gelatinous particles is in an impure state, and that the luminous
appearance in all common cases is produced by the agitation of the
fluid in contact with the atmosphere, I am inclined to consider that
the phosphorescence is the result of the decomposition of the organic
particles, by which process (one is tempted almost to call it a kind of
respiration) the ocean becomes purified.
December 23rd.--We arrived at Port Desire, situated in lat. 47 degs.,
on the coast of Patagonia. The creek runs for about twenty miles
inland, with an irregular width. The Beagle anchored a few miles
within the entrance, in front of the ruins of an old Spanish settlement.
The same evening I went on shore. The first landing in any new country
is very interesting, and especially when, as in this case, the whole
aspect bears the stamp of a marked and individual character. At the
height of between two and three hundred feet above some masses of
porphyry a wide plain extends, which is truly characteristic of
Patagonia. The surface is quite level, and is composed of well-rounded
shingle mixed with a whitish earth. Here and there scattered tufts of
brown wiry grass are supported, and still more rarely, some low thorny
bushes. The weather is dry and pleasant, and the fine blue sky is but
seldom obscured. When standing in the middle of one of these desert
plains and looking towards the interior, the view is generally bounded
by the escarpment of another plain, rather higher, but equally level
and desolate; and in every other direction the horizon is indistinct
from the trembling mirage which seems to rise from the heated surface.
In such a country the fate of the Spanish settlement was soon decided;
the dryness of the climate during the greater part of the year, and the
occasional hostile attacks of the wandering Indians, compelled the
colonists to desert their half-finished buildings. The style, however,
in which they were commenced shows the strong and liberal hand of Spain
in the old time. The result of all the attempts to colonize this side
of America south of 41 degs., has been miserable. Port Famine
expresses by its name the lingering and extreme sufferings of several
hundred wretched people, of whom one alone survived to relate their
misfortunes. At St. Joseph's Bay, on the coast of Patagonia, a small
settlement was made; but during one Sunday the Indians made an attack
and massacred the whole party, excepting two men, who remained captives
during many years. At the Rio Negro I conversed with one of these men,
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