Voyage from Callao to Valparaiso--Arica--Tocopilla--Scenery of
the moon--Caldera--Aspect of North Chili--British Pacific
squadron--Coquimbo--Arrival at Valparaiso--Climate and vegetation
of Central Chili--Railway journey to Santiago--Aspect of the
city--Grand position of Santiago--Dr. Philippi--Excursion
to Cerro St. Cristobal--Don B. Vicuña Mackenna--Remarkable
trees--Excursion to the baths of Cauquenes--The first
rains--Captive condors--Return to Santiago--Glorious sunset.
The voyage from Callao to Valparaiso was accomplished under conditions
as favourable to the comfort and enjoyment of the passengers as that
from Panama to Callao. The _Ayacucho_ is a larger ship than the
_Islay_, but built on a nearly similar plan, and except towards the end
of the voyage, when we took on board a detachment of Chilian soldiers
returning to Valparaiso, we had no inconvenience from overcrowding.
I was very fully occupied in the endeavour to preserve and put away
in good condition the rather large collections made during my stay in
Peru. Notwithstanding the character of the climate, I found the usual
difficulty felt at sea in getting my paper thoroughly dry, and for
several days the work was unceasing. It had the effect of preventing my
going ashore at two or three places which at the time appeared to me
uninteresting, but which I afterwards regretted not to have visited.
[_RAILWAY TO BOLIVIA._]
By daylight on the morning of April 30 we were off Tambo de Mora, a
small place near the mouth of the river Canete, which, at some seasons,
is said to bring down a large volume of water from the Cordillera.
After a very short stay we went on to Pisco, a more considerable place,
but unattractive as seen from the sea, surrounded by sandy barren
flats. It is, however, of some commercial importance, being connected
by railway with Yca, the chief town of this part of Peru; and we
remained in the roads about three hours, pursuing our voyage in the
evening.
Our course on May 1 lay rather far from land, this being the only day
during the voyage on which we did not touch at one or more ports.
Under ordinary circumstances all the coast steamers call at Mollendo,
the terminus of the railway leading to Arequipa, and thence to the
highlands of southern Peru and the frontier of Bolivia. Arequipa being
at this time occupied by a Peruvian force, and communication with the
interior being therefore irregular and difficult, Mollendo was touched
only on alternate voyages of the Pacific steamers.
I was impressed by the case of a Bolivian family on board which seemed
to involve great hardship. An elderly father, with the manners and
bearing of an educated gentleman, had taken a numerous family, chiefly
young girls, with several servants, to Europe, to visit Spanish
relations, and was now on his way to return to La Paz. The choice lay
for him between the direct land journey from Arica, involving a ride
of some two hundred miles through a difficult country, partly almost a
desert, and partly through the defiles of the Cordillera, or returning
by another steamer to Mollendo, and thence making his way between the
hostile Chilian and Peruvian forces to the shores of his native lake of
Titicaca. There was, in the latter case, the additional difficulty that
Mollendo is about the worst port on the western coast of America. It
is, in fact, an open roadstead, and, although there is little wind, the
swell from the Pacific often breaks with a heavy surf upon the shore,
and serious accidents are not infrequent. As all seamen are agreed, the
terminus of the railway should have been fixed at Quilca, about the
same distance from Arequipa as Mollendo, and, as usual in Peru, the
selection of the latter is attributed to a corrupt bargain.
Early on May 2 we cast anchor opposite Arica. There is nothing
deserving to be called a harbour; but a projecting headland on the
south side of the little town protects the roadstead from the southerly
breeze and the swell, which was here scarcely perceptible. On landing,
I hastened along the shore on the north side, where a fringe of low
bushes and some patches of rusty green gave promise to the botanist,
and broke the monotony of the incessant grey which is the uniform tint
of the Pacific coast from Payta to Coquimbo. As at very many other
places on the coast, the maps indicate a stream from the Cordillera
falling into the sea at Arica, but the traveller searches in vain for
running water, or even for a dry channel to show where the stream
ought to run. Nevertheless, Arica, unlike the places farther south,
does actually possess fresh water in some abundance. The water from
the Cordillera filters through the sandy belt of low country near the
coast, and there are springs or wells sufficing not only for the local
demand, but also for the wants of Iquique, a much more considerable
place more than eighty miles distant. The little steamer whose office
it is to carry the weekly supply of water to the Iquique people was
taking her cargo on board at the moment, and one was at a loss to
imagine what would happen if any mischance should befall the steamer or
the engine. It is certain that under the intelligent rule of the Incas,
many places now parched were made habitable by aqueducts carrying
water from the mountains, and there are probably many other places
where water might be procured by boring; but the porous character of
the superficial soil makes this an uncertain resource, and the general
uniformity of all the deposits gives little prospect of Artesian wells.
[_WATER SUPPLY ON THE COAST._]
Near to the town are a few meagre attempts at cultivation in the shape
of vegetable gardens, surrounded by ditches, into which it seems that a
little water comes by infiltration. A few grasses and other herbaceous
plants, mostly common tropical weeds, were to be found here. Elsewhere,
the ground was, as usual on the coast, merely sand, with here and
there clumps of bushes about six or seven feet in height, chiefly
_Compositæ_ of the characteristic South American genera, _Baccharis_
and _Tessaria_. A bush of _Cæsalpinia Gilliesii_, with only a few of
its beautiful flowers left, the ornament of hot-houses in Europe,
struck one as a strange apparition on this arid coast.
The position of Arica, connected as it is by railway with Tacna, the
centre of a rich mineral district, possessing the best anchorage on
this part of the Pacific coast, and a constant supply of good water,
must some day make it a place of importance. The headland which
commands it is crowned by a fort, on which the Peruvians had planted a
good many guns, and its seizure by the Chilians was one of the first
energetic blows struck during the war.
For some reason, not apparent, the great waves which flow inland after
each considerable earthquake shock have been more destructive at Arica
than at any other spot upon the coast. Three times the place has been
utterly swept away, and one memorial survives in the shape of the hull
of a large ship, lying fully a mile inland, seen by us a few miles
north of the town as we approached in the morning. On each occasion
the little town has been rebuilt close to the shore. Experience has
not taught the people to build on the rising land, only a few hundred
yards distant. Each man believes that the new house will last his
time--_Après moi le deluge_, with a vengeance!
At Arica the coast-line, which from the promontory of Ajulla, about
6° north latitude, has kept a direction between south-east and
south-south-east for a distance of about twelve hundred English miles,
bends nearly due south, and maintains the same direction for nearly
double that distance. It is in the tract lying between Arica and
Copiapò that the conditions which produce the so-called rainless zone
of the Pacific coast have had the maximum effect. In that space of
about six hundred miles (farther than from Liverpool to Oporto) there
is no inhabited place--with the possible exception of Pisagua--where
drinkable water is to be had. Nowhere in the world is there such an
extensive tract of coast so unfitted for the habitation of man. But
this same region is rich in products that minister to human wants, and
man has overcome the obstacles that seemed to render them inaccessible.
Besides mines of copper, silver, and lead, the deposits of alkaline
nitrates, whose extent has not yet been fathomed, richly reward the
expenditure of labour and capital. One after another industrial
establishments have arisen along the coast at places suitable for
the embarkation of produce, and some of these have already attained
the dimensions of small towns. The _Ayacucho_ called at no less than
nine of these places, and there are two or three others that are
occasionally visited. At a few of them, as at Iquique, the water-supply
is partially or altogether conveyed by sea, but most of them subsist by
distillation from sea-water.
[_PORTS ON THE RAINLESS COAST._]
As may well be supposed, there is little in these places to interest
a stranger, and a description of one may serve for all. Some more
or less extensive works, with one or several tall chimneys, are the
most prominent feature. Near to each establishment are three or four
clean-looking houses for managers and head agents, of whom the majority
appear to be English. Grouped in narrow sandy lanes near at hand are
the dwellings--mere sheds built of reeds--of the working people. In
some of the more considerable places an iron church, in debased
sham-Gothic style, has been procured from the United States, and has
been set up in a central position, with the outline of a _plaza_ in
front of it, and several drinking-shops clustered near.
The aspect of the coast is not less monotonous than that of the
inhabited places. The sea-board is nearly a straight line running from
north to south, and, except at Mejillones, I saw no projecting headland
to break its uniformity. Nearly everywhere what appears to be a range
of flat-topped hills from about eight to fifteen hundred feet in
height, of uniform dull grey hue unbroken by a single patch of verdure,
forms the background. In truth, these seeming hills are the western
margin of the great plateau of the desert of Atacama, which at its edge
slopes rather steeply towards the Pacific coast, sometimes leaving
a level margin of one or two miles in width, sometimes approaching
within a few hundred feet of the shore. I find it difficult to form a
conception of the causes which have led to this singular uniformity
in the western limit of the volcanic rocks of the plateau. Whether
we suppose the mass to have been originally thrown out from craters
or fissures in the range of the cordillera by subaërial or submarine
eruptions, we should think it inevitable that the western front should
show great irregularities corresponding to greater volume of the
streams of eruptive matter in some parts.
Admitting--what may be held for a certainty--that, whatever may
have been the original conditions, the whole region has since been
submerged, and that marine action would have levelled surface
inequalities, it is not easy to understand how the uniformity in
the western front could have been brought about during the period of
subsequent and comparatively recent elevation. If this had occurred
along an axis of elevation near to the present coast-line, the effect
must have been to produce a coast-range parallel to that of the Andes,
with a watershed having an eastern as well as a western slope, and
accompanying disturbance of the strata, such as we find on a great
scale in western North America. Some indications of such action may be
seen in Chili, south of Copiapò, and further to the south, but I am not
aware of any fact to justify a similar supposition respecting this part
of the coast of South America.
[_WHITE ROCKS AT PISAGUA._]
On the morning of May 3 we were anchored in front of Pisagua, which,
being the port of Tarapacà, the chief centre of the nitrate deposits,
is at present an active place. The houses are rather more scattered
than usual, some of them being built on rising ground, apparently above
the reach of earthquake waves. The range of apparent hills, fully
fifteen hundred feet in height, rises steeply behind the little town,
and the monotonous slope is broken by a long zigzag line marking the
railway to Tarapacà. Some steep rocks rising from the sea to the south
of the anchorage were in great part brilliantly white, recalling the
appearance of quartz veins, or beds of crystalline limestone, dipping
at a high angle. Thinking the existence of such rocks on this coast
very improbable, I was anxious to inspect them; but when I was told
that the time of our stay would merely allow of a short visit to the
town, I did not care to land. The same appearances are common along
the coast, and I soon afterwards ascertained that they are produced by
the droppings of sea-birds--the same which, when accumulated in large
masses, form the guano deposits of the detached rocks and islets of the
coast.
In the afternoon we reached Iquique, which is, I believe, the largest
of the unnatural homes of men on this coast. Some one who had gone
ashore here returned, bringing copies of two newspapers, by which the
public of Iquique are kept informed as to the affairs of the world. I
had already seen with surprise, and had many further opportunities for
observing, the extent to which the newspaper press in South America
has absorbed whatever literary capacity exists in the country. Of
information there is not indeed much to be gathered from these sheets;
but of grand sentiments and appeals to the noblest emotions the supply
seems inexhaustible. I regret to own that experience in other parts of
the world had already made me somewhat distrustful of such appeals; but
the result of my study of South American newspapers culminated in a
severe fit of moral indigestion, and I do not yet receive in a proper
spirit any appeal to the noblest sentiments of my nature.
I am far from supposing, however, that with those who read literature
of this kind the debilitating effect attributed to it by some critics
necessarily ensues. Some at least of the heroic virtues have survived.
For a man to die for his country may not be the highest form of
heroism, but in every age it has drawn forth the instinctive admiration
of his fellows; and it is not at Iquique that one should think of
making light of it. These waters, which, during the late war, witnessed
the fight between the _Esmeralda_ and the _Huascar_,[15] would, in
another age of the world, have become as famous as those of Salamis.
[_THE SEA-FIGHT AT IQUIQUE._]
On the morning of May 4 we called at Huanillos, a small place of recent
growth, not marked on any map that I have seen. It lies within a few
miles of the mouth of the Loa, which, as laid down on maps, appears
to be a considerable stream, rising in the Cordillera and traversing
in a circuitous course the Bolivian part of the Atacama desert. I
naturally inquired why the mouth of such a river had not been selected
as the site of a port. I was informed that, in spite of the maps, no
water flows through the channel of the river, and that what can be
obtained by digging is brackish and unfit for drinking. Whether this
arises from the fact that the trials have been made too near the shore,
within reach of the infiltration of sea-water, or that all the water
traversing the region inland becomes impregnated with saltpetre, I am
unable to decide; but it seems probable that careful examination of
the water, some of which undoubtedly finds its way underground from
the Cordillera to the Pacific coast, might add considerably to the
resources of the country. The cost of conveying water direct from
the mountains to certain points in the interior, and thence to the
coast, would possibly be repaid by the saving in fuel now used for the
distillation of sea-water, to say nothing of the probability that some
portions of the surface would become available for cultivation. The
experience of the Isthmus of Suez, where a constantly increasing area
near the course of the freshwater canal has become productive, should,
I think, encourage the attempt.
[_SCENERY OF THE MOON._]
About midday we reached Tocopilla, another place of recent creation,
consisting of a large establishment with several chimneys and the
usual group of sheds for the workmen. Steep rocky slopes rise close
behind, and it seemed possible to see something of the conditions of
life on this part of the coast without going beyond sight and hearing
of the steamer. Being told that our stay was to be short, but that
the steam-whistle would be sounded a first time exactly a quarter of
an hour before our departure, I shouldered my tin vasculum and went
ashore. Passing the houses, I at once steered for the rocky slopes
behind. Here at last I found what I had often heard of, but in whose
existence I had almost ceased to believe--a land absolutely without a
trace of vegetable life. Among the dolomite peaks of South Tyrol I had
often been told that such a peak was absolutely bare of vegetation,
but had always found a fair number of plants in clefts and crevices.
I had been told the same thing at Suez of the burnt-up eastward face
of Djebel Attakah, where even on the exposed rocks I had been able to
collect something; but here I searched utterly in vain. Not only was
there no green thing; not even a speck of lichen could I detect, though
I looked at the rocks through a lens. Even more than by the absence of
life, I was impressed by the appearance of the surface, which showed no
token that water had ever flowed over it. Every edge of rock was sharp,
as if freshly broken, and on the steep slope no trace of a channel
furrowed its face.[16] The aspect is absolutely that of the scenery of
the moon--of a world without water and without an atmosphere. I saw no
insect and no lizard, no living thing, with the strange exception that
on the rocks nearest the houses there were several small birds, which
appeared to be rather shy, and which I was not able to approach. I was
afterwards told that these birds live on the grain which they are able
to steal or to pick out from the manure in the stables, where a few
horses and mules are kept for the needs of the place. Assuming this to
be correct, the arrival of the birds at such a place remains a mystery.
A passenger who had spent some time at this singular place further
told me that the horses, constantly fed on dry grain, and receiving
but a scanty ration of distilled sea-water, usually become blind, but
do not otherwise suffer in health. He added a story to the effect that
some palings which had been painted green were found a few days after
covered with marks of teeth, and with the paint almost completely
removed. The mules, attracted by the colour, had sought the refreshment
of green food, and had vainly gnawed away the painted surface.
However singular the aspect of nature in this place might be, it could
not long detain a naturalist. A world without life is soon found to be
monotonous; and after clambering about for some time, and satisfying
myself that there was nothing to be found, I turned to the shore, where
broken shells and other remains of marine animals presented at least
some variety. Seaweeds appeared to be scarce, but some were to be seen
in the little pools left among the rocks by the retreating tide.
Just as I was about to collect some objects which might have been
of interest, the steam-whistle of the _Ayacucho_ summoned me to
return to the ship. As I was by this time at some distance from the
landing-place, I hurried back under a blazing sun, and reached the ship
within less than twenty minutes, only to find that haste was quite
superfluous, as we did not start until more than an hour later.
[_ANTOFAGASTA._]
The sun had already set when we reached Cobija. This was, I believe,
the first place inhabited on this part of the coast. Before the late
war, Bolivia held the coast from the mouth of the Loa to the Tropic
of Capricorn, a tract of about one hundred and sixty miles, rich in
mineral wealth, the whole of which, along with the adjoining provinces
of Peru, is now annexed to Chili. Cobija, which was a place of some
importance, is now much reduced, and little business seems to be
carried on there.
Early on the 5th of May we were before Antofagasta, now the most
thriving place on this coast, if a place can be said to thrive which
exists under such unnatural conditions. It is, however, slightly better
off than its neighbours to the north. A gentleman who resided here for
some time assured me that at intervals of five or six years a heavy
fall of rain occurs here. At such times not only the coast region, but
the Atacama desert lying between the Cordillera and the sea is speedily
covered with fresh vegetation, which after a few months is dried up and
disappears. At such times the guanacos descend from the mountains, and
actually reach the coast.
We must, without my attention being called to the fact while in my
cabin, have turned back to the northward after leaving Antofagasta, as
in the dusk we were before Mejillones, which lies fully thirty miles
north of the former place. It stands on a little bay, well sheltered
from the south by a considerable rocky promontory, and, as I had been
led to expect, the ground is here broken and irregular, offering more
promise of safe retreat for the indigenous vegetation than anywhere
else on this coast. I had looked forward with interest to an hour or
two on this more promising ground, and it was a disappointment to be
unable to profit by a comparatively long stay, for we remained at
anchor after nightfall, embarking cargo and some passengers until
midnight. For the third time within twenty-four hours we crossed the
Tropic of Capricorn, and thenceforward remained in the south temperate
zone. But in this region the term is in no way specially appropriate
to the coast climate of Chili, for nothing can be more truly temperate
than that of the so-called tropical zone which we were now leaving.
During the voyage from Callao the thermometer properly shaded had but
once (while anchored at Arica) reached 70° Fahr. It usually stood by
night at 64° to 65°, and at about 68° by day, except occasionally
when exposed to the cool southern breeze, when it fell rapidly on two
occasions, marking only 62·2°.
My aneroid barometer by Casella, graduated only to 19 inches, and
therefore useless during my visit to the Cordillera, did not appear
to have suffered, as these instruments often do, by the reduced
pressure. It did not vary during seven days by so much as one-twentieth
of an inch from the constant pressure 29·9, and agreed closely with
the ship’s mercurial barometer. Perhaps, owing to the fact that
my observations were not sufficiently frequent and recorded with
sufficient accuracy, I failed to detect on this coast of America the
daily oscillations of pressure, which in this latitude probably amount
to about one-twentieth of an inch.
[_UNIFORMITY OF THE CLIMATE._]
On the 6th of May we reached Taltal, a small place, the general aspect
of which reminded me of Tocopilla, and my first impression on landing
was that this was equally devoid of vegetable and animal life. But on
reaching the rocky slope, which rises very near the landing-place, I
at once perceived some indications of water having flowed over the
surface, and in the course of the short half-hour which was allowed
ashore I found three flowering plants, two of them in a condition
to be determined, the third dried up and undistinguishable. In the
evening we touched at Chañeral, a place rising into importance as being
the port of a rich mining district. The southerly breeze had been
rather stronger than usual during the afternoon, and some passengers
complained of the motion of the ship. An addition of seventy tons of
copper in the hold, which was shipped here by torchlight, appeared to
have a remarkable effect in steadying the vessel.
We reached Caldera early on the 7th, and remained for five or six
hours. This is the port of Copiapò, the chief town of Northern
Chili--the only one, indeed, which could have grown up under natural
conditions. A considerable stream, the Rio de Copiapò, which drains
the western slope of the Cordillera, passes by the town. Caldera, the
port, is not at the mouth of the river, but several miles further
north, and water is doubtless conveyed there in some abundance, as, for
the first time since leaving Arica, a few bushes in little enclosed
gardens could be descried from the harbour, and I was afterwards shown
two stately trees, the ornament of the place, which were nearly fifteen
feet in height. I went inland about a mile and a half, visiting a
slight eminence where the rock, evidently very recent, crops out at the
surface, and one or two other promising spots. Most of the country was
covered with sand, in places soft and deep, and anywhere else in the
world I should have thought it wretchedly barren, but after my recent
experience the meagre vegetation appeared almost luxuriant.
There is much interest attaching to the flora of this desert region of
South-western America. The species which grow here are the more or less
modified representatives of plants which at some former period existed
under very different conditions of life. In some of them the amount of
modification has been very slight, the species, it may be presumed,
possessing a considerable power of adaptation. Thus one composite of
the sun-flower family, which I found here, and also at Payta, is but
a slight variety of _Encelia canescens_,[17] which I had seen growing
luxuriantly in the gravelly bed of the Rimac near Lima, and along that
river to a height of six thousand feet above the sea. In this parched
region the plant is stunted, and the leaves are hoary with minute white
hairs, which may serve as a protection against evaporation. The same
species, with other slight modifications, extends to all the drier
portions of the western coast as far south as Central Chili. A dwarf
shrub with yellow flowers like those of a jessamine, but with very
different two-horned fruit, called _Skytanthus_, was an example of
a much greater amount of change. Its only allies are two species in
tropical Brazil, very different in appearance, though nearly similar
in essential structure. We may safely conclude that a long period has
elapsed since these forms diverged from a common stock, and that many
intermediate links have perished during the interval.
[_BRITISH PACIFIC SQUADRON._]
Several of the ships composing the British Pacific squadron were lying
at Caldera at this time, and after returning from my short excursion
ashore, I went on board the _Triumph_, Captain Albert Markham,
bearing the flag of Admiral Lyons, commander-in-chief. With regret I
declined the admiral’s hospitable invitation to accompany the squadron
to Valparaiso, but I was unable to refuse Captain Markham’s kind
suggestion that, as his ship was under orders to return to England on
the arrival of the _Swiftsure_, then expected, I should become his
guest on the passage from Valparaiso to Montevideo. The _Triumph_
having been detained in Chilian waters many weeks longer than was then
expected, I was afterwards forced to forego the agreeable prospect of
a voyage in company with an officer whose varied accomplishments and
extensive observation of nature under the most varied conditions make
his society equally agreeable and instructive.
Leaving Caldera soon after midday, the _Ayacucho_ reached Coquimbo
early on the following morning. With only the exception of Talcahuano,
this is the best port in Chili, being sheltered from all troublesome
winds, and affording good anchorage for large ships. The town of La
Serena, the chief place in this part of Chili, stands on moderately
high ground about two miles from the sea, and may be reached in about
twenty minutes from the port by frequent trains which travel to and
fro. We were warned that our stay was to be very short, and that those
who went to the city could not remain there for more than half an hour.
I had no difficulty in deciding to forego the attractions of the city,
whatever they might be, for a far more tempting alternative offered
itself. The range of low but rather steep slopes that rises immediately
behind the chief line of street was actually dotted over with bushes,
veritable bushes, and the unusual greenish-grey tint of the soil
announced that it was at least partially covered with vegetation. In
the spring, as I was assured, the hue is quite a bright green. To a man
who for the preceding week had seen nothing on land but naked rocks or
barren sand, the somewhat parched and meagre vegetation of Coquimbo
appeared irresistibly attractive. I could not expect to add anything
of value to what is already known, through the writings of Darwin and
other travellers, respecting the evidences of elevation of the coast
afforded by the raised terraces containing recent shells, whose seaward
face forms the seeming hills behind the town, and I felt free to give
every available moment to collecting the singular plants of this region.
[_IMMUNITY OF THE BOTANIST._]
One of the minor satisfactions of a naturalist in South America arises
from the fact that the inhabitants are so thoroughly used to seeing
strangers of every nationality, and in the most varied attire, that
his appearance excites no surprise and provokes no uncivil attentions.
Going about almost always alone, with a large tin box slung across my
back, I never found myself even stared at, which, in most parts of
Europe, is the least inconvenience that befalls a solitary botanist.
The amount of attention varies, indeed, in different countries. In
Sicily and in Syria one is an object of general curiosity, and one’s
every movement, as that of a strange animal, watched by a silent crowd;
but it is only in Spain that the inoffensive stranger is subject to
personal molestation, and the little boys pelt him with stones without
rebuke or interference from their seniors, who nevertheless boast of
their national courtesy.[18] Fortunately it nowhere occurs to the
most ill-disposed populations that a shabbily dressed man, engaged in
grubbing up plants by the roots, can be worth robbing. Usually regarded
as the assistant to some pharmacist, the botanist is, I think, less
subject to molestation than the follower of any other pursuit; his
only difficulty being that, if ignorant of the healing art, he cuts a
poor figure when applied to for medical advice.
Quite unnoticed, I made my way through the long street of Coquimbo,
and, at the first favourable opportunity, turned up a lane leading to
the slopes above the town. The first plant that I saw, close to the
houses, was a huge specimen of the common European _Marrubium vulgare_,
grown to the dimensions of a much-branched bush four or five feet
high. It is common in temperate South America, reaching a much greater
size than in Europe. The season was, of course, very unfavourable,
the condition of the vegetation being very much what may be seen at
the corresponding season--late autumn--in Southern Spain, before the
first winter rain has awakened the dormant vegetation of the smaller
bulbous-rooted plants. Nevertheless, I found several very curious
and rare plants still in flower, some of them known only from this
vicinity, and among them a dwarf cactus, only three or four inches in
height, with comparatively large crimson flowers just beginning to
expand.
At length, on the morning of May 9, the voyage came to an end as we
slowly steamed into the harbour of Valparaiso, which, with the large
amount of shipping and the conspicuous floating docks, gives an
impression of even greater importance than it actually possesses. The
modern town, built in European fashion, with houses of two and even
three floors above the ground, on the curved margin of the bay partly
reclaimed from the sea, and the older town, chiefly perched on the
edge of the plateau some two hundred feet above the main street, and
divided by the deep ravines (_quebradas_) that converge towards the
bay, have been described by many travellers; but I do not remember to
have seen any sufficient warning as to the frightful peril to which the
majority of the population is constantly exposed. Over and over again
earthquakes have destroyed towns in western South America. Houses built
of slight materials, with a ground floor only, or at most with a single
floor above it, may fall without entailing much loss of life; but it is
frightful to contemplate the amount of destruction of life and property
that must ensue if a violent shock should ever visit Valparaiso. And
the peril is twofold; the great wave which is the usual sequel of a
violent earthquake, would inevitably destroy whatever might survive the
first shock in the crowded streets of the lower town.
[_VALPARAISO._]
After overcoming the preliminary difficulties of landing and passing
my luggage through the custom-house, I proceeded to the Hotel Colon,
in the main street, kept by a French proprietor to whose lively
conversation I owed much information and amusement during my short
stay. Some three hours were occupied by a few visits, a stroll through
the chief streets, and the despatch of a telegram to Buenos Ayres. Not
choosing to incur the heavy expense of a telegram from Valparaiso to
England, I had availed myself of the courtesy of the officials of the
Royal Mail Steamboat Company to arrange that a telegram from Valparaiso
to Buenos Ayres should be forwarded by post from the latter place, thus
saving fully three weeks’ time. In the afternoon I climbed up one
of the steep tracks leading to the upper part of the town, where the
population mainly consists of the poorest class. The houses were small
and frail looking, but fairly clean, and I nowhere saw indications of
abject want, such as may too often be witnessed in the outskirts of a
large European city.
Valparaiso has all the air of a busy place, with some features to which
we are not used in Europe. Along the line of the narrow main street
tramcars are constantly passing to and fro. The names over the shops,
many of which are large and handsome, are mainly foreign, German being,
perhaps, in a majority; but the important mercantile houses are chiefly
English, and, except among the poorer class, the English language
appears to be predominant. All people engaged in business acquire it
when young, and very many of Spanish descent speak it with fluency and
correctness. The Hotel Colon stands between the main street and a broad
quay, part of the space reclaimed from the margin of the bay, and my
windows overlooked the busy scene, thronged from daylight till evening
with a crowd of men and vehicles. It was somewhat startling to see
frequent railway trains run through the crowd, with no other precaution
than the swinging of a large bell on the locomotive to warn people to
get out of the way.
I started soon after daylight on the 10th for a botanical excursion
over the hills behind the town, and, as I had rather exaggerated
expectations of the harvest to be collected, I had engaged a boy to
carry a portfolio wherein to stow away what I could not conveniently
carry for myself. Though I moved slowly, as naturalists generally do,
my companion soon grew tired, or pretended fatigue, and after an hour
or so I sent him back to the hotel with the portfolio well filled.
[_FLORA OF CENTRAL CHILI._]
The flora of Central Chili is denominated by Grisebach that of the
transition zone of western South America; but, except in the sense that
it occupies a territory intermediate between the desert region to the
north and that of the antarctic forests to the south, the term is not
very appropriate. On the opposite side of the continent, the flora of
Uruguay, Entrerios, and the adjoining provinces, may be truly said to
offer a transition between that of South subtropical Brazil and that
of the pampas region, most of the genera belonging to one or other of
those regions, the one element gradually diminishing in importance as
the other assumes a predominance. In this respect the Chilian flora
presents a remarkable contrast, being distinguished by the large number
of vegetable types peculiar to it, and having but slight affinities
either with those of tropical or antarctic America.
Of 198 genera peculiar to temperate South America, the large majority
belong exclusively to Central Chili, and these include several tribes
whose affinity to the forms of other regions is only remote. Two of
these tribes--the _Vivianeæ_ and _Francoaceæ_--have even been regarded
by many botanists as distinct natural orders; and many of the most
common and conspicuous species will strike a botanist familiar with
the vegetation of other regions of the earth as very distinct from all
that he has known elsewhere. With only a few exceptions, these endemic
types appear to have originated in the Andean range, whence some
modified forms have descended to the lower country; several of these,
as was inevitable, have been found on the eastern flanks of the great
range, and it is probable that further exploration will add to the
number; but it is remarkable that as yet so large a proportion should
be confined to Chilian territory.
Grisebach has fixed the limits of that which he has called the
transition zone at the Tropic of Capricorn to the north, and the
thirty-fourth parallel of latitude to the south; but these in no way
correspond to the natural boundaries. As I have already pointed out,
the flora of the desert zone, extending from about the twentieth nearly
to the thirtieth parallel of south latitude, shows a general uniformity
in its meagre constituents. It is about the latitude of Coquimbo, or
only a little north of it, that the characteristic types of the Chilian
flora begin to present themselves, and these extend southward at least
as far as latitude 36° south, and even somewhat farther, if I may judge
from the imperfect indications of locality too often afforded with
herbarium specimens.[19]
[_DISTRIBUTION OF RAINFALL._]
In discussing the causes that have operated on the development of the
Chilian flora, the same eminent writer has been misled by incomplete
and erroneous information as to the climate of the region in question,
and more especially as to the distribution of rainfall, which is no
doubt the most important factor. It is true that the peculiar character
of the Chilian climate makes it very difficult to express by averages
the facts that mainly influence organic life. Between the northern
desert region, where rain in a measurable quantity is an exceptional
phenomenon, and the southern forest region, extending from the Straits
of Magellan to the province of Valdivia, Central Chili has in ordinary
years a long, dry, rainless summer, followed by rather scanty rainfall
at intervals from the late autumn to spring. About once in four or five
years an exceptional season recurs, when rain falls in summer as well
as winter, and in which the total fall may be double the usual amount,
and at longer intervals, usually after a severe earthquake, storms
causing formidable inundations occur, when in a few days the rainfall
may exceed the ordinary amount for an entire year. When several such
storms are repeated in the same year, we may have a total rainfall of
three or four times the ordinary average.[20] Such seasons appear
to recur six or seven times in each century, and it is clear that,
according as the meteorologist happens to include or exclude such a
season in his data, the figures expressing the average must vary very
largely. Inasmuch as plant life is regulated by the ordinary conditions
of temperature and moisture, we are less liable to error in taking the
results which exclude exceptional seasons.
In discussing, therefore, the conditions of vegetation in Central
Chili, it seems safe to conclude that the averages given in the
following table, extracted from the careful work of Julius Hann,
“Lehrbuch der Klimatologie,” are above rather than below the ordinary
limit. I find, indeed, that while the average rainfall at Santiago
during the twelve years from 1849 to 1860 was 419 millimetres, or
nearly 16½ English inches, the average for the six years from 1866 to
1871 was 299 millimetres, or less than 12 inches. It is evident that
the indigenous vegetation must be adapted to thrive upon the smaller
amount of moisture expressed by the latter figures.
[_CLIMATE OF CENTRAL CHILI._]
The following table, compiled from Hann’s work, gives the most reliable
results now available, and shows the mean temperature of the year, of
the hottest and coldest months, the extremes of annual temperature,
and the rainfall for the chief places in Chili, with a few blanks
where information is not available. The maxima and minima do not
express the absolute extremes attained during the entire period for
which observations are available, but the means of the annual maxima
and minima. The temperatures are given in degrees of Fahrenheit’s
thermometer.
Key:
A: Places.
B: South latitude.
C: Mean temperature of the year.
D: Mean temperature of January.
E: Mean temperature of July.
F: Maximum temperature.
G: Minimum temperature.
H: Rainfall in inches.
-------------------+--------+------+------+------+------+------+------
A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H
-------------------+--------+------+------+------+------+------+------
La Serena | | | | | | |
(Coquimbo) | 29° 56′| 59·2°| 65·1°| 53·1°| | | 1·6
| | | | | | |
Valparaiso | 33° 1′| 57·6°| 63·1°| 52·5°| 77·9°| 45·0°| 13·5
| | | | | | |
Santiago (1740 feet| | | | | | |
above sea-level) | 33° 27′| 55·6°| 66·2°| 45·0°| 87·6°| 30·4°| 14·5
| | | | | | |
Talca (334 feet | | | | | | |
above the sea) | 35° 36′| 56·5°| 70·2°| 45·0°| | | 19·7
| | | | | | |
Valdivia | 39° 49′| 52·9°| 61·5°| 45·0°| 84·0°| 29·5°| 115·0
| | | | | | |
Ancud, Island of | | | | | | |
Chiloe (164 feet | | | | | | |
above the sea) | 41° 46′| 50·7°| 56·5°| 45·9°| | | 134·0
| | | | | | |
Punta Arenas[21] | | | | | | |
(Straits of | | | | | | |
Magellan) | 53° 10′| 43·2°| 51·3°| 34·9°| 76·3°| 28·4°| 22·5
-------------------+--------+------+------+------+------+------+------
This table brings out very clearly the influence of the cold southern
currents of the ocean and air in reducing the summer heat of the
western side of South America; for, while the winter temperatures are
not very different from those of places similarly situated on the west
side of Europe and North Africa, those of summer are lower by 8° or
10° Fahr., and the mean of the year is lower by 6° or 7° than that of
places in the same latitude on the east side of South America. It is
also apparent that much of what has been stated in works of authority
as to the climate of this region is altogether incorrect. In his
great work on the “Vegetation of the Earth,” Grisebach gives the mean
temperature of Santiago as 67·5°, or nearly 12° higher than the mean
result of ten years’ observation, and the rainfall as over 40 inches,
or nearly three times the average--more, indeed, than three times the
average--of ordinary seasons.
Arriving in Chili about the end of the long dry season, I had but
very moderate expectations as to the prospect of seeing much of its
peculiar vegetation, and I was agreeably surprised to find that
there yet remained a good deal to interest me, especially among the
characteristic evergreen shrubs, having much of the general aspect of
those of the Mediterranean region, though widely different in structure
from the Old-World forms. One or two slight showers had fallen shortly
before my arrival, and as a result the ground was in many places
studded with the golden flowers of the little _Oxalis lobata_. This
appears to have a true bulb, formed from the overlapping bases of the
outer leaves, in the centre of which the undeveloped stem produces one
or more flowers, which appear before the new leaves. The surface of the
dry baked soil was extremely hard, costing some labour to break it with
a pick in order to collect specimens, and it is not easy to understand
the process by which a young flower-bud is enabled to force its way
to the upper surface. The open country on the hills near Valparaiso
is bare, trees being very scarce, and for the most part reduced to
the stature of shrubs with strong trunks; but in the ravines, or
_quebradas_, that descend towards the coast some of these rise to a
height of twenty or twenty-five feet.
One of the objects of my walk over the hills was to obtain a good view
of the Andes, and especially of the peak of Aconcagua, the highest
summit of the New World. I had had a glimpse of the peak from the sea
on the previous morning, but light clouds hung about the entire range
during this day, and I was unable to identify with certainty any of
the summits. The distance in an air line is about one hundred English
miles, and I was struck by the clearness of the air in this region as
compared with what I had seen from the coast of Ecuador or Peru. Every
point that stood out from the clouds was seen sharply defined, as one
is accustomed to observe in favourable weather in the Mediterranean
region.
[_WINTER’S BARK._]
Returning to the town, I took my way along one of numerous deep ravines
that have been cut into the seaward surface of the plateau. Though
they are witnesses to the energetic action of water, they are often
completely dry at this season; yet they exercise a marked influence on
the vegetation. The shrubs rise nearly to the dimensions of trees, and
several species find a home that do not thrive in the open country.
I was specially interested in, for the first time, finding in flower
the Winter’s bark (_Drimys Winteri_), a shrub which displays an
extraordinary capacity of adaptation to varying physical conditions,
as it extends along the west side of America from Mexico to the
Straits of Magellan, and also to the highlands of Guiana and Brazil,
accommodating itself as well to the perpetual spring of the equatorial
mountain zone as to the long winters and short, almost sunless, summers
of Fuegia. The only necessary condition seems to be a moderate amount
of moisture; but even as to this there is wonderful contrast between
the long rainless summer and slight winter rainfall of Valparaiso,
and the tropical rains of Brazil on the one hand, and the continual
moisture of Valdivia and Western Patagonia on the other. This is one
of the examples which goes to show how much caution should be used in
drawing inferences as to the climate of former epochs from deposits of
fossil vegetable remains. This instance is doubtless exceptional, but
there is some reason to think that what may be called physiological
varieties--races of plants which, with little or no morphological
change, have become adapted to conditions of life very different from
those under which the ancestral form was developed--are far less
uncommon than has been generally supposed.
It is to me rather surprising that a shrub so ornamental as the
Winter’s bark should not be more extensively introduced on our western
coasts. It appears not to resist severe frosts, but in the west of
Ireland and the south-west of England it should be a welcome addition
to the resources of the landscape gardener. Although voyagers have
spoken highly of its virtues as a stimulant and antiscorbutic, it does
not appear to have held its ground in European pharmacopeias, and I
believe that the active principle, chiefly residing in the bark, has
never been chemically determined.
On May 11 I proceeded to Santiago. Mr. Drummond Hay,[22] the popular
consul-general, who at this time was also acting as the British _chargé
d’affaires_ at the legation at Santiago, was so fully occupied at the
consular court that I was able to enjoy little of his society; but he
was kind enough to telegraph to the Hotel Oddo at Santiago to secure
for me accommodation. With the usual difficulty of effecting an early
start, which appears to prevail everywhere in South America, I reached
the railway station in time for the 7.45 a.m. train. For some distance
the railroad runs near the sea, passing the station of Viña del Mar,
where many of the Valparaiso merchants have pretty villas. I was more
attracted by the appearance of the country about the following station
of Salto, where rough, rocky ground, with clumps of small trees and the
channels of one or more streams, promised well for a spring visit. But
I was at every turn reminded that I had fallen on the most unfavourable
season. After the long six or seven months’ drought the face of the
country was everywhere parched, and the only matter for surprise was
that there should yet remain some vestiges of its summer garb of
vegetation.
[_RAILWAY TO SANTIAGO._]
The direct distance from Valparaiso to Santiago is only about
fifty-five miles, but the line chosen for the railway must be fully
double that length. The country lying directly between the sea-coast
and the capital is broken up by irregular masses, partly granitic and
partly formed of greenstone and other hard igneous rocks. These in
Europe would be regarded as considerable mountains, as the summits
range from six thousand to over seven thousand feet in height, but
they nowhere exhibit the bold and picturesque forms that characterize
the granite formation in Brazil. On either side of this highland tract
two considerable streams carry the drainage of the Cordillera to the
ocean. The northern stream, the Rio Aconcagua, bears the same name as
the famous mountain from whose snows it draws a constant supply even
in the dry season. Some sixty miles further south, the Maipo, draining
a larger portion of the Andean range, flows to the coast by the town
of Melipilla. The valley of the Maipo offers a much easier, though a
circuitous, railway route to Santiago than that chosen by the Chilian
engineers, which for a considerable distance keeps to the valley of the
Aconcagua. The stream is reached near to Quillota, a place which has
given its name to this part of the valley.
Travelling at this season, I was not much struck by the boasted
luxuriance of the vegetation of the vale of Quillota; but I could
easily understand that the eye of the stranger, accustomed to the
arid regions of Peru and Northern Chili, must welcome the comparative
freshness of the landscape, in which orchards of orange and peach
trees alternate with squares of arable land. Of the few plants that I
could make out from the railway car what most attracted my attention
was the frequent recurrence of oval masses of dark leaves, much in the
form of a giant hedgehog three or four feet in length and half that
height, remarkably uniform in size and appearance. The interest was not
diminished when I was able, at a wayside station, to ascertain that the
plant was a bramble, on which I failed to find flower or fruit, but
which from the leaves can be nothing else than a variety of the common
bramble, or blackberry, introduced from Europe.
* * * * *
At the station of Llaillai (pronounced _Yaiyai_) we met the train from
Santiago, and were allowed a quarter of an hour for breakfast. The
arrangements were rather rough, but the food excellent--much superior,
indeed, to what one commonly finds at an English refreshment-room. This
is a junction station, and a train was in readiness to take passengers
from Santiago or Valparaiso by a branch line up the valley of the
Aconcagua to San Felipe and Santa Rosa de los Andes. The Santiago train
here leaves that valley, and, turning abruptly to the south, commences
a long and rather steep ascent of the ridge that divides the basin
of the Maipo from that of the Aconcagua. To our right rose the Cerro
del Roble, about 7250 feet in height, one of the highest of the coast
range.[23]
[_CHARACTERISTIC VEGETATION._]
Here I first encountered the characteristic aspect of the hilly region
of Central Chili. A tall columnar cactus (_Cereus Quisco_) is the
most conspicuous plant. Sometimes with a solitary stem, but usually
having two or three together from the same root, they stand bolt
upright from fifteen to twenty-five feet in height. Next to this the
commonest conspicuous plant is a large species of _Puya_, belonging
to the pine-apple family, with long, stiff, spiky leaves, and these
two combined to give a strange and somewhat weird appearance to the
vegetation. Here and there were dense masses of evergreen bushes or
small shrubs, and more rarely small solitary trees. Among these was
probably the species of beech (_Fagus obliqua_ of botanists) which the
natives call _roble_ (or oak), there being, in fact, no native oaks in
America south of the equator; but in a passing railway train I could
not hope to identify unfamiliar species. Both here and elsewhere in
Chili, I noticed that the _quisco_ is almost confined to the northern
or sunny slopes; while, as Darwin observed, the tall bamboo grass (a
_Chusquea_) prevails on the shady sides of the hills.
The summit level, according to Petermann’s map, is 4311 feet (1314
metres) above the sea, and thenceforward there is a continuous gradual
slope of the ground towards Santiago. The country shows few signs of
population, and the larger part of the surface is left in a state of
nature, and used only for pasturage in winter. In this arid region
cultivation is nearly confined to the valleys of the streams that
descend from the Cordillera. The stony beds of the streams passed by
the railway were almost completely dried up, and I think that I saw
water in one spot only on the whole way between the Aconcagua and the
Mapocho.
Any want of interest or variety in the nearer landscape was amply
made up by the increasing grandeur of the views of the Cordillera as
we approached the capital of Chili, rendered all the more imposing by
fresh snow, which extended down to the level of ten or eleven thousand
feet. Although it does not include several of the highest summits of
the Andes, the range which walls in the province of Santiago to the
east is probably the highest continuous portion of the great range;
for in a distance of seventy miles, from near the Uspallata Pass to
the Volcano of Maipe, I believe that there is but one narrow gap where
the crest of the chain falls below the level of nineteen thousand
feet.[24] To the eye, however, the outline seen from the plain is very
varied, and by no means gives the impression of a continuous wall.
Huge buttresses, with peaked summits, not much inferior in height to
the main range, project westward, and in the bays between them form
Alpine valleys, which send down streams to fertilize the country. By
these buttresses the peak of Tupungato, 20,278 feet in height, the
highest summit of this part of the chain, is concealed from Santiago,
and I doubt whether it is anywhere visible from the low country on the
Chilian side.
[_ARRIVAL AT SANTIAGO._]
Soon after twelve o’clock the train reached the station at Santiago,
and I found Mr. Flint, the obliging German proprietor of the Hotel
Oddo, in readiness with a carriage to take me to his hotel. The first
impression of Santiago, irrespective of the grandeur of its position,
is that of a great city. The houses, consisting only of a ground floor,
or at most with a single floor overhead, built round an enclosed court,
or _patio_, cover a large space, and the town occupies three or four
times the area that an equal population would require in Europe. It is
laid out, even more regularly than Turin, in square blocks of nearly
the same dimensions, so that the ordinary way of reckoning distances is
by _quadras_. One enters the town by the Alameda, a straight street,
with fine houses on one side and a public garden on the other, nearly
two miles in length, along which, at intervals, are statues of the men
who have earned the gratitude of their country, the most conspicuous
being the equestrian statue of General O’Higgins, the foremost hero of
the war of independence.
Turning at right angles into one of the side streets, we soon reached
the Hotel Oddo, unpretending in appearance, which was recommended to me
as being quieter and more comfortable than the Grand Hotel. This, which
was close at hand, occupies the upper floor of a fine pile of building,
that fills one side of the Plaza Major, or great square of the city.
There seems to be an uneasy feeling that at the first severe shock of
earthquake this monument of misplaced architecture may be levelled to
the ground, to the destruction of all its inmates.
My first visit in Santiago was made to Don Carlos Swinburne, an English
merchant, long established in the city, who has acquired the universal
respect and regard of all classes, and whose well-earned personal
influence has been on several occasions effective for the mutual
benefit of his native land and his adopted country. To his kindness and
courtesy I am under many obligations. Later in the day I proceeded to
call upon Dr. Philippi, the veteran naturalist, to whom we owe so much
of our knowledge of the flora and fauna of Chili.
In Santiago, as in most other South American towns, the first thing
that a stranger should do is to learn the routes of the tramcars, which
constantly ply through the principal arteries. Hackney coaches are to
be found, and are sometimes indispensable, but they are heavy cumbrous
vehicles, ill hung on high wheels; one travels slowly and suffers a
severe jolting over ill-paved streets. To say nothing of economy, the
tramcar runs smoothly at a brisk pace, is usually clean and commodious,
and is generally used by all classes of the population. The main point
is to take care not to travel in the opposite direction from that
intended; but here, with the great landmarks of the Andes always in
view, it is not easy to go wrong as to the points of the compass.
[_DOCTOR PHILIPPI._]
To find Dr. Philippi I was directed to a house of modest appearance
within the precincts of the Quinta Normal. This establishment is
intended to combine the functions of a horticultural garden and a
model farm, but the greater part of the grounds appears to be laid out
as ornamental pleasure-ground. A large handsome building, originally
constructed for a great industrial exhibition, has been turned to good
account as a museum of natural history. I was received by Professor
Federigo Philippi, who now worthily fills the chair of Natural History
in the University of Santiago, from which, after a tenure of many
years, his father has retired. Between naturalists none of the ordinary
formalities of introduction are required, and cordial relations grow
up rapidly. Knowing that Dr. Philippi had already reached an advanced
age, I was apprehensive that some infirmity might have chilled the
ardour of his interest in science; but I was agreeably disabused when
from an adjoining room the professor called his father to join our
conversation. I found a man who, although in his seventy-sixth year,
was still full of vigour of mind, and I had full opportunity on the
following morning to assure myself that this is sustained by abundant
physical energy.
Time slips by rapidly in a conversation on subjects of mutual interest,
and when, after arranging for a short excursion with Dr. Philippi, I
returned homeward, the setting sun was lighting up the heavens with the
beautiful tints that are more common in the warm Temperate zone than
in other regions of the earth. Low as are the houses, they were just
high enough to shut out all but occasional glimpses of the Cordillera
from the street; but when I reached the great plaza I came to the
conclusion, which I still retain, that Santiago is by many degrees the
most beautifully situated town that I have anywhere seen. Rio Janeiro,
Constantinople, Palermo, Beyrout, Plymouth, all have the added beauty
that the sea confers on land scenery; but such a spectacle as is formed
by the majestic semicircle of great peaks that curve round Santiago,
lit by the varying tints of day and evening, is scarcely to be matched
elsewhere in the world. In position, as in plan of building, I was
reminded of Turin; but here the Alps are nearly twice as high, and at
half the distance. Further than that, the low country at Turin opens
to the east, and, although glorious sunrise effects are not seldom
visible, they never rival the splendours of the close of day.
[_CERRO SAN CRISTOBAL._]
On the following morning, May 12, I started with Dr. Philippi in a
hackney coach for an excursion to the Cerro San Cristobal, an isolated
hill rising about one thousand feet above the valley of the Mapocho.
We crossed that stream by a very massive bridge, constructed to resist
the formidable flood poured down the channel after heavy rains, and
for about three miles followed the right bank along a rough road
deep in the sand formed by the disintegration of the volcanic rocks.
We were glad to leave our vehicle at some mills at the foot of the
hill, and spent some three hours very agreeably in clambering up and
down the rough slopes. The shrubs were much the same as those which I
afterwards saw elsewhere in similar situations, but I was fortunate
in being introduced to them by one so familiar with the flora as my
excellent companion. Among these, as well as the herbaceous plants, the
_Compositæ_ prevail over every other natural order. Two common species
belong to the tribe of _Mutisiaceæ_, unknown in Europe, and almost
confined to South America. The bushy species of _Baccharis_, a genus
very widely spread in the New World, but not known elsewhere, were also
very common. An acacia (_A. Cavenia_) approached more nearly to the
dimensions of a tree. It has stiff, spreading, and very spiny branches,
and is widely spread throughout the drier parts of temperate South
America. Among the few herbaceous plants in flower I was fortunate in
seeing the pretty _Gynopleura linearifolia_. This belongs to a tribe of
the passionflower family, very distinct in habit and appearance, which
has been by some eminent botanists ranked as a distinct natural order
under the name _Malesherbiaceæ_. It includes only two genera with ten
or twelve species, all exclusively natives of Chili or Peru.
A veil of morning haze or mist, not uncommon at this season, hung over
the city and marred the completeness of the grand view from the summit
of the Cerro. Though easily explained, the seeming opacity of a thin
stratum of vapour seen from above, as I have often noticed in the Alps,
is remarkable. Before we started, and after our return, the haze over
the city was scarcely perceptible. Not only did the sun shine brightly
in the town, but the outlines of the neighbouring peaks were perfectly
distinct. Looking down from the upper station, the slight differences
in the intensity of the comparatively feeble light proceeding from
the various objects on the surface, by which alone they are made
visible, were concealed by the haze which reflected a portion of the
comparatively strong light received from the sky, just as when looking
from the outside at a window which reflects the light from the sky, we
cannot distinguish objects within.
In the afternoon Mr. Swinburne was good enough to accompany me in a
visit to Don Benjamin Vicuña Mackenna, one of the most conspicuous and
remarkable of the contemporary public men of Chili. His career has been
in many ways singular. In early life he took part in two attempts of
a revolutionary nature. Fortunately for themselves, the Chilians have
gained from their own and their neighbours’ experience a fixed aversion
to revolution, and, while acknowledging the existence of abuses,
have felt that violent change is certain to entail worse evils. Both
attempts failed, and the leaders were condemned to death, the sentences
being judiciously commuted to temporary exile.
Since his return, Mr. Mackenna has done good service as head of
the municipality of Santiago, has been a prominent member of the
legislature, and was, in 1881, the unsuccessful candidate for the
presidency of the republic. But it is chiefly by his fertility as
a writer that Mr. Mackenna has secured for himself an enduring
reputation. Gifted with keen intelligence and a marvellously retentive
memory, his readiness to discuss in turn the most varied topics,
whether by speech or pen, is quite phenomenal. Besides being a constant
contributor to newspapers and periodicals, he has published over a
hundred volumes, most of them devoted either to illustrate the history
or to promote the progress of his native country. I was most kindly
received, and my only regret, on this and subsequent occasions, was
that the shortness of my stay prevented me from enjoying more fully
the society of this interesting man. From the room--in itself a
library--reserved for the spare copies of his own works, I selected
four volumes out of the many which he was kind enough to place at my
disposal.
[_DON BENJAMIN V. MACKENNA._]
On the following day Mr. Vicuña Mackenna was kind enough to devote
several hours to taking me to various objects of interest in the city,
beginning with the natural history museum at the Quinta Normal. Rightly
supposing that they would be of interest, my guide afterwards took me
to see the most remarkable trees of the city, each of which possesses
some historic interest. In an old and rather neglected garden attached
to the palace of the archbishop is the finest known specimen of the
peumo, the most important indigenous tree of Central Chili. Popular
tradition affirms that under this tree, in 1640, Pedro de Valdivia,
the founder of Santiago, held a conference with the native Indian
chiefs, in which they agreed to allow the strangers a certain territory
for settlement. It is undoubtedly very ancient, and is divided nearly
from the ground into a number of massive branches spreading in all
directions, so as to form a hemisphere of dark green foliage rather
more than sixty feet in diameter. The tree belongs to the laurel family
(_Cryptocarya Peumus_ of botanists), and is densely covered with thick
evergreen leaves impenetrable to the sun. The red oval fruits are much
appreciated by the country people, but they have a resinous taste
unpalatable to strangers.
In the garden of the Franciscan convent we saw a very fine old Lombardy
poplar, from which it is said that all those cultivated in Chili are
descended. The story runs that a prior of the convent, who visited his
brethren at Mendoza, some time in the seventeenth century, found there
poplar trees introduced from Europe, and which in that denuded region
were the sole representatives of arboreal vegetation. The sapling which
he carried back on his return across the Andes grew to be the tree
which still flourishes in the convent at Santiago. To judge from its
appearance, the story is no way improbable.
In the _patio_ of a fine house in the city are two remarkably fine
specimens of the _Eucalyptus globulus_, a tree now familiar to visitors
at Nice and many other places in the Mediterranean region. It has been
of late extensively planted throughout the drier parts of temperate
South America, and promises to be of much economic value. The pair
which I saw here had been planted seventeen years before, and, like
twins, had kept pace in their growth. The height was about sixty feet,
and the girth at five feet from the ground about seven feet.
[_A HOUSE IN SANTIAGO._]
As a specimen of one of the better houses in Santiago, Mr. V. Mackenna
took me to that of one of his cousins, who with his family was at the
time absent in the country. The building included three small courts,
or patios, each laid out with ornamental plants well watered. The
reception-rooms, very richly furnished in satin and velvet, as well as
the apartments of the family, were all on the ground floor, most of
them opening into a patio. Over a part of the building were small rooms
constructed of slight materials for the use of servants, so that the
risk of fatal injuries even in a severe earthquake seemed to be but
slight.
I was told the history of the owner of this fine house, which, from
what I afterwards heard, was no more than a fair sample of the economic
condition of Chilian society. Many of the older Spanish families
are large landowners, and, in spite of vicissitudes due to droughts
and occasional inundations, derive settled incomes from property of
this kind. But the prodigious wealth that has flowed from the rich
mining districts has proved a temptation too strong to be resisted,
and there are comparatively few of the wealthier class who have not
engaged in mining speculations. It is needless to say that along with
some great prizes there have been many blanks in the lottery, and the
result has been that the fortunes of families have undergone the most
extraordinary vicissitudes. People get used to a condition of society
where the same man may be rich to-day, reduced nearly to pauperism
a year later, and then again, after another short interval, rolling
in wealth. It is to be feared that the effect, if continued for a
generation or two, will not be favourable to progress in the higher
sense.
The existence of a class not forced to expend its energies on acquiring
wealth, and having some adequate objects of ambition, is still the
most important condition for the advancement of the human race. We may
look forward to other conditions of society when, having found out
the extremely small value of most of the luxuries that now stimulate
exertion, men will be able peacefully to develop a healthier and
happier social state, in which labour and leisure will be more equally
distributed; but this is yet in the distant future, and perhaps the
greatest difficulty in its attainment will arise from premature
attempts to impose new conditions which, if they are to live, must be
of spontaneous growth.
One of the marked features of Santiago is the steep rock of Santa
Lucia rising abruptly near the eastern end of the Alameda. It has been
well laid out with winding footpaths, and has a frequented restaurant.
The view of the snowy range on one side and the city on the other can
scarcely be matched elsewhere in the world.
On reaching Santiago, I was mainly preoccupied with the question of
how to use my short stay with the best advantage so as to see as
much as possible of the scenery and vegetation of the great range,
consistently with the promise I had given before leaving home to avoid
all risks to health. From the abundance of fresh snow along the range,
it was obvious that the precipitation on the higher flanks of the
Cordillera must be considerably greater than it is in the low country,
where only one or two slight showers had fallen; and we were in the
season when rain is annually expected, which, of course, would take
the form of snow in the higher region. I had already obtained a letter
to the manager of the mines at Las Condes, a place about fifteen miles
from Santiago, and some eight thousand feet above the sea. But, after
taking counsel with those best informed, I decided on giving a few days
to a visit to the Baths of Cauquenes, in the valley of the Cachapoal, a
little above the point where that stream issues from the mountains into
the plain of Central Chili. There remained a possibility of making an
excursion from Cauquenes into one of the interior valleys, especially
that of Cypres, famed for the variety of high mountain plants that
find a home near the glacier which descends into it, and there was the
advantage that even in case of bad weather no serious inconvenience
would arise.
[_WINTER SEASON APPROACHING._]
I started next morning, May 14, by the railway, which is carried nearly
due south from the capital to Talca, and thence to Concepcion. I found
myself in the same carriage with Mr. Hess, the lessee and manager of
the Baths, an energetic, practical man, fully impressed with a sense of
his own importance as head of an establishment which annually attracts
the best society of Chili. The railway journey, which carries one for
about fifty miles parallel to the great range of the Cordillera, is
very interesting, even at this season, when much of the country shows
a parched surface. The finest views are those gained where the line
passes opposite the opening through which the Maipo issues from the
mountains into the plain. This river, which even in the dry season
shows a respectable volume of water, is formed by the union of the
torrents from four valleys that penetrate nearly to the axis of the
Cordillera. Of Tupungato, the highest summit hereabouts, 20,270 feet
above sea-level, I saw nothing, as it is masked by a very lofty range
that divides two of the tributary valleys. A slender wreath of vapour
marked the volcano of San José, just twenty thousand feet in height, at
the head of the southern branch of the river. It is only at one point
visible from the railway.
On the way from Valparaiso to Santiago I had already been much struck
by the prevalence over wide areas of plants not indigenous to the
country, most of them introduced from Southern Europe. The most
conspicuous are plants of the thistle tribe, all strangers to South
America, and especially the cardoon, or wild state of the common
artichoke. This is now far more common in temperate South America than
it anywhere is in its native home in the Mediterranean region. In Chili
it is regarded with some favour, as mules, and even horses, eat the
large spiny leaves freely at a season when other forage is scarce.
The same cannot be said of our common coarse spear-thistle (_Cnicus
lanceolatus_), which, though of much more recent introduction, has now
invaded large tracts of country, especially in the rather moister
southern provinces. I was informed that, with the strange expectation
that it would be useful as fodder, an Englishman had imported a sack of
the seed, which he had spread broadcast somewhere in the neighbourhood
of Concepcion. Many other European plants have been introduced, either
intentionally or by accident, and have in some districts to a great
extent supplanted the indigenous vegetation. As to many of these, it
appears to me probable that their diffusion is due more to the aid of
animals than the direct intervention of man. This is especially true of
the little immigrant which has gone farthest in colonizing this part of
the earth--the common stork’s-bill (_Erodium cicutarium_), which has
made itself equally at home in the upper zone of the Peruvian Andes,
in the low country of Central Chili, and in the plains of Northern
Patagonia. Its extension seems to keep pace with the spread of domestic
animals, and, as far as I have been able to ascertain, it is nowhere
common except in districts now or formerly pastured by horned cattle.
It is singular that the same plant should have failed to extend itself
in North America, being apparently confined to a few localities. It is
now common in the northern island of New Zealand, but has not extended
to South Africa, where two other European species of the same genus are
established.
[_IMMIGRANT PLANTS._]
In considering the facts relating to the rapid extension of certain
plants when introduced into new regions, and the extent to which they
have supplanted the indigenous species, I confess that I have always
been a little sceptical as to the primary importance attributed by
Darwin[25] to the fact that most of these invaders are northern
continental species. In the course of a long existence extending over
wide areas, he maintains that these have acquired an organization
fitting them better to maintain the struggle for existence than the
indigenous species of the regions over which they have spread. Of
course, it is true in the case of territories very recently raised from
the sea, and not in direct connection with a continental area inhabited
by species well adapted to the conditions of soil and climate, that
immigrant species well adapted to the conditions of their new home
will spread very rapidly, and may easily supplant the less vigorous,
because less well adapted, native species. The most remarkable case
of this kind is perhaps presented by Northern Patagonia and a portion
of the Argentine region, raised from the sea during the most recent
geological period. The only quarters from which the flora could be
recruited were the range of the Andes to the west, and the subtropical
zone of South America to the north. Everything goes to prove that the
forms of plants are far more slowly modified than those of animals--or,
at least, of the higher vertebrate orders. The new settlers are unable
quickly to adapt themselves to the new conditions of life, and as a
result we find that the indigenous flora of the region in question is
both numerically poor in species, and that these have been unable fully
to occupy the ground. Among the species intentionally or accidentally
introduced by the European conquerors, those well adapted to the new
country have established a predominance over the native species; but
I question whether, if the course of history had been different, and
the conquerors of South America had come from South Africa or South
Australia, bringing with them seeds of those regions, we should not
have seen in Patagonia African or Australian plants in the place of the
European thistles and other weeds now so widely spread.
[_CHECKS ON COLONIZATION._]
If I am not much mistaken as to the history of the introduction of
foreign plants into new regions, it very commonly happens that a
species which spreads very widely at first becomes gradually restricted
in its area, and finally loses the predominance which it seemed to have
established. Attention has not, I think, been sufficiently directed to
the fact that the chief limit to the spread of each species is fixed by
the prevalence of the enemies to which it is exposed, and that plants
carried to a distant region will, as a general rule, enjoy advantages
which in the course of time they are likely to lose. Whether it be
large animals that eat down the stem--as goats prevent the extension
of pines--or birds that devour the fruit, or insects that attack some
vital organ, or vegetable parasites that disorganize the tissues, the
chances are great that in a new region the species will not find the
enemies that have been adapted to check its extension in its native
home. Of the marvellous complexity of the agencies that interact in
the life-history of each species we first formed some estimate through
the teachings of Darwin; but to follow out the details in each case
will be the work of successive generations of naturalists. We cannot
doubt that in a new region new enemies will arise for each species
that has become common, or, in other words, that other organisms,
whether animals or plants, will acquire the means of maintaining their
own existence at the expense of the new-comer. The wild artichoke is
doubtless perfectly adapted to the climate of the warmer and drier
parts of the Mediterranean region, and is there rather widely spread;
but it is nowhere very common, even in places where the ground is not
much occupied by other species. We do not know all the agencies that
prevent it from spreading farther, but we do not doubt that it is held
in check by its appropriate enemies. In South America it would appear
that these, or some of them, are absent, and the plant has spread far
and wide. If some common bird should take to devouring the seeds, or
some other effectual check should arise, the area would very speedily
be reduced.
The train stopped for breakfast at the Rancagua station, a few
miles from the town of that name. Along with very fair food at the
restaurant, cheaper delicacies were offered by itinerant hawkers,
including various sweet cakes of suspicious appearance and baskets of
red berries of the _peumo_ tree. At the next station, called Gualtro,
about fifty miles from Santiago, we left the train, and, after the
usual long delay, continued our journey in a lumbering coach set upon
very high wheels. This seems to be the general fashion for carriages in
South America, arising from the fact that the smaller streams, which
swell fast after rain, are usually unprovided with bridges.
Incautious travellers in South America may easily be misled by the
frequent use of the same name for quite different places. One bound
for the Baths of Cauquenes must be careful not to confound these with
the town of Cauquenes, the chief place of a department of the same
name, more than a hundred miles farther to the south.
[_PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF CHILI._]
Before reaching Gualtro we had crossed the Cachapoal, a torrential
stream which drains several valleys of the high Cordillera. Our course
now lay eastward, towards the point where the river issues from the
mountains into the plain, and where, as everywhere in Central Chili,
its waters are largely used for irrigation. The road along the left
bank lies on a slope at some height above the stream, and gives a wide
view over the plain, backed by the great range of the Cordillera.
Irrespective of the picturesque interest of the grand view, I added
somewhat to the impressions respecting the physical geography of
Central Chili which I had recently received from an examination of
Petermann’s reduction from the large government map, and from the
information given me at Santiago.
I had reached Chili with no other ideas respecting the configuration
of the country than those derived from the twelfth chapter of Darwin’s
“Journal of Researches,” which with little modification have been
repeated by subsequent writers, even so lately as in the excellent
article on “Chile,” in the American Cyclopædia.
Struck by the conformation of the range between Quillota and Santiago,
and the somewhat similar range south of the Maipo, and writing at a
time when there were no maps deserving of the name, and when the
channels of Patagonia had been most imperfectly explored, Darwin
was led to infer a much closer resemblance between the orographic
features of the two regions than it is now possible to admit. He
supposed the greater part, if not the whole of the Chilian coast, to
be bordered by mountain ranges running parallel to the main chain of
the Cordillera, thus forming a succession of nearly level basins lying
between these outer mountains and the main range, each being drained
through a transverse valley which cuts through the outer range. Such a
conformation of the surface would undoubtedly resemble what we find on
the western coast of South America, between the Gulf of Ancud and the
Straits of Magellan. But the facts correspond with this view only to a
limited extent.
The tints laid down on Petermann’s map to indicate successive zones
of height above the sea are far from being completely accurate, but
slight errors of detail do not affect the general conclusions to which
we must arrive. If we carry the eye along from north to south, we
find a succession of great buttresses or promontories of high land
projecting westward from the main range, between which relatively deep
valleys carry the drainage towards the Pacific coast. The effect of a
continuous sinking of the land would be to produce a series of deep
bays running far inland to the base of the Cordillera, and further
depression might show here and there some scattered islets, but nothing
to resemble the almost continuous range of mountainous islands that
separate the channels of Patagonia from the ocean. As far as it is
possible to judge of a region yet imperfectly surveyed, the case is
quite different in Southern Chili, below the parallel of 40°. From
near Valdivia a lofty coast range, cut through by only one deep and
narrow valley, extends southward to the strait, only a few miles wide,
that divides the island of Chiloe from the mainland, and is evidently
prolonged to the southward in the high land that fringes the western
flank of that large island. A moderate rise of the sea-level would
submerge the country between Puerto Montt and the Rio de San Pedro, and
produce another island very similar in form and dimensions to that of
Chiloe.
[_A CHILIAN COUNTRY-GENTLEMAN._]
Our lumbering carriage came to a halt at the place where the road
crosses a stream--the Rio Claro--which drains some part of the outer
range and soon falls into the Cachapoal. Close at hand was a plain
building with numerous dependencies, which turned out to be the
residence of Don Olegario Soto, the chief proprietor of this part of
the country. I proceeded at once to deliver a letter to this gentleman,
whose property extends along the valley for a distance of thirty
or forty miles into the heart of the Cordillera. My object was to
ascertain the possibility of making an excursion into the interior of
the great range, and to obtain such assistance as the proprietor might
afford. The house, so far as I saw, was rustic in character, and my
first impression of its owner was that the same epithet might serve as
his description. There was a complete absence of the conventional and
perfectly hollow phrases which form the staple of Castilian courtesy.
But first impressions are proverbially misleading. On my making some
obviously superfluous remark as to my imperfect use of the Spanish
tongue, Don Olegario changed the conversation to English, which he
spoke with perfect ease and correctness. We discussed my project of
a mountain excursion, and I found at once that he was ready to give
practical assistance in every way. The doubt remained as to the season
and the weather. If no rain or snow should fall, there was no other
obstacle. He readily undertook to provide men and horses and everything
needful for an excursion of three days in the Cordillera, and I was to
let him know my resolve on the following day.
I afterwards heard in some detail the family history of this
liberal-minded gentleman. His father commenced life as a common miner.
With the aid of good fortune, natural intelligence, and activity, he
became the owner of a valuable mine in Northern Chili, and amassed a
large fortune, mainly invested in the purchase of land. Having several
sons, he sent them all for education to England, and, to judge from
the specimen I saw, with excellent results. Large proprietors who
use intelligence and capital to develop the natural resources of the
country supply, in some states of society, the most effectual means for
progress in civilization; but, excepting in Chili, such examples are
rare in South America.
The day was declining when we reached the Baths of Cauquenes, and I
had time only for a short stroll through the establishment and its
immediate surroundings. It stands on a level shelf of stony ground
less than a hundred feet above the river Cachapoal, the main building
consisting of a range of bedrooms, all on the ground floor, disposed
round a very large quadrangle. The rooms are spacious and sufficiently
furnished, and I was struck by the fact that there is no fastening
whatever to the doors, which usually stand ajar. This speaks at once
for the constant apprehension of earthquakes that seems to haunt the
Chilian mind, and for the general honesty of the people, amongst
whom theft is almost unknown. Besides some additional rooms in wings
adjoining the great court, the baths are an _annexe_ overhanging
the river, to which you descend by broad flights of stairs. A large
handsome hall, lighted from above, has the bath-rooms ranged on either
side, all exquisitely clean and attractive. The adjoining ground,
planted mainly with native trees, is limited in extent. A narrow and
deep ravine, cut through the rocky slope of the adjoining hill, is
traversed by one of those slight wire suspension bridges common in
this country, that swing so far under the steps of the passenger as to
disquiet the unaccustomed stranger. The views gained from below up the
rugged and stern valley of the Cachapoal are naturally limited, but the
rather steep hills rising above the baths promised a wider prospect
towards the great range of the Cordillera, and did not disappoint
expectation.
[_THE BATHS OF CAUQUENES._]
The autumn season being now far advanced, the guests at the
establishment were few--about twenty in all. After supper they
assembled in a drawing-room and adjoining music-room. I was struck not
only by the general tone of courtesy and good-breeding of the party,
but by the fact that several of them at least were well-informed men,
taking an intelligent interest in physics and natural history. Two
or three gentlemen spoke a little, but only a little, English, and,
my command of Spanish being equally imperfect, conversation did not
flow very freely, and I retired for the night with a feeling that at
a more favourable season I should be very loth to quit such pleasant
head-quarters.
After a rather cold night, I rose early on the 15th of May, with a
sense of the impending necessity for an immediate decision as to my
future plans. Scanning anxiously the portion of the great range seen
towards the head of the valley, I saw that fresh snow extended much
lower than I had observed it at Santiago, while heavy broken masses of
dark clouds lay along the flanks of the higher mountains. I received
no encouragement from Mr. Hess. The ordinary season for rain in the
low country had arrived, and this would take the form of snow in the
inner valleys of the Cordillera; all appearances boded a change of
weather which is always anxiously desired by the native population.
I reluctantly decided to despatch a messenger to Don Olegario Soto
renouncing the projected excursion, contenting myself with the prospect
of approaching as near to the great range as could be accomplished in a
single day from the baths.
To the naturalist, however, a new country is never devoid of interest;
and this was my first day on the outer slopes of the Chilian Andes. The
season was, indeed, the most unfavourable to the botanist of the entire
year. After six months’ drought, broken only by one or two slight
showers, the ground was baked hard, nearly to the consistence of brick,
and most of the herbaceous vegetation utterly dried up. A great part
of the day was nevertheless very well spent in rambling over the hill
above the baths, and making closer acquaintance with many vegetable
forms altogether new, or hitherto seen only from a distance. The trees
and shrubs of this region are with scarce an exception evergreen,
and the most conspicuous, though differing much from each other in
structure and affinities, bear a striking resemblance in the general
form and character of their foliage, formed of thickset, broadly
elliptical, leathery leaves, giving a dense shade impervious to the
sun. The largest is the _peumo_[26] tree, already referred to, which
forms a thick trunk, but rarely exceeds thirty feet in height. Next
to this in dimensions are two trees of the Rosaceous family, allied
in essential characters (though very different in appearance) to the
Spiræas, of which the common meadowsweet is the most familiar example.
One of these, the _Quillaja saponaria_ of botanists, is much prized
for the remarkable properties of the bark, said to contain, along with
carbonate of lime and other mineral constituents, much _saponine_, an
organic compound having many of the properties of soap. It is commonly
used for washing linen, and especially for cleansing woollen garments,
to which it gives an agreeable lustre. Nearly allied to this is the
_Kageneckia oblonga_, a small tree of no special use except to aid in
clothing the parched hills of the lower region of Chili. It would seem
that all these trees might be successfully introduced into the warmer
parts of southern Europe, especially the south of Spain and Sicily, and
the _Quillaja_ would doubtless prove to be of some economic value.
[_CHILIAN TREES._]
To the European traveller the most remarkable vegetable inhabitant of
the dry hills of Central Chili is the tall cactus (_Cereus quisco_),
which I had first seen on the way from Valparaiso to Santiago. They
were abundant on the lower slopes about Cauquenes, the stiff columnar
stems averaging about a foot in diameter. I was told that the plant
was now to be found in flower, and was surprised to observe on the
trunks, as I approached, clusters of small deep-red flowers that
appeared very unlike anything belonging to this natural family. Nearer
inspection showed that they had none but an accidental connection with
the plant on which they grew. The genus _Loranthus_, allied to our
common European parasite, the mistletoe, is widely spread throughout
the world, chiefly in the tropics. From three to four hundred different
species are known, nearly all parasites on other plants; as a rule,
each species being confined to some special group, and many of them
known to fix itself only upon a single species. Botanists in various
regions have remarked that there is frequently a marked resemblance
between the foliage of the parasitic _Loranthus_ and that of the
plants to which it is attached; but it is especially remarkable that
the only species which is known to grow upon the leafless plants of
the cactus family should itself be the only leafless species of
_Loranthus_, consisting as it does only of a very short stem, from
which the crowded flower-stalks form a dense cluster of bright-red,
moderately large flowers. Although it is not easy to conjecture how
it may act, it is conceivable that these conformities may be results
of natural selection; but it is also possible that, like many curious
instances of parallelism among the forms of plants belonging to widely
different types, the facts may hereafter be seen to result from some
yet undiscovered law regulating the direction of variation in the
development of organic beings.
[_A CURIOUS PARASITE._]
In some places dense masses of spiny shrubs were massed together,
overgrown by climbing plants, amongst which the most strange and
attractive were composites of the genus _Mutisia_. The Chilian species
have all stiff, leathery, undivided leaves ending in a tendril, with
large brownish-red or purple flowers, of which very few were to be
found at this advanced season. Among the shrubs I was struck by a
species of _Colletia_, a genus characteristic of temperate South
America. They are nearly or quite leafless, and remind one slightly
of our European furze, but are much more rigid, with fewer, but hard
and penetrating spines, which, unlike those of the furze, are true
branches, sharpened to a point and set on at right angles to the stem.
The species common here (_Colletia spinosa_ of Lamarck) grows to a
height of four or five feet, and would probably be found very useful
for hedges on dry stony ground in the south of Europe. I regret that
the seeds which I sent to Italy have not germinated.
At the present season, corresponding to mid-November in Europe, I could
not expect to see much of the native herbaceous vegetation, and the
majority of the plants collected showed little more than the parched
skeletons of their former selves. The recent slight showers, which
alone had broken the long drought since the preceding spring, sufficed
to awaken into life two species of _Oxalis_, whose flowers and early
leaves just pierced through the hard surface of the soil; but, although
some young leaves heralded the appearance of species of the lily tribe,
no other new flowers had appeared. Ferns were scarce, but I was rather
surprised to find a fine _Adiantum_ in some abundance under the shade
of the _Quillaja_ and _Kageneckia_ trees.
In the evening I arranged with Mr. Hess to start early on the following
morning, with the object of approaching as nearly as possible to the
higher zone of the Cordillera, of which, despite cloudy weather, I had
tempting glimpses during the day.
I was on foot early on the 16th, but the prospect was not altogether
cheering. The clouds which covered the sky were of leaden hue, and lay
about mid-height on the range of the Cordillera. The horses were ready
after the usual delay, and a taciturn young man, who probably thought
the expedition a bore, was in readiness to act as guide. As I was about
to mount, Mr. Hess lent me a _poncho_, which I at once drew over my
head, and for which I afterwards had reason to be grateful. We rode on
in silence for more than an hour, following a track that cuts across
the great bend of the Cachapoal above the baths. The river is formed
by the union of four or five torrents that issue from as many of the
interior valleys of the Cordillera. It flows at first northward, nearly
parallel to the main chain, until, a few miles above the baths, it
bends westward and descends towards the open country. We had reached a
point overlooking the upper valley, and, as far as one might judge from
glimpses through breaks in the clouds, commanding a noble view of the
great range of the Cordillera. Before us lay the slopes by which, at a
distance of two or three miles, we might reach the only bridge which
spans the upper course of the Cachapoal. Just at this interesting point
the threatened rain began, at first gentle, but steadily increasing. I
went on for some time on the chance of any token of improvement; but,
as none appeared, I decided on sending back the horses and returning on
foot to the baths.
[_USE OF THE PONCHO._]
I had this day my first experience of the value of a genuine _poncho_
woven by the Indian women from the wool of the guanaco. Throughout
South America the cheap articles in common use, manufactured in
England and Germany, have almost replaced the native garment. They
are comparatively heavy and inconveniently warm, while not at all
efficient in keeping out rain. After more than three hours’ exposure
to heavy rain, the light covering lent to me by Mr. Hess had allowed
none to pass. It is surprising that such a serviceable and convenient
garment, which leaves the arms free, and is equally useful on foot or
on horseback, is not more generally adopted in Europe, especially by
sportsmen. A good _poncho_ is not, however, to be had cheaply. I was
asked sixty dollars for one at Buenos Ayres, and that, I believe, is
about the ordinary price.
The change of weather which culminated in this wet day at Cauquenes
seems to have extended along the range of the Cordillera; but, to
illustrate the rapid change of climate which is found in advancing
northward along the west side of the Andes, I may mention that, while
the rain continued to fall steadily for ten and a half hours at
Cauquenes, it lasted but five hours at Santiago, about fifty miles to
the northward; and at Santa Rosa, forty miles farther in a direct line,
only two hours’ rain was obtained by the thirsty farmers on the banks
of the Aconcagua.
On the morning of the 17th the clouds had disappeared, and the valley
was lit up with brilliant sunshine. Fresh snow lay thickly on the
flanks of the higher mountains, and I had reason to congratulate myself
that I had not undertaken an expedition which would have resulted in
utter discomfort without any adequate compensation, as the Alpine
vegetation must have been completely concealed by the fresh snow. The
roads and paths were all deep in mud, and the slopes very slippery from
the rain, so I decided on descending to the rocky banks of the river
below the baths, and, following the stream as far as I conveniently
could. I did not go far, but a good many hours were very well occupied
in examining the vegetation of the left bank of the Cachapoal and of
a little island of rock in the middle of the stream. In summer one of
the ordinary suspension bridges of the country enables the visitors to
cross to the right bank, but this is removed during winter, and the
swollen waters of the river made all the usual fords impassable for the
present.
[_GROUPS OF INCOMPLETE SPECIES._]
Many forms of _Escallonia_ were abundant along the stream. A few
species only of this genus are cultivated in English gardens, but in
their native home, the middle and lower slopes of the Andes, they
exhibit a surprising variety of form while preserving a general
similarity of aspect. They are all evergreen shrubs, some rising to
the stature of small trees, with undivided, thick, usually glossy
leaves, and white, red, or purplish flowers. Although forty-three
different species have been described from Chili alone, it is easy to
find specimens not exactly agreeing with any of them, and to light
upon intermediate forms that seem to connect what appeared to be quite
distinct species. They afford an example of a fact which I believe
must be distinctly recognized by writers on systematic botany--that in
the various regions of the earth there are some groups of vegetable
forms in which the processes by what we call species are segregated
are yet incomplete; and amid the throng of closely allied forms, the
suppression of those least adapted to the conditions of life has not
advanced far enough to differentiate those which can be defined and
marked by a specific name.
To the believer in evolution, it must be evident that at some period in
the history of each generic group there must have occurred an interval
during which species, as we understand them, did not yet exist; and
perhaps the real difficulty is to explain why such instances are not
more frequent than they now appear to be. Familiar examples are the
genera _Hieracium_ and _Rosa_ in Europe; _Aster_ and _Solidago_ in
North America; while in South America, _Escallonia_, _Malvastrum_, and
several groups of _Myrtaceæ_ seem to exhibit the same phenomenon.
Another genus having numerous species in South America, but, so far as
I know, not displaying the same close connection of forms linking the
several species, is _Adesmia_, a leguminous genus allied to the common
sainfoin. I found several species near the baths, the most attractive
being a little spiny yellow-flowered bush, with much the habit of some
Mediterranean _Genistæ_, but with pods formed of several joints, each
covered with long, purple, glistening hairs.
A bright day was followed by a clear cold night, the thermometer
falling to 40° Fahr. in the court, and slight hoar-frost was visible
in the lower part of the valley near the baths. I started early for
a ramble over the higher hills rising to the south and south-west of
the establishment. After following a track some way, I struck up the
steep stony slopes, meeting at every step the dried skeletons of many
interesting plants characteristic of this region of America, but here
and there rewarded by finding some species in fruit, or even with
remains of flower. After gaining the ridge, I found that the true
summit lay a considerable way back, quite out of sight of the baths. To
this, which is called _El Morro de Cauquenes_,[27] I directed my steps,
wishing to enjoy a unique opportunity for a wide view of the Chilian
Andes.
[_PANORAMIC VIEW OF THE ANDES._]
The day was cloudless, and the position most favourable. In this part
of the range the Cordillera bends in a curve convex to the east, so as
to describe a nearly circular arc of about 60°, with Cauquenes as a
centre. The summits of the main range, which apparently vary from about
sixteen to nineteen thousand feet in height, and are nearly forty miles
distant, send out huge buttresses dividing the narrow valleys whose
waters unite to form the Cachapoal, and are in many places so high as
to conceal the main range. The slopes are everywhere very steep, so
that, in spite of the recent fall of snow, dark masses of volcanic rock
stood out against the brilliant white that mantled the great chain.
The tints in Petermann’s map would indicate that the highest peaks are
those lying about due east, but it appeared to me that two or three of
those which I descried to the south-east, though slightly more distant,
were decidedly higher. It will probably be long before the Chilian
Government can undertake a complete survey of the gigantic chain which
walls in their country on the eastern side. No pass, as I was informed,
is used to connect the upper valley of the Cachapoal with the Argentine
territory.
From the summit I descended about due north into a little hollow,
whence a trickling streamlet fell rather rapidly towards the main
valley. As commonly happens in Chili, this has cut a deep trench, or
_quebrada_; and when I had occasion to cross to the opposite bank, I
had no slight difficulty in scrambling down the nearly vertical wall,
though partly helped and partly impeded by the shrubs that always haunt
these favourable stations. The Winter’s bark, not yet in flower,
differed a good deal from the form which I had seen at Valparaiso, and
the foliage was much the same that I afterwards found in the channels
of Patagonia. Among the few plants yet flowering at this season was a
large lobelia, of the group formerly classed as a distinct genus under
the name _Tupa_,[28] and which is peculiar to Chili and Peru.
[_CAPTIVE CONDORS._]
On my return from a delightful walk, I found much-desired letters from
home awaiting me, and along with them the less welcome information
that the departure of the _Triumph_ was delayed for several weeks.
Renouncing with regret the agreeable prospect of a voyage in company
with Captain Markham, I at once wrote to secure a passage in the German
steamer _Rhamses_, announced to leave Valparaiso on May 28.
Among other objects of interest at this place, I was struck by the
proceedings of two captive condors, who, with clipped wings, roamed
about the establishment, and seemed to have no desire to recover
the liberty which they had lost as young birds. One of them was
especially pertinacious in keeping to the side of the court near to
the dining-room and kitchen, always on the look-out for scraps of meat
and refuse. Contrary to my expectation, the colour of both birds,
which were females, was a nearly uniform brown, with only a few white
feathers beneath. They were larger than any eagles, but scarcely
exceeded one or two of the largest _lämmergeier_ of the Alps that I
have seen in confinement.
On the morning of May 19 I with much regret took my departure from the
baths, and found myself in company with an elderly gentleman and his
pretty and agreeable daughter, who also desired to return to Santiago.
Starting some two hours earlier than was at all necessary, we had
spare time, which I employed in looking for plants at Rio Claro and
about the Gualtro station; but at this season very little remained to
interest the botanist. We reached the capital about five p.m., and,
as the days were now short, the sun was setting as I went in an open
carriage along the broad Alameda, which runs nearly due east. The
better to enjoy the finest sunset which I had yet seen in America,
I was sitting facing westward, with my back to the horses, when an
unusual glow of bright light on the adjoining houses caused me to turn
my head. Never shall I forget the extraordinary spectacle that met my
eyes. I am well used to brilliant sunsets, for, so far as I know, they
are nowhere in the world so frequent as in the part of north-eastern
Italy approaching the foot of the Alps, with which I am familiar.
But the scene on this evening was beyond all previous experience or
imagination. The great range of the Cordillera that rises above the
town, mostly covered with fresh snow, seemed ablaze in a glory of red
flame of indescribable intensity, and the whole city was for some
minutes transfigured in the splendour of the illumination.
[_SUNSET ILLUMINATION._]
The subject of sunset illumination has been much discussed of late in
connection with the supposed effects of the great eruption of Krakatoa,
and I confess to a suspicion that these have been considerably
overrated. That the presence of finely comminuted particles in the
higher region of the atmosphere is one of the chief causes that
determine the colour of the sky, may be freely conceded by those
who doubt whether a single volcanic eruption sufficed to alter
the conditions over the larger part of the earth’s surface. It is
certain that some of the districts ordinarily noted for sunsets of
extraordinary brilliancy are remote from active volcanoes. So far as
South America is concerned, it may, on the other hand, be remarked that
if volcanic action be an efficient cause, it is present at many points
of the continent as well as in Central America, while brilliant sunsets
are, so far as I know, of rare occurrence except in Chili.