Baths of Apoquinto—Slopes of the Cordillera—Excursion to Santa Rosa de los Andes and the valley of Aconcagua—Return to Valparaiso—Voyage in the German steamer Rhamses—Visit to Lota—Parque of Lota—Coast of Southern Chili—Gulf of PeÑas—Hale Cove—Messier’s Channel—Beautiful scenery—The English narrows—Eden harbour—Winter vegetation—Eyre Sound—Floating ice—Sarmiento Channel—Puerto Bueno—Smyth’s Channel—Entrance to the Straits of Magellan—Glorious morning—Borya Bay—Mount Sarmiento—Arrival at Sandy Point.

Having devoted the day following my return to Santiago to botanical work, chiefly in the herbarium of Dr. Philippi, I started on the following morning in company with his son, Professor Friedrich Philippi, for an excursion up the slopes of the mountain range nearest the city. My companion had kindly sent forward in advance his servant with horses, and we engaged a hackney coach to convey us to the Baths of Apoquinto, where a warm mineral spring bursts out at the very base of the mountain. The common carriages throughout South America are heavy lumbering vehicles, and the road, though nearly level, was deep in volcanic sand; but the horses are excellent, and, in spite of several halts to collect a few plants yet in flower, we accomplished the distance of nine miles in little over an hour.

The establishment at Apoquinto is on a small scale and somewhat rustic in character, but it had been recently taken by an Englishman, and now supplies fair accommodation, which would be prized by a naturalist who should be fortunate enough to visit Chili at a favourable season. We mounted our horses without delay, and at once commenced the ascent, gentle for a short way, but soon becoming so steep that it was more convenient to dismount at several places. Under the experienced guidance of my companion, I found more interesting plants still in flower or fruit than I had ventured to expect at this season. I here for the first time found a species of Mulinum, one of a large group of umbelliferous plants characteristic of the Chilian flora, and nearly all confined to South America. The leaves in the commonest species are divided into a few stiff pointed segments, reminding one somewhat of the Echinophora of the Mediterranean shores, once erroneously supposed to be a native of England.

I was especially struck on this day with the extraordinary variety of odours, pleasant or the reverse, that are exhaled by the native plants of Chili. As commonly happens in dry countries, a large proportion of the native plants contain resinous gums, each of which emits some peculiar and penetrating smell. I had already observed this elsewhere in the country, but, perhaps owing to the great variety of the vegetation on these slopes, the recollections of the day are indelibly associated with those of the impressions on the olfactory nerve. If there be persons in whom such impressions are sufficiently distinct to be accurately recalled by an effort of the memory, I can imagine that in some countries the nose might afford a valuable help to the botanical collector. To judge, however, from personal experience, I should say that of all the senses that of smell is the one which supplies the least accurate impressions, and those least capable of certain recognition.

We reached a place where a small stream from the upper part of the mountain springs in a little waterfall from a cleft in the rocks, and which is known as the Salto de San Ramon. This is probably about four thousand feet above the sea-level, and between us and the lower limit of the snow which covered the higher slopes there stretched a rather steep acclivity, covered, like the ground around us, with bushes and small shrubby plants. A few small trees (chiefly Kageneckia) grew near the Salto, but higher up scarce any were to be seen. Professor Philippi, who is well acquainted with the ground, thought that little, if anything, would be added to our collections by continuing the ascent, so we devoted the spare time to examining the ground in our immediate neighbourhood, thus adding a few species not before seen. In summer, however, an active botanist, starting early from Apoquinto, who did not object to an ascent of six or seven thousand feet, would reach the zone of Alpine vegetation, and be sure to collect many of the curious plants of this region of the Andes.

May 22 and the following day were fully occupied in Santiago. Among other agreeable acquaintances, I called upon Don F. Balmacedo, then minister for foreign affairs, and now President of the Republic, who favoured me with a letter of introduction to the governor of the Chilian settlement in the Straits of Magellan. I also enjoyed an interesting conversation with Dr. TaforÒ, then designated by the Chilian Government for the vacant archbishopric of Santiago. Some canonical objections appear to have created difficulties at Rome, and the see, as I believe, remains vacant.

I found in Dr. TaforÒ an agreeable and well-informed gentleman, who appeared to hold enlightened views, and to be free from many of the prejudices which the Spanish clergy have inherited from the dark period of ecclesiastical tyranny and absolute royalty. With regard to the Chilian clergy in general, I derived a favourable impression from the testimony of my various acquaintances. At all events, they appear to be respected by the mass of the population, whereas in Peru they are regarded with dislike and contempt by all classes alike.

Among the various claims of the Chilian republic to be regarded with interest by the student of political progress, I must note the fact that it has for some time successfully adopted a system of suffrage which is supposed to be too complex for the people of our country. In political elections for representatives the mode of voting is, I believe, very nearly the same as that known amongst us as the Hare system; while in municipal elections the cumulative vote is adopted, each voter having as many votes as there are candidates to be elected, and being allowed to give as many votes as he pleases to the one or more candidates of his choice. I unfortunately was not aware of these facts while in the country, and therefore failed to make inquiry on the subject; but the fact that, while there is a keen interest in political life, no one has proposed to alter the present mode of voting, seems to prove that the existing system gives general satisfaction.

Early in the morning of May 24 I left Santiago, bound for Santa Rosa de los Andes, the highest town in the valley of the Rio Aconcagua. That river is mainly fed from the snows of the great peak from which it takes its name, the highest summit of the New World.29 In its lower course it waters the Quillota valley, through which the railway is carried from Valparaiso to Santiago. In travelling from the latter city it is therefore necessary to return to the junction at Llaillai, whence a branch line leads eastward along the river to San Felipe and Santa Rosa. The sky was cloudless, the air delightfully clear, and the views of the great range were indescribably grand and beautiful, especially in the neighbourhood of San Felipe. The summit of Aconcagua, as seen from this side, shows three sharp peaks of bare rock, too steep to retain the snow which now lay deep on the lower declivities. It has been inferred that the summit must be formed of crystalline or metamorphic rock, as there is no indication of the existence of a crater. This is by no means improbable, as we know that granite, old slates, and conglomerates, as well as newer Secondary rocks, are found at many points along the axis of the main range; but, on the other hand, we know that most of the higher peaks in Central Chili are volcanic, and the removal of all but some fragments of the cone of an ancient crater may leave sharp teeth of rocks such as are seen at the summit of Aconcagua. In the view which I obtained from the Morro of Cauquenes I observed several lofty peaks of somewhat the same character, which struck me as probably the shattered remains of ancient craters.

Reaching Santa Rosa early in the afternoon, I proceeded to the Hotel Colon in the plaza, which, as usual, forms the centre of the town. The French landlord and his wife were civil, obliging people, and, although the establishment seemed to be much out at elbows, I was soon installed in a tolerably good room, and supplied with information for which I had hitherto been vainly seeking. The main line of communication between the adjoining republics of Chili and Argentaria30 is over the Uspallata Pass at the head of the valley of Aconcagua; and Santa Rosa, or as it is more commonly called, Los Andes, is the starting-point for travellers from the west. Don B. V. Mackenna had kindly furnished me with a letter to the officer in charge of the custom-house station at the foot of the pass, known as the Resguardo del Rio* Colorado, and led me to believe that a carriage road extended as far as that point. The latter statement was, however, disputed by several of my acquaintances in Santiago, and the most various assertions were made as to the distance and the time requisite for the excursion. As it turned out, Mr. Mackenna, as he generally is, was correctly informed. The road, as I now learned, was in bad order, but quite passable for a carriage; and the distance could be accomplished in little over three hours.

Having ordered a vehicle for the next morning, I inquired for a man or a boy acquainted with the neighbourhood of the town, who might serve as guide and carry some of the traps with which a botanist is usually encumbered. An ill-looking fellow, who seemed to have been drinking heavily overnight, soon made his appearance, and we started through a long, dusty street, with only very few houses at wide intervals, which led to the road by which I was to travel on the following morning. Seeing the ground near the town to be much inclosed, while on the opposite side of the river a broad belt of flat stony ground, partly covered with bushes and small trees, gave better prospect to the botanist, I desired to be conducted to the nearest bridge by which I might cross the stream. When we reached the place it appeared to be even a more rickety structure than usual, requiring some care to avoid the numerous holes in the basket-work which formed the floor. Having ascertained that I meant to return the same way, my guide proceeded to stretch himself on the bank, where I found him fast asleep on my return.

The character of the vegetation was the same as that about Santiago, but the general aspect indicated a decided increase of dryness in the climate, so that at the present season there was very little remaining to be gleaned by the botanical collector. As usually happens, however, careful search did not go quite unrewarded. I found several species not before seen, and even where there were no specimens fit for preservation something was to be learned. My next object was to ascend the neighbouring hill, or cerro, which immediately overlooks the town of Santa Rosa. A new proprietor had bought a tract of land on the left bank of the river, and erected very substantial fences rather troublesome to a trespasser. My so-called guide dropped behind as I began to ascend the hill—only five or six hundred feet in height—finally turned back, and, having deposited my goods at the hotel, claimed and received an ill-earned fee. The stony slopes were utterly parched, yet I found a few botanical novelties. A small shrubby composite with prickly leaves, but with the habit and inflorescence of a Baccharis, was still in tolerable condition. I took it for the female plant of some species of that characteristic South American dioecious genus; but I afterwards ascertained that it belonged to a completely different group, namely, the MutisiaceÆ, being the Proustia baccharoides of Don.

The view from the summit of the Cerro towards the Andean range was not equal to that from San Felipe, but on the opposite side the outlook towards the plain was interesting. The contrast between the zone of cultivation in the low lands accessible to irrigation and the higher ground, burnt by the summer to a uniform yellow-brown tint, was striking to the eye. The town of Santa Rosa, laid out on the flat at the foot of the hill, was a curious feature in the prospect. It was designed on the regular plan which seems to have recommended itself to all the European settlers in the American continent, but which I have nowhere seen so exactly carried out as at this place. A chess-board supplied the model, with one row of squares cut off to avoid some rough ground. Fifty-six squares—quadras—exactly equal in size, are divided by broad roads, and the whole is surrounded by a wall about half a mile in length each way. The quadra in the centre forms the plaza; the others were to be occupied by houses and gardens. To make the town, as planned by its founders, a perfect model, it wants nothing but houses and people to live in them. It was, perhaps, imagined that, being on the main line of communication across the Andes, this might become a place of some importance; but the traffic is very limited, and, such as it is, it is carried on by trains of horses and mules that travel to and fro between Valparaiso and Mendoza. The area of land fit for cultivation in the valley above San Felipe is small, and the resort of retail traders doubtless very limited. The result is that Santa Rosa is a town without houses. Many of the quadras are occupied by a single house and annexed garden, and only round or close to the plaza is such a thing as a row of adjoining buildings to be seen.

The morning of May 25 was noteworthy as producing the solitary instance of punctuality in a native of South America that I encountered in the course of my journey. The virtuous driver of the carriage which I had engaged to take me to the Resguardo was actually at the door of the hotel at the appointed hour, soon after sunrise; but it availed little for my object. Not a soul was stirring in the hotel; and though I made no small disturbance, it was long before I could induce the lazy waiter to make his appearance. I had not thought of providing my breakfast overnight, and could not start without food for a long day’s expedition.

At length we started on the road by the left bank which I had followed on the previous evening, and, the weather being again nearly perfect, I thoroughly enjoyed a very charming excursion, which carried me farther into the heart of the Cordillera than I had yet reached. As very often happens, however, the nearer one gets to the great peaks the less one is able to see of them. The general outline of the slopes in the inner valleys of high mountain countries is usually convex, because the torrents have deepened the trench between opposite slopes more quickly than subaËrial action has worn away the flanks; and it is only exceptionally that the summits of the ridges can be seen from the intervening valley. Among mountains where the main lines of valley are, so to say, structural—i.e. depending on inequalities produced during the original elevation of the mountain mass—the case is somewhat different. Such valleys are usually nearly straight, as we see so commonly in the European Alps, and the peaks lying about the head of the valley are therefore often in view; but in the Andes, as in many parts of the Rocky Mountains, it would appear that the valleys are exclusively due to erosive action, and, their direction being determined by merely local conditions, they are extremely sinuous, and rarely follow the same direction for any considerable distance.

The road up the Aconcagua valley seemed to me at the time to be about the worst over which I ever travelled in a carriage, but I had not then made acquaintance with the mountain tracks, which they are pleased to call roads, in the United States. Looking back in the light of subsequent experience, I suppose that the Chilian roads should rank among the best in the American continent, although this one was so uneven that in awkward places, where it overhung the river, the carriage was often tilted so much to one side that I was thankful not to have with me a nervous companion.

About half-way to the Resguardo the road crosses the river by a stone bridge, where it rushes in a narrow channel between high rocky banks. Seeing botanical inducements, I descended to examine the banks on either side, and in crossing the bridge noticed, what I might otherwise have overlooked, that the crown of the arch was rapidly giving way. There was a large hole in the centre, and the structure was sustained only by the still solid masonry on each side, where the wear and tear had been less constant. I have often admired the calm good sense displayed by the horses in all parts of America, and was interested in observing the prudent way in which our steeds selected the safest spots on either side of the hole without any appearance of the nervousness which seems hereditary in English horses, partly due, I suppose, to the unnatural conditions in which they live. With every confidence in animal sagacity, but none whatever in the stability of the bridge, I thought it judicious on my return in the evening to recross it on foot.

I found two or three curious plants not before seen on the rocks here, and again found the singular Zygophyllaceous shrub Porliera hygrometrica, which is not uncommon in this part of Chili. The numerous stiff spiny branches diverging at right angles must produce flowers during a great part of the year, as I observed at this season both nearly ripe fruit and flowers in various stages of development. The small pinnate leaves, somewhat resembling in form those of the sensitive plant, have something of the same quality. But in this case the effective stimulus seems to be that of light, causing them to expand in sunshine and to close when the sky is covered. If at all, they must be very slightly affected by contact, as I failed to observe it. If I am correct, the appropriate specific name would be photometrica rather than hygrometrica.

In the hedges and among the bushes a pretty climbing plant (Eccremocarpus scaber) seemed to be common on the right bank of the stream, producing flower and ripe fruit at the same time. It belongs to the trumpet-flower tribe (BignoniaceÆ), though not rivalling in size or brilliancy of colour the true Bignonias which I afterwards saw in Brazil.

Having passed on the left the opening of a narrow valley which appears to contain the main stream of the Aconcagua, I reached the Resguardo somewhat before noon, and proceeded at once to deliver my letter to Captain X——, the officer commanding the frontier station. I was most courteously received, with a pressing invitation to join the almuerzo, or luncheon, which is the ordinary midday meal in Chili. Besides the lady of the house, I met at table an officer of the Chilian navy, a friend of my host, who had come to recruit in mountain air after recovery from a serious illness, and who spoke English fairly well. The conversation was interesting, and I was struck by the excellent tone and quick intelligence displayed by these agreeable specimens of Chilian society. In the kindest way, and with evident sincerity, my host pressed me to remain for a week at his house, and promised me many excursions in the neighbourhood. It was with real reluctance that, owing to imperious engagements, I was forced to decline the hospitable invitation; and it has been a further regret that, having failed to note it at the time, my treacherous memory has not retained the name of this amiable gentleman.

Meanwhile, although the time passed so pleasantly, I was burning with the desire to make use of the brief interval available for seeing something of the surrounding country. The Resguardo stands at the junction of a rivulet that descends from the Uspallata Pass with the Rio Colorado, which flows from the north-east apparently from the roots of the great peak of Aconcagua. As far as I could see, the track leading to the pass wind in zigzags up steep slopes, at this season almost completely bare of vegetation, and I decided on following the valley of the Rio Colorado, where, at least along the banks of the stream, vegetation was comparatively abundant. My obliging host had provided a horse and a guide, and I rode for about an hour up the valley, which in great part is narrowed nearly to a ravine. In one place, where it widens to a few hundred yards, I passed a peasant’s cottage, with a few stony fields from which the crop had been gathered.

Among the plants not before observed, I was at first puzzled by a sort of thicket of long green leafless stems eight or ten feet in height, growing near the stream. Only after searching for some time I detected some withered remains of a short spike of flowers at the ends of the stems, which showed the plant to be of the Verbena family. Whatever may be the original home of that ancient tribe which has spread throughout all the temperate and tropical regions of the earth, it is in South America, and especially in the extra-tropical regions, that it has developed the greatest variety both of genera and species. On the heights of the Peruvian Andes, from the snows of the Chilian Cordillera to the shores of the Pacific, as well as on the plains of Argentaria and Uruguay, the botanist is everywhere charmed by the brilliant flowers of numerous species of true Verbena. In the warmer zone the allied genus Lippia becomes predominant, and displays an equal variety of aspect; but in Chili especially we find a number of plants very different in aspect, although nearly allied in structure to the familiar types. The plant of the Rio Colorado—known to botanists as Baillonia spartioides—appears to be rare in Chili, as it is not among the species collected by the earlier explorers of this region.

I was interested in finding here two species of Loranthus, which, unlike their congeners, grow in a respectable way, depending on their own resources for subsistence. The great majority of nearly four hundred known species of this genus live as parasites on the stems of other plants, but these form bushes with woody roots, which apparently have not even an underground connection with those of their neighbours. When I returned to the Resguardo, laden with plants, it was high time to think of starting homeward to Santa Rosa. I did not much fancy travelling by night over the curious road that I had followed in the morning, and my coachman seemed to hold the same opinion very strongly. Accordingly I soon started, after cordial leave-taking, but was a little surprised when, without previous warning, the driver pulled up his horses at the garden gate of a substantial house, which I had noticed in the morning a few hundred yards below the Resguardo. Presently a young man came out, and, addressing me in very fair English, explained that he had written to order a carriage for the following day, but would be thankful if I could give him a seat to convey him to his family at Santa Rosa. Of course I willingly consented, and in the conversation, which was carried on alternately in Spanish and English during the following three hours, I gained an opportunity for some practice in a language which has never been quite familiar to me.

I became interested in the poor young fellow, who was evidently in an advanced stage of pulmonary consumption. He had been on a visit with friends, in the vain hope that the pure air of this mountain valley might arrest the disease, and now, as the season was far advanced, wished to rejoin his wife and children at Santa Rosa. Like many consumptive patients, he had a feverish proneness for talk; and, having first told me his own story, he asked me a multitude of questions respecting my present journey and as to the other countries that I have visited. At length, with evident reference to my age, he gravely said, “No le parece SeÑor que es tiempo para descansar?” I answered that there would be time enough to descansar when one is laid underground, and that for the present I saw no occasion to rest. As I stopped the carriage only two or three times to gather plants, and the driver kept his horses at a smart trot most of the way, we accomplished the return journey of eighteen or twenty miles in a little under three hours, and reached the town at nightfall.

On the 26th I returned to Valparaiso, meeting the Santiago train at the now familiar junction station of Llaillai. Although the weather was still fine, clouds hung round the Cordillera, and I was not destined again to enjoy the glorious view of the great range. My first care on reaching the port was to secure my passage in the German steamer as far as the Straits of Magellan. I found that the steamship Rhamses of the Cosmos line, which in ordinary course should have departed on the 28th, was delayed until the following day, May 29. It was inevitable to regret that the additional day had not been devoted to the Rio Colorado, but, in fact, I found my time fully occupied during the two days that remained available. The collections of dried plants made up to this time had to be packed securely in the chest in which they were to remain until they reached England, and, as every botanist knows, it is expedient to hasten the process of drying fresh plants as far as possible before going to sea, where the operation is always one of difficulty.

I was invited to dinner on the day of my arrival by Mr. C——, one of the chief English merchants established in Chili, and acquired some interesting information from his conversation. Having been at work during a great part of the previous night, I was, however, thoroughly tired, and was able to profit less than I should have done by the hospitable entertainment. On the morning of my departure from Cauquenes I had met Mr. Edwin Reed, an English naturalist many years resident in Chili, and by appointment called upon him at his house in Valparaiso. Mr. Reed has a good knowledge of the botany and zoology of his adopted country, and several hours were agreeably spent on each of the two available days in going through parcels of his duplicate collections, when he was good enough to give me flowering specimens of plants which I had seen only in imperfect condition, as well as of many others from the higher region of the Cordillera which had been entirely inaccessible to me.

My visit to Chili had now come to an end. All needful preparations were concluded; and, after a busy morning and an excellent luncheon at the Hotel Colon, I went on board the Rhamses early in the afternoon of May 29, not without deep regret at quitting a country where I had spent twenty of the most enjoyable days of my life. The only occupants of the first-class saloon were a German gentleman, Mr. Z——; his wife, a delicate Peruvian lady, who remained in her cabin during most of the voyage; five children; and a maid. I found a good clean cabin, which had been reserved for my use, and before long a tall, handsome man of pleasant countenance introduced himself to me as Captain Willsen, commanding the Rhamses.

The steamers of the German Cosmos line, of which this is, I believe, a fair example, differ in many respects from the great English ocean steamships which conduct most of the intercourse between Europe and South America. They are mainly destined for cargo, the accommodation for passengers being comparatively very limited, and of scarcely half the dimensions, being of rather less than two thousand tons displacement by our measurement. In our passenger ships speed is always the foremost consideration. In accordance with the national temperament, the German steamers set slight store on that object; safety and economy are the aims constantly kept in view, and the consumption of an increased quantity of coal in order to gain a day would be regarded as culpable extravagance. The especial advantage which they offer to every traveller in this region is that, owing to their light draught, they are able to traverse the narrow and intricate channels of Western Patagonia between the mountainous islands and the mainland; while to sea-sick passengers the object of avoiding more than four hundred miles of the heavy seas of the Southern Pacific is a further inducement. A naturalist finds an additional attraction in the general sympathy and helpfulness which he may expect from every officer in a German ship. Courtesy and friendly feeling are almost invariably to be found on board our steamers, but the pursuits of a naturalist rarely seem to call forth the slightest show of interest.

Our departure was fixed for two p.m., but in fact we did not move till past seven, long after dark at this season. On getting out to sea we found a moderate swell running from the southward, and moved slowly, as coal was economized. On the following morning we found ourselves rather far from land, and, although the weather was moderately clear, we had only a few distant glimpses of the coast during the day. The barometer fell slowly about two-tenths of an inch from morning to night, and it seemed evident that we were about to bid farewell to the bright skies of Central Chili. We were to take in coal for the voyage to Europe at Lota, about two hundred and fifty nautical miles south of Valparaiso. That distance could be easily accomplished, even by the Rhamses, in twenty-four hours; but as there was no object in arriving before morning, we economized fuel and travelled slowly. Heavy rain fell during the entire night, and ceased only when, on the morning of May 31, we entered the harbour of Lota.

Lota is a place which, although not marked on Stanford’s latest map of South America, has within a short time risen to considerable importance, owing to the discovery of extensive deposits of lignite of excellent quality. I have heard various estimates of its value as steam coal, the lowest of which set five tons of Lota coal as equal to four of Welsh anthracite. The seams appear to be of considerable thickness, and the underground works have now extended to a considerable distance from the shore. All the ocean steamers returning to Europe now call here for their provision of fuel, and in addition the proprietor has established extensive works for smelting copper and for making glass. The owner of this great property is a lady, the widow of the late Mr. CousiÑo, whose income is rated at about £200,000 a year. About 2500 people are constantly employed, who, with their families, inhabit a small town of poor appearance which has grown up on the hill overlooking the harbour.

I was courteously invited to the house of Mr. Squella, a relation of Madame CousiÑo, who has the direction of this great establishment, and there had the pleasure of again meeting my former travelling companion, Mr. H——, and also Captain Simpson, an officer of the Chilian navy of English extraction, who, while commanding a ship on the southern coast, has rendered some services to science. The conversation was carried on chiefly in English, which has decidedly become the lingua franca of South America, but was shortened by my natural anxiety to turn to the best account the short time at my disposal. I had a choice between three alternatives—a descent into the coal mine, a visit to the works above ground and the miners’ town, or a ramble through the so-called park, which occupies the promontory stretching westward which forms the natural harbour of Lota, and covers a great portion of the precious deposit to which the place owes its new-born importance. I naturally preferred the latter, feeling that my limited experience as a geological observer would not allow me to profit much by a subterranean excursion. I made inquiry, however, as to the vegetable remains found in the lignite, and I was told that they are abundant, although the few specimens which I saw showed but slight traces of vegetable structure. I was led to believe that a collection of specimens had been sent to Europe to my late lamented friend, Dr. Oswald Heer, but I am not aware that he has left any reference to such a collection, or even that it ever reached his hands.

The parque of Lota, to which I directed my steps, has rather the character of an extensive pleasure-ground than of what we call a park; but the surface is so uneven, and the outline so irregular, that I could not estimate its extent. The numerous fantastic structures in questionable taste that met the eye in every direction create at the first moment an unfavourable impression, but the charms of the spot are so real that this is soon forgotten. The variety and luxuriance of the vegetation, and the diversified views of the sea and the rocky shores, were set off by occasional bursts of bright sunshine, in which the drops that still hung on every leaflet glittered like jewels of every hue. The trees here were of very moderate dimensions, the largest (here called roble) being of the laurel family, which, for want of flower or fruit, I failed to identify. The Spaniards in South America have given the name roble, which properly means “oak,” to a variety of trees which agree only in having a thick trunk and spreading branches. The shrubs were very numerous, partly indigenous and partly exotic, and a peculiar feature which I have not noticed in any other large garden is the number of parasites living on the trunks and branches of the trees and shrubs. Ferns were very numerous and grow luxuriantly, showing a wide difference of climate between this coast and that of the country two or three degrees further north. But the great ornament of this place is the beautiful climber, Lapageria rosea, now producing in abundance its splendid flowers, which so finely contrast with its dark-green glossy foliage. The specific name rosea is unfortunate, as the colour of the flowers is bright crimson, verging on scarlet.

One of the special features of this garden was the abundance of humming-birds that haunted the shrubs and small trees, and darted from spray to spray with movements so rapid that to my imperfect vision their forms were quite indistinguishable. Whenever I drew near in the hope of gaining a clearer view, they would dart away to another shrub a few yards distant, and I am unable to say whether the bright little creatures belonged to one and the same or to several different species.

At one place where the garden is only some twenty feet above the beach, I scrambled down the rocks, and was rewarded by the sight of two or three plants characteristic of this region. The most attractive of these is one of the many generic types peculiar to the Chilian flora, allied to the pine-apple. The long stiff leaves, edged with sharp teeth and radiating from the lower part of the stem, are coloured bright red along the centre and at the base, forming, when seen from a distance, a brilliant, many-rayed red star. Another novelty was Francoa sonchifolia, which also clings to the rocks by the sea. It has somewhat the habit of a large crucifer, but the structure of the flower and fruit is widely different. It was regarded by Lindley as the type of a distinct natural family, but has been, with one other Chilian genus (Tetilla), classed as a tribe of the saxifrage family.

Time passed quickly in such an interesting spot, and the hour appointed for returning to the ship had nearly arrived, when Mr. Reilly, the gardener who has the management of the parque, invited me to see his house. He came, as I learned, from Wexford, in Ireland, had had some training in the Royal Gardens at Kew, when his fortunate star led him to Chili. I found him installed in a very pretty and comfortable house, charmingly situated, in as full enjoyment of one of the most beautiful gardens in the world as if he were its absolute owner. This was only one more instance of the success which so often attends my countrymen when removed to a distance from their native land. Freed from the evil influences that seem indigenous to the soil of that unfortunate island, they develop qualities that are too rarely perceptible at home. The arguments for emigration are commonly based only on the economical necessity for relieving the land of surplus population; to my mind it may be advocated on other and quite different grounds. For every Irishman who is carried to a distant land there is a strong probability of a distinct gain to the world at large.

I left the parque at Lota with my memory full of pictures of a spot which, along with Mr. Cooke’s famous garden at Montserrat, near Cintra, and that of M. Landon in the oasis of Biskra, I count as the most beautiful garden that I have yet seen.

A rather large island—Isla de Sta. Maria—lies off the Chilian coast to the west of Lota, and is separated on the southern side from the promontory of Lavapie by a channel several miles wide. But as this is beset with rocks, the rule of the German steamers is to avoid the passage, excepting in clear weather by day. In deference, therefore, to this cautious regulation, we set our helm to the north on leaving Lota, two or three hours after sunset, and only after keeping that course for some ten miles, and running past the small port of Coronel, steered out to seaward, and finally resumed our proper southerly direction. Our sleep was somewhat disturbed by the heavy rolling of the ship during the night, and the morning of the 1st of June broke dimly amid heavy lowering clouds, just such a day as one might expect at the corresponding date (December 1) on the western coast of Europe. Although the sea was running high, there was little wind. The barometer at daybreak stood at 29·98, having risen a tenth of an inch since the previous evening, and the temperature was about 52° Fahr. In our seas one would suppose that a gale must have recently prevailed at no great distance, but I believe the fact to be that in the Southern Pacific high seas prevail during a great part of the year, even where no strong winds are present to excite them. Gales are undoubtedly common in the zone between the fiftieth and sixtieth degrees of south latitude, and the waves habitually run higher there than they ever do in the comparatively confined area of the Atlantic. The disturbances are propagated to great distances, modified, of course, by winds, currents, and the form of the coasts when they approach the land; but the smooth waters that extend more than thirty degrees on either side of the equator are rarely encountered in higher latitudes. The skies brightened as the day wore on, and the sun from time to time broke through the clouds; but we were out of sight of land, and the only objects in view during the day were the sea, the sky, and the numerous sea-fowl that followed the ship. The incessant rolling made it difficult to settle down to any occupation.

We were now abreast of that large tract of Chili which has been left in the possession of its aboriginal owners, the Araucanian Indians, extending about one hundred miles from north to south, and a rather greater distance from the coast to the crest of the Cordillera. It is unfortunate that so little is known of the Araucanians, as, in many respects, they appear to be the most interesting remaining tribe of the aboriginal American population. For nearly two centuries they maintained their independence in frequent sanguinary encounters with the Spaniards, which are said on Chilian authority to have cost the invaders the loss of 100,000 men. Since the establishment of Chilian independence, the policy of the republic has been to establish friendly relations with this indomitable people. The territory between the Bio-Bio river to the north and the Tolten to the south was assigned to them, and small annual donations were made to the principal chiefs on condition of their maintaining order amongst the tribesmen. During the last forty years, however, white settlers have trespassed to a considerable extent on the Indian territory, both on the north and south sides, but have generally contrived to keep up friendly intercourse with the natives, while Chilian officials, established at Angol on the river Mallego, exercise a species of supervision over the entire region.

The present Araucanian population is somewhat vaguely estimated at about 40,000, and it is a question of some interest whether, like most native races in contact with those of European descent, they will ultimately be improved out of existence, or be gradually brought within the pale of civilization and fused with the intrusive element. The soil is said to be in great part fertile; they raise a large quantity of live stock, and some of the chiefs are said to have amassed wealth, and to have begun to show a taste for the comforts and conveniences of civilized life.

While at Santiago, I made some inquiry as to the language of the Araucanian tribes. I was informed that in the seventeenth century the Jesuit missionaries published a grammar of the language, of which only two or three copies are known to exist. About the beginning of this century a new edition, or reprint, of this work appeared at Madrid, but, as I was assured, has also become extremely rare, and copies are very seldom to be procured. On the evening of the 1st the barometer had risen about a tenth of an inch, but by the following morning had returned to the same point (very nearly thirty inches) as on the previous day, without any change in the state of the weather; but we enjoyed more sunshine, and the proceedings of the birds that ceaselessly bore us company afforded us constant occupation and amusement. Two species were predominant. One of these was the well-known cape pigeon (Daption capensis), familiar to all mariners in the southern hemisphere. This is a handsome bird, much larger than a pigeon, exhibiting a considerable variety of plumage in what appeared to be adult individuals. In all the ground colour is white, and the tips of the spreading tail feathers are dark brown or nearly black. The upper surface of the wings sometimes showed a somewhat tesselated pattern of white and dark brown, but more commonly were marked by two transverse dark bands, with pure white between. They were very numerous, as many as from fifty to a hundred being near the ship at the same time, keeping close company, and often swooping over the deck a few feet over our heads; but, although seemingly fearless, they never were induced to take a piece of meat from a man’s hand, though the temptation was often renewed. The next in frequency—called on this coast colomba—is nearly as large as the cape pigeon, with plumage much resembling that of a turtle dove. This also approached very near. Both of these birds seemed to feel fatigue, as, after circling round the ship for half an hour at a time, they would rest on the surface of the water, dropping rapidly astern, but after some minutes resume their flight and soon overtake the ship. More interesting to me were the two species of albatross, which I had never before had an opportunity of observing. These were more shy in their behaviour, never, I think, approaching nearer than seventy or eighty yards, and usually following the ship with a slow, leisurely flight still farther astern. The common, nearly white, species (Diomedea exulans) is but a little larger than the dark-coloured, nearly black species, which I supposed to be the Diomedea fuliginosa of ornithologists.31 If, as is probable, the same birds followed us all day, we saw but two of the latter, which are, I believe, everywhere comparatively scarce. In both species I was struck by the peculiar form of the expanded wing, which is very narrow in proportion to its great length.

The moment of excitement for the birds, as well as for the lookers-on, was when a basket of kitchen refuse was from time to time thrown overboard. It was amusing to watch the rush of hungry creatures all swooping down nearly at the same point, and making a marvellous clatter as they eagerly contended for the choice morsels. It did not appear to me that the smaller birds showed any fear of the powerful albatross, or that the latter used his strength to snatch away anything that had been secured by a weaker rival.

About noon on the 2nd of June we were abreast of the northern part of the large island of Chiloe, but were too far out to sea to get a glimpse of the high land on the west coast. At the northern end the island is separated from the mainland by a narrow channel (Canal de Chacao) only two or three miles in width; but on the east side the broad strait or interior sea between Chiloe and the opposite coast is from thirty to forty miles in breadth, and beset by rocky islets varying in size from several miles to a few yards.

Another unquiet night ushered in the morning of the 3rd of June. This was fairly clear, with a fresh breeze from the south-west, which, as the day advanced, rose nearly to a gale. The sea did not appear to run higher than before, but the waves struck the ship’s side with greater force, and at intervals of about ten minutes we shipped rather heavy seas, after which the deck was nearly knee-deep in water, and a weather board was needed to keep the saloon from being flooded. The barometer fell slightly, and the temperature was decidedly lower, the thermometer marking about 50° Fahr. Some attempts at taking exercise on the hurricane deck were not very successful, my friend, Mr. H——, being knocked down and somewhat bruised, and we finally retired to the saloon, and found the state of things not exhilarating. We saw nothing of the Chonos Archipelago, consisting of three large and numerous small islands, all covered with dense forest, and separated from the mainland by a strait, yet scarcely surveyed, about a hundred and twenty miles in length, and ten to fifteen in breadth.

Darwin, writing nearly fifty years ago, anticipated that these islands would before long be inhabited, but I was assured that no permanent settlement has ever been established. Parties of woodcutters have from time to time visited the islands, but no one has been tempted to remain. The excessive rainfall, which is more continuous in summer than in winter, makes them unfit for the residence of civilized man; but it seems probable that Fuegians transported there would find conditions favourable to their constitution and habits of life. It is another question whether the world would be any the better for the multiplication of so low a type of humanity.

In the afternoon, as the sea was running very high, the captain set the ship’s head to the wind. We saw him but once, and perceived an anxious expression on his usually jovial countenance. It afterwards came out that he apprehended the continuance of the gale, in which case he might not have ventured to put the helm round so as to enter the Gulf of PeÑas. At nightfall, however, the wind fell off, and by midnight the weather was nearly calm, though the ship gave us little rest from the ceaseless rolling. During all this time sounds that issued at intervals from the cabin of the Peruvian lady and her children showed that what was merely a bore to us was to them real misery. I have often asked myself whether there is something about a sea-voyage that develops our natural selfishness, or whether it is because one knows that the suffering is temporary and has no bad results, that one takes so little heed of the really grievous condition of travellers who are unable to bear the movement of the sea. A voyage with sea-sick passengers, especially in bad weather, when one is confined to the saloon, is a good deal like being lodged in one of the prisons of the Spanish inquisition while torture was freely applied to the unhappy victims; and yet persons who are not counted as hard-hearted seem to bear their position with perfect equanimity, if not with something of self-satisfaction.

The morning of the 4th of June was so dark that we supposed our watches to have gone astray. Of course, the days were rapidly growing shorter as we ran to the southward, but the dim light on this morning was explained when we sallied forth. The wind had veered round to the north, and in these latitudes that means a murky sky with leaden clouds above and damp foggy air below. The change, however, was opportune. We were steering about due south-east, entering the Gulf of PeÑas, with the dim outline of Cape Tres Montes faintly seen on our larboard bow.

I have already alluded to the peculiar conformation of the south-western extremity of the South American continent, which, from the latitude of 40° south to the opening of the Straits of Magellan, a distance of about nine hundred miles, exhibits an almost continuous range of high land running parallel to the southern extremity of the great range of the Andes. At its northern end this western range, under the names Cordillera Pelada and Cordillera de la Costa, forms part of the mainland of Chili, being separated from the Andes by a broad belt of low country including several large lakes, those of Ranco and Llanquihue being each about a hundred miles in circuit. South of the Canal de Chacao the range is continued by the island of Chiloe and the Chonos Archipelago, and then by the great mountainous promontory whose southern extremity is Cape Tres Montes. Here occurs the widest breach in the continuity of the range, as the Gulf of PeÑas is fully forty miles wide. To the southward commences the long range of mountainous islands that extend to the Straits of Magellan, between which and the mainland lie the famous channels of Western Patagonia. It is worthy of note that, corresponding to the elevation of this parallel western range, the height of the main chain of the Andes is notably diminished. Of the summits that have hitherto been measured south of latitude 42° only one—the Volcano de Chana—attains to a height of eight thousand feet, and there is reason to believe that numerous passes of little more than half that elevation connect the eastern and western slopes of the chain.

Another point of some interest is the northern extension of the so-called antarctic flora throughout the whole of the western range, many of the characteristic species being found on the Cordillera Pelada close to Valdivia, which does not, I believe, much exceed three thousand feet in height. It is true that a few antarctic species have been found in the higher region of the Andes as far north as the equator, just as a few northern forms have travelled southward by way of the Rocky Mountains and the highlands of Mexico and Central America; and Professor Fr. Philippi has lately shown that many southern forms, and even a few true antarctic types, extend to the hills of the desert region of Northern Chili, where the constant presence of fog supplies the necessary moisture.32 The true northern limit, however, of the antarctic flora may be fixed at the Cordillera Pelada of Valdivia.

We crept on cautiously into the gulf, anxiously looking out for some safe landmark to secure an entrance into the northern end of Messier’s Channel. Soon after midday we descried a remarkable conical hill, which is happily placed so as to distinguish the true opening from the indentations of the rocky coast. As we advanced the air became thicker and colder, as drizzling rain set in; but the practised eyes of seamen are content with indications that convey no meaning to an ordinary landsman, and just as the night was closing in almost pitch dark, the rattle of the chain cable announced that we had come to anchor for the night in Hale Cove.

The weather had become very cold. At two p.m. in the gulf the thermometer stood at 42°, and after nightfall it marked only a few degrees above freezing-point, so that, even in the saloon, we sat in our great coats, not at all enjoying the unaccustomed chilliness. All rejoiced, therefore, when the captain, having quite recovered his wonted cheerfulness, announced that a stove was to be set up forthwith in the saloon, and a tent erected on deck to give shelter from the weather. The stove was a small, somewhat rickety concern, and we fully understood that it would not have been safe to light it while the ship was labouring in the heavy seas outside; but it was especially welcome to me, as I was anxiously longing for the chance of getting my botanical paper thoroughly dry. As we enjoyed a cheerful dinner, two of the officers pushed off in one of the ship’s boats into the blackness that had closed around. After some time a large fire was seen blazing a few hundred yards from the ship, and, amid rain and sleet, we could descry from the deck some moving forms. They had succeeded, I know not how, in getting the damp timber into a blaze, and were good-naturedly employed in gathering whatever they could lay hands upon to contribute to my botanical collection. Not much could be expected under such conditions, but everything in this, to me, quite new region was full of interest. Dead branches covered with large lichens introduced me to one of the most characteristic features of the vegetation. The white fronds, four or five inches wide, and several feet in length, enliven the winter aspect of these shores, and possibly supply food to some of the wild animals. Among the plants which had been dragged up at random were several roots of the wild celery of the southern hemisphere. It is widely spread throughout the islands of the southern ocean, as well as on the shores of both coasts of Patagonia, and was described as a distinct species by Dupetit Thouars; but in truth, as Sir Joseph Hooker long ago remarked in the “Flora Antarctica,” there are no structural characters by which to distinguish it from the common wild celery of Europe, which is likewise essentially a maritime plant. Growing in a region where it is little exposed to sunshine, it has less of the strong characteristic smell of our wild plants, and the leaves may be eaten raw as salad, or boiled, which is not the case with our plant until the gardener, by heaping earth about the roots, diminishes the pungency of the smell and flavour.

One thought alone troubled me as I lay down in my berth to enjoy the first quiet night’s rest. If the weather should hold on as it now fared, there was but a slight prospect of enjoying the renowned scenery of the channels, or of making much acquaintance with the singular vegetation of this new region. It was therefore with intense relief and positive delight that I found, on sallying forth before sunrise, a clear sky and a moderate breeze from the south. Snow had fallen during the night, and was now hard frozen; and in the tent, where my plants had lain during the night, it was necessary to break off fragments of ice with numbed fingers before laying them in paper.

We weighed anchor about daybreak, and the 5th of June, my first day in the Channels, will ever remain as a bright spot in my memory. Wellington Island, which lay on our right, is over a hundred and fifty miles in length, a rough mountain range averaging apparently about three thousand feet in height, with a moderately uniform coast-line. On the other hand, the mainland presents a constantly varying outline, indented by numberless coves and several deep narrow sounds running far into the recesses of the Cordillera. In the intermediate channel crowds of islets, some rising to the size of mountains, some mere rocks peeping above the water, present an endless variety of form and outline. But what gives to the scenery a unique character is the wealth of vegetation that adorns this seemingly inclement region. From the water’s edge to a height which I estimated at fourteen hundred feet, the rugged slopes were covered with an unbroken mantle of evergreen trees and shrubs. Above that height the bare declivities were clothed with snow, mottled at first by projecting rocks, but evidently lying deep upon the higher ridges. I can find no language to give any impression of the marvellous variety of the scenes that followed in quick succession against the bright blue background of a cloudless sky, and lit up by a northern sun that illumined each new prospect as we advanced. At times one might have fancied one’s self on a great river in the interior of a continent, while a few minutes later, in the openings between the islands, the eye could range over miles of water to the mysterious recesses of the yet unexplored Cordillera of Patagonia, with occasional glimpses of snowy peaks at least twice the height of the summits near at hand. About two o’clock we reached the so-named English Narrows, where the only known navigable channel is scarcely a hundred yards in width between two islets bristling with rocks. The tide rushed through at the rate of a rapid river, and our captain displayed even more than his usual caution. Some ten men of the crew were posted astern with steering gear, in readiness to provide for the possible breakage of the chains from the steering-house. It seemed unlikely enough that such an accident should occur at that particular point, but there was no doubt that if it did a few seconds might send the ship upon the rocks.

One of the advantages of a voyage through the Channels is that at all seasons the ship comes to anchor every night, and the traveller is not exposed to the mortification of passing the most beautiful scenes when he is unable to see them. When more thoroughly known, it is likely that among the numerous coves many more will be found to offer good anchorage; but few are now known, and the distance that can be run during the short winter days is not great. We were told that our halt for the night was to be at Eden Harbour, less than twenty miles south of the English Narrows, and to my great satisfaction we dropped anchor about 3.30 p.m., when there was still a full hour of daylight. Our good-natured captain put off dinner for an hour, and with all convenient speed I went ashore with Mr. H—— and two officers of the ship.

Eden Harbour deserves its name. A perfectly sheltered cove, with excellent holding-ground, is enclosed by steep forest-clad slopes, culminating to the north in a lofty conical hill easily recognized by seamen. The narrow fringe between the forest and the beach is covered with a luxuriant growth of ferns and shrubby plants, many of them covered in summer with brilliant flowers, blooming in a solitude rarely broken by the passage of man. After scrambling over the rocks on the beach, the first thing that struck us was the curious nature of the ground under our feet. The surface was crisp and tolerably hard, but each step caused an undulation that made one feel as if walking on a thick carpet laid over a mass of sponge. Striking a blow with the pointed end of my ice-axe, it at once pierced through the frozen crust, and sank to the hilt over four feet into the semifluid mass beneath, formed of half-decomposed remains of vegetation.

At every step plants of this region, never before seen, filled me with increasing excitement. Several were found with very tolerable fruit, and there were even some remains of the flowers of Desfontainea spinosa and Mitraria coccinea. The latter beautiful shrub appears to have been hitherto known only from Chiloe and the Chonos Archipelago. In those islands it is described as a tall climber straggling among the branches of trees. Here I found it somewhat stunted, growing four or five feet high, with the habit of a small fuchsia. Neither of these is a true antarctic species. Like many Chilian plants, they are peculiar and much-modified members of tribes whose chief home is in tropical America. Everything else that I saw was characteristically antarctic. Three small coniferous trees peculiar to this region; a large-flowered berberry, with leaves like those of a holly, growing six or eight feet high, still showing remains of the flower; and two species of Pernettya, with berries like those of a bilberry, and which replace our Vaccinia in the southern hemisphere, were among the new forms that greeted me.

A few minutes’ stumbling over fallen timber brought us to the edge of the forest, and it was soon seen that, even if time allowed, it would be no easy matter to penetrate into it. The chief and only large tree was the evergreen beech (Fagus betuloides of botanists). This has a thick trunk, commonly three or four feet in diameter, but nowhere, I believe, attains any great height. Forty feet appeared to me the outside limit attained by any that I saw here or elsewhere. But perhaps the most striking, and to me unexpected, feature in the vegetation was the abundance and luxuriance of the ferns that inhabit these coasts. From out of the stiff frozen crust under our feet a profusion of delicate filmy ferns (Hymenophylla) grew to an unaccustomed size, including several quite distinct species; while here and there clumps of the stiff fronds of Lomaria magellanica, a couple of feet in height, showed an extraordinary contrast in form and habit. As Sir Joseph Hooker long ago remarked, the regular rigid crown of fronds issuing from a thick rhizome, when seen from a little distance, remind one forcibly of a Zamia. It was to me even more surprising to find here in great abundance a representative of a genus of ferns especially characteristic of the tropical zone. The Gleichenia of these coasts differs sufficiently to deserve a separate specific name, but in general appearance is strikingly like that which I afterwards saw growing in equal abundance in Brazil.

This continent, with its thousands of miles of unbroken coast-line, and its mountain backbone stretching from the equator to Fuegia, has offered extraordinary facilities for the diffusion of varied types of vegetation. As I have already remarked, some species of antarctic origin travel northward, and some others, now confined to the equatorial Andes, are most probably modified descendants from the same parent stock; while a small number of tropical types, after undergoing more or less modification, have found their way to the extreme southern extremity of the continent.

By a vigorous use of my ice-axe, which is an excellent weapon for a botanist, I succeeded in uprooting a good many plants from the icy crust in which they grew; but the minutes slipped quickly by, daylight was fading in this sheltered spot, shut out from the north and west by steep hills, and too soon came the call to return to the ship. On the beach I picked up the carapace of a crab—bright red and beset with sharp protuberances—evidently freshly feasted on by some rapacious animal. The whole of the body and the shell of the under part as well as the claws had disappeared, leaving nothing but the carapace, which I presume had been found too hard and indigestible. Darwin informs us that the sea-otter of this region feeds largely on this or some allied species of crab.

The cold was sufficient to make the little stove in the saloon of the steamer very acceptable, but at no time throughout the voyage could be called severe. Between noon and three p.m. on the 5th of June the thermometer in the open air stood about 40° Fahr., and fell at night only two or three degrees below freezing-point. The barometer was high, gradually rising from 30 inches to 30·3, at which it stood on the following day. Everything promised settled weather, and it was therefore disappointing to find the sky completely covered when I went on deck early in the morning of the 6th. A light breeze from the north raised the temperature by a few degrees and brought the clouds. The scenery throughout the day was even of a grander character than before, and the absence of sunshine gave it a sterner aspect. At times, when passing the smaller islands, I was forcibly reminded of the upper lake of Killarney, the resemblance being much increased by the appearance of the smaller islets and rocks worn down and rounded by floating ice. On this and the following days I frequently looked out for evidences of ice-action on the rocky flanks of the mountains. These were at some points very perceptible up to a considerable height; but all that I could clearly make out appeared to be directed from south to north, and nearly or quite horizontal. I failed to trace any indication on the present surface of the descent in a westerly direction of great glaciers flowing from the interior towards the coast.

Before midday we passed opposite the opening of Eyre Sound, one of the most considerable of the numerous inlets that penetrate the mountains on the side of the mainland. This is said to extend for forty or fifty miles into the heart of the Cordillera, and it seems certain that one, or perhaps several, glaciers descend into the sound, as at all seasons masses of floating ice are drifted into the main channel. We did not see them at first, as the northerly breeze had carried them towards the southern side of the inlet; but before long we found ourselves in the thick of them, and for about a mile steamed slowly amongst floating masses of tolerably uniform dimensions, four or five feet in height out of the water, and from ten to fifteen feet in length. At a little distance they looked somewhat like a herd of animals grazing. Seen near at hand, the ice looked much weathered, and it may be inferred that the parent glacier reaches the sea somewhere near the head of the sound, and they had been exposed for a considerable time before reaching its mouth.

The existence of great glaciers descending to the sea-level on the west coast of South America, one of which lies so far north as the Gulf of PeÑas, about 47° south latitude, is a necessary consequence of the rapid depression of the line of perpetual snow on the flanks of the Andes, as we follow the chain southward from Central Chili to the channels of Patagonia. The circumstance that permanent snow is not found lower than about fourteen thousand feet above the sea in latitude 34°, while only 8° farther south the limit is about six thousand feet above the sea-level, has been regarded as evidence of a great difference of climate between the northern and southern hemispheres, and more especially of exceptional conditions of temperature affecting this coast. It appears to me that all the facts are fully explained by the extraordinary increase of precipitation from the atmosphere, in the form of rain or snow, which occurs within the zone where the rapid depression of the snow-line is observed. So far as mean annual temperature of the coast is concerned, the diminution of heat in receding from the equator is less than the normal amount, being not quite 5° Fahr. for 7° of latitude between Valparaiso and Valdivia. But the annual rainfall at Valdivia is eight times, and at Ancud in Chiloe more than nine times, the amount that falls at Santiago. Allowing that the disproportion may be less great between the snowfall on the Cordillera in the respective latitudes of these places, we cannot estimate the increased fall about latitude 40° at less than four times the amount falling in Central Chili. When we further recollect that in the latter region the sky is generally clear in summer, and that the surface is exposed to the direct rays of a sun not far from vertical, while on the southern coast the sun is constantly veiled by heavy clouds, it is obvious that all the conditions are present that must depress the snow-line to an exceptional extent, and allow of those accumulations of snow that give birth to glaciers. When a comparison is drawn between South Chili and Norway, it must not be forgotten that at Bergen, where the Norwegian rainfall is said to be at its maximum, the annual amount is sixty-seven inches, or exactly one-half of that registered in Chiloe.

It is a confirmation of this view of the subject that in going southward from the parallel of 42° to Cape Froward in the Straits of Magellan, through 12° of latitude, while the fall of mean yearly temperature must be reckoned at 8° Fahr., the depression of the snow-line cannot exceed three thousand feet.33 Of course, we have no direct observations of rainfall in the Channels or on the west side of the Straits of Magellan, but there is no doubt that it diminishes considerably in going southward.

To the south of Eyre Sound the main channel opens to a width of four or five miles, and is little encumbered by rocky islets, so that we kept a direct course a little west of south, and in less than two hours reached the southern extremity of Wellington Island, and gained a view of the open sea through a broad strait which is known as the Gulf of Trinidad. Now that this has been well surveyed, it offers an opportunity for steamers bound southward that have missed the entrance to the Gulf of PeÑas to enter from the Pacific, and take the course to the Straits of Magellan through the southern channels.

We had now accomplished the first stage in the voyage through the Channels. Many local names have been given to the various passages open to navigation on this singular coast; but, speaking broadly, the northern portion, between Wellington Island and the mainland, is called Messier’s Channel; the middle part, including a number of distinct openings between various islands, is known as the Sarmiento Channel; and the southern division, between Queen Adelaide Island and the continent, is Smyth’s Channel. Facing the Pacific to the south of Wellington Island are three of large size—Prince Henry Island, Madre de Dios, and Hanover Island, besides countless islets which beset the straits that divide these from each other; and the course followed by the steamers lies between the outer islands and another large one (Chatham Island) which here rose between us and the mainland.

In the afternoon the north wind freshened; as a result, the weather became very thick, and rain set in, which lasted throughout the night. Our intended quarters were in a cove called Tom Bay; but our cautious captain, with a due dislike to “dirty weather,” resolved to halt in a sheltered spot a few miles farther north, known as Henderson’s Inlet. Both these places afford excellent shelter, but the bottom is rocky, and ships are much exposed to lose their anchors. Although we arrived some time before sunset, the evening was so dark, and the general aspect of things so discouraging, that no one suggested an attempt to go ashore. Although we were quite near to land, I could make out very little of the outlines; and, indeed, of this middle portion of the voyage I have retained no distinct pictures in my memory.

It struck me as very singular that, with a moderately strong breeze from the north, the barometer should have stood so high, remaining through the day at about 30·3 inches, and marking at nine p.m. 30·28. The temperature, as was to be expected, was higher than on the previous day, being about 40° during the day, and not falling at night below 35°.

Although the morning showed some improvement in the appearance of the weather, the sky was gloomy when, after a little trouble in raising the anchor, we got under way early on the 7th of June. The clouds lifted occasionally during the day, and I enjoyed some brief glimpses of grand scenery; but the only distinct impression I retained was that of hopeless bewilderment in attempting to make out the positions of the endless labyrinth of islands through which we threaded our way. In spite of all that has been done, it seems as if there remained the work of many surveying expeditions to complete the exploration of these coasts. As to several of the eminences that lie on the eastern side of the channel, it is yet uncertain whether they are islands or peninsulas projecting from the mainland. It was announced that our next anchorage was to be at Puerto Bueno, there being no other suitable place for a considerable distance, and we were led to expect that we should probably find there some Fuegians, as the place is known to be one of their favourite haunts.

We dropped anchor about half-past two, in a rather wide cove, or small bay, opening into the mainland a few miles south of Chatham Island. The shores are comparatively low, and enclosed by a dense forest of evergreen beech, which in most parts descends to the water’s edge. The place owes its good repute among mariners to the excellent holding-ground; but it did not appear to me as well sheltered as the other natural harbours that we visited, and as the bottom shelves very gradually, we lay fully a mile off the shore. Fortunately the weather had improved somewhat; a moderate breeze from the north brought slight drizzling rain, but gave no further trouble. A boat was soon ready alongside, and we pulled for the shore, with three of the ship’s officers armed with fowling-pieces, intended partly to impress the natives with due respect, but mainly designed for the waterbirds that abound along the shores of the inlet. We were correctly steered for the right spot, as, on scrambling ashore and crossing the belt of spongy ground between the water and the edge of the forest, we found evident tokens that the Fuegian encampment had not been long deserted. The broken remains of a rude canoe and fragments of basket-work were all that we could find, and we judged that a small party, perhaps no more than ten or a dozen, had left the place a few weeks before our arrival. These wretched Fuegians are said to go farther south, and to keep more to the exposed coasts during winter, because at that season animal life is there more abundant.

After exchanging sundry jokes about the general disappointment in failing to behold the wilde frÄulein in their natural home, the party separated, two of the officers proceeding in the boat towards the upper part of the inlet in quest of water-fowl. For nearly an hour we heard the frequent discharge of their guns, and much ammunition must certainly have been expended; but when they returned their report was that the birds were too wild, and no addition was made to the ship’s larder.

The general character of the vegetation at Puerto Bueno was the same as that at Eden Harbour, but there were some indications of a slight increase in the severity of the climate. Mitraria coccinea and a few other representatives of the special flora of Chili were no longer to be found, while some antarctic types not before seen here first made their appearance. The most prominent of these was a bush from three to five feet high, in general appearance reminding one of rosemary, but at this season abundantly furnished with the plumed fruits characteristic of a composite. This plant, nearly allied to the genus Olearia, whose numerous species are confined to Australia, New Zealand, and the adjoining islands, is known to botanists as Chiliotrichium amelloides, and is one of the characteristic species of this region. It is plentiful in Fuegia and on the northern shores of the Straits of Magellan. Sir Joseph Hooker, in the “Flora Antarctica,” remarks that this is the nearest approach to a tree that is made by the meagre native vegetation of the Falkland Islands.

My attention had already been directed at Eden Harbour to the peculiar coniferous plants of this region, and I here found the same species in better condition. The most conspicuous, a small tree with stiff pointed leaves somewhat like an araucaria, here produced abundant fruit, which showed it to be a Podocarpus (P. nubigena of Lindley). Another shrub of the same family, but very different in appearance, is a species of Libocedrus, allied to the cypress of the Old World, which tolerates even the inclement climate of Hermite Island, near Cape Horn. The distribution of the various species of this genus is not a little perplexing to the botanical geographer. This and another species inhabit the west side of South America, two are found in New Zealand, one in the island of New Caledonia, one is peculiar to Southern China, and one to Japan, while an eighth species belongs to California. The most probable supposition is that the home of the common ancestor of the genus was in the circumpolar lands of the Antarctic Circle at a remote period when that region enjoyed a temperate climate; but the processes by which descendants from that stock reached such remote parts of the earth are not easily conjectured.

It was nearly dark when the unsuccessful sportsmen returned with the boat, and but for the ship’s lights we should have scarcely been able to make out her position. Some of the many stories of seamen cast away in this inclement region came into my mind during the short half-hour of our return, and, in the presence of the actual scenes and conditions, my impressions assumed a vividness that they had never acquired when “living at home at ease.”

In the evening I observed that the barometer had fallen considerably from the usually high point at which it stood up to the 6th, and throughout the night and the following day (June 8) it varied little from 29·9 inches. When we came on deck on the morning of the 8th, the uniform remark of the passengers was, “What a warm day!” We had become used to a temperature of about 40°, and a rise of 5° Fahr. gave the impression of a complete change of climate. It is curious how completely relative are the impressions of heat and cold on the human body, and how difficult it is, even for persons accustomed to compare their sensations with the instrument, to form a moderately good estimate of the actual temperature. We paid dearly, however, for any bodily comfort gained from the comparative warmth in the thick weather that prevailed during most of the day. We had some momentary views of grand scenery, but, as on the preceding day, these were fleeting, and I failed to carry away any definite pictures. It would appear that in such weather the navigation amid such a complete maze of islands and channels must be nearly impossible, but the various surveying-expeditions have placed landmarks, in the shape of wooden posts and crosses, that suffice to the practised eyes of seamen.

About ten a.m. we reached the end of the Sarmiento Channel, opposite to which the comparatively broad opening of Lord Nelson Strait, between Hanover Island and Queen Adelaide Island, leads westward to the Pacific, and before long entered on the third stage of our voyage, which is known as Smyth’s Channel. This name is used collectively for the labyrinth of passages lying among the smaller islands that fill the space between Queen Adelaide Island and the mainland of South-western Patagonia; but to distinguish the openings between separate islands various names have been given, with which no one not a navigator need burthen his memory. Perhaps the thick weather may have been the cause, but we all noticed the comparative rarity of all appearance of animal life on this and the previous day. A large whale passing near the ship gave the only occasion for a little momentary excitement. As we ran southward, and were daily approaching the winter solstice, the successive days became sensibly shorter, and it was already nearly dark when, soon after four p.m., we cast anchor in an opening between two low islands which is known as Mayne Channel.

It was impossible not to experience a sense of depression at the persistence of such unfriendly weather during the brief period of passing through a region of such exceptional interest, an opportunity, if once lost, never to be recovered. With corresponding eagerness the hope held out by a steady rise of the barometer was greeted, especially when I found that this continued up to ten p.m., and amounted since morning to a quarter of an inch. We were under way some time before daylight on June 9, and great was my delight when, going on deck, I found a cloudless sky and the Southern Cross standing high in the firmament. It was a morning never to be forgotten. We rapidly made our way from amid the maze of smaller islands, and glided over the smooth water into a broad channel commanding a wide horizon, bounded a panorama of unique character. As the stars faded and daylight stole over the scene, fresh features of strangeness and beauty at each successive moment came into view, until at last the full glory of sunshine struck the highest point of Queen Adelaide Island, and a few moments later crowned the glistening summits of all the eminences that circled around. The mountainous outline of Queen Adelaide Island, on the right hand, which anywhere else would fix attention, was somewhat dwarfed by the superior attractions of the other objects in view. We had reached the point where Smyth’s Channel widens out into the western end of the Straits of Magellan, and right in front of us rose the fantastic outline of the Land of Desolation, as the early navigators styled the shores that bound the southern entrance to the Straits; and as we advanced it was possible to follow every detail of the outline, even to the bold summit of Cape Pillar, forty miles away to the westward. Marking as it does the entrance to the Straits from the South Pacific, that headland has drawn to it many an anxious gaze since steam navigation has made the passage of the Straits easy and safe, and thus avoids the hardship and delay of the inclement voyage round Cape Horn.

The coast nearest to us was at least as attractive as any other part of the panorama. The southern extremity of the continent is a strange medley of mountain and salt water, which can be explained only by the irregular action of elevatory forces not following a definite line of direction. Several of the narrow sounds that penetrate the coast are spread out inland into large salt-water lakes, and all the shores along which we coasted between Smyth’s Channel and Sandy Point belong to peninsulas projecting between fifty and one hundred miles from the continuous mainland of Patagonia. The outline is strangely varied. Bold snow-covered peaks alternate with lower rocky shores, and are divided by channels of dark blue water penetrating to an unknown distance into the interior. From amidst the higher summits flowed several large ice-streams, appearing, even from a distance, to be traversed by broad crevasses. I did not see any of these glaciers actually reach the sea, but one, whose lower end was masked by a projecting forest-clad headland, must have approached very near to the beach.

I have called the scene unique, and, in truth, I believe that nothing like it is to be found elsewhere in the world. The distant picture showing against the sky under the low rays of the winter sun is probably to be matched by some that arctic navigators bear in their memory; but here, below the zone of snow and ice, we had the striking contrast of shores covered by dense forest and clothed with luxuriant vegetation. Not much snow can have fallen, as up to a height of about twelve hundred feet above the sea, as far as the forest prevails, none met the eye. On the Norwegian coast, where one might be tempted to look for winter scenes somewhat of the same character, the forest is composed of coniferous trees, which have a very different aspect, and at the corresponding season they are, I imagine, usually so laden with snow that they can give little relief to the eye.

I was struck by the fact that, although we had travelled southward five and a half degrees of latitude (nearly four hundred English miles) since entering the Gulf of PeÑas, the upper limit of the forest belt was so little depressed. I could not estimate the average depression at more than from two to three hundred feet.

As we advanced into the main channel, and were drawing near to the headland of Cape Tamar, where the Straits of Magellan are narrowed between that and the opposite coast of the Land of Desolation, we noticed that what seemed from a distance to be a mere film of vapour lying on the surface of the sea grew gradually thicker, rose to a height of about one hundred feet, and quite abruptly, in the space of two or three ship’s lengths, we lost the bright sky and the wonderful panorama, and were plunged in a fog that lasted through the greater part of the afternoon. The one constant characteristic of the climate of this region is its liability at all seasons to frequent and abrupt change, especially by day. It is, as I learned, a rare event when a day passes without one or two, or even more frequent, changes of the wind, bringing corresponding changes of temperature, rain, or snow, or clear sky; but, as a rule, the weather is less inconstant in winter than at other seasons. A short experience makes it easy to understand the extreme difficulty of navigation in the Straits for sailing ships, and the expediency of preferring the less inviting course of rounding Cape Horn.

Several times during the day the fog cleared away for a while, and gave us grand views of the coast on either hand. That of the Land of Desolation especially attracted my attention. Captain Willsen pointed out to me, as we stood on the bridge, to which I had free access, the opening of a narrow sound which has lately been ascertained to penetrate entirely through what used to be considered a single island. The expressive name must, indeed, be abandoned, for, if I am not mistaken, the Land of Desolation of our maps is already known to consist of three, and may possibly form many more islands, divided from each other by very narrow channels. Our cautious commander resolved once again to anchor for the night, and selected for the purpose Borya Bay, a small sheltered cove some distance east of Port Gallant, a harbour often visited by the English surveying-expeditions. Daylight had departed when, about half-past five, we reached our anchorage; but the sky was again quite clear, and we enjoyed the weird effects of moonlight illumination. The scenery is very grand, and was more wintry in aspect than at any other point in our voyage. A mountain at the head of the cove rose steeply to a height of at least two thousand feet, and cast a dark shadow over the ship as we lay very near the shore. The shores were begirt with the usual belt of forest, but this did not extend far, and the declivities all around were clad with snow, which lay rather deep. It appeared to me that a rather large glacier descended to within a few hundred feet of the shore, but, seen by the imperfect light, I felt uncertain as to the fact. Since entering the Straits, I had noticed that on the steeper slopes facing the south, where the surface can receive but little sunshine at any season, the forest ascends but a short distance above the sea-level. Above that limit in such situations I observed only a scanty covering of bushes, and higher up the surface at this season appeared quite bare.

As Borya Bay is one of the customary haunts of the Fuegians, the steam-whistle was sounded on our arrival as an invitation to any natives who might be encamped there. This always suffices to attract them, with the hope of being able to gratify their universal craving for tobacco. The appeal was not answered, as the people were doubtless on the outer coasts, and we were not destined to see anything of the most miserable of all the races of man.

As the weather remained bright, the anchor was raised soon after midnight, and by one a.m. we were on our way, steering south-east, to round the southern extremity of the mainland of America. Awaking to the disappointment of having missed a view of one of the most interesting portions of the Straits, I hurried on deck, and found a new change in the aspect of the skies. The night had been cold, with a sharp frost; but in the morning, soon after daybreak, the air felt quite warm, with the thermometer marking 39° Fahr. A northerly breeze had set in, and as an inevitable result brought thick weather. I again noticed, however, that the barometer on these coasts seems to be very slightly affected by changes in the wind’s direction. It stood last night at 30·16 inches, and on the morning of the 10th, with a complete change of weather, had fallen only eight-hundredths of an inch.

The southern end of the continent is shaped like a broad wedge, whose apex is Cape Froward, laying in south latitude 53° 54'. We passed it early in the forenoon, giving the headland, which we saw dimly to the north, a broad berth, so that we about touched the 54th parallel. If we compare this with the climate of places in about the same latitude, as, for instance, with that of the Isle of Man, we are apt to consider the climate as severe; but we habitually forget how far the condition of Western Europe is affected by exceptional circumstances; and if we look elsewhere in the northern hemisphere, taking, for instance, the Labrador coast, the south of Kamschatka, or even the coast of British Columbia, we must admit that the Straits of Magellan afford no confirmation to the prevalent ideas respecting the greater cold of the climate of the southern hemisphere.

Soon after this turning-point of the voyage the sky partially cleared to the southward, and we were fortunate enough to enjoy one of the most impressive scenes that my memory has recorded. The broad sound that divides Clarence Island from the main island of Tierra del Fuego lay open before us, flanked on either hand by lofty snow-clad summits. In the background, set as in a frame, rose the magnificent peak of Mount Sarmiento, the Matterhorn of this region, springing, as it appeared, from the shore to a height of seven thousand feet.34 Sole sovereign of these antarctic solitudes, I know of no other peak that impresses the mind so deeply with the sense of wonder and awe. As seen from the north, the eastern and western faces are almost equally precipitous, and the broad top is jagged by sharp teeth, of which the two outermost, one to the east, the other to the west, present summits of apparently equal height. At a distance of about twenty-five miles the whole mass seemed to be coated with snow and ice, save where some sharp ridges and teeth of black rock stood out against the sky. I remained for some time utterly engrossed by the marvellous spectacle, and at last bethought myself of endeavouring to secure at least an outline of the scene; but before I could fetch a sketch-book, a fresh change in the weather partly obscured, and, a few minutes later, finally concealed from my eyes a picture that remains vividly impressed on my memory.

It was impossible not to speculate on the origin and past history of this remarkable peak. Admitting that there is evidence to show that the larger part of the rocks of this region are of volcanic origin, it appeared to me evident not only that Mount Sarmiento is not a volcanic cone, but that the rock of which it is composed is not of volcanic origin. Whether its real form be that of a tower, or that of a ridge with precipitous sides seen in profile, no volcanic rocks elsewhere in the world can retain slopes so nearly approaching to the vertical. It is, I believe, a portion of the original rock skeleton that formed the axis of the Andean chain during the long ages that preceded the great volcanic outbursts that have covered over the framework of the western side of South America. Like most peaks of a similar form, I am disposed to believe that in the course of gradual upheaval the flanks have been carved by marine action to the nearly vertical form which impresses the beholder. Although snow-covered mountains suffer a certain limited amount of denudation in the channels through which glaciers flow, there is reason to hold that they are far less subject to degradation than those which are not protected from the main agencies that wear away rocky surfaces. It is by alternations of temperature, by frost, and the action of running water, that rocks are rapidly eaten away, and from these a snow-covered mountain is to a great extent secured.

A few miles east of Cape Froward the coast of the mainland trends nearly due north for a distance of fully sixty miles, and a marked change is perceived in the aspect of the shores. Instead of the bold outlines to which our eyes had become accustomed, the coastline lay low, fringed with forest on the side of the mainland, which now lay to our west, and on the other hand showing bare flats, here and there flecked with fresh snow. The land on that side at first belonged to Dawson Island; but later in the day, as we approached our destination, the dreary flats formed part of Northern Tierra del Fuego.

The weather was thick as we passed Port Famine, and there was little to attract attention until we drew near to Sandy Point, a place that was to me the more interesting as I intended to make it my home until the arrival of the next English steamer. The belt of forest rose over low swelling hills near the sea, and in the distance a loftier range, from two to three thousand feet in height, showed a nearly horizontal line against the cloudy sky. As we approached, several structures of painted wood became visible, and for the first time since we left Lota we beheld human dwellings. Sandy Point, known to the natives of South America by the equivalent name Punta Arenas, is certainly one of the most isolated of inhabited spots to be found in the world. Since the scramble for Africa has set in, it is, I suppose, only on the Australian coast that one would find any settlement so far removed from neighbours or rivals. On the side of Chili the nearest permanent habitations are in the island of Chiloe, fully seven hundred miles distant in a straight line, and considerably farther by the only practicable route. On the side of Argentaria there is a miserable attempt at a settlement at the mouth of the river Santa Cruz, where the Argentine Government has thought it expedient to hoist their flag in order to assert the rights of sovereignty of the Confederation over the dreary wastes of South-eastern Patagonia. This was described to me as a group of half a dozen wooden sheds, where a few disconsolate soldiers spend a weary time of exile from the genial climate of Buenos Ayres. By the sea route it is about four hundred miles from Sandy Point, but no direct communication between the two places is kept up. For all practical purposes, the nearest civilized neighbours to Sandy Point are the English colonists in the Falkland Islands, where, in spite of inhospitable soil and climate, some of our countrymen have managed to attain to tolerable prosperity, chiefly by sheep-farming. But with an interval of nearly five hundred miles of stormy ocean mutual intercourse is neither easy nor frequent.

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