the sun’s rays during the day had struck on the scorched ground. So intensely on such occasions does the traveller feel the transition, that, when benighted on desert places, he is sometimes compelled by the keenness of the cold to dismount, and bury himself up to the neck in the warm sand, until a returning sun again befriend him on the morrow, and encourage him to pursue his trackless way.
In Lima, the capital of Peru, neither the extremes of heat nor of cold are ever experienced;[2] an advantage which it partly owes to its very splendid back-ground of mountains, rising one above another to the skies.
In winter, the thermometer of Fahrenheit never, in the centre of the town, falls under 60° in the shade; and, during summer, we have never seen it rise above 82°—its usual station being about 80° in well-aired apartments. The ordinary difference between the fall of the night and day thermometer is only from three to four degrees when the thermometer is placed inside a common barred window without glass, and opening into a veranda or corridor, such as is usual in Lima houses, for the sake of free ventilation.
In the sultry month of February, the thermometer, if placed on the open and flat-roofed house-top of mud plaster, rarely ascends above 112°; and at this season, when the hot noon-day air may be said to be fanned by the countless “gallinazas,” or vultures, that wheel and sweep in mid-sky, the canopy overhead is curtained with white light clouds that happily protect the city and its inhabitants from the too scorching beams of a tropical sun.
The hygrometer—Leslie’s—seldom indicates fewer than 12° or 15° in the wet season, and rarely exceeds 50° in the summer months.
The range of the barometer may be considered exceedingly limited; for, during the period of six months that we had the opportunity of observing barometrical variations, the mercury was commonly stationary at 29⁹⁄₁₀, and was not seen to fall below 29½ inches. Our means of observation began in September, and ended in March, and therefore included the transition from wet to dry weather—from the cool of winter to the highest heat of summer.
On one occasion when we observed the barometer fall from 29⁹⁄₁₀ to 29½ inches, there had been a smart earthquake, which, though it happened in the usually dry month of January, was preceded by a gentle shower of rain, at the appearance of which the people in the streets rejoiced, and called it “agua bendita,” holy water!—On another occasion, when we noticed a similar sinking of the mercury, the river Rimac showed by its turbid and swollen stream that it rained heavily in the higher mountains.[3] As for thunder and lightning, they have been so rarely witnessed in Lima, that there they may be said to be unknown. The above statements regarding the state of the atmosphere in Lima, it may be proper to mention, are founded on observations made by the writer at his residence in Archbishop’s Street, close to the cathedral and great square; but about a mile higher up, in a part of the city called the “Cercado,” the influence of the adjacent hills is more sensibly felt in the cooler evenings and mornings;—the night thermometer sometimes sinks down to 54° at the orchards of the Cercado, when in the centre of the city it falls within an open window or veranda not under 60° of Fahrenheit.
In Lima the four seasons are by no means distinctly marked: the dry summer weather frequently encroaches on the autumnal season, supposed to be humid; and again, the sort of weather and ailments most prevalent in winter are sometimes continued through a part of spring.
Hence, though the seasons are usually distinguished into spring, summer, autumn, and winter, it would be more truly characteristic to adhere to the usual division of the aborigines, into wet and dry.
In May the mornings become damp and hazy; and, from the beginning to the latter end of June, more or less drizzly. In October, again, the rains, which even in the months of July and August are seldom heavier than a Scotch mist, cannot be said to be altogether over, as the days are still more or less wet, or occasionally there may be seen to fall a light and passing shower; the evenings and mornings being damp and foggy.
In November and December, when the dry season may be reckoned to have set in, the weather, except for an interval at noon, is for the most part cool, bracing, and delightful: and April, too, is in this respect an agreeable month; at the latter end of which, the natives of the capital, being so exceedingly sensitive as to feel a difference of only two or three degrees betwixt the temperature of two succeeding days like an entire change of climate, are admonished, by a disagreeable change in their sensations, to protect themselves by warm apparel against the chills arising from an occasional north-west, or from the influence of the common south-west wind.
Throughout summer the wind blows almost uniformly, and in gentle breezes, from the south; but the prevailing wind for nine months in the year is the south-west, which, as it mingles with the warmer air along the arid coasts of Peru, tends to moderate the temperature of the atmosphere, and to produce the fog and “garua,” or thick Scotch mists, of which we have taken notice. During the dry season on the coast, the rains are experienced in the interior of the country and lofty range of the high table-lands—especially in the months of January, February, and March, when the rain that falls inland is often very heavy, and, on the most elevated regions, it is not unfrequently alternated with snow and hail. Thus, the dry season of the coast is the wet in the sierra, or mountain land, and vice versâ; and by merely ascending nigher to the sierra, or descending close to the sea, without any appreciable shifting of latitude, the favoured Peruvians may enjoy, by the short migration of a few leagues, a perpetual summer or an endless winter—if that, indeed, should be called winter, which is the season of natural growth and herbage.
Whoever, late in August, or early in September, has had the good fortune to visit Buena Vista in the enchanting vale of Lurin, six or seven leagues south of Lima, and for many years the hospitable mansion of that enlightened philanthropist, John Thomas, Esquire, must have observed that at this season, when the sandy downs of Lurin are yet moistened by slight rains and vapours, and garnished with flowers, such of the trees in the vale as are not evergreen, and depend not, like the vegetation of the neighbouring heights, on the periodical rain of the coast, impart a certain melancholy hue to the landscape, as they have already commenced to shed abroad their sear foliage; and here the music of the thicket, and booth on the height, are both in unison with feelings inspired by the yellow-leaved willows, when the “lomero,” or herdsman of the downs, tunes the “yaravi,” a mournful Indian strain, on his homely lute, and when the cuculi, in a plaintive note, responds from the guarango grove.
By the end of September, or beginning of spring, we find the trees in the great avenues around Lima beginning to bud; and the new leaves expand on them, as the grass dies on the adjacent hills, or is only seen to preserve its verdant appearance in the deep clefts and tops of the hilly recesses of Amencaes.[4] But no sooner dies the natural vegetation on the neighbouring heights, and nearer ridges and declivities in view of the city, than the fertile irrigated fields and enclosures throw forth the waving verdure of a hopeful harvest.
Barley, peas, and maize, sown during the wet or misty season, come to maturity through the joint operation of sun and artificial moisture after all natural or spontaneous vegetation has withered and disappeared from the now arid hills and sandy downs. The maize crops the farmers always harvest in the “menguante,” decrease of the moon; for it is a fact known to every husbandman, that if they collect the crop in the “creciente,” or increase of the moon, it will not keep free of moths for three months, even though allowed the advantage of being left in husk, in which state it is found to be least liable to damage.
In the valleys around Lima the agriculturist is very careful not to sow in the creciente, lest the seed should become so diseased and injured as never to yield a healthy crop. The same attention to lunar influence is bestowed by the wood-cutter, who knows that timber cut in the creciente soon decays, and on this account is not of use for constructing houses, or for any other permanent purpose; this is particularly the case with the willow and alder, as the writer had once occasion to know experimentally. Being disinclined to believe what he considered
