columnar stem of a cactus, or dense rigid tufts of what I took to be a Bromeliaceous plant, most probably a species of Puya. The sun had set, and darkness was fast closing round us when the train came suddenly to a standstill, and the intelligent American guard informed us that a delay of at least twenty minutes was required to set the locomotive in working order.
The accident was in every way fortunate. We had just reached the Puente Infernillo, by far the most striking scene on the whole route, rendered doubly impressive when seen by the rapidly fading light. The railway had here returned to the Rimac, and is carried for a short distance along the right bank. In front the river rushes out of a narrow cleft, while on either hand the mountains rise to a prodigious height, with a steeper declivity than we had as yet anywhere seen. With a lively recollection of the Via Mala, the gorge of Pfeffers, and other scenes of a similar character, I could bring to mind none to rival this for stern sublimity. The impassable chasm that seemed to defy further advance, the roar of the river in the deeply cut channel below, the impending masses that towered up above us, leaving but a strip of sky in view, combined to form such a representation of the jaws of hell as would have satisfied the imagination of the Tuscan poet. To a botanist the scene awoke very different associations. Before it became quite dark I had captured several outposts of the Andean flora, not hitherto seen. The beautiful Tropæolum tuberosum, with masses of flowers smaller, but even more brilliant, than those of the common garden species, climbed over the bushes. A fleshy-leaved Oxalis, the first seen of a numerous group, came out of the crevices of the adjoining rocks, and Alonsoa acutifolia, which I had never seen but in an English greenhouse, was an additional prize.
ASCENT FROM PUENTE INFERNILLO.
Night had completely fallen as we resumed our journey, and although my curiosity was much excited in the attempt to follow the course of the line, I utterly failed to do so. Watching the stars as guides to our direction, where these were not cut off by the frequent tunnels, I could only infer that we were constantly winding round sharp curves, at times near the bottom of a deep ravine, with the roar of a torrent close at hand, and soon after working at a dizzy height along the verge of a precipice, with the muffled bass of a waterfall heard from out of the depths. Even after I had travelled the reverse way in broad daylight, I remained in some doubt as to the real structure of this part of the line. So far as I know, the first application of a spiral tunnel in railway construction was on the line across the Apennine between Bologna and Florence, but the spiral is there but a semicircle; you enter it facing north, and emerge in the opposite direction at a higher level. A similar device has been more freely resorted to in the construction of the St. Gothard line; but on this part of the Oroya line, completed before that of the St. Gothard was commenced, the spiral, if I mistake not, includes two complete circles, at the end of which the train stands nearly vertically above the point from which it started. It is by no means altogether a tunnel, as the form of a great projecting buttress has allowed the line to be carried in great part along a spiral line traced upon its flanks.
Nearly two hours after sunset we at length reached the terminus at Chicla, very uncertain as to the resources of that place in point of shelter and food. We had had the pleasure of meeting in the train Mr. H – , a distinguished German statesman, who had travelled with us in the Islay on his way from California to make the tour of South America. He was accompanied by Baron von Zoden, the German minister at Lima. As their object was merely to see the railway line, they intended to return on the following morning; but meanwhile we resolved to confront together any difficulties that might arise.
The architecture of Chicla is remarkably uniform, the only differences being in the size of the edifices. Stone, brick, tiles, slate, and mortar are alike unknown. Planks are nailed together around a framework, the requisite number of pieces of corrugated iron are nailed to some rafters on the top, and the house is complete. After stepping from the railway car and scrambling up a steep bank, we found ourselves before the chief building of the place, a so-called hotel, kept by a worthy German whose ill fortune had placed him on the borderland, where for some time the place was alternately occupied by small parties of Chilian or Peruvian troops. Besides some rooms on an upper floor occupied by the people of the house, the hotel consisted of two large rooms on the ground floor, where food and drink were supplied to all comers, with an adjoining kitchen. For such fastidious travellers as might require further sleeping accommodation than a cloak in which to roll themselves, and a floor on which to stretch their limbs, a long adjoining shed was provided. This was divided by thin partitions into four or five small chambers, each capable of holding two beds. Supper was before long provided; and when we afterwards learned the difficulties of our host’s position, our surprise was excited more by the merits than by the defects of the entertainment.
MOUNTAIN-SICKNESS.
We had been assured at Lima that, on going up to Chicla, we should be sure to suffer from the soroche, by which name the people of South America denote mountain-sickness, familiar to those who ascend from the coast to the plateau of the Andes. Knowing the height of Chicla to be no more than 12,220 feet above the sea, and never having experienced any of the usual symptoms at greater heights in Europe, I had treated the warning with derision so far as I was personally concerned, though not sure what effect the diminished pressure might have on my companion. I have described elsewhere8 my experience at Chicla, which undoubtedly resulted from a mitigated form of mountain-sickness, the symptoms being felt only at night, and passing away by day and in exercise. They were confined to the first two nights, and after the third day, during which we ascended to a height of more than two thousand feet above Chicla, they completely disappeared.
With regard to mountain-sickness, the only matter for surprise, as it seems to me, is that it is not more frequently felt at lower elevations, and that the human economy is able so readily to adapt itself to the altered conditions when transferred to an atmosphere of say two-thirds of the ordinary density, where the diminished supply to the lungs is aggravated by the increased mechanical effort requisite to move the limbs, and raise the weight of the body in an attenuated medium. Observation shows that the effects actually produced at great heights vary much with different individuals, and that in healthy subjects the functions after a short time adapt themselves to the new conditions. It is obvious that this process must have a limit, which has probably been very nearly attained in some cases.
In spite of some statements lately published, I am inclined to believe that the utmost limit of height compatible with active exertion will be found to lie, according to individual constitution, between twenty and twenty-five thousand feet. As regards our experiences at Chicla, the difficulty is to account for the fact that the effects produced while the body is at rest should disappear during active exercise; and whatever the nature of the disturbance of the functions, this was not accompanied by any discernible derangement of the respiration or the circulation. It appeared to me that the seat of disturbance, such as it was, was limited to the nervous system.
On the evening of our arrival we met at the hotel the commandant of the Chilian detachment, and on presenting my letter from the commander-in-chief, he was profuse in offers of assistance. It was speedily arranged that we should start on the following morning, to ride as far as the tunnel at the summit of the pass to Oroya, where I promised myself an ample harvest among the plants of the higher region of the Andes. When morning broke, after a sleepless night with a splitting headache, I found or fancied myself unfit for a hard day’s work; and, my companion being in much the same plight, we sent at an early hour to request that the excursion should be postponed till the following day. By the time, however, that we had dressed and breakfasted, the troubles of the night were all forgotten. A new vegetable world was outside awaiting us, and we were soon on the slopes above the station, where, in the person of my friend W – , I had the advantage of a kind and zealous assistant in the work of plant-collecting.
FIRST DAY IN THE ANDES.
Deferring to a later page some remarks on the vegetation of the Cordillera, I need merely say that of this first delightful day the morning hours were devoted to the steep declivity of the mountain overhanging the left bank
In
