CHAPTER IV.

Baths of Apoquinto--Slopes of the Cordillera--Excursion to Santa

Rosa de los Andes and the valley of Aconcagua--Return to

Valparaiso--Voyage in the German steamer _Rhamses_--Visit

to Lota--Parque of Lota--Coast of Southern Chili--Gulf of

Peñas--Hale Cove--Messier’s Channel--Beautiful scenery--The

English narrows--Eden harbour--Winter vegetation--Eyre

Sound--Floating ice--Sarmiento Channel--Puerto Bueno--Smyth’s

Channel--Entrance to the Straits of Magellan--Glorious

morning--Borya Bay--Mount Sarmiento--Arrival at Sandy Point.

Having devoted the day following my return to Santiago to botanical

work, chiefly in the herbarium of Dr. Philippi, I started on the

following morning in company with his son, Professor Friedrich

Philippi, for an excursion up the slopes of the mountain range nearest

the city. My companion had kindly sent forward in advance his servant

with horses, and we engaged a hackney coach to convey us to the Baths

of Apoquinto, where a warm mineral spring bursts out at the very

base of the mountain. The common carriages throughout South America

are heavy lumbering vehicles, and the road, though nearly level, was

deep in volcanic sand; but the horses are excellent, and, in spite of

several halts to collect a few plants yet in flower, we accomplished

the distance of nine miles in little over an hour.

[_BATHS ON APOQUINTO._]

The establishment at Apoquinto is on a small scale and somewhat rustic

in character, but it had been recently taken by an Englishman, and now

supplies fair accommodation, which would be prized by a naturalist who

should be fortunate enough to visit Chili at a favourable season. We

mounted our horses without delay, and at once commenced the ascent,

gentle for a short way, but soon becoming so steep that it was more

convenient to dismount at several places. Under the experienced

guidance of my companion, I found more interesting plants still in

flower or fruit than I had ventured to expect at this season. I here

for the first time found a species of _Mulinum_, one of a large group

of umbelliferous plants characteristic of the Chilian flora, and nearly

all confined to South America. The leaves in the commonest species

are divided into a few stiff pointed segments, reminding one somewhat

of the _Echinophora_ of the Mediterranean shores, once erroneously

supposed to be a native of England.

I was especially struck on this day with the extraordinary variety of

odours, pleasant or the reverse, that are exhaled by the native plants

of Chili. As commonly happens in dry countries, a large proportion

of the native plants contain resinous gums, each of which emits some

peculiar and penetrating smell. I had already observed this elsewhere

in the country, but, perhaps owing to the great variety of the

vegetation on these slopes, the recollections of the day are indelibly

associated with those of the impressions on the olfactory nerve. If

there be persons in whom such impressions are sufficiently distinct

to be accurately recalled by an effort of the memory, I can imagine

that in some countries the nose might afford a valuable help to the

botanical collector. To judge, however, from personal experience,

I should say that of all the senses that of smell is the one which

supplies the least accurate impressions, and those least capable of

certain recognition.

We reached a place where a small stream from the upper part of the

mountain springs in a little waterfall from a cleft in the rocks, and

which is known as the Salto de San Ramon. This is probably about four

thousand feet above the sea-level, and between us and the lower limit

of the snow which covered the higher slopes there stretched a rather

steep acclivity, covered, like the ground around us, with bushes and

small shrubby plants. A few small trees (chiefly _Kageneckia_) grew

near the Salto, but higher up scarce any were to be seen. Professor

Philippi, who is well acquainted with the ground, thought that little,

if anything, would be added to our collections by continuing the

ascent, so we devoted the spare time to examining the ground in our

immediate neighbourhood, thus adding a few species not before seen. In

summer, however, an active botanist, starting early from Apoquinto,

who did not object to an ascent of six or seven thousand feet, would

reach the zone of Alpine vegetation, and be sure to collect many of the

curious plants of this region of the Andes.

May 22 and the following day were fully occupied in Santiago. Among

other agreeable acquaintances, I called upon Don F. Balmacedo, then

minister for foreign affairs, and now President of the Republic,

who favoured me with a letter of introduction to the governor of

the Chilian settlement in the Straits of Magellan. I also enjoyed

an interesting conversation with Dr. Taforò, then designated by the

Chilian Government for the vacant archbishopric of Santiago. Some

canonical objections appear to have created difficulties at Rome, and

the see, as I believe, remains vacant.

[_THE CUMULATIVE VOTE IN CHILI._]

I found in Dr. Taforò an agreeable and well-informed gentleman, who

appeared to hold enlightened views, and to be free from many of the

prejudices which the Spanish clergy have inherited from the dark period

of ecclesiastical tyranny and absolute royalty. With regard to the

Chilian clergy in general, I derived a favourable impression from the

testimony of my various acquaintances. At all events, they appear to

be respected by the mass of the population, whereas in Peru they are

regarded with dislike and contempt by all classes alike.

Among the various claims of the Chilian republic to be regarded with

interest by the student of political progress, I must note the fact

that it has for some time successfully adopted a system of suffrage

which is supposed to be too complex for the people of our country.

In political elections for representatives the mode of voting is, I

believe, very nearly the same as that known amongst us as the Hare

system; while in municipal elections the cumulative vote is adopted,

each voter having as many votes as there are candidates to be elected,

and being allowed to give as many votes as he pleases to the one or

more candidates of his choice. I unfortunately was not aware of these

facts while in the country, and therefore failed to make inquiry on the

subject; but the fact that, while there is a keen interest in political

life, no one has proposed to alter the present mode of voting, seems to

prove that the existing system gives general satisfaction.

Early in the morning of May 24 I left Santiago, bound for Santa Rosa

de los Andes, the highest town in the valley of the Rio Aconcagua.

That river is mainly fed from the snows of the great peak from which

it takes its name, the highest summit of the New World.[29] In its

lower course it waters the Quillota valley, through which the railway

is carried from Valparaiso to Santiago. In travelling from the latter

city it is therefore necessary to return to the junction at Llaillai,

whence a branch line leads eastward along the river to San Felipe and

Santa Rosa. The sky was cloudless, the air delightfully clear, and

the views of the great range were indescribably grand and beautiful,

especially in the neighbourhood of San Felipe. The summit of Aconcagua,

as seen from this side, shows three sharp peaks of bare rock, too

steep to retain the snow which now lay deep on the lower declivities.

It has been inferred that the summit must be formed of crystalline

or metamorphic rock, as there is no indication of the existence of

a crater. This is by no means improbable, as we know that granite,

old slates, and conglomerates, as well as newer Secondary rocks, are

found at many points along the axis of the main range; but, on the

other hand, we know that most of the higher peaks in Central Chili

are volcanic, and the removal of all but some fragments of the cone

of an ancient crater may leave sharp teeth of rocks such as are seen

at the summit of Aconcagua. In the view which I obtained from the

Morro of Cauquenes I observed several lofty peaks of somewhat the same

character, which struck me as probably the shattered remains of ancient

craters.

[_SANTA ROSA DE LOS ANDES._]

Reaching Santa Rosa early in the afternoon, I proceeded to the Hotel

Colon in the _plaza_, which, as usual, forms the centre of the

town. The French landlord and his wife were civil, obliging people,

and, although the establishment seemed to be much out at elbows,

I was soon installed in a tolerably good room, and supplied with

information for which I had hitherto been vainly seeking. The main

line of communication between the adjoining republics of Chili and

Argentaria[30] is over the Uspallata Pass at the head of the valley

of Aconcagua; and Santa Rosa, or as it is more commonly called, Los

Andes, is the starting-point for travellers from the west. Don B. V.

Mackenna had kindly furnished me with a letter to the officer in charge

of the custom-house station at the foot of the pass, known as the

_Resguardo del Rio_* _Colorado_, and led me to believe that a carriage

road extended as far as that point. The latter statement was, however,

disputed by several of my acquaintances in Santiago, and the most

various assertions were made as to the distance and the time requisite

for the excursion. As it turned out, Mr. Mackenna, as he generally

is, was correctly informed. The road, as I now learned, was in bad

order, but quite passable for a carriage; and the distance could be

accomplished in little over three hours.

Having ordered a vehicle for the next morning, I inquired for a man or

a boy acquainted with the neighbourhood of the town, who might serve

as guide and carry some of the traps with which a botanist is usually

encumbered. An ill-looking fellow, who seemed to have been drinking

heavily overnight, soon made his appearance, and we started through a

long, dusty street, with only very few houses at wide intervals, which

led to the road by which I was to travel on the following morning.

Seeing the ground near the town to be much inclosed, while on the

opposite side of the river a broad belt of flat stony ground, partly

covered with bushes and small trees, gave better prospect to the

botanist, I desired to be conducted to the nearest bridge by which I

might cross the stream. When we reached the place it appeared to be

even a more rickety structure than usual, requiring some care to avoid

the numerous holes in the basket-work which formed the floor. Having

ascertained that I meant to return the same way, my guide proceeded

to stretch himself on the bank, where I found him fast asleep on my

return.

[_A LAZY GUIDE._]

The character of the vegetation was the same as that about Santiago,

but the general aspect indicated a decided increase of dryness in

the climate, so that at the present season there was very little

remaining to be gleaned by the botanical collector. As usually happens,

however, careful search did not go quite unrewarded. I found several

species not before seen, and even where there were no specimens fit

for preservation something was to be learned. My next object was to

ascend the neighbouring hill, or _cerro_, which immediately overlooks

the town of Santa Rosa. A new proprietor had bought a tract of land

on the left bank of the river, and erected very substantial fences

rather troublesome to a trespasser. My so-called guide dropped behind

as I began to ascend the hill--only five or six hundred feet in

height--finally turned back, and, having deposited my goods at the

hotel, claimed and received an ill-earned fee. The stony slopes were

utterly parched, yet I found a few botanical novelties. A small shrubby

composite with prickly leaves, but with the habit and inflorescence

of a _Baccharis_, was still in tolerable condition. I took it for the

female plant of some species of that characteristic South American

diœcious genus; but I afterwards ascertained that it belonged to

a completely different group, namely, the _Mutisiaceæ_, being the

_Proustia baccharoides_ of Don.

The view from the summit of the Cerro towards the Andean range was not

equal to that from San Felipe, but on the opposite side the outlook

towards the plain was interesting. The contrast between the zone of

cultivation in the low lands accessible to irrigation and the higher

ground, burnt by the summer to a uniform yellow-brown tint, was

striking to the eye. The town of Santa Rosa, laid out on the flat at

the foot of the hill, was a curious feature in the prospect. It was

designed on the regular plan which seems to have recommended itself to

all the European settlers in the American continent, but which I have

nowhere seen so exactly carried out as at this place. A chess-board

supplied the model, with one row of squares cut off to avoid some

rough ground. Fifty-six squares--_quadras_--exactly equal in size, are

divided by broad roads, and the whole is surrounded by a wall about

half a mile in length each way. The _quadra_ in the centre forms the

_plaza_; the others were to be occupied by houses and gardens. To make

the town, as planned by its founders, a perfect model, it wants nothing

but houses and people to live in them. It was, perhaps, imagined that,

being on the main line of communication across the Andes, this might

become a place of some importance; but the traffic is very limited,

and, such as it is, it is carried on by trains of horses and mules that

travel to and fro between Valparaiso and Mendoza. The area of land fit

for cultivation in the valley above San Felipe is small, and the resort

of retail traders doubtless very limited. The result is that Santa

Rosa is a town without houses. Many of the _quadras_ are occupied by a

single house and annexed garden, and only round or close to the _plaza_

is such a thing as a row of adjoining buildings to be seen.

The morning of May 25 was noteworthy as producing the solitary instance

of punctuality in a native of South America that I encountered in the

course of my journey. The virtuous driver of the carriage which I had

engaged to take me to the Resguardo was actually at the door of the

hotel at the appointed hour, soon after sunrise; but it availed little

for my object. Not a soul was stirring in the hotel; and though I made

no small disturbance, it was long before I could induce the lazy waiter

to make his appearance. I had not thought of providing my breakfast

overnight, and could not start without food for a long day’s expedition.

[_VALLEY OF ACONCAGUA._]

At length we started on the road by the left bank which I had followed

on the previous evening, and, the weather being again nearly perfect,

I thoroughly enjoyed a very charming excursion, which carried me

farther into the heart of the Cordillera than I had yet reached. As

very often happens, however, the nearer one gets to the great peaks

the less one is able to see of them. The general outline of the slopes

in the inner valleys of high mountain countries is usually convex,

because the torrents have deepened the trench between opposite slopes

more quickly than subaërial action has worn away the flanks; and it

is only exceptionally that the summits of the ridges can be seen

from the intervening valley. Among mountains where the main lines of

valley are, so to say, _structural_--_i.e._ depending on inequalities

produced during the original elevation of the mountain mass--the case

is somewhat different. Such valleys are usually nearly straight, as we

see so commonly in the European Alps, and the peaks lying about the

head of the valley are therefore often in view; but in the Andes, as

in many parts of the Rocky Mountains, it would appear that the valleys

are exclusively due to erosive action, and, their direction being

determined by merely local conditions, they are extremely sinuous, and

rarely follow the same direction for any considerable distance.

The road up the Aconcagua valley seemed to me at the time to be

about the worst over which I ever travelled in a carriage, but I had

not then made acquaintance with the mountain tracks, which they are

pleased to call roads, in the United States. Looking back in the light

of subsequent experience, I suppose that the Chilian roads should

rank among the best in the American continent, although this one was

so uneven that in awkward places, where it overhung the river, the

carriage was often tilted so much to one side that I was thankful not

to have with me a nervous companion.

About half-way to the Resguardo the road crosses the river by a stone

bridge, where it rushes in a narrow channel between high rocky banks.

Seeing botanical inducements, I descended to examine the banks on

either side, and in crossing the bridge noticed, what I might otherwise

have overlooked, that the crown of the arch was rapidly giving way.

There was a large hole in the centre, and the structure was sustained

only by the still solid masonry on each side, where the wear and tear

had been less constant. I have often admired the calm good sense

displayed by the horses in all parts of America, and was interested in

observing the prudent way in which our steeds selected the safest spots

on either side of the hole without any appearance of the nervousness

which seems hereditary in English horses, partly due, I suppose, to

the unnatural conditions in which they live. With every confidence in

animal sagacity, but none whatever in the stability of the bridge, I

thought it judicious on my return in the evening to recross it on foot.

[_A SENSITIVE PLANT._]

I found two or three curious plants not before seen on the rocks

here, and again found the singular Zygophyllaceous shrub _Porliera

hygrometrica_, which is not uncommon in this part of Chili. The

numerous stiff spiny branches diverging at right angles must produce

flowers during a great part of the year, as I observed at this season

both nearly ripe fruit and flowers in various stages of development.

The small pinnate leaves, somewhat resembling in form those of the

sensitive plant, have something of the same quality. But in this

case the effective stimulus seems to be that of light, causing them

to expand in sunshine and to close when the sky is covered. If at

all, they must be very slightly affected by contact, as I failed to

observe it. If I am correct, the appropriate specific name would be

_photometrica_ rather than _hygrometrica_.

In the hedges and among the bushes a pretty climbing plant

(_Eccremocarpus scaber_) seemed to be common on the right bank of the

stream, producing flower and ripe fruit at the same time. It belongs to

the trumpet-flower tribe (_Bignoniaceæ_), though not rivalling in size

or brilliancy of colour the true Bignonias which I afterwards saw in

Brazil.

Having passed on the left the opening of a narrow valley which appears

to contain the main stream of the Aconcagua, I reached the Resguardo

somewhat before noon, and proceeded at once to deliver my letter to

Captain X----, the officer commanding the frontier station. I was

most courteously received, with a pressing invitation to join the

_almuerzo_, or luncheon, which is the ordinary midday meal in Chili.

Besides the lady of the house, I met at table an officer of the Chilian

navy, a friend of my host, who had come to recruit in mountain air

after recovery from a serious illness, and who spoke English fairly

well. The conversation was interesting, and I was struck by the

excellent tone and quick intelligence displayed by these agreeable

specimens of Chilian society. In the kindest way, and with evident

sincerity, my host pressed me to remain for a week at his house, and

promised me many excursions in the neighbourhood. It was with real

reluctance that, owing to imperious engagements, I was forced to

decline the hospitable invitation; and it has been a further regret

that, having failed to note it at the time, my treacherous memory has

not retained the name of this amiable gentleman.

Meanwhile, although the time passed so pleasantly, I was burning with

the desire to make use of the brief interval available for seeing

something of the surrounding country. The Resguardo stands at the

junction of a rivulet that descends from the Uspallata Pass with the

Rio Colorado, which flows from the north-east apparently from the

roots of the great peak of Aconcagua. As far as I could see, the track

leading to the pass wind in zigzags up steep slopes, at this season

almost completely bare of vegetation, and I decided on following the

valley of the Rio Colorado, where, at least along the banks of the

stream, vegetation was comparatively abundant. My obliging host had

provided a horse and a guide, and I rode for about an hour up the

valley, which in great part is narrowed nearly to a ravine. In one

place, where it widens to a few hundred yards, I passed a peasant’s

cottage, with a few stony fields from which the crop had been gathered.

[_THE VERBENA FAMILY._]

Among the plants not before observed, I was at first puzzled by a

sort of thicket of long green leafless stems eight or ten feet in

height, growing near the stream. Only after searching for some time I

detected some withered remains of a short spike of flowers at the ends

of the stems, which showed the plant to be of the _Verbena_ family.

Whatever may be the original home of that ancient tribe which has

spread throughout all the temperate and tropical regions of the earth,

it is in South America, and especially in the extra-tropical regions,

that it has developed the greatest variety both of genera and species.

On the heights of the Peruvian Andes, from the snows of the Chilian

Cordillera to the shores of the Pacific, as well as on the plains of

Argentaria and Uruguay, the botanist is everywhere charmed by the

brilliant flowers of numerous species of true _Verbena_. In the warmer

zone the allied genus _Lippia_ becomes predominant, and displays an

equal variety of aspect; but in Chili especially we find a number of

plants very different in aspect, although nearly allied in structure to

the familiar types. The plant of the Rio Colorado--known to botanists

as _Baillonia spartioides_--appears to be rare in Chili, as it is not

among the species collected by the earlier explorers of this region.

I was interested in finding here two species of _Loranthus_, which,

unlike their congeners, grow in a respectable way, depending on

their own resources for subsistence. The great majority of nearly

four hundred known species of this genus live as parasites on the

stems of other plants, but these form bushes with woody roots, which

apparently have not even an underground connection with those of their

neighbours. When I returned to the Resguardo, laden with plants, it was

high time to think of starting homeward to Santa Rosa. I did not much

fancy travelling by night over the curious road that I had followed

in the morning, and my coachman seemed to hold the same opinion very

strongly. Accordingly I soon started, after cordial leave-taking, but

was a little surprised when, without previous warning, the driver

pulled up his horses at the garden gate of a substantial house,

which I had noticed in the morning a few hundred yards below the

Resguardo. Presently a young man came out, and, addressing me in very

fair English, explained that he had written to order a carriage for

the following day, but would be thankful if I could give him a seat

to convey him to his family at Santa Rosa. Of course I willingly

consented, and in the conversation, which was carried on alternately

in Spanish and English during the following three hours, I gained an

opportunity for some practice in a language which has never been quite

familiar to me.

I became interested in the poor young fellow, who was evidently in an

advanced stage of pulmonary consumption. He had been on a visit with

friends, in the vain hope that the pure air of this mountain valley

might arrest the disease, and now, as the season was far advanced,

wished to rejoin his wife and children at Santa Rosa. Like many

consumptive patients, he had a feverish proneness for talk; and, having

first told me his own story, he asked me a multitude of questions

respecting my present journey and as to the other countries that I have

visited. At length, with evident reference to my age, he gravely said,

“No le parece Señor que es tiempo para descansar?” I answered that

there would be time enough to _descansar_ when one is laid underground,

and that for the present I saw no occasion to rest. As I stopped the

carriage only two or three times to gather plants, and the driver kept

his horses at a smart trot most of the way, we accomplished the return

journey of eighteen or twenty miles in a little under three hours, and

reached the town at nightfall.

[_RETURN TO VALPARAISO._]

On the 26th I returned to Valparaiso, meeting the Santiago train at the

now familiar junction station of Llaillai. Although the weather was

still fine, clouds hung round the Cordillera, and I was not destined

again to enjoy the glorious view of the great range. My first care on

reaching the port was to secure my passage in the German steamer as far

as the Straits of Magellan. I found that the steamship _Rhamses_ of

the Cosmos line, which in ordinary course should have departed on the

28th, was delayed until the following day, May 29. It was inevitable

to regret that the additional day had not been devoted to the Rio

Colorado, but, in fact, I found my time fully occupied during the two

days that remained available. The collections of dried plants made up

to this time had to be packed securely in the chest in which they were

to remain until they reached England, and, as every botanist knows,

it is expedient to hasten the process of drying fresh plants as far

as possible before going to sea, where the operation is always one of

difficulty.

I was invited to dinner on the day of my arrival by Mr. C----, one of

the chief English merchants established in Chili, and acquired some

interesting information from his conversation. Having been at work

during a great part of the previous night, I was, however, thoroughly

tired, and was able to profit less than I should have done by the

hospitable entertainment. On the morning of my departure from Cauquenes

I had met Mr. Edwin Reed, an English naturalist many years resident in

Chili, and by appointment called upon him at his house in Valparaiso.

Mr. Reed has a good knowledge of the botany and zoology of his adopted

country, and several hours were agreeably spent on each of the two

available days in going through parcels of his duplicate collections,

when he was good enough to give me flowering specimens of plants which

I had seen only in imperfect condition, as well as of many others

from the higher region of the Cordillera which had been entirely

inaccessible to me.

My visit to Chili had now come to an end. All needful preparations were

concluded; and, after a busy morning and an excellent luncheon at the

Hotel Colon, I went on board the _Rhamses_ early in the afternoon of

May 29, not without deep regret at quitting a country where I had spent

twenty of the most enjoyable days of my life. The only occupants of

the first-class saloon were a German gentleman, Mr. Z----; his wife, a

delicate Peruvian lady, who remained in her cabin during most of the

voyage; five children; and a maid. I found a good clean cabin, which

had been reserved for my use, and before long a tall, handsome man

of pleasant countenance introduced himself to me as Captain Willsen,

commanding the _Rhamses_.

[_GERMAN STEAMERS._]

The steamers of the German Cosmos line, of which this is, I believe,

a fair example, differ in many respects from the great English ocean

steamships which conduct most of the intercourse between Europe and

South America. They are mainly destined for cargo, the accommodation

for passengers being comparatively very limited, and of scarcely

half the dimensions, being of rather less than two thousand tons

displacement by our measurement. In our passenger ships speed is

always the foremost consideration. In accordance with the national

temperament, the German steamers set slight store on that object;

safety and economy are the aims constantly kept in view, and the

consumption of an increased quantity of coal in order to gain a day

would be regarded as culpable extravagance. The especial advantage

which they offer to every traveller in this region is that, owing to

their light draught, they are able to traverse the narrow and intricate

channels of Western Patagonia between the mountainous islands and the

mainland; while to sea-sick passengers the object of avoiding more

than four hundred miles of the heavy seas of the Southern Pacific is a

further inducement. A naturalist finds an additional attraction in the

general sympathy and helpfulness which he may expect from every officer

in a German ship. Courtesy and friendly feeling are almost invariably

to be found on board our steamers, but the pursuits of a naturalist

rarely seem to call forth the slightest show of interest.

Our departure was fixed for two p.m., but in fact we did not move till

past seven, long after dark at this season. On getting out to sea we

found a moderate swell running from the southward, and moved slowly, as

coal was economized. On the following morning we found ourselves rather

far from land, and, although the weather was moderately clear, we had

only a few distant glimpses of the coast during the day. The barometer

fell slowly about two-tenths of an inch from morning to night, and it

seemed evident that we were about to bid farewell to the bright skies

of Central Chili. We were to take in coal for the voyage to Europe at

Lota, about two hundred and fifty nautical miles south of Valparaiso.

That distance could be easily accomplished, even by the _Rhamses_,

in twenty-four hours; but as there was no object in arriving before

morning, we economized fuel and travelled slowly. Heavy rain fell

during the entire night, and ceased only when, on the morning of May

31, we entered the harbour of Lota.

Lota is a place which, although not marked on Stanford’s latest map

of South America, has within a short time risen to considerable

importance, owing to the discovery of extensive deposits of lignite of

excellent quality. I have heard various estimates of its value as steam

coal, the lowest of which set five tons of Lota coal as equal to four

of Welsh anthracite. The seams appear to be of considerable thickness,

and the underground works have now extended to a considerable distance

from the shore. All the ocean steamers returning to Europe now call

here for their provision of fuel, and in addition the proprietor

has established extensive works for smelting copper and for making

glass. The owner of this great property is a lady, the widow of the

late Mr. Cousiño, whose income is rated at about £200,000 a year.

About 2500 people are constantly employed, who, with their families,

inhabit a small town of poor appearance which has grown up on the hill

overlooking the harbour.

[_COAL DEPOSITS OF LOTA._]

I was courteously invited to the house of Mr. Squella, a relation of

Madame Cousiño, who has the direction of this great establishment, and

there had the pleasure of again meeting my former travelling companion,

Mr. H----, and also Captain Simpson, an officer of the Chilian navy

of English extraction, who, while commanding a ship on the southern

coast, has rendered some services to science. The conversation was

carried on chiefly in English, which has decidedly become the _lingua

franca_ of South America, but was shortened by my natural anxiety to

turn to the best account the short time at my disposal. I had a choice

between three alternatives--a descent into the coal mine, a visit to

the works above ground and the miners’ town, or a ramble through the

so-called park, which occupies the promontory stretching westward

which forms the natural harbour of Lota, and covers a great portion of

the precious deposit to which the place owes its new-born importance. I

naturally preferred the latter, feeling that my limited experience as a

geological observer would not allow me to profit much by a subterranean

excursion. I made inquiry, however, as to the vegetable remains found

in the lignite, and I was told that they are abundant, although the few

specimens which I saw showed but slight traces of vegetable structure.

I was led to believe that a collection of specimens had been sent to

Europe to my late lamented friend, Dr. Oswald Heer, but I am not aware

that he has left any reference to such a collection, or even that it

ever reached his hands.

The _parque_ of Lota, to which I directed my steps, has rather the

character of an extensive pleasure-ground than of what we call a park;

but the surface is so uneven, and the outline so irregular, that I

could not estimate its extent. The numerous fantastic structures in

questionable taste that met the eye in every direction create at the

first moment an unfavourable impression, but the charms of the spot are

so real that this is soon forgotten. The variety and luxuriance of the

vegetation, and the diversified views of the sea and the rocky shores,

were set off by occasional bursts of bright sunshine, in which the

drops that still hung on every leaflet glittered like jewels of every

hue. The trees here were of very moderate dimensions, the largest (here

called _roble_) being of the laurel family, which, for want of flower

or fruit, I failed to identify. The Spaniards in South America have

given the name _roble_, which properly means “oak,” to a variety of

trees which agree only in having a thick trunk and spreading branches.

The shrubs were very numerous, partly indigenous and partly exotic,

and a peculiar feature which I have not noticed in any other large

garden is the number of parasites living on the trunks and branches of

the trees and shrubs. Ferns were very numerous and grow luxuriantly,

showing a wide difference of climate between this coast and that of the

country two or three degrees further north. But the great ornament of

this place is the beautiful climber, _Lapageria rosea_, now producing

in abundance its splendid flowers, which so finely contrast with its

dark-green glossy foliage. The specific name _rosea_ is unfortunate, as

the colour of the flowers is bright crimson, verging on scarlet.

[_THE PARQUE OF LOTA._]

One of the special features of this garden was the abundance of

humming-birds that haunted the shrubs and small trees, and darted from

spray to spray with movements so rapid that to my imperfect vision

their forms were quite indistinguishable. Whenever I drew near in the

hope of gaining a clearer view, they would dart away to another shrub

a few yards distant, and I am unable to say whether the bright little

creatures belonged to one and the same or to several different species.

At one place where the garden is only some twenty feet above the beach,

I scrambled down the rocks, and was rewarded by the sight of two or

three plants characteristic of this region. The most attractive of

these is one of the many generic types peculiar to the Chilian flora,

allied to the pine-apple. The long stiff leaves, edged with sharp

teeth and radiating from the lower part of the stem, are coloured

bright red along the centre and at the base, forming, when seen from

a distance, a brilliant, many-rayed red star. Another novelty was

_Francoa sonchifolia_, which also clings to the rocks by the sea. It

has somewhat the habit of a large crucifer, but the structure of the

flower and fruit is widely different. It was regarded by Lindley as the

type of a distinct natural family, but has been, with one other Chilian

genus (_Tetilla_), classed as a tribe of the saxifrage family.

Time passed quickly in such an interesting spot, and the hour appointed

for returning to the ship had nearly arrived, when Mr. Reilly, the

gardener who has the management of the _parque_, invited me to see his

house. He came, as I learned, from Wexford, in Ireland, had had some

training in the Royal Gardens at Kew, when his fortunate star led him

to Chili. I found him installed in a very pretty and comfortable house,

charmingly situated, in as full enjoyment of one of the most beautiful

gardens in the world as if he were its absolute owner. This was only

one more instance of the success which so often attends my countrymen

when removed to a distance from their native land. Freed from the evil

influences that seem indigenous to the soil of that unfortunate island,

they develop qualities that are too rarely perceptible at home. The

arguments for emigration are commonly based only on the economical

necessity for relieving the land of surplus population; to my mind

it may be advocated on other and quite different grounds. For every

Irishman who is carried to a distant land there is a strong probability

of a distinct gain to the world at large.

[_CAUTIOUS SEAMANSHIP._]

I left the _parque_ at Lota with my memory full of pictures of a spot

which, along with Mr. Cooke’s famous garden at Montserrat, near Cintra,

and that of M. Landon in the oasis of Biskra, I count as the most

beautiful garden that I have yet seen.

A rather large island--Isla de Sta. Maria--lies off the Chilian coast

to the west of Lota, and is separated on the southern side from the

promontory of Lavapie by a channel several miles wide. But as this

is beset with rocks, the rule of the German steamers is to avoid the

passage, excepting in clear weather by day. In deference, therefore,

to this cautious regulation, we set our helm to the north on leaving

Lota, two or three hours after sunset, and only after keeping that

course for some ten miles, and running past the small port of Coronel,

steered out to seaward, and finally resumed our proper southerly

direction. Our sleep was somewhat disturbed by the heavy rolling of

the ship during the night, and the morning of the 1st of June broke

dimly amid heavy lowering clouds, just such a day as one might expect

at the corresponding date (December 1) on the western coast of Europe.

Although the sea was running high, there was little wind. The barometer

at daybreak stood at 29·98, having risen a tenth of an inch since

the previous evening, and the temperature was about 52° Fahr. In our

seas one would suppose that a gale must have recently prevailed at

no great distance, but I believe the fact to be that in the Southern

Pacific high seas prevail during a great part of the year, even where

no strong winds are present to excite them. Gales are undoubtedly

common in the zone between the fiftieth and sixtieth degrees of south

latitude, and the waves habitually run higher there than they ever do

in the comparatively confined area of the Atlantic. The disturbances

are propagated to great distances, modified, of course, by winds,

currents, and the form of the coasts when they approach the land;

but the smooth waters that extend more than thirty degrees on either

side of the equator are rarely encountered in higher latitudes. The

skies brightened as the day wore on, and the sun from time to time

broke through the clouds; but we were out of sight of land, and the

only objects in view during the day were the sea, the sky, and the

numerous sea-fowl that followed the ship. The incessant rolling made it

difficult to settle down to any occupation.

We were now abreast of that large tract of Chili which has been left

in the possession of its aboriginal owners, the Araucanian Indians,

extending about one hundred miles from north to south, and a rather

greater distance from the coast to the crest of the Cordillera. It is

unfortunate that so little is known of the Araucanians, as, in many

respects, they appear to be the most interesting remaining tribe of

the aboriginal American population. For nearly two centuries they

maintained their independence in frequent sanguinary encounters with

the Spaniards, which are said on Chilian authority to have cost the

invaders the loss of 100,000 men. Since the establishment of Chilian

independence, the policy of the republic has been to establish

friendly relations with this indomitable people. The territory between

the Bio-Bio river to the north and the Tolten to the south was assigned

to them, and small annual donations were made to the principal chiefs

on condition of their maintaining order amongst the tribesmen. During

the last forty years, however, white settlers have trespassed to

a considerable extent on the Indian territory, both on the north

and south sides, but have generally contrived to keep up friendly

intercourse with the natives, while Chilian officials, established at

Angol on the river Mallego, exercise a species of supervision over the

entire region.

[_ARAUCANIAN INDIANS._]

The present Araucanian population is somewhat vaguely estimated at

about 40,000, and it is a question of some interest whether, like most

native races in contact with those of European descent, they will

ultimately be improved out of existence, or be gradually brought within

the pale of civilization and fused with the intrusive element. The

soil is said to be in great part fertile; they raise a large quantity

of live stock, and some of the chiefs are said to have amassed wealth,

and to have begun to show a taste for the comforts and conveniences of

civilized life.

While at Santiago, I made some inquiry as to the language of the

Araucanian tribes. I was informed that in the seventeenth century the

Jesuit missionaries published a grammar of the language, of which only

two or three copies are known to exist. About the beginning of this

century a new edition, or reprint, of this work appeared at Madrid,

but, as I was assured, has also become extremely rare, and copies are

very seldom to be procured.

On the evening of the 1st the barometer had risen about a tenth of

an inch, but by the following morning had returned to the same point

(very nearly thirty inches) as on the previous day, without any change

in the state of the weather; but we enjoyed more sunshine, and the

proceedings of the birds that ceaselessly bore us company afforded us

constant occupation and amusement. Two species were predominant. One

of these was the well-known cape pigeon (_Daption capensis_), familiar

to all mariners in the southern hemisphere. This is a handsome bird,

much larger than a pigeon, exhibiting a considerable variety of plumage

in what appeared to be adult individuals. In all the ground colour

is white, and the tips of the spreading tail feathers are dark brown

or nearly black. The upper surface of the wings sometimes showed a

somewhat tesselated pattern of white and dark brown, but more commonly

were marked by two transverse dark bands, with pure white between. They

were very numerous, as many as from fifty to a hundred being near the

ship at the same time, keeping close company, and often swooping over

the deck a few feet over our heads; but, although seemingly fearless,

they never were induced to take a piece of meat from a man’s hand,

though the temptation was often renewed. The next in frequency--called

on this coast _colomba_--is nearly as large as the cape pigeon, with

plumage much resembling that of a turtle dove. This also approached

very near. Both of these birds seemed to feel fatigue, as, after

circling round the ship for half an hour at a time, they would rest

on the surface of the water, dropping rapidly astern, but after

some minutes resume their flight and soon overtake the ship. More

interesting to me were the two species of albatross, which I had never

before had an opportunity of observing. These were more shy in their

behaviour, never, I think, approaching nearer than seventy or eighty

yards, and usually following the ship with a slow, leisurely flight

still farther astern. The common, nearly white, species (_Diomedea

exulans_) is but a little larger than the dark-coloured, nearly

black species, which I supposed to be the _Diomedea fuliginosa_ of

ornithologists.[31] If, as is probable, the same birds followed us all

day, we saw but two of the latter, which are, I believe, everywhere

comparatively scarce. In both species I was struck by the peculiar form

of the expanded wing, which is very narrow in proportion to its great

length.

[_BIRDS OF THE SOUTHERN OCEAN._]

The moment of excitement for the birds, as well as for the lookers-on,

was when a basket of kitchen refuse was from time to time thrown

overboard. It was amusing to watch the rush of hungry creatures all

swooping down nearly at the same point, and making a marvellous clatter

as they eagerly contended for the choice morsels. It did not appear to

me that the smaller birds showed any fear of the powerful albatross, or

that the latter used his strength to snatch away anything that had been

secured by a weaker rival.

About noon on the 2nd of June we were abreast of the northern part

of the large island of Chiloe, but were too far out to sea to get a

glimpse of the high land on the west coast. At the northern end the

island is separated from the mainland by a narrow channel (Canal de

Chacao) only two or three miles in width; but on the east side the

broad strait or interior sea between Chiloe and the opposite coast

is from thirty to forty miles in breadth, and beset by rocky islets

varying in size from several miles to a few yards.

Another unquiet night ushered in the morning of the 3rd of June. This

was fairly clear, with a fresh breeze from the south-west, which, as

the day advanced, rose nearly to a gale. The sea did not appear to

run higher than before, but the waves struck the ship’s side with

greater force, and at intervals of about ten minutes we shipped rather

heavy seas, after which the deck was nearly knee-deep in water, and a

weather board was needed to keep the saloon from being flooded. The

barometer fell slightly, and the temperature was decidedly lower, the

thermometer marking about 50° Fahr. Some attempts at taking exercise

on the hurricane deck were not very successful, my friend, Mr. H----,

being knocked down and somewhat bruised, and we finally retired to the

saloon, and found the state of things not exhilarating. We saw nothing

of the Chonos Archipelago, consisting of three large and numerous small

islands, all covered with dense forest, and separated from the mainland

by a strait, yet scarcely surveyed, about a hundred and twenty miles in

length, and ten to fifteen in breadth.

Darwin, writing nearly fifty years ago, anticipated that these islands

would before long be inhabited, but I was assured that no permanent

settlement has ever been established. Parties of woodcutters have

from time to time visited the islands, but no one has been tempted

to remain. The excessive rainfall, which is more continuous in summer

than in winter, makes them unfit for the residence of civilized man;

but it seems probable that Fuegians transported there would find

conditions favourable to their constitution and habits of life. It is

another question whether the world would be any the better for the

multiplication of so low a type of humanity.

[_HEAVY SEAS OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC._]

In the afternoon, as the sea was running very high, the captain set the

ship’s head to the wind. We saw him but once, and perceived an anxious

expression on his usually jovial countenance. It afterwards came out

that he apprehended the continuance of the gale, in which case he

might not have ventured to put the helm round so as to enter the Gulf

of Peñas. At nightfall, however, the wind fell off, and by midnight

the weather was nearly calm, though the ship gave us little rest from

the ceaseless rolling. During all this time sounds that issued at

intervals from the cabin of the Peruvian lady and her children showed

that what was merely a bore to us was to them real misery. I have

often asked myself whether there is something about a sea-voyage that

develops our natural selfishness, or whether it is because one knows

that the suffering is temporary and has no bad results, that one takes

so little heed of the really grievous condition of travellers who

are unable to bear the movement of the sea. A voyage with sea-sick

passengers, especially in bad weather, when one is confined to the

saloon, is a good deal like being lodged in one of the prisons of the

Spanish inquisition while torture was freely applied to the unhappy

victims; and yet persons who are not counted as hard-hearted seem to

bear their position with perfect equanimity, if not with something of

self-satisfaction.

The morning of the 4th of June was so dark that we supposed our watches

to have gone astray. Of course, the days were rapidly growing shorter

as we ran to the southward, but the dim light on this morning was

explained when we sallied forth. The wind had veered round to the

north, and in these latitudes that means a murky sky with leaden clouds

above and damp foggy air below. The change, however, was opportune. We

were steering about due south-east, entering the Gulf of Peñas, with

the dim outline of Cape Tres Montes faintly seen on our larboard bow.

I have already alluded to the peculiar conformation of the

south-western extremity of the South American continent, which, from

the latitude of 40° south to the opening of the Straits of Magellan,

a distance of about nine hundred miles, exhibits an almost continuous

range of high land running parallel to the southern extremity of the

great range of the Andes. At its northern end this western range, under

the names Cordillera Pelada and Cordillera de la Costa, forms part

of the mainland of Chili, being separated from the Andes by a broad

belt of low country including several large lakes, those of Ranco and

Llanquihue being each about a hundred miles in circuit. South of the

Canal de Chacao the range is continued by the island of Chiloe and the

Chonos Archipelago, and then by the great mountainous promontory whose

southern extremity is Cape Tres Montes. Here occurs the widest breach

in the continuity of the range, as the Gulf of Peñas is fully forty

miles wide. To the southward commences the long range of mountainous

islands that extend to the Straits of Magellan, between which and the

mainland lie the famous channels of Western Patagonia. It is worthy

of note that, corresponding to the elevation of this parallel western

range, the height of the main chain of the Andes is notably diminished.

Of the summits that have hitherto been measured south of latitude 42°

only one--the Volcano de Chana--attains to a height of eight thousand

feet, and there is reason to believe that numerous passes of little

more than half that elevation connect the eastern and western slopes of

the chain.

[_RANGE OF THE ANTARCTIC FLORA._]

Another point of some interest is the northern extension of the

so-called antarctic flora throughout the whole of the western range,

many of the characteristic species being found on the Cordillera

Pelada close to Valdivia, which does not, I believe, much exceed three

thousand feet in height. It is true that a few antarctic species have

been found in the higher region of the Andes as far north as the

equator, just as a few northern forms have travelled southward by way

of the Rocky Mountains and the highlands of Mexico and Central America;

and Professor Fr. Philippi has lately shown that many southern forms,

and even a few true antarctic types, extend to the hills of the desert

region of Northern Chili, where the constant presence of fog supplies

the necessary moisture.[32] The true northern limit, however, of the

antarctic flora may be fixed at the Cordillera Pelada of Valdivia.

We crept on cautiously into the gulf, anxiously looking out for some

safe landmark to secure an entrance into the northern end of Messier’s

Channel. Soon after midday we descried a remarkable conical hill,

which is happily placed so as to distinguish the true opening from the

indentations of the rocky coast. As we advanced the air became thicker

and colder, as drizzling rain set in; but the practised eyes of seamen

are content with indications that convey no meaning to an ordinary

landsman, and just as the night was closing in almost pitch dark, the

rattle of the chain cable announced that we had come to anchor for the

night in Hale Cove.

[_WILD CELERY._]

The weather had become very cold. At two p.m. in the gulf the

thermometer stood at 42°, and after nightfall it marked only a few

degrees above freezing-point, so that, even in the saloon, we sat in

our great coats, not at all enjoying the unaccustomed chilliness. All

rejoiced, therefore, when the captain, having quite recovered his

wonted cheerfulness, announced that a stove was to be set up forthwith

in the saloon, and a tent erected on deck to give shelter from the

weather. The stove was a small, somewhat rickety concern, and we fully

understood that it would not have been safe to light it while the

ship was labouring in the heavy seas outside; but it was especially

welcome to me, as I was anxiously longing for the chance of getting my

botanical paper thoroughly dry. As we enjoyed a cheerful dinner, two of

the officers pushed off in one of the ship’s boats into the blackness

that had closed around. After some time a large fire was seen blazing

a few hundred yards from the ship, and, amid rain and sleet, we could

descry from the deck some moving forms. They had succeeded, I know not

how, in getting the damp timber into a blaze, and were good-naturedly

employed in gathering whatever they could lay hands upon to contribute

to my botanical collection. Not much could be expected under such

conditions, but everything in this, to me, quite new region was full

of interest. Dead branches covered with large lichens introduced me to

one of the most characteristic features of the vegetation. The white

fronds, four or five inches wide, and several feet in length, enliven

the winter aspect of these shores, and possibly supply food to some of

the wild animals. Among the plants which had been dragged up at random

were several roots of the wild celery of the southern hemisphere. It

is widely spread throughout the islands of the southern ocean, as well

as on the shores of both coasts of Patagonia, and was described as a

distinct species by Dupetit Thouars; but in truth, as Sir Joseph Hooker

long ago remarked in the “Flora Antarctica,” there are no structural

characters by which to distinguish it from the common wild celery of

Europe, which is likewise essentially a maritime plant. Growing in

a region where it is little exposed to sunshine, it has less of the

strong characteristic smell of our wild plants, and the leaves may be

eaten raw as salad, or boiled, which is not the case with our plant

until the gardener, by heaping earth about the roots, diminishes the

pungency of the smell and flavour.

One thought alone troubled me as I lay down in my berth to enjoy the

first quiet night’s rest. If the weather should hold on as it now

fared, there was but a slight prospect of enjoying the renowned scenery

of the channels, or of making much acquaintance with the singular

vegetation of this new region. It was therefore with intense relief

and positive delight that I found, on sallying forth before sunrise, a

clear sky and a moderate breeze from the south. Snow had fallen during

the night, and was now hard frozen; and in the tent, where my plants

had lain during the night, it was necessary to break off fragments of

ice with numbed fingers before laying them in paper.

We weighed anchor about daybreak, and the 5th of June, my first day

in the Channels, will ever remain as a bright spot in my memory.

Wellington Island, which lay on our right, is over a hundred and fifty

miles in length, a rough mountain range averaging apparently about

three thousand feet in height, with a moderately uniform coast-line.

On the other hand, the mainland presents a constantly varying outline,

indented by numberless coves and several deep narrow sounds running

far into the recesses of the Cordillera. In the intermediate channel

crowds of islets, some rising to the size of mountains, some mere

rocks peeping above the water, present an endless variety of form and

outline. But what gives to the scenery a unique character is the wealth

of vegetation that adorns this seemingly inclement region. From the

water’s edge to a height which I estimated at fourteen hundred feet,

the rugged slopes were covered with an unbroken mantle of evergreen

trees and shrubs. Above that height the bare declivities were clothed

with snow, mottled at first by projecting rocks, but evidently lying

deep upon the higher ridges. I can find no language to give any

impression of the marvellous variety of the scenes that followed in

quick succession against the bright blue background of a cloudless

sky, and lit up by a northern sun that illumined each new prospect as

we advanced. At times one might have fancied one’s self on a great

river in the interior of a continent, while a few minutes later, in

the openings between the islands, the eye could range over miles of

water to the mysterious recesses of the yet unexplored Cordillera of

Patagonia, with occasional glimpses of snowy peaks at least twice the

height of the summits near at hand. About two o’clock we reached the

so-named English Narrows, where the only known navigable channel is

scarcely a hundred yards in width between two islets bristling with

rocks. The tide rushed through at the rate of a rapid river, and our

captain displayed even more than his usual caution. Some ten men of the

crew were posted astern with steering gear, in readiness to provide for

the possible breakage of the chains from the steering-house. It seemed

unlikely enough that such an accident should occur at that particular

point, but there was no doubt that if it did a few seconds might send

the ship upon the rocks.

[_THE ENGLISH NARROWS._]

One of the advantages of a voyage through the Channels is that at all

seasons the ship comes to anchor every night, and the traveller is

not exposed to the mortification of passing the most beautiful scenes

when he is unable to see them. When more thoroughly known, it is

likely that among the numerous coves many more will be found to offer

good anchorage; but few are now known, and the distance that can be

run during the short winter days is not great. We were told that our

halt for the night was to be at Eden Harbour, less than twenty miles

south of the English Narrows, and to my great satisfaction we dropped

anchor about 3.30 p.m., when there was still a full hour of daylight.

Our good-natured captain put off dinner for an hour, and with all

convenient speed I went ashore with Mr. H---- and two officers of the

ship.

Eden Harbour deserves its name. A perfectly sheltered cove, with

excellent holding-ground, is enclosed by steep forest-clad slopes,

culminating to the north in a lofty conical hill easily recognized by

seamen. The narrow fringe between the forest and the beach is covered

with a luxuriant growth of ferns and shrubby plants, many of them

covered in summer with brilliant flowers, blooming in a solitude rarely

broken by the passage of man. After scrambling over the rocks on the

beach, the first thing that struck us was the curious nature of the

ground under our feet. The surface was crisp and tolerably hard, but

each step caused an undulation that made one feel as if walking on

a thick carpet laid over a mass of sponge. Striking a blow with the

pointed end of my ice-axe, it at once pierced through the frozen crust,

and sank to the hilt over four feet into the semifluid mass beneath,

formed of half-decomposed remains of vegetation.

At every step plants of this region, never before seen, filled me

with increasing excitement. Several were found with very tolerable

fruit, and there were even some remains of the flowers of _Desfontainea

spinosa_ and _Mitraria coccinea_. The latter beautiful shrub appears to

have been hitherto known only from Chiloe and the Chonos Archipelago.

In those islands it is described as a tall climber straggling among the

branches of trees. Here I found it somewhat stunted, growing four or

five feet high, with the habit of a small fuchsia. Neither of these is

a true antarctic species. Like many Chilian plants, they are peculiar

and much-modified members of tribes whose chief home is in tropical

America. Everything else that I saw was characteristically antarctic.

Three small coniferous trees peculiar to this region; a large-flowered

berberry, with leaves like those of a holly, growing six or eight

feet high, still showing remains of the flower; and two species of

_Pernettya_, with berries like those of a bilberry, and which replace

our _Vaccinia_ in the southern hemisphere, were among the new forms

that greeted me.

[_VEGETATION OF EDEN HARBOUR._]

A few minutes’ stumbling over fallen timber brought us to the edge of

the forest, and it was soon seen that, even if time allowed, it would

be no easy matter to penetrate into it. The chief and only large tree

was the evergreen beech (_Fagus betuloides_ of botanists). This has

a thick trunk, commonly three or four feet in diameter, but nowhere,

I believe, attains any great height. Forty feet appeared to me the

outside limit attained by any that I saw here or elsewhere. But perhaps

the most striking, and to me unexpected, feature in the vegetation was

the abundance and luxuriance of the ferns that inhabit these coasts.

From out of the stiff frozen crust under our feet a profusion of

delicate filmy ferns (_Hymenophylla_) grew to an unaccustomed size,

including several quite distinct species; while here and there clumps

of the stiff fronds of _Lomaria magellanica_, a couple of feet in

height, showed an extraordinary contrast in form and habit. As Sir

Joseph Hooker long ago remarked, the regular rigid crown of fronds

issuing from a thick rhizome, when seen from a little distance, remind

one forcibly of a _Zamia_. It was to me even more surprising to find

here in great abundance a representative of a genus of ferns especially

characteristic of the tropical zone. The _Gleichenia_ of these coasts

differs sufficiently to deserve a separate specific name, but in

general appearance is strikingly like that which I afterwards saw

growing in equal abundance in Brazil.

This continent, with its thousands of miles of unbroken coast-line,

and its mountain backbone stretching from the equator to Fuegia, has

offered extraordinary facilities for the diffusion of varied types

of vegetation. As I have already remarked, some species of antarctic

origin travel northward, and some others, now confined to the

equatorial Andes, are most probably modified descendants from the same

parent stock; while a small number of tropical types, after undergoing

more or less modification, have found their way to the extreme southern

extremity of the continent.

By a vigorous use of my ice-axe, which is an excellent weapon for a

botanist, I succeeded in uprooting a good many plants from the icy

crust in which they grew; but the minutes slipped quickly by, daylight

was fading in this sheltered spot, shut out from the north and west by

steep hills, and too soon came the call to return to the ship. On the

beach I picked up the carapace of a crab--bright red and beset with

sharp protuberances--evidently freshly feasted on by some rapacious

animal. The whole of the body and the shell of the under part as well

as the claws had disappeared, leaving nothing but the carapace, which

I presume had been found too hard and indigestible. Darwin informs us

that the sea-otter of this region feeds largely on this or some allied

species of crab.

[_A RED CRAB._]

The cold was sufficient to make the little stove in the saloon of the

steamer very acceptable, but at no time throughout the voyage could

be called severe. Between noon and three p.m. on the 5th of June the

thermometer in the open air stood about 40° Fahr., and fell at night

only two or three degrees below freezing-point. The barometer was

high, gradually rising from 30 inches to 30·3, at which it stood on

the following day. Everything promised settled weather, and it was

therefore disappointing to find the sky completely covered when I went

on deck early in the morning of the 6th. A light breeze from the north

raised the temperature by a few degrees and brought the clouds. The

scenery throughout the day was even of a grander character than before,

and the absence of sunshine gave it a sterner aspect. At times, when

passing the smaller islands, I was forcibly reminded of the upper lake

of Killarney, the resemblance being much increased by the appearance

of the smaller islets and rocks worn down and rounded by floating ice.

On this and the following days I frequently looked out for evidences

of ice-action on the rocky flanks of the mountains. These were at some

points very perceptible up to a considerable height; but all that I

could clearly make out appeared to be directed from south to north,

and nearly or quite horizontal. I failed to trace any indication on

the present surface of the descent in a westerly direction of great

glaciers flowing from the interior towards the coast.

Before midday we passed opposite the opening of Eyre Sound, one of the

most considerable of the numerous inlets that penetrate the mountains

on the side of the mainland. This is said to extend for forty or fifty

miles into the heart of the Cordillera, and it seems certain that one,

or perhaps several, glaciers descend into the sound, as at all seasons

masses of floating ice are drifted into the main channel. We did not

see them at first, as the northerly breeze had carried them towards the

southern side of the inlet; but before long we found ourselves in the

thick of them, and for about a mile steamed slowly amongst floating

masses of tolerably uniform dimensions, four or five feet in height

out of the water, and from ten to fifteen feet in length. At a little

distance they looked somewhat like a herd of animals grazing. Seen near

at hand, the ice looked much weathered, and it may be inferred that the

parent glacier reaches the sea somewhere near the head of the sound,

and they had been exposed for a considerable time before reaching its

mouth.

[_ORIGIN OF THE GLACIERS._]

The existence of great glaciers descending to the sea-level on the

west coast of South America, one of which lies so far north as the

Gulf of Peñas, about 47° south latitude, is a necessary consequence

of the rapid depression of the line of perpetual snow on the flanks

of the Andes, as we follow the chain southward from Central Chili to

the channels of Patagonia. The circumstance that permanent snow is not

found lower than about fourteen thousand feet above the sea in latitude

34°, while only 8° farther south the limit is about six thousand

feet above the sea-level, has been regarded as evidence of a great

difference of climate between the northern and southern hemispheres,

and more especially of exceptional conditions of temperature affecting

this coast. It appears to me that all the facts are fully explained

by the extraordinary increase of precipitation from the atmosphere,

in the form of rain or snow, which occurs within the zone where the

rapid depression of the snow-line is observed. So far as mean annual

temperature of the coast is concerned, the diminution of heat in

receding from the equator is less than the normal amount, being not

quite 5° Fahr. for 7° of latitude between Valparaiso and Valdivia. But

the annual rainfall at Valdivia is eight times, and at Ancud in Chiloe

more than nine times, the amount that falls at Santiago. Allowing

that the disproportion may be less great between the snowfall on the

Cordillera in the respective latitudes of these places, we cannot

estimate the increased fall about latitude 40° at less than four times

the amount falling in Central Chili. When we further recollect that in

the latter region the sky is generally clear in summer, and that the

surface is exposed to the direct rays of a sun not far from vertical,

while on the southern coast the sun is constantly veiled by heavy

clouds, it is obvious that all the conditions are present that must

depress the snow-line to an exceptional extent, and allow of those

accumulations of snow that give birth to glaciers. When a comparison

is drawn between South Chili and Norway, it must not be forgotten that

at Bergen, where the Norwegian rainfall is said to be at its maximum,

the annual amount is sixty-seven inches, or exactly one-half of that

registered in Chiloe.

It is a confirmation of this view of the subject that in going

southward from the parallel of 42° to Cape Froward in the Straits

of Magellan, through 12° of latitude, while the fall of mean yearly

temperature must be reckoned at 8° Fahr., the depression of the

snow-line cannot exceed three thousand feet.[33] Of course, we have no

direct observations of rainfall in the Channels or on the west side

of the Straits of Magellan, but there is no doubt that it diminishes

considerably in going southward.

To the south of Eyre Sound the main channel opens to a width of four

or five miles, and is little encumbered by rocky islets, so that we

kept a direct course a little west of south, and in less than two

hours reached the southern extremity of Wellington Island, and gained

a view of the open sea through a broad strait which is known as the

Gulf of Trinidad. Now that this has been well surveyed, it offers an

opportunity for steamers bound southward that have missed the entrance

to the Gulf of Peñas to enter from the Pacific, and take the course to

the Straits of Magellan through the southern channels.

[_INTRICACY OF THE CHANNELS._]

We had now accomplished the first stage in the voyage through the

Channels. Many local names have been given to the various passages

open to navigation on this singular coast; but, speaking broadly,

the northern portion, between Wellington Island and the mainland,

is called Messier’s Channel; the middle part, including a number of

distinct openings between various islands, is known as the Sarmiento

Channel; and the southern division, between Queen Adelaide Island and

the continent, is Smyth’s Channel. Facing the Pacific to the south of

Wellington Island are three of large size--Prince Henry Island, Madre

de Dios, and Hanover Island, besides countless islets which beset the

straits that divide these from each other; and the course followed

by the steamers lies between the outer islands and another large one

(Chatham Island) which here rose between us and the mainland.

In the afternoon the north wind freshened; as a result, the weather

became very thick, and rain set in, which lasted throughout the night.

Our intended quarters were in a cove called Tom Bay; but our cautious

captain, with a due dislike to “dirty weather,” resolved to halt in a

sheltered spot a few miles farther north, known as Henderson’s Inlet.

Both these places afford excellent shelter, but the bottom is rocky,

and ships are much exposed to lose their anchors. Although we arrived

some time before sunset, the evening was so dark, and the general

aspect of things so discouraging, that no one suggested an attempt to

go ashore. Although we were quite near to land, I could make out very

little of the outlines; and, indeed, of this middle portion of the

voyage I have retained no distinct pictures in my memory.

It struck me as very singular that, with a moderately strong breeze

from the north, the barometer should have stood so high, remaining

through the day at about 30·3 inches, and marking at nine p.m. 30·28.

The temperature, as was to be expected, was higher than on the previous

day, being about 40° during the day, and not falling at night below 35°.

Although the morning showed some improvement in the appearance of the

weather, the sky was gloomy when, after a little trouble in raising

the anchor, we got under way early on the 7th of June. The clouds

lifted occasionally during the day, and I enjoyed some brief glimpses

of grand scenery; but the only distinct impression I retained was that

of hopeless bewilderment in attempting to make out the positions of

the endless labyrinth of islands through which we threaded our way.

In spite of all that has been done, it seems as if there remained the

work of many surveying expeditions to complete the exploration of these

coasts. As to several of the eminences that lie on the eastern side of

the channel, it is yet uncertain whether they are islands or peninsulas

projecting from the mainland. It was announced that our next anchorage

was to be at Puerto Bueno, there being no other suitable place for

a considerable distance, and we were led to expect that we should

probably find there some Fuegians, as the place is known to be one of

their favourite haunts.

[_PUERTO BUENO._]

We dropped anchor about half-past two, in a rather wide cove, or

small bay, opening into the mainland a few miles south of Chatham

Island. The shores are comparatively low, and enclosed by a dense

forest of evergreen beech, which in most parts descends to the water’s

edge. The place owes its good repute among mariners to the excellent

holding-ground; but it did not appear to me as well sheltered as the

other natural harbours that we visited, and as the bottom shelves

very gradually, we lay fully a mile off the shore. Fortunately the

weather had improved somewhat; a moderate breeze from the north brought

slight drizzling rain, but gave no further trouble. A boat was soon

ready alongside, and we pulled for the shore, with three of the ship’s

officers armed with fowling-pieces, intended partly to impress the

natives with due respect, but mainly designed for the waterbirds that

abound along the shores of the inlet. We were correctly steered for the

right spot, as, on scrambling ashore and crossing the belt of spongy

ground between the water and the edge of the forest, we found evident

tokens that the Fuegian encampment had not been long deserted. The

broken remains of a rude canoe and fragments of basket-work were all

that we could find, and we judged that a small party, perhaps no more

than ten or a dozen, had left the place a few weeks before our arrival.

These wretched Fuegians are said to go farther south, and to keep more

to the exposed coasts during winter, because at that season animal life

is there more abundant.

After exchanging sundry jokes about the general disappointment in

failing to behold the _wilde fräulein_ in their natural home, the party

separated, two of the officers proceeding in the boat towards the

upper part of the inlet in quest of water-fowl. For nearly an hour we

heard the frequent discharge of their guns, and much ammunition must

certainly have been expended; but when they returned their report was

that the birds were too wild, and no addition was made to the ship’s

larder.

The general character of the vegetation at Puerto Bueno was the same

as that at Eden Harbour, but there were some indications of a slight

increase in the severity of the climate. _Mitraria coccinea_ and a few

other representatives of the special flora of Chili were no longer to

be found, while some antarctic types not before seen here first made

their appearance. The most prominent of these was a bush from three to

five feet high, in general appearance reminding one of rosemary, but at

this season abundantly furnished with the plumed fruits characteristic

of a composite. This plant, nearly allied to the genus _Olearia_,

whose numerous species are confined to Australia, New Zealand, and

the adjoining islands, is known to botanists as _Chiliotrichium

amelloides_, and is one of the characteristic species of this region.

It is plentiful in Fuegia and on the northern shores of the Straits of

Magellan. Sir Joseph Hooker, in the “Flora Antarctica,” remarks that

this is the nearest approach to a tree that is made by the meagre

native vegetation of the Falkland Islands.

[_PATAGONIAN CONIFERS._]

My attention had already been directed at Eden Harbour to the peculiar

coniferous plants of this region, and I here found the same species

in better condition. The most conspicuous, a small tree with stiff

pointed leaves somewhat like an araucaria, here produced abundant

fruit, which showed it to be a _Podocarpus_ (_P. nubigena_ of Lindley).

Another shrub of the same family, but very different in appearance,

is a species of _Libocedrus_, allied to the cypress of the Old World,

which tolerates even the inclement climate of Hermite Island, near Cape

Horn. The distribution of the various species of this genus is not a

little perplexing to the botanical geographer. This and another species

inhabit the west side of South America, two are found in New Zealand,

one in the island of New Caledonia, one is peculiar to Southern China,

and one to Japan, while an eighth species belongs to California. The

most probable supposition is that the home of the common ancestor of

the genus was in the circumpolar lands of the Antarctic Circle at a

remote period when that region enjoyed a temperate climate; but the

processes by which descendants from that stock reached such remote

parts of the earth are not easily conjectured.

It was nearly dark when the unsuccessful sportsmen returned with the

boat, and but for the ship’s lights we should have scarcely been able

to make out her position. Some of the many stories of seamen cast

away in this inclement region came into my mind during the short

half-hour of our return, and, in the presence of the actual scenes

and conditions, my impressions assumed a vividness that they had never

acquired when “living at home at ease.”

In the evening I observed that the barometer had fallen considerably

from the usually high point at which it stood up to the 6th, and

throughout the night and the following day (June 8) it varied little

from 29·9 inches. When we came on deck on the morning of the 8th,

the uniform remark of the passengers was, “What a warm day!” We had

become used to a temperature of about 40°, and a rise of 5° Fahr.

gave the impression of a complete change of climate. It is curious

how completely relative are the impressions of heat and cold on the

human body, and how difficult it is, even for persons accustomed to

compare their sensations with the instrument, to form a moderately

good estimate of the actual temperature. We paid dearly, however, for

any bodily comfort gained from the comparative warmth in the thick

weather that prevailed during most of the day. We had some momentary

views of grand scenery, but, as on the preceding day, these were

fleeting, and I failed to carry away any definite pictures. It would

appear that in such weather the navigation amid such a complete maze

of islands and channels must be nearly impossible, but the various

surveying-expeditions have placed landmarks, in the shape of wooden

posts and crosses, that suffice to the practised eyes of seamen.

About ten a.m. we reached the end of the Sarmiento Channel, opposite to

which the comparatively broad opening of Lord Nelson Strait, between

Hanover Island and Queen Adelaide Island, leads westward to the

Pacific, and before long entered on the third stage of our voyage,

which is known as Smyth’s Channel. This name is used collectively for

the labyrinth of passages lying among the smaller islands that fill the

space between Queen Adelaide Island and the mainland of South-western

Patagonia; but to distinguish the openings between separate islands

various names have been given, with which no one not a navigator need

burthen his memory. Perhaps the thick weather may have been the cause,

but we all noticed the comparative rarity of all appearance of animal

life on this and the previous day. A large whale passing near the

ship gave the only occasion for a little momentary excitement. As we

ran southward, and were daily approaching the winter solstice, the

successive days became sensibly shorter, and it was already nearly dark

when, soon after four p.m., we cast anchor in an opening between two

low islands which is known as Mayne Channel.

[_SMYTH’S CHANNEL._]

It was impossible not to experience a sense of depression at the

persistence of such unfriendly weather during the brief period of

passing through a region of such exceptional interest, an opportunity,

if once lost, never to be recovered. With corresponding eagerness the

hope held out by a steady rise of the barometer was greeted, especially

when I found that this continued up to ten p.m., and amounted since

morning to a quarter of an inch. We were under way some time before

daylight on June 9, and great was my delight when, going on deck, I

found a cloudless sky and the Southern Cross standing high in the

firmament.

It was a morning never to be forgotten. We rapidly made our way from

amid the maze of smaller islands, and glided over the smooth water

into a broad channel commanding a wide horizon, bounded a panorama of

unique character. As the stars faded and daylight stole over the scene,

fresh features of strangeness and beauty at each successive moment

came into view, until at last the full glory of sunshine struck the

highest point of Queen Adelaide Island, and a few moments later crowned

the glistening summits of all the eminences that circled around. The

mountainous outline of Queen Adelaide Island, on the right hand, which

anywhere else would fix attention, was somewhat dwarfed by the superior

attractions of the other objects in view. We had reached the point

where Smyth’s Channel widens out into the western end of the Straits

of Magellan, and right in front of us rose the fantastic outline of

the Land of Desolation, as the early navigators styled the shores that

bound the southern entrance to the Straits; and as we advanced it was

possible to follow every detail of the outline, even to the bold summit

of Cape Pillar, forty miles away to the westward. Marking as it does

the entrance to the Straits from the South Pacific, that headland has

drawn to it many an anxious gaze since steam navigation has made the

passage of the Straits easy and safe, and thus avoids the hardship and

delay of the inclement voyage round Cape Horn.

The coast nearest to us was at least as attractive as any other part

of the panorama. The southern extremity of the continent is a strange

medley of mountain and salt water, which can be explained only by the

irregular action of elevatory forces not following a definite line

of direction. Several of the narrow sounds that penetrate the coast

are spread out inland into large salt-water lakes, and all the shores

along which we coasted between Smyth’s Channel and Sandy Point belong

to peninsulas projecting between fifty and one hundred miles from the

continuous mainland of Patagonia. The outline is strangely varied. Bold

snow-covered peaks alternate with lower rocky shores, and are divided

by channels of dark blue water penetrating to an unknown distance into

the interior. From amidst the higher summits flowed several large

ice-streams, appearing, even from a distance, to be traversed by broad

crevasses. I did not see any of these glaciers actually reach the

sea, but one, whose lower end was masked by a projecting forest-clad

headland, must have approached very near to the beach.

[_STRAITS OF MAGELLAN._]

I have called the scene unique, and, in truth, I believe that nothing

like it is to be found elsewhere in the world. The distant picture

showing against the sky under the low rays of the winter sun is

probably to be matched by some that arctic navigators bear in their

memory; but here, below the zone of snow and ice, we had the striking

contrast of shores covered by dense forest and clothed with luxuriant

vegetation. Not much snow can have fallen, as up to a height of about

twelve hundred feet above the sea, as far as the forest prevails, none

met the eye. On the Norwegian coast, where one might be tempted to

look for winter scenes somewhat of the same character, the forest is

composed of coniferous trees, which have a very different aspect, and

at the corresponding season they are, I imagine, usually so laden with

snow that they can give little relief to the eye.

I was struck by the fact that, although we had travelled southward five

and a half degrees of latitude (nearly four hundred English miles)

since entering the Gulf of Peñas, the upper limit of the forest belt

was so little depressed. I could not estimate the average depression at

more than from two to three hundred feet.

As we advanced into the main channel, and were drawing near to the

headland of Cape Tamar, where the Straits of Magellan are narrowed

between that and the opposite coast of the Land of Desolation, we

noticed that what seemed from a distance to be a mere film of vapour

lying on the surface of the sea grew gradually thicker, rose to a

height of about one hundred feet, and quite abruptly, in the space of

two or three ship’s lengths, we lost the bright sky and the wonderful

panorama, and were plunged in a fog that lasted through the greater

part of the afternoon. The one constant characteristic of the climate

of this region is its liability at all seasons to frequent and abrupt

change, especially by day. It is, as I learned, a rare event when a day

passes without one or two, or even more frequent, changes of the wind,

bringing corresponding changes of temperature, rain, or snow, or clear

sky; but, as a rule, the weather is less inconstant in winter than

at other seasons. A short experience makes it easy to understand the

extreme difficulty of navigation in the Straits for sailing ships, and

the expediency of preferring the less inviting course of rounding Cape

Horn.

[_BORYA BAY._]

Several times during the day the fog cleared away for a while, and

gave us grand views of the coast on either hand. That of the Land of

Desolation especially attracted my attention. Captain Willsen pointed

out to me, as we stood on the bridge, to which I had free access,

the opening of a narrow sound which has lately been ascertained

to penetrate entirely through what used to be considered a single

island. The expressive name must, indeed, be abandoned, for, if I am

not mistaken, the Land of Desolation of our maps is already known to

consist of three, and may possibly form many more islands, divided from

each other by very narrow channels. Our cautious commander resolved

once again to anchor for the night, and selected for the purpose Borya

Bay, a small sheltered cove some distance east of Port Gallant, a

harbour often visited by the English surveying-expeditions. Daylight

had departed when, about half-past five, we reached our anchorage; but

the sky was again quite clear, and we enjoyed the weird effects of

moonlight illumination. The scenery is very grand, and was more wintry

in aspect than at any other point in our voyage. A mountain at the head

of the cove rose steeply to a height of at least two thousand feet,

and cast a dark shadow over the ship as we lay very near the shore.

The shores were begirt with the usual belt of forest, but this did

not extend far, and the declivities all around were clad with snow,

which lay rather deep. It appeared to me that a rather large glacier

descended to within a few hundred feet of the shore, but, seen by the

imperfect light, I felt uncertain as to the fact. Since entering the

Straits, I had noticed that on the steeper slopes facing the south,

where the surface can receive but little sunshine at any season, the

forest ascends but a short distance above the sea-level. Above that

limit in such situations I observed only a scanty covering of bushes,

and higher up the surface at this season appeared quite bare.

As Borya Bay is one of the customary haunts of the Fuegians, the

steam-whistle was sounded on our arrival as an invitation to any

natives who might be encamped there. This always suffices to attract

them, with the hope of being able to gratify their universal craving

for tobacco. The appeal was not answered, as the people were doubtless

on the outer coasts, and we were not destined to see anything of the

most miserable of all the races of man.

As the weather remained bright, the anchor was raised soon after

midnight, and by one a.m. we were on our way, steering south-east, to

round the southern extremity of the mainland of America. Awaking to the

disappointment of having missed a view of one of the most interesting

portions of the Straits, I hurried on deck, and found a new change in

the aspect of the skies. The night had been cold, with a sharp frost;

but in the morning, soon after daybreak, the air felt quite warm,

with the thermometer marking 39° Fahr. A northerly breeze had set in,

and as an inevitable result brought thick weather. I again noticed,

however, that the barometer on these coasts seems to be very slightly

affected by changes in the wind’s direction. It stood last night at

30·16 inches, and on the morning of the 10th, with a complete change of

weather, had fallen only eight-hundredths of an inch.

[_MOUNT SARMIENTO._]

The southern end of the continent is shaped like a broad wedge, whose

apex is Cape Froward, laying in south latitude 53° 54′. We passed it

early in the forenoon, giving the headland, which we saw dimly to the

north, a broad berth, so that we about touched the 54th parallel. If

we compare this with the climate of places in about the same latitude,

as, for instance, with that of the Isle of Man, we are apt to consider

the climate as severe; but we habitually forget how far the condition

of Western Europe is affected by exceptional circumstances; and if

we look elsewhere in the northern hemisphere, taking, for instance,

the Labrador coast, the south of Kamschatka, or even the coast of

British Columbia, we must admit that the Straits of Magellan afford no

confirmation to the prevalent ideas respecting the greater cold of the

climate of the southern hemisphere.

Soon after this turning-point of the voyage the sky partially cleared

to the southward, and we were fortunate enough to enjoy one of the most

impressive scenes that my memory has recorded. The broad sound that

divides Clarence Island from the main island of Tierra del Fuego lay

open before us, flanked on either hand by lofty snow-clad summits. In

the background, set as in a frame, rose the magnificent peak of Mount

Sarmiento, the Matterhorn of this region, springing, as it appeared,

from the shore to a height of seven thousand feet.[34] Sole sovereign

of these antarctic solitudes, I know of no other peak that impresses

the mind so deeply with the sense of wonder and awe. As seen from the

north, the eastern and western faces are almost equally precipitous,

and the broad top is jagged by sharp teeth, of which the two outermost,

one to the east, the other to the west, present summits of apparently

equal height. At a distance of about twenty-five miles the whole mass

seemed to be coated with snow and ice, save where some sharp ridges and

teeth of black rock stood out against the sky. I remained for some time

utterly engrossed by the marvellous spectacle, and at last bethought

myself of endeavouring to secure at least an outline of the scene;

but before I could fetch a sketch-book, a fresh change in the weather

partly obscured, and, a few minutes later, finally concealed from my

eyes a picture that remains vividly impressed on my memory.

It was impossible not to speculate on the origin and past history of

this remarkable peak. Admitting that there is evidence to show that

the larger part of the rocks of this region are of volcanic origin, it

appeared to me evident not only that Mount Sarmiento is not a volcanic

cone, but that the rock of which it is composed is not of volcanic

origin. Whether its real form be that of a tower, or that of a ridge

with precipitous sides seen in profile, no volcanic rocks elsewhere in

the world can retain slopes so nearly approaching to the vertical. It

is, I believe, a portion of the original rock skeleton that formed the

axis of the Andean chain during the long ages that preceded the great

volcanic outbursts that have covered over the framework of the western

side of South America. Like most peaks of a similar form, I am disposed

to believe that in the course of gradual upheaval the flanks have been

carved by marine action to the nearly vertical form which impresses

the beholder. Although snow-covered mountains suffer a certain limited

amount of denudation in the channels through which glaciers flow, there

is reason to hold that they are far less subject to degradation than

those which are not protected from the main agencies that wear away

rocky surfaces. It is by alternations of temperature, by frost, and the

action of running water, that rocks are rapidly eaten away, and from

these a snow-covered mountain is to a great extent secured.

[_CHANGE OF SCENERY._]

A few miles east of Cape Froward the coast of the mainland trends

nearly due north for a distance of fully sixty miles, and a marked

change is perceived in the aspect of the shores. Instead of the bold

outlines to which our eyes had become accustomed, the coastline lay

low, fringed with forest on the side of the mainland, which now lay

to our west, and on the other hand showing bare flats, here and there

flecked with fresh snow. The land on that side at first belonged to

Dawson Island; but later in the day, as we approached our destination,

the dreary flats formed part of Northern Tierra del Fuego.

[_ISOLATION OF SANDY POINT._]

The weather was thick as we passed Port Famine, and there was little

to attract attention until we drew near to Sandy Point, a place that

was to me the more interesting as I intended to make it my home until

the arrival of the next English steamer. The belt of forest rose over

low swelling hills near the sea, and in the distance a loftier range,

from two to three thousand feet in height, showed a nearly horizontal

line against the cloudy sky. As we approached, several structures of

painted wood became visible, and for the first time since we left

Lota we beheld human dwellings. Sandy Point, known to the natives of

South America by the equivalent name Punta Arenas, is certainly one

of the most isolated of inhabited spots to be found in the world.

Since the scramble for Africa has set in, it is, I suppose, only on

the Australian coast that one would find any settlement so far removed

from neighbours or rivals. On the side of Chili the nearest permanent

habitations are in the island of Chiloe, fully seven hundred miles

distant in a straight line, and considerably farther by the only

practicable route. On the side of Argentaria there is a miserable

attempt at a settlement at the mouth of the river Santa Cruz, where the

Argentine Government has thought it expedient to hoist their flag in

order to assert the rights of sovereignty of the Confederation over the

dreary wastes of South-eastern Patagonia. This was described to me as a

group of half a dozen wooden sheds, where a few disconsolate soldiers

spend a weary time of exile from the genial climate of Buenos Ayres.

By the sea route it is about four hundred miles from Sandy Point, but

no direct communication between the two places is kept up. For all

practical purposes, the nearest civilized neighbours to Sandy Point

are the English colonists in the Falkland Islands, where, in spite of

inhospitable soil and climate, some of our countrymen have managed

to attain to tolerable prosperity, chiefly by sheep-farming. But

with an interval of nearly five hundred miles of stormy ocean mutual

intercourse is neither easy nor frequent.