fallen; and we were in the season when rain is annually expected, which, of course, would take the form of snow in the higher region. I had already obtained a letter to the manager of the mines at Las Condes, a place about fifteen miles from Santiago, and some eight thousand feet above the sea. But, after taking counsel with those best informed, I decided on giving a few days to a visit to the Baths of Cauquenes, in the valley of the Cachapoal, a little above the point where that stream issues from the mountains into the plain of Central Chili. There remained a possibility of making an excursion from Cauquenes into one of the interior valleys, especially that of Cypres, famed for the variety of high mountain plants that find a home near the glacier which descends into it, and there was the advantage that even in case of bad weather no serious inconvenience would arise.

I started next morning, May 14, by the railway, which is carried nearly due south from the capital to Talca, and thence to Concepcion. I found myself in the same carriage with Mr. Hess, the lessee and manager of the Baths, an energetic, practical man, fully impressed with a sense of his own importance as head of an establishment which annually attracts the best society of Chili. The railway journey, which carries one for about fifty miles parallel to the great range of the Cordillera, is very interesting, even at this season, when much of the country shows a parched surface. The finest views are those gained where the line passes opposite the opening through which the Maipo issues from the mountains into the plain. This river, which even in the dry season shows a respectable volume of water, is formed by the union of the torrents from four valleys that penetrate nearly to the axis of the Cordillera. Of Tupungato, the highest summit hereabouts, 20,270 feet above sea-level, I saw nothing, as it is masked by a very lofty range that divides two of the tributary valleys. A slender wreath of vapour marked the volcano of San JosÉ, just twenty thousand feet in height, at the head of the southern branch of the river. It is only at one point visible from the railway.

On the way from Valparaiso to Santiago I had already been much struck by the prevalence over wide areas of plants not indigenous to the country, most of them introduced from Southern Europe. The most conspicuous are plants of the thistle tribe, all strangers to South America, and especially the cardoon, or wild state of the common artichoke. This is now far more common in temperate South America than it anywhere is in its native home in the Mediterranean region. In Chili it is regarded with some favour, as mules, and even horses, eat the large spiny leaves freely at a season when other forage is scarce. The same cannot be said of our common coarse spear-thistle (Cnicus lanceolatus), which, though of much more recent introduction, has now invaded large tracts of country, especially in the rather moister southern provinces. I was informed that, with the strange expectation that it would be useful as fodder, an Englishman had imported a sack of the seed, which he had spread broadcast somewhere in the neighbourhood of Concepcion. Many other European plants have been introduced, either intentionally or by accident, and have in some districts to a great extent supplanted the indigenous vegetation. As to many of these, it appears to me probable that their diffusion is due more to the aid of animals than the direct intervention of man. This is especially true of the little immigrant which has gone farthest in colonizing this part of the earth—the common stork’s-bill (Erodium cicutarium), which has made itself equally at home in the upper zone of the Peruvian Andes, in the low country of Central Chili, and in the plains of Northern Patagonia. Its extension seems to keep pace with the spread of domestic animals, and, as far as I have been able to ascertain, it is nowhere common except in districts now or formerly pastured by horned cattle. It is singular that the same plant should have failed to extend itself in North America, being apparently confined to a few localities. It is now common in the northern island of New Zealand, but has not extended to South Africa, where two other European species of the same genus are established.

In considering the facts relating to the rapid extension of certain plants when introduced into new regions, and the extent to which they have supplanted the indigenous species, I confess that I have always been a little sceptical as to the primary importance attributed by Darwin25 to the fact that most of these invaders are northern continental species. In the course of a long existence extending over wide areas, he maintains that these have acquired an organization fitting them better to maintain the struggle for existence than the indigenous species of the regions over which they have spread. Of course, it is true in the case of territories very recently raised from the sea, and not in direct connection with a continental area inhabited by species well adapted to the conditions of soil and climate, that immigrant species well adapted to the conditions of their new home will spread very rapidly, and may easily supplant the less vigorous, because less well adapted, native species. The most remarkable case of this kind is perhaps presented by Northern Patagonia and a portion of the Argentine region, raised from the sea during the most recent geological period. The only quarters from which the flora could be recruited were the range of the Andes to the west, and the subtropical zone of South America to the north. Everything goes to prove that the forms of plants are far more slowly modified than those of animals—or, at least, of the higher vertebrate orders. The new settlers are unable quickly to adapt themselves to the new conditions of life, and as a result we find that the indigenous flora of the region in question is both numerically poor in species, and that these have been unable fully to occupy the ground. Among the species intentionally or accidentally introduced by the European conquerors, those well adapted to the new country have established a predominance over the native species; but I question whether, if the course of history had been different, and the conquerors of South America had come from South Africa or South Australia, bringing with them seeds of those regions, we should not have seen in Patagonia African or Australian plants in the place of the European thistles and other weeds now so widely spread.

If I am not much mistaken as to the history of the introduction of foreign plants into new regions, it very commonly happens that a species which spreads very widely at first becomes gradually restricted in its area, and finally loses the predominance which it seemed to have established. Attention has not, I think, been sufficiently directed to the fact that the chief limit to the spread of each species is fixed by the prevalence of the enemies to which it is exposed, and that plants carried to a distant region will, as a general rule, enjoy advantages which in the course of time they are likely to lose. Whether it be large animals that eat down the stem—as goats prevent the extension of pines—or birds that devour the fruit, or insects that attack some vital organ, or vegetable parasites that disorganize the tissues, the chances are great that in a new region the species will not find the enemies that have been adapted to check its extension in its native home. Of the marvellous complexity of the agencies that interact in the life-history of each species we first formed some estimate through the teachings of Darwin; but to follow out the details in each case will be the work of successive generations of naturalists. We cannot doubt that in a new region new enemies will arise for each species that has become common, or, in other words, that other organisms, whether animals or plants, will acquire the means of maintaining their own existence at the expense of the new-comer. The wild artichoke is doubtless perfectly adapted to the climate of the warmer and drier parts of the Mediterranean region, and is there rather widely spread; but it is nowhere very common, even in places where the ground is not much occupied by other species. We do not know all the agencies that prevent it from spreading farther, but we do not doubt that it is held in check by its appropriate enemies. In South America it would appear that these, or some of them, are absent, and the plant has spread far and wide. If some common bird should take to devouring the seeds, or some other effectual check should arise, the area would very speedily be reduced.

The train stopped for breakfast at the Rancagua station, a few miles from the town of that name. Along with very fair food at the restaurant, cheaper delicacies were offered by itinerant hawkers, including various sweet cakes of suspicious appearance and baskets of red berries of the peumo tree. At the next station, called Gualtro, about fifty miles from Santiago, we left the train, and, after the usual long delay, continued our journey in a lumbering coach set upon very high wheels. This seems to be the general fashion for carriages in South America, arising from the fact that the smaller streams, which swell fast after rain, are usually unprovided with bridges.

Incautious travellers in South America may easily be misled by the frequent use of the same name for quite different places. One bound for the Baths of Cauquenes must be careful not to confound these with the town of Cauquenes, the chief place of a department of the same name, more than a hundred miles farther to the south.

Before reaching Gualtro we had crossed the Cachapoal, a torrential stream which drains several valleys of the high Cordillera. Our course now lay eastward, towards the point where the river issues from the mountains into the plain, and where, as everywhere in Central Chili, its waters are largely used for irrigation. The road along the left bank lies on a slope at some height above the stream, and gives a wide view over the plain, backed by the great range of the Cordillera. Irrespective of the picturesque interest of the grand view, I added somewhat to the impressions respecting the physical geography of Central Chili which I had recently received from an examination of Petermann’s reduction from the large government map, and from the information given me at Santiago.

I had reached Chili with no other ideas respecting the configuration of the country than those derived from the twelfth chapter of Darwin’s “Journal of Researches,” which with little modification have been repeated by subsequent writers, even so lately as in the excellent article on “Chile,” in the American CyclopÆdia.

Struck by the conformation of the range between Quillota and Santiago, and the somewhat similar range south of the Maipo, and writing at a time when there were no maps deserving of the name, and when the channels of Patagonia had been most imperfectly explored, Darwin was led to infer a much closer resemblance between the orographic features of the two regions than it is now possible to admit. He supposed the greater part, if not the whole of the Chilian coast, to be bordered by mountain ranges running parallel to the main chain of the Cordillera, thus forming a succession of nearly level basins lying between these outer mountains and the main range, each being drained through a transverse valley which cuts through the outer range. Such a conformation of the surface would undoubtedly resemble what we find on the western coast of South America, between the Gulf of Ancud and the Straits of Magellan. But the facts correspond with this view only to a limited extent.

The tints laid down on Petermann’s map to indicate successive zones of height above the sea are far from being completely accurate, but slight errors of detail do not affect the general conclusions to which we must arrive. If we carry the eye along from north to south, we find a succession of great buttresses or promontories of high land projecting westward from the main range, between which relatively deep valleys carry the drainage towards the Pacific coast. The effect of a continuous sinking of the land would be to produce a series of deep bays running far inland to the base of the Cordillera, and further depression might show here and there some scattered islets, but nothing to resemble the almost continuous range of mountainous islands that separate the channels of Patagonia from the ocean. As far as it is possible to judge of a region yet imperfectly surveyed, the case is quite different in Southern Chili, below the parallel of 40°. From near Valdivia a lofty coast range, cut through by only one deep and narrow valley, extends southward to the strait, only a few miles wide, that divides the island of Chiloe from the mainland, and is evidently prolonged to the southward in the high land that fringes the western flank of that large island. A moderate rise of the sea-level would submerge the country between Puerto Montt and the Rio de San Pedro, and produce another island very similar in form and dimensions to that of Chiloe.

Our lumbering carriage came to a halt at the place where the road crosses a stream—the Rio Claro—which drains some part of the outer range and soon falls into the Cachapoal. Close at hand was a plain building with numerous dependencies, which turned out to be the residence of Don Olegario Soto, the chief proprietor of this part of the country. I proceeded at once to deliver a letter to this gentleman, whose property extends along the valley for a distance of thirty or forty miles into the heart of the Cordillera. My object was to ascertain the possibility of making an excursion into the interior of the great range, and to obtain such assistance as the proprietor might afford. The house, so far as I saw, was rustic in character, and my first impression of its owner was that the same epithet might serve as his description. There was a complete absence of the conventional and perfectly hollow phrases which form the staple of Castilian courtesy. But first impressions are proverbially misleading. On my making some obviously superfluous remark as to my imperfect use of the Spanish tongue, Don Olegario changed the conversation to English, which he spoke with perfect ease and correctness. We discussed my project of a mountain excursion, and I found at once that he was ready to give practical assistance in every way. The doubt remained as to the season and the weather. If no rain or snow should fall, there was no other obstacle. He readily undertook to provide men and horses and everything needful for an excursion of three days in the Cordillera, and I was to let him know my resolve on the following day.

I afterwards heard in some detail the family history of this liberal-minded gentleman. His father commenced life as a common miner. With the aid of good fortune, natural intelligence, and activity, he became the owner of a valuable mine in Northern Chili, and amassed a large fortune, mainly invested in the purchase of land. Having several sons, he sent them all for education to England, and, to judge from the specimen I saw, with excellent results. Large proprietors who use intelligence and capital to develop the natural resources of the country supply, in some states of society, the most effectual means for progress in civilization; but, excepting in Chili, such examples are rare in South America.

The day was declining when we reached the Baths of Cauquenes, and I had time only for a short stroll through the establishment and its immediate surroundings. It stands on a level shelf of stony ground less than a hundred feet above the river Cachapoal, the main building consisting of a range of bedrooms, all on the ground floor, disposed round a very large quadrangle. The rooms are spacious and sufficiently furnished, and I was struck by the fact that there is no fastening whatever to the doors, which usually stand ajar. This speaks at once for the constant apprehension of earthquakes that seems to haunt the Chilian mind, and for the general honesty of the people, amongst whom theft is almost unknown. Besides some additional rooms in wings adjoining the great court, the baths are an annexe overhanging the river, to which you descend by broad flights of stairs. A large handsome hall, lighted from above, has the bath-rooms ranged on either side, all exquisitely clean and attractive. The adjoining ground, planted mainly with native trees, is limited in extent. A narrow and deep ravine, cut through the rocky slope of the adjoining hill, is traversed by one of those slight wire suspension bridges common in this country, that swing so far under the steps of the passenger as to disquiet the unaccustomed stranger. The views gained from below up the rugged and stern valley of the Cachapoal are naturally limited, but the rather steep hills rising above the baths promised a wider prospect towards the great range of the Cordillera, and did not disappoint expectation.

The autumn season being now far advanced, the guests at the establishment were few—about twenty in all. After supper they assembled in a drawing-room and adjoining music-room. I was struck not only by the general tone of courtesy and good-breeding of the party, but by the fact that several of them at least were well-informed men, taking an intelligent interest in physics and natural history. Two or three gentlemen spoke a little, but only a little, English, and, my command of Spanish being equally imperfect, conversation did not flow very freely, and I retired for the night with a feeling that at a more favourable season I should be very loth to quit such pleasant head-quarters.

After a rather cold night, I rose early on the 15th of May, with a sense of the impending necessity for an immediate decision as to my future plans. Scanning anxiously the portion of the great range seen towards the head of the valley, I saw that fresh snow extended much lower than I had observed it at Santiago, while heavy broken masses of dark clouds lay along the flanks of the higher mountains. I received no encouragement from Mr. Hess. The ordinary season for rain in the low country had arrived, and this would take the form of snow in the inner valleys of the Cordillera; all appearances boded a change of weather which is always anxiously desired by the native population. I reluctantly decided to despatch a messenger to Don Olegario Soto renouncing the projected excursion, contenting myself with the prospect of approaching as near to the great range as could be accomplished in a single day from the baths.

To the naturalist, however, a new country is never devoid of interest; and this was my first day on the outer slopes of the Chilian Andes. The season was, indeed, the most unfavourable to the botanist of the entire year. After six months’ drought, broken only by one or two slight showers, the ground was baked hard, nearly to the consistence of brick, and most of the herbaceous vegetation utterly dried up. A great part of the day was nevertheless very well spent in rambling over the hill above the baths, and making closer acquaintance with many vegetable forms altogether new, or hitherto seen only from a distance. The trees and shrubs of this region are with scarce an exception evergreen, and the most conspicuous, though differing much from each other in structure and affinities, bear a striking resemblance in the general form and character of their foliage, formed of thickset, broadly elliptical, leathery leaves, giving a dense shade impervious to the sun. The largest is the peumo26 tree, already referred to, which forms a thick trunk, but rarely exceeds thirty feet in height. Next to this in dimensions are two trees of the Rosaceous family, allied in essential characters (though very different in appearance) to the SpirÆas, of which the common meadowsweet is the most familiar example. One of these, the Quillaja saponaria of botanists, is much prized for the remarkable properties of the bark, said to contain, along with carbonate of lime and other mineral constituents, much saponine, an organic compound having many of the properties of soap. It is commonly used for washing linen, and especially for cleansing woollen garments, to which it gives an agreeable lustre. Nearly allied to this is the Kageneckia oblonga, a small tree of no special use except to aid in clothing the parched hills of the lower region of Chili. It would seem that all these trees might be successfully introduced into the warmer parts of southern Europe, especially the south of Spain and Sicily, and the Quillaja would doubtless prove to be of some economic value.

To the European traveller the most remarkable vegetable inhabitant of the dry hills of Central Chili is the tall cactus (Cereus quisco), which I had first seen on the way from Valparaiso to Santiago. They were abundant on the lower slopes about Cauquenes, the stiff columnar stems averaging about a foot in diameter. I was told that the plant was now to be found in flower, and was surprised to observe on the trunks, as I approached, clusters of small deep-red flowers that appeared very unlike anything belonging to this natural family. Nearer inspection showed that they had none but an accidental connection with the plant on which they grew. The genus Loranthus, allied to our common European parasite, the mistletoe, is widely spread throughout the world, chiefly in the tropics. From three to four hundred different species are known, nearly all parasites on other plants; as a rule, each species being confined to some special group, and many of them known to fix itself only upon a single species. Botanists in various regions have remarked that there is frequently a marked resemblance between the foliage of the parasitic Loranthus and that of the plants to which it is attached; but it is especially remarkable that the only species which is known to grow upon the leafless plants of the cactus family should itself be the only leafless species of Loranthus, consisting as it does only of a very short stem, from which the crowded flower-stalks form a dense cluster of bright-red, moderately large flowers. Although it is not easy to conjecture how it may act, it is conceivable that these conformities may be results of natural selection; but it is also possible that, like many curious instances of parallelism among the forms of plants belonging to widely different types, the facts may hereafter be seen to result from some yet undiscovered law regulating the direction of variation in the development of organic beings.

In some places dense masses of spiny shrubs were massed together, overgrown by climbing plants, amongst which the most strange and attractive were composites of the genus Mutisia. The Chilian species have all stiff, leathery, undivided leaves ending in a tendril, with large brownish-red or purple flowers, of which very few were to be found at this advanced season. Among the shrubs I was struck by a species of Colletia, a genus characteristic of temperate South America. They are nearly or quite leafless, and remind one slightly of our European furze, but are much more rigid, with fewer, but hard and penetrating spines, which, unlike those of the furze, are true branches, sharpened to a point and set on at right angles to the stem. The species common here (Colletia spinosa of Lamarck) grows to a height of four or five feet, and would probably be found very useful for hedges on dry stony ground in the south of Europe. I regret that the seeds which I sent to Italy have not germinated. At the present season, corresponding to mid-November in Europe, I could not expect to see much of the native herbaceous vegetation, and the majority of the plants collected showed little more than the parched skeletons of their former selves. The recent slight showers, which alone had broken the long drought since the preceding spring, sufficed to awaken into life two species of Oxalis, whose flowers and early leaves just pierced through the hard surface of the soil; but, although some young leaves heralded the appearance of species of the lily tribe, no other new flowers had appeared. Ferns were scarce, but I was rather surprised to find a fine Adiantum in some abundance under the shade of the Quillaja and Kageneckia trees.

In the evening I arranged with Mr. Hess to start early on the following morning, with the object of approaching as nearly as possible to the higher zone of the Cordillera, of which, despite cloudy weather, I had tempting glimpses during the day.

I was on foot early on the 16th, but the prospect was not altogether cheering. The clouds which covered the sky were of leaden hue, and lay about mid-height on the range of the Cordillera. The horses were ready after the usual delay, and a taciturn young man, who probably thought the expedition a bore, was in readiness to act as guide. As I was about to mount, Mr. Hess lent me a poncho, which I at once drew over my head, and for which I afterwards had reason to be grateful. We rode on in silence for more than an hour, following a track that cuts across the great bend of the Cachapoal above the baths. The river is formed by the union of four or five torrents that issue from as many of the interior valleys of the Cordillera. It flows at first northward, nearly parallel to the main chain, until, a few miles above the baths, it bends westward and descends towards the open country. We had reached a point overlooking the upper valley, and, as far as one might judge from glimpses through breaks in the clouds, commanding a noble view of the great range of the Cordillera. Before us lay the slopes by which, at a distance of two or three miles, we might reach the only bridge which spans the upper course of the Cachapoal. Just at this interesting point the threatened rain began, at first gentle, but steadily increasing. I went on for some time on the chance of any token of improvement; but, as none appeared, I decided on sending back the horses and returning on foot to the baths.

I had this day my first experience of the value of a genuine poncho woven by the Indian women from the wool of the guanaco. Throughout South America the cheap articles in common use, manufactured in England and Germany, have almost replaced the native garment. They are comparatively heavy and inconveniently warm, while not at all efficient in keeping out rain. After more than three hours’ exposure to heavy rain, the light covering lent to me by Mr. Hess had allowed none to pass. It is surprising that such a serviceable and convenient garment, which leaves the arms free, and is equally useful on foot or on horseback, is not more generally adopted in Europe, especially by sportsmen. A good poncho is not, however, to be had cheaply. I was asked sixty dollars for one at Buenos Ayres, and that, I believe, is about the ordinary price.

The change of weather which culminated in this wet day at Cauquenes seems to have extended along the range of the Cordillera; but, to illustrate the rapid change of climate which is found in advancing northward along the west side of the Andes, I may mention that, while the rain continued to fall steadily for ten and a half hours at Cauquenes, it lasted but five hours at Santiago, about fifty miles to the northward; and at Santa Rosa, forty miles farther in a direct line, only two hours’ rain was obtained by the thirsty farmers on the banks of the Aconcagua.

On the morning of the 17th the clouds had disappeared, and the valley was lit up with brilliant sunshine. Fresh snow lay thickly on the flanks of the higher mountains, and I had reason to congratulate myself that I had not undertaken an expedition which would have resulted in utter discomfort without any adequate compensation, as the Alpine vegetation must have been completely concealed by the fresh snow. The roads and paths were all deep in mud, and the slopes very slippery from the rain, so I decided on descending to the rocky banks of the river below the baths, and, following the stream as far as I conveniently could. I did not go far, but a good many hours were very well occupied in examining the vegetation of the left bank of the Cachapoal and of a little island of rock in the middle of the stream. In summer one of the ordinary suspension bridges of the country enables the visitors to cross to the right bank, but this is removed during winter, and the swollen waters of the river made all the usual fords impassable for the present.

Many forms of Escallonia were abundant along the stream. A few species only of this genus are cultivated in English gardens, but in their native home, the middle and lower slopes of the Andes, they exhibit a surprising variety of form while preserving a general similarity of aspect. They are all evergreen shrubs, some rising to the stature of small trees, with undivided, thick, usually glossy leaves, and white, red, or purplish flowers. Although forty-three different species have been described from Chili alone, it is easy to find specimens not exactly agreeing with any of them, and to light upon intermediate forms that seem to connect what appeared to be quite distinct species. They afford an example of a fact which I believe must be distinctly recognized by writers on systematic botany—that in the various regions of the earth there are some groups of vegetable forms in which the processes by what we call species are segregated are yet incomplete; and amid the throng of closely allied forms, the suppression of those least adapted to the conditions of life has not advanced far enough to differentiate those which can be defined and marked by a specific name.

To the believer in evolution, it must be evident that at some period in the history of each generic group there must have occurred an interval during which species, as we understand them, did not yet exist; and perhaps the real difficulty is to explain why such instances are not more frequent than they now appear to be. Familiar examples are the genera Hieracium and Rosa in Europe; Aster and Solidago in North America; while in South America, Escallonia, Malvastrum, and several groups of MyrtaceÆ seem to exhibit the same phenomenon.

Another genus having numerous species in South America, but, so far as I know, not displaying the same close connection of forms linking the several species, is Adesmia, a leguminous genus allied to the common sainfoin. I found several species near the baths, the most attractive being a little spiny yellow-flowered bush, with much the habit of some Mediterranean GenistÆ, but with pods formed of several joints, each covered with long, purple, glistening hairs.

A bright day was followed by a clear cold night, the thermometer falling to 40° Fahr. in the court, and slight hoar-frost was visible in the lower part of the valley near the baths. I started early for a ramble over the higher hills rising to the south and south-west of the establishment. After following a track some way, I struck up the steep stony slopes, meeting at every step the dried skeletons of many interesting plants characteristic of this region of America, but here and there rewarded by finding some species in fruit, or even with remains of flower. After gaining the ridge, I found that the true summit lay a considerable way back, quite out of sight of the baths. To this, which is called El Morro de Cauquenes,27 I directed my steps, wishing to enjoy a unique opportunity for a wide view of the Chilian Andes.

The day was cloudless, and the position most favourable. In this part of the range the Cordillera bends in a curve convex to the east, so as to describe a nearly circular arc of about 60°, with Cauquenes as a centre. The summits of the main range, which apparently vary from about sixteen to nineteen thousand feet in height, and are nearly forty miles distant, send out huge buttresses dividing the narrow valleys whose waters unite to form the Cachapoal, and are in many places so high as to conceal the main range. The slopes are everywhere very steep, so that, in spite of the recent fall of snow, dark masses of volcanic rock stood out against the brilliant white that mantled the great chain. The tints in Petermann’s map would indicate that the highest peaks are those lying about due east, but it appeared to me that two or three of those which I descried to the south-east, though slightly more distant, were decidedly higher. It will probably be long before the Chilian Government can undertake a complete survey of the gigantic chain which walls in their country on the eastern side. No pass, as I was informed, is used to connect the upper valley of the Cachapoal with the Argentine territory.

From the summit I descended about due north into a little hollow, whence a trickling streamlet fell rather rapidly towards the main valley. As commonly happens in Chili, this has cut a deep trench, or quebrada; and when I had occasion to cross to the opposite bank, I had no slight difficulty in scrambling down the nearly vertical wall, though partly helped and partly impeded by the shrubs that always haunt these favourable stations. The Winter’s bark, not yet in flower, differed a good deal from the form which I had seen at Valparaiso, and the foliage was much the same that I afterwards found in the channels of Patagonia. Among the few plants yet flowering at this season was a large lobelia, of the group formerly classed as a distinct genus under the name Tupa,28 and which is peculiar to Chili and Peru.

On my return from a delightful walk, I found much-desired letters from home awaiting me, and along with them the less welcome information that the departure of the Triumph was delayed for several weeks. Renouncing with regret the agreeable prospect of a voyage in company with Captain Markham, I at once wrote to secure a passage in the German steamer Rhamses, announced to leave Valparaiso on May 28.

Among other objects of interest at this place, I was struck by the proceedings of two captive condors, who, with clipped wings, roamed about the establishment, and seemed to have no desire to recover the liberty which they had lost as young birds. One of them was especially pertinacious in keeping to the side of the court near to the dining-room and kitchen, always on the look-out for scraps of meat and refuse. Contrary to my expectation, the colour of both birds, which were females, was a nearly uniform brown, with only a few white feathers beneath. They were larger than any eagles, but scarcely exceeded one or two of the largest lÄmmergeier of the Alps that I have seen in confinement.

On the morning of May 19 I with much regret took my departure from the baths, and found myself in company with an elderly gentleman and his pretty and agreeable daughter, who also desired to return to Santiago. Starting some two hours earlier than was at all necessary, we had spare time, which I employed in looking for plants at Rio Claro and about the Gualtro station; but at this season very little remained to interest the botanist. We reached the capital about five p.m., and, as the days were now short, the sun was setting as I went in an open carriage along the broad Alameda, which runs nearly due east. The better to enjoy the finest sunset which I had yet seen in America, I was sitting facing westward, with my back to the horses, when an unusual glow of bright light on the adjoining houses caused me to turn my head. Never shall I forget the extraordinary spectacle that met my eyes. I am well used to brilliant sunsets, for, so far as I know, they are nowhere in the world so frequent as in the part of north-eastern Italy approaching the foot of the Alps, with which I am familiar. But the scene on this evening was beyond all previous experience or imagination. The great range of the Cordillera that rises above the town, mostly covered with fresh snow, seemed ablaze in a glory of red flame of indescribable intensity, and the whole city was for some minutes transfigured in the splendour of the illumination.

The subject of sunset illumination has been much discussed of late in connection with the supposed effects of the great eruption of Krakatoa, and I confess to a suspicion that these have been considerably overrated. That the presence of finely comminuted particles in the higher region of the atmosphere is one of the chief causes that determine the colour of the sky, may be freely conceded by those who doubt whether a single volcanic eruption sufficed to alter the conditions over the larger part of the earth’s surface. It is certain that some of the districts ordinarily noted for sunsets of extraordinary brilliancy are remote from active volcanoes. So far as South America is concerned, it may, on the other hand, be remarked that if volcanic action be an efficient cause, it is present at many points of the continent as well as in Central America, while brilliant sunsets are, so far as I know, of rare occurrence except in Chili.

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