AFOOT IN CHILE
A collection of U.S. newspaper articles written by "James A. Rankin"
Alias "J. A. R." alias "Quito"
(1) Voyage
from New York to Valparaiso (1856-57) 2
Letter "I"
Letter
"II"
(2) First
Wanderings in Chile (1857)
14
Letter
"VI"
Letter
"VII"
Letter
VIII
Letter
IX
Letter
X
Letter
XI
Letter
XII
Letter
XIII
Letter
XIV
Letter
XV
Letter
XVI
(3) Second
Wanderings in Chile (1858)
61
Article
One
Article
Two
Article
Three
Article
Four
(4) Farewell
to Chile (1858)
90
Final
Letter
ANNEX
Reminiscences
of Chilean Travel (1859) 99
APPENDICES
One:
Glossary of Spanish Terms
115
Two:
Bibliography & Sources
121
SECTION (1)
VOYAGE FROM NEW
YORK TO VALPARAISO (1856-57)
by
"QUITO"
These articles were published in the "Illinois State Journal" between May and December 1856.
LETTER "I"
Voyage CommencedÑLast View of LandÑSea-sicknessÑA
CalmÑTerrible Storm upon the deepÑShip DisabledÑGloomy
NightÑTurn from the destined PortÑVessel LeakingÑCargo Thrown
OverboardÑPleasant WeatherÑEnter the Tropical WatersÑGlorious
SunriseÑBaffling WindsÑFair WindÑLand, ho!ÑPanorama of
the IslandsÑLovely SceneÑ"Hard up the Helm"ÑVessel
on the RocksÑCarried off by the Flood-tideÑ"Drop the
Anchor."
St. Thomas, W. I., March 31, '56.
I arrived in the city of New York on the
last day of the year 1855, and for more than two months awaited the sailing of
a vessel to Valparaiso. But the longest delays have an end Ñ at least so
I thought when the steam tug came alongside to tow us out to sea.
At an early hour on the morning of the 5th of March, I took
my last stroll up South street, supplied myself with the morning edition of the
city papers, and returned to the little ship, which I then thought would be my
home for many long and weary weeks. Before eight o'clock, the passengers and
crew Ñ the former six in number Ñwere on board; and, at 8:50, the "Sophia
Walker", Captain C. R. Moore, dropped down from Pier 37 East River. The
American flag was unfurled to the breeze, the parting gun fired, the farewell
cheer given by friends on shore, and heartily responded to by the crew, when I
felt that my journey had commenced; whether it would be long and adventurous,
time alone could determine.
The city, with its forest of masts in the
foreground, lessened in the view, and Staten Island with its romantic hills,
crowned by many a lovely villa, and robed in the mantle of winter, rapidly
receded in the distant perspective. At 11:45 the pilot was discharged, and,
with a jolly crew and lively passengers, our ship stood boldly out toward the
boundless horizon on her intended voyage around Cape Horn. I watched the
Highlands of Neversink, as many a voyager had done before, until they faded in
the dim distance. An intervening wave would hide them for a moment from view,
another, and they were visible; but soon the last material tie that bound me to
my native land had disappeared. I could not see this and the white capped waves
close around us without an emotion I never felt before. The evening was
beautiful, a few light clouds floating in the distance, while the ship, with a
fair wind and a swelling canvass, went bounding over the wave.
I turned out of my berth in the morning at
an early hour; it was a glorious morning upon the mighty deep. A fine breeze
was blowing from the South; and, as our ship moved along at the rate of nine
knots an hour, the rippling waves at her sides and bow flashed with phosphoric
light. But sea-sickness prevented my enjoying scenery or anything else. Three
mortal days were passed in almost hopeless agony. It was not until the 9th that
the demon left me, certainly without regret on my part. The weather during this
day was fine, though not favorable to the vessel's progress. The wind lulled
down to a calm in the afternoon, the sails flapping idly against the masts. The
moon and stars at night shone brightly through the deep blue sky, occasionally
obscured by fleeting clouds. It proved, as the captain said it would, to be the
precursor of a terrible storm.
The following day Ñ Monday, the 10th Ñ was rough and stormy.
During the afternoon two frightful squalls came down upon us from the
Southwest; the howling of the wind as it swept through the rigging was fearful;
all hands were called to take in sail, the top-gallant-yards were lowered, and
the ship "laid to" to drift at the mercy of the waves. The gale, from
the Northwest, now commenced, and continued with unabated fury during the two
following days, but without any injury to the ship. It was reserved for
Thursday, March 13th, to roll the "tenth wave" of the storm down on
us. It was indeed an awful day, and one which I will not soon forget. Owing to
the long continuation of the gale, the sea was lashed as though a myriad
monsters of the unfathomed deep were engaged in deadly strife. The waves came
rolling on like mountains tumbled down, by nature's grand convulsion, their
snow-white crests boiling and hissing in waters of the brightest emerald green.
At one moment our little ship was borne to the summit of one of these Andean
billows of the watery waste, the next she plunged like a maddened steed down
into the dark valley of water below. But the disastrous effects of one of these
seas I have yet to relate. The passengers, including the captain and mate, were
seated at the supper table, the second mate had the watch on deck when a
towering wave came rolling down upon us in its mountain pride; on, on it came,
the frowning crest reaching to the foretop; the blow came with the most
stunning shock I ever felt, the ship trembled like a quivering leaf, the water
streamed upon our heads through the skylight, the lamps were put out, and the
dishes swept from the table quicker than thought. All then was still for a
moment; it was a moment of awful suspense, for the ship, completely buried in
water, seemed to be going down. Gradually she swung to the larboard side, and
we felt assured of at least a momentary safety. The cabin door was forced open
when everything on deck appeared to be in chaotic confusion; bulwarks stove,
deck covered with water, pigs scrambling in the briny flood, and every
impending wave seemed as though it would sweep us into a watery grave.
A gloomy night succeeded the day, more
terrible because of the darkness. Its experience I do not care about repeating.
Our brave and experienced captain was even appalled at the terrible scene;
which during the twenty-four years of his voyaging upon the ocean, exceeded any
storm he had ever witnessed. Owing to the damage the vessel had sustained, the
captain shaped her course the following morning for St. Thomas for repairs Ñ
distant twelve hundred miles. Already she had sprung a leak, which rapidly
increased as the day advanced; two pumps were kept going constantly; this state
of affairs was indeed alarming. A consultation was then held; the captain said that
if, in our present condition, another gale should spring up the ship must
inevitably go down; our only hope of safety was to have the vessel lightened,
and the sooner done, the better. Passengers and crew were then told if they had
any objection to such a course, to offer them Ñ of course none were
offered. The main hatch was then opened, and we commenced throwing the cargo
overboard considerably faster than it was taken in. In the course of three or
four hours we had discharged about fifty tons; as this materially relieved the
ship, the hatch was closed up again, the water pumped from the hold, and we
rested from our labors, much relieved in mind from the pleasant appearance the
weather was assuming.
The following morning, Saturday 15th, dawned
bright and beautiful upon the ruffled waters. There was a clearness in the sky,
and a purity in the air, I had not seen and felt since the day we sailed. A
lovely breeze was blowing from the northeast, which the captain hoped would
take us to the "trades;" the "stormy region" of the Gulf
stream was left behind, and from this date the weather was pleasant. Day after
day passed quietly away. The monotony of the scene was occasionally broken into
by the view of a distant sail, or a school of flying fish, as they skimmed over
the surface of the water.
The summer-like beauty of the air, as we
neared the tropics was striking. This was more especially the case at night,
when the full-robed moon bathed the light fleecy clouds with a soft and mellow
glow, and the dancing waves reflected her rays as from a thousand mirrors.
Our ship hovered on the verge of the tropics
for several days, as though reluctant to enter the fiery flood. The latitude by
noon observation on the 25th, was 22 deg. 54 min.; hence, we must have crossed
the tropic of Cancer during the night. I rejoiced in the thought of being
within the limits of the torrid zone. The boundless sea gave no evidence of the
fact; but I knew within its bosom there reposed this gorgeous scenery of a new
world.
I was roused at an early hour the next
morning by the sailors singing one of their cheering songs as they pulled at
the ropes. Day was beginning to dawn behind the dark clouds which were piled in
irregular masses against the eastern horizon; long radiating streams of an
alternate rosy azure hue soon shot towards the zenith; and as the minutes
advanced, the light wavy tufts of cirrus far above the frowning ramparts below
glowed and flamed like burnished gold; the rough and ragged edge of the dark
mass was illuminated with a crest of the most dazzling brilliancy, when the sun
arose above the whole, a fitting finale to the aerial painting.
Our progress was now retarded by baffling
winds. The "trades" which the captain so confidently counted upon,
appeared to have their direction reversed, and for two or three days it was a
"dead beat," as the sailors term it. On the 29th, the wind lulled
down into a calm in the forenoon, but as the day advanced, a light favorable
breeze sprung up, increasing in strength during the night, until the water in
the ship's wake fairly boiled with phosphoric fire.
I turned out of my berth in the morning, Sunday March 30th,
at an early hour, and found the captain already on deck keeping a sharp look
out for the long-expected land. The morning light had barely dawned, when he
told me he could see the distant coast. I looked with a beating heart across
the wide water, in the direction pointed out, when, sure enough, dim and
shadowy against the western sky, stood the first tropical land I ever beheld.
It proved to be the island of Virgin Gorda, one of the group of the Virgin
isles. The ship, with a fine breeze, was sailing along at a rate unknown for
days before, and, as we neared the island, its rough fantastic cliffs glowed as
with a fierce internal heat. The southern part of the island was inhabited, for,
with the telescope, I could see houses and plantations, and even the roads as
they wound their serpentine courses around the mountains in the interior. On
the extreme southern part of the Island, lone and solitary in its tropical
beauty, stood a single cocoanut tree.
The captain allowed the vessel to run as
close to the shore during the day as safety would admit; and what a glorious
panorama was unfolded to the view! It is true that no gorgeous vegetation robed
the island sides with the undying green of the isthmus; but as island rose
above and beyond island, with many a little bay and cove indenting their
coasts, showing that beautiful gradation of tint, of picturesque form and
varied shade, which distance alone can give, I felt that my imagination had not
been allowed too free a rein, in painting the charming beauties of island
scenery. I longed to go ashore and roam over the hills and mountains, and
explore the mysterious caves which were occasionally to be seen in the rocky
shores, telling a tale of the pirate cruisers that once swarmed in the waters.
As we were passing a lofty pile of rocks, which were cut off from the main land
of one of the islands, my attention was called by the mate, to a century-blooming
aloe, perched on the topmost cliff. I was struck with the incident. Generations
were to pass away from the time it first kissed the ocean breeze, till it
should bloom and then, 'twould "blush
unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air."[1]
Night closed upon the beautiful scene. The
clouds, which during the day had overhung the land, disappeared with the
setting sun, and the stars shone forth with a lustrous brilliancy known only to
a tropical sky. The dark outline of the island of St. Thomas loomed up on our starboard
beam; I could hear the roar of the surf, and in the dim starlight could
distinguish the dark patches of vegetation which dotted the gentle shores. A
fresh breeze was blowing from the land, bearing with it the sweetest fragrance
I ever breathed. I could almost have imagined myself in the gardens of Isfahan.
I never in my life before experienced such enjoyment; we had been tossed upon
the ocean's angry breast, and were now almost within hail of the wished-for
port: for although I love the ocean, and during the terrible storm could read
and appreciate Byron's Apostrophe, the land, from the Andes to the Himalaya, is
my home. I felt that deep and placid excitement that the traveler alone can
realize, but which language cannot express. I did not see the dark cloud, whose
murky folds were destined to wrap this lovely scene in momentary gloom. It was
best that l did not.
I was standing on the quarterdeck, leaning
against the rigging, and watching the lights in the city and harbor, as they,
one by one came in view, when I heard the order of the captain to "hard up
the helm," in that sharp quick tone which indicated danger; almost
simultaneously with the order, the ship struck, and after dragging a few
fathoms, came to a stand, save that she thumped on the rocks in a manner
anything but agreeable. The boats were ordered to be lowered, which was done as
soon as possible, the second mate and four men jumped in one, and taking three
of the passengers, the cook and steward, and such few articles as could be picked
up at the moment, pulled for the town, distant nearly two miles. The remaining
passengers, Capt. Valin, Dr. Scammon and myself, determined to stay with the
captain and the remainder of the crew, until the vessel was got off or went to
pieces. We had the largest boat at the side, and were ready to leave the ship
at a moment's warning. As soon as the second mate's boat left the ship, the
cannon were fired as signals of distress, and sail made in order to force her
off if possible. Fortunately the tide was rising, and after grinding her keel
on the rocks for about two hours, she gave a thump which jarred every timber in
her, and then swung free of the treacherous ledge. Up to this time there was
only three feet of water in her hold; a ship of ordinary strength would have
broken in two. An English war steamer was lying in the mouth of the harbor;
and, as we steered up toward the town, we were successively hailed by her and
the fort.
At twenty minutes before twelve the order
was given to "stand by and let go the anchor" a harsh grating sound
ensued Ñ when a voyage short in duration, but replete with thrilling
incidents, was brought to a close. [2]
g
LETTER "II"
Detention in RioÑPriests, Church beggarsÑBrazilian
womenÑthe EmperorÑmen-of-war's menÑbeautiful scenery tropical
gardenÑnegroesÑyellow feverÑfleet of sail boatsÑthe
"Iris" towed down the Bay to the guard shipÑ"who has the
papers?"Ñlast view of RioÑ"your pass!"Ñthe
Portuguese captain, change among the crewÑfavorable
windsÑ"Sunday sail, never fails,"Ñencounter a
"pampero" off the Rio de la PlataÑCape
pigeonsÑcalmsÑStaten Land and its snow-capped
mountainsÑMagellan cloudsÑsnow squalls and Cape Horn
galesÑdouble the CapeÑ"the ship is
sinking!"Ñplacidity of the PacificÑthe Chilean coastÑend
of the voyage, &c, &c.
Valparaiso, Chile, S. A., September 27, 1856.
The "Iris" was detained at Rio de
Janeiro for a period of two weeks, discharging her cargo and taking in more
ballast. I will take the jottings down of the incidents of a week, from my
journal, and then proceed to the principal events of my voyage, which at length
is brought to a close.
Sunday, August 10. Another interesting week
has passed away. I have been ashore every day last week, with the exception of
Tuesday, and the long ramble through the city last Monday fatigued me to such
an extent that I was fain to stay aboard and recruit myself on that day. My
general impression of Rio is favorable in nearly every respect; I have had one
obstacle in my way however, and that was, ignorance of the language; still I am
very well satisfied, and if I have not seen as much of Rio as I could have
wished, I can say that I have seen, considering my opportunity, no small amount
of life and scenery. In wandering around I have seen quite a number of priests;
a strong proof, if one were wanting, that I was in a Catholic land. I saw, last
Monday morning, two or three church beggars going around bare-headed, with an
umbrella spread over them. They had a light kind of gown thrown over their
shoulders to indicate their calling. I noticed that they stopped at nearly
every door and begged with an unblushing effrontery that was truly astonishing.
There was a great procession last Sunday night and it is likely that these
gentry were collecting means to defray the expenses.
With regard to the women of Rio I can say
but little, for I have seen but few of them; generally speaking, they are not
as handsome as my own country women, although I saw some beautiful faces by
taking a sly peep through open windows. I was walking along one day near the
suburbs in a winding kind of a street, when I saw a pretty little brunette
looking out of an open window with her arms resting upon the sill; she was the
first pretty girl I had seen, and as I passed her I happened to look down at
her little arm, I regret to say that it was darker than necessary. I saw this
little witch again and I am not sure but that I should have seen her a third
time if I had remained in Rio. The Emperor visited the French frigate one day
last week; there was grand saluting on the occasion. I saw the foreign
ministers come off in the evening dressed in their brilliant uniforms. I did
not see his Majesty, much to my regret. After wandering around the city for
several hours, and tiring myself out, I would go down to the ship chandlery and
wait for the "Iris"' boat. Sometimes I would remain there an hour or
two and, as the men-of-war's men landed there, I had an excellent opportunity
of studying the various characters of the French, English and American tars. As
our second mate, who is an old man-of-war's-man himself, remarks, the French
are dirty, the English drunken, and the Americans proud. There is something
about the men-of-war's-men of all nations that is altogether different from the
merchant sailor. They have not that downcast look which is incident to hard
treatment.
I think there are some of the finest
glimpses of scenery in Rio I ever beheld. Some of the private residences that
are situated back from the business part of town are exceedingly tasteful in
their decorations; the polychromatic wreaths of flowers which adorn the
pediments of some of their villas, united with the general expression of the
whole, I could never tire in gazing upon. From these works of art the eye would
glance up to the summit of a lofty hill, and see, cutting sharp and clear
against the deep blue sky, masses of dark green foliage, or that type of the
South, the gorgeous palm. The gardens are in keeping with the rest of the
scenery, and many a little gem of beauty will long remain impressed upon my
memory. These remarks apply to the suburban portion of Rio, for doubtful sights
and smells are to be observed in the lower or business portion.
I also visited the tropical garden nearly
every morning during the week, and wondered at myself for passing by in a
former visit so much that was interesting. Upon the dark green leaves the dew
drops sparkled like a myriad of diamonds; sweet birds warbled their notes of
melody among the palms; and unknown flowers basked in the early sunlight. On
Thursday morning I took a sketch of a portion of the city of St. Sebastian from
the terrace of the garden. This terrace is elevated ten or fifteen feet above
the garden level, and is about thirty feet in width and nearly three hundred in
length. It is paved with black and white marble blocks, with an occasional
streak of granite. Close to each end of the terrace is an octagonal building,
for what purpose used I do not know. There is also one of these buildings in
the garden. The view of the garden from the terrace is a singular blending of
the beautiful and the picturesque. I imagined that with a certain addition it
would form an excellent sketch for an allegorical representation of the Dreams
of Youth. I lingered upon the terrace the morning aforementioned for a long
time; the heavy swell of the Bay beat against the wall with a crashing sound,
and when at last I turned away from the beautiful scene, I felt that its
charming influence had made me better than I was before.
There are many far different scenes in Rio.
I saw quite a number of beggars lying around on the narrow sidewalks. They were
really the most worthy looking beggars I ever came in contact with. The slaves
look contented and happy. I noticed that the faces of a large number of the
negresses were "tattooed;" they were probably natives of Africa. I
saw a poor old negress going about one day picking up sticks of wood. Poor old
thing ! I pitied her, for she was raggedness and attenuation personified. I
have understood that there is considerable yellow fever in Rio, and one morning
I met two soldiers on a corner carrying a sick man in a hammock who looked
rather suspicious about the eyes; but still I half doubt the tale. The
temperature of the air at this season of the year is from 70 to 75 degrees.
Nearly every morning a heavy fog envelopes the Bay, which is not swept away
until the sea breeze sets in. This is sufficient to make the place unhealthy in
the summer.
The "Iris" was hauled off to an
anchorage in the early part of the week, in order to give the French mail
propeller a chance to take in coals. The British steamship lay close by,
similarly engaged. There was a jolly set on the English boat during the night;
there was fiddling and dancing, and any amount of noise.
There are a great number of small sailing
boats in the Bay. Every morning they come in from the opposite side to the
city, laden with marketing, and in the evening the fleet returns. The
picturesque "felucca," a boat with two separate sails running to a
peak, and the Rio boat, with its single square sail, add much to the beauty of
the view upon the water. This Rio boat is hewed out of a log, and is generally
managed by two persons, owing to the size of the boat, who also row with
paddles.
The Captain came off at a late hour last
night, and gave such orders to the mate that I knew we were going to sail
to-day. He had told me late in the evening that he would not sail on Sunday
again, on account of his having bad luck last timeÑ that is, a very long
passage; but I presume that he changed his mind. About half past seven this
morning a little steam tug grappled the "Iris," and towed her down
the Bay to the guard ship. The guard boat came alongside and demanded the
papers for inspection. The Custom House officer did not have them, the Captain
did not have them, no one had them. There was an evident misunderstanding. The
guard boat pushed off, the anchor was let go, and the Captain, in a terrible
rage, ordered the ship's boat manned, and started ashore himself to procure
them. He had not been gone more than five minutes, when they were brought
aboard in the ship chandler's boat, which had been cruising about an hour or
two in search of us. In the mean time, there was a great commotion in the Bay.
At a short distance a small steamer was careering around; her deck was covered
with officers and soldiers dressed in splendid uniforms, and the notes of a
brass band, softened by the distance, were borne across the placid water. A
Brazilian war steamer, surrounded by men of war boats, was also getting under
weigh near at hand. At the same time, the French screw propeller "Le
Lyonnais" came steaming down the Bay, while boats of every kind, and
manned by many a motley crew, added immensely to the general bustle.
The church bells were ringing a merry peal
when our captain returned; the papers were examined, the password given, the
anchor tripped, and the steam tug again made fast to us. I took the telescope
and scanned the city for what may be the last time. It was one of the few
mornings when no fog dimmed the beauty of the sky. Far away to the northwest
loomed the blue pyramidal head of an isolated mountain, whose sharp peaks were
almost blended with the northern sky. I bade farewell to Rio de Janeiro with
regret, for it had brought me more than I sought. I indulged the secret hope
however that I should again return. "We were soon close to "Santa
Cruz" when the sentinel on the walls shouted out "your pass !"
"Mar !" answered the captain "all right," was returned, and
we proceeded on our way without interruption, unlike an American ship that was
fired at a few days before. The captain ordered all the sails to be loosed, and
the topsails were sheeted home with merry songs. The steam tug was cast adrift
just as the sea breeze was setting in; her captain in broken Portuguese cried
out "fair winds," for which our captain thanked him, and with a light
wind we stood due South. About two o'clock P. M. we passed Raza or the lighthouse
island, beyond which Redonda reared its feathery crown of palms, and shortly
after the white reaches of sandy beach, like threads of silver, were hidden by
the dancing waves.
During the afternoon the breeze gradually
freshened, and the ship is now going nine knots per hour. The mountains that
surround the bay would still be visible were it not for the darkness; the last
glimpse I had of "Sugar Loaf" was at sunset. There is something of a
change in our crew, and there had like to have been a greater one; the Lopez
soldier and one of the boys took their departure without due notice being
given, but their places are well filled by an English boy and a Portuguese
sailor whose fine manly form and dark hair and whiskers remind me in a striking
manner of the picture I had formed in my mind of the great navigator, Magellan.
Favorable winds attended us for the three following days, and the captain
remarked to me on Wednesday evening that "Sunday sail never fails."
The same night the barometer commenced falling rapidly, and at five o'clock the
following morning the expected "pampero" struck us, and for forty
hours it blew a fierce gale from the west. The ship was "hove to"
under her storm sails and proved herself an excellent sea boat. Immense flocks
of Cape pigeons hovered around us during the gale. These birds are web footed,
and in other respects very much resemble the tame pigeons. I amused myself at
times in the very questionable employment of catching these birds with a pin
hook. The storm was succeeded by light winds and calms, but a fair wind
continually came to our relief, and on the 29th of August we made Staten Land
bearing nearly South. This Island lies to the north and east of Cape Horn and
separated from Terra del Fuego by the Straits of Le Maire. The wind was blowing
a steady gale from the northwest, and our ship was running in the trough of the
sea, but all the canvass was piled on her that she would bear, and for a few
hours she underwent the operation of diving.
The land indistinctly seen through the haze
at first, soon assumed a definite outline, and its snow-capped mountains cut
sharp and clear against the wintry sky. We ran about a league from the shore,
and, at the imminent risk of being well drenched, I stood up between the cabin
and bulwarks and took two sketches of that distant and desolate land. There was
a scanty vegetation perceptible upon its rocky sides, but the wild sea fowl
winging its rapid flight over the splintered rocks was the only living thing I
saw. Several large and massive rocks upon the summit of a lofty ridge, had the
exact appearance of castles with their battlements and towers, and I almost
looked for a race of giants to emerge from the imaginary portals of these
apparent strongholds. As we ran under the lee of the shore, the water was
comparatively smooth, and although the wind came direct off of the snow fields,
the thermometer did not indicate a lower temperature than 41¼. A large cumulus
cloud rested over the Island, and the summits of the loftiest peaks were
wrapped in its dark and misty folds. The sun set behind the land, presenting
the most singular appearance imaginable; the night was blessed with a clear sky
and the southern constellations, and the Magellan clouds shone resplendent in
their quiet beauty.
The wind was fair during the night, and on
the following morning the Island was hidden from my view, but far away to the
northward loomed the snowy peaks of Terra del Fuego. The weather was so fine
that I hoped we would double the Cape without a gale; but the terrible storm king
of the south was determined not to let us off so easily; two or three light
snow squalls came out of the northwest, and then the wind hauled to southwest,
and in less than eight hours from the time the main royal was furled the ship
was "hove to." The howling of the wind as it swept through the
rigging on the night of the 30th of August was almost deafening. The ship
rolled and tumbled at such a rate that I got but little sleep, and in the
intervals of wakefulness I expected to hear the main topsail sheet part every
moment. I reconciled myself as well as I could to the tedium of a Cape Horn
trip life; and on the morning of the 12th of September, after two weeks of
baffling westerly gales, that tossed us about over the wild waters which had
been plowed by the keels of the adventurous Drake, and the intrepid Cook, we
doubled the celebrated promontory, and were fairly in the waters of the
Pacific. A fair wind which sprung up shortly afterwards gave us ten degrees of
latitude, but it gradually hauled ahead, and on the 21st, while blowing a
moderate gale with a short cross sea, a wave struck the vessel on her larboard
bow and stove her cutwater and did some other damage. The captain went forward
but soon returned and reported the ship to be in a sinking condition. This
would have been alarming news if true, but I was too well acquainted with his
disposition of making much out of a little, to believe any such a tale, and to
satisfy myself I went to the mate, who is not only a brave and skillful seaman,
but a truthful man; he quieted any apprehension I might have had for the safety
of the ship, by telling me there was no danger; personal inspection proved the
truth of his assertion. Had there been a party of ladies on board at the time
the captain made his announcement, I would much rather have been in the long
boat than in the cabin.
This was the last storm we had; a few hours
passed away and the wind came out fair, and in a day or two the waves faded
away to the gentlest swell, and I felt that our ship was in the Pacific Ocean.
I was charmed with the placid beauty of its waters, which move as smooth as an
inland lake. We made the coast of Chile on the 25th, and sailed in sight of
land during the day. Our ship was only two leagues from Valparaiso light house
when darkness closed around us. In the course of two or three hours we were
close to the shore, and not far off I saw the brilliant gas lights of the city
I had so long tried to reach, but which fate seemed to deny. The wind had now
died down to nearly a calm, and I laid down to sleep for the last time on the
good "Iris". The earliest streak of dawn found me peering over the
bulwarks, and admiring the opening beauties of the sweet 'Spring Chile.' The
morning breeze shortly freshened, and bore us up to the crowd of shipping, and
our ship was anchored in the bay where
"Valparaiso's cliffs and flowers
In mirrored wildness sweep." [3]
My long and varied voyaging and
counter-voyaging of sixteen thousand miles was thus brought to a close.
g
SECTION (2)
FIRST WANDERINGS
IN CHILE (1857)
by "QUITO"
These articles were published in the "Illinois State Journal" between May 1857 and March 1858.
LETTER
"VI"
Farewell to the "Iris", and her crewÑAppearance of
Valparaiso, when viewed from a position in the BayÑView of the distant
Cordilleras and CoastÑRange of MountainsÑScenery around
ValparaisoÑEarthquakesÑNative Chileans, their dress,
&c.ÑSingular CustomsÑUnrivaled beauty of the Climate.
Valparaiso, Chile, Feb. 28, 1857.
My last letter left me on board of the
"Iris," but my stay on the good ship, after her arrival here, was by
no means prolonged. For four long months, through sunshine and storm, had the
noble vessel been my home; but the hour came when I had to leave and again
encounter strange faces, and as I parted from the kind stewardess and
intelligent mate, and sung out a "good bye" to "old Jack,"
which was heartily answered, I felt sadder than I ever did before on a similar
occasion. Two or three days after, I ascended one of the cliffs and looked in
vain for the ship; she had sailed for another port. Will I ever again see her
tall and tapering spars, or tread her clean, familiar deck?
I will say nothing about my first impressions on coming ashore in this
place, save that they were not those of disappointment. Although the appearance
of Valparaiso when viewed from a position in the bay is singular, I cannot say
that the beautiful is blended with it. This is in a measure owing to the mean
appearance of most of the buildings, which are low, built of adobes and
tile-covered. Deep and precipitous ravines descend toward the bay, and up these
deep ''quebradas" a single
street will take its winding, tortuous way. There is, strictly speaking, but
one principal street in Valparaiso; it is about three miles in length, and in
its meanderings it assumes various names. To speak the truth, when I first
looked upon the cliffs and flowers of Valparaiso, it was not with that feeling
of indescribable rapture which I felt a few weeks before when I saw for the
first time that scenery which surrounds the "most
magnificent of all the havens of the earth."[4]
Ascending one of the lofty cliffs, which in
some places are almost perpendicular, and looking toward the North and East, we
have in view the Coast Range of mountains, distant some thirty or forty miles.
These mountains are from fifteen hundred to six thousand feet in height, and
when I came here in September many of them were covered with snow, but this has
long since disappeared. When the weather is fine and clear, beyond the coast
range can be seen the Cordilleras, white as Parian marble[5]
with the snows of countless centuries.
Conspicuous above all others, at the distance of ninety miles as the
crow flies, Aconcagua rears his lofty head more than twenty thousand feet above
the level of the sea. This mountain is, if we mistake not, the loftiest volcano
on the globe. It is now many years since it was in a state of eruption, but the
numerous, and at times, disastrous earthquakes with which Chile is visited,
give evidence that the fires which rage within are as fierce as ever.
Valparaiso from "Deck and Port",
Rev. Walter Colton (1850)
South of Valparaiso is an elevated ridge,
which gradually slopes from the upper portion of the town to a distance of two
or three miles; its undulating outline terminates the view in that direction.
There are no trees in or around Valparaiso of any size; the hillsides are
covered with low bushes thinly scattered, and the dark red soil contrasting
with the green patches of verdure, the whole mingling with the blue sky, in the
distance, add still more to the singularity of this place. The vegetation, however,
has lost that green and lively hue which it wore when I first came here, but
the winter rains will restore it to its primitive beauty and render that
season, so I am informed, by far the most delightful portion of the year.
Although I have said [that] the buildings here cannot lay any great claim to
architectural elegance, yet there are exceptions; the post office and some of
the private residences on the Plaza Victoria would do credit to any city.
The walls of the houses are built of immense thickness to resist
the shock of earthquakes. The necessity of this was made very apparent to me a
few evenings after my arrival here by a heavy earthquake. It was the first I
had ever felt. I was in the second story of a building at the time and the
first intimation I had was a deep rumbling sound like the roll of thunder when
heard far off at sea; I instinctively knew what it was and started for the
stairway instanter, but before I reached it I thought the granite foundations
of the globe were breaking up; the surface of the earth seemed to rise in
mid-air as the mighty wave of lava rolled beneath our feet. I descended the
stairs with difficulty, and when I got into the Plaza del Orden it was nearly
full of people, half of whom were on their knees, crossing themselves in a
manner the most devout. The yelping and howling of innumerable dogs, with which
the city abounds, made the scene eminently ludicrous, and notwithstanding the
terror depicted on the faces of those around me, I could not refrain from
laughing. Fortunately it was not succeeded by a second shock, which is usually
the case, as a heap of ruins would have been the result. The earth was
tremulous and gave evidence of internal commotion for the three following
weeks.
The population of
the city is variously estimated at from forty to eighty thousand inhabitants,
but the latter number is nearest the truth. The better class of Chileans dress
remarkably well, while the peons all
wear the everlasting "poncho."
The favorite dress of the women is black, than which none is more appropriate,
for it contrasts finely with their handsome black eyes and the clear olive of
their complexion. They invariably wear a mantle, which is worn in a manner
peculiarly graceful; sometimes this mantle is used for the double purpose of a
masque, the face being entirely covered, with the exception of a small portion
about the eyes, and in this they strikingly remind me of that custom which used
to render so famous the women of Lima. At an early hour every Sunday morning
one will see the Se–oritas wending their way to the different churches, clad in
this costume which has been handed down to them by their Spanish ancestors.
With regard to the social life of the natives I cannot say much, for I know but
little as yet; the influx of foreigners, however, and those of the worst sort,
since the discovery of gold in California, has changed the manner of the people
from what it was twenty years ago, and the primitive simplicity which
characterized the inhabitants of Valparaiso in the days of Capt. Basil Hall[6]
is sadly on the wane.
They have a peculiar custom here of burying the dead at night,
for no funeral procession is ever seen in the day time. There is something to
my mind very impressive about this. The quiet stillness which reigns around at
that hour, unbroken save by the measured tread of the hearse bearers or the
voice of some distant watchman, as he cries the hour of night, awakens a deeper
reflection than one is apt to have in the bustle of noonday. The Pantheon or
cemetery where the higher class of Chilenos are buried Ñ for the peons are thrown into a common pit Ñ
although of small size, is the neatest place of the kind I ever saw. It looks
more like a flower garden than a city of the dead.
I will make a few
remarks about the climate and then bring this wandering letter to a close. The
climate of Chili is probably unsurpassed for salubrity. The mountainous, arid,
rocky character of the country and entire absence of all rank vegetation
accounts for this in a great measure. During the five months I have been here
there has been but one rain, and two or three months more will elapse before
the rainy season sets in. Everything as a consequence is dry and parched up and
a strong wind coming in nearly every afternoon here in Valparaiso, fills the
air with clouds of dust and makes it somewhat disagreeable to be in the streets
at that time. The temperature of the air seldom exceeds 80 of Fahrenheit, and
so dry and pure is the air that even in the warmest season one does not
experience the least inconvenience from heat. Sometimes the mornings are
cloudy, or very seldom a light fog will come in from the Ocean; but, as a
general thing, the sun rises clear and cloudless above the flashing snows of
the Cordilleras; and long after his broad red disk has dipped behind the
Pacific's wave, and the nearer coast range are wrapped in the purple line of evening
gloom, the snow fields of Aconcagua are flushed with his ruddy glow.
g
LETTER
"VII"
The "Vale of Paradise"ÑLong dry seasonÑThe
Festival of Semana Santa[7]ÑVisit
to the church of St. Augustin and the Cathedral of La Matriz after
nightÑThe lovely ChileansÑPraying PeonsÑGrand Procession on
the night of Viernes Santo[8]ÑIncidents
of the same, &c., &c.
Valparaiso, Chile, S.A., April 14th 1857.
The sight of land to those who have long
been on the ocean is always hailed with rapture, and the most barren island
assumes a beauty and a grace that the landsman can scarcely realize. It is
probably for this reason that the early Spanish navigators named this place "Valparaiso,"
or the "Vale of Paradise," a name, says Capt. Hall, "that its present appearance by no
means justifies."[9]
I cannot agree altogether with the good Captain, who wrote more than thirty
years ago, in his opinion; an opinion that even the humorous Englishman was
disposed to recall, when he had climbed the mountain south of here, and looked
from a height of nearly two thousand feet, upon the vast scene which was spread
below and around him.
There has been no rain in this part of Chile
since last September, and I have quite forgotten how a rain storm looks. The
season, within the last few weeks, has changed materially; and the strong dry
winds which occasionally prevailed during the summer months do not disturb us
now with their clouds of dust and sand. Vast masses of clouds roll in from
seaward every morning and plainly indicate that a "norther" will soon
sweep over the Bay. When the bright sunlight, during the day, disperses those
clouds among the valleys, and their white fleecy folds half envelope the lofty
mountains, I am reminded of the Bay of Rio.
Last week was "Semana Santa" or Saint Week. At ten o'clock on the morning of
the 9th, all business was discontinued, not even a carriage was allowed to run
through the streets. The Chilean vessels in the Bay "cock billed"
their yards, and lowered their flags to half mast in commemoration of this
solemn event. When night came the streets were filled with women and peons, hurrying to and from the
different churches. The first church I visited was that of St. Augustin,
situated on the Plaza Victoria. This building is about one hundred feet in
length, and when finished will present quite an imposing appearance. The roof
is supported by two rows of Doric columns between which at regular intervals,
on the night in question, were suspended chandeliers, while the Altar was
splendidly illuminated with a pyramid of flashing lights which pained the eye
to gaze upon. The central space between the columns was occupied by women
kneeling on small mats and gazing intently on some image while they repeated
their prayers. Dark skinned peons,
whose high cheek bones gave strong evidence of their close relationship to the
Indian race, were scattered around in different directions, devoutly engaged in
prayer. An image of the Virgin Mary with the Child Jesus received a large share
of the worship. It was erected on a stand close to one of the columns and robed
in a rich mantle, the hem of which every good Catholic kissed previous to their
exit. Quite a number went through with the ceremony in a hurried and, I thought,
irreverent manner, but the earnestness of a majority was not to be questioned.
I saw one woman whose care-worn face indicated the hardships she had endured,
kneel upon the floor in front of the image, repeat a short prayer, then bow her
head and kiss the floor in adoration of the Shrine. No one could doubt her
sincerity. I went close to the Altar where an image of our Savior was fastened
to the cross, and a large crowd were gathered around taking their turn in
kissing the feet. While I was leaning against one of the columns, two Chileans
came and knelt down close by my side; they were not only handsome but their
faces were irradiated with that mild and gentle beauty that Religion alone can
give to woman. I never witnessed such calm devotion, as was theirs, in a Protestant
church, and when I presently left the building it was with the impression that
there must be something remarkable, if not much that was good, in a religion
which so fascinated the mind: a fascination whose influence I felt myself.
I next wended my way to the Cathedral of La
Matriz. It was nearly full of people. The Altar was more brilliantly
illuminated than that of St. Augustin; the intervals between the burning tapers
were filled up with bright colored glasses of various hues and vases of rich
flowers. Two soldiers in full uniform stood within the recess and kept guard on
either side of the Altar. There also was an image of Christ nailed to the
cross. I crowded my way up to the Altar and stepping in between the two rows of
columnsÑ for the style of construction is similar to that of St.
AugustinÑ and looking toward the principal entrance, a sea of upturned
faces met my gaze. They were all women and without an exception dressed in
black. From their numerous lips there went up the busy hum of prayers, to that
Being before whom in different form but with undivided faith, we all bow and
worship. When I went out of the Cathedral I was saluted by a crowd of beggars,
to whose numerous petitions I paid but little attention.
The Cathedral of La Matriz Ñ by no means a fine-looking
building externally Ñ is considerably elevated above the houses in the
front of it; and over their tile-covered roofs I could see the lofty spars of
the shipping in the bay, and the shimmering light of the full orbed moon, as
her rays played upon the dimpled surface of the water. In spite of the night
and the dim haze with which the air was filled I could see, though forty miles
away, the Coast Range of mountains. During the evening I saw numerous parties
of peons, with bared heads,
perambulating the streets and praying in chorus. They would walk quite a
distance in silence, and then, as it were with one voice, repeat some passage
of a prayer. The sound of thirty or forty voices at once, breaking upon the
still night air, was very singular.
There was a great procession the next night. It was about seven
o'clock in the evening when I sallied out from the "Hotel del Orden;"
the night was clear and beautiful, as it nearly always is in this highly
favored clime, and the moon, which had just risen above the mountains in the
interior, shed a mild radiance upon every object, that acted like the invisible
charm of an enchanter's wand. I passed through the Calle San Juan de Dios, the
Plaza Victoria and then into Calle Victoria, or Victoria street. Upon either
side of this street numbers of people were waiting for the procession to pass,
but I pressed on until I met the procession, when the living tide of humanity
forced me to halt. First in order, borne upon a stand erected for the purpose,
was a figure of the Virgin Mary. At a considerable distance behind this,
resting on a white bier, was the supposed body of Christ; about an equal
distance in the rear, on a large canopied platform, was the figure of some
saint, surrounded by six beautiful little girls dressed in gold and silver
tissue. They were supposed angels, and well did they represent their part.
Their heads were wreathed with bright flowers, and their dark Spanish eyes flashed
as they peered from under the gilded canopy. Immediately following this was a
brass band. On either side of the musicians, and as far in advance as the image
of the Virgin Mary, was a row of men and boys bearing palms, to each of which
was attached a glass lantern of the shape of a truncated pyramid. The space
between the lantern bearers was occupied by the Padres and others who
officiated in the ceremonies. Several boys dressed in red robes, over which a
white gauze was thrown, walked in advance of the last mentioned Saint and the
six "angels," and waved censers of burning sandal wood.
I took my position in the crowd opposite to the band. As far in
either direction as I could see, it was one living, surging mass. The majority
were women; for the proportion in their favor in Valparaiso is as three to one
Ñ so said Ñ and I am not disposed to doubt it. How they withstood
the crowding and pressing is more than I can reasonably account for. The
balconies and windows on either side of the street were filled with spectators,
and I even saw some venturous boys on the house tops. As the procession
advanced towards the Plaza Victoria, the crowd became more compact, and shoving
and pushing seemed to be the order of the day, or rather night, among the
mischief-loving and less religious portion. In some places the sidewalk is
elevated two or three feet above the street, and in such places it appears to
be quite creditable to shove as many over the verge as possible. At one time
some boys approached too near the edge, and a great, burly peon, seeing what a fine chance for fun, began to sweep the "muchachos" from his path as with
the brand of the Destroying Angel. This created considerable disturbance, but
the shrill whistle of a vigilante
restored order and checked his operations rather quickly. When the procession
arrived at the Plaza it countermarched down the Calle Nueva, a street which
runs parallel with and close to Victoria. I thought for a few moments there
would be a general fight on the corner of the Plaza: some dandy, getting his
hat smashed, commenced a vigorous onslaught on those around him with his cane.
"ÀQuŽ es eso?" (What is that?) shouted a dozen voices, and on they
pressed to the conflict: but a number of vigilantes
were on the ground and soon quieted the belligerents.
It was a considerable time before I forced my way into the Calle
Nueva, and when I did the waving of the lanterns on the feathery palms, seen
far in advance and marking bright against the dark range of hills, presented a
magnificent perspective. The procession presently reached the church from
whence it set out, and people quietly dispersed. It was now late in the evening
and the moon was high in the cloudless heaven; far out on the bosom of the
Pacific there hung a light mist and as the surf of the bay beat softly on the
beach, I thought that the lovely beauty of the night surpassed the meridian
splendor of the day.
The simultaneous firing of cannon by the Chilean and French
men-of-war, at 10 o'clock on Saturday morning April 11th announced the
termination of "Saint Week" and business was again resumed.
g
LETTER VIII.
Quillota, Chile, S. A., May 5th, 1857.
Preparations for a
journey among the mountains of Chile.ÑPleasurable emotions when fairly
among the valleys.ÑVi–a del Mar.ÑUp the
ravine.ÑQuilpuŽ.ÑFirst night in the Country.ÑAn early Walk
and a late Breakfast.ÑThe town of Limache.ÑThe Railroad
Tunnel.ÑValley of Quillota.ÑEntrance into the
Pueblo.ÑCuriosity of the women.
I have always had a desire to travel in South America, and
especially in that portion occupied by the Republic of Chile. To observe the
customs and manners of the Spanish American, of whom the Chileno is undoubtedly
the best type, and, still greater incentive, to view the magnificent scenery
with which this country abounds. Chile is a land unhackneyed by travelers;
there are no guide-books to tell the wanderer of every stream, mountain, or
gold mine, there is to be seen; and, if I except the random notes of Capt.
Hall, the written information I have obtained of this country has been scanty
indeed. I shall give you my immediate impressions of whatever I may see,
transcribing my 'Wanderings," almost literally from my Journal.
The 2nd day of May was of unparalleled and cloudless serenity,
and I watched the lingering sunlight on the Bell of Quillota, (pronounced
key-lee-o-tah) and the wintry head of Aconcagua with more than ordinary
interest. It was a late hour before my knapsack was packed to suit me, for
numerous were the articles contained within its narrow limits, but when I came
to test the weight, I found it too heavy for comfort, and was obliged, though
with regret, to take out my telescope. I was prepared for the journey, and lay
down to rest, but not to sleep, for my thoughts were busy with the future. I
heard the crowing of cocks long before day, and fell into a slight doze about
three o'clock, but the echoes of the morning gun roused me, and while the stars
were still shining in the early gray of morn, I arose, dressed, shook hands
with my good hearted roommate, shouldered my knapsack, and started "a pie".
Early as the hour was, there were many people in the streets.
Before the sun was up, I was out of the suburb of Almendral. The morning was
nearly clear; there were some cumulous clouds in the east, and out on the Ocean
some small fog banks. The air was still, and the surface of the Bay was ruffled
only by the slightest "cat's paws." The rain which fell a few days
previous had laid the dust, and when I was fairly among the valleys, and heard
the twittering of birds, and smelled the fresh green earth banks, I was thrilled
with life I never felt before; I feared that it could not last long. The road
was very winding, and after two leagues were traversed I came to the little
village of Vi–a del Mar. There are but few houses, and one street, on one side
of which is an adobe wall that forms part of an enclosure to a large field. The
valley is of considerable width here, and through it a broad swampy stream
makes its way into an arm of the sea. The railroad runs up the valley, and
instead of taking the road to Quillota, I followed the track. The valley
gradually narrowed for a league, when the mountains nearly come together. Up
one of the ravines that put down into the valley, I saw my first Chilean
palmÑ it bears a striking resemblance to the cabbage palm. They do not
grow to a great height, but have a large trunk; I ate my dinner in the shade of
one two feet in diameter. Four or five miles from Vi–a del Mar, the road
pursues, for a short distance, a northerly direction; it then turns to the
east, and close to the bend were several thatched huts, with gangs of natives
engaged in various games. The physical appearance of the valley changed from
this point materially; the steep precipitous character disappeared, giving way
to more gentle slopes, and when I had ascended a moderate elevation I saw
before me the higher Costeros, and a short reach of the snowy Cordilleras.
Feeling quite fatigued with my walking, I stopped in at a
roadside house to procure a drink and a little rest. I was invited to take a
seat under a rustic porch; a large bunch of purple grapes were placed before
me. I remained here an hour, and when I got up to leave I gave an old woman who
wished me a "lucky journey," some cigaritos.
She did not fail to tell me that I would certainly be robbed if I traveled
alone among the mountains. Two miles further over, a road with a brush fence on
one side, and on the other an occasional house, out of which snarling curs
barked furiously, brought me to the little village of QuilpuŽ. I passed through
the village without stopping, and came out upon a barren plain, which was
slightly undulating. On the left, at a distance of half a mile, was the
railroad. Trees, twenty or thirty feet in height and of a dark green bushy
appearance, were scattered along the watercourse. A mile or two from QuilpuŽ
was another collection of houses. In some of these houses they were playing the
guitar and dancing, others again were surrounded by drunken peons. It was nearly night when I
stopped at a wayside house and asked for permission to stay within, which was
readily granted. There were two elderly women, and one old, and another middle-aged
man, and these with two girls composed the family. The old man's mind was
impaired, I presume, for while he was talking to me in an incoherent manner, the
younger one whispered to me, "el no
comprende nada" (he understands nothing.)
The air grew very
cool after sunset. A brazier of coals [charcoal,
Ed.] was brought into the large rooms and I went in and watched one of the se–oras cook the supper. For drink, I
had mate and a small piece of bread
to eat with it, but the supply did not equal the demand. An hour or two
afterward I partook of a dessert consisting of a large bowl of milk and harina - flour made from parched wheat,
ground between two stones. A bed was prepared for me in another part of the
building, on the dirt floor, and I had for a covering a single poncho that did not keep me warm. The
room was a kind of granary, and nearly filled with wheat sacks. The walls of the
building were nothing more than sticks woven together and plastered with mud on
the outside. The roof was covered with long oat straw, and when I peered out
from under my covering in the morning the light streamed through numerous
crevices in the walls. I went out and found the air cool and chilly. A fog was
coming up the valley, and the sides of the mountains were soon shrouded in the
mist. The old man was lying outside of the building, on a rug, and covered up
with his poncho. The young man shook
hands with me, and asked me how I had passed the night. I bade him 'adios' and picking up my handkerchief
took the road.
The sunlight in a few minutes gladdened the mountains and
valleys with his beams, and the fog quickly disappeared. The road pursued an
easterly direction, up a small valley that diverged from the larger one. In the
course of a mile and a half the ravines disappeared and I commenced ascending a
gorge in the mountains; when I had attained the highest part of the
"Sierra de la Campana," another rough and apparently higher mountain
stood before me. I descended into another valley, and inquired at three or four
houses for something to eat, but I met with ill success at first. I presently
came up to a party of men who told me that I could procure something in a rude
hut close by. A little girl at the same moment brought out a glass, of what I
took to be water. One of the men took it from her hand presented it to me to
drink. As I was thirsty I did not discover my mistake until I had taken two or
three swallows; when I found myself almost choked with aguardiente, the most fiery of liquors. A hearty laugh was raised
at my expense. I walked into the house and asked a woman for a cazuela. She took a pot off of the fire
and poured the contents into a large flat dish. It consisted of mutton and
potatoes boiled up together. The dish was set on a low stool, and the drunken
crowd and myself gathered around, each one having a spoon. The company were
quite happy, and talked and laughed more than considerable. When the victuals
were all devoured, I was only half satisfied, and at this juncture one of the
tipsy desired me to treat [perhaps, to stand a drink, Ed.], but my comprehension grew dull very suddenly, and seeing how
things might turn, I paid the woman a real
and vamoosed.
I descended into another valley and crossed a little brook that
bubbled over its pebbly bed, and again ascended another spur of the Costeros.
When on the summit of this, I met an old man and inquired of him how far it was
to Limache. He did not answer my question, but asked me what I wanted in
Limache. I started on again, and he said "mire," but I paid no attention to his call. In a few moments I
met a train of pack mules and asked one of the drivers: "media legua" (half a league) was
the reply. A few minutes more and I looked upon the Valley of Limache. A short
walk down an easy slope, brought me to the level plain, which is of
considerable extent and surrounded by lofty mountains. I could see the poplars
and other trees in the village of Limache. On my left and extending up to the
range of mountains, was a field enclosed with a ditch and mud wall. I crossed a
little brook in the suburbs of the town and ascended the opposite bank, and
entered one of the streets. A mud wall whitewashed was on my right, and on the
left for a short distance ran the stream I had just crossed. In its bed were
two peons making adobes. I was soon
on the plaza, and took a street that
runs to the eastward; I went some distance and then inquired for Quillota. I
was on the wrong path. I returned and took the right direction but the wrong
street; a little girl showed me the right way, and in a short time I was out of
this beautiful little village.
It is situated immediately at the base of a mountain spur, in a
rich and fertile valley, which, by proper cultivation, would be unsurpassed. I
crossed two streams of water that ran over pebbly beds, and then entered a path
which pursued a northerly direction. A league brought me to San Pedro, the
mountain through which they are boring the railroad tunnel. The tunnel will be
fifteen hundred feet in length when completed. They are cutting both ways, and
also into the bowels of the mountain by means of a shaft. I went to the shaft
and looked over, and could hear the picks striking against the granite, but
could see nothing but darkness.
I followed the new made-track to Quillota. I passed over a deep
rich soil as I could see, by the cuttings on the sides, the accumulation of
washings from the mountains around the valley. I walked between two rows of
lofty poplars, on either side of which was a green meadow for three or four
hundred yards, when I came to a high wall, the gate of which was locked, but
there was a hole through which I could creep; and thus I made my entrance into
the Pueblo of Quillota. The street in which I found myself was long and narrow,
and the houses low and mean. The people stared at me as I passed and an old
woman, more curious than the rest, invited me in her house. I seated myself and
answered the innumerable questions that she asked. She had three daughters, one
of whom brought me a plate of grapes of enormous size, while another swept the
dirt floor and then seated herself by her mother, and, leaning towards me, with
her dark dreamy eyes half shut, drank in every word I said. I ate my grapes,
and inquired for the Hotel Colombet, and in a minute more was in the Fonda
Francesca.
g
LETTER IX.
Impressions of
QuillotaÑDisappointmentÑStart to SantiagoÑSierra de la
CampanaÑPass the Night with my old FriendsÑThe Wrong PathÑMy
Little GuideÑTemblor!ÑGold MinesÑHacienda de las
PalmasÑDifficulty in finding the RoadÑIncidents in a Chile Country
HouseÑThe Highway at lastÑCasablancaÑAscent of the Costeros ÑValley of
Curacavi.
Curacavi, Chile, S. A., May 8, 1857.
On the north side of the town of Quillota there is a high hill,
from the summit of which there is a fine view of the town and surrounding scenery.
Early on the morning of the 5th I walked around and ascended this miniature
mountain; but I found that the higher I went, the more dense became the mist,
until, when I had reached the summit, I could not see two rods in any
direction. A large cross is erected on the summit, with the inscription of "INRI"[10]
near the top, and on the cross-bar, Mission, 1849. I waited nearly an hour for
the fog to clear away, but was at last obliged to descend without an impression
of what was before me.
There are many gardens and graperies in Quillota, all enclosed
with adobe walls. In some of them I saw prickly pear trees, twelve or fifteen
feet high, laden with this delicious fruit. Water, for the purpose of
irrigation, runs in nearly every street. The houses are low, and make no
pretension to architectural elegance. There are several churches, and one of
them, from its time-worn appearance, I should take to be two hundred years old.
I returned to the Fonda, and as I was too late for the regular breakfast, I
took my meal with M. Colombet and his good-natured and inquisitive wife, who
wished to know where I was going. When I told her, she said, with surprise,
"Est‡ muy peligroso; all‡ hay muchos
ladrones." (It is very dangerous; there are many robbers.)
It was nearly noon when I started on my way to the Capital,
taking the regular road to Limache, which led between two rows of poplars for
more than a league. I had scarcely left the place before the clouds rolled
away, and the "Mountain of the Bell," or Sierra de la Campana, stood
clear against the eastern sky. This mountain has a bell-shaped summit, when
viewed from Quillota. From the summit of San Pedro I took a sketch of the
valley, which compensated me in some measure for the disappointment of the morning.
The streams of water which from my elevation I could look down upon, resembled
threads of silver glittering in the sun.
The sun was hid behind the mountains, and the shades of night
were drawing around, when I was welcomed to the house where I had spent the
first night. The air was pleasantly cool on the following morning, and down the
valley there was a light fog. I walked along a blind path that led through a
ravine in a southerly direction. The path presently faded away, and I called in
at a hut to inquire the way. They gave me some directions, and after sitting a
few minutes, watching a man grinding parched wheat, I gave them some cigaritos Ñ small paper cigars Ñ
and went my way. But I missed the road again, and was ascending a mountain when
I heard someone crying out for me to stop. I turned around and saw one of the
boys I had just given a cigarito to,
trying to catch up with me. I stopped until he came up. He said that I was on
the wrong track, and then guided me around a hill and across a ravine, and
pointed out a path in a gorge of the mountains. While he was guiding me, I
heard a sound that filled the valleys with a roar. It seemed to come from a
northerly direction. My little guide stopped and said "Temblor !" It was an earthquake. I
passed through the mountain gorge, as directed, and saw before me a small
valley in which there were several buildings in the distance, and a good
hacienda building nearby. I passed the farmhouse on my left, and came to
another large tile-covered building, near which was a windmill of very
primitive construction. As it was near a large pit, I inferred that its power
had been used for raising dirt preparatory to gold washing. A short distance
further on was a river, now nearly dry, but a wild, rapid stream when the snow
melts off of the mountains in the spring. I walked down the bed for a
considerable distance. It is still, and has been since the days of the early
Spaniards, worked for gold. The coarse gravel was piled up in different
directions, in order to get at the fine sand wherein is the glittering metal.
There were a good many houses, or rather huts, here, and I inquired at one for
Las Palmas, for I had learned during the morning that there was such a place.
I was shown up a deep ravine, the sides of which were bare.
While ascending the bed of the ravine, the sun beamed down with a tropical
fierceness. I descended into another deep ravine which opened to the West, and
again inquired my way to the Palmas. Two children were playing on the hillside,
but they fled at my approach and hid behind a tree. As I came near the hut to
make my inquiries, I was saluted as usual by the dogs; and when I left the
whole troop rushed towards me, but not daring to make the attack, they fell
upon one another and fought like demons, the least dog in the lot gaining the
day. The ravine of which I have just spoken was beautifully wooded with dark
green trees, of from twenty to thirty feet in height. I journeyed down it for a
short distance and then turned to the South up another ravine similarly wooded,
but much narrower. The sides were lofty and steep, and I could see but a small
patch of sky above me. It was a wild romantic spot. The air was hushed and
still, and nature seemed to repose as from a mighty labor. I was oppressed with
a sense of loneliness I cannot describe. A half mile took me through the narrow
pass into a valley of considerable width, looking up which to the Eastward, I
saw a large tile covered house, enclosed with a thick adobe wall, and still
farther up the vale, I saw about a dozen tall and stately palms. It was the
Hacienda de Las Palmas. I inquired for the road to Santiago, but took the wrong
direction, and wandered for nearly a league up a narrow ravine; the farther I
went, the dimmer became the path, and more dense the chaparral; I could not see a rod in the tangled mass of brush. I
returned and took another path, but met with no better success, the second path
taking me into a more dense thicket than the first, and I was obliged, though
reluctantly to return to the Hacienda. They showed me the road, and I followed
it in a Southerly direction, for about two miles up another valley. Some of the
scenery up this valley was very beautiful. When near the summit to which it
led, and in an abrupt turn in the road, I met three Chilenos driving a lot of
oxen. A short distance farther on I passed through a gate and followed a path
which led me into a plain a league in width, upon which were feeding large
numbers of cattle. A man and boy were collecting them together. I presently
came to the enclosure where the cows, some fifty in number, were collected
together, and several girls engaged in milking them. The sun was setting and I
concluded that I would stay for the night at this place. I asked and gained
permission from an old woman who was paring potatoes for the evening meal. I
seated myself upon a low stool to observe the culinary operations, and was by
no means surprised when I saw the knife with which the potatoes were being
pared, repeatedly wiped upon a dog's back. But I have grown used to such things
among the Chilenos, and it did not spoil my appetite. The girls soon gathered
in from their work, and ranged themselves on an opposite side of the hut from
me, and when the whole family were collected together, the old woman said to me
with some pride, "Mi familia."
There were nine girls and three boys. The floor of the room was dirt, and as
uneven as the surface of the country around; a fire was built in the middle,
and, as there was no outlet for the smoke, I was nearly blinded. A large pot
sat on the burning embers, containing the supper, and entering into a
mathematical calculation as to the probable amount each one would receive, I
came to the conclusion that my portion would be very small.
In nearly every house among the peasantry I have yet visited,
there is a little table about eighteen inches high, and two feet square, upon
which to set the dish of cazuela. A
clean napkin was placed upon said little table Ñ for this house was no
exception to the general rule Ñ a large bowl of this favorite Chilean
dish was set thereon, and I was informed in the politest manner, that I was
sole proprietor of what was before me. I was more than delighted, for the
amount far exceeded what I had reason to expect, and my appetite was none the
worse from a hard day's journey.
When supper was over, the hut was vacated to me and the dogs,
and a vigorous attack was made by them upon the empty dishes. An old man came
to the door presently and said, "Mire,
amigo." ["Look, friend"] I arose and followed him to another
large casa, with very large openings
for doors, but the doors were not there. One man and two little boys were lying
on the pallet, spread on the smooth dirt floor, and the old woman, and one of
the girls were preparing a bed for me. I laid down and drew a thick cover for
me; when they asked me if the covering was sufficient, I replied in the
affirmative, but the se–orita brought
a thin sheet from a corner of the room, and carefully spread it over me. The
hot victuals I had just eaten filled my whole system with a fiery glow, but
towards morning it all glowed out, and I thought I might as well have slept
under the starry dome without, for all the good the shelter afforded me. I was
up before sunrise, the air was sharp and cool, and there was a heavy frost
spread over the ground.
I struck down the
valley, and after going about two leagues, I saw, towards the south, a bridge,
and a row of poles placed at regular intervals. It was the highway from the
Port to Santiago. A small stream was to be crossed before I reached it, and I
was nearly mired in the bog in so doing. The road was broad, and in places
parties of peons were engaged in
repairing breaks, occasioned by the recent rains. The road presently led in
among the mountains, and a distance of four leagues brought me to an abrupt
turn, and I saw another valley of considerable extent, and the road stretching
to the south for a long distance, straight as an arrow, Here I met two
Chilenos, who told me that Casa Blanca was at the farther extremity. I found it
to be a small village with a plaza
and unfinished church. A league from the town, and I stopped for the night. The
sun set clear and beautiful, and some blue strata clouds rested in an area of
the valley that extended to the southeast. I ate my supper, and lying down upon
the floor, I was soon in a land that is dearer to me than the vales of Chile.
I was up at my usual
hour in the morning, and, bathing my face and hands in a cold, clear stream of
water near at hand, I shouldered my knapsack, and jogged on through a heavy
fog. Three leagues from where I had passed the night brought me to the Costeros,
and I commenced ascending the mountain, and soon left the gloomy mist below me.
The road doubled upon itself twelve times, and when I had gained the summit of
the pass, I looked down upon the fog banks through which I had just passed. The
upper portions were resolved into strata of clouds. No sight that I ever beheld
was more splendid than that before me; wild mountain scenery in every
direction, and below me white fleecy clouds. In an easterly direction was a
long narrow, valley deeply embayed among mountains, and far away, in the
brilliant sunlight, the glistening snows of the Andes.
When the descent
was accomplished, I found that the road ran nearly east, and close to a stream
of water, the borders of which were fringed with bushes from ten to fifteen
feet in height, the leaves of a very dark green, and forming a thick mass of
foliage. I have seen the same kind of bushes thirty feet in height. They bear a
fruit about the size of an acorn, and of a purple color, These are gathered by
the Chilenos and boiled, which softens the outside; this they eat, rejecting
the large kernel inside. The fruit has a bitter, greasy taste, not at all
palatable at first.[11] Shortly
after entering the valley I saw a cactus eighteen feet high. At intervals along
the road I passed side huts, and met numerous lumbering carts drawn by oxen.
Near a stream of water which passed in a southerly direction, I passed a large
hacienda house, surrounded by half a dozen smaller ones, and half a league
farther on, came in sight of a church spire. It was early in the afternoon, but
I was fatigued with the morning tramp, and when I entered the village, I
inquired of a very pretty little girl for the Posada; she blushingly told me. I
walked into an open courtyard and inquired of a man who was dusting mattresses,
if I could pass the night here. He looked at me with that lofty, attempted air,
that servants and men of little minds always have, and asked me if I was a Chileno,
"No, I am a 'gringo.'" "O,
Americano!" I nodded affirmation, and was shown into a large room; and
here I am in Curacavi, fifteen leagues from the Capital. There is an open
window that looks out upon the only street, and the people stop and stare in at
the "extranjero," as he
writes of adventures in their land.
g
LETTER X.
Journeying in the Valley of Curacav’ÑFoggy
MorningÑSuspicious CustomerÑAscent of a Second Range of the Costeros
ÑThe Plain of SantiagoÑBeautiful NightÑA Cold
BivouacÑThe Morning DawnÑThe City of Santiago.
Santiago, Chile, S. A., May 11, 1857.
The village of Curacav’ is scarcely worthy
of a notice. It is situated at the base of a mountain on the north side of the
valley. On the outskirts of the town, on the southern side, are several large
vineyards. When l left there, on the morning of the 9th, there was a fog in the
valley to my right; but the mountains at whose base the road lay, stood dark
and shadowy against the dawning light. The rosy sunlight that, in the course of
an hour, bathed the mountain tops, failed to dispel the heavy mist which soon
gathered thick around me.
While journeying along the road which, on
account of the mist seemed lonely, I came upon a man and woman, who had
dismounted and were cutting grass for their horses. The woman asked me if I had
any bread, and when I came opposite to the man, he said in a surly manner : 'Que quiere en Chile, burro?' - (What do
you want in Chile, jackass ?)
The winding road led around the spur of a
mountain in an easterly direction Ñ in the early part of the morning it
had been southerly Ñ and the fog clearing away, as it were, by magic, the
fiery rays of the sun glared upon the dusty way. The mountains on either side
gradually drew together, and presently I saw before me the limit, and the
mountain I had to ascend. It was noon when I commenced the ascent, which took
me more than two hours to accomplish. I had traveled ten or twelve leagues in
the valley, where the view was confined by the mountains which immediately
surrounded me; and as I neared the summit of this last pass of the Costeros, I wondered if the toilsome ascent would be
rewarded by a glorious view. When I stood upon the topmost point, I could see
the plain upon which is built the city of Santiago, and apparently within my
reach the Cordilleras de los Andes. The plain reminded me of a prairie when the
frosts of autumn have seared the grass. An occasional hill was to be seen upon
the vast expanse. In almost any other part of the world they would be called
mountains; here they are mere mounds. The mountains were covered with snow halfway
down, and as the plain is only a few hundred feet above the level of the sea,
the full effect of this great height is not lost by a lofty table-land. I
descended to the base of the mountain and after walking along the smooth level
road for nearly a mile, I stopped for the night where there was a small
collection of palm-thatched huts.
I had, as usual, a scanty supper; but two of
the girls and a wild boy, after the rest of the family had retired to another casa, cooked two pots of "sopa." This dish consists of onion,
harina, grease and Chile peppers. It
was late in the evening when they bade me good night, and I was left by the
expiring embers alone. The hut was not even much plastered, and I could see
through the interstices in every direction. I turned to a pile of sheepskins
which were designed for my bed, and found that they were four in number. I
spread two on the ground, and placing the other two over me, with my knapsack
for a pillow, I slept until awakened by the cool air. A party of half-drunk peons came in during the night, and lit their cigaritos at the fire, and then roused the sleepers in the casa adjoining, and held a long and
noisy conversation. Some of the natives slept outside under skins and ponchos; and a boy who said he was
"mucho fr’o" (very cold),
bawled and blubbered at regular intervals. It was a musical sound by no means
agreeable.
The full moon shone bright and glorious
during the night, and I could plainly see the Andean snow fields. Long before
the least sign of light appeared in the east, a bright-eyed, lively little boy,
with scarcely a rag on his back, came in and kindled a fire. I immediately got
up and drank some of the mate which
he prepared [...] burning my lips and tongue in the operation. This favorite
beverage of the Chileans is sucked through a silver or iron tube, when it is
nearly scalding hot; and it costs the stranger many a tear before he is a
"huaso" in this particular.
The morning was beginning, to dawn when I
started. The mighty ramparts of the Cordilleras stood in majestic grandeur
before me, and long bars of roseate light radiated to the zenith. Far away,
above and beyond, this most magnificent mountain chain on the globe, and
hovering over the pampas of Buenos Ayres, were a few light clouds, the feathery
edges of which were red with the rays of the rising sun, while the mountain
vales of Chile were still in the shadow of the Andes.
The road led for about a league between
mountains, through an arm of the Great Plain. A low stratus cloud rested on its
surface Ñ so low that I could see the sky above me Ñ and I hoped
that it would soon clear away, but in this I was disappointed. I journeyed for
a long distance over the gently undulating plain, until finally the road wound
around the base of one of the hills I have spoken of, and then across a bridge
which spans the river Mapocho, the bed of which is now nearly dry. A little
farther on, I crossed another bridge which spans a smaller stream. The fog
commenced clearing up eventually, and the mud-plastered huts were more thickly
scattered as I advanced towards the city. The mist had now cleared away, but
the air was filled with a haze, and through its dim medium, the mountains in
the southeast, their summits covered with snow, were tinged with a mellow glow,
like summer clouds at home. Santiago was before me, and in the different parts
of the city I could see the domes and spires of the numerous churches. The
distant view of the Capital realized my anticipations, whatever they may have
been; but the mountain scenery was on a far grander scale than I had dared to
imagine.
I entered at length a winding street, one
side of which presented a perspective of mud-thatched huts, and the other low
adobe houses whitewashed. "And is
this,'' I thought, "the entrance
to the Capital, the city adored by the Chilenos?" Numbers of drunken peons were reeling around, and from
within some of the houses I heard music, and the bacchanalian sound of revelry.
It was Sunday, the "drunk day" of the lower order of Chilenos. But
this was a suburban view; my eyes were not greeted with such scenes when in the
long avenues of the central portion of the city.
g
LETTER XI.
Style of Buildings in the CapitalÑThe Palace, Cathedral and
ChurchesÑBridge across the MapochoÑWall to Protect the City from
InundationsÑView of the City and Plain from the summit of a Hill.
Santiago, Chile, S. A. May 12, 1857.
The houses in Santiago, as in all old
Spanish towns, are low in height and far from imposing in appearance. As usual,
they have thick adobe walls and are covered with heavy tiles, that give them a
clumsy, rather than a light appearance, which the bright sunlight and splendid
climate would seem to demand.
The Palace occupies a cuadra or block. In this the President resides, and a portion of it
is also appropriated to the mint. I made no effort to go within, as I care but
little about anything to be seen in the towns or cities; it is the country I
wish to see. The Cathedral is a large granite building, occupying a position on
the Plaza de Armas.[12] It was
partially destroyed some years since by an earthquake, and is now undergoing
repairs, and receiving an extensive addition.
The bridge over the Rio Mapocho, which runs
through the Northern portion of the city, is a strong solid fabric, built of
brick. It has nine arches, and over each arch, on one side of the bridge, are
stalls built of the same material and in the shape of a concave recess. These
are occupied by cake and fruit vendors. This bridge was built by the Spaniards
in 1792[13].
The river when the snow melts off of the mountains in the spring is a wild and
rapid torrent, and would inundate the city were it not for a strongly cemented
wall that extends for a long distance on either side. The wall on the South
side is four or five feet thick and on the inside of the wall a single course
of bricks is built up some three feet in height, forming a balustrade. The top
of the wall makes an excellent footpath, and early one morning I took a long
walk up the river. In the outskirts there are several mills. At various points
along the river the water is diverted from the main channel into the streets,
and in this way water is conveyed through every cuadra in the city.
I crossed the river at a convenient point,
and came down a narrow, filthy street through the Northern suburbs, and
recrossed it on a footbridge a short distance above the old Spanish bridge.
Soldiers are to be met with in every street
and on every corner, and barracks filled with soldiers occupy convenient points,
to hold the disaffected in subjection, for even now the government is shaken to
its base, and is probably on the eve of another revolution.
I ascended this morning a high rocky hill in the Eastern part of the
city. In the days of the Spaniards, cannon were planted here, but they have
long since been taken away. The cluster of rocks on this hill is singular. I
climbed to the summit of the highest and had a splendid view of the city spread
out like a map at my feet. The air was filled with a haze so thick that the
extreme Western suburbs were scarcely discernible; but this added to, rather
than detracted from, the glorious beauty of the scene. The rays of the sun in
passing through this medium shed a remarkable gold-colored light on the
wilderness of red-tiled roofs and spires and domes of the numerous churches.
Toward the Andes, the spurs of which are distant nine miles, the air was
clearer, and the patches of green grass on the pampas looks green and refreshing.
"Santa Lucia", lithograph by James
F. Queen (1855)
Innumerable gardens were to be seen in the
interior of the squares, but the leaves of the trees were tinged with that
gorgeous hue which autumn gives to the perished leaf. The sun shone hotly upon
me, and I was forcibly reminded of a warm October day at home. I presently
quitted the place, perfectly satisfied with what I have seen of Santiago Ñ
little as it may be Ñ and anxious to continue my journey to the South
part of Chile.
I will close this letter with Capt. Hall's description of the
"effects of the setting sun on the Andes."[14]
"The sun went down while we were still
a league or two from the city, (Santiago) and his rays, by passing through the
thick haze before described, shed a remarkable gold-colored light on the spires
and domes of the numerous churches; whilst the tops of the mountains, the
highest of which were covered with snow, still retained the clear bright
sunshine. In a short time, [however,] the light began to fade, even on the
highest peaks, and at every successive moment a change took place in the color
of the different ranges; the lower ones first catching the golden tint, which
was soon changed for a variety of pink, and, lastly, for a dull cold gray; so
that the whole view in the [eastern] quarter was variegated in the most singular
manner, according to the height. Each ridge of hills [was] thus prominently
distinguished from all the others, and its outline most distinctly displayed.
It was rather a disappointment to discover that our fair companion, with all
her good sense, had not much feeling for the magnificent beauties of her native
spot. In reply to our reproaches on her insensibility, she said it might be
very wrong not to admire what she saw, but as she had never been out of the
valley in her life, and consequently had no other scenery to compare with this,
she was, at least, unconscious of its superiority to the rest of the
world."
g
LETTER XII.
Journeying towards TalcaÑSan BernardoÑPuente de Los Morros ÑAn old FriendÑThe "Bridge
of Boards"ÑLife among the PeonsÑAscent of a
MountainÑShooting at CondorsÑLegend of the Silver
MountainÑClimate.
Puente de Las Tablas, (on the Rio Maipo,)
Chile, S. A., May 17, 1857.
I left the Hotel InglŽs on the morning of
the [?]th, for Talca, distant from the Capital eighty leagues. The road is said
to pass over a plain, in places desolate and many leagues in width. A railroad
is commenced, to be finished in five years, intended to connect the two cities.
I stopped a short time at the station, where I saw several Americans, one of
whom gave me some excellent information about the country through which I expect
to pass. I bade them all goodbye, and started on my way, and after going a
short distance I met an Englishman, who was greatly surprised at my traveling
alone. When I left him he said, "Put down in your journal that you met
me." What is the name?' I inquired. "Kent," was the reply.
The grass on either side of the road is
short and thick, and is irrigated by numerous streams of water, diverted from
the Maipo. As I passed over the level plain I frequently snuffed an aguish
swampy smell, which I by no means relished. It was late in the afternoon when l
came to the village of San Bernardo, some five or six leagues from Santiago.
Poplar and other trees were planted around in every direction. Passing through
the village I turned to the left, and after going a short distance, came to an
overshot mill, painted white; adjoining the mill was a dwelling house, that had
an air of neatness and comfort I have seldom seen in the country. The road led
between two rows of poplars on one side, and an adobe wall on the other.
Between the poplars ran the stream of water which turns the mill. A half mile
in this direction and I turned to the south, down the well-traveled road which
leads to the Puente de Los Morros, or Bridge of Castles, which spans the Rio
Maipo. I left a mountain of considerable elevation on my left, and after
walking about half a league came to the bridge. There are several houses here,
including a posada. From a large
Chile bake oven by the roadside, there came the savory perfumes of hot bread.
The bridge is a plain structure, built of pine and covered. A large and
castellated rock stands at one side of the entrance. I passed over, and leaving
the main road, turned to the left, following close to the bed of the river,
which is now a shrunken stream. A little boy, riding a horse, presently caught
up with me and I had a lively conversation with him. Seeing a cross by the
wayside, erected by a pile of stones, I asked for what purpose it was, though I
knew before. He answered me that a murder had been committed there. It appears
that two peons who had been gambling
had fallen out, and one had killed the other with a knife. A party of natives pursued
the murderer; when he drew his knife on them, one of the number raised his gun
and shot him dead.
The sun was setting behind hazy clouds in the west, as I turned a point
in a mountain to my right, and found myself among a collection of small houses,
near a large quarry. Crowds of peons
were standing around the huts, and some of the men were preparing a blast,
which they soon let off. Here I found my friend, Mr. Canda, whom I had known in
Valparaiso. He is superintending the work at the quarry, where they are taking
out rock for the great Maipo bridge. The name of the place is "Puente de
Las Tablas," which literally
means "Bridge of Boards," and here is still to be seen the
ruins of those swinging bridges of which every schoolboy has read, and probably
seen a sketch. This bridge was formed with chains stretched across the river,
upon which boards were laid. Its construction, judging from the remains, was
rude and primitive, though a great improvement on the swinging bridges made of
raw hide. The bed of the Rio Maipo is of considerable width at this place, but
the water is confined to a narrow stream, which at night lulls me to sleep,
with its continuous roar as it dashes over the rocky bed. The scenery around is
fine; lofty mountains in the east, covered with snow, at distances of from
seven to sixty miles, their numerous chasms and gorges plainly visible, even at
such a wide interval. The Maipo at this place runs nearly west; the plain
extends to the river bank on the opposite side; and here on the south is a
mountain, whose summit is several thousand feet above the river bed.
"Hanging Bridge", from "The Araucanians" by Edmond
Reuel Smith (1855)
About a hundred peons are here
getting out rock. Most of them are dressed in the old Cholo costume. A piece of
rawhide strapped on the sole of the foot, thin cotton pants reaching to the
ankles, of enormous width, and a vest which is generally a world too small,
completes their dress when at work; when idle, a poncho of the coarsest texture is thrown over their shoulders. They
were paid off one evening, and as soon as they received their money, they
gathered around among the huts in groups of four or five, and commenced
gambling. A poncho or cloth would be
spread upon the ground and while one of the number held a light, the rest would
game with as much earnestness as though millions were at a stake. The night was
clear, but there was no moon, and as the dim tapers lighted up the dark swarthy
faces of the Chilean peons, I was
reminded of what I had read of California in its early days. Some of the number
were broke early in the evening, but so intense was their love for gaming, that
they would strip off their clothes, and stake them against the money of their
more fortunate opponents.
One afternoon I walked around the base of
the mountain toward the southeast. A short distance above, a small river puts
into the Maipo, wending off in a southerly direction; between it and the
mountain was the winding road. I found a mild and beautiful landscape after
going a half league. The mountain side was gently undulating, in places, and
dotted over with bushes and small trees. Here an arm of the plain extends to
the eastward for 10 or 12 miles. I could see patches of cultivated land
low-down upon the Andean spurs, and far off to the southeast what I took to be
the spire of a church. Numerous condors, and the vultures of the Andes, were
winging their lofty flights overhead, and occasionally I saw them perched upon
the base and splintered cliffs. I fired two shots at one of the vultures, but I
was too far off to do execution.
Mr. Canda and I ascended the mountain this
morning. It was much loftier than I anticipated. When we had gained the summit,
we stood upon the verge of a precipice two thousand feet in depth, and amused
ourselves in shooting at condors with a revolver, but could not succeed in
hitting any.
Mr. C. pointed out a large mountain in the
South, saying that a little more than a year ago a miner had ascended this
mountain, and after being absent four or five days, he returned, but so
exhausted with hunger and fatigue that he was taken to the hospital at
Santiago, where he shortly died. Previous to his death, he described to a
friend the position of a rich silver mine he said he had discovered. Whether
there is a silver mine in the mountain described or not, were it not that the
rains in the south will soon set in, I should certainly make a journey thither.
The mornings here are invariably cool, as a light wind invariably comes off of
the snows, but this lasts for two or three hours only, and during the afternoon
it is at times uncomfortably warm.
g
LETTER XIII.
Journey up the Maipo to see an old Suspension BridgeÑAscend a Spur
of the AndesÑView up the Valley of the MaipoÑReturn to the Puente
de las TablasÑLegend of the Bridge the Devil builtÑPrepare to
resume my JourneyÑAccount of RobbersÑBasilio, my CompanionÑOn
the RoadÑLinderosÑAn Agreeable FamilyÑThe Pass of
AngosturaÑSugar LoafÑThe inquisitive old
ChilenoÑRancaguaÑLose BasilioÑThe pretended
RobberÑInterruptions on the RoadÑVillage of RengoÑParched and
Barren SceneryÑSan Fernando.
San Fernando, Chile, S A., May 22, 1857.
Having learned that two or three leagues up
the Maipo there was to be seen one of the old swinging bridges, I took my
portfolio one morning and started in search of it. My course was in an easterly
direction, at a short distance from the river bed, over a level plain upon
which were feeding vast herds of cattle. I was nearly at the base of the
mountains when I inquired of a huaso
for the "Puente de Las Tablas." I was directed to go a short distance
and turn to the left, which I did; and soon coming to a steep bank, I descended
by a winding road to a narrow strip of level ground immediately adjoining the
river, and saw before me what I had long wished to see, a rustic suspension
bridge, resembling in a certain degree the one at Niagara Falls. I crossed over
to the Northern bank and seating myself on a boulder, which projected from the
steep bank, I obtained an excellent view not only of the bridge, but of the
surrounding scenery. While taking a sketch of the spot, numerous troops of
mules passed over the swaying fabric, cautiously shuffling their way, the arrieros whooping at them at a sound
rate.
The bridge is not built with boards, as the
name implies, but round poles are lashed together with raw hide, which answer
the purpose quite as well, but much more rudely. The poles are laid upon two
large chain cables, between which are several smaller ones. Upon the larger
poles, which are placed together as close as possible, is a closely woven mat
of round sticks about four feet in length.
It was my intention to have [gone] to the
upper bridge, which is four or five leagues higher up the river than the one
just described, and I started for that; but when I had ascended a low spur of
the mountain, I looked to the westward, and saw the valleys and ravines of the Costeros choked up with masses of clouds. I decided upon a
return, though not without a regret, for the "Puente" is said to be
very rude; and there is a country tradition that it was built by the devil, the
remarkable feat having been performed one night, to the great astonishment of
the "cholos" on the
succeeding morning.
From the summit of the spur I looked far up
the Valley of the Maipo, hemmed in by the wildest scenery imaginable, and saw a
single white house, nearly hidden with leafless poplars. Here also was a large
stream of water, which was conveyed around the mountain side[15],
a part of which was diverted from the main channel and tumbled down the side of
the spur with a roar like the Falls of St. Anthony[16].
A different sound from the waterfall once woke those mountain ravines and
gorges Ñ the roar of musketry and cannon, when the proud Spaniards
encountered the troops of Chile, and fought the sanguinary battle of the Maipo.
I cut me a cane from the "espino" and returned just before
nightfall, tired enough. The following morning there was a heavy fog, but it
cleared off by ten o'clock. It was my intention to have started at an early
hour on my journey to Talca, but Carmelita intimated to me that a boy who had
been living with her wished to go with me to Talcahuano. It was noon before
Basilio was equipped for the tramp. I shouldered my knapsack and shaking hands
with my friend, who accompanied me a short distance, started on my journey in a
thoughtful mood, for a long road was before me. Mr. Candee [Canda?] tried to
dissuade me from the undertaking Ñ pointing the dangers from robbers in a
vivid light. Were I to believe half I heard about "Los Ladrones," I would in imagination, see the glitter of
knives, and the far more disagreeable [...] of numerous lassos, at every step.
I jogged on for a long distance [...] When I came to the "Bridge of Catlos[?]," I turned to the south upon the
regular Talca road, which was dry and dusty, and enclosed at times by mud
walls, and lined on either side with poplars. We met many carts and mounted
Chilenos. Passing through a little town on the south side, we took the road
which leads through the mountains. Basilio inquired of a woman we met if we
were on the right path. She said it was a dangerous road to travel; that there
were "mala gente" (bad
people) among the cerros; and my
companion thought it was best to return and take the other road, which we did.
The distance of a league brought us to the
little pueblo of Linderos. Here I inquired at a despacho for the posada,
and was directed across the street to a house, and by a boy redirected in
another direction, but, happily, in the right one. It was a long, low house,
with a porch in front, with a bench on either side of the door. I was met at
the door by an elderly woman who invited me to take a seat, and I threw my
knapsack on the bench beside me. Her three daughters came out in a moment, and
commenced conversing with me with that unreserved freedom which I have always
met with among the Chilenos.
My hostess presently asked me if I wished to
eat, and upon my replying in the affirmative, she invited me into the hall,
where the table was set, and I seated myself with the girls before a "cazuela." The table was low and
small, and the space was well filled up; but a young man who was cousin to the
girls contrived to squeeze in at a corner. As I was sitting down, the se–ora asked me what my name was, and
when I told her, "Santiago!" she cried out, "C—mo le va Don Santiago,"
["How are you, Mr. James"] at the same time shaking my hand with wild
delight. Two glasses of chicha were
placed on my right, and my hostess repeatedly drank to my health, at each time
addressing to me a handsome speech, the half of which I did not understand; but
as the se–oritas laughed heartily, I
considered it must be good, and laughed as loud as they.
The young Chileno spoken of asked me many
questions relating to different countries, which showed a superior intelligence
to any I had yet met with. I drank a cup of "mate," and telling them that I was fatigued and sleepy, was
shown to my room, the door of which opened out into the street. There was no
inside fastening, but I propped my cane against the door, sticking one end in
the dirt floor, and after loading one of my revolvers that I had discharged in
the morning, I lay down to sleep and dream of home.
The light was just beginning to show itself
in the morning, when I looked out, and I stood in the door a long time,
watching the dawn. The sunlight was glittering on the mountain tops in the south-east
before my hostess made her appearance, and telling her to awaken the boy, I
paid her five [reales?], and we took the road which led between two high walls
in a southerly direction. Crossing a shallow stream of water, we entered an
avenue of willows. The willows, with their grateful shade, were left behind,
and we emerged into an open plain of small extent. Before us towered the rugged
peak of Angostura. The mountains appeared to come together as we advanced
towards them, but as I turned the base of the mountain, the Pass of La
Angostura was disclosed to my view. The Pass is about two hundred yards in width,
and across it ran a stream of water, which, as it bubbled over its rocky bed,
looked as black as ink, but in reality was as pure as crystal. A little further
on was another stream, and a short distance below where the road crossed, it
spread out into a laguna, and in this
two men were dragging a seine for fish.
Houses, mud-plastered and thatched, were
scattered along the road, and off to the left a half mile, was a large,
tile-covered building. The valley, or plain, gradually expanded as we walked
along, and a league from the Pass brought us to a wheat field of immense
extent. The wheat was three or four inches in height, and the ground was
scattered over with the thorny "espino,"
which, with the cactus, is a prominent feature in a Chilean landscape. The
ground on the right appeared to be swampy, and masses of leafy bushes, five or
six feet in height, dotted the surface. Half up the mountains to the westward
was a robe of low, green bushes.
Towards evening the road led along the base
of the Costeros on the west side of the valley; and two mounds,
which reminded me of the Islands of Rasa and Redonda[17],
rose above the level of the plain. One of them at a distance resembles a mighty
dome: it is called Sugar Loaf. We stopped at its base and spent the night. It
was a late hour before any preparation was made for supper, and I thought at
one time Ñ which was a long time Ñ that we would have to lie down
with empty stomachs. One of the girls at length set a large pot containing beans
on the fire, and then commenced paring potatoes and laying them on the burning
coals. Basilio was sitting on the ground at my feet at the time, and when the
culinary operations began, he looked up in my face and gave a smile of
simplicity and satisfaction which I will not soon forget. We certainly "done
justice" to our supper.
The owner of this house Ñ if house it
was Ñ was an old man, whose hair and heavy whiskers were white with the
snows of many winters, but his black eyes still flashed with more than ordinary
intelligence. When I told him I was an American, he was surprised, and asked me
many questions relating to my country. "Is North America a very large
country?" he inquired. Yes, was my reply:Ñ "Is it larger than
Chile? he continued: "Poco,"
["A little"] was the answer I gave him. After asking whether our
cities were as fine as Santiago, and if we had any churches, he turned to a
Chileno and said Ñ "Do you know that in North America they have
little pieces of paper (papelitos)
worth many ounces of gold?" His less knowing friend was greatly surprised
at this fact.
The old man gave me two sheep skins for a
bed, and Basilio one, but I managed to slip a poncho off of his pallet during the night, and thus got through in
a comfortable manner. We started with a cloudy sky overhead the next morning,
for Rancagua, distant three leagues. This town is situated in a delightful
portion of the valley, but as one old Spanish town is a type of all the rest, I
merely passed through the place. South of Rancagua is a river, on the bank of
which we stopped for our dinner, and I allowed Basilio to rest for a couple of
hours, as he was footsore and lagged behind. A league farther and he gave out,
and I was obliged to send him back with a passing carretero which was bound to the Puente de Los Morros. I assisted
him to mount the lumbering vehicle, and could not repress a feeling of sadness
when I saw the cart rolling off in the distance with his little form perched on
top.
I passed the night at a wayside house, and
started this morning with fourteen leagues between me and San Fernando. I was
stopped on the road this morning by a pretended robber who proved in the event
to be a dragoon soldier, and shortly afterwards I was interrupted by a party of
peons, who kindly wished to relieve
me of my small change, but I placed my hand upon a celebrated weapon, and they
quickly came to a safe conclusion.
I left the little village of Rengo behind me
Ñ with it, dark leaved orange trees and their golden fruit Ñ and
passed through a country that was wild, parched and barren. A league before
reaching San Fernando, the scenery is directly opposite, the road leading
through an avenue of trees, while the soil on either side was highly cultivated.
I am now in the halfway place between the cities of Santiago and Talca; every
one stared at me as at a wild beast, and I feel as though I was in a remote
country town. The church bell solemnly tolls the hours; it is night and I am in
San Fernando.
LETTER
XIV.
Change in my Mode of TravelingÑOn the Road "a la
Huaso"ÑLow Range of HillsÑDesolate PlainsÑThe Solitary
PalmÑWild NativesÑ Curic—ÑBeautiful SunsetÑTraveling in
the nightÑMolinaÑThe Post Office OfficialÑClose of a
fatiguing Day's JourneyÑVolcano of PeteroaÑDistant View of Talca,
and Entrance into the City, &c.
Talca, Chile, S. A., May 25, 1857.
The sun was an hour high when I left San
Fernando, on the morning of the 23d. When I came to the outskirts of the town
on the south side, I spied a beautiful grove of tamarind trees on my left, and
descended into a bottom strewn with round stones, which indicated the
propinquity of a river. I had not gone far before I was overtaken by a "birloche"Ñ a two-wheeled
vehicle, drawn by three horses, containing the southern mail. A postillion was
riding on each side, and one of them was leading a horse that was saddled. They
stopped and offered me the horse they were leading to ride across the river
near at hand. I gave one of them my knapsack to carry, and mounting the Chilean
pony, rode with them nearly a mile, crossing several streams before we ascended
to the opposite plain. I came to the conclusion, in riding along, that I would
go with them to Talca, if they would take me for a reasonable sum; and when the
"birloche" was stopped
again, I commenced bargaining with one of the "birlocheros", a roguish-looking chap, for a passage. I reduced
him from a half ounce to five dollars, when the bargain was closed, and we
started on the gallop to Talca.
I swung my closely braided leather thong
like a "huaso," and if I
had been provided with a poncho and
heavy wooden stirrups, I might have passed for a genuine "Chilo." At times the country we
passed over partook of barrenness, but I noticed an increasing greenness in the
vegetation, which indicated the presence of heavier rains than in the north.
A few leagues brought us to the village of
Chimbarongo, where we stopped a few minutes to deliver the mail, and at a
distance of eight leagues from San Fernando, our jaded horses were changed for
a fresh lot. There were two passengers in the "birloche" and an agent, whom the 'birlocheros" called Don Francisco. While the horses were
being changed, the passengers walked on to a hacienda house in advance, to get their breakfast, and here also we
pulled up, and a girl brought out a mixed up dish of charqui, potatoes, eggs and pepper, and a cup of hot milk and
pepper highly sweetened. The victuals were divided among the "birlocheros", Don Francisco and
myself.
We started again, and at the distance of a mile crossed a stream of
water, and when I rose the opposite bank, I saw before us, extending from
mountain range to mountain range, from the Costeros to the Andes, a
low range of hills. Rapid driving soon brought us to them, and here, upon the
northern slope, we passed the Railroad Engineers. The hills were small and
smoothly rounded, and some of them were covered with a growth of wheat four or
five inches in height.
The mountains were now far apart, and before
us was a wide and desolate plain, many, many leagues in width, and scattered
over in places with rocks. The plain was not truly level, but was occasionally
broken by hills and small ravines. A few huts of the rudest description were to
be seen at an occasional hillside, but their presence only contributed to the
desolate scene. As I rode over the plains I wondered if any mineral treasures
were hid beneath, or whether below a thin crust rolled a burning sea of lava.
Several leagues from the low range of hills
we passed a collection of small houses, and a considerable stream of pure water
whose crystal waves rolled over pebbles of every hue of the rainbow.
Nearly half a mile down the gravelly bed of
this beautiful stream, a single palm raises its graceful form. The lonely
situation of this tropical plant reminded me of the first palm I had ever seen.
The plain was now smoother, and fewer rocks were to be seen, and in their stead
the thorny "espino." The
natives were wilder and more ignorant than any I had yet encountered, singing
out their peculiar appellatives of "gringo"
and "burro" to me at every
point I met them.
Two leagues from the river, and we came to a
posada, or country inn, where the
horses were changed, and the "birlocheros,"
Don Francisco, and myself got a cazuela;
Don F. and I, forgetting our temperance principles, drank too much chicha, which, although it did not make
us tight, nearly made us sick.
The "birloche" drove on, to take the mail to Curic—, while one of
the "birlocheros'' and I took a
shorter road at an easy walk. The village of Curic— is situated at the base of
a long hill of moderate elevation. I saw the church spire rising up from among
the trees, and upon the hill a large cross.
The evening was remarkably fine; the clouds
which promised rain, a day or two previous, had cleared away, and a few
scattering cirrus and cumulus were alone to be seen. Flocks of gay-plumaged
parrots winged their way in different directions, and we occasionally scared up
an unknown bird from the wayside. It was nearly sunset when we came to the bank
of the river, which runs south to Curic—; and here we stopped for the "birloche" to come up. While we were
waiting, the sun set behind the low ridge of mountains. It was a quiet, lovely
sunset, and one that I will long remember. I thought of sunset in Italy, and
doubted if it could surpass a similar scene in Chile.
Shortly after the "birloche" came up and drove into the river, which was deep and
swift; the horses stopped in the middle of the stream, but the drivers urged
them on with loud shouts, and finally made the passage. Wherever the road would
admit of it, we went on the full run. Houses were scattered along the wayside
at close intervals, with groups of natives gathered around the brush fires. The
twilight gradually faded away, until darkness overspread the land. We drove in
between two rows of poplars Ñ on the right loomed a lofty church spire
against the western sky. Here we stopped, and I changed my little pony for a
white horse which the "birlochero"
said I would ride to Talca on the following day. We remained here nearly half
an hour, and then started again. At the farther extremity of a long row of
poplars a single light gleamed through the darkness; others soon made their
appearance, and in a few minutes we were driving through a street in the town
of Molina. We stopped on the corner of the plaza
at the Post Office, and waited nearly half an hour for the official to come and
receive the mail. I was nearly given out with fatigue, and my patience was
quite exhausted, when the important man of the country town made his
appearance. He appeared to be wonderfully impressed with the responsibility of
his station, and unlocked the door, and commenced assorting the mail in the
most dignified manner. I said nothing about the delay, for I knew it would do
no good. Presently one of the postillions mounted a horse and said Ñ
"Patr—n, venga por aqu’,"
[Patron, follow me.] I did follow him, and to a posada. I rode through an open gateway into a courtyard and
dismounted. A bright fire was burning under a shed, and thither I repaired. A
woman was cooking a cazuela, and I
asked her for a drink of water, which she brought me, and I seated myself upon
a chair more fatigued than ever I was before. It was a satisfaction however, to
think that I had passed over ninety miles since morning. I could not eat, and
asking for a bed, I lay down with barely sufficient cover over me, and slept
soundly.
Morning had just begun to dawn in the east when I went out.
My fatigue had vanished, and I was ready for anything that might turn up. The
woman spoken of made a hot aguardiente
punch, and the roguish "birlochero"
was very particular to invite me to share a portion. We started before sunrise,
and the road, after a short distance, took a [southwesterly] direction over a
smoothly undulating plain, which extended as far as the eye could reach to the
southward. The sky was particularly clear; in the northeast were some glorious
clouds, while far away in the southeast, the Cordilleras faded away in the dim
haze. In the east was a lofty, remarkable mountain, shaped like the frustum of
a cone. Were it continued to a point, it would realize my impression of
Chimborazo, and be the most perfect type of a mountain in the world. It was the
volcano of Peteroa; it is cold and silent now, but who knows when the sleeping
giant may awake?
Our horses were kept on the run, and about
11 o'clock in the morning the white and lofty church spires of the city of
Talca rose in view, close to the base of the low mountains in the southwest.
We crossed the Rio Corrientes[?], and ascending the opposite bank, I saw
the red-tiled houses. The postillions urged their horses to the utmost speed,
so that I could scarcely keep up, and my horse's hoofs, in a few minutes, were
clattering over the stony streets; and as the city bells were striking the hour
of twelve, the "Correos del Sur[?]" was brought to a halt in front of
the Post Office. The mail was delivered, and we rode on to the plaza. I stopped at the Hotel du Nord,
and shaking hands with the roguish "birlochero,"
and Don Francisco, I paid them five dollars and called for a room.
It being Sunday afternoon, a battalion of
infantry was paraded on the plaza,
and I had an opportunity of seeing the veterans of Chile go through with their
exercises.
g
LETTER XV.
Leave Talca for the Port of TomŽÑMuddy RoadsÑGold
MountainsÑTake the wrong road, which changes the plan of my
routeÑAnother horseback adventureÑPassage of the Rio
MauleÑRocky roadÑThe gold hunterÑNight among the
MountainsÑThe little round mountainÑSierra Nevada, or the Volcano
of ChillanÑJourneying over the CerrosÑLudicrous adventure on the
banks of the Rio CauquenesÑIncidents on the Plaza of the Pueblo.
Cauquenes, Chile, S. A., May 29, 1857.
A heavy rain fell during my stay in Talca,
which detained me a day; but the morning of the 27th dawned bright and clear. I
was up, as usual, at an early hour, and hunting up the little Frenchman who is
landlord of the Hotel del Norte, I paid my bill, and started for the port of
TomŽ, sixty-six leagues from Talca. I crossed a small stream of water on the
western side of the city, and ascending the hill, I took the Chillan road.
The recent rains had rendered the road
muddy, and for the distance of a league the traveling was disagreeable. I
passed two or three neat looking buildings, with wings at either end, leaving
an open square in front. In one of the courtyards was a single palm, that
glowed in the bright sunlight with tropical magnificence; sweet type of the
sensuous South. The road presently opened out upon the open plain, an arm of
which extended two or three leagues to the westward. Before me was a barren
range of mountains. I stopped by the roadside a few minutes, to discharge and
reload one of my revolvers, and while so doing was overtaken by a pedestrian,
who said he was going to the Rio Maule. He told me that the barren and rocky cerros we were nearing contained gold
mines "muy rico."
["very rich"] I walked along with him for a couple of leagues,
without heeding where the path was taking me to Ñ thinking I was on the
road to Parral. But the road grew dimmer as we advanced, and when we commenced
ascending a mountain, through a pass, I knew I was not on the route for
Chillan, which leads over a plain. I turned around and starting back, went but
a short distance when I met two men driving a loose horse and three mules, the
latter loaded with goods, before them. I inquired of them the direction to
Parral, when they told me I should have left the mountains to the right, and
that the road upon which I then was led to Cauquenes, capital of the province
of Maule, to which Pueblo they were then bound. The road to the ports of TomŽ
and Talcahuano, by Cauquenes, is called the coast road; it leads through the
mountains and is difficult to find. The road that passes Parral and Chillan
takes over the plains, is broad and well travelled, and hence the reason of my
wishing to reach the above mentioned ports by the valley road.
I concluded to accompany them to Cauquenes,
and let circumstances determine the course I was to pursue when I reached the
Pueblo. The horse was lassoed, and I mounted, having a very rude saddle. One of
the Chilenos was a very respectable looking man, and carried a double-barreled
shot gun, and a brace of pistols in his holsters. The other was the mozo, or servant, who attended to the
mules. The winding path now struck into the mountains, and rude granitic rocks
were scattered around in every direction. A few bushes and the hardy cactus
were growing on the steep hill sides. While passing through a ravine, the mozo pointed out a mountain on the
right, which he said was rich with gold.
We descended into the valley of the Maule,
and after going a short distance, came to a plain several hundred yards in
width, that extended to the river, thickly covered with round stones, which
rattled under our horses' feet like dry bones. This passed, and we were on the
river bank. The river had to be crossed in a launch, and the packs were removed
from the mules, and the animals driven in and tied. When all was ready, the
launch was shoved out into the rapid, eddying stream. Two stout oarsmen were
well forward, and they, with the rough looking steersman, constituted the
ferrymen. We were soon on the opposite bank, and while the packs were being
replaced on the mules, I took a rude draft of the scene, with the Andes in the
distance. While engaged in this, a launch, laden down to the water's edge, shot
past a projecting ledge of rocks, the boatmen pulling as for life through the
whirling eddy, and then resting on their oars. For a moment, and a moment only,
I wished myself on board, as I was charmed with the wild life. Two or three
houses were on this side of the river, and Don Juan whispered to me that there
were robbers here, and the rough looking customers who stood around confirmed
the statement. We ascended the bank, and the road took a southerly direction
among fragments of granite, and presently up a very steep ravine, down which
ran a small stream of water. On the opposite or western side from which the
road led, were occasional groups of bushes, which indicated the presence of a
spring of water. Cattle and sheep were feeding on the short herbage.
A quarter of a mile brought us to the summit
of the cerro, and we descended into a
small valley where the hillsides were smoother and the landscapes milder. Less
rocks were to be seen; and the thorny "espino"
was more thickly scattered. At wide intervals we passed rude houses, from which
would emerge many dogs barking at our cavalcade most vociferously. Every house
in Chile, I believe is well supplied with dogs: miserable, wretched curs, that
annoy anyone with their barking, but not with their biting, for they are the
most dastardly canine cowards I ever saw.
We journeyed on at an easy walk during the
day; but as the road is seldom traveled we met but few travelers. A traveling
peon fell in with us about noon. Shortly afterwards I saw an old man coming
towards us, carrying a crowbar, pick and large pan. One leg of his trousers was
rolled up, and his coarse poncho
nearly hung to the ground. "Un
minero," said Don Juan to me. "May you find much gold mines"
was the salutation of my companions when he came opposite. "Gracias, Caballeros," ["Thank
you, Gentlemen"] Ñ said the gold seeker, but without turning his
head, for his thoughts were but on the acquisition of the yellow metal, that
was hidden in the mountains around. Men speak of old California miners, but the
old Chileno had grown gray "prospecting" before the land of gold was
dreamed of.
An opening in the valley to the eastward showed a short reach of the
Cordilleras, and ever and anon, some lofty snow-white peak would show its
glittering summit in the depressions of the Costeros. The sun set
while we were still in the valley, though at the southern extremity, and how
blue, soft and beautiful, at that hour, were penciled on the sky, the low
mountain ranges in the North and West. We ascended the mountain again, and when
we had gained the summit, daylight was half gone. Before me was the wide plain
that extends to the outlying ranges of the Andes, and, as the mighty range
rolled far away and appeared to be lost in the South, I was strikingly reminded
of the first view I had of the plain of Santiago. The misty curtains of night
shrouded the pampa in gloom, but the
light of the young moon and stars sufficed to show, though dimly, the eternal
snows.
We descended to the foot of the mountain,
and the road wound close along the eastern base. An occasional gleaming taper
on the dark mountain to our right revealed the situation of a house. It was
about eight in the evening, when we stopped in front of a long building with a
porch in front. It was the residence of the due–o
of the hacienda, and here we passed the night. While the mozo was unpacking the mules, Don Juan and I, went in to inspect
the apartment assigned to us. It was a large lofty room, with a cleanly swept
dirt floor. In one corner there was a bed, and this, with the exception of
three chairs, and a lighted candle, was all the furniture in the room. The mozo presently brought in a bottle of mosto Ñ an excellent wine made
from the grape Ñ which we drank out of a horn. In about half an hour a
little table was brought in, a cloth spread, and a fat good-natured woman, who
was the due–o's wife, brought us our
supper in a very large dish. It was a thick kind of a soup, made out of charqui, (dried beef) mixed with onions,
potatoes and pepper. Three small biscuits were also placed on the table, and
the four travelers sat down to eat. We had but three spoons, and the mozo and traveling peon had to take it turn about. Supper over, the mozo and peon lay down upon their sheepskins, while the good natured due–o spread clean sheets on the bed,
for Don Juan and I, and we turned in under a load of blankets and ponchos, and I slept warm for the first
time in nearly a month.
We were up early in the morning, and after
eating some broiled charqui and a
biscuit each, I bought a bottle of wine "por el camino", (for the road) as the mozo said, (he took good care to drink it all himself, not leaving
me a drop,) the mules were packed and we started.
I preferred walking to riding, and I had my
knapsack lashed to a mule, which, poor thing, was already overburdened. The
road took up a ravine to the southwest, and a strong refreshing breeze blew
direct in our faces. Mountains were on the right and left, and after going a
league or two, passing several houses on the way, the road led into a valley
that extended to the west and eventually opened upon an undulating plain, to
the South. When we came out upon the plain, Don Juan pointed in a southwesterly
direction, towards a round blue mountain that was far away and said to
meÑ "Do you see la redondita
de CoiquŽn." Yes, I replied;Ñ "Near that mountain he
continued, there is a little town called Quirihue, through which you have to
pass in going to TomŽ; it is ten leagues from Cauquenes, and more than fifty
miles from here. Another round oval mountain to the westward was pointed out as
Name.
Here the traveling peon dropped behind and
we saw no more of him, and Don Juan riding ahead at a brisk pace, the mozo and I were left alone for the
remainder of the day. We presently crossed a small river which runs to the
eastward and empties into the Maule. Here the plain opened to the eastward, and
showed the Cordilleras, and a large mountain in the southeast loomed up like a
snow bank. Its outline was very smooth, and no sharp and splintered crags were
visible, which distinguishes it from most the of Andes. It is called Sierra
Nevada, but is known on the map as the Volcano of Chillan. Five hundred feet
below its perpetual snows, are "Los
Ba–os," or the Baths, boiling springs, containing in their waters
sulfur, potash and iron. They are the best in the known world for medicinal
purposes.
Peons were plowing with
oxen in different directions, preparatory to sowing wheat, and little boys,
with conical shaped hats, were watching flocks of sheep. Some of these children
we passed had remarkably sweet-looking faces. It scarcely seems possible that
they would ever be transformed into, surly looking cholos. Could their minds be irradiated with the light of
knowledge, such would not be the case. Such is the effect of education. Dark
indeed is the mind of the peon,
"More
dark than groves of fir on Huron's shores."[18]
The surface of the country, as usual, was
thinly dotted with espino, and at
occasional points along the road the granite cropped out. During the afternoon,
the road passed through a more mountainous district, and we descended and
ascended several long and gentle slopes. High up on the cerro were many spots of freshly plowed land, the soil of a dark
reddish brown. The road was hard and solid as a rock, and in many places was,
thickly strewn with finely crushed, quartz and beautifully colored pebbles.
During the day the sky had been nearly clear
and the air cool and temperate, but late in the evening a fleecy mantle
overspread the sky. We were now upon a highly elevated cerro, and at this moment the sun set behind the western hills. We
were then about three leagues from the Pueblo, and the shades of evening found
us journeying in a valley. I was tired of the long tramp. At different points
along the road the mozo gave me the
distances to Cauquenes, and when I looked down from a moderate eminence upon
the lights in the town, I secretly rejoiced that the day's journey was nearly
brought to a close. A river had to be crossed first, and when the mules were
driven across I mounted behind the mozo,
as the water was too deep to wade; but the little horse he rode was wild and
kicked up at a great rate. My hat fell off at this juncture and I was obliged
to dismount, and the mozo, fearing
that the mules would scatter and be lost, went over to the opposite side to
collect them. I heard the clattering of hoofs and the crashing of brush as he
rode to and fro at a furious rate. I seated myself on a bank to await his
return. In a short time he came across and I mounted again, but the animal
rebelled at the double arrangement and did its utmost to land us both in the
sand. I gave the mozo my heavy cane
and he pounded the brute over the head, and swore and raved in Spanish at a
desperate rate; while I was nearly convulsed with laughter at the novel
adventure, which in the dim moonlight, would have been highly edifying to
spectators, had there been any Ñ fortunately there were none. The animal
tamely submitted at length and we effected the passage.
The musical cry of the watchman rang out
upon the still air, "Las ocho y
media," (half past eight) when we entered the plaza, and here upon the corner, in front of the residence of the Intendente, a brass band was playing. As
usual, a crowd of boys were gathered around, who raised a great shout when they
saw the mules. The little white mule wheeled about and took the back track,
followed by the mozo on the full run,
who overhauled the little thing and the white object darted across the plaza like an arrow. I followed, but
lost sight of them in the darkness. I inquired of a vigilante which direction they took Ñ he told me Ñ but
as I went down the street they were not to be seen. But that natural instinct
which has enabled me to find places in spite of difficulties did not desert me;
I peeped into an open door and saw JosŽ, the mozo, unpacking the mules.
g
LETTER XVI.
Hospitality of Don JuanÑJog on, jog on the footpath wayÑHow
a Cazuela is cookedÑLonely ValleyÑAttacked by RobbersÑThe old
MountaineerÑVillage of QuirihueÑIncidents met with in the
PueblitoÑGlorious SunriseÑRemarkable physical appearance of the
CountryÑThe PacificÑRio ItataÑLast night in the
CountryÑTaken for an Organ GrinderÑStorm among the
MountainsÑThe Valley of CollenÑTomŽ and the Bay of Talcahuano.
Port of TomŽ, Chile, S. A., June 2, 1857.
I spent the 29th of May in Cauquenes, with
my friend Don Juan, who would not allow me to go to a posada. He would receive no remuneration on the following morning
when I came to leave, but as I shook hands with him, invited me to come and see
him if ever I should return to Cauquenes. His servant boy went with me, as a
guide out of town, and as I crossed the Rio Cauquenes, on an unfinished bridge,
the sun was rising and the drummers were beating the reveille. I felt sad and
lonely when I first started, but
"Jog on, jog on the footpath way,
And merrily hunt the stile-a;
A [merry] heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a."[19]
Before me, and in a southwesterly direction,
was CoiquŽn, or the ''little round mountain," alluded to in my last
letter, which I took for my guide. The road passed through a well-settled and
fertile, but broken, country. When I was three leagues from Cauquenes, I
stopped in at a wayside house and asked them to cook a cazuela. I will give a description of the process. A chicken was
killed, and while one woman stripped off the feathers and cut it up, another
pared the potatoes. A small pot of water was placed on the fire and a handful
of dirty salt thrown in, and when the water was brought to a boil, the pieces
of chicken, and presently the potatoes, then an onion finely hacked, and
lastly, a large pepper, previously pounded between two stones. This latter
ingredient is considered indispensable among the "huasos." While the cazuela
was cooking, one of the women, a slovenly slut, took a handful of corn and
ground it between two stones, making a very coarse meal, and out of this a rude
cake was made. I ate my breakfast out of a sea shell, thinking, at the time,
that it was the rudest meal I had ever eaten.
Nearly all of the buildings I passed were
adobe and tile-covered, and this is a distinguishing feature from Northern
Chile, where the houses are thatched. I met with no particular adventure until
about the middle of the afternoon, when I descended into a lonely valley; and
when about halfway through, I saw four men under a little brush-covered shed.
As I approached them, I recognized a drunken mail carrier, who had passed me
two leagues back, and had here delayed the mail in order to rob the gringo. They ordered me to stop when I
came opposite, but as usual in such cases, I paid no attention to them. I was
two or three rods in advance, when they all rushed out, roaring "venga por aqu’," ["come over
here"] in the most authoritative manner. I allowed them to come pretty
close, when, seeing that they were bent on mischief, I drew my revolver. The
effect was magical. I did not have to use my weapon, for they beat a retreat,
and I went on my way without further annoyance.
I emerged from this valley, and entered
another that extended for a league in a westerly direction. At the further
extremity I met an old man riding a donkey. He asked me where I was going, and
when I told him, he held up a little apple and said: "Here is something to
shut your mouth." I took the fruit, and as I saw the rude old mountaineer
riding up the mountain side to his hut, I thought that the valleys were not
peopled by robbers alone. A small stream of water was running through this
valley, and up the little ravines which put down towards it, though dark leaved
lingy[20]
was thickly set. The sun was probably half an hour high when I emerged from
this valley; before me was a little wheat field, and as the slanting rays shone
upon the young wheat just springing from the ground, I was reminded of home.
The smooth undulating land very much resembled a rolling prairie.
At a distance of two leagues, in a westerly
direction, was a high range with well-wooded sides, and the crest bristled with
trees of considerable altitude. A heavy bank of clouds was rolling over this
range into the valley, and on a small rain cloud in the southeast was a
beautiful rainbow, the first I had seen in Chile. The road wound around the
mountains to the southward, and I anxiously looked for the Pueblito of Quirihue. Several horsemen who overtook me said there
was no posada in the place, and I
jogged along for half a league in the dark, wondering what adventures I would
meet with in search of a place of rest.
When I came into the outskirts of the
village, I went up to two men who were seated on their horses in front of a
little thatched house, to inquire where I could pass the night. I did not
perceive in the darkness that they were drunk, until I had spoken to them. I
could get no information from them. Continuing my search, I came to the door of
a yard where four or five girls were gathered together. I asked them where I
could find a posada, and without
telling me, they invited me into a large room, on one side of which the floor
was raised a few inches, and covered with a carpet. Here was seated a handsome
middle-aged woman, and an elderly lady close to her was taking "mate." A bevy of pretty, dark-eyed
girls came in and seated themselves on a divan, and directed their flashing
glances towards me. I remained there several minutes, reflecting what I was to
do; but finally got up and left, as they said they had no bed for me. I believe
the good people would not have driven me away, though I think their minds were
much relieved when I made my exit. I walked up the street, and presently came
to a despacho, or store, where I
found a couple of very well dressed young Chilenos, one of whom told me that he
could give me a room, but nothing to eat. I found the room to be entirely bare
of furniture, and had, as usual in this country, a brick floor. A peon brought
me a couple of small sheepskins, and I was satisfied as far as a bed was
concerned.
I went out and bought some bread, but could
procure no cheese. I returned to my room, and found the comandante of the troops stationed in the town, talking with the
young men spoken of. He told me if I would go to his house he would furnish me
a supply. He was a fine-looking man, and had a rich cloak thrown over his
undress uniform. I complied with his request, and a few steps brought us to his
house. A long table with decanters and glasses was standing in the middle of
the room. I had to wait some time, as the "se–ora" was not in. She came at last, and as she entered the
room, bowed to me in the politest manner. A servant boy then brought the cheese
to the man of epaulettes. He laid it on the table and commenced cutting; but he
was so fat and full of "[...]," that he made slow work. I could
scarcely keep a straight face when I thought what a ludicrous scene was there
presented; the military commander cutting cheese, the toil-worn traveler
sitting near by, anxiously scanning the size of the piece, and the pensive se–ora and her little son looking on as
though they thought I was taking the food from their mouths. The arduous task
was at length accomplished by the man of the sword, and a piece large enough
for two or three meals was presented to me with true Castilian grace. I tried
to pay him for it, but he would receive nothing; and when I was presenting a
piece of money to his bright-eyed boy, he would not permit it, and almost
pushed me from the house. I returned to my room again and found my young
friends still there, and after I had finished my frugal meal, we went up to the
despacho and waited for
"Antonio," who, they told me, could speak my language "Muy bien," (very well). Nearly a
dozen young Chilenos gathered into a little back room, and presently in came
Antonio, who, but for his poncho, I
would have taken for an American. He had been five and a half years in
California, and could speak the English with native fluency. He said the
"old man" was still in the land of gold. Among other American
accomplishments he had learned to swear, and altogether there was considerable
of the "Young America" about him. Several of my young friends
accompanied me to my room, and after bidding me "good night," in
English, I was left alone.
The watchman was crying "las cinco" (five) in the morning
when I got up, and started in the dim, uncertain light to the south-west. There
was a heavy mist gathered around, and at that early hour, the street which I
walked through was silent and deserted. The road immediately led into a region
of country whose valleys, ravines, precipices, hills and mountains were blended
together in a singular and remarkable manner. I had passed through two or three
small valleys, and gained a summit of considerable elevation, which commanded
an extensive view, when the curtain of foggy clouds raised up from the
westward, and the rays of the rising sun gilded the mountain sides with a rosy
tint. I was still in the shadow of the cloud that was rapidly rolling away to
the eastward. An occasional mass of vapor would be detained in a valley or
against the side of a mountain, curling and wreathing itself in the most varied
and fantastic forms. Again, other detached masses would cast their shadows upon
the multitude of hills, presenting altogether one of the most glorious scenes I
ever beheld. I thought of Byron's two lines, descriptive of the morning dawn:
"Night wanes; the vapors round the
mountains curled,
Melt into morn, and light awakes the world."[21]
But the clouds soon rolled away to the great
plain, to be checked by the frowning bulwarks of the Cordilleras, an occasional
snow field of which I saw through the openings in the fleecy vapors.
The aspect of the country, as I have said
before, was remarkable, especially in a southerly direction. Here it seemed as
if the earth had once been in a molten state, foaming and boiling like a mighty
cauldron, and that by some powerful agency it had been suddenly hardened,
presenting outlines that the pencil, and even that imperfectly, alone can
portray. The sun shone with cloudless and burnished splendor, and as I
journeyed along the winding road, a Sabbath-like stillness reigned supreme. It
was the last day of May Ñ the November of the South Ñ not wild and
stormy as our own November, but lovely and beautiful as the May of a northern
clime. I stopped on the crest of a ridge, and listened intently for the music
of the sea shore, though the ocean was leagues to the westward, and hidden from
my view by intervening mountains. There was
a soundÑ low, solemn and sublimeÑ the deep pulsations of the
Pacific's heart. I stopped at a house that was on the border of a valley or
ravine which extended in a westerly direction, and inquired of a woman the
distance to the Rio Itata, and was told that it was three leagues, though a
reach in the river was visible, which looked like a mirror framed in with
hills. The road took me across two ravines, down one of which was a little
grove of bushes. After crossing the last ravine and ascending a hill, I saw on
my left and far below me, the valley of a river which enters the Itata a league
below the ferry. I now commenced descending by a doubling road into the valley.
When nearly half way down, I met a cut-throat "cholo," and asked him which road I should take when I reached
the bottom, as I saw several diverging in different directions. He answered me
in a surly manner, and I saw that he stood in the shadow of a small tree and
watched me until I had reached the margin of the river aforementioned. I passed
two horses in my descent, and saw many more in the valley before me. The river
flowed over a sandy bed intermingled with mica, which latter glowed among the
sands like gold. On the opposite side I found the soil to be a dark sandy loam.
Before was a long, high ridge, extending
from east to west, and beyond this was the Itata, now hid from my view. On the
side of the ridge were many vineyards, the vines planted out in regular rows
like corn. When near the western extremity of the ridge, I overtook a Chileno, who
piloted me around the point near which ran the little river. The road turned
toward the south-west, and after crossing a few low black sand hills, I emerged
into the river bottom, which, at this point, is half a mile wide, but gradually narrowed as l journeyed
to the east. Half a league from the west end of the ridge, or cerro, brought me to the ferry. Some peons were playing a country game under
a brush-covered shed, and a crowed of idlers gathered around, watching the
performance. Near by was another brush-covered shed, fronting on the river;
under it was a bench, and a woman seated on it, holding a guitar on her lap;
but the strings were mute. I asked her for a drink, and she gave me a horn half
full of chicha, which I swallowed,
and then a girl filled it with water, which was as refreshing, though not quite
so well tasted, as it was strongly impregnated with mud.
I waited here a short time for the launch to
come across, and as soon as it was made fast to the bank I stepped on board and
seated myself on the gunnels. A big stout peon
presently came down from the group of players, and throwing off his poncho, took a long pole and shoved the
boat out into the Itata, a stream as broad as the Hudson, and rolling on, in
placid and silent grandeur to the Pacific. A little boy was the only passenger
besides myself. I was surprised at the shallowness of the water, which was not
more than four feet in depth, and the boatman propelled the launch with a pole
alone.
I cannot call the scenery on either side of
this river other than beautiful. It is not wild and rugged, but as I looked to
the eastward, where it seems to lose itself among the hills, there was an air
of loneliness in the scene, almost painful. When we were fairly out in the
stream, one of the women of whom I have spoken, commenced playing the guitar,
accompanying it with her voice. The music was continued during the passage, and
even after we had gained the opposite shore, the plaintive notes of that
singular song, the national air of Chile, was borne across the untroubled bosom
of the Rio Itata.
The boatman landed me on a long narrow
island, which is probably covered with water when the river is high. The
portion of the stream on the other side of the island was very narrow. There
was a rudely fashioned canoe, fastened to the bank and my fellow passenger
ferried me across, and after giving him a media
I passed through an apple orchard and in a few minutes was in the Calle
Comercio of the contemptible little village of Coelemu. I had intended to have
passed the night there, but there was no posada,
and I was obliged to continue my journey towards TomŽ. The road took up a
ravine in a southerly direction, between rows of poplars, but although the
evening was beautiful, and the scenery mild and pleasant, I was too much
interested in finding a place of rest for the night to dwell upon the works of
nature. I was probably a league from the river and on the summit of a high
ridge, from which I could see the little round mountain, when I came to a
roadside house, with a porch on the back part, that suited my fancy, and I
concluded to try my chance of a welcome. I crossed the ditch that separated it
from the road, and as I did so I heard the joyous laugh of a child. Surely, I
thought, there can be no robbers here. I was not mistaken. I found a large
family seated under the porch, some of them around a fire, and all of them on
the ground. Two middle-aged men and a fat chuckle-headed peon constituted the male portion. The others were women from the
time-worn grandma to the rosy-cheeked granddaughters. With the exception of the
peon and his wife Ñ a loving
well matched pair Ñ they were all apparently of Spanish descent, and
although poor, possessed more than ordinary intelligence. I inquired of the
patron as a prelude, the distance to TomŽ; he looked up over the hills and
counted the distance and said, "siete
leguas y media" (seven leagues and a half.) I rejoiced that my journey
was so nearly brought to a close. Permission was given me to stay all night,
and I seated myself on a stool, and took a deliberate survey of the group.
After eating a dish of highly peppered
beans, I was invited within the house, where a dish of charqui soup was soon brought and the whole family gathered around
to partake, myself among the number. The charqui
was old, and the prospect of high living in TomŽ made the scent and taste
intolerable, and after a few mouthfuls I gave it up as a bad job. There was a
plentiful supply of mosto, however,
which was circulated quite freely, and of this I partook, though sparingly,
each time, for numerous were the times it was passed around. Some of the party
were not so temperate, and before the hour was late, they were in that
condition, which a nautical friend of mine used to term "happy."
My host sung me a song, portions of which he
had forgotten, but one of the girls prompted him, after which he spread a bed
of sheepskins and I laid down with the big peon and his "adorable" on my left and half a
dozen girls still farther out in the larboard direction. I had two thick sheets
for a covering, and passed the night much better than I generally did in a
country house.
The sky was overcast with clouds, with the
exception of a narrow strip in the east, and the sun was rising with a red and
ominous glare, when I bade "adios"
to my kind friends and started on the last day of the last of the present
journey by land. The road took me over high ridges and down through deep ravines.
Passing two or three houses near a stream of water, I heard someone calling out
behind me. I turned around and saw a little boy with his hat in his hand, who
begged me to return and play a tune. He had mistaken my knapsack for a hand
organ, and me for an organ grinder. I could not convince him that it was not a
genius music box. "Est‡ tan bonito,"
(it is so pretty) he said. I laughed at the mistake, and turning on my heel I
left him standing in the road. I had not walked a league before it commenced raining.
The mist settled around heavy and thick, and the wind rose to a moderate gale,
and howled mournfully through the thinly scattered trees by the wayside. They
were genuine trees; not giants of the forest, but of respectable size.
The road was dim and difficult to find at
first, but two leagues brought me to a broad, well traveled road, leading from
Chillan to TomŽ, and thence forward I had no difficulty on that score. A league
and a half after striking this road, and I came to the village of Rafael; here
there is a large flouring mill in a state of repair. I ate a peon breakfast here, consisting of white
Chile bread and chancho [pork]. I
surprised a woman greatly by buying four cents worth of meat, instead of half
that amount, "a la peon."
The clouds had partially cleared away, and I thought there would be no more
rain, but I had not gone more than half a league from Rafael before the mist
gathered around me heavier than ever, and so tremendous was the force of the
wild gale, that I could scarcely face, and at times was stayed for a moment by
the fierce pelting of the storm.
The road struck into the heart of a mountain
region, whose woods, precipices and ravines were mingled together in splendid
confusion, and occasionally when the clouds would show an opening on either
side, I would see far below me, green sheltered valleys, which looked like
islands of verdure, amid the wild waves of a troubled sea. Sometimes the cloud
was so thick that I could not see beyond the side of the road, which wound
around the steep mountain sides, and at such moments, I seemed to be on the
verge of an unfathomable abyss, from which I almost shrunk as from a real
danger.
At length I commenced descending, down,
down, to the level of the sea. A few hundred feet and the flying scud was left
above and behind, and the wind came only in fitful blasts around the abrupt
turns of the road, and instead of the roar of the hurricane, I heard the
murmurs of waterfalls in the numerous ravines. The valleys were choked with
vegetation. In places it was one tangled mat of trees, bushes and vines, the
latter bearing a bright red flower. How rich and tropical looked the dark
leaves lying in those valley depths !
I came at right angles into a narrow valley,
but a few hundred feet in width, through which ran a stream of water, and
turning around a mountain, I unexpectedly came to a large mill. I crossed the
stream, where it runs across the valley, on a bridge, and a few hundred yards
below the first mill I passed another, and at an equal distance below this,
still another. The rain now commenced falling in heavy drops, but I heeded it
not, for the scenery in the valley Ñ the Valley of Collen Ñ is so
beautiful, that I did not mind the harmless drenching which my cap and not
myself received. The valley contracted in some places to less than a hundred
yards in width, and the sides of the mountains were steep and smoothly rounded,
and flaws of wind would wave the green bushes Ñ it was a green wheat
field. A short distance below the last mentioned mill, the valley expanded, and
the road turned at right angles, to the left. Above me, on the mountain side,
was an aqueduct conveying water to some mill; the aqueduct overflowed in one
place upon a mass of vines, and innumerable streams of water trickled from the
little tendrils.
Before was a collection of houses, and I
said to a carretero who was resting
his tired oxen in the muddy roadÑ "Adonde es TomŽ" ["Where is TomŽ?"] Ñ "All‡," ["There"] was the
reply. I could scarcely believe him, but I took down a street; and ceased to
doubt when, half a minute afterwards, I looked upon the white-capped waves of
the Bay of Talcahuano.
SECTION (3)
SECOND WANDERINGS
IN CHILE (1858)
by J. A. R.
These articles were first published between May and
September
1858 in the "Daily Alta California"; a later, incomplete version
(1859) appeared in the "Illinois State Journal" (see Annex).
ARTICLE
ONE
I spent a week, in
the early part of last January, in
the pleasant village of Limache, recruiting myself[22]
after a fatiguing ramble among the loftier mountains of the coast range, near
Quillota. Whilst there, I met an old friend, of a spirit akin to my own, and
the plan of a journey was soon sketched. One of the principal places we
proposed visiting was the Baths of Cauquenes, one of the oldest discovered of
the numerous hot springs existing in
the Cordilleras of Chile.
The morning of the
11th was fixed for the departure, but as my companion had a large circle of
acquaintances among the fairer portion of the villagers, it was late in the forenoon before the last "adios mi alma" [goodbye, my soul]
was repeated, and we were fairly on the road. The day was uncomfortably warm,
and the fierce reflected rays of the sun from the dry and dusty road, and
parched mountain sides, dazzled our eyes with a blinding glare. A few hours
travel brought us to La Dormida, and the rough mule path led through groves of
low bushy trees, and along the margin of a small stream of water. I never felt
more sensibly the soothing influence of shade, heightened as it was by the
music of miniature cascades which tumbled over the rocky bed of the mountain
brook. The Spaniards, who traversed this same vale more than two centuries ago,
well named it in their beautiful
language, "La Dormida," or "Vale of Repose." I fancied, as
we seated ourselves at intervals under the evergreen boughs of the lingue and roble, that the steel-clad knights of Valdivia might have once
occupied the same spot. The vale is surrounded by mountains of considerable
altitude. On the south side is a mountain called "Vizcachas," whose
barren rocky summit is unrelieved by the slightest sign of vegetation. It
contrasts strangely with the mountains on the opposite side, which are well
wooded from base to summit.
We were frequently invited to partake of fruit by the hospitable
people, whose rude homes we passed in
journeying up the valley. Late in
the evening we came to a furnace for smelting copper ore, but it was not in operation. Large piles of slag were
lying near the furnace. From the imperfect manner in which the smelting is performed, a considerable per cent of the
metal is lost. We stopped for the night at the last chacra, or farm-house, in
the valley, which is elevated more than two thousand feet above the sea. The
evening was calm and lovely. At our feet was "La Dormida," and beyond
was the valley of "OlmuŽ." Still further away was a dark expanse,
which, in the evening haze, I
mistook for a cloud. "It is the Pacific," said R. I asked our patr—n to settle the question. "Es la mar, Se–or," ["It is the
sea, Sir"] was his quiet reply. The distance could not have been less than
forty miles to the sea shore. Glorious Old Ocean, whose long heaving swells
rolled in unbroken from the
South Sea Isles. Several natives were lying around under a brush-covered
awning, resting from the labor of thrashing a pile of wheat that was near at
hand. The good woman of the casa
served us a supper which a king might have envied, when we penciled the
incidents of the day in our notebooks,
and, spreading our ponchos on the
bare ground, slept until the morning dawn.
I gave our host two reals,
and we commenced ascending the steep and winding path that leads up the "Cuesta de Dormida." The sun was an
hour high when we reached the summit of the pass, and stood at an elevation of
more than four thousand feet above the sea. A portion of the Cordilleras loomed
up in the eastward, and through
the dim haze we could see the Plain of Santiago. The path now led down a
ravine, which was barren, in
comparison to the vale we had left. In
places the road was washed deep by the winter rains, and there was barely space
between the banks for a loaded mule to travel. We passed another deserted
smelting furnace, and high up the mountains, on the south ride of the ravine, I
saw a troop of mules winding along a tortuous path laden with copper ore. We
stopped at one of the chacras, and
bought a real's worth of bread,
making a primitive breakfast on the borders of a crystal stream of water.
At length the road led us into an oval-shaped valley, that
extended in a southerly
direction. The mountains on the west side of the valley were steep and rugged,
while those on the east were lower, with smooth and gentle slopes. These latter
were the spurs of the Coast Range, and beyond them was the plain we saw from
the summit of the pass. We passed a small town on our left, which a woman told
us was Tiltil. The air in the
valley was like a heated furnace, and our clothes were as wet with perspiration
as though we had been dipped in
a river. About three o'clock in
the afternoon we stopped at a hacienda
house, owned by a Frenchman. Here was a school for boys and girls. They were
all reading aloud at once, and appeared to be under strict discipline. We
seated ourselves on a bench made of adobes,
in the shade of poplar trees,
and the teacher came out and conversed with us for a while. When he returned within,
I heard him chastising some luckless urchin for misbehavior during his absence.
From this point, our direction for a short distance was
easterly, over an arm of the plain. On our right was a large field, thickly set
with espino, a thorny bush, as its
name imports, of ten or fifteen feet in
height. In the N.E. the volcanic
peak of Tupungato loomed up in
mighty grandeur. This is the loftiest volcano on the globe; its summit snow
fields being more than twenty-three thousand feet above the level of the sea,
surpassing in height the
Chimborazo of Ecuador. Mr. Robertson[23],
an English traveler, speaks of Tupungato as being the loftiest of the four
thousand miles range of the Andes. The latest measurements award the palm to
Mount Sorata, in Bolivia. My
heart yearned toward this grand old mountain, whose eternal snows were tinged
with a golden hue by the rays of the declining sun.
The road again led in
a southerly direction, over a long range of hills, from the summit of which we
saw the domes and spires of Santiago, seven leagues away. Beautiful plain! No
wonder the proud Spaniards were charmed with the glorious view of the broad and
fertile pampas, overshadowed by the frowning bulwarks of the Cordilleras. We
stopped for the night at the foot of the hills, and went supperless to bed, and
before sunrise were again on the road, journeying in a southerly direction. The houses were mean and thinly
scattered, and for three leagues my inquiries for pan blanco (white bread) met the sorry response of "No hay, Se–or." ["There is
none, Sir."] We finally came to a posada
for carreteros, where we made ample
amends for our long fast.
It was one o'clock P.M. before we entered the suburbs of
Santiago, by the San Felipe road, an excellent macadamized highway, approaching
the city from the north. We sauntered along the streets, crossing the Rio
Mapocho on a brick bridge of nine arches, built in 1792[24], and late in the afternoon stopped at a hotel in the southern portion of the city.
Early on the
morning of the 14th, we visited the market, which is unrivaled. Fruits and
vegetables, peculiar to every latitude, are found in the numerous stalls. Venders of chocolate and sweetmeats pursue
a thriving business during the early hours of the morning, and as good fare is
to be obtained in the market as in some of the fondas. The chocolate of the Santiago market is celebrated, and its
celebrity has lost nothing in my
estimation. It is rich and delicious. We next visited the cathedral, which is
situated on the "Plaza de las Armas."[25]
The interior of this fine building is grand and imposing, heightened as it is
by the continual service which, day and night, is performed before some of the
numerous altars. We were there nearly two hours. The deep notes of the organ,
and the chanting of the choristers (children), contributed greatly to the
religious effect. The worshippers were mostly women, dressed in the appropriate and favorite
costume of the Chilenas Ñ deep black. There are many fine buildings in Santiago; some of them the finest
private residences in the world.
In the interior of most of the
squares are splendid gardens. Streams of water flow through every cuadra in the city. The fashionable place of resort is the ca–ada, or public walk, in the southern part of the city,
extending from east to west. It is planted with rows of poplars. In places they have been cut down to
give way to oak and elm. The trees are irrigated by streams of water flowing
around their roots. There is a fountain in
one portion, surmounted by Neptune, with his trident, poised in a pile of rough rocks. The jets of
water are so contrived as to represent springs gushing from the fissures in the rocks. In the eastern portion of the city is the rocky hill of Santa
Lucia, from which the best view of the surrounding scenery is obtained. The
city, bathed in the soft, mellow
light peculiar to this climate; the distant Costeros, and the spurs of the
Cordilleras, distant but three leagues, are unfolded to the view of the
enraptured beholder. One feels in
Santiago as though he was elevated a vast distance above the sea, though the
height of the city above the ocean level is but eighteen hundred feet. Santiago
was founded in 1541, by
Valdivia, who was killed three years later[26]
in a battle with the Araucanian
Indians.
We took the cars[27]
at 3 o'clock in the afternoon
for San Bernardo, a village, 4 leagues south of the Capital. Half an hour
brought us to the station, where the cars were detached, and we proceeded seven
miles farther on the engine to the bridge across the Rio Maipo. We stopped at a
canvas hotel, kept by an American for the accommodation of the workmen. There
were several Americans here, and among the rest Henry Meiggs, contractor of the
bridge. We passed the night here, and at a late hour on the following morning
crossed the river on a foot bridge, which was lashed to the piers of the main
structure. The river foamed and roared wildly beneath, and R., who had been
boasting of his adventures in
crossing the rivers of California, nearly fell overboard. Ascending the bank,
we took a path that led us in
between two rows of lofty poplars, pursuing an easterly direction for two
leagues, when we came to the main highway between Santiago and the city of
Talca; and turning to the left on the main road, a half league brought us to
the "Puente de los Morros," or Bridge of
Castles, which span the Rio Maipo. This bridge is so called on account of the
singular castellated rock on the north bank. We now left the regular road to
the Baths, to visit some of the swinging bridges on the upper waters of the
Maipo, taking up the south bank of the river.
A half league brought us to a place called "Puente de las
Tablas." There is a quarry of porphyry here, from which stone was taken to
build the piers of the railroad bridge; and in times past there was one of those rustic bridges of which every
schoolboy has read, but its ruins alone remain. I spent a week here some months
previous, when everything was life and bustle; now, the place is almost
deserted. A few peons were lying
under a tree, and their listless forms but added to the loneliness of the
scene, which clouded my mind with sadness. A few hundred yards from the Tablas
we crossed the Rio Claro, in
whose limpid waters we had a fine bath. The Claro is a small stream, and has
its source in the lower spurs of
the Cordilleras. We were now on the "Hacienda
principal," once the largest in
Chile. The plain extended two
leagues to the south, and was bounded by rude and barren mountains, and the
same distance to the eastward were the spurs of the Andes. Far up the river was
a reach of the snowy Cordilleras, including the volcano of Maipo, whose
internal fires are smoldering beneath the icy glaciers.
We overtook some carreteros, who invited us to ride in their lumbering vehicles, which we
gladly accepted, as the heat was oppressive. A short distance from the mountain
spurs we left our friends and turned aside to see a swinging bridge. Its length
is one hundred and twenty-three feet. Chain cables are stretched across, and
upon these, round poles, ten feet long, are lashed with raw hide. Round sticks,
one and a half inches in
diameter and four feet long, are closely woven together, and well secured to
the larger poles, which forms a safe footpath for mules.
"Chilian Cart", from "The Araucanians" by Edmond Reuel
Smith (1855)
ARTICLE TWO
We continued our journey, stopping a few minutes to buy pan blanco and harina tostada, and were shortly in the caj—n of the
Maipo. The narrow valley is hemmed in
by mountains, and the path led along the bank of a seco or artificial canal for irrigation, which must have been
constructed at immense expense. The steep mountain sides in places have been cut down more than
a hundred feet perpendicular. We stopped for the night at the hacienda house of
San Juan, about a league above the swinging bridge. Lofty poplars surround the
building, and a grove of gnarled willows, near by, appear as old as the hills.
Groups of horsemen and peons were
gathered around in the out-yard
dressed in the national costume.
A girl was cooking pan blanco in a large dome shaped oven. We had charquic‡n and mutton for supper, but
our lodging place was not comfortable, as we had to lie down in a narrow rough place in the cocina. We were up at day dawn, and paying the mayordomo three reals,
and taking a drink of aguardiente he
offered us, were off for above. We stopped a few minutes on the borders of a
tiny rivulet to write up our journals, and shortly afterwards passed the place
where the canal is diverted from the Maipo. The narrow path wound round the
base of the lofty mountains, at times ascending for a short distance their
barren rocky sides. The scenery was grand and terrific, and I felt that I was In the Cordilleras. The air was hot
and dry, and we were unable to procure water, as the banks of the river were
often perpendicular and confined to a narrow channel, the water roaring and
dashing wildly against the rocks. How appropriate are Indian names :
"Maipo" signifies "roaring," in the Indian tongue, and truly the Maipo is a "roaring
river." Almost the only persons we met were a boy and a girl, both riding
a mule. I asked the girl how far it was to a spring of water. She replied in the sweet - Castilian : "Est‡ lejos, Se–or," (It is far, sir.) I blessed her kind
heart, and felt that much of my fatigue and thirst was taken away. It was
nearly noon when we stopped at a lime kiln to inquire the distance to the upper
bridge, which we learned was but a short distance above. The mayordomo directed a peon to show us the path. Its
construction is similar to the one below. The width is but seven or eight feet,
and a fierce wind was blowing down the caj—n
of the Maipo, which caused the fabric to sway to and fro fearfully as we
crossed to the opposite bank. While my companion was sketching the wild and
rugged scenery, I climbed a short distance up the mountain, and had a view of
the Rio Colorado, which empties into the Maipo a short distance above. Three
leagues above the Rio Colorado is the little town of San JosŽ. There is a pass
up the Rio Maipo to the city of Mendoza, on the eastern slope of the Andes.
Our sketch completed, we took down the northern bank of the
river, along a road passable to wheeled vehicles. The valley is from a quarter
to half a mile in width on this
side, and we passed some beautiful chacras.
On this side of the river is the Canal
del Maipo, which supplies the city of Santiago with water. The work was
performed by the Spaniards. It was after sunset when we re-crossed the river at
the lower Puente de las Tablas, and
stopped for the night at the house where we had purchased pan blanco on the preceding day. The old man welcomed us in the most hospitable manner. I was
too tired to eat, and threw myself down on an ox hide to sleep off my fatigue.
The next day was Sunday, and the sun rose beautiful and clear while we were
journeying to Los Morros. We rested a few hours in the shade of a tree on the banks of the Rio Claro; and,
resuming our journey late in the
evening, were soon in the Talca
road, which led in a southerly
direction over a well cultivated and fertile plain. Taking the left hand road
out of the little village of Maipo, we journeyed for some distance between rows
of poplars, and a league and a half from the river, stopped for the night at a
wayside house.
I was under the impression that the Lake of Aculeo Ñ which
we designed visiting Ñ was in
the spurs of the Andes, as stated by Captain Hall, but our patr—n, with whom we
passed the night, informed us that it was two leagues below the Pass of
Angostura, in the Costeros. When
I learned this, the charm my imagination had given it, was gone, and I did not
wish to see the "Lake among the Andes," so graphically described by
the humorous Basil Hall.[28]
We took a narrow path across a hacienda, to again reach the main highway, and stopped to inquire
the way at the hacienda house, where
we found the due–o and his daughter,
a stout, English-looking se–orita.
The old gentleman would not suffer us to depart until we had ate breakfast,
himself waiting upon us in that
hearty unfeigned manner so grateful to the toil-worn traveler. It was mid-day,
and the sun shone hot and fierce, when we left the abode of our hospitable
entertainer, and wound around the base of "La Angostura," a rude and
rugged mountain east of the pass of the same name. Passing through a portion of
the Laguna Paine, a swampy place, and
crossing a brush fence made of the thorny espino,
we again struck the "camino real,"
a league from the Pass of Angostura, and put up for the night at the posada close to the entrance.
There were several
young Chilenos here from Santiago who wished to know when Don Enrique (Harry
Meiggs) would commence building the railroad from the Rio Maipo to the city of
Rancagua. My feet were sore after our hard tramp, and before going to our room,
which was in the back yard, I
seated myself on a foot bridge across a large seco, and bathed them in
the pure cold water that swiftly ran beneath. We took a mattress off of one of
the beds in the room, and
spreading our ponchos upon it, slept
gloriously. I was awakened during the night by a travelling party coming into
an adjoining room, who had considerable to say about the danger of robbers. We
were up at our usual hour, and paying the sleepy-headed mozo a real for the use
of the room, took the road and were soon through the pass, of which R. took an
outline sketch. The Pass of Angostura is not more than one hundred and fifty
yards in width, and through it
flows the Rio Angostura, one of the clearest and most beautiful streams I ever
beheld.
Houses,
mud-plastered and thatched, were scattered along the roads, and off to the left
a half mile was a large tile-covered building. The plain now gradually expanded
as we walked along. On our left was the Hacienda de la Compa–’a[29],
the largest in Chile. The ground on the right appeared to be swampy, and masses
of leafy bushes, five or six feet in
height, dotted the surface. Most of the time the road Ñ a magnificent
highway Ñ led us between rows of lofty poplars, and towards noon we passed
two remarkable hills, which rise from the level of the plain like islands from
the sea. One of them resembles a mighty dome, and is called the "Pan de Azucar," or Sugar Loaf.
Three leagues from the "Pan de
Azucar," brought us to Rancagua, twenty-five leagues from the capital,
and with the exception of Santiago, the most populous Departamento in Chile.
We did not stop long in
Rancagua, but pushed on to the Rio Cachapoal which is a half league south of
the town. The river is spanned by a splendid bridge of nine arches, which was
not quite completed. It is probably the finest structure of the kind in South America. We passed the night in a shanty at the south end of the
bridge, sleeping under a brush-covered shed. It was ten o'clock the next
morning before we got our breakfast, and in the meanwhile we sent to the town for a supply of pan to last us during our stay at "Los Ba–os." Our preparations
complete, we bade adios to the
good-natured se–ora and her two
daughters, with a promise to return in three
or four days, and set out for the baths of Cauquenes, two as enthusiastic and
veteran-looking travelers as ever trod a mountain trail of the Andes. The
distance to the baths, from the bridge across the Cachapoal, is five leagues,
the mule path leading up the southern bank of the river. A short distance above
we hired a couple of peons to take us
across a large stream that diverges from the river, and, without proper
engineering, will eventually change its bed. The path led along the river for
nearly a league, when it left the bank and wound round the southern base of a
hill, but another league brought us close to the shore.
The scenery now changed materially; the river was hemmed in between narrow banks, and the
mountain sides were partially robed with evergreen foliage. The landscapes were
mild and beautiful and had but little of the terrific grandeur which
distinguishes the Caj—n of Maipo. At
length we came to the Rio Claro (there are many Rios Claro in Chile), a
mountain stream which puts down from the southward. I could see the snowfields
that feed its anything but clear waters. We pulled off our boots and waded
across; it was knee-deep. The scenery grew more lovely at every step; it was
the hour of evening, and the soft air stole down the valley in gentle zephyrs. We passed the ruins
of an old hide-rope bridge, and a half hour more we were in sight of the baths.
We pitched our camp on the edge of a narrow ravine and slept
comfortably, notwithstanding the coolness of the air. We were received with
courtesy the following morning by the young man who has them in charge. He took us around and
showed us the baths, which are five in
number. Each one is in a small
room, not more than seven feet by ten. They are of the rudest description, mud-plastered
and thatched with straw. In the
centre of each room is a vat two feet wide by four-and-a-half long. The names
of the baths, with the temperature of each, are "Pelambre," 118¡; "Pelambrillo,"
116¡; "Corrimento," 110¡; "Templada," 104¡, and
"Solitario, 102¡. We both took a bath; I chose "Pelambre," but
found it impossible to completely immerse myself in the fiery flood. When I came out, the perspiration flowed from
me like rain. In rheumatic and
cutaneous diseases, the Baths have performed miraculous cures. The waters are
strongly impregnated with mineral substances, potash, iron, salt, sulfur and
mercury entering into their composition. We employed ourselves during the day in taking sketches of the scenery
around. The accommodations are not of the finest description for visitors. A
large open yard is enclosed by buildings, with means of exit at the corners. In these buildings are some 20 or 30
rooms, which are let out at prices ranging from six reals to one dollar and a half a day. Board is two dollars per day,
and the price of a bath is six cents. One cannot expect to live at the Baths
with any degree of comfort for less than four dollars per diem.
The springs ooze out of the river banks from among boulders,
within a few feet of the verge, and taken together, would form a considerable
stream of water. After flowing through the bath tubs, they are precipitated
into the Cachapoal, which foams and roars a hundred feet beneath. I could not
ascertain how long the Baths of Cauquenes have been known; I was told that the
oldest natives in the valley are
ignorant of their age. I saw names carved on the doors bearing date of 1830.
But few persons were there at the time of our visit. An old gentleman and his
party who passed us in the
"Vale of Repose" occupied one of the rooms. I noticed a poor palsied
wretch bathing in
"Pelambrillo," but I doubt whether even the magical waters of
Cauquenes can restore his withered frame.
On the second morning of our stay I tried the
"Solitario," the temperature of which is quite bearable. I found R.
bathing in
"Corrimento," and as I opened the door he remarked that hÑl had
broke loose during the night. As R. was anxious to try the effect, I stripped
off again, and gradually lowered myself down into the tub. The operation was
painful, and even after I was completely emerged, the great heat of the water
made me puff like a porpoise. I stood it five minutes, when a sick and dizzy
sensation obliged me to get out. I never had my system so completely relaxed,
and more than an hour elapsed before the perspiration ceased to pour from me.
We sketched the
different bath houses, and while working up the drawings, under the main
buildings, a mozo brought us our
dinners. The due–o of the Baths is a
very intelligent man, and in the
course of our conversation with him he informed us that we could see the Peak of
Cauquenes from the plains of Maule. He had a pack of English fox hounds, and
showed us some lion[30] and fox
skins as trophies of the chase.
A small tile-covered building that stands at one corner of the
courtyard is the chapel. The same pretension to ornament and show existed in this rude building, though in a far less degree, that I saw in the cathedral of Santiago. It is
the only tile-covered building at the Baths, and gives evidence of considerable
antiquity.
When our drawings were finished, the handsome daughter of the due–o had numerous questions to ask
about our travels. It was early in
the afternoon of the 22d of January when I bade adios to the excellent due–o
and his family, and taking the hand of the fair se–orita of whom I have spoken, she returned the warm pressure I
gave her, and said, from her kind heart I know, "Adios, caballero, Ávaya muy bien!" [Goodbye, gentleman, go
very well!"] I will never forget those words, which fell in soft accents from her rosy lips.
How gentle and confiding is woman. Soon the Baths were hid from our view, and [we]
stopped for the night at the ruins of "Puente
de las Tablas."
g
ARTICLE THREE
Chilean national anthemÑRinguin and RengoÑPelequŽn and
TenoÑCuric—ÑLontuŽ and MolinaÑThe volcano of
PeteroaÑThe City of TalcaÑDeserted gold
minesÑMirageÑAchibuenoÑThe river Longav’ÑNight at a
farm houseÑParralÑLanguenÑArrival at Chill‡n
We left our forest camp at the ruins of the "Tablas" on the morning of the 23d.
The weather was fine and clear, and a pleasant breeze was blowing up the valley
of the Cachapoal. On our way down the river bank, I shot a fine mess of birds,
consisting of doves, blackbirds, and the Chilean quail. About a mile above the
bridge, nearly half of the river is turned from the main channel, and the water
runs swift in the several streams it forms. We crossed two or three, but found
one that baffled our efforts, and nearly swept us away in its turbid flood.
Turning back, we found a huaso, who
took us across for a real.
Previous to reaching the bridge, we came to a collection of
houses, in one of which a number of se–oritas
and mozos were dancing the "zamacueca" and other Spanish
dances. One of the girls was playing the national anthem on the guitar,
accompanying it with her voice. The performance was excellent, losing nothing
by the mournful cadence that tinged the voice of the pensive se–orita as she sang :
"Puro Chile, es tu cielo azulado,
Puras brisas te cruzan tambiŽn.
Y tu campo de flores bordado
Es la copia feliz del EdŽn:
Majestuosa es la blanca monta–a" &c. [31]
We related the story of our adventures to the daughters of our patrona, while the good lady herself
prepared a cazuela of our game, from
which the whole family partook. We passed the night there, and long before day
I was awoke by the clarion notes of a cock, that was perched on a pole above
our heads. I waited until the second call before I arose, when the east began
to glow with the morning sun, and the sharp and splintered peaks of the Andes
were strongly marked against the sky. When viewed from the bridge across the
Rio Cachapoal, the Andes present the most singular appearance I remember of
having seen. Numberless peaks rear their frozen summits into the higher regions
of the atmosphere.
RINGUIN AND RENGO.
We shouldered our
gun and ponchos, and started for the
city of Chill‡n, distant more than ninety leagues, the road leading in a
southerly direction along the plain. We stopped in the village of Ringuin about
ten o'clock in the morning, where we got our breakfast. There is a church here,
and a large crowd of persons were gathered before the door on their knees. The
country appeared to be well cultivated, the road leading between the mud walls,
six or seven feet in height, inside of which were planted rows of poplars. A
few leagues more brought us to Rengo, a straggling village of considerable
size. Rengo is situated in the midst of a fruitful district of country. There
is but one street in the place, and through this [the] road runs. I saw a great
number of orange trees in the gardens. An old caballero, who was standing in his doorway, invited us to enter his
garden and partake of fruit. He told us that the ladrones broke in and robbed his orchard frequently. I told him I
thought the Chilenos were too honest to steal, to which he replied: "No, Se–or: en Chile hay muchos ladrones y
salteadores del camino." (No, sir; there are many thieves and highway
robbers in Chile.) We called in at another house, where a woman had a long tale
to tell us about an American who had married an Indian woman. "No una se–ora como yo, pero una India pura."
(Not a lady like me, but a pure Indian), she said. I could scarcely keep a
straight face during the narration of the story. She played several tunes on
the guitar, while a young Frenchman and her sister danced the zamacueca.
PELEQUƒN AND TENO.
A league south of Rengo is the pass of PelequŽn, which separates
the Coast Range from the spurs of the Cordilleras. It is but two or three
hundred yards in width. The mountains on the coast side are composed of white
porphyry. A quarry is partially opened here. It is the finest porphyry I ever
saw, and at a short distance appears like marble. We passed the night at a
house two leagues short of San Fernando, and by seven o'clock on the following
morning were in the town, which is forty leagues from Santiago. San Fernando is
a town of some size, but beyond a passing notice, it is not worthy of much
attention. In the southern suburbs there is a grove of olive trees, and half a
league from town is the Rio Tinguiririca. We arrived on the banks of the river
just in time, for a carretero was
going to take a couple of organ grinders to the other side, and I bargained
with him to ferry us over for a real.
The water was deep and swift, and the scene wild and exciting; but we got over
in safety, and when landed on the opposite bank, the organ grinders played the
national airs of Chile and Ecuador, the notes of the beautiful tunes mingling
with the wild roar of the mountain stream. One of the principal passes of the
Andes is up this river. We passed the village of Chimbarongo on our right, and
about noon took a siesta of two or
three hours' duration under some plum trees. which we were ladrones enough to strip of their fruit. As we journeyed along in
the evening, we had a view of the volcano of Peteroa, bearing S. E. A carretero overtook us about sunset, and
invited us to take a ride in his cart. The night was calm and clear, and we
lumbered along the road between the avenues of dark green poplars, the bright
moonlight illuminating the plain with silvery splendor. It was nearly ten o'clock
before we put up for the night.
We crossed a small clear stream of water the next morning, in
company with a carretero, who was
taking a gang of painters to Talca to work on the Cathedral. I made an
agreement with him to take us across the intervening rivers for a few reals. A low range of hills was before
us, extending from the Costeros, or Coast Range, to the Cordilleras. The plain
was forty or fifty miles in width, and, comparatively speaking, barren and
desolate. Nearly due east was Descabezado, one of the loftiest of the Chilean
Cordilleras. South of Descabezado, four geographical miles, is Blanquillo, or
the "little white mountain.'' Between the two mountains rose a vast column
of smoke, showing intense volcanic action. Two or three leagues took us across
the barren portion of the plain, of which I have spoken, to the banks of the
Rio Teno. Far down the river I saw a solitary palm.
CURlCî.
We now had before us the beautiful country that surrounds
Curic—, the finest I have seen in Chile. From the summit of the low hills on
the south bank of the river, we had a fine view of this splendid portion of the
plain Ñ the plain of Colchagua. The lines of poplars, which marked the
boundaries of haciendas toward the Costeros,
and the masses of low bushy espino,
that add such a charm to the Chilean landscapes, were spread below and around
us.
Our company stopped early in the afternoon at a posada, that is situated a half league
north of Curic—. At it was the intention to pass the night there, after a short
rest I proceeded on to visit the town, which is a half mile from the direct
Talca road. Curic— is situated at nearly mid-distance between the Costeros and
the Cordilleras, at the southern base of a hill, that stands isolated on the
plain. I skirted the northern base of the hill, and, entering the town at the ca–ada, walked the whole length of the
beautiful rows of poplars, which are seven in number. The main walk it swept
clean, and is as smooth as a floor. I saw but very few people in the village.
An old sage-looking man, of the better rank, was standing on one side of the ca–ada, and a soldier was sitting idly
on a bench watching two prisoners dig a hole. These, with two or three women,
were all of the persons I saw on the public walk. I walked up one of the
streets to see the church of San Francisco, but the door was shut, so I could
not enter. I peeped into the various houses as I walked along, and in one of
them saw a fat, well-fed priest. It was sunset when I returned to the posada. Our compa–eros del camino
were cooking their supper by a blazing fire, I had shot a species of the hawk
during the day, and they had it served up as a kind of desert. I was invited to
partake, which I did, but it can be proved by me that hawk is not very good
eating. One of the number was a German, who could neither speak English or
Spanish, but he was a capital musician, and procuring a guitar, he beguiled the
evening hour, and charmed his listeners with songs of the Vaterland.
LONTUƒ AND MOLINA.
Our company were on the road before sunrise, and south of Curic—
we crossed a clear stream of water, in which I shot a couple of ducks. A league
or more brought us to the Rio LontuŽ, which runs in several channels, and its
muddy waters tell a tale of their coming from the Andean snows. Our gigantic carretero, who stood six feet four,
stripped off his clothes, and throwing a poncho
over his shoulders, was prepared to withstand the swift-deep current. A lazo was attached to the horns of the
lead ox, all hands mounted the cart, and into the river we drove, each one
seeing who could make the most noise. The vehicle tottered over the rocks, and
in mid-current of the principal channel we came to a stand-still, with the
waters roaring around us. "ÁHijodeputa,
carajo!" ["Sonofabitch, damnit
!"] roared the carretero,
in the classic language of the Knight of La Mancha[32],
as he punched the oxen with his steel-pointed goad. The poor brutes bellowed,
and the cart flew up the bank of the river amid shouts and yells.
A few leagues' travel brought us to the village of Molina, where
we arrived about noon, and the oxen were turned into a pasture to recruit
themselves [recover strength, Ed.] for the night journey we had in view. Molina
is the dullest little town I was ever in, and it was not with regret that I saw
the oxen yoked up at a late hour in the evening. The sun was half-an-hour high
when the cart got under way. We crossed the Rio Claro before twilight had gone,
and then we all dismounted at the carretero's
cry of "a tierra" and jogged
on afoot, in advance of the cart. We were all in a jolly humor, laughing and
singing to while away the evening hours. There was an old Peruvian in our
party, whose equanimity was not disturbed by the fact of his going to Talca. He
was a veteran traveler. Not so with some of the younger adventurers, who, in
the excitement of joyous anticipation, would occasionally sing out, Á Viva ! se van por la ciudad de Talca
Ñ (Hurrah! we are going to the city of Talca.)
The moon was nearly at the full, and as we journeyed along the
road which was broken by quebradas,
the vast plain from the Costeros[33]
to the Andes was flooded with light. Our companions, at length, succumbed to
the fatigue, and R. and I travelled on alone for leagues, with the cart
rumbling behind us. The rest of the party had stowed themselves away in the
cart, and were asleep.
THE VOLCANO OF
PETEROA.
The birds were singing, and I thought I could discern a faint
trace of dawn in the east, when the cart was stopped in a little ravine, and we
lay down on the bare ground for a short rest. The sun was rising when we
started again, and a league farther on our eyes were greeted with the sight of
the church spires of the City of Talca.
In the east was the volcano of Peteroa, the Mountain of Smoke. Peteroa
is the frustum of a cone, and one instinctively feels, when looking upon the
mountain from the Plain of Talca, that they at last behold a volcano. There is
something awful in the majesty of Peteroa, which, in my imagination, stands
alone the only perfect type of a volcano in the world.
A long distance to
the south was the Peak of Cauquenes, and the Peruano said to me, "Paisano;
do you see that mountain that looks like a small, white cloud, the most distant
of the Cordilleras? It is Sierra Velluda." I did see its distant snow
fields, glowing in the morning light, but I also knew that its Indian name was Chill‡n.
THE CITY OF TALCA.
We crossed the Rios Pangue [Estero
Panguilemo?] and Lircay, both streams as
clear as crystal, and by ten o'clock in the morning were in the city. We parted
from our friends and patr—n, the
immortal carretero, and proceeding to
the ca–ada, rested our tired limbs on
a stone bench, in the shade of the lofty poplars. The city of Talca is built on
the border of the plain near the Costeros, and is the second inland town, in
point of size, in Chile. The houses are low and tile-covered, and the streets
are laid out at right angles, and paved with round stones. The city is
compactly built, and presents a neat, clean appearance.
It was late in the evening when we resumed our journey. Passing
a posada for carreteros in the suburbs, we were hailed by an American, who
wished us to stop until the next day, when he would accompany us on our
journey. We complied with his request, and passed the night there. Our
countryman was married to a fair Chilean, and had been resident of the country
several years. The carreteros who
were to take the household effects of our friend, got drunk during the night,
and on the following morning they had sore heads, and were dilatory in their
movements, and as we had no time to spare, we again pursued our journey alone.
Nearly a league from the city we passed a hacienda-house,
in the open courtyard of which was a splendid palm tree, the feathery leaves of
which sparkled in the morning sunlight with tropical magnificence.
DESERTED GOLD
MINES.
A league or so farther on, in the barren spurs of the Coast
Range, we passed deserted gold mines. Five leagues from Talca brought us to the
Rio Maule, one of the largest rivers in Chile. We were ferried over in a launch
for six cents. A deep gap in the Andes, up this river, disclosed the Pass of
"El Planch—n," the only
known pass in the Cordilleras passable to wheeled vehicles. We left the village
of Loncomilla to our right, and waded for a long distance through deep sand.
Three or four leagues from the Maule we crossed the Loncomilla, now a tiny
stream. A large spring gushed out from under the bank near the road. The water
was as pure as crystal, and of an ice-like coldness. A league more, and we
crossed the Rio Trapiche, another small
stream. The road still continued sandy in places, although the country was well
cultivated. The highway leads along next to the Costeros, and occasionally we
would leave a low spur to our left. The plain to the eastward was covered with espino, which gave a fresh and agreeable
appearance to the scenery, with the snowy Andes in the background. It was
nearly sunset when we crossed the Rio Putagan, a stream fifty yards wide and
two feet deep. We bathed in its crystal waters, and a hundred yards from the
river, in a patch of bushes, we spread our ponchos,
laid down to sleep and dream of home. I awoke several times through the night,
and found the moon shining in my face, but experienced no evil effects
therefrom. We were on the road at our usual hour the next morning, and a
league's walk over some hills, or outlying spurs of Costeros, took us to the Rio
Patuco [?], a small stream some ten or fifteen
yards in width. We crossed on some stones at the rapids, above which the water
was deep. We stopped here an hour, and I shot six ducks, but succeeded in
getting but four of them, as the other two sunk. The margin of the stream was
lined with bushes. A short distance from the Patuco we stopped at a house where
a woman cooked us a cazuela. There
was a rude mill here. I went inside and took a sketch, with the miller picking
the stones. R. at the same time sketched the water wheel, the like of which the
philosophic mind of Olmsted[34]
never dreamed of.
MIRAGE.
Before us, and extending to the southward, was a smooth plain,
gradually ascending for about a league. On the crest were some espino bushes. Shortly after leaving the
house where we procured our breakfast, we met a huaso riding a mule and driving two others. I inquired of him the
road to Parral; he told me, and we started on. We had gone but a few yards when
he called out to us to stop, and asked me if I did not want some bread. He gave
us a pancito spice,
and I thought to myself, this is hospitality indeed. We were now a short
distance on the smooth plain of which I have
spoken. About a mile in advance was apparently a pool of water, with the green espino reflected from its glossy bosom.
This was a deception, though I could scarcely believe it, so perfect was the
illusion. The formation of the country precluded the possibility of a lake, and
R. laughed at me when I told him that it was a mirage. As we walked along it
disappeared. We came at length to a large espino,
and lay down to rest, for it was now drawing to midday, and the heat was
oppressive. We crossed two sluggish streams of water (secos or esteros), and then came to the banks of
the Rio Achibueno, the clearest and most beautiful stream I ever saw. Where
we effected a passage, the water runs in two streams, some fifty yards apart.
The first one we crossed at the foot of the rapids. The stones were smooth and
slippery, and the swift current, three feet deep, nearly swept me away. I was
within ten feet of the opposite shore, with the crystal waters roaring around
me, and so near gone that I stood still a minute before I could summon courage
to move. I deposited my pack, and returned to help R., but did not use
sufficient caution, and, stepping on a round stone, I fell into the water; but
I was near the bank, and no harm was done. The water was smoother in the next
stream, and, with the exception of the rocks, we crossed with ease. We threw
our things down in the shadow of the bank on the south side, and R. went to a
house near by to procure some harina
tostada, while I bathed in the limpid waters of the river. In places the
water is ten or fifteen feet in depth, and where I bathed it was a hundred
yards in width.
ACHIBUENO
The river comes from an E. S. E. direction. and, looking up the
stream, is the Peak of Cauquenes, one of the noblest mountains of the Andes.
Such a mountain, and such a river ! Sweet, pellucid Achibueno ! I will long remember thee, and the
dazzling snowy diadem of Cauquenes. I took a sketch of the peak, and while
resting ourselves, shot a large duck, and gave it to the kind woman who sold us
the harina. It was late in the
afternoon when we resumed our journey across the broad and level plain. The
country appeared to be fine and well cultivated towards the spurs of the
Cordilleras. The Coast Range was low and smoothly defined. Name and "la redondita de Coiquen," two of the Costeros, looked blue in the distance, But
Ñ
"'Tis Distance lends enchantment to the view,
And [robes] the mountain [in its] azure hue."[35]
I have reason to remember the "little round mountain of
Coiquen;" for in a lonely valley at its base, near the village of
Quirihue, I was once attacked by robbers[36].
THE RIVER LONGAVI.
The shades of night had drawn around us, when we reached the Rio
Longav’. Among the bushes on the sand we found a good resting place; but
previous to lying down I went to the banks of the river, and saw that it was
broad, though I knew from the murmurs of the waters that the current was not
very swift. The moonrise from behind the jagged peaks of the Andes was
unsurpassed.
We lay down and
slept until after sunrise, as it was our intention to spend the day on the
banks of the river. I went to two or three houses to obtain something to eat,
but the answer to my inquiries were Ñ "No hay, se–or," (there is nothing, sir,) and we concluded to
cross the river. We speculated about the possibility of doing so for some time,
but at length came to the conclusion that we could wade it, though the deepest
part was five feet, and the current by no means slow. At this moment, a birlochero came along, who agreed to
take us over for two reals, and in a
few minutes we were safe on the opposite shore. Nothing to eat could be
procured on this side of the river, and we proceeded on our journey, much to
R.'s disappointment, who had anticipated having a fine time on the borders of
the Longav’.
NIGHT AT A FARM
HOUSE.
I crossed a plain two leagues in extent, before I reached some
trees that bordered an estero, or
creek. My companion had fallen considerably behind, and I stopped for him to
come up. I began to be uneasy at the length of time, but he eventually made his
appearance. He had turned aside at a farm house, and was lucky enough to
procure some pan negro (black bread).
We made for a house on the opposite side of the estero, where we stopped for the day. The se–ora swept a place under a shed, and spread an ox-hide for us to
lie down upon. The air was still, and the heat fairly stifling; but we reposed
ourselves in the grateful shade, and were as happy as travelers could be; which,
indeed, is the acme of all happiness. There was an old man here who had
travelled afoot from Curic—, and was going to San Carlos. He labored under some
infirmity, and had learned that there was a "remedio infinitivamente"[37]
in the latter place. The sun was low in the west, and the breeze cool and
refreshing, when we continued our journey. A vast plain was before us. The Coastal
mountains, in the west, had sank to low hills, and in places the plain seemed
to extend to the sea. Calm and beautiful was the sunset. Night shrouded the pampa with her raven wing, and the stars
shone from a cloudless sky. At times we could scarcely see the road, and the
Cordilleras hung like a hazy mist on the eastern horizon. Vivid flashes of
volcanic light blazed from Peteroa and others of the Andes, though distant
Antuco in the south appeared silent.
PARRAL.
We must have walked three leagues before we come to a house,
though lights were seen at distances on either side of the road. We walked
between rows of young poplars, on either side of which was a deep, well-cut
ditch, for nearly a league, when we came to a large farmhouse. Everything was silent,
save the bark of some distant house dog, or the wild scream of parrots. A
brush-covered shed was unoccupied, and R. said : "What a glorious place this is to sleep in." We went
inside, and lay down on our ponchos,
until day was dawning in the orient. No one was visible about the house when we
vacated our quarters. In a short time we came to a placed called Membrillo.
About a dozen houses and a mill comprise the pueblito. A small stream, called the Rio Chimbarongo, runs north of
the village.
A couple of leagues, in a southerly direction, brought us to
Parral, a town of but little importance. We turned aside from the road to go
through the plaza, and procure our
breakfast in the market, but were unsuccessful. The foundation of a large
church is laid on one corner of the plaza, but it is overgrown with grass, and
years have elapsed since any work has been done on it. In the southern
outskirts of the village we passed at right angles through the ca–ada, where some soldiers were
guarding the chain-gang.
A league south of Parral, is a small stream of water, skirted with
a beautiful growth of trees which resemble an oasis in the desert. Here we
spent the heat of the day. We stopped at a house a short distance from the
stream of water to buy some harina.
Although the exterior of the building was rude, I was agreeably surprised to
find those within refined and intelligent. An old woman was sitting on the
floor when we entered, and near a table were seated two young women, one of
whom was married, and had a beautiful girl of seven or eight summers. Things
wore such a pleasant appearance that we spent nearly an hour here.
LANGUEN.
It was night before we stood upon the banks of the Rio
Perquilauquen. It was our intention to have
traveled a part of the night, but as we were unacquainted with the depths of
the stream, we spread our bed upon the river bank, and slept until three
o'clock in the morning. The moon was rising when we started, and we found the
river but two feet deep. We crossed three streams in all, but by some means we
missed the Chill‡n road, and followed a path in the right direction for three
leagues, being between the camino real
and the spurs of the Cordilleras. Our path led us through wheat and corn
fields, the former harvested, and along hedges, which reminded me of similar
scenery at home. We stopped at a country house, at length, and got a breakfast
of harina and hot milk. While there I
crept upon a flock of parrots perched in a bush, and killed three of them at
one shot.
We spent the heat of the day at a roadside posada. While we lay dozing under the corridor, a girl was playing
on a guitar, singing a parody on the national air of Ecuador. It ran thus:
El d’a dos de MayoÑ
ÁQuŽ d’a tan fatal!Ñ
Paseando por el castillo,
Mataron un oficial.
S’, s’; no, no, mi amor;
Se van por el Ecuador.
En la ciudad de Cadegua
Mataron una gallina
Y un general de marina.
S’, s’; no, no, &c.
It was the second
of MayÑ
What day so
fatal?Ñ
When going to the
castle,
They killed an official.
Yes, yes; no, no, my love;
We are going to Ecuador.
In the city of Cadegua
They killed a chicken
And a commodore.
Yes, yes; no, no, &c
We left our resting place at the posada in time to reach the town of San Carlos before night. I saw
nothing worth of particular note in this village. Like all other towns in
Chile, it has its plaza, unfinished
church and Vigilantes. The road led
in a southwesterly direction, after leaving the village, and night found us
again on the pampa.
We passed by an espino
bush that had a number of crosses sticking in its branches, and in the ground
around it. Shortly afterwards, we came to two singular-looking rocks, close to
the wayside. The largest was about ten feet high, and fronted the road. They
were separated by a narrow fissure. A cross near at hand told a tale of blood,
and, in the solemn gloom of starlight,
" Implored the pining tribute of a sigh."[38]
It was easy to conceive how the robber hid in the space between
the rocks and pounced upon the unsuspecting traveler. A cold raw wind was
blowing from seaward, and we seated ourselves in the lee of the largest rock,
and watched the flashes of light from Antuco. While sitting here we heard the
roar of an earthquake, but felt no shock. We jogged on again, but lay down at
length on the ground to wait for the moon to rise; and, while resting, fell
asleep. When I awoke, the queen of night was peeping above the Cordilleras, and
we journeyed on again. About midnight, we heard the roar of the Rio „uble, and
walked along an hour before we came to the crossing, where we laid down near a seco for the morning to dawn.
The sky was
overcast with foggy clouds when we arose. A few minutes walk brought us to the
banks of the river, which was crossed in a launch. Above the crossing were
rapids, but below the stream was still and tranquil. Five leagues below the
ferry the „uble empties into the Rio Itata. In a certain measure the „uble
reminded me of the latter stream. Chill‡n is a league and a half south of the
river, and when we ascended the opposite bank, we saw before us the lofty
spires of the cathedral, and before eight o'clock in the morning were in the
city.
g
ARTICLE FOUR
River Chill‡nÑThe Renegado RiverÑMount Chill‡nÑThe BathsÑVisit to the Boiling
RiverÑVisit to the sulphur depositsÑCave of the robber
BenavidesÑThe road down the mountainÑA night at a farmer's
houseÑArrival at TomŽÑThe ruins of old Concepci—n
It was a late hour on the afternoon of the
3d of February, when, in company with another American, I left the city of Chill‡n,
the capital of the Province of „uble, for the baths of Chill‡n, distant
twenty-five leagues, in nearly a due east direction. We had some difficulty at
first in finding the right road, but came upon it at length; and when at a
league's distance from the town, we turned aside in a wheat field, and,
spreading our blankets by the side of a murmuring stream, lay down for the
night. We were on the road an hour before sunrise, journeying over the Plain of
„uble. A heavy bank of clouds rested against the Andes, and prevented our
seeing the Volcano of Chill‡n, which had been visible since leaving Talca. At a
distance of seven leagues from the town, trees, thinly scattered, began to
appear on both sides of the road, their number and size gradually increasing
until we came to the spurs of the Cordilleras, when we found ourselves in a
dense forest.
THE RIVER CHILLçN.
The roar of the Rio Chill‡n was heard at intervals during the day, but
we missed the regular crossing, and were directed by an old man, whom we found
at work in a wheat field, to another ford. There was considerable water in the
river, and the rocks were large and slippery, and the footing very insecure,
and the opposite bank was gained at the expense of sorely bruised feet. I have
had considerable experience in fording the swift-flowing rivers of Chile, and
more than once in the roaring floods of the Rios Cachapoal and Achibueno, I
thought my fate was sealed; but the most painful recollection I have is the
crossing of the Rio Chill‡n. We ascended the bank, and in a few minutes were in
the regular road. The day was far advanced, and the sun shining through the
openings of the large trees in the west was another remembrancer of home. We
went inside of a field enclosed with a log fence, and in a pleasant nook among
the bushes, kindled a bright, blazing fire, by the side of which we ate our
supper and passed the night. The morning of the 5th dawned bright and beautiful
and found us, as usual, on the road at an early hour. A league from our encampment
brought us to a snug farmhouse, where we bought a piece of mutton and roasted
it in the fire, whilst an old woman baked tortillas for us. Eight girls, the
promising daughters of our patrona,
were seated around, engaged in various household occupations. We bade adios to the se–oritas and resumed the road, which led along the margin of a
precipice, over which tumbled a rivulet of water into the leafy abyss below.
Far below us was the river, the banks of which were densely wooded, whilst in
the east rose the vast snow fields of Chill‡n. The forest grew denser as we
proceeded, until it surpassed anything I had ever seen. The most common trees
are the oak, laurel and cypress. In this forest of evergreen there are more
than ninety-five different species, only thirteen of which shed their leaves.
Clumps of cane were clotted around, and at times we could not see fifty yards
on either side of us.
THE RENEGADO RIVER.
At length we left the banks of the Rio Chill‡n,
and crossed a mountain spur, pursuing a southerly direction. A league or more
took us to the valley of the Renegado. At times the winding road would be seen
but a short distance in advance; again it would open, and in the vista distant
mountain sides would appear, robed in undying green, the same dense forest,
tinged with the enchantment of distance. We crossed the Rio Renegado on a log
bridge. The river has worn a deep and narrow channel in the sold rock, and
immediately above the bridge are three beautiful cascades. Our direction was
again easterly, along the banks of the winding stream. The valley is not a
league in width, and in the right was a perpendicular wall of rock, hundreds of
feet in height, which reminds me of the "Palisades" of the Hudson. We
stopped to rest a few minutes in the shade of a tree, and, a carretero passing at the time, I
inquired for the Casa del Santo [House of the Saint]. He pointed out a rock,
and said that we would see it a short distance ahead. When the rock bore north,
on the opposite mountain side, this remarkable curiosity was seen to the best
advantage. It has the exact appearance of a door with a human figure standing
in the entrance. The natives say it is a saint. The rock is near the mountain
top, and all around is dense vegetation.
MOUNT CHILLçN.
A short distance farther on we pitched our
camp, under the spreading limbs of a giant oak. Owing to the great elevation
above the sea, we had a cool bivouac, and after a scanty breakfast of harina tostada, on the morning of the
6th, we resumed our journey to the baths. An occasional snow field of the
mountain appeared as we journeyed along, and an opening in the trees presently
gave us a fine view of Chill‡n. The summits of the mountains on both sides of
the valley were comparatively barren, though lower down the heavy forest still
showed itself. Different portions of the Chill‡n came in view, until eventually
the whole summit appeared. The sun shone upon the snow fields, and it seemed as
though I could reach them. At one point in the road, about three leagues from
the baths, a smoothly rounded mountain with a long horizontal summit, appeared
on the left. Immediately overtopping this, and beyond, was a vast snow field,
parallel to the heavy-wooded spurs; and the dazzling snows of Chill‡n were
relieved by the evergreen of the laurel, the oak, and the cypress. It needs but
the palm, I said to my companion, to complete the glorious scene. I was
staggered at the magnificence and grandeur before me. Such is Andean scenery.
Where is its parallel ? We again crossed the Renegado, at a place called
"Las Trancas." ["The Barriers"] There is a rude house here,
and under a shed were several birloches,
or two-wheeled carriages. This is as far as carriages generally go, though the
rude country carts perform the entire distance. The road led, for a short
distance, through an open space, and we saw, on a mountain side to the left, a
beautiful waterfall of two leaps. Shortly afterwards, we saw another, which, surrounded
by heavy vegetation, as it is, rivals that of Minnehaha[39].
We again entered a heavy forest, and the trees were festooned with moss, which
gave them an ancient and venerable appearance. The little ravines glowed with
the orange, lily and other beautiful flowers.
THE BATHS.
The road now commenced ascending rapidly,
and we were obliged to rest at short intervals. At last we came in sight of the
Baths Ñ a rude collection of houses in the lap of the mountain, nine
thousand feet above the level of the sea. I saw the clouds of vapor rising from
the boiling springs, and a stream of water we crossed smelled strong of sulfur.
People of all classes swarmed around, to the number of two or three hundred.
Some were encamped under brush-covered sheds, while overhanging rocks afforded
a retreat to others. The Baths of Chill‡n are probably unsurpassed for curative
properties. I will give their history, as I learned it from an Englishman, who,
for many years, has been a resident of Chile. Not many years ago, an Italian
padre followed the Rio Renegado up to its source, and discovered the boiling
springs, analyzed the waters, and told of his adventures on the plain below.
People came up and dug holes, to allow the water to flow in, bathed, and their
infirmities left them. A Chileno went to Santiago, and leased them of
Government for nine years. This is the last year of the lease. An American now
has possession of them, who will conduct affairs on a different scale. New
buildings are to be erected, and the old ones on the ground are to be torn down;
so that I was just in time to see the Baths in their primitive simplicity. The
view from the Baths, down the valley of the Renegado, is one of the finest in
the world. I remarked this more particularly on the second evening of my stay.
During the afternoon, clouds came rolling up from the ocean, resembling the
gorgeous clouds of the trade wind sky. The sun set behind dark blue masses,
tingeing their edges with the most splendid hues, conveying to my mind the same
impression I had when I first looked upon the cloud-capped mountains that surround
the Bay of Rio Janeiro.
VISIT TO THE BOILING RIVER.
In company with an Englishman and a Chileno,
I set out on the morning of the 9th to visit the Agua Caliente ["Hot
Water"] and sulfur deposits, some three leagues farther in the
Cordilleras. We crossed over into a valley south of the Baths, and spent some
time in examining springs of boiling mud. A steep, and almost inaccessible
mountain, was before us, but a walk of two hours brought us to the summit. The
view was grand and extensive. Far away to the south were mountains, whose
melting snows feed the BioBio and Imperial Ñ rivers which flow through
picturesque and romantic Araucania. Nearby was Antuco, rearing his volcanic
cone above the lesser Cordilleras. In the west were the Costeros and the Great Plain, indistinctly seen through the
haze. Around and above where we stood, winter and desolation reigned supreme.
We crossed a snow field, and, by a steep and winding path, descended into
another valley. We crossed a roaring stream of water, and came to another. This
was the Agua Caliente, the boiling river. On both sides of the stream was a
long ridge of black volcanic rock, intermingled with ashes. From out of their
sides gushed innumerable springs, boiling hot. Growing among the rocks, near
the water's edge, we found the wild rhubarb, with leaves nearly five feet
across. We followed the stream up to the snow. The hot water came out of a snow
cavern that was arched like a fairy palace. I crept into the entrance of this
cave, the like of which I had never seen before.
VISIT TO THE SULPHUR DEP0SITS.
With some difficulty we crossed the Agua
Caliente, and a half league's walk over fragments of black rock and lava, took
us to the sulfur deposits. They are nothing more than fissures in the sides of
the mountain, emitting steam and smoke. At these crevices, flowers of sulfur
are deposited in large quantities. In places the ground was very hot, and gave
forth a hollow sound as we walked over it. I climbed to the top of a pile of
loose rocks and saw far below me the moss-covered valley, through which wound a
stream of water. Horses and mules were feeding in various places, looking like
specks in the distance. To the eastward was the pass through which no American
or Englishman ever trod. A day's walk would have taken me to where water runs
toward the Atlantic. Wreaths of smoke, from the sulfur cones curled against the
azure sky. The air was calm and still. We were more than thirteen thousand feet
above the Pacific surf, in the regions of solitude and everlasting silence.
Far, far below us was the busy world. I took a sketch of the snow fields and
the volcanic cones, and after my companions had gathered specimens we commenced
our return, taking a short cut for it, crossing snow-field after snow-field,
sliding down some, and carefully feeling our way over others, until we reached
the base of the mountain to be crossed before the Baths were attained. Water cresses
bordered the stream of water here, and numerous wild flowers were growing
around, some of them of the most gorgeous hues Ñ crimson, blue, yellow
and white. Flowers and snow-fields ! We rested a few minutes and then commenced
ascending the weary road, ever and anon turning to view the grand scenery of
the Andes. It was nearly night when we reached the Baths. I found R., my old
companion, quite well. Although it was late, we bade adios to Los Ba–os, ["The Baths"] and
commenced the downward walk. I felt sad indeed, for our journey was brought to
a close. I knew too well the symptoms of the lingering fever my companion had,
to doubt what it was. It was hard to turn back from the heart of the Andes,
when a few days would have placed our feet on the Pampas.
CAVE OF THE ROBBER BENAVIDES.
We stopped the following day at the cave or grath[40]
of Benavides,[41] and spent
two or three hours in what was once the haunt of the pirate robber. It is a
vast overhanging rock, the grath extending some ninety feet into the mountain.
A little waterfall tumbles over the cliff, and forms a stream that runs in
front of the cave. While there, I could not help musing upon the varied life
led by the robber chieftain: his meeting with San Mart’n at the hour of
midnight on the grand plaza of
Santiago, his control of the Araucanian Indians, and the awe in which he held
Southern Chile, and even vessels on the coast, and lastly his ignominious
death. We fired our pistol and gun several times in the cave, the sound nearly
deafening us. A better retreat for a robber could not have been found. A heavy
forest comes up to the mouth of the cave, and a fallen monarch of the woods
that lay near by was five feet in diameter. A path leads from the main road to
the cave, a cross cut in a tree marking the spot.
THE ROAD DOWN THE MOUNTAIN.
We stopped for the night in a house near the
bridge over the Renegado, and early the following morning we came where a party
had been camped during the night with a drove of mules. I said to one of the
muleteers: "De adonde viene usted?"
["Where are you coming from?"] "De la otra banda, Se–or," ["From over the border,
Sir"] was the reply. "Cu‡ntos
d’as ?" ["How many days ?"] I continued. "Tres," ["Three"] was the
reply he gave me. At the bridge just spoken of, a road turns off to the right,
leading across the Cordilleras. I felt for the moment like turning back alone.
We took a different road from the one we came, striking the Plain nearly two
leagues south of the Rio Chill‡n. It was the dustiest path I ever travelled. I
pressed on and lost my companion. Long after night had closed in, I stopped at
a mill near the wayside, where I was hospitably entertained by the millers. I
slept on a bed of skins, and was lulled to sleep by the murmuring water and
creaking of the huge millstone. I started in the morning on my solitary
journey, and before noon, I had left the last vestige of the forest behind, and
was on the dry and arid plain of „uble, with the fierce sunlight darting its
fiery rays upon my head. An occasional espino
bush would afford a relief from the intense heat. It was sunset when I entered Chill‡n.
The next morning I visited the market, and while there R. came, in much to my
surprise. I spent most of the day in Chill‡n, and when evening came I bade
farewell to my companion with whom I had journeyed many leagues. I then started
for the port of TomŽ, distant eighteen leagues; passed through the ca–ada, on the west side of the pueblo, and entered the broad and level
road, which extended in a south-westerly direction as far as I could see. A
strong sea breeze blew in my face, and night found me on the same highway,
gently undulating, which gave evidence of my approach to the Costeros. It was nearly midnight when I came to the banks
of the Rio Chill‡n. It was dark, and I dared not trust myself in its waters,
but a friendly carretero came alone
in a few minutes and ferried me over in his cart. I watched the constellations
as they one by one sank behind the mountains in the west, and the Magellan
nebulae that hung like fleecy clouds on the southern sky, and still I journeyed
on over the serpentine road, which wound its way among the Costeros. Day dawned at length, and before the sun was half
an hour high, I came to the Rio Itata. I was ferried over in a launch for three
cents, and afterwards bathed in its crystal flood, which is small compared to
the same stream below the confluence of the „uble.
A NIGHT AT A FARMER'S HOUSE.
I travelled but little during the day, and
at night I stopped where some carreteros
were repairing a broken cart wheel. The due–o
of a house near by was with them, and when the carts passed, I asked him if I
could pass the night in his house. He hesitated for a moment, as he said he was
not acquainted with me; but it was only a moment, for the Chileno is never
inhospitable to the solitary traveler. "Pase, pues," ["Enter, then"] he said, and I followed
him to the cocina, where a bright
fire was blazing. Here was his wife, an intelligent, bright-eyed woman, and
daughter, a girl of twenty. I was soon well acquainted with the mother and
daughter, for neither were bashful. I heard the sound of a guitar in an
adjoining building, but it ceased as soon as the news of my arrival was
announced, and two other girls, of sixteen and eighteen, came in to see the extranjero. The good se–ora rated me soundly for being a soltero. I attempted to reply to her
arguments, but my heart failed me when I met the roguish glances of the
handsome se–oritas.
ARRIVAL AT TOMƒ.
I enjoyed myself for an hour or more in
conversation with the mother and daughters, congratulating myself at the time
that the last night of the journey should be spent in such a happy manner. One
of the girls prepared me a glass of harina,
and as I ate it I could not repress a feeling of sadness, when I reflected that
it was the last I would eat in a Chilean country house. I parted from the
family with regrets in the morning, and, with a cloudy sky overhead, I
continued my journey to the Port. I had hoped to go down the valley of Collen
in bright sunshine, to contrast the difference with the wild storm I
experienced in a former journey; but Fate ordained otherwise, and I yielded
with reluctance. When three leagues from TomŽ, it commenced raining. My poncho was soon wet through, and weighed
me down with its watery load; and my boots, now sadly worn from journeying many
a weary league, let in the water at numerous holes. Again I commenced going down
to the level of the sea, slipping and sliding at a fearful rate, meeting
drunken carreteros by the score in my
rapid descent. The same rich vegetation choked up the valley with its
evergreen, the same mills were passed, again the bay was before me, and at four
o'clock on the evening of the 14th of February, I was housed in TomŽ.
THE RUINS OF OLD CONCEPCIîN.
I left this beautiful little port on the
19th, for Talcahuano, journeying around the bay. Three or four leagues brought
me to Penco, the site of old Concepci—n, now a miserable place, with an
occasional fallen down wall that reminded me of its former grandeur. A small
stream of water runs through the centre of the place, and south of, where it
empties into the sea, is the "Castillo del Rey." ["Castle of the
King"] The town is surrounded by hills, forming an amphitheatre. They are
partially covered with low evergreen trees, that contrast singularly with the
dark red soil. I deposited my baggage in the posada, and then visited the Castillo.
It is situated on the low sandy beach, and its walls are washed by the sea in a
storm. Its length is about two hundred and fifty feet, with a breadth of one
hundred and twenty. The wall that fronts the sea is ten feet thick and fifteen
in height, built of solid masonry. I went inside of the magazine, which is
bomb-proof and arched. Stalactites were beginning to form. The date on the
seawall is "1687." The parapet is some thirty feet in width. A Jesuit
cross is erected at one end, and three dismounted cannon occupy the middle
portion. The wall that separates the interior of the fort from the parapet is
sadly wrecked. I looked at the entrance to the parapet, as I was seated on one
of the cannon, and thought of the proud Spaniards who trod through the portal
at the morning drum beat a hundred years ago. But they have gone, and the
"Castillo del Rey" is deserted; and instead of martial music or the
call to arms, I heard the innocent prattle of children in the open yard of the
fort, and the merry laugh of some sea bathers but a stone's throw from where I
was sitting. I spent a day in the city of Concepci—n, and on the evening of the
24th, I embarked from Talcahuano in the steamer "Inca", for
Valparaiso. The rosy twilight was fading away when we emerged from the bay of
Talcahuano upon the placid Pacific; but no incident worthy of note occurred
until the morning of the 26th, when the "Inca" dropped anchor in the
bay of Valparaiso.
g
SECTION (4)
FAREWELL TO CHILE
(1858)
by J. A. R.
This letter was
published in the Daily Alta California on 25 May 1858.
FINAL LETTER
Off to LimacheÑTwo country houses in ChileÑThe Vale of La
DormidaÑThe romantic ravine of AlmendralÑThe hospitality of
AlvaradoÑUp to the copper minesÑTravelling through a
cloudÑDown the mountainÑThe Bell of QuillotaÑThe town of
QuillotaÑThe village of Conc—nÑThe valley of Aconcagua
Valparaiso, March 13th, 1858.
OFF TO LIMACHE.
I soon grew tired of an inactive life in the port, and having a few days to spare, I took a seat in the cars[42],
on the morning of the 9th, for the Limache station, which is some thirty miles
from Valparaiso. The day was calm and beautiful, and scarcely a cat's paw
ruffled the waters of the bay, as the trains thundered along the sea shore. The
cars stopped a few minutes at the villages of Vi–a del Mar, and QuilpuŽ. Near
the latter place I observed where the ground had been dug over for gold, but as
the fields only pay a dollar a day at best, I would not advise miners to leave
their claims in California for
the gold mines of Chile. The
aspect of the country on both sides of the road, although comparatively barren,
is not uninteresting, on account of the varied features of the mountain
landscape.
TWO COUNTRY HOUSES IN
CHILE.
I left the cars at Limache, and proceeded up the valley on foot.
The heat was oppressive, and at the distance of a league, I stopped at a house
where I had passed the night nearly three months since. I found the eldest
daughter seated a la chilena, engaged
in sewing, and her father
enjoying his siesta on the dirt floor. I inquired for Luisa, who was my
favorite, but the words were scarcely spoken when she came in, and gave me a cordial welcome. A
large watermelon was cut open for my especial use, and one of the girls brought
me a dish of purple grapes and luscious rosy peaches. I spent about three hours
here, and when I got up to leave, I offered them some money, but their
receiving it was out of the question, as I was told that the fruit was worth
nothing, though I thought differently. The road led for two leagues in an easterly direction, between mud
or stone walls, enclosing vineyards or groves of orange, fig, pear and peach
trees, all robed in foliage of
the darkest green. Long pendent clusters of grapes hung from the vines,
speaking of the great fruitfulness of this beautiful valley.
I turned aside from the road, and took a path that led a short
distance up the mountain side, to the house where I passed the night after
descending Bell Mountain[43],
in December last. The chacra, or small farm, is owned by two
sisters; and as I approached that rude grass thatched building, which looked as
familiar as home, I met the younger of the two, who kindly invited me within.
Gangs of pigs and chickens came with me to dispute my claim, keeping my friend
busy in driving them out. "Los chanchitos son muy fastidiosos,"
["The little pigs are very annoying"] said my hostess. I took a seat
on the outside of the building, after sunset, and watched the glow of departing
sunlight in the west. The air
was so calm that the leaves of the lofty poplars scarcely moved. Four or five
hundred feet below me was the oval-shaped valley of OlmuŽ. Existence seemed an
absolute joy, and I thought to myself how sweet is this more than Italian
clime. As night closed in,
firelights were seen in various
places in the valley, and far
off on the crest of a mountain in
the south was a fire, which the brother of the girls said had been kindled by
the vaqueros of a hacienda, who camp
out wherever night overtakes them. The bill of fare which my friends furnished
me was ample, and after a hearty feast on fruits and a prime cazuela, washed down with an incredible
amount of mate and chicha, I had a sound night's rest, and
early in the morning was off for
La Dormida.
THE VALE OF LA DORMIDA.
It is proper to remark that the Valley of OlmuŽ divides, some
three leagues above Limache. The road to Santiago Ñ a mule path over the
noted Cuesta de Dormida Ñ takes up the right hand, or south valley, which is known as
the Quebrada de Alvarado. The ravines to the left are called Caj—n Grande and
Quebrada de Granizo. There is quite a little village in the vale of Alvarado, and I stopped there and made a peon breakfast off of bread, cheese and
watermelon. A young girl came in
the house where I was eating, and inquired if there was a revolution in Valparaiso. It appears that there
were vague rumors to that effect in
the country. She said President Montt was to be deposed, and all of the
foreigners driven out of Chile.
The valley heads up in two lofty
mountains that are southeast of the Bell of Quillota. They are more than ten
thousand feet in height and have
snow in their southern ravines
the year around. Valparaiso is often supplied with this substitute for ice by a
class of men called neveros. For
nearly a mile after leaving the little town of Alvarado, there is a portion of
country covered with low bushes and the columnar cactus. A sugar loaf mountain
seemed to block up the entrance to La Dormida, but I journeyed on, when a turn in the road presently disclosed to me
the Cuesta de Dormida in the
distance, 4300 feet above the level of the sea, and the barren Sierra Vizcachas, nearly as high again. At its northern base is La
Dormida, or the Vale of Repose. I entered the ravine, which is not a quarter of
a mile in width, save in one portion, and after a short
distance, I stopped in a wayside
house where I had procured some pears on a former journey. I asked for some
peaches, when a basketful was placed before me, which I expected to pay for,
but not a cent would the hospitable woman receive.
THE ROMANTIC RAVINE OF ALMENDRAL.
It is here that the vale is nearly a half mile in width. A half-dozen grass and
palm-thatched huts occupy one portion, and the rest is planted with vineyards
and fruit trees, forming one mass of green that is taken up by the steep
mountain on the north side, and continued to its undulating summit. Here the
palm and oranges of the tropics grow side by side with the poplar and willow of
the north. Immediately south of the collection of huts is the Quebrada del
Almendral, or Ravine of the Almond Grove, through which runs a beautiful stream
of water. A short distance above is the church, an unpretending little
structure; I walked about a mile above the church, along the narrow winding
path. My ears were saluted with the murmuring music of numerous waterfalls,
while romantic glens greeted my eyes, that in any other land would be the theme of poetry and song. I took a
sketch of the vale, looking downward, and then commenced my return. Near the
church are four or five houses, including a posada.
I stopped to sketch the church. At one corner is a weeping willow, and near its
roots a waterfall. While sitting in
the shadow of a house, making the sketch, a drunken minero came out of the posada
with a glass of aguardiente, and
wanted me to drink, and then tried to beg a media
of me to buy more, though he had quite sufficient. He annoyed me so that I
roared at him in rough English,
which mended his manners in a
moment, as he instantly left me, and until I completed my drawing I heard him
singing of the mineros and the mines
of Cha–arcillo. I stopped a few minutes at a house in the turn of the valley, and then with more than a traveler's
regret I turned away from the Vale of Repose.
THE HOSPITALITY OF ALVARADO.
The sun was declining in
the west when I returned to the vale of Alvarado. The valley was in the shadow of a mountain, and a
narrow gap, looking to the northwest, showed a portion of OlmuŽ and the ranges
of mountains beyond bathed in sunlight,
hazy and beautiful. It was a scene of perfect beauty. The mountains around had
just enough vegetation on their sides Ñ more would have been a burden. As
I sat upon a bank of earth, above the road, with vineyards and fruit groves at
my feet, I thought that it was the loveliest valley in the world. I never saw it equaled; I never expect to see it
surpassed. Several natives passed me while I was drawing Ñ the happy
residents of the valley. They would invariable speak to me. I was particularly
pleased with the graceful manners that the little boys used when touching their
hats, nor was I totally lost in
admiring the beauties of Nature when some of [the] pretty se–oritas cast inquiring glances at the Gringo. I believe the people in this vale have a more primitive and innocent simplicity than I
have met elsewhere.
The last trace of daylight had faded from the west when I
stopped in front of a house
where two or three women and a man were sitting. One of the girls invited me to
take a seat. Presently a candle was brought, and I was requested to pass
within. I sent a little girl out to buy me some bread, and the se–orita spoken of, who appeared to be
the patrona, bought me some charqui, which she cooked and brought in on a plate, and then sat down and
watched me with mute earnestness while I made a meal and wrote in my journal. I lay down on a bench
and nearly fell asleep, when the due–o
of the house came to me and said : "Patr—n,
vamos por su cama." ["Mister, let's go to your bed"] I followed
him to the cocina, where he spread
three sheepskins, and with a saddle for a pillow, and my poncho for a covering, I slept warm. During the night some peons
came in and stirred up the fire;
and, although I was in a dreamy
doze at the time, I have a vivid recollection of seeing the firelight on their
swarthy faces. I arose in the
morning at an early hour, and found to my sorrow that the sky was overspread
with clouds, which hung low down on the mountains. There are three or four
dwelling-houses where I stayed, and one despacho,
or store; but no one was stirring, so I threw my poncho over my shoulders and started for the copper mines of Bell
Mountain.
UP TO THE COPPER MINES.
I wended my way to
the north side of the valley and stopped at a despacho, where I made a breakfast off of watermelons and grapes.
Here I was shown a fine specimen of copper ore from a mine called La Merced, A
heavy mist was falling when I stopped, but it had abated when I resumed my
journey. I left the Caj—n Grande on
my right, and took up the Quebrada de
Granizo, literally, the Ravine of Hail. I soon found myself in the strata of clouds. The ravine
narrowed and was choked with bushes and trees, on both sides of the steep path
that followed close to a bubbling stream. On, on I journeyed, and yet no mines
cams in sight. Nothing but a
dense mist was encountered, that dripped from the bushes like a rain. I was
bathed in perspiration, and was
obliged to halt at intervals and cool off. I began to think that I had taken up
the wrong road, but the sound of ringing iron was at length heard, which
cheered me on. Nearer and nearer the sound seemed as I pushed ahead. The path
had left the bed of the ravine and wound up the mountain; on both sides was the
same heavy vegetation of low bushy trees, and I saw a singular flower growing
on a long stem, that was as white as the driven snow. The rude houses of the mineros loomed up above me in the fog, and, climbing up a steep
bank, I found myself in the
blacksmith shop. I sat down and rested myself a few minutes, and then requested
a young miner to show me the mines; but with that hospitality which is peculiar
to those who live a wild backwoods life, he insisted that I should eat first. I
followed him to a shed, under which was a bake oven and a large fire blazing by
its side, with a kettle of beans cooking. A bit of broiled charqui and a huge piece of brown bread furnished me a repast that
my mountain appetite relished keenly. I then visited the mine which is open to
the air in the side of the
mountain. My young guide said the mine was very poor at present. Two or three
piles of ore were scattered around, and from these I selected specimens, for
which I offered pay, but not a cent would the honest young fellow receive. The
name of the mine is El Abajo.
TRAVELLING THROUGH A CLOUD.
As I wished to visit the Merced, I got the miner to accompany me
a short distance and point out the road. I bade him adios and pursued the winding path that led me around the mountain
side. So dense was the cloud through which I was travelling that I could not
see two rods on either side. I knew that, at times, I was on the verge of
precipices. All below me was a fathomless blank; a dim undefined mystery; an
awful abyss that I could fathom only in
imagination. I would rather that it had been thus than bright sunshine. I love
such dim uncertain scenes, for within them is contained the unknown. A half
hour's walk brought me to a group of buildings that appeared to be deserted,
but I presently came across a shaft that was sunk in the side of the mountain on an incline. I had not just got to
the mouth, when a miner came out with a sack of ore on his back, puffing and
blowing with the exertion. He was followed by his companion in a moment. They were the sole
residents of the mine. I wished to descend the shaft, but they had just made a
blast, and the mine was full of smoke. This mine is known as El Alto. I got new
directions and continued my journey to La Merced, descending at a rapid rate. I
soon heard human voices, and the chirp of chickens, and knew that I was near
the habitation of man. I stopped at a small house near a shaft, where a pretty,
though dark-skinned woman and her little child were seated by the fire. I ate a
piece of water-melon that she gave me, and then proceeded to the principal
mine, which was near by. I found the mayordomo,
and several miners seated under a shed, but I regretted to learn that no one
was allowed to descend into the mine without permission from the owners. The mayordomo took me to the mouth of the
shaft, and gave me two beautiful specimens of ore. This mine has been worked
more than fifty years, and is the richest of the three, but, if the tale of the
miners is true, its palmy days have past. There are other copper mines in the north side of Bell Mountain,
and according to the statement of the mayordomo
of La Merced, one silver mine.
DOWN THE MOUNTAIN.
I returned to the
valley with a couple of miners, who took me by a nearer path. Twenty minutes
walking down a steep winding path, which led among rocks and bushes, took us
below the cloud, and before sunset I arrived at the house of my Chilena
friends. I drank my mate with the girls and a neighbor woman who called in to see me. She professed to be
"muy alegre," (very happy)
at seeing me; and rather mischievously inquired if I wished to ascend Bell
Mountain again. I was up the following morning before sunrise, and found the
sky clear, save a few beautiful clouds in
the west. I walked a short distance up the mountain, and took a sketch
of the valley of OlmuŽ, while mountain-shadows still rested on a portion of
this earthly paradise. I bade farewell to my kind friends whom I may never see
again, and took the downward road for the station. The morning was calm and
beautiful, and Nature seemed to proclaim that it was the Sabbath, the day of
rest. I stopped to see Lucia, and of course, was treated to a large melon and a
dish of peaches and grapes. I told them that I expected to leave Chile in a few days, which they appeared to regret very much. I shook
hands with the mother and her two daughters, and went my way, imploring a
blessing on the heads, of not only those I had just parted from, but all the
kind Chilenas I have met with in
this land of valleys and mountains. I got my breakfast at a cookhouse near the
station, and as I was too late for the train, I was obliged to wait until five
o'clock in the evening. The
pretty little cocinera with whom I
stopped had two beautiful children. I tried to buy the little boy from her, but
she would not sell him alone, but gave me to understand that twenty ounces [gold coin] would
purchase the whole family; I declined purchasing. Peons of the road and miners were gathered around the various
workshops and pulper’as, drinking and
carousing. Guitars were in
requisition, attracting an idle crowd. In
one building a guitar and violin discoursed excellent music. Some horsemen came
up late in the afternoon, and
rode in the open door, but the
music did not cease, and the crowd within only moved out of the way of the
horses' hoofs.
THE BELL OF QUILLOTA.
At five o'clock the train came along for Quillota. I got aboard
and a few minutes brought us to San Pedro, where the cars were detached and the
passengers shifted to some freight cars, which were drawn to the summit, and
lowered by means of a stationary engine. We got into the cars at the foot of
the hill, and away we sped, along a road as straight as an arrow, through the
celebrated valley of Aconcagua. Long rows of poplars extended in various directions, and on either
side of the road, in the broad
and fertile meadows, were feeding vast herds of cattle and horses. Far down the
valley to the westward streamed the golden sunlight through masses of clouds.
The Bell of Quillota was shrouded in
mist and I feared, as we rolled along, that the object of my visit to the city
would be fruitless. As soon as the train reached the station I proceeded to the
hill north of Quillota, and the cloud that enclosed the summit commenced
clearing away, and in a few
minutes the Cerro Campana loomed up its marked singularity. A little to the
right, and beyond the Bell, is another mountain, much loftier in reality, though, on account of the
distance, apparently lower. It is rather singular that this mountain is
generally ascended as the Bell. Such adventurers labor under a most grievous
mistake. The height of the Bell of Quillota is six thousand two hundred feet
above the sea. I took a sketch, taking great pains to get the outlines of both
mountains, and waited until twilight was quite gone before I left the
hill-side.
THE TOWN OF QUILLOTA.
The town of
Quillota appeared more lovely to me than it had ever before. Its vineyards and
gardens, churches and tiled houses, spread like a map at my feet, contributed
to render it one of the most beautiful scenes I ever beheld. In occasional spots I noted a palm
tree, that reminded me of tropical scenery. To the eastward of the hill runs
the noted Calle Larga, which is more than a league in length, and the principal street in the city. I wended my way to the Fonda Inglesa, where I passed
the night, and on the following morning, with a cloudy sky above, I left the
city of Quillota for the port of Conc—n. For six or seven miles I journeyed
between rows of lofty poplars. On both sides were level fields, which, in the richness of their soil,
reminded me of the prairies of Illinois. The road struck the range of hills
that bound the valley of Aconcagua on the south, and separate it from OlmuŽ or
Limache. It was around the sea shore, by Conc—n, and up this valley, that
engineer Campbell[44] wished to
bring the railroad. Every one who sees this rich valley will regret that the
road was not built where first located.
THE VILLAGE OF CONCîN.
The air was close and warm, and about ten o'clock it gave
indications of clearing in the
west, and I cast anxious glances to the eastward, to see if the clouds were
flitting from the Cordilleras, for my principal object in visiting Conc—n a second time was to take a sketch of the Peak
of Tupungato, the king of volcanoes. I stopped a few minutes at a house where I
had passed the night some months previous, and then passed on to Conc—n, which
is a league below. As there was no posada
in the village, I returned up
the valley, stopping a few minutes to sketch the Port with its two palms, and
the Cerro El Mauco, and entrance of the Rio Conc—n[45]
into the Pacific. The village of Conc—n is built on a point of land south of
the valley, and consists of a dozen or more mud-plastered and palm-thatched
houses. There is a long stretch of sandy beach extending to the northward, of a
crescent shape, and a tremendous surf was rolling in. Less than two leagues from the Boca[46]
of the Rio Conc—n, there is a ledge of rock, upon which the steamship Chile
was nearly lost, many years ago. The sandy slope above the village is covered
with melon vines. I saw a boy gathering the pumpkins together, which reminded
me of the fall of the year at home. A few hundred yards to the eastward of
Conc—n, the road descends into the valley. A short distance to the right are
two palm trees. It is known to the natives in the valley as La Palma. It was late before I reached the house
of my friend, and after supper, his jewel of a wife, who is a Quillotina,
spread me a nice bed, and I lay down with my feet toward the cocina door, which opens toward the foot
of the valley, and at intervals, when I awoke during the night, I heard the
solemn boom of the Pacific surf; I dreamed that clouds still lingered over the
Andes, hiding the great volcano from my view. Chanticleer clapped his wings,
and uttered a shrill morning note, that roused me from my bed, and, getting up
as light began to dawn, I looked up the valley and saw the dim and shadowy
mountain, sharply defined against the eastern sky. No one in the house was up, save the old mamita, and, giving her two reals, I went a short distance to a
piece of rising ground and took two sketches, one looking upward, the other
down the valley.
THE VALLEY OF ACONCAGUA.
It was a morning
dawn, grand and glorious. A halo of light seemed to rise from the Bell of
Quillota, preceding the rising of the sun, while a wreath of smoke curled from
the volcano of Tupungato, telling a tale of the lava waves, which roll beneath
his untrodden snows. The Rio Conc—n was at my feet, winding like a serpent far
away to the east, and when the golden sunlight rolled down the Andean valley of
Aconcagua, it was reflected from the bosom of the sparkling river as from a
thousand mirrors. I turned away from the valley of Aconcagua, as I had from
many other charm-spots, with regret. The road led me in a southerly direction, over an undulating country, that
reminded me of the district near Cauquenes. A league took me to the Valparaiso
road, and, shortly after striking it, I crossed the Rio Re–aca, a small stream
of the Costeros. At length I reached the ridge, from which I had a view of
Valpara’so, and the white sails that dotted the glassy bosom of the
Pacific.
gg g
ANNEX : REMINISCENCES
OF CHILEAN TRAVEL (1859)
by "QUITO"
These November 1859 articles from the "Illinois State Journal"
were previously published in the "California Daily Alta" in 1858 (see
Section III). There are slight modifications from the original text; the
sequence is incomplete.
The
AndesÑScenery in the Valley of Maipo, and Incidents of a Journey to the
Baths of Cauquenes.
In one of my letters to the Journal, from
the "Puente de las Tablas," I described the incidents of a visit to a
swinging bridge near the foot-hills of the Andes, and noted the fact that some
distance up the river there was a similar structure, of ruder construction,
which a country tradition stated was built by the Devil. I had, upon the
occasion referred to, ascended to the summit of a low spur, several hundred
feet above the bed of the Maipo, and obtained an excellent view of the
magnificent scenery in this Andean pass; but the masses of clouds in the
ravines and gorges of the Coast Range, warned me to return and prosecute my
journey to the southward.
It was the 15th of January, '58, when, in
company with a traveler whose love of adventure was akin to my own, I stood
upon the same mountain spur. Hemmed in as it is with the wildest scenery
imaginable, my heart thrilled within me as I crossed for the first time in my
life, the threshold of the Andes. The path led along the bank of an artificial
canal, or seco, which must have been
constructed at an immense expense. The steep mountain sides, in places, have
been cut down more than a hundred feet perpendicular, and the stream rushes
along its sinuous channel like a miniature river.
The distance of a league brought us to the hacienda house of San Juan. The mayordomo,
who was standing under the porch of an outbuilding, received us kindly, and gave
permission to us to pass the night there. Groups of horsemen and peons were scattered around dressed in
the national costume; and there was an old-fashioned air to the scene peculiar
to a Spanish-American hacienda. Lofty
poplars surround the building of San Juan and a grove of gnarled willows nearby
appear to be as old as the hills. A girl was cooking bread in a large
dome-shaped oven, and the peons were
anxious to propitiate her favor in order to obtain a supply of the pan, but she dispensed gifts only to
particular favorites. We had an excellent supper of charquic‡n and mutton, and after writing the incidents of the day
in our journals, we lay down in a narrow rough place in the cocina.
We were up at day-dawn and paying the mayordomo three reals, and taking a drink of aguardiente
he offered us, were off for above. We stopped at a short distance on the
borders of a tiny rivulet that came out of a deep ravine and wound, like a
thread of crystal, through a grassy plat to the river bank. We were here an
hour working up our sketches; and again resuming the path, we shortly passed
the place where the canal is diverted from the Maipo. The narrow path now wound
round the base of the lofty mountains, at times ascending, for short distances,
their rocky sides. Thousands of feet above us towered the summits of those
rugged peaks, their scarred forms worn into the most fantastic shapes, while
patches of snow, although midsummer, still lay in some of the loftier ravines.
The scenery was grand and terrific, and I felt that I was in the Cordilleras.
The Coast Range offers no parallel, comparatively speaking, to the monta–a or spurs of the Andes; how grand
and awful then is the view that rewards the traveler, when, from the summit of
some lofty pass, he looks upon a sea of glittering peaks, or mountains black
and desolate, almost appalling the mind with their awful immensity!
The air was hot and dry, and we were unable
to procure water as the banks of the river were perpendicular and confined to a
narrow channel, the water roaring and dashing wildly against the rocks. Maipo
is an Indian word, and signifies "roaring," and truly the Maipo is a
"roaring river." Almost the only persons we met were a boy and girl,
both riding a mule. I asked the girl how far it was to a spring of water. She
softly replied in the sweet Castilian, "Es lejos se–or." (It is far, sir.) I blessed her kind heart,
and felt that much of my fatigue and thirst was taken away by the gentle manner
in which I was addressed by the Chilean girl.
It was nearly noon when we stopped at a
limekiln to inquire the distance to the upper bridge, which we learned was but
a few hundred yards above. I learned also, with regret, that the "Devil's
bridge," was farther up the river, and as our time did not permit us to
make a longer journey in that direction, we were obliged to be content with a
view of the one near at hand. The mayordomo
directed a peon to show us the path,
and arriving at the bridge, we found its construction to be similar to the one
that spans the river some five leagues below. The width is but seven or eight
feet, and a fierce wind was blowing down the Caj—n of the Maipo that caused the
fabric to sway to and fro fearfully, as we crossed to the opposite bank. While
my companion was sketching the wild and rugged scenery, I climbed a short
distance up the mountains, and had a view of the Rio Colorado which empties
into the Maipo a short distance above. Three leagues above the Rio Colorado, is
the little town of San JosŽ, the centre of a copper and silver mining district.
It is currently believed in this portion of Chile that there is a
subterranean channel immediately below the Colorado, that carries off a large
portion of the waters of the Maipo; but I saw no fact to support such an
hypothesis, as the smallness of the river on the plain below is easily
accounted for, when one takes into consideration the large secos that tap the river near the foot-hills of the Cordilleras.
There is a pass up the Rio Maipo, to the city of Mendoza, on the eastern slope
of the Andes.
Our sketch completed, we took down the
northern bank of the river, along a road passable to wheeled vehicles. The
valley is from a quarter to half a mile in width on this side of the river, and
the level space is occupied by beautiful little farms that seemed to quietly
repose, far from the bustling world outside, at the feet of the everlasting
hills. Two or three leagues above the plain, the river yields a large portion
of its waters to the "Canal del Maipo" which supplies the city of
Santiago with water. This work was accomplished by the Spaniards at a great
outlay of capital.
It was after sunset when we recrossed the
river at the lower "Puente de las Tablas," and stopped for the night
at the house where we had procured some bread on the preceding day. The old man
welcomed us in the most hospitable manner. I was too tired to eat my supper and
threw myself down on an ox-hide to sleep off my fatigue. The following day was
Sunday, and the sun arose beautiful and clear while we were journeying to
"Los Morros." We rested a few hours in the shade of a tree on the
banks of the Rio Claro, and resuming our journey late in the evening, were soon
in the Talca road, that led in a southerly direction over a well cultivated and
fertile plain. Taking the left hand road out of the little village of Maipo, we
journeyed for a long distance between rows of poplars. Avenues of the same kind
of trees would diverge at intervals from the main road, and neat white-washed
houses would appear in the perspective. They were scenes of quiet and rural
beauty. A league and a half from the Maipo, we stopped at a wayside house.
g
Journey to the Famous Baths of Chill‡n.
Our journey to the plain, after leaving the
banks of the Rio Cachapoal, which to many would have been uninteresting, was to
us relieved of its monotony by many pleasing incidents of travel. Whether
jogging along the beautiful Plain of Colchagua, or the wide spread Pampa of
„uble, the colossal range of the Andes loomed up an apparently impenetrable
barrier against the eastern horizon. Each succeeding day, some peak would be
lost to view in the north, whilst other snow-capped mountains would rise up in
the distant perspective of the south.
Falling in with a carretero near the lovely village of Curic—, who was convoying a
band of journeymen painters to the city of Talca, I engaged him to ferry us
over the intervening rivers; among which was the Rio LontuŽ, one of the wildest
and most impetuous streams that flows from the Chilean Andes. Leaving the little
town of Molina late in the evening of January 27th, the road led us through a
district of country that was dotted with the bushy espino which, to my mind, adds such a charm to the Chilean
landscapes. Crossing the Rio Claro, as the sun was setting behind the Coast
Mountains, we dismounted at the carretero's
cry of 'A tierra!'
(literallyÑto the earth), and journeyed along the undulating plain afoot.
We were all in a jolly humor, laughing and
singing to while away the evening hours. Several of the younger members of our
party, in the enthusiasm of joyous anticipation, would occasionally sing out,
Ñ ÁViva! , se van por la ciudad de
Talca.' (Hurrah, we are going to the city of Talca.) One of the number was
an old Peruvian, whose equanimity was not disturbed by the fact of his going to
the city of the Plain. He was a veteran traveler. The moon was nearly at the
full, and as we journeyed along the road, the vast plain, from the Andes to the
Costeros, was flooded with her silver light, and through
the deepening haze I could trace the outlines of the eternal snow-fields.
Our companions succumbed at length to the
fatigue, and Rile and I jogged on alone for leagues, with the cart rumbling
behind us. The rest of the party had stowed themselves away in the cart and were
asleep. The birds were singing, and l thought I discerned a faint trace of dawn
in the east, when the cart was stopped in a little ravine, and we lay down on
the ground to rest our wearied limbs. The sun was rising when we started again,
and a league farther on we saw the white church spires of Talca rising above
the dark green poplars that skirt the northern limits of the city.
In the east was the Volcano of Peteroa, the
'Smoking Mountain.' Peteroa is the frustum of a cone, and one instinctively
feels, when looking upon the mountain from the Plain of Talca, that they at
last behold a volcano. There is something awful in the majesty of Peteroa,
which in my imagination stands alone, the only perfect type of a volcano in the
world. This mountain is often in a state of intense action and Molina describes
a terrible eruption that occurred on the 3d of December 1762[47].
It was ascended in 1831 by Claudio Gay, whom Humboldt styles 'the distinguished
and highly gifted naturalist.'
While we were but a short distance from the
northern suburbs of Talca, and my attention was still directed to the Peteroa,
the old Peruvian pointed to the south and said to me, "Paisano, do you see that mountain that looks like a small
white cloud, the most distant of the Cordilleras. It is the Silla Velluda."
I did see its distant snowfields glowing in the morning light, but I knew that
its Indian name was Chill‡n. It was the ultima
thule of our southern journey, for as the Peruvian said, "Near that
mountain is the Pass of Antuco, through which you will go to the Otra Banda, the Land of the
Indian." Many weary leagues were yet to be traversed, for the Chill‡n was,
as the crow flies, one hundred miles away.
We entered the city at 10 A. M., and paying
our patron the ever-to-be-remembered carretero
one dollar, parted from our friends and proceeded to the ca–ada, where we
rested ourselves in the grateful shade of the lofty poplars. Leaving our
resting place near noon, we passed through the plaza; and, crossing the estero
or small stream of water, on the same foot-bridge I had journeyed over some
months previous, we stopped in at a brush-covered shanty, where, after a dish
of corn and beans, we enjoyed a siesta
of several hours' duration.
The sun was an hour and a half high when we
shouldered our packs and proceeded on our way. Passing a posada for carreteros, I
saw a man standing in the gateway who looked as though he could speak English.
As I eyed him pretty close he spoke to me, and inquired our destination, saying
that if we would wait a short time there would be some carts going to Parral,
and we would thus have a good opportunity of crossing the river. We stopped; but
the carreteros were drunk and did not
get off, and we concluded to stay all night. Our friend, who proved to be an
American, had resided several years in Chile, and was married to a fair
Chilena, who appeared to be highly pleased at our arrival, if we were rough
looking travelers.
We slept in the open yard of the posada, and were nearly devoured by the
fleas. We were up before sunrise the following morning; but the carreteros had sore heads, and were
dilatory in their operations, and at my suggestion, we concluded to go on
afoot, as we had no time to spare in unnecessary delays. The distance of a
league brought us to the hacienda house,
in the courtyard of which was the palm tree that so attracted my attention in
my former journey. I seated myself on an uprooted poplar stump and gazed long
upon its feathery leaves before I gave it a final good-bye. To me there is more
than an ordinary interest attached to this palm. Humboldt,[48]
on the authority of the naturalist Claudio Gay,[49]
says that the Chilean palm (Coco de Chile)
does not grow further south than the banks of the Rio Maule, and for aught I
know, this may be the southern limit of that tropical plant.
The
AndesÑScenery in the Valley of Maipo, and Incidents of a Journey to the
Baths of Cauquenes.
I was under the impression that the Lake of
Aculeo which we designed visiting, was in the spurs of the Andes, as stated by
Capt. Hall, but our patron with whom we passed the night informed us that it
was two leagues below the Pass of Angostura in the Costeros. When I learned
this, the charm my imagination had given it was gone; and I did not wish to see
the "Lake among the Andes," so graphically described by the humorous
Basil Hall.
We directed our course the next morning,
across the country in a westerly direction, to reach the Talca road, from which
we had slightly diverged at the village of Maipo. Winding around the northern
base of the Angostura Mountain, in the burning rays of an almost tropical sun,
wading through a portion of the Laguna Paine, and climbing brush fences made of
the thorny espino, which are almost
as difficult to surmount as an Andean pass, tried our patience and consumed our
time; and it was late in the afternoon when we struck the main road, a league
north of the Pass of Angostura; journeying along the dusty way in the cool of
the evening, we stopped for the night at the posada, or inn, that is situated close to the entrance.
We were tired and footsore, but a bath in
the crystal stream of water that flowed through the backyard of the posada, followed by one of the most
refreshing night's rest I ever experienced, restored us to our wonted good
humor; and I roused the sleepy mozo
from his slumbers on the morning of the 19th to pay our bill of one real; when we resumed our journey to the
Baths. We immediately entered the Pass, which is less than two hundred yards in
width, but a quarter of a mile took us through the narrowest portion.
The Pass of Angostura, which strictly
speaking is but a contraction of the plain, separates the Coast Range from the
foothills of the Cordilleras, and through it flows the Rio Paine de Angostura
of which I had occasion to remark in a former journey. How often when athirst
upon some barren plain, or keeping the lone night watches on the declivity of
the Bell of Quillota have I thought of those sweet pellucid waters.
The plain now gradually expanded as we walked along. We were journeying
through the Hacienda de la Compa–’a,
the largest estate in Chile; and between the road and the mountains in the east
was a wheat field, the extent of which was measured by thousands of acres. The
grain was being tramped out in a corral
by the roadside, and carts were seen in all directions engaged in gathering the
sheaves. Affairs were here carried on in a scale befitting the size of the hacienda; the corral was several hundred feet in diameter, and a troop of more
than a hundred horses were flying around the ring, pursued by mounted huasos, who were swinging their lassos and shouting at the top of their
voices, "Yegua ! Yegua ! Yegua !" (Yegua, is
the Spanish for mare,)Ñ The natives enjoy themselves hugely during the
season of harvest, for the mosto and chicha, country wines, circulate freely,
and as the evening of each day approaches, the mirth grows both loud and furious.[50]
It was late in the afternoon when we reached
the town of Rancagua, twenty-five leagues from the Capital, and with the
exception of Santiago, the centre of the most populous district in the
Republic. We did not tarry long in Rancagua, but pushed on to the Rio Cachapoal
which is a half league south of the town, The river is spanned by a splendid
bridge of nine arches, which was not quite completed. It is probably the first
structure of the kind in South America. We passed the night in a shanty at the
south end of the bridge, sleeping under a bush-covered shed. It was ten o'clock
the next morning before we got our breakfast, and in the meanwhile we sent to
the town for a supply of pan to last
us during our stay at the Baths.
Our preparations at length complete, we bade
adios to the good se–ora and her two daughters with a
promise to return in three or four days, and set out for the Baths of
Cauquenes, two as enthusiastic and veteran-looking travelers as ever trod a
mountain trail of the Andes. The distance to the Baths from the bridge across
the Cachapoal is five leagues, the mule path leading up the southern bank of
the river. For the distance of a mile we journeyed over round stones which, in
seasons of high water, form a portion of the river bed. A large stream of water
was now encountered, which diverges from the main channel, and, without proper
engineering, will eventually change the course of the river. A party of
laborers were at work here, and we hired a couple of horsemen to take us to the
opposite bank.
"The Baths are this side of that white
snowy mountain," said the mayordomo,
in answer to my inquiry about the road. We were now at the foot-hills, and
ascending by a steep winding path a few hundred feet, to cross an angle of the
mountain, a more gradual slope led us down again to the river, the margin of
which we followed for the distance of a league, when the road left the bank and
wound round the southern base of a hill, but another league brought us close to
the shore.
We passed one or two large hacienda buildings, and small ranchos were scattered along at close
intervals. In one of the latter we procured our dinner, consisting of boiled
wheat and milk. It was a capital dish, and Rile, my companion, thought if he
ever returned home, he would try and introduce it into general use. As we did
not wish to reach the Baths before sunset, we loitered along the road, enjoying
an agreeable suspense in not knowing what moment the object of our visit would
come in sight.
From the point we struck the Cachapoal the
second time, the scenery changed materially; the river was hemmed in between
narrow banks, and the mountain sides were partially robed with evergreen
foliage. The landscapes were mild and beautiful, and had but little of the
terrific grandeur that distinguishes the Caj—n of Maipo. At length we came to
the Rio Claro, a mountain stream that puts down from the southward. Looking up
the deep canon of the river, I could see the snow fields which feed its
anything but clear waters. We pulled off our boots and wading across, found the
water but little over two feet in depth.
The scenery grew more lovely at every step;
it was the hour of evening and the soft air blew down the valley in gentle
zephyrs. We passed the ruins of an old hide-rope bridge, and in a half hour
more we were in sight of the Baths. Passing to the eastward of the buildings,
we pitched our camp on the edge of a narrow ravine, and slept comfortably on a
pile of bamboo canes, notwithstanding the coolness of the air.
I was up with the morning dawn, engaged in
writing up our incidents of travel, which I had neglected for some days. It was
a calm and beauteous summer morn. To me, the temperature seemed perfect. At
sunrise a funeral procession passed close to our encampments, bearing someone
to his long home. My mind, for a moment, was clouded with sadness, when I
reflected that no perfection of climate could arrest the fell destroyer, who
visits alike the swamps and lagoons of Central Africa, and the sweet clime of
Chile.
We were received with courtesy by the young
man who has charge of the baths. He took us around and showed us each one, as
there are five in number. The bath buildings are not more than seven by ten
feet in size, and, mud plastered; and, thatched with straw, as they are,
present a rude appearance. On the centre of each room is a vat, two feet wide
by four and a half long, into which the water flows from separate springs. The
names of the baths, with the temperature of each, are "Pelambre," 118¼; "Pelambrillo," 116¼, "Corrimiento," 110¼; "Templada," 104¼; and the "Solitario" 102¼. We both took a
bath. I chose "Pelambre,"
(the scalding,) but found it impossible to completely immerse myself in the
fiery flood. When I came out the perspiration flowed from me like rain. In
rheumatic and cutaneous diseases, the baths have performed miraculous cures.
The waters are strongly impregnated with mineral substances; potassia, iron,
salt, sulfur and mercury entering into their composition. The springs ooze out
of the river bank from among boulders, within a few yards of the verge, and
taken together would form a considerable stream of water. After flowing through
the bath-tubs, they are precipitated into the Cachapoal, which foams and roars
a hundred feet below.
I could not ascertain how long the Baths of
Cauquenes have been known. I was told that the oldest natives in the valley are
ignorant as to the date of discovery. I saw names carved on the doors bearing
date 1830. But few persons were there at the time of our visit. An old
gentleman and his party, who passed us in the Vale of Repose, occupied one of
the rooms. I noticed a poor palsied wretch bathing in "Pelambrillo," but I doubt whether
even the magic waters of Cauquenes can restore his withered frame.
The accommodations are not of the finest
description for visitors. A large open yard is enclosed by buildings with means
of exit at the corners. In these buildings are some twenty or thirty rooms,
that are let out at prices varying from six reals
to one dollar and a half a day. Board is two dollars per day, and the price of
a bath is six cents. One cannot expect to live at the Baths with any degree of
comfort for less than four dollars per
diem.
The evening of the first day of our stay
closed as beautiful as the dawn of the morning had been splendid. I was alone
on the mountain side, when the hill-tops were tinged with the rosy blush of the
setting sun, and a silence, broken only by the dashing waters of the Andean
torrent, reigned supreme in the Valley of the Cachapoal. How fascinating is
such a life! Who would not love such a beautiful land, whose plains and valleys
bask in the sunlight of a perpetual summer?
On the second morning of our stay, I tried
the "Solitario," the
temperature of which is quite bearable. I found my companion bathing in "Corrimiento" and as I opened the
door of his bath room, he remarked that "Infierno" had broke loose during the night, and his appearance
certainly indicated a recent exposure to remarkable heat. As I was anxious to
try the effect, I stripped off again, and gradually lowered myself down into the
tub. The operation was painful; and even after I was completely submerged, the
great heat of the water made me puff like a porpoise. I stood it for five
minutes, when a sick and dizzy sensation obliged me to get out. I never had my
system so completely relaxed, and more than an hour elapsed before the
perspiration ceased to pour from me. I scarcely believed that our excellent
physical condition at the time of our visit could be improved upon, but the
effects of these medical waters proved beneficial to us in a high degree; and
for days we possessed that buoyancy of mind, and elasticity of frame, that
eminently fitted us for the toilsome and fatiguing journey we subsequently
accomplished.
We sketched the different bath houses, as
well as the principal buildings, and while working up the different drawings
under the corridor, a mozo, or
servant brought us our dinners. We found the due–o, or rather lessee, of the Baths to be a very intelligent man,
and in the course of our conversation with him, he informed us that we could
see the Peak of Cauquenes from the distant Plain of Maule. He had a pack of
English fox-hounds, and showed us some lion and fox-skins as trophies of the
chase.
A small tile-covered building that stands at
one corner of the courtyard is the chapel. The same pretension to ornament and
show was observed in this rude building, though in a far less degree, that I
saw in the cathedral at Santiago. It is the only tile-covered building at the
Baths, and gives evidence of considerable antiquity.
When our drawings were completed, the
handsome daughter of the due–o had
numerous questions to ask about our travels. It was early in the afternoon of
the 22nd of January, when I bade adios
to the excellent due–o and his
family, and taking the hand of the fair se–orita
of whom I have spoken, she returned the warm pressure I gave her, and said from
her kind heart I know,Ñ "Adios,
Caballero, vaya muy bien !' I will never forget those words, which fell in
soft accents from her rosy lips. How gentle and confiding is woman. Soon the
Baths were hid from our view, and we stopped for the night, scarcely a league
below, near the ruins of the "Puente de las Tablas."
We pitched our camp under the spreading
boughs of a quillay, the bark of
which is so famed for its saponaceous qualities. This tree is an evergreen, and
attains a height of from fifteen to thirty feet. The effects produced by the
bark are something similar to that of the soap plant of California.
We left our rustic camp with regret, at an
early hour on the following morning. The weather was fine and clear, and a
pleasant breeze was blowing up the Valley of the Cachapoal. On our way down the
river bank, I shot a fine mess of birds, consisting of doves, blackbirds and
the Chilean quail. Following the same road down to the borders of the plain,
where we had crossed the portion of the river that disembouches from the main
channel, we took another path, that led us higher up the mountain side, and in
so doing obtained an excellent view of the fertile Plain of Rancagua, which lay
spread out like a map at our feet. The fields of golden grain, contrasting with
the dark green patches of maize, the vineyards and groves of fruit trees, with
the Coast Range of mountains in the West, and the rugged Angostura, standing
like a faithful sentinel at the pass, and not omitting the ever present Andes,
constituted a panorama of varied beauty and grandeur.
Descending to the level of the plain, we
encountered considerable difficulty in crossing the streams of water formed by
the bifurcation of the Cachapoal. Previous to reaching the bridge, we came to a
collection of houses, in one of which a number of se–oritas and mozos were
dancing the Zamacuea and other
Spanish dances. One of the girls was playing the national anthem on the guitar,
accompanying it with her voice. The performance was excellent, losing nothing
by the mournful cadence, that tinged the voice of the pensive se–orita as she sang:Ñ
"Puro, Chile, es tu cielo azulado,
Puras brisas te cruzan tambiŽn,
Y tu campo de flores bordado,
Es la copia feliz del EdŽn;
Majestuosa es la blanca monta–a, &c.
It was late in the afternoon when we arrived
at the bridge, where we spent the remainder of the day in making preparations
for our southern journey. We related the story of our adventures at "Los Ba–os" to the daughters of our patrona while the good lady herself
prepared a cazuela of our game, from
which the whole family partook. We passed the night there, and long before day,
I was awakened by the clarion notes of a cock, that was perched on a pole above
our heads. I waited until the second call before I arose, when the east began
to glow with the morning sun, and the sharp and splintered peaks of the Andes,
were strongly marked against the sky. Se
van! (They are going,) said one of the muchachos,
in reference to our departure, and the family, the most of whom were sleeping
on the ground around us, imitated our example of early rising! Our note-books
and specimens carefully packed away, we shouldered our pouches and guns, and
with an adios to our hospitable
entertainers, who would receive no remuneration, and a parting glance at the Cachapoal,
we started for the far distant Bath of Chill‡n, more than three hundred and
fifty miles away.
g
Journey to the Famous Baths of Chill‡n.
Less than two leagues brought us to the road
that leads to the town of Cauquenes, and here I resigned my honorary station as
guide, taking the highway for Chill‡n, a road I had never traversed before. On
our right were barren mountains containing deserted gold mines. Five leagues
from Talca brought us to the Rio Maule, whose turbid waters we crossed in a
launch. A deep gap up this river, in the Cordilleras, disclosed the Pass of 'El Planch—n,' which is the only known
pass in the Andes practicable to wheeled vehicles. Leaving the little village
of Loncomilla to our right, we waded for a long distance through deep sand, and
three leagues from the Maule crossed the Rio Loncomila, then a tiny stream. A
large spring gushed out from under the bank close to the road. The water was
clear as crystal and of an icy coldness. A league more, and we crossed the Rio
Lapiche, another small stream. The road still continued sandy in places, which
fatigued my companion greatly. The highway leads along next to the Coast Range,
and occasionally we would leave a low spur to our left. The plain to the
eastward was covered with the espino,
which gave fresh and agreeable appearance to the scenery, backed as it was by
the snowy Andes.
It was nearly sunset when we came to the Rio
Putagan, a stream fifty yards wide, and two feet deep. We waded across and then
bathed in its crystal waters. A hundred yards from the river bank was a thick chaparral, where we spread our ponchos,
and lay down to sleep and dream of home. I woke several times during the night,
and found the moon shining in my face, but experienced no evil effects
therefrom. A league's travel on the following morning, over some hills or
outlying spurs of the Costeros, brought us to the Patuco, a small stream
some ten or fifteen yards in width. We crossed on some stones at the rapids,
above which the water was deep. We stopped here about an hour, and I shot six
ducks, but succeeded in recovering only four. There was a house near at hand,
where we found some women who manufactured our game into a cazuela for which, in our half-famished state, we stood sorely in
need. There was a rudely constructed flouring mill here. I went inside and took
a sketch of the interior with the miller pricking the stones, whilst Rile made
a drawing of the water-wheel, the like of which the philosophic mind of
Olmstead never dreamed of. Continuing our journey, we had before us and
extending to the southward, a smooth plain, gradually ascending for about a
league. On the crest were some espino
bushes. Shortly after leaving the house where we got our breakfast, we met a huaso riding a mule and driving two
others. I inquired of him the road to Parral; he told me, and we started on,
but had gone only a few yards when he called out for us to stop, and asked me if
I did not want some bread. He gave us two biscuit, for which I thanked him and
thought to myself, here is hospitality indeed.
We were now a short distance on the smooth
plain, and about a mile distant was, apparently, a pool of water, with the
green espino bushes reflected from
its glassy bosom. This was a deception; though I could scarcely realize it, so
perfect was the illusion. The formation of the country precluded the
possibility of a lake, though my companion laughed at me when I told him it was
a mirage. As we walked on, it disappeared. We crossed two sluggish streams of
water, and then came to the banks of the Rio Achibueno, the clearest and most
beautiful stream I ever beheld. Where we effected the passage, the water runs
in two streams, some fifty yards apart. The first one we crossed was at the
foot of the rapids. The stones were round and slippery, and the swift current,
three feet deep, nearly carried me away. I was within ten feet of the opposite
shore, with the crystal waters roaring around me, and was obliged to stand in
one position for a minute before I could summon courage to move. I deposited my
pack, and then returned to help Rile, but did not use sufficient caution, and
stepping on a round stone I slipped and fell in the water; but we were both in
reach of the bank, and no harm was done. The water was smoother in the next
stream, and, with the exception of the rocks, we crossed with ease. Rile, my
humorous companion, cut one of his feet on a broken rock, which he considered
at the time to be the only fragment in the river, from the Andes to the
seaboard.
We threw our things down in the shadow of
the bank on the south side, and R. went to a house near by to procure some harina tostada, while I bathed in the
limpid waters of the stream, above the ford. In places the water was ten or
fifteen feet in depth, and nearly a hundred yards in width. The river comes
from an E. S. E. direction, and looking up the stream is the Peak of Cauquenes,
one of the noblest mountains of the Andes! Á Caramba ! Such a mountain and such a river. Sweet, pellucid Achibueno
! I will long remember thee, and the dazzling showy diadem of the Cauquenes. I
took a sketch of the Peak, and whilst resting ourselves, a large duck came
floating down the transparent bosom of the river. I fired at it as it came
opposite, when it raised; and I gave it the benefit of the other barrel, which
brought it down near the head of the rapids. A Chilean boy, who was standing on
the bank, plunged in and secured the bird, exciting my admiration as well as
envy, at the skillful and experienced manner with which he struggled with the
swift-flowing waters. We gave it to the good woman who sold us the harina.
The sun was low in the west when we resumed
our journey across the broad and level plain. The country appeared to be fine
and well cultivated towards the Cordilleras, and long rows of the Lombardy
poplars in the east, indicated the position of the little village of Linares.
The Coast Range was low and smoothly defined. Name and 'La redondita Coiquen' were visible; the summit of the latter blue
and beautiful with its distance, butÑ
' 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the
view,
And robes the mountain with an azure hue,'
I have reason to remember the round mountain
of Coiquen, for in a lonely valley at its base, near the village of Quirihue, I
was once attacked by robbers.
The shades of night had drawn around us,
when we came to the Rio Longav’. Among the bushes on the sand we found a
resting place; but previous to lying down I went to the banks of the river and
saw that it was broad, though from the murmur of the waters I knew that the
current was not very swift. The moonrise from behind the serrated peaks of the
Andes, was unsurpassed for loveliness. It was one of those enchanting night
scenes of which poets dream, but that are only looked upon in that distant
land.
We lay down and slept until after sunrise,
as it was our intention to spend the day on the banks of the river. I went to
two or three houses to buy bread or harina,
but the answer to my inquiries was the sorry response, 'No hay, se–or,' (There is none, sir,) and we
concluded to cross the river. We speculated about the possibility of doing so
for some time, and at length came to the conclusion that we could wade it, though
the deepest part was five feet, and the current by no means slow. At this
juncture a horseman came along, and I saw from his leather leggings that he was
a birlochero, so I bargained with him
to take us across for two reals, and
in a few minutes we were safe on the opposite shore. Nothing to eat could be
procured on this side of the river, and we proceeded on our journey, much to
Rile's disappointment, who had anticipated a fine time on the banks of the
Longav’. I left my companion behind, and crossed a barren plain of two leagues
in extent, when I came to a grove of bushes and trees that skirted the borders
of an estero or creek. Here I waited
for him to come up, until the length of time made me uneasy; but he eventually
made his appearance. He had turned aside to a farm-house, and was lucky enough
to obtain a quantity of pan negro
(black bread). We made for a house on the opposite side of the stream, where we
spent the remainder of the day. The se–ora
swept us a clean place under a brush-covered shed, and we reposed dreamily upon
an ox hide, and were as happy as travelers could be, which, indeed, is the acme
of all happiness.
Early in the morning a cool breeze had blown
from the snow-fields, but it died away, and during the day the air was still
and the heat stifling. The long extended chain of the Andes seemed to fairly
glow with heat against that azure sky; though the snowy summits of Peteroa and
Cauquenes and the majestic dome of the Chill‡n, white as marble with
everlasting snow, proclaimed that the burning heat of the Line [Equator, Ed.]
was but shortly removed from the icy cold of the Polar Circle. There was an old
man there who had journeyed afoot from Curic—, and was bound to San Carlos. He
labored under some infirmity, and had learned that there was a remedio infinitamente [sic] (a matchless
remedy) in the latter place.
The sun was half an hour high and a
refreshing breeze was blowing from the south, when we resumed our journey.
Before us was a vast plain; the Costeros mountains in the
west had sunk to low hills, and in places the plain seemed to extend to the
sea. The sun set behind the western hills, and night, at length, shrouded the pampa with her raven wing, and the stars
shone with unwonted brilliancy from a cloudless sky. At times we could scarcely
see the road, and the Cordilleras hung like a hazy mist on the eastern horizon,
whilst vivid flashes of volcanic light blazed at intervals from Peteroa, and
other portions of the Andes, though distant Antuco in the south seemed silent.
Journey to the
Famous Baths of Chill‡n. [concluded]
It was midnight when our practiced ears
caught the murmuring sound of the Rio „uble. It was a joyous sound to us
toil-worn travelers, for the „uble was the only intervening river between us
and the long wished for City of Chill‡n. The stillness of the night air enabled
us to hear the roar of the Andean torrent for a long distance, and my companion
grew impatient ere we reached the margin of the river. We spread our ponchos on the borders of a seco, and lay down to await the dawn of
morning; but the latter portion of the night proved damp and chill; and the sky
was overcast with foggy clouds on the following morning, that seemed in
striking contrast to the hitherto unparalleled serenity of the sky.
A few minutes walk brought us to the banks
of the Rio „uble, which we crossed in a launch. Above the crossing were rapids,
but below the stream was still and tranquil. Five leagues below the ferry the
„uble empties into the Itata. In a certain measure the „uble reminded me of the
latter stream. Ascending the low bank of the river, we found a boy awaiting
with a cart, who offered to take us to Chill‡n for a real; and as the distance was a league and a half, and my companion
was still comforted with sore feet, we accepted the offer and mounted the
lumbering vehicle that brought to R's mind, as he told me, all the Grecian and
Trojan wars that ever were. It was more difficult for my unimaginative mind to
perceive the resemblance of the rude carreta
of the Chilean to the chariots of the Grecian heroes.
Before us were the lofty spires of the
cathedral of Chill‡n, and a small grove of thick-set evergreen trees, to the
left of the road, contrasted strangely with the comparative sterility of the
plain. We entered the city before eight o'clock, where we spent the largest
portion of the day. Chill‡n (pronounced cheel-yan) is the capital of the
Province of „uble, and is situated about midway between the Costeros and the Andean spurs, on the banks of the river of
the same name. It has been twice destroyed by earthquakes. During the last
shock, hot water was forced up through fissures in the earth, and many persons
were scalded to death. Each time it was rebuilt the site was removed farther
north to higher ground. The different portions are known to the natives as Chill‡n
Viejo, and Chill‡n Nuevo (Old and New Chill‡n.) The cathedral, which is a large
and fine looking building, is the only structure deserving notice.
It was nearly sunset when we started direct
for the Baths of Chill‡n, distant from the city twenty-five leagues in nearly
an east direction. We experienced some difficulty at first in finding the right
road, but came on it at length, and when at a league's distance from the town
we turned aside in a wheat field, and spreading our blankets by the side of a
murmuring stream, lay down for the night.
We were on the road an hour before sunrise, journeying over the Plain of
„uble. A heavy bank of clouds still rested against the Andes, and prevented our
seeing the Volcano of Chill‡n, which had been visible since leaving Talca. We
crossed several large secos, or
canals for irrigation, and a considerable portion of the country appeared to be
under an excellent state of cultivation.
We were approaching an interesting region of
country; and as we drew nearer to the forest robed monta–a, now plainly visible, my mind was tinged with that deep and
pleasurable excitement, which is common to all, upon the eve of the fulfillment
of a long cherished desire. The glowing description I had received from Mr. Datnell[51]
of the forest, and magnificent scenery on the slope of the Chill‡n, had haunted
my imagination for months; and I had an innate faith that my expectations would
be realized, for I could not doubt the veracity of the English traveler.
At a distance of seven leagues from the town
trees thinly scattered began to appear on both sides of the road, their number
and size gradually increasing until we came to the spurs of the Cordilleras,
when we found ourselves in a dense forest. The road led along the north side of
the Rio Chill‡n, but at some distance from the river, the roar of which we
heard at intervals during the day. By some means we missed the regular
crossing, and were directed by an old man, whom we found at work in a wheat
field, to another ford. There was considerable water in the river, and the
rocks were large and slippery, making our foothold insecure, and the opposite
bank was gained at the expense of sorely bruised feet. I have had considerable
experience in fording the swift flowing rivers of Chile, and more than once in
the roaring floods of the Cachapoal and Achibueno, I thought my fate was
sealed, but the most painful recollection I have is the crossing of the Rio Chill‡n.
We ascended the bank, and in a few minutes
were in the regular road. The day was far advanced, and the sun shining through
the openings of the large trees in the west, was another remembrancer of home.
We went inside of a field, enclosed with a log fence, and in a pleasant nook
among the bushes, kindled a bright blazing fire. I could not tire in gazing
upon those giants of the forest, for years had elapsed since I had been in a
densely wooded district. I felt like examining every strange plant that met my
view. The sudden transformation from the arid plains of Chile, to the awe-inspiring
forest solitudes of the Cordilleras, changed my nature completely; and my
spirit, partaking of the infection, reveled in the unalloyed enjoyment of that
perennial spring. We were indeed in a new world.
A description of the famous Baths is reserved for my next letter.
[ends]
g g g
APPENDIX ONE :
GLOSSARY OF SPANISH TERMS
a la chilena: in
the Chilean manner
adios: goodbye
alma: soul
aguardiente:
liquor
alma: soul
amigo: friend
arriero: muleteer
azœcar: sugar
ba–o: bath,
thermal spring
birloche: light
carriage, drawn by three horses
birlochero:
driver of a birloche
blanco (adj. f.
blanca): white
boca: mouth (of
river)
bonito: pretty
burro: jackass
caballero:
gentleman
caj—n: drawer;
(figuratively) deep, closed valley
calle: street
camino: road
Camino Real:
Royal Road
campana: bell
ca–ada: (archaic)
public walk in a city
ÁCaramba!: Wow!
carreta: cart
casa: house
castillo: castle
cazuela:
soup/stock prepared with meat and vagetables
carretero: carter
cerro: mountain
chacra: small
farm
chancho: pig,
pork
chaparral:
thicket
charqui: jerked
beef
charquic‡n: stew made with charqui
or meat, plus various vegetables
chicha: alcoholic drink made from
grapes
cholo: person of mixed race (white
and native American)
cigarita: small
paper cigar
ciudad: city
cocina: kitchen
cocinera: cook
comandante: commander, captain
compa–ero: companion
corral: animal pen
cuadra: city block
cuesta: mountain pass
departamento: department
(administrative unit)
despacho: shop
due–o: owner
espino: species of bush, Acacia caven (literally, thorn)
estero: stream creek
extranjero: foreigner
familia: family
fonda: inn, boarding house
fr’o: cold
grande: large
gringo: North American
hacienda: estate, ranch
harina (tostada): flour made by
grinding parched wheat
huaso: peasant
Infierno: Hell
inglŽs (adj. f. Inglesa): English
intendente: provincial governor
ladr—n (pl. ladrones): thief
laguna: lagoon
largo (adj. f. larga): long
lazo: lasso
legua: (distance) league
lejos: far
lingue: species of tree, Persea lingue
mamita: mother (literally, little
mother = term of endearment)
mar: sea
mate: infusion, prepared from the leaves of the
bush/tree Ilex
paraguariensis
mayordomo: foreman
media: (noun) coin of defined
value
medio (adjective, f. media): half
mire (imperative): look
minero: miner
monta–a: mountain
morro: small rounded hill
mosto: alcoholic drink prepared
from the first pressings of the grape
mozo: youth
muchacho: lad, boy, youngster
mucho: much
negro: black
nuevo: new
onza: a gold coin (literally,
ounce)
otra banda: neighbouring country
(literally, other side)
paisano: fellow countryman
pampa: plain
pan: bread
pancito: bread roll
papelito: little piece of paper
patr—n (f. patrona): master,
landlord
peligroso: dangerous
peon: unskilled labourer
peruano: Peruvian
planch—n: slab; (figuratively, ice
field)
plaza: town square
poncho: woollen overgarment with a
slit in the middle for the head
posada: inn
pueblito: small town
puente: bridge
pulper’a: general store
quebrada: ravine
Quillotina: woman, native of
Quillota
rancho: shack
real: coin of defined value: see
also "Camino Real"
redondita: little round (hill)
remedio: remedy, cure
renegado: renegade, rebel
r’o: river
roble: oak; (in Chile, Nothofagus obliqua)
salteador: robber, highwayman
S. A. :
South America
santo: (noun) saint; (adjective)
holy
seco: (noun) irrigation channel
Semana Santa: Holy Week
se–or : Sir
se–ora: lady
se–orita: young lady
sierra: mountain range
silla: chair, seat
soltero: bachelor, unmarried
sopa: soup
tabla: plank
temblor: tremor, earthquake
tierra: earth (imperative "a
tierra" = descend)
tranca: bar, obstacle
velludo: hairy
Viernes Santo: Good
Friday
viejo: old
vigilante: guard
ÁViva!: Hurrah!
vizcacha: mountain rodent,
chinchilla, Lagidium viscasia
yegua: mare
zamacueca: Spanish colonial dance,
originally from Peru (modern cueca)
gg g
APPENDIX TWO
BIBLIOGRAPHY
HALL,
Captain Basil. 1824. Extracts from a
Journal written on the coasts of Chili, Peru, and Mexico, in the years 1820, 1821,
1822, Vol. 1, 2nd Edition. Edinburgh: Constable.
URL: http://www.archive.org/details/extractsfromajo05hallgoog
OLMSTED, Frederick Law. 1852, 1853. Walks and Talks of an American Farmer in England, 2 vols. New York:
Putnam.
URL #1: https://books.google.com/books?id=0SIQAAAAYAAJ
URL #2: https://archive.org/details/walkstalksfarmer02olmsrich
TAYLOR, J. Bayard. 1852. Views
A-Foot OR Europe seen with a Knapsack
and Staff, 14th edition. New York and London: Putnam.
URL: https://archive.org/details/viewsafootoreur03willgoog
SOURCES
DAILY
ALTA CALIFORNIA: Digitized images of this newspaper were retrieved from URL http://cdnc.ucr.edu/
SANGAMO
JOURNAL / ILLINOIS STATE JOURNAL: Digitized images of this newspaper were retrieved
from URL http://idnc.library.illinois.edu/
[1] Lines
from Thomas Gray's "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard".
[2]
At this point there is a break in the narrative, perhaps the result of a
missing letter or a missing edition of the newspaper. The story of the voyage
resumes in Rio de Janeiro.
[3]
Unattributed lines, quoted in "Deck and Port", Rev. Walter Colton
U.S.N. (pub. 1850), p.191, Ed.
[4]
Quotation from Chapter
XI of "The Sea Lions: or The Lost Sealers" by James Fennimore Cooper
(1848). The reference is to the Bay of Rio de Janeiro.
[5] Parian marble is a high quality stone used by ancient Greek sculptors; the name comes from the island of Paros.
[6] Basil Hall was a British naval officer (1788-1840) who visited
Chile in 1820-21.
[7] Semana Santa = Holy Week (Easter Week)
[8] Viernes Santo = Good Friday
[9] Ref. Hall 1824:1 6.
[10] Latin "Iesus
Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum", "Jesus the
Nazarene, King of the Jews".
[11] Probably the Chilean hazel, Gevuina avellana.
[12] Plaza de Armas = Main Square.
[13] The Puente de Cal y Canto, built of stone (not brick), was
inaugurated in 1780.
[14] Ref.
Hall 1824:1 174-175.
[15] Irrigation channel built by Ram—n Subercaseaux, c1850.
[16] Falls located on the Mississippi River at Minneapolis, Minnesota.
[17] Rasa and Redonda are islands located near the harbor of Rio de Janeiro.
[18]
Words from the first lines of
"The Wilderness of Mind", an unattributed short poem found in
several publications from 1822 onwards.
[19] Rhyme
from Shakespeare's "A Winter's Tale".
[20] Evergreen
species of tree, Persea lingue.
[21] Opening
lines of Lord Byron's "Lara", Canto II.
[22] Recruiting myself = recovering.
[23]
William Parish Robertson (1794-c1850), English
merchant in Buenos Aires, was author of "A Visit to Mexico ...",
published 1853.
[24] The Puente de Cal y Canto, built of stone (not brick), was inaugurated in 1780.
[25] Plaza de Armas = Main Square.
[26] In fact, Valdivia was killed thirteen years later, on Christmas Day, 1553.
[27] Cars = Railway carriages.
[28] Ref. Hall 1824:1 168-170.
[29] Formerly a property of the Jesuit order, whose assets were confiscated in 1767.
[30] Lion = Puma
[31]
"Chile, pure is your blue-coloured sky,
And pure the breezes that blow.
And your countryside embroidered with flowers
Is the faithful copy of Eden:
The white mountain is majestic" &c.
[32] Don Quixote, Spanish fictional character of the book of the same
name by Miguel de Cervantes.
[33] The author uses the term "Costeros" to identify the Coast Range.
[34]
Frederick Law Olmsted (1822-1903), a prominent
U.S. landscape architect and journalist. His month-long walking tour of England
in 1850, together with Bayard Taylor's 1846 account of a walking tour of
several European countries, may have served as inspiration for the present
author's Chilean rambles, later in the same decade. (See Bibliography for
publication details.)
[35]
Lines from the 1st verse of "The Pleasures
of Hope" by Thomas Campbell (1799).
[36] Attack by robbers: see
Section II, Letter XVI.
[37] The phrase is ungrammatical; perhaps, "perfect remedy".
[38]
Source unidentified.
[39] Minnehaha is a fictional North American woman, named by the poet Longfellow, whose name means "waterfall" in the Dakota language.
[40] Grath: perhaps
"garth", a yard or enclosure.
[41]
Vicente Benavides (1777-1822) was a notorious royalist military leader
during the Chilean War of Independence.
[42] Cars = Railway coaches.
[43] Bell Mountain = Cerro Campana.
[44] Allan Campbell (US), the engineer-in-charge, resigned in 1853.
[45] The modern name of R’o Conc—n is R’o Aconcagua.
[46] Boca (Spanish) = Mouth.
[47] Another secondary source
gives a date of 5th December.
[48] Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859), German natural scientist.
[49] Claude Gay (1800-1873), French naturalist and illustrator.
[50] Words adapted from Tam o' Shanter (poem by Robert Burns), "... the mirth and fun grew fast and furious, The piper loud and louder blew, ...".
[51] Mr. Datnell has not been identified.