The Aleutian Islands are thinly inhabited, and the Aleuts—a harmless, strong, half-Esquimaux kind of people—often leave them. They make very good sailors. The few Russian settlements, among the principal of which was Kodiak, were simply trading posts and fur-sealing establishments. Since the purchase of Alaska, the United States Government has leased them to a large mercantile firm, which makes profits from the sealing. North of the islands, after steaming over a considerable waste of waters, the only settlements on the coast of the whole country are Michaelovski and Unalachleet, both trading posts; while south of the former are the many mouths of one of the grandest rivers in the world, the Yukon, almost a rival to the Amazon and Mississippi. That section of the country lying round the great river is tolerably rich in fur-bearing animals, including sable, mink, black and silver-grey fox, beaver, and bear. The moose and deer abound; while fish, more especially salmon, is very abundant. Salmon, thirty or more pounds in weight, caught in the Yukon, has often been purchased for a half-ounce of tobacco or four or five common sewing-needles. The coasts of Northern Alaska are rugged and uninviting, and not remarkable for the grand scenery common in the southern division.
Leaving the north, and passing the leading station already described on Vancouver Island, the sailor has the whole Pacific coasts of both Americas, clear to Cape Horn, before him as part of the Pacific Station. There is Mexico, with its port of Acapulco; New Granada, with the important sea-port town of Panama; Callao, Peru; and Valparaiso, in Chili: at any of which H.B.M. vessels are commonly to be found. Panama is, indeed, a very important central point, as officers of the Royal Navy, ordered to join vessels elsewhere, usually leave their own at Panama, cross the isthmus, and take steamer to England, viâ St. Thomas’s, or by way of New York, thence crossing to Liverpool. The [pg 172]railroad—which, during its construction, is said to have cost the life of a Chinaman for every sleeper laid down, so fatal was the fever of the isthmus—has the dearest fares of any in the world. The distance from Panama across to Aspinwall (Colon) is about forty miles, and the fare is £5! An immense amount of travel crosses the isthmus; and it is only matter of time for a canal to be cut through some portion of it, or the isthmus of Darien adjoining. Steamers of the largest kind are arriving daily at Panama from San Francisco, Mexico, and all parts of South America; while, on the Atlantic side, they come from Southampton, Liverpool, New York and other American ports.
Southward, with favouring breezes and usually calm seas, one soon arrives at Callao—a place which may yet become a great city, but which, like everything else in Peru, has been retarded by interminable dissensions in regard to government and politics, and by the ignorance and bigotry of the masses. Peru had an advantage over Chili in wealth and importance at one time; but, while the latter country is to-day one of the most satisfactory and stable republics in the world, one never knows what is going to happen next in Peru. Hence distrust in commerce; and hence the sailor will not find a tithe of the shipping in Callao Roads that he will at the wharfs of Valparaiso. Lima, the capital, is situated behind Callao, at a distance of about six miles. When seen from the deck of a vessel in the roadstead, the city has a most imposing appearance, with its innumerable domes and spires rising from so elevated a situation, and wearing a strange and rather Moorish air. On nearing the city, everything speaks eloquently of past splendour and present wretchedness; public walks and elegant ornamental stone seats choked with rank weeds, and all in ruins. You enter Lima through a triumphal arch, tawdry and tumbling to pieces; you find that the churches, which looked so imposing in the distance, are principally stucco and tinsel. Lima has a novelty in one of its theatres. It is built in a long oval, the stage occupying nearly the whole of one long side, all the boxes being thus comparatively near it. The pit audience is men, and the galleries, women; and all help to fill the house, between the acts, with tobacco smoke from their cigarettes.
The sailor, who has been much among Spanish people or those of Spanish origin, will find the Chilians the finest race in South America. Valparaiso Harbour is always full of shipping, its wharfs piled with goods; while the railroad and old road to the capital, Santiago, bears evidence of the material prosperity of the country. The country roads are crowded with convoys of pack-mules, while the ships are loading up with wheat, wines, and minerals, the produce of the country. Travelling is free everywhere. Libraries, schools, literary, scientific, and artistic societies abound; the best newspapers published in South America are issued there. Santiago, the city of marble palaces—where even horses are kept in marble stalls—is one of the most delightful places in the world. The lofty Andes tower to the skies in the distance, forming a grand background, and a fruitful, cultivated, and peaceful country surrounds it.
Valparaiso—the “Vale of Paradise”—was probably named by the early Spanish adventurers in this glowing style because any coast whatever is delightful to the mariner who has been long at sea. Otherwise, the title would seem to be of an exaggerated nature. The bay is of a semi-circular form, surrounded by steep hills, rising to the height of near 2,000 feet, sparingly covered with stunted shrubs and thinly-strewed grass. The town is [pg 174]built along a narrow strip of land, between the cliffs and the sea; and, as this space is limited in extent, the buildings have straggled up the sides and bottoms of the numerous ravines which intersect the hills. A suburb—the Almendral, or Almond Grove—much larger than the town proper, spreads over a low sandy plain, about half a mile broad, bordering the bay. In the summer months—i.e., November to March—the anchorage is safe and pleasant; but in the wintry months, notably June and July, gales are prevalent from the north, in which direction it is open to the sea.
THE PORT OF VALPARAISO.
Captain Basil Hall, R.N., gave some interesting accounts of life in Chili in his published Journal,[110] and they are substantially true at the present day. He reached Valparaiso at Christmas, which corresponds in climate to our midsummer. Crowds thronged the streets to enjoy the cool air in the moonlight; groups of merry dancers were seen at every turn; singers were bawling out old Spanish romances to the tinkle of the guitar; wild-looking horsemen pranced about in all directions, stopping to talk with their friends, but never dismounting; and harmless bull-fights, in which the bulls were only teased, not killed, served to make the people laugh. The whole town was en carnival. “In the course of the first evening of these festivities,” says Captain Hall, “while I was rambling about the streets with one of the officers of the ship, our attention was attracted, by the sound of music, to a crowded pulperia, or drinking-house. We accordingly entered, and the people immediately made way and gave us seats at the upper end of the apartment. We had not sat long before we were startled by the loud clatter of horses’ feet, and in the next instant, a mounted peasant dashed into the company, followed by another horseman, who, as soon as he reached the centre of the room, adroitly wheeled his horse round, and the two strangers remained side by side, with their horses’ heads in opposite directions. Neither the people of the house, nor the guests, nor the musicians, appeared in the least surprised by this visit; the lady who was playing the harp merely stopped for a moment to remove the end of the instrument a few inches further from the horses’ feet, and the music and conversation went on as before. The visitors called for a glass of spirits, and having chatted with their friends around them for two minutes, stooped their heads to avoid the cross-piece of the doorway, and putting spurs to their horses’ sides, shot into the streets as rapidly as they had entered; the whole being done without discomposing the company in the smallest degree.” The same writer speaks of the common people as generally very temperate, while their frankness and hospitality charmed him. Brick-makers, day-labourers, and washerwomen invited him and friends into their homes, and their first anxiety was that the sailors might “feel themselves in their own house;” then some offering of milk, bread, or spirits. However wretched the cottage or poor the fare, the deficiency was never made more apparent by apologies; with untaught politeness, the best they had was placed before them, graced with a hearty welcome. Their houses are of adobes, i.e., sun-dried bricks, thatched in with broad palm-leaves, the ends of which, by overhanging the walls, afford shade from the scorching sun and shelter from the rain. Their mud floors have a portion raised seven or eight inches above the level of the rest, and covered with matting, which forms the couch for the invariable siesta. In the cottages Hall saw young women grinding baked corn in [pg 175]almost Scriptural mills of two stones each. From the coarse flour obtained, the poor people make a drink called ulpa. In the better class of houses he was offered Paraguay tea, or mattee, an infusion of a South American herb. The natives drink it almost boiling hot. It is drawn up into the mouth through a silver pipe: however numerous the company, all use the same tube, and to decline on this account is thought the height of rudeness. The people of Chili, generally, are polite to a degree; and Jack ashore will have no cause to complain, provided he is as polished as are they. He generally contrives, however, to make himself popular, while his little escapades of wildness are looked upon in the light of long pent-up nature bursting forth.