COAL DEPOSITS OF LOTA.
I was courteously invited to the house of Mr. Squella, a relation of Madame Cousiño, who has the direction of this great establishment, and there had the pleasure of again meeting my former travelling companion, Mr. H – , and also Captain Simpson, an officer of the Chilian navy of English extraction, who, while commanding a ship on the southern coast, has rendered some services to science. The conversation was carried on chiefly in English, which has decidedly become the lingua franca of South America, but was shortened by my natural anxiety to turn to the best account the short time at my disposal. I had a choice between three alternatives – a descent into the coal mine, a visit to the works above ground and the miners’ town, or a ramble through the so-called park, which occupies the promontory stretching westward which forms the natural harbour of Lota, and covers a great portion of the precious deposit to which the place owes its new-born importance. I naturally preferred the latter, feeling that my limited experience as a geological observer would not allow me to profit much by a subterranean excursion. I made inquiry, however, as to the vegetable remains found in the lignite, and I was told that they are abundant, although the few specimens which I saw showed but slight traces of vegetable structure. I was led to believe that a collection of specimens had been sent to Europe to my late lamented friend, Dr. Oswald Heer, but I am not aware that he has left any reference to such a collection, or even that it ever reached his hands.
The parque of Lota, to which I directed my steps, has rather the character of an extensive pleasure-ground than of what we call a park; but the surface is so uneven, and the outline so irregular, that I could not estimate its extent. The numerous fantastic structures in questionable taste that met the eye in every direction create at the first moment an unfavourable impression, but the charms of the spot are so real that this is soon forgotten. The variety and luxuriance of the vegetation, and the diversified views of the sea and the rocky shores, were set off by occasional bursts of bright sunshine, in which the drops that still hung on every leaflet glittered like jewels of every hue. The trees here were of very moderate dimensions, the largest (here called roble) being of the laurel family, which, for want of flower or fruit, I failed to identify. The Spaniards in South America have given the name roble, which properly means “oak,” to a variety of trees which agree only in having a thick trunk and spreading branches. The shrubs were very numerous, partly indigenous and partly exotic, and a peculiar feature which I have not noticed in any other large garden is the number of parasites living on the trunks and branches of the trees and shrubs. Ferns were very numerous and grow luxuriantly, showing a wide difference of climate between this coast and that of the country two or three degrees further north. But the great ornament of this place is the beautiful climber, Lapageria rosea, now producing in abundance its splendid flowers, which so finely contrast with its dark-green glossy foliage. The specific name rosea is unfortunate, as the colour of the flowers is bright crimson, verging on scarlet.
THE PARQUE OF LOTA.
One of the special features of this garden was the abundance of humming-birds that haunted the shrubs and small trees, and darted from spray to spray with movements so rapid that to my imperfect vision their forms were quite indistinguishable. Whenever I drew near in the hope of gaining a clearer view, they would dart away to another shrub a few yards distant, and I am unable to say whether the bright little creatures belonged to one and the same or to several different species.
At one place where the garden is only some twenty feet above the beach, I scrambled down the rocks, and was rewarded by the sight of two or three plants characteristic of this region. The most attractive of these is one of the many generic types peculiar to the Chilian flora, allied to the pine-apple. The long stiff leaves, edged with sharp teeth and radiating from the lower part of the stem, are coloured bright red along the centre and at the base, forming, when seen from a distance, a brilliant, many-rayed red star. Another novelty was Francoa sonchifolia, which also clings to the rocks by the sea. It has somewhat the habit of a large crucifer, but the structure of the flower and fruit is widely different. It was regarded by Lindley as the type of a distinct natural family, but has been, with one other Chilian genus (Tetilla), classed as a tribe of the saxifrage family.
Time passed quickly in such an interesting spot, and the hour appointed for returning to the ship had nearly arrived, when Mr. Reilly, the gardener who has the management of the parque, invited me to see his house. He came, as I learned, from Wexford, in Ireland, had had some training in the Royal Gardens at Kew, when his fortunate star led him to Chili. I found him installed in a very pretty and comfortable house, charmingly situated, in as full enjoyment of one of the most beautiful gardens in the world as if he were its absolute owner. This was only one more instance of the success which so often attends my countrymen when removed to a distance from their native land. Freed from the evil influences that seem indigenous to the soil of that unfortunate island, they develop qualities that are too rarely perceptible at home. The arguments for emigration are commonly based only on the economical necessity for relieving the land of surplus population; to my mind it may be advocated on other and quite different grounds. For every Irishman who is carried to a distant land there is a strong probability of a distinct gain to the world at large.
CAUTIOUS SEAMANSHIP.
I left the parque at Lota with my memory full of pictures of a spot which, along with Mr. Cooke’s famous garden at Montserrat, near Cintra, and that of M. Landon in the oasis of Biskra, I count as the most beautiful garden that I have yet seen.
A rather large island – Isla de Sta. Maria – lies off the Chilian coast to the west of Lota, and is separated on the southern side from the promontory of Lavapie by a channel several miles wide. But as this is beset with rocks, the rule of the German steamers is to avoid the passage, excepting in clear weather by day. In deference, therefore, to this cautious regulation, we set our helm to the north on leaving Lota, two or three hours after sunset, and only after keeping that course for some ten miles, and running past the small port of Coronel, steered out to seaward, and finally resumed our proper southerly direction. Our sleep was somewhat disturbed by the heavy rolling of the ship during the night, and the morning of the 1st of June broke dimly amid heavy lowering clouds, just such a day as one might expect at the corresponding date (December 1) on the western coast of Europe. Although the sea was running high, there was little wind. The barometer at daybreak stood at 29·98, having risen a tenth of an inch since the previous evening, and the temperature was about 52° Fahr. In our seas one would suppose that a gale must have recently prevailed at no great distance, but I believe the fact to be that in the Southern Pacific high seas prevail during a great part of the year, even where no strong winds are present to excite them. Gales are undoubtedly common in the zone between the fiftieth and sixtieth degrees of south latitude, and the waves habitually run higher there than they ever do in the comparatively confined area of the Atlantic. The disturbances are propagated to great distances, modified, of course, by winds, currents, and the form of the coasts when they approach the land; but the smooth waters that extend more than thirty degrees on either side of the equator are rarely encountered in higher latitudes. The skies brightened as the day wore on, and the sun from time to time broke through the clouds; but we were out of sight of land, and the only objects in view during the day were the sea, the sky, and the numerous sea-fowl that followed the ship. The incessant rolling made it difficult to settle down to any occupation.
We were now abreast of that large tract of Chili which has been left in the possession of its aboriginal owners, the Araucanian Indians, extending about one hundred miles from north to south, and a rather greater distance from the coast to the crest of the Cordillera. It is unfortunate that so little is known of the Araucanians, as, in many respects, they appear to be the most interesting remaining tribe of the aboriginal American population. For nearly two centuries they maintained their independence in frequent sanguinary encounters with the Spaniards, which are said on Chilian authority to have cost the invaders the loss of 100,000 men. Since the establishment of Chilian independence, the policy of the republic has been to establish friendly relations with this indomitable people. The territory between the Bio-Bio river to the north and the Tolten to the south was assigned to them, and small annual donations were made to the principal chiefs on condition of their maintaining order amongst the tribesmen. During the last forty years, however, white settlers have trespassed to a considerable extent on the Indian territory, both on the north and south sides, but have generally contrived to keep up friendly intercourse with the natives, while Chilian officials, established at Angol on the river Mallego, exercise a species of supervision over the entire region.
ARAUCANIAN INDIANS.
The present Araucanian population is somewhat vaguely estimated at about 40,000, and it is a question of some interest whether, like most native races in contact with those of European descent, they will ultimately be improved out of existence, or be gradually brought within the pale of civilization and fused with the intrusive element. The soil is said to be in great part fertile; they raise a large quantity of live stock, and some of the chiefs are said to have amassed wealth, and to have begun to show a taste for the comforts and conveniences of civilized life.
While at Santiago, I made some inquiry as to the language of the Araucanian tribes. I was informed that in the seventeenth century the Jesuit missionaries published a grammar of the language, of which only two or three copies are known to exist. About the beginning of this century a new edition, or reprint, of this work appeared at Madrid, but, as I was assured, has also become extremely rare, and copies are very seldom to be procured.
On the evening of the 1st the barometer had risen about a tenth of an inch, but by the following morning had returned to the same point (very nearly thirty inches) as on the previous day, without any change in the state of the weather; but we enjoyed more sunshine, and the proceedings of the birds that ceaselessly bore us company afforded us constant occupation and amusement. Two species were predominant. One of these was the well-known cape pigeon (Daption capensis), familiar to all mariners in the southern hemisphere. This is a handsome bird, much larger than a pigeon, exhibiting a considerable variety of plumage in what appeared to be adult individuals. In all the ground colour is white, and the tips of the spreading tail feathers are dark brown or nearly black. The upper surface of the wings sometimes showed a somewhat tesselated pattern of white and dark brown, but more commonly were marked by two transverse dark bands, with pure white between. They were very numerous, as many as from fifty to a hundred being near the ship at the same time, keeping close company, and often swooping over the deck a few feet over our heads; but, although seemingly fearless, they never were induced to take a piece of meat from a man’s hand, though the temptation was often renewed. The next in frequency – called on this coast colomba– is nearly as large as the cape pigeon, with plumage much resembling that of a turtle dove. This also approached very near. Both of these birds seemed to feel fatigue, as, after circling round the ship for half an hour at a time, they would rest on the surface of the water, dropping rapidly astern, but after some minutes resume their flight and soon overtake the ship. More interesting to me were the two species of albatross, which I had never before had an opportunity of observing. These were more shy in their behaviour, never, I think, approaching nearer than seventy or eighty yards, and usually following the ship with a slow, leisurely flight still farther astern. The common, nearly white, species (Diomedea exulans) is but a little larger than the dark-coloured, nearly black species, which I supposed to be the Diomedea fuliginosa of ornithologists.30 If, as is probable, the same birds followed us all day, we saw but two of the latter, which are, I believe, everywhere comparatively scarce. In both species I was struck by the peculiar form of the expanded wing, which is very narrow in proportion to its great length.
BIRDS OF THE SOUTHERN OCEAN.
The moment of excitement for the birds, as well as for the lookers-on, was when a basket of kitchen refuse was from time to time thrown overboard. It was amusing to watch the rush of hungry creatures all swooping down nearly at the same point, and making a marvellous clatter as they eagerly contended for the choice morsels. It did not appear to me that the smaller birds showed any fear of the powerful albatross, or that the latter used his strength to snatch away anything that had been secured by a weaker rival.
About noon on the 2nd of June we were abreast of the northern part of the large island of Chiloe, but were too far out to sea to get a glimpse of the high land on the west coast. At the northern end the island is separated from the mainland by a narrow channel (Canal de Chacao) only two or three miles in width; but on the east side the broad strait or interior sea between Chiloe and the opposite coast is from thirty to forty miles in breadth, and beset by rocky islets varying in size from several miles to a few yards.
Another unquiet night ushered in the morning of the 3rd of June. This was fairly clear, with a fresh breeze from the south-west, which, as the day advanced, rose nearly to a gale. The sea did not appear to run higher than before, but the waves struck the ship’s side with greater force, and at intervals of about ten minutes we shipped rather heavy seas, after which the deck was nearly knee-deep in water, and a weather board was needed to keep the saloon from being flooded. The barometer fell slightly, and the temperature was decidedly lower, the thermometer marking about 50° Fahr. Some attempts at taking exercise on the hurricane deck were not very successful, my friend, Mr. H – , being knocked down and somewhat bruised, and we finally retired to the saloon, and found the state of things not exhilarating. We saw nothing of the Chonos Archipelago, consisting of three large and numerous small islands, all covered with dense forest, and separated from the mainland by a strait, yet scarcely surveyed, about a hundred and twenty miles in length, and ten to fifteen in breadth.
Darwin, writing nearly fifty years ago, anticipated that these islands would before long be inhabited, but I was assured that no permanent settlement has ever been established. Parties of woodcutters have from time to time visited the islands, but no one has been tempted to remain. The excessive rainfall, which is more continuous in summer than in winter, makes them unfit for the residence of civilized man; but it seems probable that Fuegians transported there would find conditions favourable to their constitution and habits of life. It is another question whether the world would be any the better for the multiplication of so low a type of humanity.
HEAVY SEAS OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC.
In the afternoon, as the sea was running very high, the captain set the ship’s head to the wind. We saw him but once, and perceived an anxious expression on his usually jovial countenance. It afterwards came out that he apprehended the continuance of the gale, in which case he might not have ventured to put the helm round so as to enter the Gulf of Peñas. At nightfall, however, the wind fell off, and by midnight the weather was nearly calm, though the ship gave us little rest from the ceaseless rolling. During all this time sounds that issued at intervals from the cabin of the Peruvian lady and her children showed that what was merely a bore to us was to them real misery. I have often asked myself whether there is something about a sea-voyage that develops our natural selfishness, or whether it is because one knows that the suffering is temporary and has no bad results, that one takes so little heed of the really grievous condition of travellers who are unable to bear the movement of the sea. A voyage with sea-sick passengers, especially in bad weather, when one is confined to the saloon, is a good deal like being lodged in one of the prisons of the Spanish inquisition while torture was freely applied to the unhappy victims; and yet persons who are not counted as hard-hearted seem to bear their position with perfect equanimity, if not with something of self-satisfaction.
The morning of the 4th of June was so dark that we supposed our watches to have gone astray. Of course, the days were rapidly growing shorter as we ran to the southward, but the dim light on this morning was explained when we sallied forth. The wind had veered round to the north, and in these latitudes that means a murky sky with leaden clouds above and damp foggy air below. The change, however, was opportune. We were steering about due south-east, entering the Gulf of Peñas, with the dim outline of Cape Tres Montes faintly seen on our larboard bow.
I have already alluded to the peculiar conformation of the south-western extremity of the South American continent, which, from the latitude of 40° south to the opening of the Straits of Magellan, a distance of about nine hundred miles, exhibits an almost continuous range of high land running parallel to the southern extremity of the great range of the Andes. At its northern end this western range, under the names Cordillera Pelada and Cordillera de la Costa, forms part of the mainland of Chili, being separated from the Andes by a broad belt of low country including several large lakes, those of Ranco and Llanquihue being each about a hundred miles in circuit. South of the Canal de Chacao the range is continued by the island of Chiloe and the Chonos Archipelago, and then by the great mountainous promontory whose southern extremity is Cape Tres Montes. Here occurs the widest breach in the continuity of the range, as the Gulf of Peñas is fully forty miles wide. To the southward commences the long range of mountainous islands that extend to the Straits of Magellan, between which and the mainland lie the famous channels of Western Patagonia. It is worthy of note that, corresponding to the elevation of this parallel western range, the height of the main chain of the Andes is notably diminished. Of the summits that have hitherto been measured south of latitude 42° only one – the Volcano de Chana – attains to a height of eight thousand feet, and there is reason to believe that numerous passes of little more than half that elevation connect the eastern and western slopes of the chain.
RANGE OF THE ANTARCTIC FLORA.
Another point of some interest is the northern extension of the so-called antarctic flora throughout the whole of the western range, many of the characteristic species being found on the Cordillera Pelada close to Valdivia, which does not, I believe, much exceed three thousand feet in height. It is true that a few antarctic species have been found in the higher region of the Andes as far north as the equator, just as a few northern forms have travelled southward by way of the Rocky Mountains and the highlands of Mexico and Central America; and Professor Fr. Philippi has lately shown that many southern forms, and even a few true antarctic types, extend to the hills of the desert region of Northern Chili, where the constant presence of fog supplies the necessary moisture.31 The true northern limit, however, of the antarctic flora may be fixed at the Cordillera Pelada of Valdivia.
We crept on cautiously into the gulf, anxiously looking out for some safe landmark to secure an entrance into the northern end of Messier’s Channel. Soon after midday we descried a remarkable conical hill, which is happily placed so as to distinguish the true opening from the indentations of the rocky coast. As we advanced the air became thicker and colder, as drizzling rain set in; but the practised eyes of seamen are content with indications that convey no meaning to an ordinary landsman, and just as the night was closing in almost pitch dark, the rattle of the chain cable announced that we had come to anchor for the night in Hale Cove.
WILD CELERY.
The weather had become very cold. At two p.m. in the gulf the thermometer stood at 42°, and after nightfall it marked only a few degrees above freezing-point, so that, even in the saloon, we sat in our great coats, not at all enjoying the unaccustomed chilliness. All rejoiced, therefore, when the captain, having quite recovered his wonted cheerfulness, announced that a stove was to be set up forthwith in the saloon, and a tent erected on deck to give shelter from the weather. The stove was a small, somewhat rickety concern, and we fully understood that it would not have been safe to light it while the ship was labouring in the heavy seas outside; but it was especially welcome to me, as I was anxiously longing for the chance of getting my botanical paper thoroughly dry. As we enjoyed a cheerful dinner, two of the officers pushed off in one of the ship’s boats into the blackness that had closed around. After some time a large fire was seen blazing a few hundred yards from the ship, and, amid rain and sleet, we could descry from the deck some moving forms. They had succeeded, I know not how, in getting the damp timber into a blaze, and were good-naturedly employed in gathering whatever they could lay hands upon to contribute to my botanical collection. Not much could be expected under such conditions, but everything in this, to me, quite new region was full of interest. Dead branches covered with large lichens introduced me to one of the most characteristic features of the vegetation. The white fronds, four or five inches wide, and several feet in length, enliven the winter aspect of these shores, and possibly supply food to some of the wild animals. Among the plants which had been dragged up at random were several roots of the wild celery of the southern hemisphere. It is widely spread throughout the islands of the southern ocean, as well as on the shores of both coasts of Patagonia, and was described as a distinct species by Dupetit Thouars; but in truth, as Sir Joseph Hooker long ago remarked in the “Flora Antarctica,” there are no structural characters by which to distinguish it from the common wild celery of Europe, which is likewise essentially a maritime plant. Growing in a region where it is little exposed to sunshine, it has less of the strong characteristic smell of our wild plants, and the leaves may be eaten raw as salad, or boiled, which is not the case with our plant until the gardener, by heaping earth about the roots, diminishes the pungency of the smell and flavour.
One thought alone troubled me as I lay down in my berth to enjoy the first quiet night’s rest. If the weather should hold on as it now fared, there was but a slight prospect of enjoying the renowned scenery of the channels, or of making much acquaintance with the singular vegetation of this new region. It was therefore with intense relief and positive delight that I found, on sallying forth before sunrise, a clear sky and a moderate breeze from the south. Snow had fallen during the night, and was now hard frozen; and in the tent, where my plants had lain during the night, it was necessary to break off fragments of ice with numbed fingers before laying them in paper.
We weighed anchor about daybreak, and the 5th of June, my first day in the Channels, will ever remain as a bright spot in my memory. Wellington Island, which lay on our right, is over a hundred and fifty miles in length, a rough mountain range averaging apparently about three thousand feet in height, with a moderately uniform coast-line. On the other hand, the mainland presents a constantly varying outline, indented by numberless coves and several deep narrow sounds running far into the recesses of the Cordillera. In the intermediate channel crowds of islets, some rising to the size of mountains, some mere rocks peeping above the water, present an endless variety of form and outline. But what gives to the scenery a unique character is the wealth of vegetation that adorns this seemingly inclement region. From the water’s edge to a height which I estimated at fourteen hundred feet, the rugged slopes were covered with an unbroken mantle of evergreen trees and shrubs. Above that height the bare declivities were clothed with snow, mottled at first by projecting rocks, but evidently lying deep upon the higher ridges. I can find no language to give any impression of the marvellous variety of the scenes that followed in quick succession against the bright blue background of a cloudless sky, and lit up by a northern sun that illumined each new prospect as we advanced. At times one might have fancied one’s self on a great river in the interior of a continent, while a few minutes later, in the openings between the islands, the eye could range over miles of water to the mysterious recesses of the yet unexplored Cordillera of Patagonia, with occasional glimpses of snowy peaks at least twice the height of the summits near at hand. About two o’clock we reached the so-named English Narrows, where the only known navigable channel is scarcely a hundred yards in width between two islets bristling with rocks. The tide rushed through at the rate of a rapid river, and our captain displayed even more than his usual caution. Some ten men of the crew were posted astern with steering gear, in readiness to provide for the possible breakage of the chains from the steering-house. It seemed unlikely enough that such an accident should occur at that particular point, but there was no doubt that if it did a few seconds might send the ship upon the rocks.
THE ENGLISH NARROWS.
One of the advantages of a voyage through the Channels is that at all seasons the ship comes to anchor every night, and the traveller is not exposed to the mortification of passing the most beautiful scenes when he is unable to see them. When more thoroughly known, it is likely that among the numerous coves many more will be found to offer good anchorage; but few are now known, and the distance that can be run during the short winter days is not great. We were told that our halt for the night was to be at Eden Harbour, less than twenty miles south of the English Narrows, and to my great satisfaction we dropped anchor about 3.30 p.m., when there was still a full hour of daylight. Our good-natured captain put off dinner for an hour, and with all convenient speed I went ashore with Mr. H – and two officers of the ship.
Eden Harbour deserves its name. A perfectly sheltered cove, with excellent holding-ground, is enclosed by steep forest-clad slopes, culminating to the north in a lofty conical hill easily recognized by seamen. The narrow fringe between the forest and the beach is covered with a luxuriant growth of ferns and shrubby plants, many of them covered in summer with brilliant flowers, blooming in a solitude rarely broken by the passage of man. After scrambling over the rocks on the beach, the first thing that struck us was the curious nature of the ground under our feet. The surface was crisp and tolerably hard, but each step caused an undulation that made one feel as if walking on a thick carpet laid over a mass of sponge. Striking a blow with the pointed end of my ice-axe, it at once pierced through the frozen crust, and sank to the hilt over four feet into the semifluid mass beneath, formed of half-decomposed remains of vegetation.
At every step plants of this region, never before seen, filled me with increasing excitement. Several were found with very tolerable fruit, and there were even some remains of the flowers of Desfontainea spinosa and Mitraria coccinea. The latter beautiful shrub appears to have been hitherto known only from Chiloe and the Chonos Archipelago. In those islands it is described as a tall climber straggling among the branches of trees. Here I found it somewhat stunted, growing four or five feet high, with the habit of a small fuchsia. Neither of these is a true antarctic species. Like many Chilian plants, they are peculiar and much-modified members of tribes whose chief home is in tropical America. Everything else that I saw was characteristically antarctic. Three small coniferous trees peculiar to this region; a large-flowered berberry, with leaves like those of a holly, growing six or eight feet high, still showing remains of the flower; and two species of Pernettya, with berries like those of a bilberry, and which replace our Vaccinia in the southern hemisphere, were among the new forms that greeted me.
VEGETATION OF EDEN HARBOUR.
A few minutes’ stumbling over fallen timber brought us to the edge of the forest, and it was soon seen that, even if time allowed, it would be no easy matter to penetrate into it. The chief and only large tree was the evergreen beech (Fagus betuloides of botanists). This has a thick trunk, commonly three or four feet in diameter, but nowhere, I believe, attains any great height. Forty feet appeared to me the outside limit attained by any that I saw here or elsewhere. But perhaps the most striking, and to me unexpected, feature in the vegetation was the abundance and luxuriance of the ferns that inhabit these coasts. From out of the stiff frozen crust under our feet a profusion of delicate filmy ferns (Hymenophylla) grew to an unaccustomed size, including several quite distinct species; while here and there clumps of the stiff fronds of Lomaria magellanica, a couple of feet in height, showed an extraordinary contrast in form and habit. As Sir Joseph Hooker long ago remarked, the regular rigid crown of fronds issuing from a thick rhizome, when seen from a little distance, remind one forcibly of a Zamia. It was to me even more surprising to find here in great abundance a representative of a genus of ferns especially characteristic of the tropical zone. The Gleichenia of these coasts differs sufficiently to deserve a separate specific name, but in general appearance is strikingly like that which I afterwards saw growing in equal abundance in Brazil.