Chapter XVIII

Bell mountain—Miners—Great loads carried by the Apires—Coquimbo—Earthquake—Geology—Terraces—Excursion up valley—Road to Guasco—Desert country—Valley of Copiapó—Rain and earthquakes, meteorolites—Hydrophobia—Copiapó—Excursion to Cordillera—Dry valley—Cold gales of wind—Noises from a hill—Iquique, complete desert—Salt alluvium—Nitrate of soda—Lima—Unhealthy country—Ruins of Callao, overthrown by earthquake—Elevated shells on island of San Lorenzo—Plain with embedded fragments of pottery.

NORTHERN CHILE AND PERU.

April 27th.—I set out on a journey to Coquimbo, and thence through Guasco to Copiapó, where Captain FitzRoy kindly offered to pick me up in the Beagle. The distance in a straight line along the shore northward is only 420 miles; but my mode of travelling caused me to find it a very long journey. I bought four horses and two mules, the latter carrying the cargo on alternate days. The six animals together only cost the value of twenty-five pounds sterling, and at Copiapó I sold them again for twenty-three. We travelled in the same independent manner as before, cooking our own meals, and sleeping in the open air. As we rode towards the Vino del Mar, I took a farewell view of Valparaiso, and admired its picturesque appearance. For geological purposes I made a detour from the high road to the foot of the Bell mountain. We passed through a highly auriferous district to the neighbourhood of Limache, where we slept. The country is covered with much alluvium, and by the side of each little rivulet it has been washed for gold. This employment supports the inhabitants of numerous scattered hovels; but, like all those who gain by chance, they are unthrifty in their habits.

28th.—In the afternoon we arrived at a cottage at the foot of the Bell mountain. The inhabitants were freeholders, which is not very usual in Chile. They supported themselves on the produce of a garden and a little field, but were very poor. Capital is so deficient in this part, that the people are obliged to sell their green corn while it is standing in the field, in order to buy necessaries for the ensuing year. Wheat in consequence was dearer in the very district of its production, than at Valparaiso, where the contractors live. The next day we joined the main road to Coquimbo. At night there was a very light shower of rain: this was the first drop that had fallen since the heavy rain of September 11th and 12th, which detained me a prisoner at the baths of Cauquenes. The interval was seven and a half months; but the rain this year in Chile was rather later than usual. The Andes were now covered by a thick mass of snow; and they presented, in the distance, a very glorious sight.

May 2d.—The road continued to follow the coast, at no great distance from the sea. The few trees and bushes which are common in central Chile, decreased rapidly in numbers, and were replaced by a tall plant, something like a yucca in appearance. The surface of the country, on a small scale, was singularly broken and irregular; abrupt little peaks of rock rising out of small plains or basins. The indented coast, and the bottom of the neighbouring sea, studded with breakers, would if converted into dry land, present similar forms; and such a conversion without doubt has taken place in the part over which we rode.

3d.—Quilimari to Conchalee. The country became more and more barren. In the valleys there was scarcely sufficient water for any irrigation; and the intermediate land was quite bare, not supporting even goats. In the spring, after the winter showers, a thin pasture rapidly springs up, and cattle are then driven down from the Cordillera to graze for a short time. It is curious to observe how the seeds of the grass seem to know, as if by an acquired instinct, what quantity of rain to expect. One shower far northward at Copiapó produces as great an effect on the vegetation, as two at Guasco, and as three or four in this district. At Valparaiso a winter so dry as to injure most seriously the pasture, would at Guasco produce the most unusual abundance. Travelling northward the quantity of rain does not appear to decrease in strict proportion to the distance. At Conchalee, which is only halfway between Valparaiso and Coquimbo (being 67 miles north of the former) rain is not expected till the end of May; whereas, at Valparaiso some generally falls early in April. The annual quantity is likewise small in proportion to the lateness of the season at which it commences.

May 4th.—Finding the coast-road devoid of interest of every kind, we turned inland towards the mining district of Illapel. The town of that name is very regular and pretty. Its flourishing condition depends on numerous mines, chiefly of copper, which occur in its immediate vicinity. This valley, like every other in Chile, is level, broad, and very fertile: it is bordered on each side, either by cliffs of stratified shingle, or by bare rocky mountains. Above the straight line of the uppermost irrigating ditch, all is brown as on a high road; while all below, is of as bright a green as verdigris, from the beds of alfalfa, a kind of clover.

We proceeded to Los Hornos, another mining district, where the principal hill was drilled with holes, like a great ants’ nest. The Chilian miners are in their habits a peculiar race of men. Living for weeks together in the most desolate spots, when they descend to the villages on feast-days, there is no excess or extravagance into which they do not run. They sometimes gain a considerable sum, and then, like sailors with prize-money, they try how soon they can contrive to squander it. They drink excessively, buy quantities of clothes, and in a few days return penniless to their miserable abodes, there to work harder than beasts of burden. This thoughtlessness, as with sailors, is evidently the result of a similar manner of life. Their daily food is found them, and they acquire no habitual care as to the means of subsistence: moreover, at the same moment that temptation is offered, the means of enjoying it is placed in their power. On the other hand, in Cornwall, and some other parts of England, where the system of selling part of the vein is followed, the miners, from being obliged to act for themselves, and to judge with clearness, are a singularly intelligent and well-conducted set of men.

The dress of the Chilian miner is peculiar and rather picturesque. He wears a very long shirt, of some dark-coloured baize, with a leathern apron; the whole being fastened round his waist by a brightly-coloured sash. His trousers are very broad, and his small cap of scarlet cloth is made to fit the head closely. We met a party of these miners in full costume, carrying the body of one of their companions to be buried. They marched at a very quick trot, four men supporting the corpse. One set having run as hard as they could for about two hundred yards, were relieved by four others, who had previously dashed on ahead on horseback. Thus they proceeded, encouraging each other by wild cries: altogether the scene formed a most strange funeral.

We continued travelling northward, in a zigzag line; sometimes stopping a day to geologise. The country was so thinly inhabited, and the track so obscure, that we often had difficulty in finding our way. On the 12th I stayed at some mines. The ore in this case was not considered particularly good, but from being abundant it was supposed the mine would sell for about thirty or forty thousand dollars (that is 6000 or 8000 pounds sterling); yet it was bought by one of the English Associations for an ounce of gold (3l. 8s.). The ore is yellow pyrites, which as I have already remarked, before the arrival of the English, was not supposed to contain a particle of copper. On a scale of profits, nearly as great as in the above instance, piles of scoriæ abounding with minute globules of metallic copper were purchased; yet with these advantages, the mining associations, as is well known, contrived to lose immense sums of money. The folly of the greater number of commissioners and shareholders, amounted to infatuation:—a thousand pounds per annum given in some cases to entertain the authorities; libraries of well-bound geological books; bringing out miners for particular metals (as tin) which were soon found not to exist in the country; contracts to supply the miners with milk, in parts where there were no cows; machinery, where such could not possibly be used; and a hundred similar arrangements, bore witness to our absurdity, and to this day afford amusement to the natives. Yet there can be no doubt, that the same capital well employed in these mines would have yielded an immense return: a confidential man of business, a practical miner and assayer, would have been all that was required.

Captain Head has described the wonderful load which the “Apires,” truly beasts of burden, carry up from deep mines. I confess I thought the account exaggerated; so that I was glad to take the opportunity of weighing one of the loads, which I picked out by hazard. It required considerable exertion on my part, when standing directly over it, to lift it from the ground. The load was considered under weight when found to be 197 pounds. The apire had carried this up eighty perpendicular yards,—part of the way by a steep passage, but the greater part up notched poles, placed in a zigzag line in the shaft. According to the general regulation, the apire is not allowed to halt for breath, except the mine is six hundred feet deep. The average load is considered as rather more than 200 pounds, and I have been assured that one of 300 pounds (twenty-two stone and a half) by way of a trial has been brought up from the deepest mine! At this time the apires were bringing up the usual load twelve times in the day; that is, 2400 pounds from eighty yards deep; and they were employed in the intervals in breaking and picking ore.

These men, excepting from accidents, are healthy, and appear cheerful. Their bodies are not very muscular. They rarely eat meat once a week, and never oftener, and then only the hard dry charqui. Although with a knowledge that the labour is voluntary, it was nevertheless quite revolting to see the state in which they reached the mouth of the mine; their bodies bent forward, leaning with their arms on the steps, their legs bowed, the muscles quivering, the perspiration streaming from their faces over their breasts, their nostrils distended, the corners of their mouth forcibly drawn back, and the expulsion of their breath most laborious. Each time, from habit, they utter an articulate cry of “ay-ay,” which ends in a sound rising from deep in the chest, but shrill like the note of a fife. After staggering to the pile of ores, they emptied the “carpacho;” in two or three seconds recovering their breath, they wiped the sweat from their brows, and apparently quite fresh descended the mine again at a quick pace. This appears to me a wonderful instance of the amount of labour which habit (for it can be nothing else), will enable a man to endure.

In the evening, talking with the mayor-domo of these mines, about the number of foreigners now scattered over the whole country, he told me that, though quite a young man, he remembers when a boy at school at Coquimbo, a holiday being given, to see the captain of an English ship, who was brought to the city to speak to the governor. He believes that nothing would have induced any boy in the school, himself included, to have gone close to the Englishman; so deeply had they been impressed with an idea of the heresy, contamination, and evil to be derived from contact with such a person. To this day they relate the atrocious actions of the bucaniers; and especially of one man, who took away the figure of the Virgin Mary, and returned the year after for that of St. Joseph, saying it was a pity the lady should not have a husband. I heard also of an old lady who, at a dinner in Coquimbo, remarked how wonderfully strange it was that she should have lived to dine in the same room with an Englishman; for she remembered as a girl, that twice, at the mere cry of “Los Ingleses,” every soul, carrying what valuables they could, had taken to the mountains.

May 14th.—We reached Coquimbo, where we staid a few days. The town is remarkable for nothing but its extreme quietness. It is said to contain from 6000 to 8000 inhabitants. On the morning of the 17th it rained lightly (the first time this year) for about five hours. With this shower, the farmers, who plant corn near the sea-coast where the atmosphere is more humid, would break up the ground; with a second, put the seed in: and if a third should fall, they would reap in the spring a good harvest. It was interesting to watch the effect of this trifling amount of moisture. Twelve hours afterwards the ground appeared as dry as ever; yet after an interval of ten days, all the hills were faintly tinged with green patches; the grass being sparingly scattered in hair-like fibres a full inch in length. Before this shower every part of the surface was bare as on a high road.

In the evening, Captain FitzRoy and myself were dining with Mr. Edwards, an English resident well known for his hospitality by all who have visited Coquimbo, when a sharp earthquake happened. I heard the forecoming rumble, but from the screams of the ladies, the running of servants, and the rush of several of the gentlemen to the doorway, I could not distinguish the motion. Some of the women afterwards were crying with terror, and one person said he should not be able to sleep all night, or if he did, it would only be to dream of falling houses. The father of this gentleman had lately lost all his property at Talcahuano, and he himself only just escaped a falling roof at Valparaiso, in 1822. He mentioned a curious coincidence which then happened: he was playing at cards, when a German, one of the party, got up, and said he would never sit in a room in these countries with the door shut, since, owing to his having done so, he had nearly lost his life at Copiapó. Accordingly he opened the door; and no sooner had he done this, than he cried out, “Here it comes again!” and the famous shock commenced. The whole party escaped. The danger in an earthquake is not from the time lost in opening a door, but from the chance of its becoming jammed by the movement of the walls.

It is impossible to be much surprised at the fear which natives and old residents, though some of them known to be men of great command of mind, so generally experience during earthquakes. I think, however, this excess of panic may be partly attributed to a want of habit in governing their fears; the usual restraint of shame being here absent. Indeed, the natives do not like to see a person indifferent. I heard of two Englishmen who, sleeping in the open air, during a smart shock, knowing there was no danger, did not rise. The natives cried out indignantly, “Look at those heretics, they will not even get out of their beds!”

I spent two or three days in examining the step-formed terraces of shingle first described by Captain Basil Hall, in his work, so full of spirited descriptions, on the west coast of America. Mr. Lyell concluded from the account, that they must have been formed by the sea during the gradual rising of the land. Such is the case: on some of the steps which sweep round from within the valley, so as to front the coast, shells of existing species both lie on the surface, and are embedded in a soft calcareous stone. This bed of the most modern tertiary epoch passes downward into another, containing some living species associated with others now lost. Amongst the latter may be mentioned shells of an enormous perna and an oyster, and the teeth of a gigantic shark, closely allied to, or identical with the Carcharias Megalodon of ancient Europe; the bones of which, or of some cetaceous animal, are also present, in a silicified state, in great numbers. At Guasco, the phenomenon of the parallel terraces is very strikingly seen: no less than seven perfectly level, but unequally broad plains, ascending by steps, occur on one or both sides the valley. So remarkable is the contrast of the successive horizontal lines, corresponding on each side, with the irregular outline of the surrounding mountains, that it attracts the attention of even those who feel no interest regarding the causes, which have modelled the surface of the land. The origin of the terraces of Coquimbo is precisely the same, according to my view, with that of the plains of Patagonia; the only difference is that the plains are rather broader than the terraces, and that they front the Atlantic ocean instead of a valley,—which valley, however, was formerly occupied by an arm of the sea, but now by a fresh-water river. In every case it must be remembered, that the successive cliffs do not mark so many distinct elevations, but on the contrary, periods of comparative repose during the gradual and perhaps scarcely sensible rise of the land. In the valley of Guasco we have the record of seven such nights of rest, in the action of the subterranean powers.

May 21st.—I set out in company with Don Jose Edwards to the silver-mine of Arqueros, and thence up the valley of Elque or Coquimbo. Passing through a mountainous country, we reached by nightfall the mines belonging to Mr. Edwards. I enjoyed my night’s rest here from a cause which will not be fully understood in England, namely, the absence of fleas! The rooms in Coquimbo swarm with them; but they will not live at the elevation of three or four thousand feet, even if brought there, as is constantly occurring at these mines. It can scarcely be the trifling diminution of temperature, but some other cause which is here destructive to these troublesome insects. I spent the greater part of the ensuing day in examining the mines. The veins occur abundantly scattered over several miles of hilly country; yet it is only a few years since that they were discovered by a wood-cutter. The mines are now in a bad state, though they formerly yielded about 2000 pounds in weight of silver a year. It has been said “a person with a copper-mine will gain; with silver he may gain; but with gold he is sure to lose.” This is not true: all the large Chilian fortunes have been made by mines of the more precious metals. A short time since an English physician returned to England from Copiapó, taking with him the profits of one share in a silver-mine, which amounted to about 24,000 pounds sterling. No doubt a copper-mine with care is a sure game, whereas the other is gambling, or rather taking a ticket in a lottery.

The owners lose great quantities of rich ores; for no precautions can prevent robbery. I heard of a man laying a bet with another that one of his men should rob him before his face. The ore when brought out of the mine is broken into pieces, and the useless stone thrown on one side. A couple of the miners who were thus employed, pitched, as if by accident, two fragments away at the same moment, and then cried out for a joke, “Let us see which rolls furthest.” The owner, who was standing by, bet a cigar with his friend on the race. The miner by this means watched the very point amongst the rubbish where the stone lay. In the evening he picked it up and carried it to his master, showing him a rich mass of silver ore, and saying, “This was the stone on which you won a cigar by its rolling so far.”

May 23d.—We followed up the fertile valley, till we reached an Hacienda, belonging to a relation of Don Jose, where we stayed the ensuing day. I then rode one day’s journey further, to see what were declared to be some petrified shells and beans. The former turned out to be so; the latter were small quartz pebbles. We passed through several small villages; and the valley was beautifully cultivated, and the whole scenery very grand. We were here near the main Cordillera; and the surrounding hills were very lofty. In all parts of northern Chile, fruit-trees produce much more abundantly at a considerable elevation near the Andes than in the lower country. The figs and grapes of this part are famous for their superiority, and are cultivated to a great extent. This valley is, perhaps, the most productive one north of Quillota: I believe it contains, including Coquimbo, 25,000 inhabitants. The next day I returned to the Hacienda, and thence, together with Don Jose, to Coquimbo.

June 2d.—We set out for the valley of Guasco, following the coast-road, which was considered rather less desert than the other. Our first day’s ride was to a solitary house, called Yerba Buena, where there was pasture for our horses. The shower mentioned as having fallen a fortnight ago, only reached about halfway to Guasco; we had, therefore, in the first part of our journey a most faint tinge of green, which soon faded away. Even where brightest, it was scarcely sufficient to remind one, of the fresh turf and budding flowers during the spring of other countries. While travelling through these deserts one feels like a prisoner shut up in a gloomy courtyard, longing to see something green and to smell a moist atmosphere.

June 3d.—Yerba Buena to Carizal. During the first part of the day we crossed a mountainous rocky desert; and afterwards a long deep sandy plain, scattered over with broken marine shells. There was very little water, and that little saline; hence the few streamlets were bordered on each side by white incrustations, amongst which succulent salt-loving plants grew. The whole country, from the coast to the Cordillera, is desert and uninhabited. I saw traces only of one living animal in abundance: this was a Bulimus, the shells of which were collected together in extraordinary numbers on the driest spots. In the spring, one humble little plant sends out a few leaves, and on these the snails feed. As they are seen only very early in the morning, when the ground is slightly damp from the dew, the Guasos believe they are born from it. I have observed in other places, that extremely dry and sterile districts, where the soil is calcareous, are most favourable to an extraordinary increase of land-shells. At Carizal there were a few cottages, some brackish water, and a trace of cultivation: but it was with difficulty that we purchased a little corn and straw for our horses.

4th.—Carizal to Sauce. We continued to ride over desert plains, tenanted by large herds of guanaco. We crossed also the valley of Chaneral; which, although the most fertile one between Guasco and Coquimbo, is very narrow, and produces so little pasture, that we could not purchase any for our horses. At Sauce we found a very civil old gentleman superintending a copper-smelting furnace. As an especial favour, he allowed me to purchase at a high price, an armful of dirty straw, which was all the poor horses had for supper after their long day’s journey. Very few smelting furnaces are now at work in any part of Chile; it is found more profitable, on account of the extreme scarcity of firewood, and of the loss from the clumsy Chilian method of reduction, to ship the ore for Swansea.

The next day, we crossed some mountains to Freyrina in the valley of Guasco. During each day’s ride further northward, the vegetation became more scanty; even the great candlestick cactus was here replaced by a different and much smaller species. During the winter months, both in northern Chile and in Peru, a uniform stratum of clouds hangs (at no great height) over the Pacific. From these mountains we had a very striking view of the great white and brilliant field, which sent arms up the valleys; leaving islands and promontories in the same manner, as the sea now intersects the Chonos archipelago, or the west coast of Tierra del Fuego.

We staid two days at Freyrina. In the valley of Guasco there are four small towns. At the mouth, there is the port, a spot entirely desert, and without any water in the immediate neighbourhood. Five leagues higher up stands Freyrina, a long straggling village, with decent whitewashed houses. Again, ten leagues further up, Ballenar is situated, and above this Guasco Alto, a horticultural village, famous for its dried fruit. On a clear day, the view up the valley is very fine; the straight opening is terminated at a great distance by the outline of the snowy Cordillera; on each side an infinity of crossing lines blend together in a beautiful haze. The foreground is singular, from the number of parallel and extensive terraces; and the included strip of green valleys with its willow bushes, is contrasted on both hands by the naked hills. That the surrounding country was most barren, will be readily believed, from the circumstance of a shower of rain not having fallen during the last thirteen months. The inhabitants heard with the greatest envy of the rain in Coquimbo; from the appearance of the atmosphere they had strong expectations of equally good fortune, which, a fortnight afterwards, was realized. I was at Copiapó at the time; and there the people, with equal envy, talked of the abundant rain at Guasco. After two or three very dry years, perhaps with not more than one shower during the whole time, a rainy year generally follows; and this does more harm than even the drought. The river swells, and covers with gravel and sand the narrow strip of ground, which alone is fit for cultivation. The flood also injures the irrigating ditches. Great devastation had thus been caused three years ago.

June 8th.—We rode on to Ballenar. As the rocky mountains on each hand were concealed by clouds, the terrace-like plains gave the valley an appearance similar to that of Santa Cruz, in Patagonia. I staid the following day in the town, which is as large as Coquimbo and well built. It has only lately sprung up, and entirely owes its prosperity to some silver-mines. Ballenar takes its name from Ballenagh, in Ireland, the birthplace of the family of O’Higgins, who, under the Spanish government, were presidents and generals in Chile.

10th.—Instead of going direct to the town of Copiapó, I determined to fall into the valley higher up and nearer the Cordillera. We rode all day over an uninteresting country; I am tired of repeating the epithets barren and sterile. These words, however, as commonly used, are comparative: I have always applied them to the plains of Patagonia; yet the vegetation there can boast of spiny bushes and some tufts of grass, which is absolute fertility to any thing that can be seen here. And here again there are not many spaces of two hundred yards square, where some little bush, cactus or lichen, may not be discovered by careful examination; and in the soil seeds lie dormant ready to spring up during the first rainy winter. In Peru real deserts occur, over wide tracts of country. In the evening we arrived at a valley, in which the bed of the streamlet was damp: following it up, we came to tolerably good water. During the night, the stream, before it is evaporated and absorbed, flows a league lower down than during the day. Sticks were plentiful for firewood, so that it was a good place of bivouac for us: but for the poor animals there was not a mouthful for them to eat.

June 11th.—We rode without stopping for twelve hours, till we reached an old smelting furnace, where there was water and firewood; but our horses again had nothing to eat, being shut up in an old courtyard. The line of road was hilly, and the distant views interesting from the splendid weather, and the varied colours of the bare mountains. It is a pity to see the sun shining constantly over so useless a country; such days should brighten a prospect of fields and gardens. The next day we reached the valley of Copiapó. I was heartily glad of it; for the whole journey was a continued source of anxiety; it was most disagreeable to hear, whilst eating our own supper, our horses gnawing the posts to which they were tied, and to have no means of relieving their hunger. To all appearance, however, the animals were quite fresh; and no one could have told that they had eaten nothing for the last fifty-five hours.

I had a letter of introduction to Mr. Bingley, who received me very kindly at the Hacienda of Potrero Seco. This estate is between twenty and thirty miles long; but it is very narrow, having generally a width of only two fields, one on each side the river. In some parts, the estate is of no width, that is to say, the land cannot be irrigated, and therefore is valueless, like the surrounding rocky desert. The small quantity of cultivated land in the whole line of valley, does not however so much depend on its inequality, or its unfitness for irrigation, as on the small supply of water. The river this year was remarkably full; in this part it reached as high as the horse’s belly, and was about fifteen yards wide, and rapid. It gradually decreases in volume till reaching the sea. This latter circumstance, however, rarely happens; and once for a period of thirty years not a drop entered the Pacific. The inhabitants watch a storm over the Cordillera with great interest: as one good fall of snow provides them with water for the ensuing year. This is of infinitely more consequence than rain in the lower country. The latter, as often as it occurs, which is about once in every two or three years, is a great advantage, because the cattle and mules can for some time afterwards find pasture in the mountains. But without snow in the Andes, desolation extends throughout the valley. It is on record, that three times nearly all the inhabitants have been obliged to emigrate to the south. This year there was plenty of water, and every man irrigated his ground as much as he chose; but it has frequently been necessary to post soldiers at the sluices, to see that each estate took only its proper allowance during so many hours in the week. The valley is said to contain 12,000 souls, but its produce is sufficient only for three months in the year; the rest of the supply being drawn from Valparaiso and the south. Before the discovery of the famous silver-mines of Chanuncillo, Copiapó was in a rapid state of decay; but now it is in a very thriving condition; and the town, which was completely overthrown by an earthquake, has been rebuilt.

The valley of Copiapó, forming a mere ribbon of green in a desert, runs in a very southerly direction; so that it is of considerable length to its origin in the Cordillera. The valleys of Guasco and Copiapó may both be considered as islands to the northward of Chile, separated by deserts instead of salt water. Beyond these, there is one other very miserable valley, called Paposo, which contains about 200 people; and then there extends the real desert of Atacama—a barrier far worse than the most turbulent ocean.

After staying a few days at Potrero Seco, I proceeded up the valley to the house of Don Benito Cruz, to whom I had a letter of introduction. I found him most hospitable; indeed it is impossible to bear too strong testimony to the kindness which travellers receive in almost every part of South America. The next day I hired some mules to take me by the ravine of Jolquera into the central Cordillera. On the second night the weather seemed to foretel a storm of snow or rain, and whilst lying in our beds we felt a trifling shock of an earthquake. The connexion between the latter phenomena and the weather has often been a disputed point: it appears to me to be one of very great interest, and not well understood. Humboldt⁠[1] has remarked, “It would be difficult for a person, who has lived a long time in New Andalusia, or in the low regions of Peru, to deny that the season, the most to be dreaded from the frequency of earthquakes, is that of the beginning of the rains, which is, however, the time of thunderstorms. The atmosphere, and the state of the surface of the globe, seem to have an influence unknown to us, on the changes produced at great depths.” In Northern Chile, from the extreme infrequency of rain, or even of weather foreboding rain, the probability of accidental coincidences between the two phenomena necessarily becomes very small; yet the inhabitants in that part are most firmly convinced of some connexion between the state of the atmosphere and the tremblings of the ground. I was much struck by this, when mentioning to some people at Copiapó that there had been a sharp shock at Coquimbo: they immediately cried, “How fortunate! there will be plenty of pasture there this year.” To their minds an earthquake foretold rain, as surely, as rain foretold abundant pasture. Certainly it did so happen that on the very day of the earthquake, that shower of rain fell, which I have described as in ten days producing a thin sprinkling of grass.

Mr. Scrope has put forth an ingenious idea, that the period of subterranean disturbance, where the force is just on a balance with the resistance, may be determined by a sudden decrease in atmospheric pressure, which over a wide extent of country might produce a considerable effect. According to this explanation, the earthquake comes on at the given period from that state of the weather, which is generally accompanied by rain. But there is another class of phenomena, where the state of the weather evidently appears a consequence (and not the determining cause) of the earthquake. I allude to those cases, when rain falls at a period of the year, at which it is a greater prodigy than the earthquake itself: I may instance the rain after the shock of November, 1822, at Valparaiso. A person must be somewhat habituated to these climates, to understand the excessive improbability of rain falling at such seasons, except as a consequence of some law quite unconnected with the ordinary course of the weather. In the case of great volcanic eruptions, as that of Coseguina, where torrents of rain fell at a time of year most unusual for it, and “almost unprecedented in Central America,”⁠[2] it is not difficult to understand that the volumes of vapour and clouds of ashes, might have disturbed the atmospheric equilibrium. Humboldt⁠[3] extends this view to the case of earthquakes; but for my part, I cannot conceive it possible, that the small quantity of aeriform fluid which at such times escapes from the fissured ground, can produce such remarkable effects.

Humboldt⁠[4] has stated that, “on the days when the earth is shaken by violent shocks, the regularity of the horary variations of the barometer is not disturbed under the tropics. I have verified this observation at Cumana, at Lima, and at Riobamba; and it is so much the more worthy of fixing the attention of natural philosophers, as at St. Domingo, at the town of Cape François, it is asserted, that a water barometer⁠[5] was observed to sink two inches and a half immediately before the earthquake of 1770. In the same manner it is related, that, at the destruction of Oran, a druggist fled with his family, because observing accidentally a few minutes before the earthquake, the height of the mercury in his barometer, he perceived that the column sunk in an extraordinary manner. I know not whether we can give credit to this assertion.” Mr. Alison, in a letter dated Valparaiso, informs me, that just before the earthquake of November, 1822, the mercury in the tube of the barometer standing in his store, sank beneath the graduated part. The tube was a bent one; nineteen inches being exposed, and the lowest graduated part corresponded to twenty-six English inches. With this third case, and more especially considering the unquestionable fact of rain so frequently following severe earthquakes, even at the most unusual seasons, I cannot conclude otherwise, than that there exists some connexion between the subterranean and atmospheric disturbances, of which we are at present quite ignorant.

Mr. Miers,⁠[6] in his account of the Valparaiso earthquake, November 19th, 1822, has added one more to the list of coincidences between luminous meteors and earthquakes. He says “one of very considerable size, in apparent dimensions little less than the moon, was observed in the southward, at no very great elevation. It traversed a considerable arch of the heavens, leaving behind it a long train of light; and when it disappeared, it seemed to do so from explosion—as it leaped in the same manner as those which eject meteoric stones; but in this instance no noise was heard to attend its extinction, nor was it known that any stones fell. This occurred about half-past two o’clock in the morning after the earthquake.” The earthquake itself happened at half-past ten o’clock. Mr. Miers then adds, that a friend of his “travelling on the night of the 4th of November, about a fortnight preceding the great earthquake, observed at a little past eleven o’clock in the northern sky, a large meteor of great splendour.” It is remarkable that on this same day, according to the Journal of Science,⁠[7] Copiapó to the northward was visited by a severe earthquake, which on the fifth was followed by a much more violent shock. Molina⁠[8] states that the first shock which announced the great earthquake at midnight on the 24th of May, 1751, “was accompanied by a ball of fire, which precipitated itself from the Andes toward the sea.” It is said in the Encyclo. Metropol.—(art. Meteorology)—“At Kingston, in Jamaica, in November 1812, a large meteor appeared a few minutes previous to some alarming and tremendous concussions.” Aguerros⁠[9] states, on the authority of Ovalle, that in the morning of May 14th, 1633, Carelmapu (north of Chiloe) was overthrown by a bad earthquake, accompanied by a great noise; and that while the people were considering the cause, they saw over a high hill near the village a globe of fire, which appeared to threaten the last day. It rose and quickly proceeded so as to fall in the sea, disturbing the neighbouring waters. This was accompanied by a great tempest, darkness, and a hail-storm, in which pieces of ice fell as large as musket-balls.

I have copied the foregoing notices, because under any point of view, it is remarkable that in one quarter of the globe there should have been so many coincidences between phenomena of not very common occurrence. It must, however, be observed, that the coincidence is not precise; the meteors having been seen in some cases a little before, in others a little after the earthquake. From the account given in Aguerros of the waters of the sea having been disturbed, and from that by Miers of an apparent explosion, it would appear that these meteors must be the same with those that accompany the fall of meteoric stones. This perhaps alone, is an argument that they are accidental accompaniments of earthquakes; for there seems to be no rational method of explaining the origin of meteorolites on any hypothesis directly connected with our world. It is however very singular, that all their constituent parts should be of the same nature as those found on this earth,—that the metals should be chiefly those most subject to magnetic influence,—and that olivine should frequently be present; a mineral⁠[10] which is exclusively confined to a certain class of volcanic products.

To return to the valley of Copiapó. Finding little of interest in this part of the ravine, we retraced our steps to the house of Don Benito, where I staid two days collecting fossil shells and silicified wood. The latter was present in the most extraordinary quantity: it was here that I found a cylindrical trunk, fifteen feet in circumference, projecting from the side of a hill. It was amusing to hear discussions concerning the nature of the fossil shells,—whether or not they had been thus “born by nature,”—carried on almost in the same terms as were used a century before in Europe. My geological examination of the country generally created a good deal of surprise amongst the Chilenos: it was long before they would be convinced that I was not hunting for mines. This was sometimes troublesome. I found the most ready way of explaining my employment, was to ask them how it was that they themselves were not curious concerning earthquakes and volcanoes?—why some springs were hot and others cold?—why there were mountains in Chile, and not a hill in La Plata? These bare questions at once satisfied and silenced the greater number; some, however (like a few in England who are a century behindhand), thought that all such inquiries were useless and impious; and that it was quite sufficient that God had thus made the mountains.

An order had recently been issued that all stray dogs should be killed, and we saw many carcasses lying on the high road. A great number had lately been affected with hydrophobia, and several men had been bitten, and had died in consequence. On other occasions hydrophobia has prevailed in this valley. It is remarkable thus to find so strange and dreadful a disease appearing time after time in the same isolated spot. It has been remarked that certain villages in England are in like manner much more subject to this visitation than others. Hydrophobia must be extremely rare on the eastern side of the Andes, for Azara thought it was unknown in America; and Ulloa says the same with respect to Quito. I could not hear of a case having occurred in Van Diemen’s Land, or in Australia; and Burchell says, during the five years he was at the Cape of Good Hope, he never heard of an instance of it. Webster again asserts that at the Azores, hydrophobia has never occurred; and the same observation has been made with respect to Mauritius and St. Helena.⁠[11] In so strange a disease, some information might possibly be gained by considering the circumstances under which it originates in distant climates.

At night, a stranger arrived at the house of Don Benito, and asked permission to sleep there. He said he had been wandering about the mountains for seventeen days, having lost his way. He started from Guasco, and being accustomed to the mountains, did not expect any difficulty in following the track to Copiapó; but he soon became involved in a labyrinth of mountains, whence he could not escape. Some of his mules had fallen over precipices, and he had been in great distress. His chief difficulty arose from not knowing where to find water in the lower country, so that he was obliged to keep bordering the central ranges.

We returned down the valley, and on the 22d reached the town of Copiapó. The lower part of the valley is broad, forming a fine plain like that of Aconcagua or Quillota. The town covers a considerable space of ground, each house possessing a garden: but it is an uncomfortable place, and the dwellings are poorly furnished. Every one seems bent on the one object of making money, and then migrating as quickly as possible. All the inhabitants are more or less directly concerned with mines; and mines and ores are the sole subjects of conversation. Necessaries of all sorts are very dear; as the distance from the town to the port is eighteen leagues, and the land carriage very expensive. A fowl costs five or six shillings; meat is nearly as dear as in England; firewood, or rather sticks, are brought on donkeys from a distance of two and three days’ journey within the Cordillera; and pasturage for animals is a shilling a day: all this for South America is wonderfully exorbitant.

June 26th.—I hired a guide and eight mules to take me into the Cordillera by a different line from my last expedition. As the country was utterly desert, we took a cargo and a half of barley mixed with chopped straw. About two leagues above the town, a broad valley called the “Despoblado,” or uninhabited, branches off from the one by which we had descended. Although a valley of the grandest dimensions, and leading to a pass across the Cordillera, yet it is completely dry, excepting perhaps, for a few days during some very rainy winter. The bottom of the main valley was nearly flat, and the sides of the crumbling mountains were but little furrowed by ravines. No considerable river could ever have poured its waters over the bed of shingle, without having excavated a channel similar to those occurring in the southern valleys. I feel little doubt that it was left in the state we now see it, by the gradually retiring sea. The dry valleys mentioned by travellers in Peru, probably owe their origin to a similar agency, and not to the running streams of any former period. I observed in one place, where a ravine (which amongst any other mountains would have been called a grand valley), joined the Despoblado, that the bed of the latter, though composed merely of sand and gravel, was higher than that of its tributary. A mere rivulet of water, in the course of an hour, would have cut a channel for itself; but it was evident that centuries had passed away, and no such rivulet had drained these great valleys. It was curious to behold this machinery (if such a term may be used) for the drainage, all, with the last trifling exception, perfect, yet without any signs of activity. Every one must have remarked how mud-banks, left by the retiring tide, imitate in miniature a country with hill and dale: and here we find a model, only on a grander scale, formed by the waves of a retiring ocean. Let thousands of years replace minutes of the tidal change, and the difference between soft mud and hard rock will barely modify the result. If a shower of rain falls on the mud-bank, when left dry, it deepens the shallow lines of excavation: and so will it be with the rain of successive centuries on the bank of rock and soil, which we call a continent.

We rode on after it was dark, till we reached a side ravine, with a small well called “Agua amarga.” The water deserved its name, for besides being saline it was most offensively putrid and bitter; so that we could not force ourselves to drink either tea or maté. I suppose the distance from the river of Copiapó to this spot was at least twenty-five or thirty English miles; in the whole space there was not a single drop of water, the country almost deserving the name of desert in the strictest sense. Yet about halfway we passed the old Indian ruins near Punta Gorda, which I have already mentioned. I noticed also in front of some of the valleys, which branch off from the Despoblado, two piles of stones placed a little distance apart, and directed so as to point up the mouth of the small valley. My companions knew nothing about them, and only answered my queries by their imperturbable “quien sabe?”

June 27th.—We set out early in the morning, and by mid-day reached the ravine of Paypote, where there is a tiny rill of water, with a little vegetation, and even a few algarroba (a mimosa) trees. On this latter account a smelting furnace had formerly been built here. We found a solitary man in charge of it, whose sole employment was hunting guanacoes. At night it froze sharply; but having plenty of firewood, we kept ourselves warm.

28th.—We continued gradually ascending as we followed the valley, which now had assumed the character of a ravine. During the day we saw several guanacoes, and the track of the closely-allied species, called the Vicuna. This latter animal is pre-eminently alpine in its habits; it seldom descends much below the limit of perpetual snow, and therefore haunts even a more lofty and sterile situation than the guanaco. The only other animal which we saw in any number was a small fox. I suppose this animal preys on the mice and other small rodents, which, as long as there is the least vegetation subsist in considerable numbers in very desert places. In Patagonia, even on the borders of the salinas, where a drop of fresh water can never be found, these little animals swarm. Next to lizards, mice appear to be able to support existence on the smallest and driest portions of the earth,—even on islets in the midst of great oceans. I believe it will be found, that several islands, which possess no other warmblooded quadruped, have small rodents peculiar to themselves.

The scenery on all sides showed desolation, brightened, and made palpable, by a clear, unclouded sky. Custom excludes the feeling of sublimity, and when this is wanting, such scenery is rather the reverse of interesting. We bivouacked at the “primera linea,” or the first line of the partition of the waters. The streams, however, on the east side do not flow to the Atlantic, but into an elevated district, in the middle of which there is a large salina, or salt-lake;—thus forming a little Caspian sea at the elevation, perhaps, of ten thousand feet. Where we slept, there were some considerable patches of snow; but they do not remain throughout the year. The winds in these lofty regions obey very regular laws: every day a fresh breeze blows up the valley, and at night, an hour or two after sunset, the air from the cold regions above descends, as through a funnel. This night it blew a gale of wind, and the temperature must have been considerably below the freezing point, for water in a short time became a block of ice. No clothes seemed to oppose any obstacle to the air; I suffered very much from the cold, so that I could not sleep, and in the morning rose with my body quite dull and benumbed.

In the Cordillera further southward, people lose their lives from snow-storms; here, this sometimes happens from another cause. My guide, when a boy of fourteen years old, was passing the Cordillera with some others, in the month of May; and while in the central parts, a furious gale of wind arose so that the men could hardly stick on their mules, and stones were flying along the ground. The day was cloudless and not a speck of snow fell, but the temperature was low. It is probable that the thermometer would not have stood very many degrees below the freezing point, but the effect on their bodies, ill protected by clothing, would be in proportion to the rapidity of the current of cold air. The gale lasted for more than a day; the men began to lose all their strength, and the mules would not move onwards. My guide’s brother tried to return, but he perished, and his body was found two years afterwards, lying by the side of his mule near the road, with the bridle still in his hand. Two other men in the party lost their fingers and toes, and out of two hundred mules and thirty cows, only fourteen of the former escaped alive. Many years ago the whole of a large party are supposed to have perished from a similar cause, but their bodies to this day have never been discovered. The union of a cloudless sky, low temperature, and a furious gale of wind, must be I should think, in all parts of the world, an unusual occurrence.

June 29th.—We gladly travelled down the valley to our former night’s lodging, and thence to near the Agua amarga. On July 1st, we reached the valley of Copiapó. The smell of the fresh clover was quite delightful, after the scentless air of the dry sterile Despoblado. Whilst staying in the town, I heard an account from several of the inhabitants of a hill in the neighbourhood, which they called “El Bramador,”—the roarer or bellower. I did not at the time pay sufficient attention to the account; but as far as I understood, the hill was covered by sand, and the noise was produced only when people, by ascending it, put the sand in motion. Upon reading an article in the Edinburgh Journal,⁠[12] I was surprised to find the same circumstances, described in detail on the authority of Seetzen and Ehrenbergh, as the cause of the sounds, which have been heard by many travellers on Mount Sinai near the Red Sea. One person with whom I conversed had himself heard the noise; he described it as very surprising; and he distinctly stated, that although he could not understand how it was effected, yet it was necessary to set the sand rolling down the acclivity. I can vouch for the quantity of loose sand lying on the bare granite mountains in this neighbourhood. From the position of the hill, and from the account which I received, the phenomenon certainly does not appear to have any direct connexion with volcanic causes. I may remark that a horse walking over dry and coarse sand, causes a peculiar chirping noise from the friction of the particles: a fact which I have several times noticed on the coast of Brazil.

Three days afterwards I heard of the Beagle’s arrival at the port, which is distant eighteen leagues. There is very little land cultivated below the town. The wide expanse of the valley supports a wretched wiry grass, which even the donkeys can hardly eat. This poorness of the vegetation is owing to the quantity of saline matter with which the soil is impregnated. Layers of sulphate and carbonate of soda, even several inches thick, occur in some parts. The port consists of an assemblage of miserable little hovels, situated at the foot of some sterile plains and hills. At present, from the river reaching the sea, the inhabitants enjoy the advantage of having fresh water within a mile and a half. On the beach there were large piles of merchandise, and the little place had an air of activity. In the evening I gave my adios with a hearty good will, to my companion Mariano Gonzales, with whom I had ridden so many leagues in Chile. The next morning the Beagle sailed for Iquique, lat. 20° 12′ on the coast of Peru.

July 12th.—We anchored in the port of Iquique. The town contains about a thousand inhabitants, and stands on a little plain of sand at the foot of a great wall of rock, 2000 feet in height, which here forms the coast. The whole is utterly desert. A light shower of rain falls only once in very many years; and hence the ravines are filled with detritus, and the mountain sides covered by piles of fine white sand, even a thousand feet high. During this season of the year, a heavy bank of clouds extending parallel to the ocean, seldom rises above the wall of rocks on the coast. The aspect of the place was most gloomy; the little port, with its few vessels, and small group of wretched houses, seemed overwhelmed and out of all proportion with the rest of the scene.

The inhabitants live like persons on board a ship; every necessary coming from a distance. Water is brought in boats from Pisagua, about forty miles to the northward and is sold at the rate of nine reals (4s. 6d.) an eighteen-gallon cask: I bought a wine-bottle full for threepence. In like manner firewood, and of course every article of food, is imported. Very few animals can be maintained in such a place: on the ensuing morning I hired, with difficulty at the price of four pounds sterling, two mules and a guide to take me to the saltpetre works. These are the present support of Iquique. During one year the value of one hundred thousand pounds sterling was exported to France and England. This saltpetre does not properly deserve to be so called; for it consists of nitrate of soda, and not of potash, and is therefore of much less value. It is said to be principally used in the manufacture of nitric acid. Owing to its deliquescent property it will not serve for gunpowder. Formerly there were two exceedingly rich silver-mines in this neighbourhood, but they now produce very little.

Our arrival in the offing caused some little apprehension. Peru was in a state of anarchy; and each party having demanded a contribution, the poor town of Iquique was in tribulation, thinking the evil hour was come. The people had also their domestic troubles; a short time before, three French carpenters had broken open the two churches, during the same night, and stolen all the plate: one of the robbers, however, subsequently confessed, and the plate was recovered. The convicts were sent to Arequipa, which, though the capital of this province, is 200 leagues distant: the government there thought it a pity to punish such useful workmen, who could make all sorts of furniture; and accordingly liberated them. Things being in this state, the churches were again broken open, but the plate this time was not recovered. The inhabitants became dreadfully enraged, and declaring that none but heretics would thus “eat God Almighty,” proceeded to torture some Englishmen, with the intention of afterwards shooting them. At last the authorities interfered, and peace was established.

July 13th.—In the morning I started for the saltpetre works, a distance of fourteen leagues. Having ascended the steep coast mountains by a zigzag sandy track, we soon came in view of the mines of Guantajaya and St. Rosa. These two small villages are placed at the very mouths of the mines. If the town of Iquique appeared desolate, these, perched up on hills, had a still more unnatural aspect. We did not reach the saltpetre works till after sunset, having ridden all day across an undulating country, a complete and utter desert. The road was strewed with the bones and dried skins of the many beasts of burden, which had perished on it from fatigue. Excepting the Vultur aura, which preys on the carcasses, I saw neither bird, quadruped, reptile, or insect. On the coast mountains, at the elevation of about 2000 feet, where during this season the clouds generally hang, a very few cacti were growing in the clefts of rock; and the loose sand was strewed over with a simple lichen, which lies on the surface quite unattached. This plant belongs to the genus Cladonia, and somewhat resembles the reindeer lichen. In some parts it was in sufficient quantity to tinge the sand, as seen from a distance, of a pale yellowish colour. Further inland, during the whole ride of fourteen leagues, I saw only one other vegetable production, and that was a most minute yellow lichen, growing on the bones of the dead mules. This was the first true desert which I had seen: the effect on me was not impressive; but I believe this was owing to my having become gradually accustomed to such scenes, as I rode northward from Valparaiso, through Coquimbo to Copiapó. The appearance of the country was remarkable, from being covered by a thick crust of common salt, and of a saliferous sandstone, which properly deserves the name of alluvium. The salt is white, very hard, and compact. It occurs in water-worn nodules, which project from the agglutinated sand or soft sandstone. The appearance of this superficial mass, very closely resembled that of a country after snow, before the last dirty patches have thawed. The rocks of which the mountains are composed are saliferous; and I imagine, the very small quantity of rain that falls, is sufficient only to wash the salt from the higher strata, and that afterwards it concretes in nodules and patches, in the sandy soil of the valleys. Whatever its origin may be, the existence of a crust of a soluble substance over the whole face of the country, shows how extraordinarily dry the climate must have been for a period long antecedent.

At night I slept at the house of the owner of one of the saltpetre mines. The country is here equally unproductive with that near the coast; but water, though having rather a bitter and brackish taste, can be procured by digging. The well at this house was thirty-six yards deep. As scarcely any rain falls, it is evident the water is not derived from that source; indeed if it were, it could not fail to be as salt as brine, for the whole surrounding country is incrusted with various saline substances. We must therefore conclude that it percolates from some distant and more humid region, probably the mountains of the higher Cordillera. In that direction there are a few small villages, such as Tarapaca, where the inhabitants, having more water, are enabled to irrigate some little land, and produce hay, on which the mules and asses employed in carrying the saltpetre are fed.

The nitrate of soda is sold at the ship’s side at fourteen shillings per hundred pounds. The chief expense is the transport to the sea-coast. The mine itself consists of a stratum between two and three feet thick, of the hard and nearly pure salt, lying close beneath the surface. The stratum follows the margin of a grand basin or plain, which manifestly must once have been either a lake or inland sea: the elevation at present is 3300 feet above the level of the Pacific. On our return we made a detour by the mines of Guantajaya. The village consists solely of the houses of the miners, and the place is utterly destitute of every necessary;—even water being brought thirty miles on the backs of animals. At present the mines yield little; though formerly they were very productive. One has a depth of four hundred yards, and out of it masses of silver were taken so pure, that it was only required to melt them in order to run them into bars. We reached Iquique after sunset: I went on board, and then the Beagle weighed for Lima. I was very glad to have seen this place, as I understand it is a good type of the greater part of the coast of Peru.

July 19th.—We anchored in the bay of Callao, the seaport of Lima, the capital of Peru. We staid here six weeks, but from the troubled state of public affairs, I saw very little of the country. During our whole visit the climate was far from being so delightful as it is generally represented. A dull heavy bank of clouds constantly hung over the land, so that during the first sixteen days I had only one view of the Cordillera behind Lima. These mountains, seen in stages, one above the other, through openings in the clouds, had a very grand appearance. It has almost become a proverb, that rain never falls in the lower part of Peru. Yet this can hardly be considered correct; for during almost every day of our visit there was a thick drizzling mist, which was sufficient to make the streets muddy and one’s clothes damp: this the people are pleased to call Peruvian dew. That much rain does not fall is very certain, for the houses are covered only with flat roofs made of hardened mud; and on the mole, ship-loads of wheat were piled up, and are thus left for weeks together without any shelter.

I cannot say I liked the very little I saw of Peru: in summer, however, it is said that the climate is much pleasanter. In all seasons, both inhabitants and foreigners suffer from severe attacks of ague. This disease is common on the whole coast of Peru, but is unknown in the interior. The attacks of illness which arise from miasma never fail to appear most mysterious. So difficult is it to judge from the aspect of a country, whether or not it is healthy, that if a person had been told to choose within the tropics a situation appearing favourable for health, very probably he would have named this coast. The plain round the outskirts of Callao is sparingly covered with a coarse grass, and in some parts there are a few stagnant, though very small, pools of water. The miasma, in all probability, arises from these: for the town of Arica was similarly circumstanced, and its healthiness was much improved by the drainage of the water. The miasma is not always produced by a luxuriant vegetation with an ardent climate; for many parts of Brazil, even where there are marshes and a rank vegetation, are much more healthy than this sterile coast of Peru. The densest forests in a temperate climate, as in Chiloe, do not seem in the slightest degree to affect the healthy condition of the atmosphere.

The island of St. Jago, at the Cape de Verds, offers another strongly-marked instance of a country which any one would have expected to find most healthy, being very much the contrary. I have described the bare and open plains as supporting, during a few weeks after the rainy season, a thin vegetation, which directly withers away and dries up: at that period the air appears to become poisonous; both natives and foreigners often becoming affected with violent fevers. On the other hand, the Galapagos Archipelago, in the Pacific, with a similar soil, and periodically subject to the same process of vegetation, is perfectly healthy. Humboldt has observed, that, “under the torrid zone, the smallest marshes are the most dangerous, being surrounded, as at Vera Cruz and Carthagena, with an arid and sandy soil, which raises the temperature of the ambient air.”⁠[13] I must observe, however, that on the coast of Peru the temperature is not hot to any excessive degree; and perhaps in consequence, the intermittent fevers are not of the most malignant order.

In all unhealthy countries the greatest risk is run by sleeping on shore. Is this owing to the state of the body during sleep, or to a greater abundance of miasma at such times? It appears certain that those who stay on board a vessel, though anchored at only a short distance from the coast, generally suffer less than those actually on shore. On the other hand, I have heard of one remarkable case where a fever broke out among the crew of a man-of-war some hundred miles off the coast of Africa, at the very same time that one of those fearful periods of death commenced at Sierra Leone. It maybe remarked, that of the most destructive diseases, which bear an evident relation to climate, and which (as if by the addition of some direct poison) affect both natives and strangers, nearly all originate in the hotter regions of the earth. As geological induction shows that the climate, during the periods antecedent to the present, had an extratropical character, so, in all probability, there would be an extra tendency to disease, and we can therefore see that the introduction of man being, as generally supposed, recent, is an adaptation to the existing condition of the world.

No state in South America, since the declaration of independence, has suffered more from anarchy than Peru. At the time of our visit there were four chiefs in arms contending for supremacy in the government: if one succeeded in becoming for a time very powerful, the others coalesced against him; but no sooner were they victorious, than they were again disunited, and hostile to each other. The other day, at the Anniversary of the Independence, high mass was performed, the President partaking of the sacrament: during the Te Deum laudamus, instead of each regiment displaying the Peruvian flag, a black one with death’s head was unfurled. Imagine a government under which such a scene could be ordered, on such an occasion, to be typical of their determination of fighting to the death! This state of affairs happened at a time very unfortunately for me, as I was precluded from taking any excursions much beyond the limits of the towns. The barren island of S. Lorenzo, which forms the harbour, was nearly the only place where one could walk securely. The upper part, which is about 1200 feet in height, during this season of the year, (winter) comes within the lower limit of the clouds; and in consequence of this, an abundant cryptogamic vegetation, and a few flowers, covered the summit. On the hills near Lima, at an elevation but little greater, the ground was carpeted with moss, and beds of beautiful yellow lilies, called Amancaes. This indicates a very much greater degree of humidity than at a corresponding altitude at Iquique. Travelling northward, the climate becomes damper, till on the banks of the Guyaquil, nearly under the equator, we find the most luxuriant forests. The change, however, from the sterile coast of Peru to that fertile land, is described as taking place rather abruptly, in the latitude of Cape Blanco, two degrees south of Guyaquil.

Callao is a filthy, ill-built, small seaport. The inhabitants, both there and at Lima, present every imaginable shade of mixture, between European, Negro, and Indian blood. They appear a depraved, drunken set of people. The atmosphere was loaded with foul smells, and that peculiar one, which may be perceived in almost every town within the tropics, was here very strong. The fortress, which withstood Lord Cochrane’s long siege, has an imposing appearance. But the President, during our stay, sold the brass guns, and proceeded to dismantle parts of it. The reason assigned was, that he had not an officer to whom he could trust so important a charge. He himself had good reasons for knowing this, as he had obtained the presidentship by rebelling while in charge of this same fortress. After we left South America, he paid the penalty in the usual way, by being conquered, taken prisoner, and shot.

Lima stands on a plain in a valley, formed during the gradual retreat of the sea. It is distant seven miles from Callao, and is elevated 500 feet above it; but from the slope being very gradual, the road appears absolutely level; so that when at Lima it is difficult to believe one has ascended some hundred feet. Humboldt has remarked on this singularly deceptive case. Steep, barren hills rise like islands from the plain, which is divided, by straight mud-walls, into large green fields. In these scarcely a tree grows excepting a few willows; and the presence of an occasional clump of bananas and of oranges, alone reminded one that the landscape of a country in latitude 12° might have boasted of a far more splendid vegetation. The city of Lima is now in a wretched state of decay: the streets are nearly unpaved, and heaps of filth are piled up in all directions; where the black gallinazos, tame as poultry, pick up bits of carrion. The houses have generally an upper story, built, on account of the earthquakes, of plastered woodwork; but some of the old ones, which are now used by several families, are immensely large, and would rival in suites of apartments the most magnificent in any place. Lima, the City of the Kings, must formerly have been a splendid town. The extraordinary number of churches, even at the present day, gives it a peculiar and striking character, especially when viewed from a short distance.

One day I went out with some merchants to hunt in the immediate vicinity of the city. Our sport was very poor; but I had an opportunity of seeing the ruins of one of the ancient Indian villages, with its hill-like mound in the centre. The remains of houses, enclosures, irrigating streams, and burial mounds, scattered over this plain, cannot fail to give one a high idea of the condition and number of the ancient population. When their earthenware, woollen clothes, utensils of elegant forms cut out of the hardest rocks, tools of copper, ornaments of precious stones, palaces and hydraulic works, are considered, it is impossible not to respect the considerable advance made by them in the arts of civilization. The burial mounds, called Huacas, are really stupendous; although in some places it is only a natural hill which appears to have been incased and modelled.

There is also another and very different class of ruins, which possesses some interest, namely, those of old Callao, overwhelmed by the great earthquake of 1746, and its accompanying wave. The destruction must have been more complete even than at Concepcion. Quantities of shingle almost conceal the foundations of the walls, and vast masses of brickwork appear to have been whirled about by the retiring waves like pebbles. It has been stated that the land subsided during this memorable shock: I could not discover any proof of this; yet it seems far from improbable, for the form of the coast must certainly have undergone some change since the foundation of the old town; as no people in their senses would willingly have chosen for their building-place the narrow spit of shingle on which the ruins now stand. On the island of San Lorenzo, there are very satisfactory proofs of elevation within the recent period: this of course would not contravene the belief of a small subsidence, if any signs of such movement could be discovered. The side of the mountain fronting the bay on that island, is worn into three obscure terraces, which are covered by masses of shells many hundred tons in weight, of species now existing on the beach. Several of the univalves had serpulæ and small balani attached on their insides; proving that they must have remained some time, after the animal had died, at the bottom of the sea. In such cases we may feel sure that they had not been carried up, as has sometimes been believed, either by birds or men for food.

When examining the beds of shells, which have been raised above the level of the sea, on other parts of the coast, I often felt curious to trace their final disappearance from decay. On the island of San Lorenzo, this could be done in the most satisfactory manner: at a small height the shells were quite perfect; on a terrace, eighty-five feet above the sea, they were partially decomposed and coated by a soft scaly substance; at double this altitude a thin layer of calcareous powder beneath the soil, without a trace of organic structure, was all that could be discovered. This highly curious and satisfactory gradation of change, it is evident could be traced only under the peculiar conditions of this climate, where rain never falls so as to wash away the particles of shells in their last stage of decomposition. I was much interested by finding embedded, together with pieces of sea-weed in the mass of shells, in the eighty-five foot bed, a bit of cotton-thread, plaited rush, and the head of a stalk of Indian corn. This fact, coupled with another, which will be mentioned, proves I think the amount of eighty-five feet elevation since man inhabited this part of Peru. On the coast of Patagonia and La Plata, where perhaps the movements have been slower, there is evidence, as we have seen, that several mammalia have become extinct during a smaller change of level. At Valparaiso, where there exist abundant proofs of recent elevation to a greater altitude than in this part of Peru, I can show that the greatest possible change during the last 220 years, has not exceeded the small measure of fifteen feet.

On the mainland in front of San Lorenzo, near Bellavista, there is an extensive and level plain, at the height of about a hundred feet. The section on the coast shows that the lower part consists of alternating layers of sand and impure clay, together with some gravel; and the surface, to the depth of from three to six feet, of a reddish loam, containing a few scattered sea-shells, and numerous small fragments of coarse red earthenware. At first I was inclined to believe that this superficial bed must have been deposited beneath the sea; but I afterwards found in one spot, that it covered an artificial floor of round stones. The conclusion which then seemed most probable was, that at a period when the land stood at a less height, there was a plain very similar to the one now surrounding Callao, which being protected by a shingle beach, is raised but very little above the level of the sea. On this plain, with its clay beds, I imagine the Indians manufactured their earthen vessels; and that, during some violent earthquake, the sea broke over the beach and converted the plain into a temporary lake, as happened in 1713⁠[14] around Callao. The water would then deposit mud, containing fragments of pottery from the kilns, and shells from the sea. This bed with fossil earthenware occurring at about the same altitude with the terrace on San Lorenzo, confirms the supposed amount of elevation within the human period.

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