Notes of a naturalist in South America

The flora of Central Chili is denominated by Grisebach that of the transition zone of western South America; but, except in the sense that it occupies a territory intermediate between the desert region to the north and that of the antarctic forests to the south, the term is not very appropriate. On the opposite side of the continent, the flora of Uruguay, Entrerios, and the adjoining provinces, may be truly said to offer a transition between that of South subtropical Brazil and that of the pampas region, most of the genera belonging to one or other of those regions, the one element gradually diminishing in importance as the other assumes a predominance. In this respect the Chilian flora presents a remarkable contrast, being distinguished by the large number of vegetable types peculiar to it, and having but slight affinities either with those of tropical or antarctic America.

Of 198 genera peculiar to temperate South America, the large majority belong exclusively to Central Chili, and these include several tribes whose affinity to the forms of other regions is only remote. Two of these tribes – the Vivianeæ and Francoaceæ– have even been regarded by many botanists as distinct natural orders; and many of the most common and conspicuous species will strike a botanist familiar with the vegetation of other regions of the earth as very distinct from all that he has known elsewhere. With only a few exceptions, these endemic types appear to have originated in the Andean range, whence some modified forms have descended to the lower country; several of these, as was inevitable, have been found on the eastern flanks of the great range, and it is probable that further exploration will add to the number; but it is remarkable that as yet so large a proportion should be confined to Chilian territory.

Grisebach has fixed the limits of that which he has called the transition zone at the Tropic of Capricorn to the north, and the thirty-fourth parallel of latitude to the south; but these in no way correspond to the natural boundaries. As I have already pointed out, the flora of the desert zone, extending from about the twentieth nearly to the thirtieth parallel of south latitude, shows a general uniformity in its meagre constituents. It is about the latitude of Coquimbo, or only a little north of it, that the characteristic types of the Chilian flora begin to present themselves, and these extend southward at least as far as latitude 36° south, and even somewhat farther, if I may judge from the imperfect indications of locality too often afforded with herbarium specimens.[18 - One of the difficulties felt by all students of geographical distribution arises from the imperfect or careless indications given both in books and in herbaria, and this is more felt in regard to South America than as to any other part of the world. A very large proportion of the earlier collections bear simply the label “Brazil,” forgetting that the area is as great as that of Europe. In other cases local names of places, not to be found on maps or in gazetteers, embarrass the student and weary his patience. It is mainly from Darwin that naturalists have learned that geographical distribution is the chief key to the past history of the earth.]

DISTRIBUTION OF RAINFALL.

In discussing the causes that have operated on the development of the Chilian flora, the same eminent writer has been misled by incomplete and erroneous information as to the climate of the region in question, and more especially as to the distribution of rainfall, which is no doubt the most important factor. It is true that the peculiar character of the Chilian climate makes it very difficult to express by averages the facts that mainly influence organic life. Between the northern desert region, where rain in a measurable quantity is an exceptional phenomenon, and the southern forest region, extending from the Straits of Magellan to the province of Valdivia, Central Chili has in ordinary years a long, dry, rainless summer, followed by rather scanty rainfall at intervals from the late autumn to spring. About once in four or five years an exceptional season recurs, when rain falls in summer as well as winter, and in which the total fall may be double the usual amount, and at longer intervals, usually after a severe earthquake, storms causing formidable inundations occur, when in a few days the rainfall may exceed the ordinary amount for an entire year. When several such storms are repeated in the same year, we may have a total rainfall of three or four times the ordinary average.[19 - The last season of excessive rainfall was that of 1877. I have seen no complete returns, but it appears that the rain of that year commenced in Central Chili in February, a very rare phenomenon; that more than six inches of rain fell in April, of which, at Santiago, four inches fell in twenty-four hours. More heavy rain fell in May, and finally in July a succession of storms flooded large districts, destroying property and life, the fall for the month being more than fourteen inches at Valparaiso. Much interesting information respecting the climate of Chili will be found in a work by Don B. Vicuña Mackenna, “Ensayo Historico sobre el Clima de Chile” (Valparaiso: 1877), from which I have borrowed the above-mentioned particulars.] Such seasons appear to recur six or seven times in each century, and it is clear that, according as the meteorologist happens to include or exclude such a season in his data, the figures expressing the average must vary very largely. Inasmuch as plant life is regulated by the ordinary conditions of temperature and moisture, we are less liable to error in taking the results which exclude exceptional seasons.

In discussing, therefore, the conditions of vegetation in Central Chili, it seems safe to conclude that the averages given in the following table, extracted from the careful work of Julius Hann, “Lehrbuch der Klimatologie,” are above rather than below the ordinary limit. I find, indeed, that while the average rainfall at Santiago during the twelve years from 1849 to 1860 was 419 millimetres, or nearly 16½ English inches, the average for the six years from 1866 to 1871 was 299 millimetres, or less than 12 inches. It is evident that the indigenous vegetation must be adapted to thrive upon the smaller amount of moisture expressed by the latter figures.

CLIMATE OF CENTRAL CHILI.

The following table, compiled from Hann’s work, gives the most reliable results now available, and shows the mean temperature of the year, of the hottest and coldest months, the extremes of annual temperature, and the rainfall for the chief places in Chili, with a few blanks where information is not available. The maxima and minima do not express the absolute extremes attained during the entire period for which observations are available, but the means of the annual maxima and minima. The temperatures are given in degrees of Fahrenheit’s thermometer.

Примечание 1[20 - I believe that in the column for rainfall at Punta Arenas, snow has not been taken into account.]

This table brings out very clearly the influence of the cold southern currents of the ocean and air in reducing the summer heat of the western side of South America; for, while the winter temperatures are not very different from those of places similarly situated on the west side of Europe and North Africa, those of summer are lower by 8° or 10° Fahr., and the mean of the year is lower by 6° or 7° than that of places in the same latitude on the east side of South America. It is also apparent that much of what has been stated in works of authority as to the climate of this region is altogether incorrect. In his great work on the “Vegetation of the Earth,” Grisebach gives the mean temperature of Santiago as 67·5°, or nearly 12° higher than the mean result of ten years’ observation, and the rainfall as over 40 inches, or nearly three times the average – more, indeed, than three times the average – of ordinary seasons.

Arriving in Chili about the end of the long dry season, I had but very moderate expectations as to the prospect of seeing much of its peculiar vegetation, and I was agreeably surprised to find that there yet remained a good deal to interest me, especially among the characteristic evergreen shrubs, having much of the general aspect of those of the Mediterranean region, though widely different in structure from the Old-World forms. One or two slight showers had fallen shortly before my arrival, and as a result the ground was in many places studded with the golden flowers of the little Oxalis lobata. This appears to have a true bulb, formed from the overlapping bases of the outer leaves, in the centre of which the undeveloped stem produces one or more flowers, which appear before the new leaves. The surface of the dry baked soil was extremely hard, costing some labour to break it with a pick in order to collect specimens, and it is not easy to understand the process by which a young flower-bud is enabled to force its way to the upper surface. The open country on the hills near Valparaiso is bare, trees being very scarce, and for the most part reduced to the stature of shrubs with strong trunks; but in the ravines, or quebradas, that descend towards the coast some of these rise to a height of twenty or twenty-five feet.

One of the objects of my walk over the hills was to obtain a good view of the Andes, and especially of the peak of Aconcagua, the highest summit of the New World. I had had a glimpse of the peak from the sea on the previous morning, but light clouds hung about the entire range during this day, and I was unable to identify with certainty any of the summits. The distance in an air line is about one hundred English miles, and I was struck by the clearness of the air in this region as compared with what I had seen from the coast of Ecuador or Peru. Every point that stood out from the clouds was seen sharply defined, as one is accustomed to observe in favourable weather in the Mediterranean region.

WINTER’S BARK.

Returning to the town, I took my way along one of numerous deep ravines that have been cut into the seaward surface of the plateau. Though they are witnesses to the energetic action of water, they are often completely dry at this season; yet they exercise a marked influence on the vegetation. The shrubs rise nearly to the dimensions of trees, and several species find a home that do not thrive in the open country. I was specially interested in, for the first time, finding in flower the Winter’s bark (Drimys Winteri), a shrub which displays an extraordinary capacity of adaptation to varying physical conditions, as it extends along the west side of America from Mexico to the Straits of Magellan, and also to the highlands of Guiana and Brazil, accommodating itself as well to the perpetual spring of the equatorial mountain zone as to the long winters and short, almost sunless, summers of Fuegia. The only necessary condition seems to be a moderate amount of moisture; but even as to this there is wonderful contrast between the long rainless summer and slight winter rainfall of Valparaiso, and the tropical rains of Brazil on the 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,[21 - The recent untimely death of this valuable official is deplored by all classes in Chili.] 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.

RAILWAY TO SANTIAGO.

The direct distance from Valparaiso to Santiago is only about fifty-five miles, but the line chosen for the railway must be fully double that length. The country lying directly between the sea-coast and the capital is broken up by irregular masses, partly granitic and partly formed of greenstone and other hard igneous rocks. These in Europe would be regarded as considerable mountains, as the summits range from six thousand to over seven thousand feet in height, but they nowhere exhibit the bold and picturesque forms that characterize the granite formation in Brazil. On either side of this highland tract two considerable streams carry the drainage of the Cordillera to the ocean. The northern stream, the Rio Aconcagua, 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.[22 - This is doubtless the summit described by Darwin under the name Campana de Quillota. He gives the height as 6400 feet above sea-level. The figures in the text are taken from the Chilian survey.]

CHARACTERISTIC VEGETATION.

Here I first encountered the characteristic aspect of the hilly region of Central Chili. A tall columnar cactus (Cereus Quisco) is the most conspicuous plant. Sometimes with a solitary stem, but usually having two or three together from the same root, they stand bolt upright from fifteen to twenty-five feet in height. Next to this the commonest conspicuous plant is a large species of Puya, belonging to the pine-apple family, with long, stiff, spiky leaves, and these two combined to give a strange and somewhat weird appearance to the vegetation. Here and there were dense masses of evergreen bushes or small shrubs, and more rarely small solitary trees. Among these was probably the species of beech (Fagus obliqua of botanists) which the natives call roble (or oak), there being, in fact, no native oaks in America 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.[23 - The mapping of the Andean chain is a task of immense difficulty, and although the Chilian survey is the best that has yet been executed, it leaves much to be desired. Even in the small district which I was able to visit, I found several grave errors in Petermann’s map, reduced from the Chilian survey, which is, nevertheless, the best that has been published in Europe. One of the most serious is the omission of the Uspallata Pass, the most frequented of those leading from Central Chili to the Argentine territory, which is neither named nor correctly indicated by the tints adopted to mark the zones of elevation.] 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.