Voyage from Callao to Valparaiso—Arica—Tocopilla—Scenery of the moon—Caldera—Aspect of North Chili—British Pacific squadron—Coquimbo—Arrival at Valparaiso—Climate and vegetation of Central Chili—Railway journey to Santiago—Aspect of the city—Grand position of Santiago—Dr. Philippi—Excursion to Cerro St. Cristobal—Don B. Vicu?a Mackenna—Remarkable trees—Excursion to the baths of Cauquenes—The first rains—Captive condors—Return to Santiago—Glorious sunset.
The voyage from Callao to Valparaiso was accomplished under conditions as favourable to the comfort and enjoyment of the passengers as that from Panama to Callao. The Ayacucho is a larger ship than the Islay, but built on a nearly similar plan, and except towards the end of the voyage, when we took on board a detachment of Chilian soldiers returning to Valparaiso, we had no inconvenience from overcrowding. I was very fully occupied in the endeavour to preserve and put away in good condition the rather large collections made during my stay in Peru. Notwithstanding the character of the climate, I found the usual difficulty felt at sea in getting my paper thoroughly dry, and for several days the work was unceasing. It had the effect of preventing my going119 ashore at two or three places which at the time appeared to me uninteresting, but which I afterwards regretted not to have visited.
RAILWAY TO BOLIVIA.
By daylight on the morning of April 30 we were off Tambo de Mora, a small place near the mouth of the river Canete, which, at some seasons, is said to bring down a large volume of water from the Cordillera. After a very short stay we went on to Pisco, a more considerable place, but unattractive as seen from the sea, surrounded by sandy barren flats. It is, however, of some commercial importance, being connected by railway with Yca, the chief town of this part of Peru; and we remained in the roads about three hours, pursuing our voyage in the evening.
Our course on May 1 lay rather far from land, this being the only day during the voyage on which we did not touch at one or more ports. Under ordinary circumstances all the coast steamers call at Mollendo, the terminus of the railway leading to Arequipa, and thence to the highlands of southern Peru and the frontier of Bolivia. Arequipa being at this time occupied by a Peruvian force, and communication with the interior being therefore irregular and difficult, Mollendo was touched only on alternate voyages of the Pacific steamers.
I was impressed by the case of a Bolivian family on board which seemed to involve great hardship. An elderly father, with the manners and bearing of an educated gentleman, had taken a numerous family, chiefly young girls, with several servants, to Europe, to visit Spanish relations, and was now on his way to return to La Paz. The choice lay for him between120 the direct land journey from Arica, involving a ride of some two hundred miles through a difficult country, partly almost a desert, and partly through the defiles of the Cordillera, or returning by another steamer to Mollendo, and thence making his way between the hostile Chilian and Peruvian forces to the shores of his native lake of Titicaca. There was, in the latter case, the additional difficulty that Mollendo is about the worst port on the western coast of America. It is, in fact, an open roadstead, and, although there is little wind, the swell from the Pacific often breaks with a heavy surf upon the shore, and serious accidents are not infrequent. As all seamen are agreed, the terminus of the railway should have been fixed at Quilca, about the same distance from Arequipa as Mollendo, and, as usual in Peru, the selection of the latter is attributed to a corrupt bargain.
Early on May 2 we cast anchor opposite Arica. There is nothing deserving to be called a harbour; but a projecting headland on the south side of the little town protects the roadstead from the southerly breeze and the swell, which was here scarcely perceptible. On landing, I hastened along the shore on the north side, where a fringe of low bushes and some patches of rusty green gave promise to the botanist, and broke the monotony of the incessant grey which is the uniform tint of the Pacific coast from Payta to Coquimbo. As at very many other places on the coast, the maps indicate a stream from the Cordillera falling into the sea at Arica, but the traveller searches in vain for running water, or even for a dry channel121 to show where the stream ought to run. Nevertheless, Arica, unlike the places farther south, does actually possess fresh water in some abundance. The water from the Cordillera filters through the sandy belt of low country near the coast, and there are springs or wells sufficing not only for the local demand, but also for the wants of Iquique, a much more considerable place more than eighty miles distant. The little steamer whose office it is to carry the weekly supply of water to the Iquique people was taking her cargo on board at the moment, and one was at a loss to imagine what would happen if any mischance should befall the steamer or the engine. It is certain that under the intelligent rule of the Incas, many places now parched were made habitable by aqueducts carrying water from the mountains, and there are probably many other places where water might be procured by boring; but the porous character of the superficial soil makes this an uncertain resource, and the general uniformity of all the deposits gives little prospect of Artesian wells.
WATER SUPPLY ON THE COAST.
Near to the town are a few meagre attempts at cultivation in the shape of vegetable gardens, surrounded by ditches, into which it seems that a little water comes by infiltration. A few grasses and other herbaceous plants, mostly common tropical weeds, were to be found here. Elsewhere, the ground was, as usual on the coast, merely sand, with here and there clumps of bushes about six or seven feet in height, chiefly Composit? of the characteristic South American genera, Baccharis and Tessaria. A bush of C?salpinia Gilliesii, with only a few of its beautiful flowers left,122 the ornament of hot-houses in Europe, struck one as a strange apparition on this arid coast.
The position of Arica, connected as it is by railway with Tacna, the centre of a rich mineral district, possessing the best anchorage on this part of the Pacific coast, and a constant supply of good water, must some day make it a place of importance. The headland which commands it is crowned by a fort, on which the Peruvians had planted a good many guns, and its seizure by the Chilians was one of the first energetic blows struck during the war.
For some reason, not apparent, the great waves which flow inland after each considerable earthquake shock have been more destructive at Arica than at any other spot upon the coast. Three times the place has been utterly swept away, and one memorial survives in the shape of the hull of a large ship, lying fully a mile inland, seen by us a few miles north of the town as we approached in the morning. On each occasion the little town has been rebuilt close to the shore. Experience has not taught the people to build on the rising land, only a few hundred yards distant. Each man believes that the new house will last his time—Après moi le deluge, with a vengeance!
At Arica the coast-line, which from the promontory of Ajulla, about 6° north latitude, has kept a direction between south-east and south-south-east for a distance of about twelve hundred English miles, bends nearly due south, and maintains the same direction for nearly double that distance. It is in the tract lying between Arica and Copiapò that the conditions which produce the so-called rainless zone of the Pacific123 coast have had the maximum effect. In that space of about six hundred miles (farther than from Liverpool to Oporto) there is no inhabited place—with the possible exception of Pisagua—where drinkable water is to be had. Nowhere in the world is there such an extensive tract of coast so unfitted for the habitation of man. But this same region is rich in products that minister to human wants, and man has overcome the obstacles that seemed to render them inaccessible. Besides mines of copper, silver, and lead, the deposits of alkaline nitrates, whose extent has not yet been fathomed, richly reward the expenditure of labour and capital. One after another industrial establishments have arisen along the coast at places suitable for the embarkation of produce, and some of these have already attained the dimensions of small towns. The Ayacucho called at no less than nine of these places, and there are two or three others that are occasionally visited. At a few of them, as at Iquique, the water-supply is partially or altogether conveyed by sea, but most of them subsist by distillation from sea-water.
PORTS ON THE RAINLESS COAST.
As may well be supposed, there is little in these places to interest a stranger, and a description of one may serve for all. Some more or less extensive works, with one or several tall chimneys, are the most prominent feature. Near to each establishment are three or four clean-looking houses for managers and head agents, of whom the majority appear to be English. Grouped in narrow sandy lanes near at hand are the dwellings—mere sheds built of reeds—of the working people. In some of the more considerable124 places an iron church, in debased sham-Gothic style, has been procured from the United States, and has been set up in a central position, with the outline of a plaza in front of it, and several drinking-shops clustered near.
The aspect of the coast is not less monotonous than that of the inhabited places. The sea-board is nearly a straight line running from north to south, and, except at Mejillones, I saw no projecting headland to break its uniformity. Nearly everywhere what appears to be a range of flat-topped hills from about eight to fifteen hundred feet in height, of uniform dull grey hue unbroken by a single patch of verdure, forms the background. In truth, these seeming hills are the western margin of the great plateau of the desert of Atacama, which at its edge slopes rather steeply towards the Pacific coast, sometimes leaving a level margin of one or two miles in width, sometimes approaching within a few hundred feet of the shore. I find it difficult to form a conception of the causes which have led to this singular uniformity in the western limit of the volcanic rocks of the plateau. Whether we suppose the mass to have been originally thrown out from craters or fissures in the range of the cordillera by suba?rial or submarine eruptions, we should think it inevitable that the western front should show great irregularities corresponding to greater volume of the streams of eruptive matter in some parts.
Admitting—what may be held for a certainty—that, whatever may have been the original conditions, the whole region has since been submerged, and that marine action would have levelled surface inequalities,125 it is not easy to understand how the uniformity in the western front could have been brought about during the period of subsequent and comparatively recent elevation. If this had occurred along an axis of elevation near to the present coast-line, the effect must have been to produce a coast-range parallel to that of the Andes, with a watershed having an eastern as well as a western slope, and accompanying disturbance of the strata, such as we find on a great scale in western North America. Some indications of such action may be seen in Chili, south of Copiapò, and further to the south, but I am not aware of any fact to justify a similar supposition respecting this part of the coast of South America.
WHITE ROCKS AT PISAGUA.
On the morning of May 3 we were anchored in front of Pisagua, which, being the port of Tarapacà, the chief centre of the nitrate deposits, is at present an active place. The houses are rather more scattered than usual, some of them being built on rising ground, apparently above the reach of earthquake waves. The range of apparent hills, fully fifteen hundred feet in height, rises steeply behind the little town, and the monotonous slope is broken by a long zigzag line marking the railway to Tarapacà. Some steep rocks rising from the sea to the south of the anchorage were in great part brilliantly white, recalling the appearance of quartz veins, or beds of crystalline limestone, dipping at a high angle. Thinking the existence of such rocks on this coast very improbable, I was anxious to inspect them; but when I was told that the time of our stay would merely allow of a short visit to the town, I did not care to land. The126 same appearances are common along the coast, and I soon afterwards ascertained that they are produced by the droppings of sea-birds—the same which, when accumulated in large masses, form the guano deposits of the detached rocks and islets of the coast.
In the afternoon we reached Iquique, which is, I believe, the largest of the unnatural homes of men on this coast. Some one who had gone ashore here returned, bringing copies of two newspapers, by which the public of Iquique are kept informed as to the affairs of the world. I had already seen with surprise, and had many further opportunities for observing, the extent to which the newspaper press in South America has absorbed whatever literary capacity exists in the country. Of information there is not indeed much to be gathered from these sheets; but of grand sentiments and appeals to the noblest emotions the supply seems inexhaustible. I regret to own that experience in other parts of the world had already made me somewhat distrustful of such appeals; but the result of my study of South American newspapers culminated in a severe fit of moral indigestion, and I do not yet receive in a proper spirit any appeal to the noblest sentiments of my nature.
I am far from supposing, however, that with those who read literature of this kind the debilitating effect attributed to it by some critics necessarily ensues. Some at least of the heroic virtues have survived. For a man to die for his country may not be the highest form of heroism, but in every age it has drawn forth the instinctive admiration of his fellows; and it is not at Iquique that one should think of127 making light of it. These waters, which, during the late war, witnessed the fight between the Esmeralda and the Huascar,15 would, in another age of the world, have become as famous as those of Salamis.
THE SEA-FIGHT AT IQUIQUE.
On the morning of May 4 we called at Huanillos, a small place of recent growth, not marked on any map that I have seen. It lies within a few miles of the mouth of the Loa, which, as laid down on maps, appears to be a considerable stream, rising in the Cordillera and traversing in a circuitous course the Bolivian part of the Atacama desert. I naturally inquired why the mouth of such a river had not been selected as the site of a port. I was informed that, in spite of the maps, no water flows through the channel of the river, and that what can be obtained by digging is brackish and unfit for drinking. Whether this128 arises from the fact that the trials have been made too near the shore, within reach of the infiltration of sea-water, or that all the water traversing the region inland becomes impregnated with saltpetre, I am unable to decide; but it seems probable that careful examination of the water, some of which undoubtedly finds its way underground from the Cordillera to the Pacific coast, might add considerably to the resources of the country. The cost of conveying water direct from the mountains to certain points in the interior, and thence to the coast, would possibly be repaid by the saving in fuel now used for the distillation of sea-water, to say nothing of the probability that some portions of the surface would become available for cultivation. The experience of the Isthmus of Suez, where a constantly increasing area near the course of the freshwater canal has become productive, should, I think, encourage the attempt.
SCENERY OF THE MOON.
About midday we reached Tocopilla, another place of recent creation, consisting of a large establishment with several chimneys and the usual group of sheds for the workmen. Steep rocky slopes rise close behind, and it seemed possible to see something of the conditions of life on this part of the coast without going beyond sight and hearing of the steamer. Being told that our stay was to be short, but that the steam-whistle would be sounded a first time exactly a quarter of an hour before our departure, I shouldered my tin vasculum and went ashore. Passing the houses, I at once steered for the rocky slopes behind. Here at last I found what I had often heard of, but in whose existence I had almost ceased to believe—a land129 absolutely without a trace of vegetable life. Among the dolomite peaks of South Tyrol I had often been told that such a peak was absolutely bare of vegetation, but had always found a fair number of plants in clefts and crevices. I had been told the same thing at Suez of the burnt-up eastward face of Djebel Attakah, where even on the exposed rocks I had been able to collect something; but here I searched utterly in vain. Not only was there no green thing; not even a speck of lichen could I detect, though I looked at the rocks through a lens. Even more than by the absence of life, I was impressed by the appearance of the surface, which showed no token that water had ever flowed over it. Every edge of rock was sharp, as if freshly broken, and on the steep slope no trace of a channel furrowed its face.16 The aspect is absolutely that of the scenery of the moon—of a world without water and without an atmosphere. I saw no insect and no lizard, no living thing, with the130 strange exception that on the rocks nearest the houses there were several small birds, which appeared to be rather shy, and which I was not able to approach. I was afterwards told that these birds live on the grain which they are able to steal or to pick out from the manure in the stables, where a few horses and mules are kept for the needs of the place. Assuming this to be correct, the arrival of the birds at such a place remains a mystery.
A passenger who had spent some time at this singular place further told me that the horses, constantly fed on dry grain, and receiving but a scanty ration of distilled sea-water, usually become blind, but do not otherwise suffer in health. He added a story to the effect that some palings which had been painted green were found a few days after covered with marks of teeth, and with the paint almost completely removed. The mules, attracted by the colour, had sought the refreshment of green food, and had vainly gnawed away the painted surface.
However singular the aspect of nature in this place might be, it could not long detain a naturalist. A world without life is soon found to be monotonous; and after clambering about for some time, and satisfying myself that there was nothing to be found, I turned to the shore, where broken shells and other remains of marine animals presented at least some variety. Seaweeds appeared to be scarce, but some were to be seen in the little pools left among the rocks by the retreating tide.
Just as I was about to collect some objects which might have been of interest, the steam-whistle of the131 Ayacucho summoned me to return to the ship. As I was by this time at some distance from the landing-place, I hurried back under a blazing sun, and reached the ship within less than twenty minutes, only to find that haste was quite superfluous, as we did not start until more than an hour later.
ANTOFAGASTA.
The sun had already set when we reached Cobija. This was, I believe, the first place inhabited on this part of the coast. Before the late war, Bolivia held the coast from the mouth of the Loa to the Tropic of Capricorn, a tract of about one hundred and sixty miles, rich in mineral wealth, the whole of which, along with the adjoining provinces of Peru, is now annexed to Chili. Cobija, which was a place of some importance, is now much reduced, and little business seems to be carried on there.
Early on the 5th of May we were before Antofagasta, now the most thriving place on this coast, if a place can be said to thrive which exists under such unnatural conditions. It is, however, slightly better off than its neighbours to the north. A gentleman who resided here for some time assured me that at intervals of five or six years a heavy fall of rain occurs here. At such times not only the coast region, but the Atacama desert lying between the Cordillera and the sea is speedily covered with fresh vegetation, which after a few months is dried up and disappears. At such times the guanacos descend from the mountains, and actually reach the coast.
We must, without my attention being called to the fact while in my cabin, have turned back to the northward after leaving Antofagasta, as in the dusk we132 were before Mejillones, which lies fully thirty miles north of the former place. It stands on a little bay, well sheltered from the south by a considerable rocky promontory, and, as I had been led to expect, the ground is here broken and irregular, offering more promise of safe retreat for the indigenous vegetation than anywhere else on this coast. I had looked forward with interest to an hour or two on this more promising ground, and it was a disappointment to be unable to profit by a comparatively long stay, for we remained at anchor after nightfall, embarking cargo and some passengers until midnight. For the third time within twenty-four hours we crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, and thenceforward remained in the south temperate zone. But in this region the term is in no way specially appropriate to the coast climate of Chili, for nothing can be more truly temperate than that of the so-called tropical zone which we were now leaving. During the voyage from Callao the thermometer properly shaded had but once (while anchored at Arica) reached 70° Fahr. It usually stood by night at 64° to 65°, and at about 68° by day, except occasionally when exposed to the cool southern breeze, when it fell rapidly on two occasions, marking only 62·2°.
My aneroid barometer by Casella, graduated only to 19 inches, and therefore useless during my visit to the Cordillera, did not appear to have suffered, as these instruments often do, by the reduced pressure. It did not vary during seven days by so much as one-twentieth of an inch from the constant pressure 29·9, and agreed closely with the ship’s mercurial133 barometer. Perhaps, owing to the fact that my observations were not sufficiently frequent and recorded with sufficient accuracy, I failed to detect on this coast of America the daily oscillations of pressure, which in this latitude probably amount to about one-twentieth of an inch.
UNIFORMITY OF THE CLIMATE.
On the 6th of May we reached Taltal, a small place, the general aspect of which reminded me of Tocopilla, and my first impression on landing was that this was equally devoid of vegetable and animal life. But on reaching the rocky slope, which rises very near the landing-place, I at once perceived some indications of water having flowed over the surface, and in the course of the short half-hour which was allowed ashore I found three flowering plants, two of them in a condition to be determined, the third dried up and undistinguishable. In the evening we touched at Cha?eral, a place rising into importance as being the port of a rich mining district. The southerly breeze had been rather stronger than usual during the afternoon, and some passengers complained of the motion of the ship. An addition of seventy tons of copper in the hold, which was shipped here by torchlight, appeared to have a remarkable effect in steadying the vessel.
We reached Caldera early on the 7th, and remained for five or six hours. This is the port of Copiapò, the chief town of Northern Chili—the only one, indeed, which could have grown up under natural conditions. A considerable stream, the Rio de Copiapò, which drains the western slope of the Cordillera, passes by the town. Caldera, the port, is not at the mouth of134 the river, but several miles further north, and water is doubtless conveyed there in some abundance, as, for the first time since leaving Arica, a few bushes in little enclosed gardens could be descried from the harbour, and I was afterwards shown two stately trees, the ornament of the place, which were nearly fifteen feet in height. I went inland about a mile and a half, visiting a slight eminence where the rock, evidently very recent, crops out at the surface, and one or two other promising spots. Most of the country was covered with sand, in places soft and deep, and anywhere else in the world I should have thought it wretchedly barren, but after my recent experience the meagre vegetation appeared almost luxuriant.
There is much interest attaching to the flora of this desert region of South-western America. The species which grow here are the more or less modified representatives of plants which at some former period existed under very different conditions of life. In some of them the amount of modification has been very slight, the species, it may be presumed, possessing a considerable power of adaptation. Thus one composite of the sun-flower family, which I found here, and also at Payta, is but a slight variety of Encelia canescens,17 which I had seen growing luxuriantly in the gravelly bed of the Rimac near Lima, and along that river to a height of six thousand feet135 above the sea. In this parched region the plant is stunted, and the leaves are hoary with minute white hairs, which may serve as a protection against evaporation. The same species, with other slight modifications, extends to all the drier portions of the western coast as far south as Central Chili. A dwarf shrub with yellow flowers like those of a jessamine, but with very different two-horned fruit, called Skytanthus, was an example of a much greater amount of change. Its only allies are two species in tropical Brazil, very different in appearance, though nearly similar in essential structure. We may safely conclude that a long period has elapsed since these forms diverged from a common stock, and that many intermediate links have perished during the interval.
BRITISH PACIFIC SQUADRON.
Several of the ships composing the British Pacific squadron were lying at Caldera at this time, and after returning from my short excursion ashore, I went on board the Triumph, Captain Albert Markham, bearing the flag of Admiral Lyons, commander-in-chief. With regret I declined the admiral’s hospitable invitation to accompany the squadron to Valparaiso, but I was unable to refuse Captain Markham’s kind suggestion that, as his ship was under orders to return to England on the arrival of the Swiftsure, then expected, I should become his guest on the passage from Valparaiso to Montevideo. The Triumph having been detained in Chilian waters many weeks longer than was then expected, I was afterwards forced to forego the agreeable prospect of a voyage in company with an officer whose varied accomplishments and extensive observation of nature under the most varied136 conditions make his society equally agreeable and instructive.
Leaving Caldera soon after midday, the Ayacucho reached Coquimbo early on the following morning. With only the exception of Talcahuano, this is the best port in Chili, being sheltered from all troublesome winds, and affording good anchorage for large ships. The town of La Serena, the chief place in this part of Chili, stands on moderately high ground about two miles from the sea, and may be reached in about twenty minutes from the port by frequent trains which travel to and fro. We were warned that our stay was to be very short, and that those who went to the city could not remain there for more than half an hour. I had no difficulty in deciding to forego the attractions of the city, whatever they might be, for a far more tempting alternative offered itself. The range of low but rather steep slopes that rises immediately behind the chief line of street was actually dotted over with bushes, veritable bushes, and the unusual greenish-grey tint of the soil announced that it was at least partially covered with vegetation. In the spring, as I was assured, the hue is quite a bright green. To a man who for the preceding week had seen nothing on land but naked rocks or barren sand, the somewhat parched and meagre vegetation of Coquimbo appeared irresistibly attractive. I could not expect to add anything of value to what is already known, through the writings of Darwin and other travellers, respecting the evidences of elevation of the coast afforded by the raised terraces containing recent shells, whose seaward face forms the seeming hills137 behind the town, and I felt free to give every available moment to collecting the singular plants of this region.
IMMUNITY OF THE BOTANIST.
One of the minor satisfactions of a naturalist in South America arises from the fact that the inhabitants are so thoroughly used to seeing strangers of every nationality, and in the most varied attire, that his appearance excites no surprise and provokes no uncivil attentions. Going about almost always alone, with a large tin box slung across my back, I never found myself even stared at, which, in most parts of Europe, is the least inconvenience that befalls a solitary botanist. The amount of attention varies, indeed, in different countries. In Sicily and in Syria one is an object of general curiosity, and one’s every movement, as that of a strange animal, watched by a silent crowd; but it is only in Spain that the inoffensive stranger is subject to personal molestation, and the little boys pelt him with stones without rebuke or interference from their seniors, who nevertheless boast of their national courtesy.18 Fortunately it nowhere occurs to the most ill-disposed populations that a shabbily dressed man, engaged in grubbing up plants by the roots, can be worth robbing. Usually regarded as the assistant to some pharmacist, the botanist is, I think, less subject to molestation than138 the follower of any other pursuit; his only difficulty being that, if ignorant of the healing art, he cuts a poor figure when applied to for medical advice.
Quite unnoticed, I made my way through the long street of Coquimbo, and, at the first favourable opportunity, turned up a lane leading to the slopes above the town. The first plant that I saw, close to the houses, was a huge specimen of the common European Marrubium vulgare, grown to the dimensions of a much-branched bush four or five feet high. It is common in temperate South America, reaching a much greater size than in Europe. The season was, of course, very unfavourable, the condition of the vegetation being very much what may be seen at the corresponding season—late autumn—in Southern Spain, before the first winter rain has awakened the dormant vegetation of the smaller bulbous-rooted plants. Nevertheless, I found several very curious and rare plants still in flower, some of them known only from this vicinity, and among them a dwarf cactus, only three or four inches in height, with comparatively large crimson flowers just beginning to expand.
At length, on the morning of May 9, the voyage came to an end as we slowly steamed into the harbour of Valparaiso, which, with the large amount of shipping and the conspicuous floating docks, gives an impression of even greater importance than it actually possesses. The modern town, built in European fashion, with houses of two and even three floors above the ground, on the curved margin of the bay partly reclaimed from the sea, and the older town, chiefly139 perched on the edge of the plateau some two hundred feet above the main street, and divided by the deep ravines (quebradas) that converge towards the bay, have been described by many travellers; but I do not remember to have seen any sufficient warning as to the frightful peril to which the majority of the population is constantly exposed. Over and over again earthquakes have destroyed towns in western South America. Houses built of slight materials, with a ground floor only, or at most with a single floor above it, may fall without entailing much loss of life; but it is frightful to contemplate the amount of destruction of life and property that must ensue if a violent shock should ever visit Valparaiso. And the peril is twofold; the great wave which is the usual sequel of a violent earthquake, would inevitably destroy whatever might survive the first shock in the crowded streets of the lower town.
VALPARAISO.
After overcoming the preliminary difficulties of landing and passing my luggage through the custom-house, I proceeded to the Hotel Colon, in the main street, kept by a French proprietor to whose lively conversation I owed much information and amusement during my short stay. Some three hours were occupied by a few visits, a stroll through the chief streets, and the despatch of a telegram to Buenos Ayres. Not choosing to incur the heavy expense of a telegram from Valparaiso to England, I had availed myself of the courtesy of the officials of the Royal Mail Steamboat Company to arrange that a telegram from Valparaiso to Buenos Ayres should be forwarded by post from the latter place, thus saving fully three140 weeks’ time. In the afternoon I climbed up one of the steep tracks leading to the upper part of the town, where the population mainly consists of the poorest class. The houses were small and frail looking, but fairly clean, and I nowhere saw indications of abject want, such as may too often be witnessed in the outskirts of a large European city.
Valparaiso has all the air of a busy place, with some features to which we are not used in Europe. Along the line of the narrow main street tramcars are constantly passing to and fro. The names over the shops, many of which are large and handsome, are mainly foreign, German being, perhaps, in a majority; but the important mercantile houses are chiefly English, and, except among the poorer class, the English language appears to be predominant. All people engaged in business acquire it when young, and very many of Spanish descent speak it with fluency and correctness. The Hotel Colon stands between the main street and a broad quay, part of the space reclaimed from the margin of the bay, and my windows overlooked the busy scene, thronged from daylight till evening with a crowd of men and vehicles. It was somewhat startling to see frequent railway trains run through the crowd, with no other precaution than the swinging of a large bell on the locomotive to warn people to get out of the way.
I started soon after daylight on the 10th for a botanical excursion over the hills behind the town, and, as I had rather exaggerated expectations of the harvest to be collected, I had engaged a boy to carry a portfolio wherein to stow away what I could not141 conveniently carry for myself. Though I moved slowly, as naturalists generally do, my companion soon grew tired, or pretended fatigue, and after an hour or so I sent him back to the hotel with the portfolio well filled.
FLORA OF CENTRAL CHILI.
The flora of Central Chili is denominated by Grisebach that of the transition zone of western South America; but, except in the sense that it occupies a territory intermediate between the desert region to the north and that of the antarctic forests to the south, the term is not very appropriate. On the opposite side of the continent, the flora of Uruguay, Entrerios, and the adjoining provinces, may be truly said to offer a transition between that of South subtropical Brazil and that of the pampas region, most of the genera belonging to one or other of those regions, the one element gradually diminishing in importance as the other assumes a predominance. In this respect the Chilian flora presents a remarkable contrast, being distinguished by the large number of vegetable types peculiar to it, and having but slight affinities either with those of tropical or antarctic America.
Of 198 genera peculiar to temperate South America, the large majority belong exclusively to Central Chili, and these include several tribes whose affinity to the forms of other regions is only remote. Two of these tribes—the Viviane? and Francoace?—have even been regarded by many botanists as distinct natural orders; and many of the most common and conspicuous species will strike a botanist familiar with the vegetation of other regions of the earth as very distinct from all that he has known elsewhere.142 With only a few exceptions, these endemic types appear to have originated in the Andean range, whence some modified forms have descended to the lower country; several of these, as was inevitable, have been found on the eastern flanks of the great range, and it is probable that further exploration will add to the number; but it is remarkable that as yet so large a proportion should be confined to Chilian territory.
Grisebach has fixed the limits of that which he has called the transition zone at the Tropic of Capricorn to the north, and the thirty-fourth parallel of latitude to the south; but these in no way correspond to the natural boundaries. As I have already pointed out, the flora of the desert zone, extending from about the twentieth nearly to the thirtieth parallel of south latitude, shows a general uniformity in its meagre constituents. It is about the latitude of Coquimbo, or only a little north of it, that the characteristic types of the Chilian flora begin to present themselves, and these extend southward at least as far as latitude 36° south, and even somewhat farther, if I may judge from the imperfect indications of locality too often afforded with herbarium specimens.19
143
DISTRIBUTION OF RAINFALL.
In discussing the causes that have operated on the development of the Chilian flora, the same eminent writer has been misled by incomplete and erroneous information as to the climate of the region in question, and more especially as to the distribution of rainfall, which is no doubt the most important factor. It is true that the peculiar character of the Chilian climate makes it very difficult to express by averages the facts that mainly influence organic life. Between the northern desert region, where rain in a measurable quantity is an exceptional phenomenon, and the southern forest region, extending from the Straits of Magellan to the province of Valdivia, Central Chili has in ordinary years a long, dry, rainless summer, followed by rather scanty rainfall at intervals from the late autumn to spring. About once in four or five years an exceptional season recurs, when rain falls in summer as well as winter, and in which the total fall may be double the usual amount, and at longer intervals, usually after a severe earthquake, storms causing formidable inundations occur, when in a few days the rainfall may exceed the ordinary amount for an entire year. When several such storms are repeated in the same year, we may have a total rainfall of three or four times the ordinary average.20144 Such seasons appear to recur six or seven times in each century, and it is clear that, according as the meteorologist happens to include or exclude such a season in his data, the figures expressing the average must vary very largely. Inasmuch as plant life is regulated by the ordinary conditions of temperature and moisture, we are less liable to error in taking the results which exclude exceptional seasons.
In discussing, therefore, the conditions of vegetation in Central Chili, it seems safe to conclude that the averages given in the following table, extracted from the careful work of Julius Hann, “Lehrbuch der Klimatologie,” are above rather than below the ordinary limit. I find, indeed, that while the average rainfall at Santiago during the twelve years from 1849 to 1860 was 419 millimetres, or nearly 16? English inches, the average for the six years from 1866 to 1871 was 299 millimetres, or less than 12 inches. It is evident that the indigenous vegetation must be adapted to thrive upon the smaller amount of moisture expressed by the latter figures.
CLIMATE OF CENTRAL CHILI.
The following table, compiled from Hann’s work, gives the most reliable results now available, and shows the mean temperature of the year, of the hottest and coldest months, the extremes of annual temperature, and the rainfall for the chief places in Chili, with a few blanks where information is not available. The maxima and minima do not express the absolute extremes attained during the entire period for which observations are available, but the means of145 the annual maxima and minima. The temperatures are given in degrees of Fahrenheit’s thermometer.
Places. South
latitude. Mean
temperature
of the year. Mean
temperature
of January. Mean
temperature
of July. Maximum
temperature. Minimum
temperature. Rainfall
in
inches.
La Serena (Coquimbo) 29° 56′ 59·2° 65·1° 53·1° ?1·6
Valparaiso 33° ?1′ 57·6° 63·1° 52·5° 77·9° 45·0° 13·5
Santiago (1740 feet
above sea-level) 33° 27′ 55·6° 66·2° 45·0° 87·6° 30·4° 14·5
Talca (334 feet above
the sea) 35° 36′ 56·5° 70·2° 45·0° 19·7
Valdivia 39° 49′ 52·9° 61·5° 45·0° 84·0° 29·5° 115·0?
Ancud, Island of Chiloe
(164 feet above the sea) 41° 46′ 50·7° 56·5° 45·9° 134·0?
Punta Arenas21 (Straits
of Magellan) 53° 10′ 43·2° 51·3° 34·9° 76·3° 28·4° 22·5
This table brings out very clearly the influence of the cold southern currents of the ocean and air in reducing the summer heat of the western side of South America; for, while the winter temperatures are not very different from those of places similarly situated on the west side of Europe and North Africa, those of summer are lower by 8° or 10° Fahr., and the mean of the year is lower by 6° or 7° than that of places in the same latitude on the east side of South America. It is also apparent that much of what has been stated in works of authority as to the climate of this region is altogether incorrect. In his great work on the “Vegetation of the Earth,” Grisebach gives the mean temperature of Santiago as 67·5°, or nearly 12° higher than the mean result of ten years’ observation, and the rainfall as over 40 inches, or146 nearly three times the average—more, indeed, than three times the average—of ordinary seasons.
Arriving in Chili about the end of the long dry season, I had but very moderate expectations as to the prospect of seeing much of its peculiar vegetation, and I was agreeably surprised to find that there yet remained a good deal to interest me, especially among the characteristic evergreen shrubs, having much of the general aspect of those of the Mediterranean region, though widely different in structure from the Old-World forms. One or two slight showers had fallen shortly before my arrival, and as a result the ground was in many places studded with the golden flowers of the little Oxalis lobata. This appears to have a true bulb, formed from the overlapping bases of the outer leaves, in the centre of which the undeveloped stem produces one or more flowers, which appear before the new leaves. The surface of the dry baked soil was extremely hard, costing some labour to break it with a pick in order to collect specimens, and it is not easy to understand the process by which a young flower-bud is enabled to force its way to the upper surface. The open country on the hills near Valparaiso is bare, trees being very scarce, and for the most part reduced to the stature of shrubs with strong trunks; but in the ravines, or quebradas, that descend towards the coast some of these rise to a height of twenty or twenty-five feet.
One of the objects of my walk over the hills was to obtain a good view of the Andes, and especially of the peak of Aconcagua, the highest summit of the New World. I had had a glimpse of the peak from147 the sea on the previous morning, but light clouds hung about the entire range during this day, and I was unable to identify with certainty any of the summits. The distance in an air line is about one hundred English miles, and I was struck by the clearness of the air in this region as compared with what I had seen from the coast of Ecuador or Peru. Every point that stood out from the clouds was seen sharply defined, as one is accustomed to observe in favourable weather in the Mediterranean region.
WINTER’S BARK.
Returning to the town, I took my way along one of numerous deep ravines that have been cut into the seaward surface of the plateau. Though they are witnesses to the energetic action of water, they are often completely dry at this season; yet they exercise a marked influence on the vegetation. The shrubs rise nearly to the dimensions of trees, and several species find a home that do not thrive in the open country. I was specially interested in, for the first time, finding in flower the Winter’s bark (Drimys Winteri), a shrub which displays an extraordinary capacity of adaptation to varying physical conditions, as it extends along the west side of America from Mexico to the Straits of Magellan, and also to the highlands of Guiana and Brazil, accommodating itself as well to the perpetual spring of the equatorial mountain zone as to the long winters and short, almost sunless, summers of Fuegia. The only necessary condition seems to be a moderate amount of moisture; but even as to this there is wonderful contrast between the long rainless summer and slight winter rainfall of Valparaiso, and the tropical rains of Brazil on the one148 hand, and the continual moisture of Valdivia and Western Patagonia on the other. This is one of the examples which goes to show how much caution should be used in drawing inferences as to the climate of former epochs from deposits of fossil vegetable remains. This instance is doubtless exceptional, but there is some reason to think that what may be called physiological varieties—races of plants which, with little or no morphological change, have become adapted to conditions of life very different from those under which the ancestral form was developed—are far less uncommon than has been generally supposed.
It is to me rather surprising that a shrub so ornamental as the Winter’s bark should not be more extensively introduced on our western coasts. It appears not to resist severe frosts, but in the west of Ireland and the south-west of England it should be a welcome addition to the resources of the landscape gardener. Although voyagers have spoken highly of its virtues as a stimulant and antiscorbutic, it does not appear to have held its ground in European pharmacopeias, and I believe that the active principle, chiefly residing in the bark, has never been chemically determined.
On May 11 I proceeded to Santiago. Mr. Drummond Hay,22 the popular consul-general, who at this time was also acting as the British chargé d’affaires at the legation at Santiago, was so fully occupied at the consular court that I was able to enjoy little of his society; but he was kind enough to telegraph to the149 Hotel Oddo at Santiago to secure for me accommodation. With the usual difficulty of effecting an early start, which appears to prevail everywhere in South America, I reached the railway station in time for the 7.45 a.m. train. For some distance the railroad runs near the sea, passing the station of Vi?a del Mar, where many of the Valparaiso merchants have pretty villas. I was more attracted by the appearance of the country about the following station of Salto, where rough, rocky ground, with clumps of small trees and the channels of one or more streams, promised well for a spring visit. But I was at every turn reminded that I had fallen on the most unfavourable season. After the long six or seven months’ drought the face of the country was everywhere parched, and the only matter for surprise was that there should yet remain some vestiges of its summer garb of vegetation.
RAILWAY TO SANTIAGO.
The direct distance from Valparaiso to Santiago is only about fifty-five miles, but the line chosen for the railway must be fully double that length. The country lying directly between the sea-coast and the capital is broken up by irregular masses, partly granitic and partly formed of greenstone and other hard igneous rocks. These in Europe would be regarded as considerable mountains, as the summits range from six thousand to over seven thousand feet in height, but they nowhere exhibit the bold and picturesque forms that characterize the granite formation in Brazil. On either side of this highland tract two considerable streams carry the drainage of the Cordillera to the ocean. The northern stream, the Rio Aconcagua,150 bears the same name as the famous mountain from whose snows it draws a constant supply even in the dry season. Some sixty miles further south, the Maipo, draining a larger portion of the Andean range, flows to the coast by the town of Melipilla. The valley of the Maipo offers a much easier, though a circuitous, railway route to Santiago than that chosen by the Chilian engineers, which for a considerable distance keeps to the valley of the Aconcagua. The stream is reached near to Quillota, a place which has given its name to this part of the valley.
Travelling at this season, I was not much struck by the boasted luxuriance of the vegetation of the vale of Quillota; but I could easily understand that the eye of the stranger, accustomed to the arid regions of Peru and Northern Chili, must welcome the comparative freshness of the landscape, in which orchards of orange and peach trees alternate with squares of arable land. Of the few plants that I could make out from the railway car what most attracted my attention was the frequent recurrence of oval masses of dark leaves, much in the form of a giant hedgehog three or four feet in length and half that height, remarkably uniform in size and appearance. The interest was not diminished when I was able, at a wayside station, to ascertain that the plant was a bramble, on which I failed to find flower or fruit, but which from the leaves can be nothing else than a variety of the common bramble, or blackberry, introduced from Europe.
* * * * *
At the station of Llaillai (pronounced Yaiyai) we met the train from Santiago, and were allowed a151 quarter of an hour for breakfast. The arrangements were rather rough, but the food excellent—much superior, indeed, to what one commonly finds at an English refreshment-room. This is a junction station, and a train was in readiness to take passengers from Santiago or Valparaiso by a branch line up the valley of the Aconcagua to San Felipe and Santa Rosa de los Andes. The Santiago train here leaves that valley, and, turning abruptly to the south, commences a long and rather steep ascent of the ridge that divides the basin of the Maipo from that of the Aconcagua. To our right rose the Cerro del Roble, about 7250 feet in height, one of the highest of the coast range.23
CHARACTERISTIC VEGETATION.
Here I first encountered the characteristic aspect of the hilly region of Central Chili. A tall columnar cactus (Cereus Quisco) is the most conspicuous plant. Sometimes with a solitary stem, but usually having two or three together from the same root, they stand bolt upright from fifteen to twenty-five feet in height. Next to this the commonest conspicuous plant is a large species of Puya, belonging to the pine-apple family, with long, stiff, spiky leaves, and these two combined to give a strange and somewhat weird appearance to the vegetation. Here and there were dense masses of evergreen bushes or small shrubs, and more rarely small solitary trees. Among these was probably the species of beech (Fagus obliqua of botanists) which the natives call roble (or oak), there being, in fact, no native oaks in America south152 of the equator; but in a passing railway train I could not hope to identify unfamiliar species. Both here and elsewhere in Chili, I noticed that the quisco is almost confined to the northern or sunny slopes; while, as Darwin observed, the tall bamboo grass (a Chusquea) prevails on the shady sides of the hills.
The summit level, according to Petermann’s map, is 4311 feet (1314 metres) above the sea, and thenceforward there is a continuous gradual slope of the ground towards Santiago. The country shows few signs of population, and the larger part of the surface is left in a state of nature, and used only for pasturage in winter. In this arid region cultivation is nearly confined to the valleys of the streams that descend from the Cordillera. The ston............