Returning to the town, I took my way along one of numerous deep ravines that have been cut into the seaward surface of the plateau. Though they are witnesses to the energetic action of water, they are often completely dry at this season; yet they exercise a marked influence on the vegetation. The shrubs rise nearly to the dimensions of trees, and several species find a home that do not thrive in the open country. I was specially interested in, for the first time, finding in flower the Winter’s bark (Drimys Winteri), a shrub which displays an extraordinary capacity of adaptation to varying physical conditions, as it extends along the west side of America from Mexico to the Straits of Magellan, and also to the highlands of Guiana and Brazil, accommodating itself as well to the perpetual spring of the equatorial mountain zone as to the long winters and short, almost sunless, summers of Fuegia. The only necessary condition seems to be a moderate amount of moisture; but even as to this there is wonderful contrast between the long rainless summer and slight winter rainfall of Valparaiso, and the tropical rains of Brazil on the one hand, and the continual moisture of Valdivia and Western Patagonia on the other. This is one of the examples which goes to show how much caution should be used in drawing inferences as to the climate of former epochs from deposits of fossil vegetable remains. This instance is doubtless exceptional, but there is some reason to think that what may be called physiological varieties—races of plants which, with little or no morphological change, have become adapted to conditions of life very different from those under which the ancestral form was developed—are far less uncommon than has been generally supposed.

It is to me rather surprising that a shrub so ornamental as the Winter’s bark should not be more extensively introduced on our western coasts. It appears not to resist severe frosts, but in the west of Ireland and the south-west of England it should be a welcome addition to the resources of the landscape gardener. Although voyagers have spoken highly of its virtues as a stimulant and antiscorbutic, it does not appear to have held its ground in European pharmacopeias, and I believe that the active principle, chiefly residing in the bark, has never been chemically determined.

On May 11 I proceeded to Santiago. Mr. Drummond Hay,22 the popular consul-general, who at this time was also acting as the British chargé d’affaires at the legation at Santiago, was so fully occupied at the consular court that I was able to enjoy little of his society; but he was kind enough to telegraph to the Hotel Oddo at Santiago to secure for me accommodation. With the usual difficulty of effecting an early start, which appears to prevail everywhere in South America, I reached the railway station in time for the 7.45 a.m. train. For some distance the railroad runs near the sea, passing the station of Viña del Mar, where many of the Valparaiso merchants have pretty villas. I was more attracted by the appearance of the country about the following station of Salto, where rough, rocky ground, with clumps of small trees and the channels of one or more streams, promised well for a spring visit. But I was at every turn reminded that I had fallen on the most unfavourable season. After the long six or seven months’ drought the face of the country was everywhere parched, and the only matter for surprise was that there should yet remain some vestiges of its summer garb of vegetation.

The direct distance from Valparaiso to Santiago is only about fifty-five miles, but the line chosen for the railway must be fully double that length. The country lying directly between the sea-coast and the capital is broken up by irregular masses, partly granitic and partly formed of greenstone and other hard igneous rocks. These in Europe would be regarded as considerable mountains, as the summits range from six thousand to over seven thousand feet in height, but they nowhere exhibit the bold and picturesque forms that characterize the granite formation in Brazil. On either side of this highland tract two considerable streams carry the drainage of the Cordillera to the ocean. The northern stream, the Rio Aconcagua, bears the same name as the famous mountain from whose snows it draws a constant supply even in the dry season. Some sixty miles further south, the Maipo, draining a larger portion of the Andean range, flows to the coast by the town of Melipilla. The valley of the Maipo offers a much easier, though a circuitous, railway route to Santiago than that chosen by the Chilian engineers, which for a considerable distance keeps to the valley of the Aconcagua. The stream is reached near to Quillota, a place which has given its name to this part of the valley.

Travelling at this season, I was not much struck by the boasted luxuriance of the vegetation of the vale of Quillota; but I could easily understand that the eye of the stranger, accustomed to the arid regions of Peru and Northern Chili, must welcome the comparative freshness of the landscape, in which orchards of orange and peach trees alternate with squares of arable land. Of the few plants that I could make out from the railway car what most attracted my attention was the frequent recurrence of oval masses of dark leaves, much in the form of a giant hedgehog three or four feet in length and half that height, remarkably uniform in size and appearance. The interest was not diminished when I was able, at a wayside station, to ascertain that the plant was a bramble, on which I failed to find flower or fruit, but which from the leaves can be nothing else than a variety of the common bramble, or blackberry, introduced from Europe.

At the station of Llaillai (pronounced Yaiyai) we met the train from Santiago, and were allowed a quarter of an hour for breakfast. The arrangements were rather rough, but the food excellent—much superior, indeed, to what one commonly finds at an English refreshment-room. This is a junction station, and a train was in readiness to take passengers from Santiago or Valparaiso by a branch line up the valley of the Aconcagua to San Felipe and Santa Rosa de los Andes. The Santiago train here leaves that valley, and, turning abruptly to the south, commences a long and rather steep ascent of the ridge that divides the basin of the Maipo from that of the Aconcagua. To our right rose the Cerro del Roble, about 7250 feet in height, one of the highest of the coast range.23

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Darwin25 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.

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.

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.

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 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 peumo26 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.