Arrival at Callao--Quarantine--The war between Chili and Peru--Aspect
of Lima--General Lynch--Andean railway to Chicla--Valley of
the Rimac--Puente Infernillo--Chicla--Mountain-sickness--Flora
of the Temperate zone of the Andes--Excursion to the higher
region--Climate of the Cordillera--Remarks on the Andean
flora--Return to Lima--Visit to a sugar-plantation--Condition of
Peru--Prospect of anarchy.
The steam-whistle, sounding about daybreak on April 15, announced that
we were again wrapped in fog. As the _Islay_ advanced at half speed
the fog lightened without clearing, until about nine a.m. we made
the island of San Lorenzo, and, as the haze finally melted away into
bright sunshine, found ourselves half an hour later in the harbour of
Callao. The moment was exciting for those who, like myself, approached
as strangers the shore which had in our childhood seemed so strange,
so adventure-fraught, so distant. Already some one had pointed out
the towers of the Cathedral of Lima, with the Cordillera apparently
so near that the mountains must begin outside the gates. All stood on
deck prepared to land--some already looking forward to luncheon in the
city of Pizarro--and waiting only for the usual formalities of the
visit of the _sanidad_. At length the officials came, and, after the
usual parley over the ship’s side, it became apparent that the visit
was no mere formality. At last the ominous word _quarantine_ was heard,
received at first with mere incredulity, as something too absurd, but
at last taking the consistence of a stern fact. Since the outbreak of
yellow fever among the troops at Truxillo, the Chilian authorities
have naturally become nervously anxious to protect the occupying army
from this danger, and every precaution is put in force. Under these
circumstances, a ship coming from Guayaquil was naturally an object of
suspicion. There certainly was not at the time any epidemic fever at
that place; but, if reports be true, sporadic cases are not unfrequent,
and that city is rarely, if ever, quite free from malignant zymotic
disease. At last the discussion was closed, by a definite order that we
should repair to the quarantine ground under the lee of the island of
San Lorenzo.
[_IN QUARANTINE AT CALLAO._]
Up to this time we had scarcely given attention to the scene
immediately surrounding us; yet the harbour of Callao is at any time
an interesting sight, and at this moment its aspect was peculiarly
expressive. Although the Chilian forces had before this time become
absolute masters of the entire seaboard of Peru, and there was no
reason to apprehend any renewal of the struggle by sea, the memorials
of the desperate encounters which marked the earlier phase of the war
were here still fresh. Near the shore in several different directions
were the wrecks of ships which had sunk while the captors were
endeavouring to bring them into harbour, the masts sticking up idly
above water and doing the duty of buoys. Still afloat, though looking
terribly battered and scarcely seaworthy, was that remarkable little
ship, the _Huascar_, looking a mere pigmy beside the warships in the
harbour from which the Chilian, American, French, and Italian flags
were flying, England being for the moment unrepresented.
The naval war between Chili and Peru was conducted at such a distance
from Europe, and its causes were so little understood, that it excited
but feeble interest. Even the circumstance that, in an encounter
brought about by the incompetence and rashness of a British commander,
the pigmy Peruvian force was able with impunity to inflict an affront
on the national flag, scarcely excited in England more than momentary
surprise. Nevertheless the story of the war, which yet awaits an
impartial chronicler,[5] abounds with dramatic incident. The record is
ennobled by acts of heroic bravery on both sides, while at the same
time it suggests matter for serious consideration to the professional
seaman. The important part which small fast ships, carrying one or two
heavy guns only, may play in the altered conditions of naval warfare
has been often pointed out, but has been practically illustrated
only in the war between Chili and Peru. It does not seem as if the
importance of the lesson had been yet fully appreciated by those
responsible for the naval administration of the great European powers.
For the remainder of the day, and during the whole of the 16th,
we lay at anchor about half a mile from the shore of the island of
San Lorenzo, a bare rough hill, mainly formed, it would seem, of
volcanic rock overlaid in places by beds of very modern formation. All
naturalists are familiar with the evidence adduced by Darwin, proving
the considerable elevation of the island and the adjacent mainland
since the period of the Incas, as well as Tschudi’s arguments going to
show that in more recent times there has been a period of subsidence.
[_BLACK PELICANS._]
Of the objects near at hand the most interesting were the large black
pelicans which in great numbers frequent the bay or harbour of Callao,
attracted, no doubt, by the offal abundantly supplied from the town
and the shipping. Seemingly indefatigable and insatiable, these birds
continued for hours to circle in long sweeping curves over the water,
swooping down on any object that attracted their appetite. The body
appears to be somewhat slighter than that of the white pelican of the
East, but the breadth of wing and length of the neck are about the
same. When on the wing the plumage appears to be black, but in truth it
is of a dark bluish slate colour.
Our detention in quarantine might have been prolonged but for the
fortunate circumstance that the contents of the mail-bags carried by
the _Islay_ were at this moment the object of anxious curiosity to the
Chilian authorities, and to the representatives of foreign powers. The
position of affairs was already sufficiently critical, and the attitude
recently assumed by the Government of the United States had added a new
element of uncertainty to the existing difficulties. Mr. Hurlbut, the
last American representative, had died, and Mr. Trescott, who supplied
his place, was ostensibly charged with the attempt to bring about a
peace between Chili and Peru, but was supposed to be chiefly intent
on extricating his Government from a position into which it had been
led by a series of proceedings which had neither raised the national
reputation nor secured the good-will of either Chili or Peru.
While we lay off the harbour, watched day and night by the crew of a
launch stationed beside us to prevent communication with the land, we
received three successive visits from the officers of the American
man-of-war lying in the harbour, who approached near enough to hold
conversation with our captain. The message was a request, finally
conveyed in somewhat imperious terms, that the dispatches addressed to
the American envoy should at once be delivered. The American foreign
office is not, I believe, accustomed to forward diplomatic dispatches
in a separate bag, but merely uses the ordinary post. Our captain
properly declined to take the responsibility of opening the mail-bags,
which he was bound to deliver intact to the postal authorities as
soon as we were admitted to pratique. The result was that on Monday,
just as we were beginning to be seriously uneasy at the prospect of a
long detention, a steam launch was seen to approach, having a number
of officials on board. A seemingly interminable conversation between
these and the captain and medical officer of our ship finally resulted
in a Chilian medical man coming on board to make a careful examination
of the ship, the crew, and the passengers. After we had been duly
marshalled and inspected--the first-class passengers on the spar-deck,
the others on the main-deck--the welcome announcement, “Admitted to
pratique,” ran through the ship. Not much time was lost in moving up to
the proper moorings in the harbour, some two miles distant, and about
noon we were set on land close to the custom-house.
[_LANDING AT CALLAO._]
The boatmen, the porters, and the nondescript hangers-on about the
quays of a port, formed a strange and motley assemblage, in whose
countenances three very distinct types of humanity--the European, the
negro, and the South American Indian--were mingled in the most varied
proportions, scarcely one denoting an unmixed origin. The arrangements
at Callao are convenient for strangers. The custom-house officers,
though unbribed, gave no trouble, and the rather voluminous luggage of
six English passengers was entrusted to a man who undertook for ten
_soles_ (about thirty-three shillings) to convey the whole to the chief
hotel in Lima. No time was left to see anything of Callao. A train was
about to start; and in half an hour we were carried over the level
space--about seven and a half miles--that separates Lima from the port
of Callao.
Occupied by the forces of her victorious rival, and shorn of most
of the almost fabulous wealth that once enriched her inhabitants,
Peru can, even in her present ruined state, show a capital city
that impresses the stranger. It is true that the buildings have no
architectural merit, that most of the streets are horribly ill-paved,
and that at present there is little outward appearance of wealth in
the thoroughfares; in spite of all this the general aspect is novel and
pleasing. Although violent earthquakes have rarely occurred in this
region, slight shocks are very frequent, and remind the inhabitants
that formidable telluric forces are slumbering close at hand. Hence,
as a rule, the houses have only a single floor above the ground, and
cover a proportionately large space. As in Southern Spain, all those
of the better class enclose a _patio_, or courtyard, partly occupied
by tropical trees or flowering shrubs. Fronting the street, or the
_plaza_, a long projecting balcony, enclosed with glass, enables the
inmates to enjoy that refuge from absolute vacancy which is afforded
by gazing at the passers-by, and which seems to supply the place of
occupation to much of the population even in Southern Europe.
With scarcely an exception, the numerous churches are vile examples of
debased renaissance architecture, fronted with stucco ornamentation
in great part fallen to decay. Not long before our arrival, I believe
under the Chilian administration, they had been all freshly covered
with whitewash, cut into rectangular spaces by broad bands of bright
blue. In the streets near the great _plaza_ there was much apparent
animation during the day; but the shops were closed an hour before
nightfall, and after dark the city was hushed into unnatural silence.
The fair _Limeñas_, as to whose charms travellers have been eloquent,
and who used to throng the public drives and walks towards sunset,
were no longer to be seen. To exhibit themselves would be to display
indifference to the misfortunes of their country. Some might be
observed, indeed, during the morning hours, plainly dressed in black,
going either to church or on some business errand; but they were so
closely wrapped up in a _manta_ as to be completely disguised.
[_CHOICE OF A ROUTE TO THE ANDES._]
On landing in Peru, the one question which completely engrossed my mind
was whether or not it would be possible for me, in the present state of
the country, to reach the upper region of the Andes.
To a naturalist this great chain must ever be the dominant feature
of the South American continent. To its structure and its flora and
fauna are attached questions of overwhelming importance to the past
history of our planet, and, however little a man may hope to effect
during a flying visit, the desire to gain that degree of acquaintance
which actual observation alone can give becomes painfully intense.
I was aware that what had formerly been a long and rather laborious
journey had of late years been reduced to a mere excursion by the
construction of two lines of railway, leading from the sea-coast to the
upper region. That which, if free to choose, I should have preferred
starts from the coast at Mollendo, and, passing the important town of
Arequipa, traverses the crest of the Cordillera, and has its terminus
at Puno, on the Lake of Titicaca, in the centre of the plateau which
lies between the two main ridges of the Andes. The region surrounding
this great lake, which here divides Peru from Bolivia, must offer
objects of interest only too numerous and too engrossing for a
traveller whose time is counted by days. Although the level of the lake
is some 12,800 feet above the sea, the peaks of Sorata rise above its
eastern shores to a further height of nearly 10,000 feet; and lake
steamers give access to most of the inhabited places on its shores--no
slight matter when it is remembered that the lake measures more than a
hundred miles in length.
The second line, which, starting from the city of Lima, is carried
nearly due east along the valley of the Rimac, was designed to open
communication by the most direct route between the capital and the
fertile region on the eastern slopes of the Andes--called in Peru the
_Montaña_--as well as with the rich silver region of Cerro de Pasco.
The crest of the Cordillera, or western ridge of the Andes, is scarcely
eighty miles from Lima in a direct line, but the most practicable pass
is somewhat higher than the summit of Mont Blanc. The road was to
pierce the pass by a tunnel 15,645 feet above the sea-level, and thence
to descend to the town of Oroya on the high plateau that divides the
two main ridges. As the line was laid out, the distance from Lima to
the summit-level was only 97 miles, and that to Oroya 129 miles.
Considered merely as engineering works, these lines, which owe their
existence to the enterprise of an American contractor and the skill of
the engineers who carried out the undertaking, may fairly be counted
among the wonders of the world. The Oroya line, the more difficult
of the two, unfortunately remained unfinished. Although the loans
contracted in Europe by the Peruvian Government more than sufficed
to defray the cost of all the industrial undertakings that they were
professedly intended to supply, it is scarcely necessary to say that
a large portion disappeared through underground channels, leaving
legitimate demands unprovided for. The stipulated instalments due to
Mr. Meiggs, the great contractor, remained unpaid, and, in the midst
of the difficulties in which he was thus involved, his death put a
final stoppage to the works. The line had been completed and opened
for a distance of about eighty miles from Lima, as far as the village
of Chicla, 12,220 feet above the sea. From that time forward Mr.
Meiggs devoted his energies to the boring of the tunnel at the summit,
probably under the impression that if that were once finished the
Peruvian Government could scarcely fail to provide the funds necessary
to complete the line on either side.
[_UNFINISHED ANDEAN RAILWAY._]
I had found it impossible to ascertain before leaving England what had
been the fate of these magnificent works since the ravages of war had
devastated the region through which they are carried. Various quite
inconsistent stories had reached me through the passengers from Panama,
Guayaquil, and Payta. Traffic, said some, continued on both lines just
as before the war; traffic, said others, had been completely stopped by
order of the Chilian authorities; others, finally, asserted that the
Oroya line had been so damaged by either belligerent as to be rendered
permanently useless.
Before I had been many hours on shore, I was able to get authentic
information which relieved my mind from further anxiety. The southern
line, from Mollendo to Puno, was open; but Arequipa, the chief place on
the way, was still in possession of the Peruvians, who occupied it in
some force. With permits, to be obtained from the commanding officers
on both sides, it might be possible to go and return, supposing no
fresh outbreak of hostile movements of the troops on either side. The
news as to the Oroya line was even more satisfactory. The whole line
was occupied by the Chilian forces, there being a detachment at Chicla,
with outposts on the farther side of the pass. The line had been for
some time closed to traffic, but had been re-opened a few days before
our arrival. With a permit, to be obtained from the chief of the staff
in Lima, there would be no difficulty in proceeding to Chicla.
My decision was speedily taken. Under the most favourable
circumstances, the time necessary to reach Puno and return to the
coast, with the not improbable risk of detention, was more than I could
afford. Further than this, as Puno lies on the plateau remote from the
mountains, I should see but little of the characteristic flora of the
Andes, unless I could reach some place on the eastern shore of the Lake
of Titicaca, whence access could be had to the flanks of the Sorata
Andes.
Some description of the Lake of Titicaca which I had read as a boy
still dwelt in my mind, and the memoirs and conversation of the late
Mr. Pentland had long made the peaks of Sorata objects of especial
interest to me. There could, however, be no doubt that the faint hope
of beholding them which had lingered till then must be renounced, and
I was too happy at the prospect of achieving a short visit to the more
accessible part of the chain to have leisure for any keen regret.
[_DON PATRICIO LYNCH._]
Having ascertained that the trains to Chicla departed only every second
day, returning thence on the alternate days, I arranged to start on
the 20th. During the two intermediate days, I had the opportunity of
making several agreeable acquaintances. Sir Spencer St. John, the
English minister, had lately returned to Europe, and the legation was
temporarily under the charge of Mr. J. R. Graham, who had recently
acted as _chargé d’affaires_ in Guatemala. Among other kind attentions
which I have to acknowledge, Mr. Graham was good enough to introduce me
to Don Patricio Lynch, commander-in-chief of the Chilian forces in Peru.
The object of boundless admiration from his own followers, and of
still more unmeasured denunciation from his enemies, General Lynch
is undoubtedly the most remarkable man who has come to the front
during the late unhappy war in South America. Like most of the men
who have acquired military renown in that part of the world, he is of
Irish extraction, his grandfather having settled in Chili early in
the present century. Having served as a young man for a time in the
English navy, he was promoted by the Chilian Government, some time
after the outbreak of the war, to a naval command. The operations at
sea had, up to that time, been on the whole unfavourable to Chili, and
the successes which finally changed the aspect of the war by sea were
largely ascribed to the energy and ability of Admiral Lynch. Passing
from the sea to the land, he so much distinguished himself in various
daring encounters with the enemy that he was finally promoted to the
chief command of the Chilian forces in Peru, and at this time was
virtually dictator, with absolute rule over the whole coast region
occupied by the Chilian army.
However open to discussion might be the policy adopted by the
Chilians towards the conquered country, there was a general agreement
as to one matter of no slight importance. The population of Lima
and the surrounding districts is composed of the most varied
constituents--native Indian, negro, and the mongrel offspring of
the intermixture of these with European blood, to all which of late
years has been added a large contingent of Chinese immigrants. It is
not surprising that, under inefficient administration, there should
have arisen from the dregs of such a population a large class either
actually living by crime or ready to resort to outrage as favourable
opportunities might arise. On the other hand, the Chilian army, for
which there was but a small nucleus of regular troops, had to be
largely recruited from among the loose fish of the floating population
of South America, and naturally included no small number of bad
subjects, ready to make the utmost use of the license of war. For many
years past the police of Lima was notoriously inefficient; robberies
were frequent, and there were many spots in the neighbourhood of
the city where it was considered unsafe to go unarmed even in broad
daylight. It was not unreasonably feared that in such conditions the
occupation of the city by the Chilians would have results disastrous
for the safety of the numerous foreign residents and the peaceful
citizens. It was through the energy and capacity of General Lynch that
the apprehended reign of disorder was averted. An efficient police was
at once established, speedy capital punishment was awarded in every
case of serious outrage, and with stern impartiality a short shrift was
allotted alike to the Peruvian marauder and the looter wearing Chilian
uniform. It was admitted on all hands that the city had never before
been so safe, while, at the same time, the ordinary municipal work of
cleansing, watering, and lighting the streets and public places had
been visibly improved under the stimulus of vigorous administration.
[_ORDER ESTABLISHED IN LIMA._]
My reception by the Chilian general was all that I could desire. He at
once expressed his readiness to assist my objects in every way, and
carried out his promise by giving me a letter to the officer commanding
the detachment at Chicla, with instructions to provide horses and
guides and all needful protection for myself and my companion. I failed
to detect in General Lynch any of the characteristics, usually so
persistent, of men of Irish descent. The stately courtesy and serious
expression, reminding one of the bearing of a Castilian gentleman,
were not enlivened by the irrepressible touches of liveliness that
involuntarily relieve even a careworn Irishman from the pressure of his
environment. One particularity in the arrangements at head-quarters
struck me as singular; but I afterwards understood that it was
merely the transference to Peru of the ordinary habits of Chili. The
head-quarters of the general were fixed in the former palace of the
Spanish viceroys. A sentry in the street paid no attention as, in
company with Mr. Graham, I entered the first court, and it appeared
that every one, or, at least, every decently dressed stranger, was
free to pass. Through an open door we entered the first of a suite of
large rooms, and advanced from one to another without encountering a
human being, whether guard or attendant, until in the last room but
one, seemingly by accident, a secretary presented himself, who at once
ushered us into the cabinet of the general. In the case of any public
man in Europe, to say nothing of the chief of an army of occupation
constantly assailed by the fiercest denunciations, and left thus easy
of access, some fanatic or madman would speedily translate the popular
hatred into grim deed.
Among the acquaintances made in Lima, I must mention the name of
Mr. William Nation, a gentleman who, amidst many difficulties, has
acquired an extensive knowledge of the fauna and flora of Peru, and
has observed with attention many facts of interest connected with
the natural history of the country. After my return from Chicla, Mr.
Nation was kind enough to accompany me in two short excursions in the
neighbourhood of the city, and I am further indebted to him for much
valuable assistance and information.
Soon after eight a.m. on the morning of April 20, I started from the
railway station at Lima, in company with my friend W----, who was
fortunately able to absent himself for some days. The country lying
between the coast and the foot of the Cordillera appears to the eye a
horizontal plain, but is, in fact, a slope inclining towards the sea,
and rising very uniformly about seventy feet per mile.[6] This ancient
sea-bottom extends for a distance of fully fifteen miles from Lima into
the valley of the Rimac, which, in approaching the coast, gradually
spreads out from a narrow gorge to a wide valley with a flat floor.
At the same time the river gradually dwindles from a copious rushing
torrent to a meagre stream, running in many shallow channels over a
broad stony bed, until it is finally almost lost in the marshes near
Callao. Its waters are consumed by the numerous irrigation channels;
for it must be remembered that along the western side of the continent,
for a distance of nearly thirty degrees of latitude, cultivation is
confined to those tracts which can be irrigated by streams from the
Andes. Keeping pretty near to the left bank of the Rimac, the railway
runs between two detached hills, formerly islands when the sea stood
a few hundred feet above its present level. That on the north side is
called the Amancais, and another less extensive mass rises south of the
river.
[_WINTER VEGETATION NEAR LIMA._]
Throughout the greater part of the year these hills, as well as the
lower slopes of the Cordillera, appear, as they did to me, absolutely
bare of vegetation; but in winter, from June to September, slight
showers of rain are not unfrequent, and the fogs, denser than in other
seasons, rest more constantly on the hills, and doubtless deposit
abundant night-dews on the surface. The seeds and bulbs and rhizomes
awake from their long sleep, and in a few days the slopes are covered
with a brilliant carpet, in which bright flowers of various species
follow each other in rapid succession.
Alongside of the railway runs a broad road covered to a depth of a
couple of feet with volcanic sand, with occasional loose blocks of
stone. The struggles of the few laden animals that we saw in passing,
as they toiled along this weary track under a scorching sun, suggested
a thought of the wonderful changes which modern inventions have already
effected, and are destined to effect in the future, throughout every
part of the world. The track before our eyes was, until the other day,
the sole line of direct communication between Lima and the interior of
Peru. The passage of men and animals had in the course of centuries
reduced the original stony surface to a river of fine sand, and by no
better mode of transport had the treasures of Cerro de Pasco, and the
other rich silver deposits of the same region, been carried to the
coast to sap the manhood and energy of the Spanish settlers in Peru,
and help to achieve the same result in the mother country.
The American railway car, which is not without its drawbacks for
ordinary travellers, is admirably suited to a naturalist in a new
country. No time is lost in opening and shutting doors. Standing ready
on the platform, one jumps off at every stoppage of the train, and
jumps up again without delay or hindrance. I was able to appreciate
these advantages during this day, and to add considerably to my
collections by turning every moment to account. At first the vegetation
was, of course, extremely scanty; but I was interested by finding here
some representatives of genera that extend to the hotter and drier
parts of the Mediterranean region, such as _Boerhavia_ and _Lippia_.
Not far beyond the station of Santa Clara, near to which is a large
sugar-plantation, the slopes on either side of the valley become
more continuous, and gradually approach nearer together. The first
trace of vegetation visible from a distance was shown by one of the
cactus tribe, probably a _Cereus_, and as we ascended I was able to
distinguish two other species of the same family.
[_VEGETATION OF THE RIMAC VALLEY._]
At many points in the valley, always on slightly rising ground,
shapeless inequalities of the surface marked with their rough outline
all that now remains of the numerous villages that in the days of the
Incas were scattered at short intervals.
As we advanced, the slopes on either side became higher and steeper,
but were still apparently nearly bare of vegetation until we reached
Chosica, about twenty-six miles from Lima, 2800 feet above the sea. At
this place it was formerly the custom to halt for breakfast, but since
the line has been re-opened, the only eatables to be found are the
fruits, chiefly bananas and _granadillas_, which Indian women offer to
the passengers.
Henceforward the line is fairly enclosed between the slopes on either
hand, everywhere rough and steep, but, as is the nature of volcanic
rocks, nowhere cut into precipices. The gradient becomes perceptibly
steeper, being about one in thirty-three in the space between Chosica
and San Bartolomé--about thirteen miles. Here the change of climate
begins to be distinctly marked. It is evident that during a great part
of the year the declivities are covered with vegetation, though now
brown from drought, and they show the occasional action of running
water in deep furrows and ravines. Here the engineers engaged on the
railway first confronted the serious difficulties of the undertaking.
Following the line from San Bartolomé to Chicla, the distance is only
thirty-four miles, but the difference of level is 7317 feet, and the
fifty-one miles between this and the summit-tunnel involve an ascent of
10,740 feet. The gradient is very uniform, never, I believe, exceeding
one in twenty-six, the average being about one in twenty-eight. Some of
the expedients adopted appear simple enough, though quite effectual for
the intended purpose. Very steep uniform slopes have been ascended by
zigzags, in which the train is alternately dragged by the locomotive in
front, and then (the motion being reversed), shoved up the next incline
with the engine in the rear. In one place I observed that we passed
five times, always at a different level, above the same point in the
valley below.
Among the more remarkable works on the line are the viaducts by which
deep and broad ravines cut in the friable volcanic rocks have been
spanned. The iron beams and girders that sustain these structures
appear much slighter than I have seen used in Europe. In crossing one
_barranca_, on what is said to be the loftiest viaduct in the world, I
stood on the platform at the end of the car: there being no continuous
roadway, the eye plunged directly down into the chasm below, over which
we seemed to be travelling on a spider’s web.
For a distance of about eight miles from San Bartolomé the railway
keeps near to the bottom of the valley, between slopes whereon a
distinct green hue is now visible, and some trickling rivulets are
perceived in the channels of the ravines. On the opposite, or northern,
slope are still distinctly seen the terraces by which in ancient
days the industrious Indian population carried cultivation up the
precipitous slopes to a height of more than fifteen hundred feet above
the bed of the valley. For in this land, before the Spaniard destroyed
its simple civilization and reduced the larger part to a wilderness,
the pressure of population was felt as it now is in the southern
valleys of the Alps. The fact that terrace cultivation commenced
precisely in the part of the valley where we now find streamlets from
the flanks of the high mountains above, which might be used for partial
irrigation, tends to show that no considerable change of climate has
occurred.
[_ANCIENT INDIAN TERRACES._]
Before reaching the Surco station (forty-eight miles from Lima, and
6655 feet above the sea) the road finally abandons the Rimac, and
commences the seemingly formidable ascent of the declivity above the
left bank. For some distance a projecting buttress with a moderate
slope enabled the engineers to accomplish the ascent by long winding
curves; but before long we reached the first zigzags, which are
frequently repeated during the remainder of the ascent. The tunnels
are frequent, but fortunately for the most part short, as the rate
of travelling is necessarily slow, and the artificial fuel used
gives out black fumes of a stifling character. A further change of
climate, welcome to the botanist, was now very obvious. Although the
soil appears to be parched, it is clear that some slight rain must
recur at moderate intervals. Vegetation, if not luxuriant, finds the
needful conditions, and in the gardens of Surco tropical fruits, such
as bananas, cherimolias, oranges, and granadillas, are cultivated
with tolerable success. Of the indigenous plants in flower at this
season the large majority were _Compositæ_, chiefly belonging to the
sun-flower tribe (_Helianthoïdeæ_), a group characteristic of the New
World.[7] It was tantalizing to see so many new forms of vegetation
pass before one’s eyes untouched. Most of them were indeed finally
captured, but several yet remain as fleeting images in my memory, never
fixed by closer observation.
About one p.m. we reached the chief village of the valley, San Juan
de Matucana, fifty-five miles from Lima, and about 7800 feet above
the sea. The train halted here for twenty minutes, and we discovered
that very tolerable food is to be had at a little inn kept by an
Italian. Hunger having been already stilled, the time was available
for botanizing in the neighbourhood of the station, and, along with
several cosmopolite weeds which we are used to call European, I found
a good many types not before seen. Owing to the accident of having
left my gloves in the carriage, I unwisely postponed to collect one
plant not seen by me again during my stay in Peru. This was a small
species of _Tupa_, a genus now united to _Lobelia_, with flowers of
a lurid purple colour, which is said to have the singular effect of
producing temporary blindness in those who handle the foliage, and I
had been assured by Mr. Nation that he had verified the statement by
experiment.[8] We were here in the intermediate zone, wherein many
species of the subtropical region are mingled with those characteristic
of the Andean flora. Hitherto the most prevalent families, after the
_Compositæ_, had been the _Solanaceæ_ and _Malvaceæ_. These have many
representatives in the Andean flora, but henceforward were associated
with an increasing proportion of types of many different orders.
[_ASCENT FROM MATUCANA._]
As we continued the ascent in the afternoon our locomotive began to
show itself unequal to the heavy work of the long-continued ascent,
whether owing to defects in construction or, as seemed more probable,
to the bad quality of the fuel supplied. Two stoppages occurred,
required, as we learned, to clear out tubes. A considerable ascent
was then achieved by a detour into a lateral valley above Matucana,
returning to the Rimac at a much higher level, as is done on the
Brenner line between Gossensass and Schelleberg.
Up to this time the scenery had fallen much below my anticipations.
Owing to the nature of the rocks, there was an utter deficiency in that
variety of colour and form that are essential elements in the beauty
of mountain scenery. A still greater defect is the entire absence of
forest. Along the course of the Rimac bushes or small trees, such as
_Schinus molle_, two _Acacias_, _Salix Humboldtiana_, and others,
are tolerably frequent; but on the rugged surface of the mountain
slopes nothing met the eye more conspicuous than the columnar stem of
a cactus, or dense rigid tufts of what I took to be a Bromeliaceous
plant, most probably a species of _Puya_. The sun had set, and darkness
was fast closing round us when the train came suddenly to a standstill,
and the intelligent American guard informed us that a delay of at least
twenty minutes was required to set the locomotive in working order.
The accident was in every way fortunate. We had just reached the Puente
Infernillo, by far the most striking scene on the whole route, rendered
doubly impressive when seen by the rapidly fading light. The railway
had here returned to the Rimac, and is carried for a short distance
along the right bank. In front the river rushes out of a narrow cleft,
while on either hand the mountains rise to a prodigious height, with
a steeper declivity than we had as yet anywhere seen. With a lively
recollection of the Via Mala, the gorge of Pfeffers, and other scenes
of a similar character, I could bring to mind none to rival this for
stern sublimity. The impassable chasm that seemed to defy further
advance, the roar of the river in the deeply cut channel below, the
impending masses that towered up above us, leaving but a strip of sky
in view, combined to form such a representation of the jaws of hell as
would have satisfied the imagination of the Tuscan poet. To a botanist
the scene awoke very different associations. Before it became quite
dark I had captured several outposts of the Andean flora, not hitherto
seen. The beautiful _Tropæolum tuberosum_, with masses of flowers
smaller, but even more brilliant, than those of the common garden
species, climbed over the bushes. A fleshy-leaved _Oxalis_, the first
seen of a numerous group, came out of the crevices of the adjoining
rocks, and _Alonsoa acutifolia_, which I had never seen but in an
English greenhouse, was an additional prize.
[_ASCENT FROM PUENTE INFERNILLO._]
Night had completely fallen as we resumed our journey, and although
my curiosity was much excited in the attempt to follow the course of
the line, I utterly failed to do so. Watching the stars as guides to
our direction, where these were not cut off by the frequent tunnels, I
could only infer that we were constantly winding round sharp curves,
at times near the bottom of a deep ravine, with the roar of a torrent
close at hand, and soon after working at a dizzy height along the verge
of a precipice, with the muffled bass of a waterfall heard from out
of the depths. Even after I had travelled the reverse way in broad
daylight, I remained in some doubt as to the real structure of this
part of the line. So far as I know, the first application of a spiral
tunnel in railway construction was on the line across the Apennine
between Bologna and Florence, but the spiral is there but a semicircle;
you enter it facing north, and emerge in the opposite direction at a
higher level. A similar device has been more freely resorted to in the
construction of the St. Gothard line; but on this part of the Oroya
line, completed before that of the St. Gothard was commenced, the
spiral, if I mistake not, includes two complete circles, at the end of
which the train stands nearly vertically above the point from which it
started. It is by no means altogether a tunnel, as the form of a great
projecting buttress has allowed the line to be carried in great part
along a spiral line traced upon its flanks.
Nearly two hours after sunset we at length reached the terminus at
Chicla, very uncertain as to the resources of that place in point of
shelter and food. We had had the pleasure of meeting in the train Mr.
H----, a distinguished German statesman, who had travelled with us
in the _Islay_ on his way from California to make the tour of South
America. He was accompanied by Baron von Zoden, the German minister at
Lima. As their object was merely to see the railway line, they intended
to return on the following morning; but meanwhile we resolved to
confront together any difficulties that might arise.
The architecture of Chicla is remarkably uniform, the only differences
being in the size of the edifices. Stone, brick, tiles, slate,
and mortar are alike unknown. Planks are nailed together around a
framework, the requisite number of pieces of corrugated iron are nailed
to some rafters on the top, and the house is complete. After stepping
from the railway car and scrambling up a steep bank, we found ourselves
before the chief building of the place, a so-called hotel, kept by
a worthy German whose ill fortune had placed him on the borderland,
where for some time the place was alternately occupied by small parties
of Chilian or Peruvian troops. Besides some rooms on an upper floor
occupied by the people of the house, the hotel consisted of two large
rooms on the ground floor, where food and drink were supplied to all
comers, with an adjoining kitchen. For such fastidious travellers as
might require further sleeping accommodation than a cloak in which
to roll themselves, and a floor on which to stretch their limbs, a
long adjoining shed was provided. This was divided by thin partitions
into four or five small chambers, each capable of holding two beds.
Supper was before long provided; and when we afterwards learned the
difficulties of our host’s position, our surprise was excited more by
the merits than by the defects of the entertainment.
[_MOUNTAIN-SICKNESS._]
We had been assured at Lima that, on going up to Chicla, we should be
sure to suffer from the _soroche_, by which name the people of South
America denote mountain-sickness, familiar to those who ascend from the
coast to the plateau of the Andes. Knowing the height of Chicla to be
no more than 12,220 feet above the sea, and never having experienced
any of the usual symptoms at greater heights in Europe, I had treated
the warning with derision so far as I was personally concerned,
though not sure what effect the diminished pressure might have on my
companion. I have described elsewhere[9] my experience at Chicla,
which undoubtedly resulted from a mitigated form of mountain-sickness,
the symptoms being felt only at night, and passing away by day and
in exercise. They were confined to the first two nights, and after
the third day, during which we ascended to a height of more than two
thousand feet above Chicla, they completely disappeared.
With regard to mountain-sickness, the only matter for surprise, as
it seems to me, is that it is not more frequently felt at lower
elevations, and that the human economy is able so readily to adapt
itself to the altered conditions when transferred to an atmosphere of
say two-thirds of the ordinary density, where the diminished supply to
the lungs is aggravated by the increased mechanical effort requisite
to move the limbs, and raise the weight of the body in an attenuated
medium. Observation shows that the effects actually produced at great
heights vary much with different individuals, and that in healthy
subjects the functions after a short time adapt themselves to the new
conditions. It is obvious that this process must have a limit, which
has probably been very nearly attained in some cases.
In spite of some statements lately published, I am inclined to believe
that the utmost limit of height compatible with active exertion will
be found to lie, according to individual constitution, between twenty
and twenty-five thousand feet. As regards our experiences at Chicla,
the difficulty is to account for the fact that the effects produced
while the body is at rest should disappear during active exercise; and
whatever the nature of the disturbance of the functions, this was not
accompanied by any discernible derangement of the respiration or the
circulation. It appeared to me that the seat of disturbance, such as it
was, was limited to the nervous system.
On the evening of our arrival we met at the hotel the commandant
of the Chilian detachment, and on presenting my letter from the
commander-in-chief, he was profuse in offers of assistance. It was
speedily arranged that we should start on the following morning, to
ride as far as the tunnel at the summit of the pass to Oroya, where
I promised myself an ample harvest among the plants of the higher
region of the Andes. When morning broke, after a sleepless night with
a splitting headache, I found or fancied myself unfit for a hard
day’s work; and, my companion being in much the same plight, we sent
at an early hour to request that the excursion should be postponed
till the following day. By the time, however, that we had dressed
and breakfasted, the troubles of the night were all forgotten. A new
vegetable world was outside awaiting us, and we were soon on the
slopes above the station, where, in the person of my friend W----,
I had the advantage of a kind and zealous assistant in the work of
plant-collecting.
[_FIRST DAY IN THE ANDES._]
Deferring to a later page some remarks on the vegetation of the
Cordillera, I need merely say that of this first delightful day the
morning hours were devoted to the steep declivity of the mountain
overhanging the left bank of the stream, while the afternoon was given
to the less precipitous but more broken and irregular slopes on the
opposite, or right, bank.
Having soon made the discovery that the supplies at Chicla were very
limited, we had taken measures to procure a few creature comforts
through the obliging conductor of the train, which left Chicla, in
the morning, and was to return from Lima on the following evening.
A far more serious deficiency was at the same time apparent. I had
quite underrated the quantity of paper required to dry the harvest of
specimens that I was sure to collect here, and no one but a botanist
can measure the intensity of distress with which I viewed the prospect
of losing precious specimens, and seeing shapes of beauty converted
into repulsive masses of corruption, for want of the material necessary
for their preservation. I addressed an urgent note to Mr. Nation, on
whose sympathy as a brother naturalist I could safely count, telling
him that unless I could find two reams of suitable drying-paper on my
return, I should infallibly require accommodation in a lunatic asylum
at Lima.
The scenery at Chicla is wild, but neither very beautiful nor very
imposing. As in the lower valley of the Rimac, the slopes of the
mountains are steep, but the summits are deficient in boldness and
variety of form. Those lying on the watershed of the Cordillera, at a
distance of fifteen or twenty miles, apparently range from seventeen
to eighteen thousand feet in height, and on the first day of our
visit showed but occasional streaks and patches of snow, while the
sombre tints of the rocks exhibited little variety of hue even in the
brightest sunshine.
Although the stream at Chicla is the main branch of the Rimac, its
volume is here much reduced, not having yet received the numerous
tributaries that fall into it between this place and Matucana. It is
here no more than a brawling torrent, swelling rapidly after even a
very moderate fall of rain, but prevented from ever dwindling very low
by the snows, of which some patches at least remain at all seasons on
the upper summits of the Cordillera. In a country without wood, and
where the art of building in stone had made little progress, one of the
most serious obstacles to any advance in civilization must have arisen
from the difficulty of crossing the streams by which the upper ranges
of the Andes are everywhere intersected.
[_ANDEAN SUSPENSION BRIDGES._]
The art of constructing suspension bridges must have originated in
the subtropical zone of Eastern Peru, where the abundance of climbing
plants with long, flexible, tough stems supplied the requisite
materials. These, being light and easily transported, were everywhere
used in the valleys of the Andes to sustain hanging bridges, of
which the roadway was formed of rough basket-work. The only change
that has resulted from the introduction of European arts is that of
late years iron wire is used instead of flexible _lianes_ to sustain
the bridges; but the roadway is still made of basket-work, which is
rapidly worn by the feet of passing men and animals, and the natives
have a disagreeable habit of stopping up the holes, not by mending the
basket-work where this has begun to give way, but by laying a flat
stone over the weak place. Being very slight and not nicely adjusted,
these bridges swing to and fro under the feet of a passenger to an
extent that is at first rather startling, but, as in everything else,
habit soon makes one indifferent. Our first experience this afternoon
was very easy, as the bridge connecting the station with the _pueblo_,
or village of Chicla, was new and more solid than usual.
The little village, altogether composed of frail sheds, was occupied
by the Chilian detachment of about two hundred men, posted here to
guard the railway line. Four houses, larger than the rest, wherein the
officers had established themselves, were adorned with conspicuous
painted inscriptions worthy of the hotels of a great city. The _Fonda
del Universo_ informed the public that it contained “apartamentos para
familias,” and the rival establishments were no way inferior in the
stateliness of their titles and the inducements offered. It must be
recollected that Chicla is the first halting-place on the main, almost
the only, line of communication between the coast and a magnificent
region, as large as England, and teeming with natural resources--the
_montaña_ of Central Peru. Before the war the hostelries of Chicla were
often crowded, and the accommodation doubtless appeared sumptuous to
the wearied travellers who had been contending with the hardships of
the journey from the interior, and the passage of the double range of
the Andes.
I have already said that the supplies at our hotel were somewhat
scanty. Inquiries for eggs were met by the reply that the Chilian
soldiers had killed all the poultry, and milk was not to be thought
of, because the cows had all been driven to a distance to save them
from the Chilians. But these were only trifling inconveniences.
The experience of our German landlord was full of graver matter. A
foreigner in the interior of Peru during this abominable war is placed
between the devil and the deep sea. Having no one to protect him,
his property is at the mercy of lawless soldiery; he is an object of
suspicion to both parties, and his life is in constant peril. Our host
owed to a fortunate accident that he had not been shot by a Peruvian
party under the suspicion of having given information to the enemy.
He was certainly no lover of the invader; but, like every foreigner
in Peru, he looked forward with undisguised dread to the day when the
Chilians should depart.
[_THE CONDOR AS OFFICER OF HEALTH._]
If one had not recollected how very slowly and imperfectly the
elementary rules of health have made way in Europe, it would have
been hard to understand how men of education and intelligence, such
as the great majority of the Chilian officers, should neglect the
simplest precautions for preserving the health of themselves and
their men. We had heard that the troops at Chicla had lost many men
owing to a severe outbreak of typhoid fever, though the disease had
recently almost disappeared. The cause was not far to seek. The
ground all around the village was thickly strewn with the remains of
the numerous baggage animals that had fallen from overwork, and the
beasts that had been slaughtered by the soldiers. In South America
the only sanitary officials are the carrion-eating birds. Near the
coast the removal of offal is chiefly accomplished by the _gallinazo_,
a large black vulture; in the Andes the condor takes charge of all
carrion, and travels far in quest of it. It is likely that in the
noisy neighbourhood of a detachment of soldiers the birds were shy of
approach. If the remains had been dragged a short distance away from
the village, they would have been quickly disposed of. As it was, the
carcases were allowed to accumulate close to the sheds in which the
men were lodged until they bred a pestilence. Things were mended, they
said, at the time of our visit, yet, warned by vile emanations, I found
the carcase of a horse lying close beside the _baraque_ in which we
slept; and it was only after energetic remonstrances that I succeeded
in having it removed to some distance, where, doubtless, the condors
made a savoury meal.
We were not curious to inquire too particularly what animal had
supplied the material for our evening repast. It was enough that the
skill of the Chinese boy who acted as cook had converted it into a very
eatable dish. The work of the establishment seemed to be conducted
altogether by two boys--the Chinese cook and a young German who acted
as waiter. It was curious to notice that the intercourse between the
two was carried on in English, or what passed as such. On many another
occasion during my journey I observed the same thing. Throughout
America, and I believe that the same is true in most countries out of
Europe, English has become the _lingua franca_, the general medium of
communication between people of different nationalities.
Having felt perfectly well all day, and inclined to believe that the
discomforts of the previous night had arisen from some accidental
cause, we had no hesitation in renewing the arrangement for an
excursion to the _Tunnel en la cima_, and the Chilian commandant
readily promised to send two horses, with a soldier who was to act as
guide and escort, at seven o’clock on the following morning. Rather
late, after some hours’ work in laying out the plants collected during
the day, I lay down to sleep, but in a short time awoke with a severe
headache, accompanied by ineffectual nausea, the light supper being
already digested. It was an undoubted case of mountain-sickness,
which had to be borne through the sleepless dark hours until daylight
summoned us to rise. As on the previous day, the operations of washing
and dressing chased away the symptoms, and before seven o’clock we
were ready to start. At half-past seven we began to lose patience,
and despatched a messenger to ascertain the cause of delay. No answer
coming, we resolved to go in quest of the promised steeds, and,
shouldering the _impedimenta_, proceeded across the stream to the
_pueblo_. We soon discovered that no order had been given the night
before, and that the commandant had not yet made his appearance. The
messenger had not ventured to awake him, and thought it safest to
await events. Having discovered the high-sounding name of the “hotel”
where he lodged, I lost no time in proceeding to the double-bedded
room shared by our commander with a brother officer, and rousing them
both from sleep. Profuse excuses in excellent Spanish, with a promise
that not a moment should be lost, were but a poor salve for my growing
impatience, though policy required some faint effort at politeness,
which had to be maintained through what seemed intolerable and
interminable delays, until we at last got under way at ten o’clock.
[_NATIVE INDOLENCE._]
It was indeed aggravating to find an excursion, to accomplish which
any naturalist would gladly traverse an ocean, maimed and curtailed
by the indolence which is the curse of the American Spaniard.
One circumstance, indeed, helped to moderate the keenness of my
disappointment. Rather heavy rain had fallen throughout the night, and
the mountains about the head of the valley, previously almost clear of
snow, were now covered pretty deep down to the level of about fifteen
thousand feet. I already judged that it would be difficult, starting
so late, to reach the summit tunnel, if sufficient time were to be
reserved for botanizing. With snow on the ground the vegetation would
be concealed, and the chief interest of the expedition lost, so that I
readily made up my mind that we should not attempt to reach the summit
of the pass.
We had not gone far on the track when we came to a suspension bridge,
over which our soldier-guide rode as a matter of course. Seeing the
frail structure swing to and fro under the horse’s feet, I confess that
I felt much inclined to dismount and cross on foot; but in such cases
one remembers that whatever men or animals are accustomed to do they
are sure to do safely, and I rode on, admiring the judgment with which
my horse avoided the weak places in the basket-work under his feet.
The track is well beaten, and in easy places broad and even; but here
and there, where it climbs over some projecting buttress of rock, is
rather rougher and steeper than I have ever seen elsewhere in mountain
countries on a path intended for horsemen, excepting, perhaps, some
choice spots in the Great Atlas. It was impossible to push on rapidly,
for we overtook a succession of long trains of baggage-animals--mules,
donkeys, and llamas--moving towards the interior at a rate of little
over two miles an hour. As it was only in favourable places that it was
possible to pass, our patience went through many severe trials.
At about thirteen thousand feet above the sea we passed two farmhouses,
evidently constructed by European settlers, plain but neat in
appearance, and the fields better kept than one could have expected in
a spot so remote, each with a clump of well-grown trees of the Peruvian
elder. Higher up the scenery was constantly wilder, desolate rather
than grand, and with no trace of the presence of man until we reached
Casapalta, a small group of poor sheds now occupied by an outpost of
Chilian soldiers, nearly fourteen thousand feet above the sea.
[_ALPINE REGION IN THE ANDES._]
We had now evidently reached the true Alpine region. At the head of the
valley in front fresh snow lay on the flanks of the mountains where the
dark rugged masses of volcanic rock were not too steep to allow it to
rest, and the higher summits in the background were completely covered.
The slopes near at hand were carpeted with dwarf plants thickly set,
rising only a few inches from the surface. The only exception was an
erect spiny bush, growing about eighteen inches high, with dark orange
flowers, one of the characteristic Andean forms--_Chuquiraga spinosa_.
The guide seemed disposed to halt here, but we had not yet reached our
goal, and we pushed on for about three miles, to a point about 14,400
feet in height, where it seemed judicious to call a halt. For some time
the horses had begun to show symptoms of distress. The spirited animal
which I rode panted heavily in ascending the gentle slope, and at last
was forced to stop and gasp for breath every thirty or forty yards.
Near at hand a slender stream had cut a channel through some rough
rocks, and promised a harvest of moisture-loving Alpine plants; and
opposite to us, on the northern side of the valley, a wild glen opened
up a vista of snow-covered summits, of which the more distant appeared
to reach a height of about eighteen thousand feet.
It was now about one o’clock, and, our light early breakfast being
long since forgotten, we hastily swallowed our provision of sandwiches
formed of the contents of a sardine-box, which, flavoured with the pure
cold water of the stream, seemed delicious. Although the sun which
had shone upon us during the morning was now covered with clouds,
and we were very lightly dressed, no sensation of cold was felt at
this height, and I do not believe that the thermometer at any time
during the day fell below 50°. Doubtless the feverish excitement of
those unique two hours of botanizing in a new world left no space
for sensitiveness to other influences. The mountain-sickness of the
previous night was utterly forgotten, and no sensation of inconvenience
was felt during the day.
Reserving some remarks on the botany of this excursion, there is yet
to be mentioned here one plant of the upper region so singular that
it must attract the notice of every traveller. As we ascended from
Casapalta we noticed patches of white which from a distance looked like
snow. Seen nearer at hand, they had the appearance of large, rounded,
flattened cushions, some five or six feet in diameter, and a foot high,
covered with dense masses of floss silk that glistened with a silvery
lustre. The unwary stranger who should be tempted to use one of these
for a seat would suffer from the experiment. The plant is of the cactus
family, and the silky covering conceals a host of long, slender,
needle-like spines, that penetrate the flesh, easily break, and are
most difficult to extract. Unfortunately, the living specimen which I
sent to Kew did not survive the journey.
[_THE CONDOR AT HOME._]
At about three o’clock it was necessary to think of returning.
Several precious plants had been passed on the way and remained to be
collected, and it was only prudent to return to our quarters before
night, which here falls so abruptly. Soon after we started along the
descending track, a whirring sound overhead caused us to look up. Two
magnificent condors swooped down from the upper region, and, wheeling
round about forty feet above our heads, described a half circle, and,
having satisfied their curiosity, soared again to a vast height, till
they seemed mere black specks in the sky. Meanwhile my horse, fresh
after the long halt, and apparently delighted at the prospect of
returning to pleasanter quarters, broke into a gallop, and throughout
the way it cost me some trouble to restrain his impatience.
As we drew near Chicla, there being yet half an hour of daylight, we
dismounted and dismissed our guide with the horses, thus being able to
secure several plants not seen elsewhere. One of these was a solitary
plant of the common potato, growing in a wild place among dwarf bushes
near the stream. I do not, however, attach any importance to the fact
as evidence on the disputed question of the true home of a plant which
in South America has been cultivated from remote antiquity. The valley
of the Rimac has doubtless been a frequented highway since long before
the Spanish conquest, and, as we know, the plant spreads easily in
favourable conditions. As far as I know, all the evidence as to the
plant being indigenous in Peru and Bolivia is open to suspicion, and
the only part of the continent where it can be said to be certainly a
native is Southern Chili and the sub-Alpine region of the Chilian Andes.
The excursion to the upper region apparently completed the work of
acclimatization. We slept soundly, and no symptoms of _soroche_ was
afterwards experienced. When I sallied forth on the morning of the 23rd
in quest of breakfast, which was made luxurious by a tin of Swiss milk
received by the train from Lima, I found my friend W---- conversing in
English with a Chilian officer. This gentleman, introduced as Captain
B----, the son of English parents, was about proceeding in command of
a small detachment to occupy some place beyond the Cordillera. The
number of Englishmen in the Chilian service is not small, and there is
no part of South America where the conditions of climate, the habits of
life, and the character of the people seem to be so well suited to our
countrymen.
One of the sights of Chicla was the daily despatch of trains of laden
animals towards the interior. In the opposite direction the traffic was
very limited, for since the war the working of the silver mines about
Cerro de Pasco has been suspended, and little of the produce of the
montaña now makes its way to the coast. But, war or no war, the wants
of the inland population, living in a region which produces nothing
but food and raw material, must in some measure be supplied. There
was nothing very new in seeing goods packed on the backs of mules
and donkeys, but the llamas and their ways were a continual source of
interest. If the body be somewhat ungainly, the head with its large
lustrous eyes may fairly be called beautiful. They vary extremely in
colour. The prevailing hues are between light brown and buff, but we
saw many quite white, and a few nearly black, with a good many mottled
in large patches of white, and dark brown. The legs appear weak, and
the animal can bear but a light burthen. On the mountain tracks, the
load for a mule is three hundred pounds, that for a donkey two hundred
pounds, while a llama can carry no more than a hundred pounds; and
when any one attempts to increase the load, the animal lies down and
moans piteously. He seems, indeed, not yet thoroughly resigned to
domesticity, and there is a note of ineffectual complaint about his
bearing and about all the sounds which he emits. One morning I was so
much struck by what appeared to be the wailing of a child or a woman in
distress, that I followed the sound until, behind a rock, I discovered
a solitary llama that had somehow been separated from his companions.
The advantage of the llama in the highlands of Peru, where fodder is
scarce and must often be carried from a distance, is that he is able to
shift for himself. Where the herbage is so coarse and so scanty that a
donkey would starve, the llama picks up a living from the woody stems
of the dwarf bushes that creep along the surface.
[_HABITS OF THE LLAMA._]
Supposing that most of the plants growing on the slopes around Chicla
had been collected two days before, I expected to find it expedient to
go to some distance from the village on the 23rd. But I had formed
an inadequate idea of the richness of the Andean flora. Commencing
with a ridge of rocks on the opposite side of the valley, only a few
hundred yards from the ground before traversed, I found so many new and
interesting forms of vegetation that at the end of three or four hours
of steady work I had ascended only four or five hundred feet above the
village, and I believe that ample occupation for a week’s work to a
collector might be found within one mile of the Chicla station.
As already arranged, we decided to return to Lima on the morning of the
24th of April. If other engagements had not made this necessary, the
condition of my collections would have forced me to retreat. It was
certain that without a speedy supply of drying-paper a large portion
must be lost. As we were despatching an early breakfast, we were struck
by the appearance of a tall, vigorous, resolute-looking man, booted up
to the thighs, who had arrived during the previous night. He turned
out to be a fellow-countryman, one of that adventurous class that have
supplied the pioneers of civilization to so many regions of the earth.
This gentleman had settled in the montaña of Eastern Peru, at a height
of only about four thousand feet above the sea. His account of the
country was altogether attractive, and it was only after entering into
some details that one began to think that a man of a less cheerful and
enterprising disposition might have given a less favourable report. The
place which he has selected is only some twenty leagues distant from
the river Ucayali, one of the great tributaries of the Maranon, which
is destined hereafter to be the channel for direct water-communication
between Eastern Peru and the Atlantic coast. At present the only
obstacle to communication is the fact that the country near the river
is occupied by a tribe of fierce and hostile Indians, who allow no
passage through their country. The climate was described by our
informant as quite delightful and salubrious, the soil as most fertile,
suitable for almost all tropical produce, and many of the plants of
temperate regions, and the supposed inconveniences as unimportant.
Jaguars are, indeed, common, but the chief objection to them is that
they make it difficult to keep poultry. Poisonous snakes exist, but the
prejudice against them is unreasonably strong. No case of any one dying
from snake-bite had occurred at our informant’s location.
[_THE MONTAÑA OF PERU._]
One drawback he did, indeed, freely admit. There was scarcely any
limit to be set to the productive capabilities of the country, but,
beyond what could serve for personal consumption, it was hard to say
what could be done with the crops. He was then engaged in trying the
possibility of transporting some of the more valuable produce of his
farming to Lima. The journey had been one of extreme difficulty. In
some of the valleys heavy rains had washed away tracks and carried
away bridges, and he had been driven back to seek a passage by some
other route. About one-half of his train of mules with their loads
had been carried away by torrents, or otherwise lost; but our buoyant
countryman, now virtually arrived at his journey’s end, seemed to think
the experiment a fairly successful one. He had received no news from
England since the beginning of the previous November, so that one or
two newspapers five weeks old were eagerly accepted.
The return journey from Chicla to Lima was easy and agreeable, but
offered little of special interest. I noticed a curious illustration
of the effects of the sea-breeze on vegetation even at a distance of
thirty or forty miles from the coast. As we descended, I observed that
the acacias which abound in the middle zone of the valley were densely
covered with masses of the white flowers of a climbing _Mikania_, quite
masking the natural aspect of the shrub. I thought it strange that
this appearance should not have struck me while on my way ascending
the valley. On closer attention, I saw that the _Mikania_ was entirely
confined to the eastern side of the acacia, so that the same shrub,
looked at from the western side, showed no trace either of the leaves
or flowers of the visitor. On reaching the Lima station, I was kindly
greeted by Mr. Nation, who at once relieved my most pressing anxiety by
telling me that I should find two reams of filtering paper awaiting me
at my hotel.
[_CLIMATE OF THE PERUVIAN ANDES._]
Having given in the twenty-second volume of the _Journal of the Linnæan
Society_ a list of the plants collected during my excursion in the
Cordillera, it is needless to overload these pages with technical
names, and I shall content myself with a few general remarks on the
vegetation of this region, amidst which I passed a brief period of
constantly renewed admiration and delight. In the first place, the
general character of the flora of Chicla differed altogether from my
anticipations, for the simple reason that the climate is completely
different from what might, under ordinary conditions, be expected. I
had seen reason to conjecture that, in ascending from the Pacific coast
to the Cordillera, the rate of diminution of mean temperature would be
less considerable than in most other parts of the world, but I was no
way prepared to find it so slight as it really is. During the time of
my visit, the mean temperature at Lima, 448 feet above the sea, was
very nearly 70°, while the annual mean appears to be 66·6° Fahr.[10]
The mean temperature at Chicla at the same season was estimated by me
at 54°, with a maximum of 65·7°, and a minimum of 42°, and the first
figure probably approximates to the annual mean. For a difference in
height of 11,774 feet this would give an average fall of 1° Fahr. for
935 feet of elevation, or 1° Cent. for 512 metres; whereas, as is well
known,[11] the ordinary estimate found in physical treatises, resulting
chiefly from the observations of Humboldt, would give for Equatorial
America a fall of 1° Fahr. for about 328 English feet of increased
altitude, or 1° Cent. for 180 metres. This rate of decrease would give
a fall of 36·6° Fahr. in ascending from Lima to Chicla, whereas, as
we have seen, the difference is probably little more than one-third,
certainly less than one-half, of that amount. It is, therefore, with
some astonishment that the stranger, arriving in this region of the
Cordillera, finds himself amidst a vegetation characteristic of the
Temperate zone,[12] and that many of the most conspicuous species are
such as in mid-Europe require the protection of a greenhouse. Amongst
the more attractive and characteristic of the Andean flora, I may
mention five species of _Calceolaria_, _Alonsoa_, two fine _Loasaceæ_
(one with large deep orange flowers and stiff hairs that penetrate
the gloves, the other a climber with yellow flowers), several bushy
_Solanaceæ_, and a beautiful clematis, which may hereafter adorn
European gardens.
Along with many types of vegetation peculiar to the Andes, or more or
less widely diffused throughout the Western continent, it was very
interesting to a botanist from Europe to find so large a proportion
of the indigenous plants belong to types which characterize the
mountain vegetation of our continent. Of the genera in which the
plants collected by me are to be classed, fully one-half belong to
this category, and these genera include more than an equal proportion
of species. I find, indeed, that fully sixty per cent. of the species
in my collection belong to European genera, but that, with trifling
exceptions, the species are distinct and confined to the Andean region.
The reasonable conclusion is that the types which are thus common to
distant regions must be of very great antiquity, and that the ancestors
of the existing species must have spread widely at a very remote period
of the world’s history. Most of the plants in question belong to genera
having very numerous species, of which it may be presumed that the
parent forms possessed a strong tendency to variation.
[_FLORA OF THE PERUVIAN ANDES._]
The only tree seen at Chicla is a species of elder--_Sambucus
Peruviana_ of botanists--not widely differing from the common black
elder of Europe.
Along with the numerous allies of the Old-World flora that characterize
the indigenous vegetation, it was somewhat remarkable to find, in the
upper valley of the Rimac, a number of cosmopolitan weeds, most of them
common in Europe, which appear to have become thoroughly naturalized.
Most of these, which are also found in the coast region of Peru, were
undoubtedly introduced by the Spaniards; but there are a few, such as
the common chickweed, whose wide diffusion throughout the world seems
to me to be more probably due to transport by birds.
To the botanist, the most interesting features in the Andean flora are
supplied by the great family of _Compositæ_. To this belong nearly
one-fourth of all the plants collected by me, and nearly one-third
of those found in the higher Alpine region; and, as far as available
materials allow me to judge, I believe these to be about the true
proportions for the higher parts of the Andean chain. It is further
remarkable that of the thirteen tribes into which the 780 genera and
10,000 species of this family have been divided, all but the two
smallest tribes--_Calendulaceæ_ and _Arctotideæ_--are represented in
the Andes. To the European botanist, the most interesting group is that
of the _Mutisiaceæ_, which is especially characteristic of the South
American flora. Of 420 known species belonging to this tribe, fully
350 are exclusively American, the remainder being distributed through
Australasia, and from South Africa to Southern Asia. They exhibit many
unfamiliar forms very unlike what we are used to find elsewhere in the
world. One of the first plants which I gathered was a tall, straggling
climber with pinnate leaves ending in a tendril. I naturally thought of
the vetch tribe, but I observed that the leaves were without stipules,
and that the leaflets were not articulated to the midrib. Great,
however, was my surprise when, on finding a flowering specimen, it
revealed itself as a composite belonging to the genus _Mutisia_.
Next to the _Compositæ_, the grasses are of all the natural orders the
most largely represented in the Andean flora, but with the difference
that nearly all belong to genera common to the mountain regions of
Europe. The species are indeed different, but the general aspect does
not strike the European botanist as presenting any marked features of
novelty.
[_FLORA OF THE ALPINE ZONE._]
One further characteristic of the flora of Chicla is the great
variety of species to be found within a small area. In this respect
it seemed to me to rival the flora of Southern Spain and Asia Minor,
which are known to be exceptionally rich in endemic forms. I am, of
course, unable to judge whether in this part of the Andes the species
are localized to nearly the same degree as in those parts of the
Mediterranean region, and it is at least possible that the individual
species which I saw crowded together at Chicla may have a relatively
wide geographical range. The only social species, in some places
covering large patches on the steep slopes, is a lupen growing in dense
bushy masses.
Again guarding myself from the temptation to draw positive inferences
from very slight opportunities for observation, I may add a few
remarks on what I saw of the flora of the upper or Alpine zone of
the Cordillera. This appears to be far more sharply defined at its
lower limit than that which I shall designate as the temperate zone.
In the latter, although the nights are at all seasons cool, actual
frost is rarely experienced, and snow never lies on the ground. In
the upper or Alpine zone, on the contrary, night frosts recur not
unfrequently throughout the year, snow falls from time to time, more
frequent in winter--from May to August--but does not lie long enough
to provide a season of complete rest to the vegetative organs. To the
influence of these conditions we may probably attribute the chief
characteristics of the flora. With scarcely an exception, the species
of this zone are stunted in growth, rising but a few inches from the
surface, but have much developed prostrate or creeping woody stems, or
underground rhizomes. Compared with the middle, or temperate, zone,
the species generally belong to the same natural groups. Some of the
families, however, which are characteristic of the middle zone, such as
_Loasaceæ_, _Verbenaceæ_, and _Solanaceæ_, do not appear to reach the
higher region.
Of forms characteristic of the Alpine region of mountains in the Old
World I observed several; _e.g._ _Geranium_, _Astragalus_, _Valeriana_,
_Draba_, a saxifrage, and a very small gentian.
To sum up my impressions as to the flora of the western slopes of the
Cordillera, I should say that it appears to be naturally divided into
three well-marked zones. The lower, or subtropical, extending to about
eight thousand feet above the sea, characterized by deficient rainfall,
moderate heat continued throughout the year, and a complete absence of
cold, the thermometer rarely falling below 50°. The species here mainly
belong to genera characteristic of the flora of tropical America, but,
owing to the climatal conditions, are limited in number, and do not
include groups requiring much moisture.
The middle, or temperate, zone, extending from about eight thousand to
about thirteen thousand feet above the sea, possesses a very varied
flora which includes many groups characteristic of the Andes, and
entirely or mainly confined to that range, with representatives of
numerous genera that are widely diffused through the temperate regions
of the northern hemisphere, and a smaller number of representative
species of groups belonging to the tropical American flora. The climate
of this region is marked by the absence of all extremes of temperature.
Cool nights, in which frosts are infrequent and of short duration,
alternate with days wherein the shade temperature rarely surpasses 70°.
The division between the temperate and subtropical zones is marked
rather by the more frequent, though moderate, rainfall, which in the
former recurs at intervals throughout the year, than by any marked
change of temperature. Hence there may be distinguished a rather broad
intermediate zone in which many of the characteristic forms of each
meet and are intermingled; but this does not appear to be defined by
any genera, or even by more than a few species peculiar to it, and does
not deserve to be treated apart in a general survey of the flora.
[_DIVISIONS OF THE ANDEAN FLORA._]
The upper, or Alpine, zone of the Cordillera, extending from about
thirteen thousand feet to the utmost limit of vegetation, is well
defined by the circumstance that night frosts here recur throughout
the year, and snow lies at least occasionally on the surface, while a
somewhat greater amount of aqueous precipitation, in the form of rain
or snow, combined with diminished evaporation, maintains a moderate
degree of moisture in the soil. The proportion borne by some groups of
the characteristic Andean flora as compared with the entire vegetable
population is here larger than in the temperate zone, but other types
better adapted to the climate of the latter zone are here nearly or
altogether wanting. The forms common to the north temperate zone are
present in about an equal proportion, while the representatives of the
tropical flora are but very few.
With reference to the opinion expressed by writers of authority, and
especially by Engler,[13] that the Andean flora is exceptionally rich
in endemic genera and species, and to the explanation which would
account for the facts, first, by the greater facility afforded for
the extension of new varieties in dry climates, where the soil is not
continuously covered by the existing vegetation; and, secondly, by the
isolation of the summits, favouring the development of special local
forms, I may venture on some sceptical remarks.
When we are struck by the large number of genera and species that are
exclusively confined to the Andean flora, we are apt to forget the vast
extent of the region which we are contemplating. Even if we exclude the
mountains of Central America, and also those of Southern Chili, from
Araucania to the Straits of Magellan, we have in the Andes a mountain
region considerably more than three thousand miles in length, and from
two hundred to over five hundred miles in breadth. This vast region is
as yet far from being sufficiently explored to enable us to fix the
geographical limits of its genera and species with any precision; but
it appears to me that, while a very large number of genera are limited
to the Andes as a whole region, the range of most of them within the
limits of that region is very wide. I am further disposed to form a
similar opinion as to the distribution of the species if compared to
what is found in some other mountain districts. If we were to find in
South America anything like the variety of species limited to very
small areas that is encountered in Southern Spain, Greece, Asia Minor,
and Southern Persia, where on each mountain that we ascend we find
several well-marked local species, differing from those in similar
stations a few miles distant, the catalogue of the Andean flora would
have to be extended to three or four times its actual length.
[_PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF THE ANDES._]
Fully agreeing, as I do, with Engler in his general conclusion that dry
climates are more favourable than moist ones to the development of new
varieties, which are the ancestors of future new species, I must remark
that in the Andes, so far as we know, the species with very restricted
area abound more in the upper zone, where the soil is relatively moist,
than in the drier middle or lower zones. Nor does it appear that
isolation of the summits can be with reason invoked as an explanation.
The most marked feature in the range, and one that geologists have
perhaps not taken enough to heart, is the extremely continuous
character of the crest of the range, especially on the western side, as
is evidenced by the fact that from Colombia to Southern Chili there are
so very few passes below the limit at which snow frequently lies on the
surface. For a rational explanation of the facts as to the distribution
of mountain floras, we are forced to assume that the various agencies
which are in daily operation--birds and land animals, winds, etc.--are
competent to effect the transference of the great majority of species
from one mountain to another not very far removed; and if that be
true in districts where peaks are separated by arms of the sea or by
intervals of low country having a very different climate, the process
must be still easier in a chain so continuous as that of the Andes.
On the evening of the 24th I had the advantage of meeting the
representatives of nearly all the European powers then present at Lima
at the table of Don R. C----, a native gentleman of large fortune and
influential position. The entertainment might properly be described as
sumptuous, and, excepting in some royal palaces, could not easily be
matched in Europe. One feature, indeed, was unique, and appealed to the
susceptibility of a botanist. The vases heaped with choice specimens
of tropical fruits could scarcely have been seen out of Peru. The
occasion was not one on which political questions could with propriety
be discussed, but I was struck by the complete agreement amongst men
of various nationalities, whose duty it was to know the real state of
things, as to the formidable prospect of anarchy and disorder that must
ensue whenever the Chilian forces should be withdrawn from Lima and the
adjoining provinces--a prospect, I need scarcely add, that has been
since fully realized.
Soon after sunrise on the 25th Mr. Nation was good enough to call for
me. We had agreed to make a short excursion along the bed of the Rimac,
the best, if not the only, ground near the city where one can form
some idea of the indigenous vegetation of the low country. As happens
elsewhere, the river has carried down seeds or roots of many plants of
the valley, which find a home on its broad gravelly bed, while the
continual moisture has enabled many species of the plain, elsewhere
dried up at this season, to maintain a vigorous growth. The little
expedition was full of interest, and, with the aid of Mr. Nation’s
extensive local knowledge, I was able to make acquaintance with many
forms of vegetation not hitherto seen. It was necessary to return early
to the town, as my Chicla collections required many hours of diligent
work until nightfall, when I had the pleasure of joining an agreeable
party at the house of Mr. Graham, the British _chargé d’affaires_.
[_M. LOMBARDI._]
Among other scientific or social engagements, I called on the following
day upon M. Lombardi, the author of a voluminous work on Peru, of which
three large volumes have already appeared. M. Lombardi is a man of
varied and extensive acquirements, especially in natural history, and
in the course of frequent travels through the interior has accumulated
a large mass of new materials of no slight value. Unfortunately, his
work has been planned on a scale needlessly vast and costly; and now
that the funds, at one time freely supplied by the Government, are
no longer forthcoming, the prospect of its completion seems rather
uncertain. The drawings and dissections of many species of plants from
the higher regions of the Andes not hitherto figured, which M. Lombardi
was good enough to show me, appeared to be very carefully executed, and
their publication, in whatever form, would be welcomed by botanists.
[_A PERUVIAN SUGAR PLANTATION._]
I had accepted an invitation to visit on the 27th a _hacienda_
belonging to Don R. C---- and his brothers at a place called
Caudivilla, about twenty miles north of Lima. In company with an
agreeable party of the officers of two Italian frigates then stationed
at Callao, we started by the railway which runs parallel to the coast
from Lima to Ancon and Chancay. At a station about three miles from the
hacienda, we left the main line, and were conveyed to our destination
on a private line of railway belonging to the estate. This is a tract
of flat country about eight miles long by four in breadth, extending
to the base of the outermost spurs of the Cordillera, and watered
by a stream from the higher range in the background. It is almost
exclusively devoted to sugar-cultivation, and in the large buildings
which we inspected the whole process of extracting sugar and rum from
the cane was proceeding on a large scale, and with the aid of the most
complete machinery and apparatus. Although some fifteen hundred workmen
are employed upon the works, it appeared as if human labour played but
a small part in the processes wherein steam power was the chief agent.
Trains of small trucks, laden with sugar-cane cut to the right length,
were drawn up an incline, the contents of each tilted in turn into a
huge vat, wherein it was speedily crushed. We followed the torrent of
juice which constantly flowed from this reservoir through a succession
of large chambers until it reached the final stage, in which, purified
and condensed, it is at once converted into crystals of pure sugar when
thrown off by the centrifugal action of a rapidly revolving axis, while
the colourless pellucid product which is to furnish the rum of commerce
was conveyed into vessels whose dimensions would put to shame the great
tun of Heidelberg.
I confess to having felt less interest in the industrial results of
this admirably conducted estate, than in what I was able to learn of
the human beings employed and their relations to their employers; and
I found here matter for agreeable surprise. The workmen are partly
agricultural labourers engaged in the sugar-plantation and other
outdoor work, partly those employed in and about the factory. Among
them were representatives of various races, the Chinese being perhaps
in a majority, but with a considerable proportion of negroes and
half-caste natives of Peru. I was struck at first with a general air
of well-being among all the working people, and I found this easily
accounted for when I saw more of the arrangements made for their
benefit.
Among other departments we were shown the hospital, small, but
perfectly clean and airy, in which there were only three or four
patients, and a school with a cheerful-looking young mistress
surrounded by jolly-looking little children, who came forward unasked
to display their acquirements in spelling. But what particularly
pleased me was the large eating-house, or restaurant, where we found
hundreds of workmen at their midday meal. They were not marshalled
at long tables, but sitting in small groups round separate tables,
every man choosing his own company, and calling for the dish which
he preferred. Seeing these men, each with his napkin, enjoying his
selected food, I could not help thinking that in the article of diet
they are better off than a traveller in many parts of Europe, to say
nothing of the population of the British Islands. I was assured that
no profit whatever was made on this branch of the establishment.
There was no pretence of philanthropy, but simply the intelligent view
that as a mere matter of business it answered best that the working
men should feel themselves to be well off. In point of fact, the mere
threat to discharge a man from his employment is usually found to be
sufficient to maintain order and industry.
There was little time available for botanizing here, and, the ground
being all under cultivation, little of any interest to be found. On
the way back I secured one of the beautiful reeds (_Gynerium_) which
abound in tropical America. Herbarium specimens give little idea of a
grass which, in moist situations, is from twenty to twenty-five feet in
height, and whose flowering panicle is from four to five feet long.
On the following day, April 28, Mr. Nation again acted as my guide in a
short walk about the outskirts of the city on the south and south-west
sides. Nothing could be more uninviting than the appearance of the
ground, which consists of volcanic sand, in most places completely bare
of vegetation, but strewn with the refuse of the city, skeletons of
cattle, and all sorts of _rejectamenta_, which make it the favourite
resort of the black gallinazo (_Cathartes atratas_), the universal
scavenger in this part of South America. The bird is deservedly
protected by the population, which probably owes to its activity
protection from pestilence. On the banks of some ditches and drains,
and on some patches of waste land moistened by infiltration, we found
several interesting plants. It was not evidence of the good character
of the lower class in Lima to observe that on these occasions Mr.
Nation carried a loaded revolver in his breast-pocket.
[_SUPPOSED ANCIENT BEACHES._]
Amongst various items of information received from Mr. Nation, I
was especially interested in the facts which he had observed in the
neighbourhood of Lima regarding the disintegration of the exposed
volcanic rocks. As he was kind enough to give me a written memorandum
on the subject, along with specimens of the objects referred to, I
think it better to give the substance in his own words.
“In one of the earlier editions of his ‘Principles of Geology,’ Sir
Charles Lyell, on the authority of Mr. Cruikshank, speaks of the
evidence afforded of a considerable rise of land in the neighbourhood
of Lima by the appearance of the surface of hard green sandstone rocks
hollowed out into precisely the forms which they assume between high
and low water mark on the shores of the Pacific, while immediately
below these water-worn lines are ancient beaches strewn with rounded
blocks. One of these cliffs appears on the hill behind the Baños del
Pingro, about seven hundred feet above the contiguous valley; another
occurs at Amancaes, about two hundred feet above the sea;[14] and
others at intermediate elevations.” Mr. Nation remarks that, having
seen these appearances soon after his arrival at Lima, continued
observation during more than twenty-five years has satisfied him not
only that the hollows spoken of in the surface of the rocks are
larger than they were, but that many new ones have been formed during
the interval. He is satisfied that the appearances, which, he admits,
exactly resemble those caused by the sea on shore rocks, are due to
subaërial action. The chief agent, in his opinion, is a cryptogamic
plant growing on the surface of the rock. During a great part of the
year, when dense fogs prevail at this elevation, the plant is in active
vegetation. In the alternations of relative dryness and dampness of the
air the cells swell and mechanically remove scales from the surface,
which are seen to accumulate rapidly in the course of a single season.
Having submitted a specimen of the cryptogam in question to the eminent
lichenologist, Mr. Crombie, I am informed that the plant belongs to the
group of lowly organized lichens, now distinguished as the _Ephebacei_,
but formerly referred to the _Algæ_. In the absence of fructification,
Mr. Crombie is unable to decide whether the specimen should be
referred to _Sirosiphon_ or _Spilonema_; but he is sceptical as to the
possibility of any direct chemical action upon the rock arising from
the growth of the lichen. Some indirect action may, in his opinion,
be due to retention of moisture on surfaces covered by the lichen.
This opinion is strengthened when it is remembered that the rock is
not affected by carbonic acid, which might be derived from the air, or
by vegetable acids which might be formed by the decomposition of the
lichen. I am disposed to think that vicissitudes of temperature play a
great part in the disintegration of rock surfaces, and such action must
be increased by alternations of moisture and dryness which must occur
where, during a great part of the year, the hills are covered with fog
in the morning and exposed to the sun in the afternoon.
[_DISINTEGRATION OF ROCKS._]
In connection with this subject I may remark that, in countries where
the rainfall is very slight or altogether deficient, we are apt to
be misled by the appearance of the surface, and to much overrate the
real amount of disintegration. In the drier parts of the Mediterranean
region, especially in Egypt, as well as in Peru and Chili, we
constantly see rocky slopes covered with fine _débris_ which represent
the accumulated work of many centuries, remaining _in situ_ because
there is no agency at work to remove it, while in countries where
the slopes are frequently exposed to the action of running water
fresh surfaces are subjected to the action of the atmosphere, and the
comminuted materials are carried to a distance to form alluvial flats,
to fill up lakes, or ultimately to reach the sea-coast. A somewhat
similar remark may be made with regard to rock surfaces habitually
covered with snow and very rarely exposed to heavy rain. I have often
observed in the Alps and Pyrenees that, when the snow disappears during
the short summer of the higher regions, we generally find the surface
covered with small fragments of the underlying rock, not removed by
the slow percolation of water during the melting of the snow. The same
phenomenon long ago attracted the attention of Darwin during his short
excursion across the passes of the Chilian Andes.
I regretted much that my very short stay at Lima left me no time to
visit the places where these curious appearances may be observed; but
I trust that they may engage the attention of some future traveller
more competent than myself to thoroughly investigate them.
The morning of the 29th of April, my last day in Peru, was fully
employed in needful preparations. As is usual in South America, I was
troubled by the dilatory habits of the natives. The passport, which was
promised in the morning, and without which, as I was told, I should not
be allowed to depart, was not forthcoming until late in the afternoon;
and at length I went, after bidding farewell to my travelling
companions and to some new friends, by the four-o’clock train to
Callao, too late to have any time for visiting the surroundings of that
curious place. The _Ayacucho_ steamer of the Pacific Steam Navigation
Company had already left her moorings, and lay in the outer harbour.
Having hurried on board rather after the hour named for departure, I
found that my haste was quite superfluous, as we were not under way
till long after dark, about nine p.m.
I quitted Lima full of the interest and enjoyment of my brief visit,
but full also of the sense of depression necessarily caused by the
condition of a country whose future prospects are so dark. The ruinous
war, and the occupation of the best part of Peru by a foreign army, are
far from being the heaviest of her misfortunes. It may even be that
they afford the best chance for her recovery. The immediate prospect
is that of a feeble military despotism, tempered by anarchy. It seems
possible that amongst the classes hitherto wealthy, and now reduced to
comparative want, men of a type superior to the ordinary political
adventurer may come forward; some strong man, with resolute will and
clear insight, may possibly arise, and re-establish order in the midst
of a moral chaos; but of such a deliverance there is as yet no promise.
Conversing with men of very different opinions, I was unable to hear of
any man whose name inspired confidence. Some such feeling had existed
with regard to the President Pardo, but when he was assassinated no
serious attempt was made to detect and punish his murderers. The only
opinion which appeared to obtain general assent was that the worst of
the adventurers who have been the curse of Peru was the late dictator
Pierola.
[_DARK FUTURE OF PERU._]
One thing, at least, appears certain: if Peru is to be rescued from
anarchy and corruption, it must be through the influence of a single
will--by a virtual, if not a formal, autocracy. To believe that in such
a condition of society as exists here progress can be accomplished by
representative institutions seems to me as gross a superstition as the
belief in the divine right of kings.