The art of constructing suspension bridges must have originated in the subtropical zone of Eastern Peru, where the abundance of climbing plants with long, flexible, tough stems supplied the requisite materials. These, being light and easily transported, were everywhere used in the valleys of the Andes to sustain hanging bridges, of which the roadway was formed of rough basket-work. The only change that has resulted from the introduction of European arts is that of late years iron wire is used instead of flexible lianes to sustain the bridges; but the roadway is still made of basket-work, which is rapidly worn by the feet of passing men and animals, and the natives have a disagreeable habit of stopping up the holes, not by mending the basket-work where this has begun to give way, but by laying a flat stone over the weak place. Being very slight and not nicely adjusted, these bridges swing to and fro under the feet of a passenger to an extent that is at first rather startling, but, as in everything else, habit soon makes one indifferent. Our first experience this afternoon was very easy, as the bridge connecting the station with the pueblo, or village of Chicla, was new and more solid than usual.

The little village, altogether composed of frail sheds, was occupied by the Chilian detachment of about two hundred men, posted here to guard the railway line. Four houses, larger than the rest, wherein the officers had established themselves, were adorned with conspicuous painted inscriptions worthy of the hotels of a great city. The Fonda del Universo informed the public that it contained “apartamentos para familias,” and the rival establishments were no way inferior in the stateliness of their titles and the inducements offered. It must be recollected that Chicla is the first halting-place on the main, almost the only, line of communication between the coast and a magnificent region, as large as England, and teeming with natural resources—the montaña of Central Peru. Before the war the hostelries of Chicla were often crowded, and the accommodation doubtless appeared sumptuous to the wearied travellers who had been contending with the hardships of the journey from the interior, and the passage of the double range of the Andes.

I have already said that the supplies at our hotel were somewhat scanty. Inquiries for eggs were met by the reply that the Chilian soldiers had killed all the poultry, and milk was not to be thought of, because the cows had all been driven to a distance to save them from the Chilians. But these were only trifling inconveniences. The experience of our German landlord was full of graver matter. A foreigner in the interior of Peru during this abominable war is placed between the devil and the deep sea. Having no one to protect him, his property is at the mercy of lawless soldiery; he is an object of suspicion to both parties, and his life is in constant peril. Our host owed to a fortunate accident that he had not been shot by a Peruvian party under the suspicion of having given information to the enemy. He was certainly no lover of the invader; but, like every foreigner in Peru, he looked forward with undisguised dread to the day when the Chilians should depart.

If one had not recollected how very slowly and imperfectly the elementary rules of health have made way in Europe, it would have been hard to understand how men of education and intelligence, such as the great majority of the Chilian officers, should neglect the simplest precautions for preserving the health of themselves and their men. We had heard that the troops at Chicla had lost many men owing to a severe outbreak of typhoid fever, though the disease had recently almost disappeared. The cause was not far to seek. The ground all around the village was thickly strewn with the remains of the numerous baggage animals that had fallen from overwork, and the beasts that had been slaughtered by the soldiers. In South America the only sanitary officials are the carrion-eating birds. Near the coast the removal of offal is chiefly accomplished by the gallinazo, a large black vulture; in the Andes the condor takes charge of all carrion, and travels far in quest of it. It is likely that in the noisy neighbourhood of a detachment of soldiers the birds were shy of approach. If the remains had been dragged a short distance away from the village, they would have been quickly disposed of. As it was, the carcases were allowed to accumulate close to the sheds in which the men were lodged until they bred a pestilence. Things were mended, they said, at the time of our visit, yet, warned by vile emanations, I found the carcase of a horse lying close beside the baraque in which we slept; and it was only after energetic remonstrances that I succeeded in having it removed to some distance, where, doubtless, the condors made a savoury meal.

We were not curious to inquire too particularly what animal had supplied the material for our evening repast. It was enough that the skill of the Chinese boy who acted as cook had converted it into a very eatable dish. The work of the establishment seemed to be conducted altogether by two boys—the Chinese cook and a young German who acted as waiter. It was curious to notice that the intercourse between the two was carried on in English, or what passed as such. On many another occasion during my journey I observed the same thing. Throughout America, and I believe that the same is true in most countries out of Europe, English has become the lingua franca, the general medium of communication between people of different nationalities.

Having felt perfectly well all day, and inclined to believe that the discomforts of the previous night had arisen from some accidental cause, we had no hesitation in renewing the arrangement for an excursion to the Tunnel en la cima, and the Chilian commandant readily promised to send two horses, with a soldier who was to act as guide and escort, at seven o’clock on the following morning. Rather late, after some hours’ work in laying out the plants collected during the day, I lay down to sleep, but in a short time awoke with a severe headache, accompanied by ineffectual nausea, the light supper being already digested. It was an undoubted case of mountain-sickness, which had to be borne through the sleepless dark hours until daylight summoned us to rise. As on the previous day, the operations of washing and dressing chased away the symptoms, and before seven o’clock we were ready to start. At half-past seven we began to lose patience, and despatched a messenger to ascertain the cause of delay. No answer coming, we resolved to go in quest of the promised steeds, and, shouldering the impedimenta, proceeded across the stream to the pueblo. We soon discovered that no order had been given the night before, and that the commandant had not yet made his appearance. The messenger had not ventured to awake him, and thought it safest to await events. Having discovered the high-sounding name of the “hotel” where he lodged, I lost no time in proceeding to the double-bedded room shared by our commander with a brother officer, and rousing them both from sleep. Profuse excuses in excellent Spanish, with a promise that not a moment should be lost, were but a poor salve for my growing impatience, though policy required some faint effort at politeness, which had to be maintained through what seemed intolerable and interminable delays, until we at last got under way at ten o’clock.

It was indeed aggravating to find an excursion, to accomplish which any naturalist would gladly traverse an ocean, maimed and curtailed by the indolence which is the curse of the American Spaniard. One circumstance, indeed, helped to moderate the keenness of my disappointment. Rather heavy rain had fallen throughout the night, and the mountains about the head of the valley, previously almost clear of snow, were now covered pretty deep down to the level of about fifteen thousand feet. I already judged that it would be difficult, starting so late, to reach the summit tunnel, if sufficient time were to be reserved for botanizing. With snow on the ground the vegetation would be concealed, and the chief interest of the expedition lost, so that I readily made up my mind that we should not attempt to reach the summit of the pass.

We had not gone far on the track when we came to a suspension bridge, over which our soldier-guide rode as a matter of course. Seeing the frail structure swing to and fro under the horse’s feet, I confess that I felt much inclined to dismount and cross on foot; but in such cases one remembers that whatever men or animals are accustomed to do they are sure to do safely, and I rode on, admiring the judgment with which my horse avoided the weak places in the basket-work under his feet.

The track is well beaten, and in easy places broad and even; but here and there, where it climbs over some projecting buttress of rock, is rather rougher and steeper than I have ever seen elsewhere in mountain countries on a path intended for horsemen, excepting, perhaps, some choice spots in the Great Atlas. It was impossible to push on rapidly, for we overtook a succession of long trains of baggage-animals—mules, donkeys, and llamas—moving towards the interior at a rate of little over two miles an hour. As it was only in favourable places that it was possible to pass, our patience went through many severe trials.

At about thirteen thousand feet above the sea we passed two farmhouses, evidently constructed by European settlers, plain but neat in appearance, and the fields better kept than one could have expected in a spot so remote, each with a clump of well-grown trees of the Peruvian elder. Higher up the scenery was constantly wilder, desolate rather than grand, and with no trace of the presence of man until we reached Casapalta, a small group of poor sheds now occupied by an outpost of Chilian soldiers, nearly fourteen thousand feet above the sea.

We had now evidently reached the true Alpine region. At the head of the valley in front fresh snow lay on the flanks of the mountains where the dark rugged masses of volcanic rock were not too steep to allow it to rest, and the higher summits in the background were completely covered. The slopes near at hand were carpeted with dwarf plants thickly set, rising only a few inches from the surface. The only exception was an erect spiny bush, growing about eighteen inches high, with dark orange flowers, one of the characteristic Andean forms—Chuquiraga spinosa.

The guide seemed disposed to halt here, but we had not yet reached our goal, and we pushed on for about three miles, to a point about 14,400 feet in height, where it seemed judicious to call a halt. For some time the horses had begun to show symptoms of distress. The spirited animal which I rode panted heavily in ascending the gentle slope, and at last was forced to stop and gasp for breath every thirty or forty yards. Near at hand a slender stream had cut a channel through some rough rocks, and promised a harvest of moisture-loving Alpine plants; and opposite to us, on the northern side of the valley, a wild glen opened up a vista of snow-covered summits, of which the more distant appeared to reach a height of about eighteen thousand feet.

It was now about one o’clock, and, our light early breakfast being long since forgotten, we hastily swallowed our provision of sandwiches formed of the contents of a sardine-box, which, flavoured with the pure cold water of the stream, seemed delicious. Although the sun which had shone upon us during the morning was now covered with clouds, and we were very lightly dressed, no sensation of cold was felt at this height, and I do not believe that the thermometer at any time during the day fell below 50°. Doubtless the feverish excitement of those unique two hours of botanizing in a new world left no space for sensitiveness to other influences. The mountain-sickness of the previous night was utterly forgotten, and no sensation of inconvenience was felt during the day.

Reserving some remarks on the botany of this excursion, there is yet to be mentioned here one plant of the upper region so singular that it must attract the notice of every traveller. As we ascended from Casapalta we noticed patches of white which from a distance looked like snow. Seen nearer at hand, they had the appearance of large, rounded, flattened cushions, some five or six feet in diameter, and a foot high, covered with dense masses of floss silk that glistened with a silvery lustre. The unwary stranger who should be tempted to use one of these for a seat would suffer from the experiment. The plant is of the cactus family, and the silky covering conceals a host of long, slender, needle-like spines, that penetrate the flesh, easily break, and are most difficult to extract. Unfortunately, the living specimen which I sent to Kew did not survive the journey.

At about three o’clock it was necessary to think of returning. Several precious plants had been passed on the way and remained to be collected, and it was only prudent to return to our quarters before night, which here falls so abruptly. Soon after we started along the descending track, a whirring sound overhead caused us to look up. Two magnificent condors swooped down from the upper region, and, wheeling round about forty feet above our heads, described a half circle, and, having satisfied their curiosity, soared again to a vast height, till they seemed mere black specks in the sky. Meanwhile my horse, fresh after the long halt, and apparently delighted at the prospect of returning to pleasanter quarters, broke into a gallop, and throughout the way it cost me some trouble to restrain his impatience.

As we drew near Chicla, there being yet half an hour of daylight, we dismounted and dismissed our guide with the horses, thus being able to secure several plants not seen elsewhere. One of these was a solitary plant of the common potato, growing in a wild place among dwarf bushes near the stream. I do not, however, attach any importance to the fact as evidence on the disputed question of the true home of a plant which in South America has been cultivated from remote antiquity. The valley of the Rimac has doubtless been a frequented highway since long before the Spanish conquest, and, as we know, the plant spreads easily in favourable conditions. As far as I know, all the evidence as to the plant being indigenous in Peru and Bolivia is open to suspicion, and the only part of the continent where it can be said to be certainly a native is Southern Chili and the sub-Alpine region of the Chilian Andes.

The excursion to the upper region apparently completed the work of acclimatization. We slept soundly, and no symptoms of soroche was afterwards experienced. When I sallied forth on the morning of the 23rd in quest of breakfast, which was made luxurious by a tin of Swiss milk received by the train from Lima, I found my friend W—— conversing in English with a Chilian officer. This gentleman, introduced as Captain B——, the son of English parents, was about proceeding in command of a small detachment to occupy some place beyond the Cordillera. The number of Englishmen in the Chilian service is not small, and there is no part of South America where the conditions of climate, the habits of life, and the character of the people seem to be so well suited to our countrymen.

One of the sights of Chicla was the daily despatch of trains of laden animals towards the interior. In the opposite direction the traffic was very limited, for since the war the working of the silver mines about Cerro de Pasco has been suspended, and little of the produce of the montaña now makes its way to the coast. But, war or no war, the wants of the inland population, living in a region which produces nothing but food and raw material, must in some measure be supplied. There was nothing very new in seeing goods packed on the backs of mules and donkeys, but the llamas and their ways were a continual source of interest. If the body be somewhat ungainly, the head with its large lustrous eyes may fairly be called beautiful. They vary extremely in colour. The prevailing hues are between light brown and buff, but we saw many quite white, and a few nearly black, with a good many mottled in large patches of white, and dark brown. The legs appear weak, and the animal can bear but a light burthen. On the mountain tracks, the load for a mule is three hundred pounds, that for a donkey two hundred pounds, while a llama can carry no more than a hundred pounds; and when any one attempts to increase the load, the animal lies down and moans piteously. He seems, indeed, not yet thoroughly resigned to domesticity, and there is a note of ineffectual complaint about his bearing and about all the sounds which he emits. One morning I was so much struck by what appeared to be the wailing of a child or a woman in distress, that I followed the sound until, behind a rock, I discovered a solitary llama that had somehow been separated from his companions. The advantage of the llama in the highlands of Peru, where fodder is scarce and must often be carried from a distance, is that he is able to shift for himself. Where the herbage is so coarse and so scanty that a donkey would starve, the llama picks up a living from the woody stems of the dwarf bushes that creep along the surface.

Supposing that most of the plants growing on the slopes around Chicla had been collected two days before, I expected to find it expedient to go to some distance from the village on the 23rd. But I had formed an inadequate idea of the richness of the Andean flora. Commencing with a ridge of rocks on the opposite side of the valley, only a few hundred yards from the ground before traversed, I found so many new and interesting forms of vegetation that at the end of three or four hours of steady work I had ascended only four or five hundred feet above the village, and I believe that ample occupation for a week’s work to a collector might be found within one mile of the Chicla station.

As already arranged, we decided to return to Lima on the morning of the 24th of April. If other engagements had not made this necessary, the condition of my collections would have forced me to retreat. It was certain that without a speedy supply of drying-paper a large portion must be lost. As we were despatching an early breakfast, we were struck by the appearance of a tall, vigorous, resolute-looking man, booted up to the thighs, who had arrived during the previous night. He turned out to be a fellow-countryman, one of that adventurous class that have supplied the pioneers of civilization to so many regions of the earth. This gentleman had settled in the montaña of Eastern Peru, at a height of only about four thousand feet above the sea. His account of the country was altogether attractive, and it was only after entering into some details that one began to think that a man of a less cheerful and enterprising disposition might have given a less favourable report. The place which he has selected is only some twenty leagues distant from the river Ucayali, one of the great tributaries of the Maranon, which is destined hereafter to be the channel for direct water-communication between Eastern Peru and the Atlantic coast. At present the only obstacle to communication is the fact that the country near the river is occupied by a tribe of fierce and hostile Indians, who allow no passage through their country. The climate was described by our informant as quite delightful and salubrious, the soil as most fertile, suitable for almost all tropical produce, and many of the plants of temperate regions, and the supposed inconveniences as unimportant. Jaguars are, indeed, common, but the chief objection to them is that they make it difficult to keep poultry. Poisonous snakes exist, but the prejudice against them is unreasonably strong. No case of any one dying from snake-bite had occurred at our informant’s location.

One drawback he did, indeed, freely admit. There was scarcely any limit to be set to the productive capabilities of the country, but, beyond what could serve for personal consumption, it was hard to say what could be done with the crops. He was then engaged in trying the possibility of transporting some of the more valuable produce of his farming to Lima. The journey had been one of extreme difficulty. In some of the valleys heavy rains had washed away tracks and carried away bridges, and he had been driven back to seek a passage by some other route. About one-half of his train of mules with their loads had been carried away by torrents, or otherwise lost; but our buoyant countryman, now virtually arrived at his journey’s end, seemed to think the experiment a fairly successful one. He had received no news from England since the beginning of the previous November, so that one or two newspapers five weeks old were eagerly accepted.

The return journey from Chicla to Lima was easy and agreeable, but offered little of special interest. I noticed a curious illustration of the effects of the sea-breeze on vegetation even at a distance of thirty or forty miles from the coast. As we descended, I observed that the acacias which abound in the middle zone of the valley were densely covered with masses of the white flowers of a climbing Mikania, quite masking the natural aspect of the shrub. I thought it strange that this appearance should not have struck me while on my way ascending the valley. On closer attention, I saw that the Mikania was entirely confined to the eastern side of the acacia, so that the same shrub, looked at from the western side, showed no trace either of the leaves or flowers of the visitor. On reaching the Lima station, I was kindly greeted by Mr. Nation, who at once relieved my most pressing anxiety by telling me that I should find two reams of filtering paper awaiting me at my hotel.

Having given in the twenty-second volume of the Journal of the Linnæan Society a list of the plants collected during my excursion in the Cordillera, it is needless to overload these pages with technical names, and I shall content myself with a few general remarks on the vegetation of this region, amidst which I passed a brief period of constantly renewed admiration and delight. In the first place, the general character of the flora of Chicla differed altogether from my anticipations, for the simple reason that the climate is completely different from what might, under ordinary conditions, be expected. I had seen reason to conjecture that, in ascending from the Pacific coast to the Cordillera, the rate of diminution of mean temperature would be less considerable than in most other parts of the world, but I was no way prepared to find it so slight as it really is. During the time of my visit, the mean temperature at Lima, 448 feet above the sea, was very nearly 70°, while the annual mean appears to be 66·6° Fahr.10 The mean temperature at Chicla at the same season was estimated by me at 54°, with a maximum of 65·7°, and a minimum of 42°, and the first figure probably approximates to the annual mean. For a difference in height of 11,774 feet this would give an average fall of 1° Fahr. for 935 feet of elevation, or 1° Cent. for 512 metres; whereas, as is well known,11 the ordinary estimate found in physical treatises, resulting chiefly from the observations of Humboldt, would give for Equatorial America a fall of 1° Fahr. for about 328 English feet of increased altitude, or 1° Cent. for 180 metres. This rate of decrease would give a fall of 36·6° Fahr. in ascending from Lima to Chicla, whereas, as we have seen, the difference is probably little more than one-third, certainly less than one-half, of that amount. It is, therefore, with some astonishment that the stranger, arriving in this region of the Cordillera, finds himself amidst a vegetation characteristic of the Temperate zone,12 and that many of the most conspicuous species are such as in mid-Europe require the protection of a greenhouse. Amongst the more attractive and characteristic of the Andean flora, I may mention five species of Calceolaria, Alonsoa, two fine Loasaceæ (one with large deep orange flowers and stiff hairs that penetrate the gloves, the other a climber with yellow flowers), several bushy Solanaceæ, and a beautiful clematis, which may hereafter adorn European gardens.

Along with many types of vegetation peculiar to the Andes, or more or less widely diffused throughout the Western continent, it was very interesting to a botanist from Europe to find so large a proportion of the indigenous plants belong to types which characterize the mountain vegetation of our continent. Of the genera in which the plants collected by me are to be classed, fully one-half belong to this category, and these genera include more than an equal proportion of species. I find, indeed, that fully sixty per cent. of the species in my collection belong to European genera, but that, with trifling exceptions, the species are distinct and confined to the Andean region. The reasonable conclusion is that the types which are thus common to distant regions must be of very great antiquity, and that the ancestors of the existing species must have spread widely at a very remote period of the world’s history. Most of the plants in question belong to genera having very numerous species, of which it may be presumed that the parent forms possessed a strong tendency to variation.

The only tree seen at Chicla is a species of elder—Sambucus Peruviana of botanists—not widely differing from the common black elder of Europe.

Along with the numerous allies of the Old-World flora that characterize the indigenous vegetation, it was somewhat remarkable to find, in the upper valley of the Rimac, a number of cosmopolitan weeds, most of them common in Europe, which appear to have become thoroughly naturalized. Most of these, which are also found in the coast region of Peru, were undoubtedly introduced by the Spaniards; but there are a few, such as the common chickweed, whose wide diffusion throughout the world seems to me to be more probably due to transport by birds.

To the botanist, the most interesting features in the Andean flora are supplied by the great family of Compositæ. To this belong nearly one-fourth of all the plants collected by me, and nearly one-third of those found in the higher Alpine region; and, as far as available materials allow me to judge, I believe these to be about the true proportions for the higher parts of the Andean chain. It is further remarkable that of the thirteen tribes into which the 780 genera and 10,000 species of this family have been divided, all but the two smallest tribes—Calendulaceæ and Arctotideæ—are represented in the Andes. To the European botanist, the most interesting group is that of the Mutisiaceæ, which is especially characteristic of the South American flora. Of 420 known species belonging to this tribe, fully 350 are exclusively American, the remainder being distributed through Australasia, and from South Africa to Southern Asia. They exhibit many unfamiliar forms very unlike what we are used to find elsewhere in the world. One of the first plants which I gathered was a tall, straggling climber with pinnate leaves ending in a tendril. I naturally thought of the vetch tribe, but I observed that the leaves were without stipules, and that the leaflets were not articulated to the midrib. Great, however, was my surprise when, on finding a flowering specimen, it revealed itself as a composite belonging to the genus Mutisia.

Next to the Compositæ, the grasses are of all the natural orders the most largely represented in the Andean flora, but with the difference that nearly all belong to genera common to the mountain regions of Europe. The species are indeed different, but the general aspect does not strike the European botanist as presenting any marked features of novelty.

One further characteristic of the flora of Chicla is the great variety of species to be found within a small area. In this respect it seemed to me to rival the flora of Southern Spain and Asia Minor, which are known to be exceptionally rich in endemic forms. I am, of course, unable to judge whether in this part of the Andes the species are localized to nearly the same degree as in those parts of the Mediterranean region, and it is at least possible that the individual species which I saw crowded together at Chicla may have a relatively wide geographical range. The only social species, in some places covering large patches on the steep slopes, is a lupen growing in dense bushy masses.

Again guarding myself from the temptation to draw positive inferences from very slight opportunities for observation, I may add a few remarks on what I saw of the flora of the upper or Alpine zone of the Cordillera. This appears to be far more sharply defined at its lower limit than that which I shall designate as the temperate zone. In the latter, although the nights are at all seasons cool, actual frost is rarely experienced, and snow never lies on the ground. In the upper or Alpine zone, on the contrary, night frosts recur not unfrequently throughout the year, snow falls from time to time, more frequent in winter—from May to August—but does not lie long enough to provide a season of complete rest to the vegetative organs. To the influence of these conditions we may probably attribute the chief characteristics of the flora. With scarcely an exception, the species of this zone are stunted in growth, rising but a few inches from the surface, but have much developed prostrate or creeping woody stems, or underground rhizomes. Compared with the middle, or temperate, zone, the species generally belong to the same natural groups. Some of the families, however, which are characteristic of the middle zone, such as Loasaceæ, Verbenaceæ, and Solanaceæ, do not appear to reach the higher region.

Of forms characteristic of the Alpine region of mountains in the Old World I observed several; e.g. Geranium, Astragalus, Valeriana, Draba, a saxifrage, and a very small gentian.

To sum up my impressions as to the flora of the western slopes of the Cordillera, I should say that it appears to be naturally divided into three well-marked zones. The lower, or subtropical, extending to about eight thousand feet above the sea, characterized by deficient rainfall, moderate heat continued throughout the year, and a complete absence of cold, the thermometer rarely falling below 50°. The species here mainly belong to genera characteristic of the flora of tropical America, but, owing to the climatal conditions, are limited in number, and do not include groups requiring much moisture.

The middle, or temperate, zone, extending from about eight thousand to about thirteen thousand feet above the sea, possesses a very varied flora which includes many groups characteristic of the Andes, and entirely or mainly confined to that range, with representatives of numerous genera that are widely diffused through the temperate regions of the northern hemisphere, and a smaller number of representative species of groups belonging to the tropical American flora. The climate of this region is marked by the absence of all extremes of temperature. Cool nights, in which frosts are infrequent and of short duration, alternate with days wherein the shade temperature rarely surpasses 70°. The division between the temperate and subtropical zones is marked rather by the more frequent, though moderate, rainfall, which in the former recurs at intervals throughout the year, than by any marked change of temperature. Hence there may be distinguished a rather broad intermediate zone in which many of the characteristic forms of each meet and are intermingled; but this does not appear to be defined by any genera, or even by more than a few species peculiar to it, and does not deserve to be treated apart in a general survey of the flora.

The upper, or Alpine, zone of the Cordillera, extending from about thirteen thousand feet to the utmost limit of vegetation, is well defined by the circumstance that night frosts here recur throughout the year, and snow lies at least occasionally on the surface, while a somewhat greater amount of aqueous precipitation, in the form of rain or snow, combined with diminished evaporation, maintains a moderate degree of moisture in the soil. The proportion borne by some groups of the characteristic Andean flora as compared with the entire vegetable population is here larger than in the temperate zone, but other types better adapted to the climate of the latter zone are here nearly or altogether wanting. The forms common to the north temperate zone are present in about an equal proportion, while the representatives of the tropical flora are but very few.

With reference to the opinion expressed by writers of authority, and especially by Engler,13 that the Andean flora is exceptionally rich in endemic genera and species, and to the explanation which would account for the facts, first, by the greater facility afforded for the extension of new varieties in dry climates, where the soil is not continuously covered by the existing vegetation; and, secondly, by the isolation of the summits, favouring the development of special local forms, I may venture on some sceptical remarks.

When we are struck by the large number of genera and species that are exclusively confined to the Andean flora, we are apt to forget the vast extent of the region which we are contemplating. Even if we exclude the mountains of Central America, and also those of Southern Chili, from Araucania to the Straits of Magellan, we have in the Andes a mountain region considerably more than three thousand miles in length, and from two hundred to over five hundred miles in breadth. This vast region is as yet far from being sufficiently explored to enable us to fix the geographical limits of its genera and species with any precision; but it appears to me that, while a very large number of genera are limited to the Andes as a whole region, the range of most of them within the limits of that region is very wide. I am further disposed to form a similar opinion as to the distribution of the species if compared to what is found in some other mountain districts. If we were to find in South America anything like the variety of species limited to very small areas that is encountered in Southern Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Southern Persia, where on each mountain that we ascend we find several well-marked local species, differing from those in similar stations a few miles distant, the catalogue of the Andean flora would have to be extended to three or four times its actual length.

Fully agreeing, as I do, with Engler in his general conclusion that dry climates are more favourable than moist ones to the development of new varieties, which are the ancestors of future new species, I must remark that in the Andes, so far as we know, the species with very restricted area abound more in the upper zone, where the soil is relatively moist, than in the drier middle or lower zones. Nor does it appear that isolation of the summits can be with reason invoked as an explanation. The most marked feature in the range, and one that geologists have perhaps not taken enough to heart, is the extremely continuous character of the crest of the range, especially on the western side, as is evidenced by the fact that from Colombia to Southern Chili there are so very few passes below the limit at which snow frequently lies on the surface. For a rational explanation of the facts as to the distribution of mountain floras, we are forced to assume that the various agencies which are in daily operation—birds and land animals, winds, etc.—are competent to effect the transference of the great majority of species from one mountain to another not very far removed; and if that be true in districts where peaks are separated by arms of the sea or by intervals of low country having a very different climate, the process must be still easier in a chain so continuous as that of the Andes.

On the evening of the 24th I had the advantage of meeting the representatives of nearly all the European powers then present at Lima at the table of Don R. C——, a native gentleman of large fortune and influential position. The entertainment might properly be described as sumptuous, and, excepting in some royal palaces, could not easily be matched in Europe. One feature, indeed, was unique, and appealed to the susceptibility of a botanist. The vases heaped with choice specimens of tropical fruits could scarcely have been seen out of Peru. The occasion was not one on which political questions could with propriety be discussed, but I was struck by the complete agreement amongst men of various nationalities, whose duty it was to know the real state of things, as to the formidable prospect of anarchy and disorder that must ensue whenever the Chilian forces should be withdrawn from Lima and the adjoining provinces—a prospect, I need scarcely add, that has been since fully realized.

Soon after sunrise on the 25th Mr. Nation was good enough to call for me. We had agreed to make a short excursion along the bed of the Rimac, the best, if not the only, ground near the city where one can form some idea of the indigenous vegetation of the low country. As happens elsewhere, the river has carried down seeds or roots of many plants of the valley, which find a home on its broad gravelly bed, while the continual moisture has enabled many species of the plain, elsewhere dried up at this season, to maintain a vigorous growth. The little expedition was full of interest, and, with the aid of Mr. Nation’s extensive local knowledge, I was able to make acquaintance with many forms of vegetation not hitherto seen. It was necessary to return early to the town, as my Chicla collections required many hours of diligent work until nightfall, when I had the pleasure of joining an agreeable party at the house of Mr. Graham, the British chargé d’affaires.

Among other scientific or social engagements, I called on the following day upon M. Lombardi, the author of a voluminous work on Peru, of which three large volumes have already appeared. M. Lombardi is a man of varied and extensive acquirements, especially in natural history, and in the course of frequent travels through the interior has accumulated a large mass of new materials of no slight value. Unfortunately, his work has been planned on a scale needlessly vast and costly; and now that the funds, at one time freely supplied by the Government, are no longer forthcoming, the prospect of its completion seems rather uncertain. The drawings and dissections of many species of plants from the higher regions of the Andes not hitherto figured, which M. Lombardi was good enough to show me, appeared to be very carefully executed, and their publication, in whatever form, would be welcomed by botanists.

I had accepted an invitation to visit on the 27th a hacienda belonging to Don R. C—— and his brothers at a place called Caudivilla, about twenty miles north of Lima. In company with an agreeable party of the officers of two Italian frigates then stationed at Callao, we started by the railway which runs parallel to the coast from Lima to Ancon and Chancay. At a station about three miles from the hacienda, we left the main line, and were conveyed to our destination on a private line of railway belonging to the estate. This is a tract of flat country about eight miles long by four in breadth, extending to the base of the outermost spurs of the Cordillera, and watered by a stream from the higher range in the background. It is almost exclusively devoted to sugar-cultivation, and in the large buildings which we inspected the whole process of extracting sugar and rum from the cane was proceeding on a large scale, and with the aid of the most complete machinery and apparatus. Although some fifteen hundred workmen are employed upon the works, it appeared as if human labour played but a small part in the processes wherein steam power was the chief agent. Trains of small trucks, laden with sugar-cane cut to the right length, were drawn up an incline, the contents of each tilted in turn into a huge vat, wherein it was speedily crushed. We followed the torrent of juice which constantly flowed from this reservoir through a succession of large chambers until it reached the final stage, in which, purified and condensed, it is at once converted into crystals of pure sugar when thrown off by the centrifugal action of a rapidly revolving axis, while the colourless pellucid product which is to furnish the rum of commerce was conveyed into vessels whose dimensions would put to shame the great tun of Heidelberg.

I confess to having felt less interest in the industrial results of this admirably conducted estate, than in what I was able to learn of the human beings employed and their relations to their employers; and I found here matter for agreeable surprise. The workmen are partly agricultural labourers engaged in the sugar-plantation and other outdoor work, partly those employed in and about the factory. Among them were representatives of various races, the Chinese being perhaps in a majority, but with a considerable proportion of negroes and half-caste natives of Peru. I was struck at first with a general air of well-being among all the working people, and I found this easily accounted for when I saw more of the arrangements made for their benefit.

Among other departments we were shown the hospital, small, but perfectly clean and airy, in which there were only three or four patients, and a school with a cheerful-looking young mistress surrounded by jolly-looking little children, who came forward unasked to display their acquirements in spelling. But what particularly pleased me was the large eating-house, or restaurant, where we found hundreds of workmen at their midday meal. They were not marshalled at long tables, but sitting in small groups round separate tables, every man choosing his own company, and calling for the dish which he preferred. Seeing these men, each with his napkin, enjoying his selected food, I could not help thinking that in the article of diet they are better off than a traveller in many parts of Europe, to say nothing of the population of the British Islands. I was assured that no profit whatever was made on this branch of the establishment. There was no pretence of philanthropy, but simply the intelligent view that as a mere matter of business it answered best that the working men should feel themselves to be well off. In point of fact, the mere threat to discharge a man from his employment is usually found to be sufficient to maintain order and industry.

There was little time available for botanizing here, and, the ground being all under cultivation, little of any interest to be found. On the way back I secured one of the beautiful reeds (Gynerium) which abound in tropical America. Herbarium specimens give little idea of a grass which, in moist situations, is from twenty to twenty-five feet in height, and whose flowering panicle is from four to five feet long.

On the following day, April 28, Mr. Nation again acted as my guide in a short walk about the outskirts of the city on the south and south-west sides. Nothing could be more uninviting than the appearance of the ground, which consists of volcanic sand, in most places completely bare of vegetation, but strewn with the refuse of the city, skeletons of cattle, and all sorts of rejectamenta, which make it the favourite resort of the black gallinazo (Cathartes atratas), the universal scavenger in this part of South America. The bird is deservedly protected by the population, which probably owes to its activity protection from pestilence. On the banks of some ditches and drains, and on some patches of waste land moistened by infiltration, we found several interesting plants. It was not evidence of the good character of the lower class in Lima to observe that on these occasions Mr. Nation carried a loaded revolver in his breast-pocket.