Chapter III (2)

Here I first encountered the characteristic aspect of the hilly region of Central Chili. A tall columnar cactus (_Cereus Quisco_) is the most conspicuous plant. Sometimes with a solitary stem, but usually having two or three together from the same root, they stand bolt upright from fifteen to twenty-five feet in height. Next to this the commonest conspicuous plant is a large species of _Puya_, belonging to the pine-apple family, with long, stiff, spiky leaves, and these two combined to give a strange and somewhat weird appearance to the vegetation. Here and there were dense masses of evergreen bushes or small shrubs, and more rarely small solitary trees. Among these was probably the species of beech (_Fagus obliqua_ of botanists) which the natives call _roble_ (or oak), there being, in fact, no native oaks in America south of the equator; but in a passing railway train I could not hope to identify unfamiliar species. Both here and elsewhere in Chili, I noticed that the _quisco_ is almost confined to the northern or sunny slopes; while, as Darwin observed, the tall bamboo grass (a _Chusquea_) prevails on the shady sides of the hills.

The summit level, according to Petermann’s map, is 4311 feet (1314 metres) above the sea, and thenceforward there is a continuous gradual slope of the ground towards Santiago. The country shows few signs of population, and the larger part of the surface is left in a state of nature, and used only for pasturage in winter. In this arid region cultivation is nearly confined to the valleys of the streams that descend from the Cordillera. The stony beds of the streams passed by the railway were almost completely dried up, and I think that I saw water in one spot only on the whole way between the Aconcagua and the Mapocho.

Any want of interest or variety in the nearer landscape was amply made up by the increasing grandeur of the views of the Cordillera as we approached the capital of Chili, rendered all the more imposing by fresh snow, which extended down to the level of ten or eleven thousand feet. Although it does not include several of the highest summits of the Andes, the range which walls in the province of Santiago to the east is probably the highest continuous portion of the great range; for in a distance of seventy miles, from near the Uspallata Pass to the Volcano of Maipe, I believe that there is but one narrow gap where the crest of the chain falls below the level of nineteen thousand feet.[24] To the eye, however, the outline seen from the plain is very varied, and by no means gives the impression of a continuous wall. Huge buttresses, with peaked summits, not much inferior in height to the main range, project westward, and in the bays between them form Alpine valleys, which send down streams to fertilize the country. By these buttresses the peak of Tupungato, 20,278 feet in height, the highest summit of this part of the chain, is concealed from Santiago, and I doubt whether it is anywhere visible from the low country on the Chilian side.

[_ARRIVAL AT SANTIAGO._]

Soon after twelve o’clock the train reached the station at Santiago, and I found Mr. Flint, the obliging German proprietor of the Hotel Oddo, in readiness with a carriage to take me to his hotel. The first impression of Santiago, irrespective of the grandeur of its position, is that of a great city. The houses, consisting only of a ground floor, or at most with a single floor overhead, built round an enclosed court, or _patio_, cover a large space, and the town occupies three or four times the area that an equal population would require in Europe. It is laid out, even more regularly than Turin, in square blocks of nearly the same dimensions, so that the ordinary way of reckoning distances is by _quadras_. One enters the town by the Alameda, a straight street, with fine houses on one side and a public garden on the other, nearly two miles in length, along which, at intervals, are statues of the men who have earned the gratitude of their country, the most conspicuous being the equestrian statue of General O’Higgins, the foremost hero of the war of independence.

Turning at right angles into one of the side streets, we soon reached the Hotel Oddo, unpretending in appearance, which was recommended to me as being quieter and more comfortable than the Grand Hotel. This, which was close at hand, occupies the upper floor of a fine pile of building, that fills one side of the Plaza Major, or great square of the city. There seems to be an uneasy feeling that at the first severe shock of earthquake this monument of misplaced architecture may be levelled to the ground, to the destruction of all its inmates.

My first visit in Santiago was made to Don Carlos Swinburne, an English merchant, long established in the city, who has acquired the universal respect and regard of all classes, and whose well-earned personal influence has been on several occasions effective for the mutual benefit of his native land and his adopted country. To his kindness and courtesy I am under many obligations. Later in the day I proceeded to call upon Dr. Philippi, the veteran naturalist, to whom we owe so much of our knowledge of the flora and fauna of Chili.

In Santiago, as in most other South American towns, the first thing that a stranger should do is to learn the routes of the tramcars, which constantly ply through the principal arteries. Hackney coaches are to be found, and are sometimes indispensable, but they are heavy cumbrous vehicles, ill hung on high wheels; one travels slowly and suffers a severe jolting over ill-paved streets. To say nothing of economy, the tramcar runs smoothly at a brisk pace, is usually clean and commodious, and is generally used by all classes of the population. The main point is to take care not to travel in the opposite direction from that intended; but here, with the great landmarks of the Andes always in view, it is not easy to go wrong as to the points of the compass.

[_DOCTOR PHILIPPI._]

To find Dr. Philippi I was directed to a house of modest appearance within the precincts of the Quinta Normal. This establishment is intended to combine the functions of a horticultural garden and a model farm, but the greater part of the grounds appears to be laid out as ornamental pleasure-ground. A large handsome building, originally constructed for a great industrial exhibition, has been turned to good account as a museum of natural history. I was received by Professor Federigo Philippi, who now worthily fills the chair of Natural History in the University of Santiago, from which, after a tenure of many years, his father has retired. Between naturalists none of the ordinary formalities of introduction are required, and cordial relations grow up rapidly. Knowing that Dr. Philippi had already reached an advanced age, I was apprehensive that some infirmity might have chilled the ardour of his interest in science; but I was agreeably disabused when from an adjoining room the professor called his father to join our conversation. I found a man who, although in his seventy-sixth year, was still full of vigour of mind, and I had full opportunity on the following morning to assure myself that this is sustained by abundant physical energy.

Time slips by rapidly in a conversation on subjects of mutual interest, and when, after arranging for a short excursion with Dr. Philippi, I returned homeward, the setting sun was lighting up the heavens with the beautiful tints that are more common in the warm Temperate zone than in other regions of the earth. Low as are the houses, they were just high enough to shut out all but occasional glimpses of the Cordillera from the street; but when I reached the great plaza I came to the conclusion, which I still retain, that Santiago is by many degrees the most beautifully situated town that I have anywhere seen. Rio Janeiro, Constantinople, Palermo, Beyrout, Plymouth, all have the added beauty that the sea confers on land scenery; but such a spectacle as is formed by the majestic semicircle of great peaks that curve round Santiago, lit by the varying tints of day and evening, is scarcely to be matched elsewhere in the world. In position, as in plan of building, I was reminded of Turin; but here the Alps are nearly twice as high, and at half the distance. Further than that, the low country at Turin opens to the east, and, although glorious sunrise effects are not seldom visible, they never rival the splendours of the close of day.

[_CERRO SAN CRISTOBAL._]

On the following morning, May 12, I started with Dr. Philippi in a hackney coach for an excursion to the Cerro San Cristobal, an isolated hill rising about one thousand feet above the valley of the Mapocho. We crossed that stream by a very massive bridge, constructed to resist the formidable flood poured down the channel after heavy rains, and for about three miles followed the right bank along a rough road deep in the sand formed by the disintegration of the volcanic rocks. We were glad to leave our vehicle at some mills at the foot of the hill, and spent some three hours very agreeably in clambering up and down the rough slopes. The shrubs were much the same as those which I afterwards saw elsewhere in similar situations, but I was fortunate in being introduced to them by one so familiar with the flora as my excellent companion. Among these, as well as the herbaceous plants, the _Compositæ_ prevail over every other natural order. Two common species belong to the tribe of _Mutisiaceæ_, unknown in Europe, and almost confined to South America. The bushy species of _Baccharis_, a genus very widely spread in the New World, but not known elsewhere, were also very common. An acacia (_A. Cavenia_) approached more nearly to the dimensions of a tree. It has stiff, spreading, and very spiny branches, and is widely spread throughout the drier parts of temperate South America. Among the few herbaceous plants in flower I was fortunate in seeing the pretty _Gynopleura linearifolia_. This belongs to a tribe of the passionflower family, very distinct in habit and appearance, which has been by some eminent botanists ranked as a distinct natural order under the name _Malesherbiaceæ_. It includes only two genera with ten or twelve species, all exclusively natives of Chili or Peru.

A veil of morning haze or mist, not uncommon at this season, hung over the city and marred the completeness of the grand view from the summit of the Cerro. Though easily explained, the seeming opacity of a thin stratum of vapour seen from above, as I have often noticed in the Alps, is remarkable. Before we started, and after our return, the haze over the city was scarcely perceptible. Not only did the sun shine brightly in the town, but the outlines of the neighbouring peaks were perfectly distinct. Looking down from the upper station, the slight differences in the intensity of the comparatively feeble light proceeding from the various objects on the surface, by which alone they are made visible, were concealed by the haze which reflected a portion of the comparatively strong light received from the sky, just as when looking from the outside at a window which reflects the light from the sky, we cannot distinguish objects within.

In the afternoon Mr. Swinburne was good enough to accompany me in a visit to Don Benjamin Vicuña Mackenna, one of the most conspicuous and remarkable of the contemporary public men of Chili. His career has been in many ways singular. In early life he took part in two attempts of a revolutionary nature. Fortunately for themselves, the Chilians have gained from their own and their neighbours’ experience a fixed aversion to revolution, and, while acknowledging the existence of abuses, have felt that violent change is certain to entail worse evils. Both attempts failed, and the leaders were condemned to death, the sentences being judiciously commuted to temporary exile.

Since his return, Mr. Mackenna has done good service as head of the municipality of Santiago, has been a prominent member of the legislature, and was, in 1881, the unsuccessful candidate for the presidency of the republic. But it is chiefly by his fertility as a writer that Mr. Mackenna has secured for himself an enduring reputation. Gifted with keen intelligence and a marvellously retentive memory, his readiness to discuss in turn the most varied topics, whether by speech or pen, is quite phenomenal. Besides being a constant contributor to newspapers and periodicals, he has published over a hundred volumes, most of them devoted either to illustrate the history or to promote the progress of his native country. I was most kindly received, and my only regret, on this and subsequent occasions, was that the shortness of my stay prevented me from enjoying more fully the society of this interesting man. From the room--in itself a library--reserved for the spare copies of his own works, I selected four volumes out of the many which he was kind enough to place at my disposal.

[_DON BENJAMIN V. MACKENNA._]

On the following day Mr. Vicuña Mackenna was kind enough to devote several hours to taking me to various objects of interest in the city, beginning with the natural history museum at the Quinta Normal. Rightly supposing that they would be of interest, my guide afterwards took me to see the most remarkable trees of the city, each of which possesses some historic interest. In an old and rather neglected garden attached to the palace of the archbishop is the finest known specimen of the peumo, the most important indigenous tree of Central Chili. Popular tradition affirms that under this tree, in 1640, Pedro de Valdivia, the founder of Santiago, held a conference with the native Indian chiefs, in which they agreed to allow the strangers a certain territory for settlement. It is undoubtedly very ancient, and is divided nearly from the ground into a number of massive branches spreading in all directions, so as to form a hemisphere of dark green foliage rather more than sixty feet in diameter. The tree belongs to the laurel family (_Cryptocarya Peumus_ of botanists), and is densely covered with thick evergreen leaves impenetrable to the sun. The red oval fruits are much appreciated by the country people, but they have a resinous taste unpalatable to strangers.

In the garden of the Franciscan convent we saw a very fine old Lombardy poplar, from which it is said that all those cultivated in Chili are descended. The story runs that a prior of the convent, who visited his brethren at Mendoza, some time in the seventeenth century, found there poplar trees introduced from Europe, and which in that denuded region were the sole representatives of arboreal vegetation. The sapling which he carried back on his return across the Andes grew to be the tree which still flourishes in the convent at Santiago. To judge from its appearance, the story is no way improbable.

In the _patio_ of a fine house in the city are two remarkably fine specimens of the _Eucalyptus globulus_, a tree now familiar to visitors at Nice and many other places in the Mediterranean region. It has been of late extensively planted throughout the drier parts of temperate South America, and promises to be of much economic value. The pair which I saw here had been planted seventeen years before, and, like twins, had kept pace in their growth. The height was about sixty feet, and the girth at five feet from the ground about seven feet.

[_A HOUSE IN SANTIAGO._]

As a specimen of one of the better houses in Santiago, Mr. V. Mackenna took me to that of one of his cousins, who with his family was at the time absent in the country. The building included three small courts, or patios, each laid out with ornamental plants well watered. The reception-rooms, very richly furnished in satin and velvet, as well as the apartments of the family, were all on the ground floor, most of them opening into a patio. Over a part of the building were small rooms constructed of slight materials for the use of servants, so that the risk of fatal injuries even in a severe earthquake seemed to be but slight.

I was told the history of the owner of this fine house, which, from what I afterwards heard, was no more than a fair sample of the economic condition of Chilian society. Many of the older Spanish families are large landowners, and, in spite of vicissitudes due to droughts and occasional inundations, derive settled incomes from property of this kind. But the prodigious wealth that has flowed from the rich mining districts has proved a temptation too strong to be resisted, and there are comparatively few of the wealthier class who have not engaged in mining speculations. It is needless to say that along with some great prizes there have been many blanks in the lottery, and the result has been that the fortunes of families have undergone the most extraordinary vicissitudes. People get used to a condition of society where the same man may be rich to-day, reduced nearly to pauperism a year later, and then again, after another short interval, rolling in wealth. It is to be feared that the effect, if continued for a generation or two, will not be favourable to progress in the higher sense.

The existence of a class not forced to expend its energies on acquiring wealth, and having some adequate objects of ambition, is still the most important condition for the advancement of the human race. We may look forward to other conditions of society when, having found out the extremely small value of most of the luxuries that now stimulate exertion, men will be able peacefully to develop a healthier and happier social state, in which labour and leisure will be more equally distributed; but this is yet in the distant future, and perhaps the greatest difficulty in its attainment will arise from premature attempts to impose new conditions which, if they are to live, must be of spontaneous growth.

One of the marked features of Santiago is the steep rock of Santa Lucia rising abruptly near the eastern end of the Alameda. It has been well laid out with winding footpaths, and has a frequented restaurant. The view of the snowy range on one side and the city on the other can scarcely be matched elsewhere in the world.

On reaching Santiago, I was mainly preoccupied with the question of how to use my short stay with the best advantage so as to see as much as possible of the scenery and vegetation of the great range, consistently with the promise I had given before leaving home to avoid all risks to health. From the abundance of fresh snow along the range, it was obvious that the precipitation on the higher flanks of the Cordillera must be considerably greater than it is in the low country, where only one or two slight showers had fallen; and we were in the season when rain is annually expected, which, of course, would take the form of snow in the higher region. I had already obtained a letter to the manager of the mines at Las Condes, a place about fifteen miles from Santiago, and some eight thousand feet above the sea. But, after taking counsel with those best informed, I decided on giving a few days to a visit to the Baths of Cauquenes, in the valley of the Cachapoal, a little above the point where that stream issues from the mountains into the plain of Central Chili. There remained a possibility of making an excursion from Cauquenes into one of the interior valleys, especially that of Cypres, famed for the variety of high mountain plants that find a home near the glacier which descends into it, and there was the advantage that even in case of bad weather no serious inconvenience would arise.

[_WINTER SEASON APPROACHING._]

I started next morning, May 14, by the railway, which is carried nearly due south from the capital to Talca, and thence to Concepcion. I found myself in the same carriage with Mr. Hess, the lessee and manager of the Baths, an energetic, practical man, fully impressed with a sense of his own importance as head of an establishment which annually attracts the best society of Chili. The railway journey, which carries one for about fifty miles parallel to the great range of the Cordillera, is very interesting, even at this season, when much of the country shows a parched surface. The finest views are those gained where the line passes opposite the opening through which the Maipo issues from the mountains into the plain. This river, which even in the dry season shows a respectable volume of water, is formed by the union of the torrents from four valleys that penetrate nearly to the axis of the Cordillera. Of Tupungato, the highest summit hereabouts, 20,270 feet above sea-level, I saw nothing, as it is masked by a very lofty range that divides two of the tributary valleys. A slender wreath of vapour marked the volcano of San José, just twenty thousand feet in height, at the head of the southern branch of the river. It is only at one point visible from the railway.

On the way from Valparaiso to Santiago I had already been much struck by the prevalence over wide areas of plants not indigenous to the country, most of them introduced from Southern Europe. The most conspicuous are plants of the thistle tribe, all strangers to South America, and especially the cardoon, or wild state of the common artichoke. This is now far more common in temperate South America than it anywhere is in its native home in the Mediterranean region. In Chili it is regarded with some favour, as mules, and even horses, eat the large spiny leaves freely at a season when other forage is scarce. The same cannot be said of our common coarse spear-thistle (_Cnicus lanceolatus_), which, though of much more recent introduction, has now invaded large tracts of country, especially in the rather moister southern provinces. I was informed that, with the strange expectation that it would be useful as fodder, an Englishman had imported a sack of the seed, which he had spread broadcast somewhere in the neighbourhood of Concepcion. Many other European plants have been introduced, either intentionally or by accident, and have in some districts to a great extent supplanted the indigenous vegetation. As to many of these, it appears to me probable that their diffusion is due more to the aid of animals than the direct intervention of man. This is especially true of the little immigrant which has gone farthest in colonizing this part of the earth--the common stork’s-bill (_Erodium cicutarium_), which has made itself equally at home in the upper zone of the Peruvian Andes, in the low country of Central Chili, and in the plains of Northern Patagonia. Its extension seems to keep pace with the spread of domestic animals, and, as far as I have been able to ascertain, it is nowhere common except in districts now or formerly pastured by horned cattle. It is singular that the same plant should have failed to extend itself in North America, being apparently confined to a few localities. It is now common in the northern island of New Zealand, but has not extended to South Africa, where two other European species of the same genus are established.

[_IMMIGRANT PLANTS._]

In considering the facts relating to the rapid extension of certain plants when introduced into new regions, and the extent to which they have supplanted the indigenous species, I confess that I have always been a little sceptical as to the primary importance attributed by Darwin[25] to the fact that most of these invaders are northern continental species. In the course of a long existence extending over wide areas, he maintains that these have acquired an organization fitting them better to maintain the struggle for existence than the indigenous species of the regions over which they have spread. Of course, it is true in the case of territories very recently raised from the sea, and not in direct connection with a continental area inhabited by species well adapted to the conditions of soil and climate, that immigrant species well adapted to the conditions of their new home will spread very rapidly, and may easily supplant the less vigorous, because less well adapted, native species. The most remarkable case of this kind is perhaps presented by Northern Patagonia and a portion of the Argentine region, raised from the sea during the most recent geological period. The only quarters from which the flora could be recruited were the range of the Andes to the west, and the subtropical zone of South America to the north. Everything goes to prove that the forms of plants are far more slowly modified than those of animals--or, at least, of the higher vertebrate orders. The new settlers are unable quickly to adapt themselves to the new conditions of life, and as a result we find that the indigenous flora of the region in question is both numerically poor in species, and that these have been unable fully to occupy the ground. Among the species intentionally or accidentally introduced by the European conquerors, those well adapted to the new country have established a predominance over the native species; but I question whether, if the course of history had been different, and the conquerors of South America had come from South Africa or South Australia, bringing with them seeds of those regions, we should not have seen in Patagonia African or Australian plants in the place of the European thistles and other weeds now so widely spread.

[_CHECKS ON COLONIZATION._]

If I am not much mistaken as to the history of the introduction of foreign plants into new regions, it very commonly happens that a species which spreads very widely at first becomes gradually restricted in its area, and finally loses the predominance which it seemed to have established. Attention has not, I think, been sufficiently directed to the fact that the chief limit to the spread of each species is fixed by the prevalence of the enemies to which it is exposed, and that plants carried to a distant region will, as a general rule, enjoy advantages which in the course of time they are likely to lose. Whether it be large animals that eat down the stem--as goats prevent the extension of pines--or birds that devour the fruit, or insects that attack some vital organ, or vegetable parasites that disorganize the tissues, the chances are great that in a new region the species will not find the enemies that have been adapted to check its extension in its native home. Of the marvellous complexity of the agencies that interact in the life-history of each species we first formed some estimate through the teachings of Darwin; but to follow out the details in each case will be the work of successive generations of naturalists. We cannot doubt that in a new region new enemies will arise for each species that has become common, or, in other words, that other organisms, whether animals or plants, will acquire the means of maintaining their own existence at the expense of the new-comer. The wild artichoke is doubtless perfectly adapted to the climate of the warmer and drier parts of the Mediterranean region, and is there rather widely spread; but it is nowhere very common, even in places where the ground is not much occupied by other species. We do not know all the agencies that prevent it from spreading farther, but we do not doubt that it is held in check by its appropriate enemies. In South America it would appear that these, or some of them, are absent, and the plant has spread far and wide. If some common bird should take to devouring the seeds, or some other effectual check should arise, the area would very speedily be reduced.

The train stopped for breakfast at the Rancagua station, a few miles from the town of that name. Along with very fair food at the restaurant, cheaper delicacies were offered by itinerant hawkers, including various sweet cakes of suspicious appearance and baskets of red berries of the _peumo_ tree. At the next station, called Gualtro, about fifty miles from Santiago, we left the train, and, after the usual long delay, continued our journey in a lumbering coach set upon very high wheels. This seems to be the general fashion for carriages in South America, arising from the fact that the smaller streams, which swell fast after rain, are usually unprovided with bridges.

Incautious travellers in South America may easily be misled by the frequent use of the same name for quite different places. One bound for the Baths of Cauquenes must be careful not to confound these with the town of Cauquenes, the chief place of a department of the same name, more than a hundred miles farther to the south.

[_PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF CHILI._]

Before reaching Gualtro we had crossed the Cachapoal, a torrential stream which drains several valleys of the high Cordillera. Our course now lay eastward, towards the point where the river issues from the mountains into the plain, and where, as everywhere in Central Chili, its waters are largely used for irrigation. The road along the left bank lies on a slope at some height above the stream, and gives a wide view over the plain, backed by the great range of the Cordillera. Irrespective of the picturesque interest of the grand view, I added somewhat to the impressions respecting the physical geography of Central Chili which I had recently received from an examination of Petermann’s reduction from the large government map, and from the information given me at Santiago.

I had reached Chili with no other ideas respecting the configuration of the country than those derived from the twelfth chapter of Darwin’s “Journal of Researches,” which with little modification have been repeated by subsequent writers, even so lately as in the excellent article on “Chile,” in the American Cyclopædia.

Struck by the conformation of the range between Quillota and Santiago, and the somewhat similar range south of the Maipo, and writing at a time when there were no maps deserving of the name, and when the channels of Patagonia had been most imperfectly explored, Darwin was led to infer a much closer resemblance between the orographic features of the two regions than it is now possible to admit. He supposed the greater part, if not the whole of the Chilian coast, to be bordered by mountain ranges running parallel to the main chain of the Cordillera, thus forming a succession of nearly level basins lying between these outer mountains and the main range, each being drained through a transverse valley which cuts through the outer range. Such a conformation of the surface would undoubtedly resemble what we find on the western coast of South America, between the Gulf of Ancud and the Straits of Magellan. But the facts correspond with this view only to a limited extent.

The tints laid down on Petermann’s map to indicate successive zones of height above the sea are far from being completely accurate, but slight errors of detail do not affect the general conclusions to which we must arrive. If we carry the eye along from north to south, we find a succession of great buttresses or promontories of high land projecting westward from the main range, between which relatively deep valleys carry the drainage towards the Pacific coast. The effect of a continuous sinking of the land would be to produce a series of deep bays running far inland to the base of the Cordillera, and further depression might show here and there some scattered islets, but nothing to resemble the almost continuous range of mountainous islands that separate the channels of Patagonia from the ocean. As far as it is possible to judge of a region yet imperfectly surveyed, the case is quite different in Southern Chili, below the parallel of 40°. From near Valdivia a lofty coast range, cut through by only one deep and narrow valley, extends southward to the strait, only a few miles wide, that divides the island of Chiloe from the mainland, and is evidently prolonged to the southward in the high land that fringes the western flank of that large island. A moderate rise of the sea-level would submerge the country between Puerto Montt and the Rio de San Pedro, and produce another island very similar in form and dimensions to that of Chiloe.

[_A CHILIAN COUNTRY-GENTLEMAN._]

Our lumbering carriage came to a halt at the place where the road crosses a stream--the Rio Claro--which drains some part of the outer range and soon falls into the Cachapoal. Close at hand was a plain building with numerous dependencies, which turned out to be the residence of Don Olegario Soto, the chief proprietor of this part of the country. I proceeded at once to deliver a letter to this gentleman, whose property extends along the valley for a distance of thirty or forty miles into the heart of the Cordillera. My object was to ascertain the possibility of making an excursion into the interior of the great range, and to obtain such assistance as the proprietor might afford. The house, so far as I saw, was rustic in character, and my first impression of its owner was that the same epithet might serve as his description. There was a complete absence of the conventional and perfectly hollow phrases which form the staple of Castilian courtesy. But first impressions are proverbially misleading. On my making some obviously superfluous remark as to my imperfect use of the Spanish tongue, Don Olegario changed the conversation to English, which he spoke with perfect ease and correctness. We discussed my project of a mountain excursion, and I found at once that he was ready to give practical assistance in every way. The doubt remained as to the season and the weather. If no rain or snow should fall, there was no other obstacle. He readily undertook to provide men and horses and everything needful for an excursion of three days in the Cordillera, and I was to let him know my resolve on the following day.

I afterwards heard in some detail the family history of this liberal-minded gentleman. His father commenced life as a common miner. With the aid of good fortune, natural intelligence, and activity, he became the owner of a valuable mine in Northern Chili, and amassed a large fortune, mainly invested in the purchase of land. Having several sons, he sent them all for education to England, and, to judge from the specimen I saw, with excellent results. Large proprietors who use intelligence and capital to develop the natural resources of the country supply, in some states of society, the most effectual means for progress in civilization; but, excepting in Chili, such examples are rare in South America.

The day was declining when we reached the Baths of Cauquenes, and I had time only for a short stroll through the establishment and its immediate surroundings. It stands on a level shelf of stony ground less than a hundred feet above the river Cachapoal, the main building consisting of a range of bedrooms, all on the ground floor, disposed round a very large quadrangle. The rooms are spacious and sufficiently furnished, and I was struck by the fact that there is no fastening whatever to the doors, which usually stand ajar. This speaks at once for the constant apprehension of earthquakes that seems to haunt the Chilian mind, and for the general honesty of the people, amongst whom theft is almost unknown. Besides some additional rooms in wings adjoining the great court, the baths are an _annexe_ overhanging the river, to which you descend by broad flights of stairs. A large handsome hall, lighted from above, has the bath-rooms ranged on either side, all exquisitely clean and attractive. The adjoining ground, planted mainly with native trees, is limited in extent. A narrow and deep ravine, cut through the rocky slope of the adjoining hill, is traversed by one of those slight wire suspension bridges common in this country, that swing so far under the steps of the passenger as to disquiet the unaccustomed stranger. The views gained from below up the rugged and stern valley of the Cachapoal are naturally limited, but the rather steep hills rising above the baths promised a wider prospect towards the great range of the Cordillera, and did not disappoint expectation.

[_THE BATHS OF CAUQUENES._]

The autumn season being now far advanced, the guests at the establishment were few--about twenty in all. After supper they assembled in a drawing-room and adjoining music-room. I was struck not only by the general tone of courtesy and good-breeding of the party, but by the fact that several of them at least were well-informed men, taking an intelligent interest in physics and natural history. Two or three gentlemen spoke a little, but only a little, English, and, my command of Spanish being equally imperfect, conversation did not flow very freely, and I retired for the night with a feeling that at a more favourable season I should be very loth to quit such pleasant head-quarters.

After a rather cold night, I rose early on the 15th of May, with a sense of the impending necessity for an immediate decision as to my future plans. Scanning anxiously the portion of the great range seen towards the head of the valley, I saw that fresh snow extended much lower than I had observed it at Santiago, while heavy broken masses of dark clouds lay along the flanks of the higher mountains. I received no encouragement from Mr. Hess. The ordinary season for rain in the low country had arrived, and this would take the form of snow in the inner valleys of the Cordillera; all appearances boded a change of weather which is always anxiously desired by the native population. I reluctantly decided to despatch a messenger to Don Olegario Soto renouncing the projected excursion, contenting myself with the prospect of approaching as near to the great range as could be accomplished in a single day from the baths.

To the naturalist, however, a new country is never devoid of interest; and this was my first day on the outer slopes of the Chilian Andes. The season was, indeed, the most unfavourable to the botanist of the entire year. After six months’ drought, broken only by one or two slight showers, the ground was baked hard, nearly to the consistence of brick, and most of the herbaceous vegetation utterly dried up. A great part of the day was nevertheless very well spent in rambling over the hill above the baths, and making closer acquaintance with many vegetable forms altogether new, or hitherto seen only from a distance. The trees and shrubs of this region are with scarce an exception evergreen, and the most conspicuous, though differing much from each other in structure and affinities, bear a striking resemblance in the general form and character of their foliage, formed of thickset, broadly elliptical, leathery leaves, giving a dense shade impervious to the sun. The largest is the _peumo_[26] tree, already referred to, which forms a thick trunk, but rarely exceeds thirty feet in height. Next to this in dimensions are two trees of the Rosaceous family, allied in essential characters (though very different in appearance) to the Spiræas, of which the common meadowsweet is the most familiar example. One of these, the _Quillaja saponaria_ of botanists, is much prized for the remarkable properties of the bark, said to contain, along with carbonate of lime and other mineral constituents, much _saponine_, an organic compound having many of the properties of soap. It is commonly used for washing linen, and especially for cleansing woollen garments, to which it gives an agreeable lustre. Nearly allied to this is the _Kageneckia oblonga_, a small tree of no special use except to aid in clothing the parched hills of the lower region of Chili. It would seem that all these trees might be successfully introduced into the warmer parts of southern Europe, especially the south of Spain and Sicily, and the _Quillaja_ would doubtless prove to be of some economic value.

[_CHILIAN TREES._]

To the European traveller the most remarkable vegetable inhabitant of the dry hills of Central Chili is the tall cactus (_Cereus quisco_), which I had first seen on the way from Valparaiso to Santiago. They were abundant on the lower slopes about Cauquenes, the stiff columnar stems averaging about a foot in diameter. I was told that the plant was now to be found in flower, and was surprised to observe on the trunks, as I approached, clusters of small deep-red flowers that appeared very unlike anything belonging to this natural family. Nearer inspection showed that they had none but an accidental connection with the plant on which they grew. The genus _Loranthus_, allied to our common European parasite, the mistletoe, is widely spread throughout the world, chiefly in the tropics. From three to four hundred different species are known, nearly all parasites on other plants; as a rule, each species being confined to some special group, and many of them known to fix itself only upon a single species. Botanists in various regions have remarked that there is frequently a marked resemblance between the foliage of the parasitic _Loranthus_ and that of the plants to which it is attached; but it is especially remarkable that the only species which is known to grow upon the leafless plants of the cactus family should itself be the only leafless species of _Loranthus_, consisting as it does only of a very short stem, from which the crowded flower-stalks form a dense cluster of bright-red, moderately large flowers. Although it is not easy to conjecture how it may act, it is conceivable that these conformities may be results of natural selection; but it is also possible that, like many curious instances of parallelism among the forms of plants belonging to widely different types, the facts may hereafter be seen to result from some yet undiscovered law regulating the direction of variation in the development of organic beings.

[_A CURIOUS PARASITE._]

In some places dense masses of spiny shrubs were massed together, overgrown by climbing plants, amongst which the most strange and attractive were composites of the genus _Mutisia_. The Chilian species have all stiff, leathery, undivided leaves ending in a tendril, with large brownish-red or purple flowers, of which very few were to be found at this advanced season. Among the shrubs I was struck by a species of _Colletia_, a genus characteristic of temperate South America. They are nearly or quite leafless, and remind one slightly of our European furze, but are much more rigid, with fewer, but hard and penetrating spines, which, unlike those of the furze, are true branches, sharpened to a point and set on at right angles to the stem. The species common here (_Colletia spinosa_ of Lamarck) grows to a height of four or five feet, and would probably be found very useful for hedges on dry stony ground in the south of Europe. I regret that the seeds which I sent to Italy have not germinated.

At the present season, corresponding to mid-November in Europe, I could not expect to see much of the native herbaceous vegetation, and the majority of the plants collected showed little more than the parched skeletons of their former selves. The recent slight showers, which alone had broken the long drought since the preceding spring, sufficed to awaken into life two species of _Oxalis_, whose flowers and early leaves just pierced through the hard surface of the soil; but, although some young leaves heralded the appearance of species of the lily tribe, no other new flowers had appeared. Ferns were scarce, but I was rather surprised to find a fine _Adiantum_ in some abundance under the shade of the _Quillaja_ and _Kageneckia_ trees.

In the evening I arranged with Mr. Hess to start early on the following morning, with the object of approaching as nearly as possible to the higher zone of the Cordillera, of which, despite cloudy weather, I had tempting glimpses during the day.

I was on foot early on the 16th, but the prospect was not altogether cheering. The clouds which covered the sky were of leaden hue, and lay about mid-height on the range of the Cordillera. The horses were ready after the usual delay, and a taciturn young man, who probably thought the expedition a bore, was in readiness to act as guide. As I was about to mount, Mr. Hess lent me a _poncho_, which I at once drew over my head, and for which I afterwards had reason to be grateful. We rode on in silence for more than an hour, following a track that cuts across the great bend of the Cachapoal above the baths. The river is formed by the union of four or five torrents that issue from as many of the interior valleys of the Cordillera. It flows at first northward, nearly parallel to the main chain, until, a few miles above the baths, it bends westward and descends towards the open country. We had reached a point overlooking the upper valley, and, as far as one might judge from glimpses through breaks in the clouds, commanding a noble view of the great range of the Cordillera. Before us lay the slopes by which, at a distance of two or three miles, we might reach the only bridge which spans the upper course of the Cachapoal. Just at this interesting point the threatened rain began, at first gentle, but steadily increasing. I went on for some time on the chance of any token of improvement; but, as none appeared, I decided on sending back the horses and returning on foot to the baths.

[_USE OF THE PONCHO._]

I had this day my first experience of the value of a genuine _poncho_ woven by the Indian women from the wool of the guanaco. Throughout South America the cheap articles in common use, manufactured in England and Germany, have almost replaced the native garment. They are comparatively heavy and inconveniently warm, while not at all efficient in keeping out rain. After more than three hours’ exposure to heavy rain, the light covering lent to me by Mr. Hess had allowed none to pass. It is surprising that such a serviceable and convenient garment, which leaves the arms free, and is equally useful on foot or on horseback, is not more generally adopted in Europe, especially by sportsmen. A good _poncho_ is not, however, to be had cheaply. I was asked sixty dollars for one at Buenos Ayres, and that, I believe, is about the ordinary price.

The change of weather which culminated in this wet day at Cauquenes seems to have extended along the range of the Cordillera; but, to illustrate the rapid change of climate which is found in advancing northward along the west side of the Andes, I may mention that, while the rain continued to fall steadily for ten and a half hours at Cauquenes, it lasted but five hours at Santiago, about fifty miles to the northward; and at Santa Rosa, forty miles farther in a direct line, only two hours’ rain was obtained by the thirsty farmers on the banks of the Aconcagua.

On the morning of the 17th the clouds had disappeared, and the valley was lit up with brilliant sunshine. Fresh snow lay thickly on the flanks of the higher mountains, and I had reason to congratulate myself that I had not undertaken an expedition which would have resulted in utter discomfort without any adequate compensation, as the Alpine vegetation must have been completely concealed by the fresh snow. The roads and paths were all deep in mud, and the slopes very slippery from the rain, so I decided on descending to the rocky banks of the river below the baths, and, following the stream as far as I conveniently could. I did not go far, but a good many hours were very well occupied in examining the vegetation of the left bank of the Cachapoal and of a little island of rock in the middle of the stream. In summer one of the ordinary suspension bridges of the country enables the visitors to cross to the right bank, but this is removed during winter, and the swollen waters of the river made all the usual fords impassable for the present.

[_GROUPS OF INCOMPLETE SPECIES._]

Many forms of _Escallonia_ were abundant along the stream. A few species only of this genus are cultivated in English gardens, but in their native home, the middle and lower slopes of the Andes, they exhibit a surprising variety of form while preserving a general similarity of aspect. They are all evergreen shrubs, some rising to the stature of small trees, with undivided, thick, usually glossy leaves, and white, red, or purplish flowers. Although forty-three different species have been described from Chili alone, it is easy to find specimens not exactly agreeing with any of them, and to light upon intermediate forms that seem to connect what appeared to be quite distinct species. They afford an example of a fact which I believe must be distinctly recognized by writers on systematic botany--that in the various regions of the earth there are some groups of vegetable forms in which the processes by what we call species are segregated are yet incomplete; and amid the throng of closely allied forms, the suppression of those least adapted to the conditions of life has not advanced far enough to differentiate those which can be defined and marked by a specific name.

To the believer in evolution, it must be evident that at some period in the history of each generic group there must have occurred an interval during which species, as we understand them, did not yet exist; and perhaps the real difficulty is to explain why such instances are not more frequent than they now appear to be. Familiar examples are the genera _Hieracium_ and _Rosa_ in Europe; _Aster_ and _Solidago_ in North America; while in South America, _Escallonia_, _Malvastrum_, and several groups of _Myrtaceæ_ seem to exhibit the same phenomenon.

Another genus having numerous species in South America, but, so far as I know, not displaying the same close connection of forms linking the several species, is _Adesmia_, a leguminous genus allied to the common sainfoin. I found several species near the baths, the most attractive being a little spiny yellow-flowered bush, with much the habit of some Mediterranean _Genistæ_, but with pods formed of several joints, each covered with long, purple, glistening hairs.

A bright day was followed by a clear cold night, the thermometer falling to 40° Fahr. in the court, and slight hoar-frost was visible in the lower part of the valley near the baths. I started early for a ramble over the higher hills rising to the south and south-west of the establishment. After following a track some way, I struck up the steep stony slopes, meeting at every step the dried skeletons of many interesting plants characteristic of this region of America, but here and there rewarded by finding some species in fruit, or even with remains of flower. After gaining the ridge, I found that the true summit lay a considerable way back, quite out of sight of the baths. To this, which is called _El Morro de Cauquenes_,[27] I directed my steps, wishing to enjoy a unique opportunity for a wide view of the Chilian Andes.

[_PANORAMIC VIEW OF THE ANDES._]

The day was cloudless, and the position most favourable. In this part of the range the Cordillera bends in a curve convex to the east, so as to describe a nearly circular arc of about 60°, with Cauquenes as a centre. The summits of the main range, which apparently vary from about sixteen to nineteen thousand feet in height, and are nearly forty miles distant, send out huge buttresses dividing the narrow valleys whose waters unite to form the Cachapoal, and are in many places so high as to conceal the main range. The slopes are everywhere very steep, so that, in spite of the recent fall of snow, dark masses of volcanic rock stood out against the brilliant white that mantled the great chain. The tints in Petermann’s map would indicate that the highest peaks are those lying about due east, but it appeared to me that two or three of those which I descried to the south-east, though slightly more distant, were decidedly higher. It will probably be long before the Chilian Government can undertake a complete survey of the gigantic chain which walls in their country on the eastern side. No pass, as I was informed, is used to connect the upper valley of the Cachapoal with the Argentine territory.