Chapter XVII

Valparaiso—Passage of Andes by Portillo pass—Sagacity of mules—Mountain torrents—Mines, how discovered—Marine alluvium in valleys—Effect of snow on surface—Geology, fossil shells, double range, two periods of elevation—Red snow—Winds on the crest—Snow thawing in pinnacles—Dry and clear atmosphere—Electricity—Pampas—Zoology of opposite sides of Andes—Uniformity of Patagonia—Locusts—Great bugs—Mendoza—Uspallata—Silicified trees in vertical position—Indian ruins—Change of climate—Earthquake arching bed of river—Cumbre—Valparaiso.

PASSAGE OF CORDILLERA.

March 7th, 1835.—We staid only three days at Concepcion, and then sailed for Valparaiso. The wind being northerly, we only reached the mouth of the harbour of Concepcion before it was dark. Being very near the land, and a fog coming on, the anchor was dropped. Presently a large American whaler appeared close alongside of us; and we heard the Yankee swearing at his men, to make them keep quiet, whilst he listened where the breakers were. Captain FitzRoy hailed him in a loud clear voice, to anchor where he then was. The poor man must have thought the voice came from the shore: such a Babel of cries issued at once from the ship—every one hallooing out, “Let go the anchor! veer cable! shorten sail!” It was the most laughable thing I ever heard. If the ship’s crew had been all captains, and no men, there could not have been a greater uproar of orders. We afterwards found that the mate stuttered. I suppose all hands were assisting him in giving his orders.

On the 11th we anchored at Valparaiso; and two days afterwards I set out on an excursion to cross the Cordillera. I proceeded to Santiago, where Mr. Caldcleugh most kindly assisted me in every possible way, in making the little preparations which were necessary. In this immediate part of Chile there are two passes across the Andes to Mendoza, and the plains on the opposite side. The one most commonly used, namely, that of Aconcagua, or Uspallata, is situated some way to the northward of the capital: the other, called the Portillo, is to the southward, and less distant. The latter is, however, rather more lofty, and from the double chain, more dangerous during a snow-storm. For these reasons it is but little used, especially late in the season.

March 18th.—We set out for the Portillo pass. Leaving Santiago we crossed the wide burnt-up plain on which that city stands, and in the afternoon arrived at the Maypo, one of the principal rivers in Chile. The valley, at the point where it enters the first Cordillera, is bounded on each side by lofty barren mountains; and although not broad, it is very fertile. Numerous cottages were surrounded by vines, and by orchards of apple, nectarine, and peach trees; the boughs of the latter breaking with the weight of the beautiful ripe fruit.

In the evening we passed the custom-house, where our luggage was examined. The frontier of Chile is better guarded by the Cordillera, than by the waters of the sea. There are very few valleys which lead to the central ranges, and, except by these, the mountains are far too steep and lofty for any beast of burden to pass over them. The custom-house officers were very civil; which was perhaps partly owing to the passport which the President of the republic had given me; but I must also express my admiration at the natural politeness of almost every Chileno. In this instance the contrast with the same class of men in most other countries was strongly marked. I may mention an anecdote with which I was much pleased at the time. We met near Mendoza a little and very fat negress, riding astride on a mule. She had a goître so enormous, that it was scarcely possible to avoid gazing at her for a moment; but my two companions almost instantly, by way of apology, made the common salute of the country, by taking off their hats. Where would one of the lower classes in Europe have shown such feeling politeness to a poor and miserable object of a degraded race?

At night we slept at a cottage. Our manner of travelling was delightfully independent. In the inhabited parts we bought a little firewood, hired pasture for the animals, and bivouacked in the corner of the same field with them. Carrying an iron pot, we cooked and ate our supper under the cloudless sky, and knew no trouble. My companions were Mariano Gonzales, who had formerly accompanied me, and an “arriero,” with his ten mules and a “madrina.”

The madrina (or godmother) is a most important personage. She is an old steady mare, with a little bell round her neck; and wheresoever she goes, the mules, like good children, follow her. If several large troops are turned into one field to graze, in the morning the muleteer has only to lead the madrinas a little apart, and tinkle their bells; and, although there may be two or three hundred mules together, each immediately knows its own bell, and separates itself from the rest. The affection of these animals for their madrinas saves infinite trouble. It is nearly impossible to lose an old mule; for if detained for several hours by force, she will, by the power of smell, like a dog, track out her companions, or rather the madrina; for, according to the muleteer, she is the chief object of affection. The feeling, however, is not of an individual nature; for I believe I am right in saying, that any animal with a bell will serve as madrina. In a troop each animal carries, on a level road, a cargo weighing 416 pounds (more than twenty-nine stone); but in a mountainous country a hundred pounds less.⁠[1] Yet with what delicate slim limbs, without any proportional bulk of muscle, these animals support so great a burden! The mule always appears to me a most surprising animal. That a hybrid should possess more reason, memory, obstinacy, social affection, and powers of muscular endurance, than either of its parents, seems to indicate that art has here out-mastered nature. Of our ten animals, six were intended for riding and four for carrying cargoes, each taking turn about. We carried a good deal of food, in case we should be snowed up, as the season was rather late for passing the Portillo.

March 19th.—We rode during this day to the last, and therefore most elevated house in the valley. The number of inhabitants became scanty; but wherever water could be brought on the land, it was very fertile. All the valleys in the Cordillera agree in the same kind of structure. An irregularly-stratified mass of well-rounded shingle, together with a little mud and sand, fills up the bottom to the depth of some hundred feet. This deposit follows the course of the valley, sloping upwards with a most gradual and gentle inclination. The rivers have removed a large part in the centre; thus leaving a terrace of equal height, but varying width, on each side. This narrow space between the cliffs bordering the bed of the river, and the foot of the mountains, is the only part fit for cultivation, and on it likewise the road is carried.

The rivers, such as the Maypo, which flow in these valleys, should rather be called mountain torrents. Their inclination is very great, and their water the colour of mud. The roar which the Maypo made, as it rushed over the great rounded fragments, was like that of the sea. Amidst the din of rushing waters, the noise from the stones, as they rattled one over another, was most distinctly audible even at a distance. This rattling noise, night and day, may be heard along the whole course of the torrent. The sound spoke eloquently to the geologist: the thousands and thousands of stones, which, striking against each other, make the one dull uniform sound, are all hurrying in one direction. It is like thinking of time, where the minute that now glides past is irrecoverable. So is it with these stones; the ocean is their eternity, and each note of that wild music tells of one other step towards their destiny.

It is not possible for the mind to comprehend, except by a slow process, any effect which is produced by a cause repeated so often, that the multiplier itself ceases to convey any more definite idea, than the savage receives when he points to the hairs of his head. As often as I have seen beds of mud, sand, and shingle, accumulated to the thickness of many thousand feet, I have felt inclined to exclaim that causes, such as the present rivers and the present beaches, could never have ground down such masses. But, on the other hand, when listening to the rattling noise of these torrents, and calling to mind that whole races of animals have passed away from the surface of the globe, during the period throughout which, night and day, these stones have gone rattling onwards in their course, I have thought to myself, can any mountains, any continent, withstand such waste?

In this part of the valley, the mountains on each side are from about three to six or eight thousand feet high: their outline is rounded, but with steep and bare flanks. The general colour of the rock is a dullish purple, and the stratification very distinct. If the scenery is not beautiful, it is remarkable and grand. We met during the day several herds of cattle, which men were driving down from the higher valleys in the Cordillera. This sign of the approaching winter hurried our steps, more than was convenient for geological purposes. The house where we slept was situated at the foot of a mountain, on the summit of which are the mines of S. Pedro de Nolasko.

Sir F. Head wonders how mines have been discovered in situations so extraordinary, as the bleak summit of the mountain of S. Pedro de Nolasko. In the first place, metallic veins in this country are generally harder than the surrounding strata: hence, during the gradual degradation of the hills, they project above the surface of the ground. Secondly, almost every labourer, especially in the northern parts of Chile, understands something about the appearance of ores. In the great mining provinces of Coquimbo and Copiapó, firewood is very scarce, and men are employed in searching for it over every hill and dale; and by this means nearly all the richest mines have there been discovered. Chanuncillo, from which silver, to the value of many hundred thousand pounds has been raised in the course of a few years, was thus discovered: a man having thrown a stone at his loaded donkey, afterwards thought that it was very heavy, and picking it up again, he found it was full of pure silver. The vein occurred at no great distance, standing up like a wedge of silver. The miners also, on Sundays, taking a crowbar with them, often set out on such discoveries. In the south part of Chile, the men who drive cattle into the Cordillera, and who frequent every ravine where there is a little pasture, are the usual agents.

March 20th.—As we ascended the valley, the vegetation, with the exception of a few pretty alpine flowers, became exceedingly scanty; and of birds, animals, or insects, scarcely one could be seen. The lofty mountains, their summits marked with a few patches of snow, stood well separated from each other; the valleys being filled up with an immense thickness of stratified alluvium. I may here briefly remark, without detailing the reasons on which the opinion is grounded, that in all probability this matter was accumulated at the bottoms of deep arms of the sea, which running from the inland basins, penetrated to the axis of the Cordillera,—in a similar manner to what now happens in the southern part of this same great range. This fact, in itself most curious, as preserving a record of a very ancient state of things, possesses a high theoretical interest, when considered in relation to the kind of elevation by which the present great altitude of these mountains has been attained.

The features in the scenery of the Andes which struck me most, as contrasted with the few other mountain chains with which I am acquainted, were,—the flat fringes sometimes expanding into narrow plains on each side the valleys,—the bright colours, chiefly red and purple, of the utterly bare and precipitous hills,—the grand and continuous wall-like dikes,—the strongly-marked strata which, when nearly vertical, form the most picturesque and wild pinnacles, but where less inclined, great massive mountains; the latter occupying the outskirts of the range, and the former the more lofty and central parts,—lastly, the smooth conical piles of fine and brightly-coloured detritus, which slope at a high angle from the flanks of the mountains to their bases, some of the piles having a height of more than two thousand feet.

I frequently observed both in Tierra del Fuego, and within the Andes, that where the rock was covered during the greater part of the year with snow, it was shivered in a very extraordinary manner into small angular fragments. Scoresby⁠[2] has observed the same fact in Spitzbergen: he says, “The invariably broken state of the rocks appeared to have been the effect of frost. On calcareous rocks, some of which are not impervious to moisture, the effect is such as might have been expected; but how frost can operate in this way on quartz is not so easily understood.” The whole phenomenon appears to me rather obscure: for that part of the mountain which is covered during many months by a mantle of snow, must be less subject to repeated and great changes of temperature than any other, yet it is the most affected. I have sometimes thought, that the earth and fragments of stone lying on the surface, were perhaps less effectually removed by means of slowly percolating snow-water,⁠[3] than by the agency of rain, and therefore that the appearance of a quicker decay of the solid rock may be deceptive. Whatever the cause may be, the quantity of crumbling stone on the Cordillera is very great. Occasionally in the spring, masses of such matter slide down the mountains, and cover the snow-drifts in the valleys; thus forming natural ice-houses. We rode over one, the elevation of which was far below the limit of perpetual congelation.

As the evening drew to a close, we reached the Valle del Yeso. This is a very singular basin, which must have once been a very deep and large lake: the barrier is formed by a huge mountain of alluvium, on one side of which the river has cut a gorge. The plain is covered by a little dry pasture, and amidst the surrounding rocky deserts we had the pleasant sight of a herd of cattle. The valley takes its name of Yeso from a great bed, I should think at least two thousand feet thick, of white, and in some parts quite pure, gypsum. We slept with a party of men, who were employed in loading mules with this substance, which is used in the manufacture of wine.

March 21st.—We set out early in the morning, and continued to follow the course of the river, which by this time had become small, till we arrived at the foot of the ridge that separates the waters flowing into the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. The road, which as yet had been good, with a steady but very gradual ascent, now changed into a steep zigzag track. The Cordillera in this part consists of two principal ranges; the passes across which attain respectively an elevation of 13,210 and 14,365 feet.⁠[4] The first great line (consisting of course of many subordinate ones) is called Peuquenes. It divides the waters, and therefore likewise the republics of Chile and Mendoza. To the eastward, a mountainous and elevated region separates it from the second range (called the Portillo) overlooking the Pampas. The streams from the intermediate tract find a passage a little way to the southward through this second line.

I will here give a very brief sketch of the geological structure of these mountains: first, of the Peuquenes, or western line; for the constitution of the two ranges is totally different. The lowest stratified rock is a dull red or purple claystone porphyry, of many varieties, alternating with conglomerates, and breccia composed of a similar substance: this formation attains a thickness of more than a mile. Above it there is a grand mass of gypsum, which alternates, passes into, and is replaced by, red sandstone, conglomerates, and black calcareous clay-slate. I hardly dare venture to guess the thickness of this second division; but I have already said some of the beds of gypsum alone attain a thickness of at least two thousand feet. Even at the very crest of the Peuquenes, at the height of 13,210 feet, and above it, the black clay-slate contained numerous marine remains, amongst which a gryphæa is the most abundant, likewise shells, resembling turritellæ, terebratulæ, and an ammonite. It is an old story, but not the less wonderful, to hear of shells, which formerly were crawling about at the bottom of the sea, being now elevated nearly fourteen thousand feet above its level. The formation probably is of the age of the central parts of the secondary series of Europe.

These great piles of strata have been penetrated, upheaved, and overturned, in the most extraordinary manner, by masses of injected rock, equalling mountains in size. On the bare sides of the hills, complicated dikes, and wedges of variously-coloured porphyries and other stones, are seen traversing the strata in every possible form and direction; proving also by their intersections, successive periods of violence. The rock which composes the axis of these great lines of dislocation, at a distance very closely resembles granite, but on examination, it is found rarely to contain any quartz; and instead of ordinary felspar, albite.

The metamorphic action has been very great, as might have been expected from the close proximity of such grand masses of rock, which were injected when in a liquefied state from heat. When it is known, first, that the stratified porphyries have flowed as streams of submarine lava under an enormous pressure, and that the mechanical beds separating them owe their origin to explosions from the same submarine craters; secondly, that the whole mass in the lower part has generally been so completely fused into one solid rock by metamorphic action, that the lines of division can only be traced with much difficulty; and thirdly, that masses of porphyry, undistinguishable by their mineralogical characters from the two first kinds, have been subsequently injected;—the extreme complication of the whole will readily be believed.

We now come to the second range, which is of even greater altitude than the first. Its nucleus in the section seen in crossing the Portillo pass, consists of magnificent pinnacles of coarsely-crystallized red granite. On the eastern flank, a few patches of mica slate still adhere to the unstratified mass; and at the foot a stream of basaltic lava has burst forth at some remote period,—perhaps when the sea covered the wide surface of the Pampas. On the western side of the axis, between the two ranges, laminated fine sandstone has been penetrated by immense granitic dikes proceeding from the central mass, and has thus been converted into granular quartz rock. The sandstone is covered by other sedimentary deposits, and these again by a coarse conglomerate, the vast thickness of which I will not attempt even to estimate. All these coarse mechanical beds dip from the red granite directly towards the Peuquenes range, as if they passed beneath it; though such is not the case. On examining the pebbles composing this conglomerate (which, to my surprise, betrayed no signs of metamorphic action), I was astonished to find perfectly rounded masses of the black calcareous clay-slate with organic remains,—the same rock which I had just crossed in situ on the Peuquenes. These phenomena compel us to arrive at the following conclusion:—that the Peuquenes existed as dry land for a long period anterior to the formation of the second range, and that, during this period, immense quantities of shingle were accumulated at its submarine flank. The action of a disturbing force then commenced: these more modern deposits were injected by dikes, altered by heat, and tilted towards the line whence, in the form of sediment and pebbles, they had originally proceeded,—thus making the offspring at first appear older than its parent. This second, grand, and subsequent line of elevation is parallel to the first and more ancient one.

I will only make one other geological observation: the Portillo chain in the neighbourhood of the pass is rather more elevated than the Peuquenes, yet the waters of the intermediate district have burst a passage through it. On the supposition of a subsequent and gradual elevation of the second line, this can be understood; for a chain of islets would at first appear, and as these were lifted up, the tides would always be working out deeper and broader channels between them. At the present day, even in the most retired sounds on the southern coast, the currents in the transverse breaks which connect the longitudinal channels, is so strong, that I have heard of one instance where a small vessel under sail was whirled round and round.

Mr. Pentland,⁠[5] when describing an hydrographical phenomenon of a nearly similar kind, but on an infinitely grander scale, which occurs in Bolivia, says, “This very curious fact, of rivers escaping through such an immense mountain-mass as the Bolivian Cordillera, is perhaps one of the most important points connected with the physical geography of this portion of the Andes, and deserves to be noticed at greater length.” It would be extremely rash to affirm that the eastern chain in Bolivia, like that of central Chile, must be of subsequent origin to the western one, or that nearer to the Pacific: but excepting through the explanation above offered, the circumstance that rivers flowing from a less elevated chain, should penetrate one far more lofty, appears to me quite inexplicable.

About noon we began the tedious ascent of the Peuquenes, and then for the first time experienced some little difficulty in our respiration. The mules would halt every fifty yards, and then the poor willing animals after a few seconds started of their own accord again. The short breathing from the rarefied atmosphere is called by the Chilenos “puna;” they have most ridiculous notions concerning its origin. Some say, “all the waters here have puna;” others that “where there is snow there is puna;”—and this no doubt is true. It is considered a kind of disease, and I was shown the crosses over the graves of some who had died “punado.” Excepting perhaps in the case of a person suffering from some organic disease of the heart or chest, I should think this must be an erroneous conclusion. A person near death, would probably at this elevation experience a more unusual difficulty in breathing than others; and hence the effect might be assumed as the cause. The only sensation I felt was a slight tightness over the head and chest; a feeling which may be experienced by leaving a warm room and running violently on a frosty day. There was much fancy even in this; for upon finding fossil shells on the highest ridge, I entirely forgot the puna in my delight. Certainly the exertion of walking was extreme, and the respiration became deep and laborious. It is incomprehensible to me, how Humboldt and others were able to ascend to the elevation of 19,000 feet. No doubt a residence of some months in the lofty region of Quito would prepare the constitution for such an exertion; yet I am told that in Potosi (about 13,000 feet), strangers do not become quite accustomed to the atmosphere for an entire year. The inhabitants all recommend onions for the puna; as this vegetable has sometimes been given in Europe for pectoral complaints, it may possibly be of real service:—for my part, I found nothing so good as the fossil shells!

When about halfway up we met a large party with seventy loaded mules. It was interesting to hear the wild cries of the muleteers, and to watch the long string descending; they appeared so diminutive, there being nothing but the bleak mountains with which they could be compared. When near the summit, the wind, as generally happens there, was impetuous and extremely cold. On each side of the ridge we had to pass over broad bands of snow, which perpetually lie there, and were now soon to be covered by a fresh layer. When we reached the crest and looked backwards, a glorious view was presented. The atmosphere resplendently clear; the sky an intense blue; the profound valleys; the wild broken forms; the heaps of ruins, piled up during the lapse of ages; the bright-coloured rocks, contrasted with the quiet mountains of snow; all these together produced a scene I never could have figured to my imagination. Neither plant nor bird, excepting a few condors wheeling around the higher pinnacles, distracted the attention from the inanimate mass. I felt glad I was alone: it was like watching a thunderstorm, or hearing a chorus of the Messiah in full orchestra.

On several of the patches of perpetual snow, I found the Protococcus nivalis, or red snow, so well known from the accounts of Arctic navigators. My attention was called to the circumstance by observing the footsteps of the mules stained a pale red, as if their hoofs had been slightly bloody. I at first thought it was owing to dust blown from the surrounding mountains of red porphyry; for from the magnifying power of the crystals of snow, the groups of these atom-like plants appeared like coarse particles. The snow was coloured only where it had thawed very rapidly, or had been accidentally crushed. A small portion of it rubbed on paper communicated a faint rose tinge, mingled with a little brick red. I placed some of the snow between the leaves of my pocket-book, and a month afterwards examined with care the pale discoloured patches on the paper. The specimens, when scraped off, were of a spherical form, with a diameter of the thousandth of an inch. The central part consists of a blood-red substance, surrounded by a colourless bark. When living on the snow they are collected in groups, many lying close together; I overlooked, however, the thin couch of gelatinous matter on which they are said to rest.⁠[6] The dried specimens placed in any fluid, as water, spirits of wine, or dilated sulphuric acid, were acted on in two different ways: sometimes an expansion was caused, at others a contraction. The central part after immersion invariably appeared as a drop of red oily fluid, containing a few most minute granules; and these probably are the germs of new individuals.

As I before remarked, the wind on the crest of the Peuquenes is generally impetuous and very cold. It is said to blow steadily from the westward or Pacific side: a circumstance which is likewise mentioned by Dr. Gillies.⁠[7] As these observations apply chiefly to the summer season (when the passes are frequented), we must consider this wind, as an upper and return current. The Peak of Teneriffe, with a less elevation, and situated in lat. 28°, in like manner falls within the return stream. At first it appears rather surprising, that the trade-wind along the northern parts of Chile, and on the coast of Peru, should blow in so very southerly a direction as it does; but when we reflect, that the Cordillera, running in a north and south line, intercepts, like a great wall, the entire depth of the lower atmospheric current, we can easily see, that the trade-wind must be drawn northward, following the line of mountains, towards the equatorial regions, and thus lose part of that easterly movement which it otherwise would have gained from the rotation of the world. At Mendoza, on the eastern foot of the Andes, the climate is said to be subject to long calms, and to frequent though false appearances of gathering rain-storms: we may imagine that the wind, which coming from the eastward is thus banked up by the line of mountains, would become stagnant and irregular in its movements.

Having crossed the Peuquenes, we descended into the mountainous country, intermediate between the two ranges, and then took up our quarters for the night. The elevation was probably not much under 11,000 feet, and the vegetation in consequence exceedingly scanty. The root of a small scrubby plant served as fuel, but it made a miserable fire, and the wind was piercingly cold. Being quite tired with my day’s work, I made up my bed as quickly as I could, and went to sleep. About midnight I observed the sky became suddenly clouded: I awakened the arriero to know if there was any danger of bad weather; but he said that without thunder and lightning there was no risk of a heavy snow-storm. The peril is imminent, and the difficulty of subsequent escape great, to any one overtaken by bad weather between the two Cordillera. A certain cave offers the only place of refuge: Mr. Caldcleugh, who crossed on this same day of the month, was detained there for some time by a heavy fall of snow, as is related in his travels. Casuchas, or houses of refuge, have not been built in this pass as in that of Uspallata, and therefore, during the autumn, the Portillo is little frequented. I may here remark, that within the main Cordillera rain never falls, for during the summer, the sky is cloudless, and in winter snow-storms alone occur.

At the place where we slept, water necessarily boiled, from the diminished pressure of the atmosphere, at a much lower temperature than it does in a less elevated country; the case being the converse of that of a Papin’s digester. In consequence of this, the potatoes, after remaining for some hours in the boiling water, were nearly as hard as ever. The pot was left on the fire all night, and next morning it was boiled again, but yet the potatoes were not cooked. I found out this, by overhearing my two companions discussing the cause; they had come to the simple conclusion, “that the cursed pot (which was a new one) did not choose to boil potatoes.”

March 22d.—After eating our potato-less breakfast, we travelled across the intermediate tract, to the foot of the Portillo range. In the middle of summer cattle are brought up here to graze; but they had now all been removed; even the greater number of the guanacoes had decamped, knowing well, that, if overtaken by a snow-storm, they would be caught in a trap. We had a fine view of a mass of mountains called Tupungato, the whole clothed with unbroken snow. From one peak my arriero said he had once seen smoke proceeding; and I thought I could distinguish the form of a large crater. In the maps Tupungato figures as a single mountain; this Chileno method of giving one name to a tract of mountains is a fruitful source of error. In the region of snow there was a blue patch, which no doubt was a glacier;—a phenomenon that has been said not to occur in these mountains.

Now commenced a heavy and long climb, similar to that up the Peuquenes. Bold conical hills of red granite rose on each hand; and in the valley there were several broad fields of perpetual snow. These frozen masses, during the process of thawing, had in some parts assumed the form of pinnacles or columns, which, as they were high and close together, caused some difficulty on account of the cargo mules. This structure in frozen snow was long since observed by Scoresby in the icebergs near Spitzbergen, and lately, with more care, by Colonel Jackson⁠[8] on the Neva. On one of these columns of ice a frozen horse was exposed, sticking as on a pedestal, but with its hind legs straight up in the air. To account for its strange position, we must suppose that the animal fell with its head downward into a hole, when the stratum was continuous, and that afterwards the surrounding parts were removed by the thaw.

When nearly on the crest of the Portillo, we were enveloped in a cloud which was falling, under the form of minute frozen spicula. This was very unfortunate, as it continued the whole day, and quite intercepted our view. The pass takes its name of Portillo from a narrow cleft or doorway on the highest ridge, through which the road passes. From this point, on a clear day, those vast plains which extend from the base of the mountains towards the Atlantic can be seen. We descended to the upper limit of vegetation, and found good quarters for the night under the shelter of some large fragments of rock. We here met some passengers, who made anxious inquiries about the state of the road. Shortly after it was dark, the clouds suddenly cleared away; and the effect was quite magical. The great mountains, bright with the full moon, seemed impending over us on all sides, as if we had been buried at the bottom of some deep crevice. One morning also, very early, I witnessed the same striking effect. As soon as the clouds were dispersed, it froze severely; but as there was no wind, we slept very comfortably.

The increased brilliancy of the moon and stars at this elevation, owing to the perfect transparency of the atmosphere, was very remarkable. Travellers having observed the difficulty of judging heights and distances amidst lofty mountains, have generally attributed it to the absence of objects of comparison. It appears to me that it is fully as much owing to this transparency, confounding different distances, and partly, likewise, to the novelty of an unusual degree of fatigue arising from a little exertion,—habit being thus opposed to the evidence of the senses. I am sure that this extreme clearness of the air gives a peculiar character to the landscape; all objects appearing to be brought nearly into one plane, as in a drawing or panorama. The transparency is, I presume, owing to the equable and nearly perfect state of atmospheric dryness. The latter quality was shown by the manner in which woodwork shrunk (as I soon found by the trouble my geological hammer gave me); by articles of food, such as bread and sugar, becoming extremely hard; and by the preservation of the skin and parts of the flesh of the beasts, which perish on the road. To the same cause we must attribute the singular facility with which electricity is excited. My flannel-waistcoat, when rubbed in the dark, appeared as if it had been washed with phosphorus;—every hair on a dog’s back crackled;—even the linen sheets, and leathern straps of the saddle, when handled, emitted sparks.

March 23d.—The descent on the eastern side of the Cordillera is much shorter or steeper than on the Pacific side; in other words, the mountains rise more abruptly from the plains, than from the alpine country of Chile. A level and brilliantly white sea of clouds was extended beneath our feet, and thus shut out the view of the equally level Pampas. We soon entered the band of clouds, and did not again emerge from it that day. About noon, finding pasture for the animals and bushes for firewood, in a part of the valley called Los Arenales, we stopped for the night. This was near the uppermost limit of bushes, and the elevation, I suppose, was between seven and eight thousand feet.

I was very much struck with the marked difference between the vegetation of these eastern valleys and that of the opposite side: yet the climate, as well as the kind of soil, is nearly identical, and the difference of longitude very trifling. The same remark holds good with the quadrupeds, and in a lesser degree with the birds and insects. We must except certain species which habitually or occasionally frequent elevated mountains; and in the case of the birds, certain kinds, which have a range as far south as the Strait of Magellan. This fact is in perfect accordance with the geological history of the Andes; for these mountains have existed as a great barrier, since a period so remote that whole races of animals must subsequently have perished from the face of the earth. Therefore, unless we suppose the same species to have been created in two different countries, we ought not to expect any closer similarity between the organic beings on opposite sides of the Andes, than on shores separated by a broad strait of the sea. In both cases we must leave out of the question those kinds which have been able to cross the barrier, whether of salt water or solid rock.⁠[9]⁠

A great number of the plants and animals were absolutely the same, or most closely allied with those of Patagonia. We here have the agouti, bizcacha, three species of armadillo, the ostrich, certain kinds of partridges, and other birds, none of which are ever seen in Chile, but are the characteristic animals of the desert plains of Patagonia. We have likewise many of the same (to the eyes of a person who is not a botanist) thorny stunted bushes, withered grass, and dwarf plants. Even the black slowly-crawling beetles are closely similar, and some, I believe, on rigorous examination, absolutely identical. It had always been a subject of regret to me, that we were unavoidably compelled to give up the ascent of the St. Cruz river before reaching the mountains. I always had a latent hope of meeting with some great change in the features of the country; but I now feel sure, that it would only have been following the plains of Patagonia up an ascent.

March 24th.—Early in the morning I climbed up a mountain on one side of the valley, and enjoyed a far-extended view over the Pampas. This was a spectacle to which I had always looked forward with interest, but I was disappointed. At the first glance there was a strong resemblance to a distant view of the ocean, but in the northern parts many irregularities in the surface were soon distinguishable. The most striking feature in the scene consisted of the rivers, which, facing the rising sun, glittered like silver threads, till lost in the immensity of the distance.

In the middle of the day, we descended the valley, and reached a hovel, where an officer and three soldiers were posted to examine passports. One of these men was a thorough-bred Pampas Indian. He was kept much for the same purpose as a bloodhound, to track out any person who might pass by secretly, either on foot or horseback. Some years ago, a passenger had endeavoured to escape detection, by making a long circuit over a neighbouring mountain; but this Indian, having by chance crossed his track, followed it for the whole day, over dry and very stony parts, till at last he came on his prey hidden in a gully. We here heard that the silvery clouds, which we had admired from the bright region above, had poured down torrents of rain. The valley from this point gradually opened, and the hills became mere water-worn hillocks compared to the giants behind. It then expanded into a gently-sloping plain of shingle, covered with low trees and bushes. This talus, although it looked of little breadth, must be nearly ten miles wide, before it blends into the apparently dead level Pampas. We had already passed the only house in this neighbourhood, the Estancia of Chaquaio; and at sunset we pulled up in the first snug corner, and there bivouacked.

March 25th.—I was reminded of the Pampas of Buenos Ayres, by seeing the disk of the rising sun, intersected by an horizon, level as that of the ocean. During the night a heavy dew had fallen, a fact we did not experience within the Cordillera. The road proceeded for some distance due east across a low swamp; then meeting the dry plain, it turned to the north towards Mendoza. The distance is two very long days’ journey. Our first day’s journey was called fourteen leagues to Estacado, and the second seventeen to Luxan, near Mendoza. The whole distance is over a level desert plain, with not more than two or three houses. The sun was exceedingly powerful, and the ride devoid of all interest. There is very little water in this “traversia,” and in our second day’s journey, we found only one little pool. The water flowing from the mountains is small in quantity and soon becomes absorbed by the dry and porous soil; so that, although we travelled at the distance of only ten or fifteen miles from the outer range, we did not cross a single stream. In many parts the ground was incrusted with a saline efflorescence; hence we had the same salt-loving plants, common near Bahia Blanca. The landscape has one character from the Strait of Magellan along the whole eastern coast of Patagonia to the Rio Colorado; and it appears that the same kind of country extends northerly in a sweeping line as far as San Luis, and perhaps even further. To the eastward of this line, lies the basin of the comparatively damp and green plains of Buenos Ayres. The former country, including the sterile traversia of Mendoza and Patagonia, consists of a bed of shingle, worn smooth, and accumulated by the waves of a former sea; while the formation of the Pampas (plains covered by thistles, clover, and grass) is due to the estuary mud of the Plata, deposited under a different condition of circumstances.

After our two days’ tedious journey, it was refreshing to see in the distance the rows of poplars and willows growing around the village and river of Luxan. Shortly before we arrived at this place, we observed to the southward a ragged cloud of a dark reddish-brown colour. For some time, we had no doubt but that it was thick smoke proceeding from some great fire on the plains. Soon afterwards we found it was a pest of locusts.⁠[10] The insects overtook us, as they were travelling northward, by the aid of a light breeze, at the rate, I should suppose, of ten or fifteen miles an hour. The main body filled the air from a height of twenty feet, to that, as it appeared, of two or three thousand above the ground. The noise of their approach was that of a strong breeze⁠[11] passing through the rigging of a ship. The sky seen through the advanced guard appeared like a mezzotinto engraving, but the main body was impervious to sight; they were not, however, so thick, but that they could escape from a stick moved backward and forward. When they alighted they were more numerous than the leaves in a field, and changed the green into a reddish colour: the swarm having once alighted, the individuals flew from side to side in any direction. The locusts are not an uncommon pest in this country: already during the season, several smaller swarms had come up from the sterile plains⁠[12] of the south; and many trees had been entirely stripped of their leaves. Of course this swarm cannot even be compared to those of the eastern world, yet it was sufficient to make the well-known descriptions of their ravages more intelligible. I have omitted, perhaps, the most striking part of the scene,—the vain attempts of the poor cottagers to turn the stream aside. Many lighted fires and with the smoke, with shouts and waving of branches, they endeavoured to avert the attack.

We crossed the Luxan, which is a river of considerable size, though its course towards the sea-coast is very imperfectly known. It is even doubtful whether, in passing over the plains, it is evaporated, or whether it forms a tributary of the Sauce or Colorado. We slept in the village, which is a small place surrounded by gardens, and forms the most southern part, that is cultivated, of the province of Mendoza; it is five leagues south of the capital. At night I experienced an attack (for it deserves no less a name) of the Benchuca (a species of Reduvius) the great black bug of the Pampas. It is most disgusting to feel soft wingless insects, about an inch long, crawling over one’s body. Before sucking they are quite thin, but afterwards become round and bloated with blood, and in this state they are easily crushed. They are also found in the northern parts of Chile and in Peru. One which I caught at Iquique was very empty. When placed on the table, and though surrounded by people, if a finger was presented, the bold insect would immediately draw its sucker, make a charge, and if allowed, draw blood. No pain was caused by the wound. It was curious to watch its body during the act of sucking, as it changed in less than ten minutes, from being as flat as a wafer to a globular form. This one feast, for which the benchuca was indebted to one of the officers, kept it fat during four whole months; but, after the first fortnight, the insect was quite ready to have another suck.

March 27th.—We rode on to Mendoza. The country was beautifully cultivated, and resembled Chile. This neighbourhood is celebrated for its fruit; and certainly nothing could appear more flourishing than the vineyards and the orchards of figs, peaches, and olives. We bought watermelons nearly twice as large as a man’s head, most deliciously cool and well-flavoured, for a halfpenny apiece; and for the value of threepence, half a wheelbarrowful of peaches. The cultivated and enclosed part of this province is very small; there is little more than that which we passed through between Luxan and the capital. The land, as in Chile, entirely owes its fertility to artificial irrigation; and it is really wonderful to observe how abundantly productive a barren traversia is rendered by this simple process.

We staid the ensuing day in Mendoza. The prosperity of the place has much declined of late years. The inhabitants say “it is good to live in, but very bad to grow rich in.” The lower orders have the lounging, reckless manners of the Gauchos of the Pampas; and their dress, riding gear, and habits of life, are nearly the same. To my mind the town had a stupid forlorn aspect. Neither the boasted alameda, nor the scenery, is at all comparable to that of Santiago; but to those who have just crossed the unvaried savannahs of grass, on their road from Buenos Ayres, the gardens and orchards must appear delightful. Captain Head, speaking of the inhabitants, says, “They eat their dinners, and it is so very hot, they go to sleep—and could they do better?” I quite agree with Captain Head: the happy doom of the Mendozinos is to eat, sleep, and be idle.

March 29th.—We set out on our return to Chile by the Uspallata pass to the northward of Mendoza. We had to cross a long and most sterile traversia of fifteen leagues. The soil in parts was absolutely bare, in others covered by numberless dwarf cacti, armed with formidable spines, and called by the inhabitants “little lions.” There were also a few low bushes. Although the plain is elevated about three thousand feet above the sea, the sun was very powerful; this, and the clouds of impalpable dust, rendered the travelling extremely irksome. Our course during the day lay nearly parallel to the mountains, but gradually approaching them. Before sunset we entered one of the wide valleys, or rather bays, which open on the plain: this soon narrowed into a ravine, and a little higher up the house of the Villa Vicencio was situated. As we had ridden all day without a drop of water, both ourselves and our animals were very thirsty, and we looked out anxiously for the stream which flows down this valley. It was curious to observe how gradually the water made its appearance: on the plain the course was quite dry; by degrees it became a little damper; then puddles of water were formed; these soon became connected, and at Villa Vicencio there was a nice little rivulet.

30th.—The solitary hovel which bears the imposing name of Villa Vicencio, has been mentioned by every traveller who has crossed the Andes. I staid here, and at some neighbouring mines, during the two succeeding days. The geology of the surrounding country is very curious. The Uspallata range is separated from the true Cordillera by a long narrow plain or basin, like those so often mentioned in Chile, but with an altitude of about six thousand feet. The range consists of various kinds of submarine lava, alternating with volcanic sandstones and other remarkable sedimentary deposits; the whole having a very close resemblance to some of the newer horizontal beds on the shores of the Pacific. From this resemblance I expected to find silicified wood, which is generally characteristic of those formations. I was gratified in a very extraordinary manner. In the central part of the range, at an elevation probably of seven thousand feet, on a bare slope, I observed some snow-white projecting columns. These were petrified trees, eleven being silicified, and from thirty to forty converted into coarsely-crystallized white calcareous spar. They were abruptly broken off; the upright stumps projecting a few feet above the ground. The trunks measured from three to five feet each in circumference. They stood a little way apart from each other, but the whole formed one distinct group. Mr. Robert Brown has been kind enough to examine the wood: he says it is coniferous, and that it partakes of the character of the Araucarian tribe (to which the common South Chilian pine belongs), but with some curious points of affinity with the yew. The volcanic sandstone in which they were embedded, and from the lower part of which they must have sprung, had accumulated in successive thin layers around their trunks; and the stone yet retained the impression of the bark.

It required little geological practice to interpret the marvellous story, which this scene at once unfolded; though I confess I was at first so much astonished that I could scarcely believe the plainest evidence of it. I saw the spot where a cluster of fine trees had once waved their branches on the shores of the Atlantic, when that ocean (now driven back 700 miles) approached the base of the Andes. I saw that they had sprung from a volcanic soil which had been raised above the level of the sea, and that this dry land, with its upright trees, had subsequently been let down to the depths of the ocean. There it was covered by sedimentary matter, and this again by enormous streams of submarine lava—one such mass alone attaining the thickness of a thousand feet; and these deluges of melted stone and aqueous deposits had been five times spread out alternately. The ocean which received such masses must have been deep; but again the subterranean forces exerted their power, and I now beheld the bed of that sea forming a chain of mountains more than seven thousand feet in altitude. Nor had those antagonist forces been dormant, which are always at work to wear down the surface of the land to one level: the great piles of strata had been intersected by many wide valleys; and the trees now changed into silex were exposed projecting from the volcanic soil now changed into rock, whence formerly in a green and budding state they had raised their lofty heads. Now, all is utterly irreclaimable and desert; even the lichen cannot adhere to the stony casts of former trees. Vast, and scarcely comprehensible as such changes must ever appear, yet they have all occurred within a period recent when compared with the history of the Cordillera; and that Cordillera itself is modern as compared with some other of the fossiliferous strata of South America.

April 1st.—We crossed the Uspallata range; and at night slept at the custom-house—the only inhabited spot on the plain. Shortly before leaving the mountains, there was a very extraordinary view: red, purple, green, and quite white sedimentary rocks, alternating with black lavas, were broken up and thrown into all kinds of disorder, by masses of porphyry, of every shade, from dark brown to the brightest lilac. It was the first view I ever saw, which really resembled those pretty sections which geologists make of the inside of the earth.

The next day we crossed the plain, and followed the course of the same great mountain-stream which flows by Luxan. Here it was a furious torrent, quite impassable, and appearing larger than in the low country; as was the case with the rivulet of Villa Vincencio. On the evening of the succeeding day we reached the Rio de las Vacas, which is considered the worst stream in the Cordillera to cross. As all these rivers have a rapid and short course, and are due to the snow melted by the sun’s heat, the hour of the day makes a considerable difference in their volume. In the evening the stream is muddy and full, but about daybreak it becomes both clearer and much less impetuous. This we found to be the case with the Rio Vacas, and in the morning we crossed it with little difficulty.

The scenery thus far was very uninteresting, compared with that of the Portillo pass. Little can be seen beyond the bare walls of the one grand, flat-bottomed valley, which the road follows up to the highest crest. The valley and the huge rocky mountains were extremely barren: during the two previous nights the poor mules had absolutely nothing to eat; for excepting a few low resinous bushes, scarcely a plant could be seen. We went over in the course of this day some of the worst passes in the Cordillera. The degree of exaggeration concerning their danger and difficulty is very great. In Chile I was even told, that if I attempted to pass on foot my head would turn giddy, that there was no room to dismount, &c., but I did not see a place where any one might not have walked over backwards, or got off his mule on either side. One of the bad passes called las Animas (the Souls), I had crossed, and did not find out till a day afterwards that it was one of the awful dangers. No doubt there are many parts in which, if the mule should stumble, the rider would be hurled down a great precipice; but of such a catastrophe there is much less chance than with a man on foot. I dare say, in the spring, the “laderas,” or roads, which each year are formed anew across the piles of fallen detritus, are very bad; but from what I have seen, I suspect the real danger is nothing, and the apparent very little. With cargo mules the case is rather different; for the loads project so far, that the animals occasionally running against each other, or against a point of rock, lose their balance and are thrown down the precipice. With regard to crossing the rivers, I can well believe that the difficulty amounts to every degree, till they are impracticable. At this season there was little trouble, but in the summer they must be very bad. I can quite imagine, as Captain Head describes, the different expressions of those who have passed the gulf, and those who are passing. I never heard of any man being drowned, but with loaded mules this is of frequent occurrence. The arriero tells you to show your mule the best line, and then allow her to cross as she chooses; the cargo mule takes a bad line, and is often lost.

April 4th.—From the Rio de las Vacas to the Puente del Inca, half a day’s journey. As there was pasture for the mules, and geology for me, we bivouacked for the night. When one hears of a natural bridge, one pictures to oneself some deep and narrow ravine, across which a bold mass of rock has fallen; or a great arch hollowed out like the vault of a cavern. Instead of this, the Inca’s bridge consists of a crust of stratified shingle, cemented together by the deposits of the neighbouring hot springs. It appears as if the stream had scooped out a channel on one side, leaving an overhanging ledge, which was at last met by the earth and stones falling down from the opposite cliff. Certainly an oblique junction, as would happen in such case, was very distinct on one side. The bridge of the Incas is by no means worthy of the great monarchs whose name it bears.

Close by, there were some ruins of Indian buildings. These occur in several other places; the most perfect, which I saw, being the Ruinas de Tambillos. Small square rooms were there huddled together, but placed in distinct groups. Some of the doorways were yet standing: they were formed by a cross slab of stone, but only raised about three feet high. Ulloa, in his “Noticias Americanas,” remarks on the lowness of the doors in the ancient Peruvian dwellings. These houses, when perfect, must have been capable of containing a considerable number of persons. Tradition says, they were used as halting-places for the Incas, when they crossed these mountains. Traces of Indian habitations have been discovered in many parts of the Cordillera, where it does not appear probable, that they were constructed as mere resting-places; but yet where the land is as utterly unfit for any kind of cultivation as it is near the Tambillos or Puente del Inca. In the Portillo pass I saw one group of such ruins. In the ravine of Jajuel, near Aconcagua, where there is no pass, I heard of numerous remains situated at a great elevation, where it is both cold and extremely sterile. At first I imagined, that these houses were places of refuge built by the Indians on the first arrival of the Spaniards; but subsequently I have been almost inclined to speculate on the possibility of a small change of climate.

In the northern parts of Chile, within the Cordillera of Copiapó, old Indian houses are found in very many parts: by digging amongst the ruins, bits of woollen articles, instruments of precious metals, and heads of Indian corn, are not unfrequently discovered. I had likewise in my possession the head of an arrow, made of agate, of precisely the same figure as those now used in Tierra del Fuego. I am aware that the Peruvian Indians⁠[13] frequently inhabit most lofty and bleak situations; but in these cases, I was assured by men, who had spent their lives in travelling the Andes, that very many (muchisimas) houses were found at elevations so great as almost to border on the perpetual snow, and in parts where there exist no passes, and where the land produces absolutely nothing, and what is still more extraordinary, where there is no water. Nevertheless it is the opinion of the people of the country (although they are much puzzled by the circumstance), that, from the appearance of the houses, the Indians must have used them as places of residence. In the Despoblado (uninhabited valley), near Copiapó, at a spot called Punta Gorda, I saw the remains of seven or eight square little rooms, which were of a similar form with those at the Tambillos, but built chiefly of mud (which the present inhabitants cannot by any means imitate in durability⁠[14]⁠) instead of with stone. They were situated in the most conspicuous and defenceless position, at the bottom of a flat broad valley. There was no water nearer than three or four leagues, and that only in very small quantity, and bad: the soil was absolutely sterile;—I looked in vain even for a lichen adhering to the rocks. At the present day, with the advantage of beasts of burden, a mine, unless it were very rich, could scarcely be worked there with profit. Yet the Indians formerly chose it as a place of residence! If at the present time two or three showers of rain were to fall annually, instead of one during as many years, as now is the case, a small rill of water would in all probability be formed in this great valley, draining a mountainous country; and then, by irrigation (the method of which was formerly so well understood by the Indians), the soil might easily be rendered sufficiently productive to support a few families.

I have certain proofs that this part of the continent of South America has been elevated, near the coast, at least from four to five hundred feet, since the epoch of existing shells; and further inland the rise possibly may have been greater. As the peculiarly arid character of the climate is evidently a consequence of the height of the great range of mountains, we may feel almost sure, that prior to the latter elevations, the atmosphere was not so completely drained of its moisture as at the present day. At a remote geological era, it is probable that the Andes consisted of a chain of islands, which were covered by luxuriant forests; and many of the trees, in a silicified state, may now be seen embedded in the upper conglomerates. Of these I measured one which was cylindrical, with a circumference of fifteen feet. As it is nearly certain that the mountains have risen slowly, so would the climate likewise become deteriorated slowly. We need not feel greatly surprised at walls of stone and hardened mud here lasting for many ages, when we remember how many centuries the Druidical mounds have withstood even the climate of England. The only question is, whether the amount of change, since the introduction of man into South America, has been sufficient to cause a sensible effect on the atmospheric moisture, and therefore on the fertility of the valleys in the upper Cordillera. From the extreme slowness with which there is reason to believe the continent is rising, the longevity of man as a species, required to allow of sufficient change, is the most valid objection to the above speculations: for on the eastern shores of this continent, we have seen that several animals, belonging to the same class of mammalia with man, have passed away, while the change of level between land and water, in that part at least, has been so small, that it can scarcely have caused any sensible difference in the climate. I may add, however, that at Lima, the elevation, within the human epoch, certainly has amounted to between seventy and eighty feet.

When at Lima, I conversed on this subject⁠[15] with Mr. Gill, a civil engineer, who had seen much of the interior country. He told me that a conjecture of a change of climate had sometimes crossed his mind; but that he thought that the greater portion of land now incapable of cultivation, but covered with Indian ruins, had been reduced to that condition, by neglect and subterranean movements injuring the water conduits, which the Indians formerly constructed on so wonderful a scale. I may here just mention that these people actually carried tunnels through hills of solid rock, when such were necessary to conduct the irrigating streams. Mr. Gill told me, he had been employed professionally to examine one; he found the passage low, narrow, crooked, and not of uniform breadth, but of very considerable length. Is it not most wonderful that any people should have attempted such operations without the aid of iron or of gunpowder!

Mr. Gill mentioned to me a most interesting, and as far as I am aware, quite unparalleled case, of the effect of subterranean disturbances in altering the drainage of a country. Travelling from Casma to Huaraz (not very far distant from Lima), he found a plain covered with ruins and marks of ancient cultivation, but now quite barren. Near it was the dry course of a considerable river, whence the water for irrigation had formerly been conducted. There was nothing in the appearance of the watercourse to indicate that the river had not flowed there a few years previously: in some parts beds of sand and gravel were scattered, and in others the solid rock had been worn into a broad channel.⁠[16] It is self-evident that a person following up the course of a stream, will always ascend at a greater or less inclination. Mr. Gill was therefore very much astonished, when walking up the bed of this ancient river, to find himself suddenly going down hill. He imagined that the slope had a fall of about forty or fifty feet perpendicular. We here have the most unequivocal evidence, that a ridge or line of hills has been uplifted directly across the bed of a stream, which must have been flowing for many centuries. From the moment the river-course was thus arched, the water would necessarily be thrown back; and a new channel would be formed on one side some way above. From that time, also, the neighbouring plain would lose its fertilizing stream, and become converted into the desert which it now remains.

April 5th.—We had a long day’s ride across the central ridge, from the Inca’s bridge to the Ojos del Agua, which is situated near the lowest casucha on the western slope. These casuchas are little round towers, with steps outside to reach the floor, which is elevated some feet above the ground on account of the snow-drifts. They are eight in number; and under the Spanish government, were kept during the winter well stored with food and charcoal, and each courier had a master-key. Now they only answer the purpose of caves, or rather dungeons. Seated on some little eminence, they are not, however, ill suited to the surrounding scene of desolation. The zigzag ascent of the Cumbre, or the partition of the waters, was very steep and tedious. The height, according to Mr. Pentland,⁠[17] is 12,454 feet. The road did not pass over any perpetual snow, although there were patches on either hand. The wind on the summit was exceedingly cold, but it was impossible not to stop a few minutes to admire, again and again, the colour of the heavens, and the brilliant transparency of the atmosphere. The scenery, moreover, was grand. To the westward there was a fine chaos of mountains, divided by profound ravines. Generally some snow has fallen before this period of the season, and it has even happened that the Cordillera has been finally closed by this time. But we were most fortunate. The sky, by night and by day, was cloudless, excepting perhaps a few round little masses of vapour, that floated over the highest pinnacles. I have often seen these islets in the sky, marking the position of the Cordillera, when the mountains themselves have been hidden beneath the horizon.

April 6th.—In the morning we found some thief had stolen one of our mules, and the bell of the madrina. We therefore rode only two or three miles down the valley, and staid there the ensuing day in hopes of recovering the mule, which the arriero thought had been hidden in some ravine. The scenery in this part had assumed a Chilian character: the lower parts of the mountains, dotted over with the pale evergreen Quillay tree, and with the great candlestick cactus, certainly are more to be admired than any thing in the bare Eastern valleys; but I cannot quite agree with the admiration expressed by some travellers. The extreme pleasure, I suspect, is chiefly owing to the prospect of a good fire, after escaping from the cold regions above: and I am sure I most heartily participated in such feelings.

8th.—We left the valley of the river of Aconcagua, by which we had descended, and reached in the evening a cottage near the Villa de St. Rosa. The fertility of the plain was extremely delightful. The autumn being well advanced, the leaves of many of the fruit-trees were falling; and of the labourers—some were busy in drying figs and peaches on the roofs of their cottages; while others were gathering the grapes from the vineyards. It was a pretty scene; but that pensive stillness was absent, which makes the autumn in England indeed the evening of the year.

On the 10th we reached Santiago, where I experienced a very kind and hospitable reception from Mr. Caldcleugh. My excursion only cost me twenty-four days, and never did I more deeply enjoy an equal space of time. A few days afterwards I returned to Mr. Corfield’s house at Valparaiso.

FOOTNOTES: