January 23rd.--We rose early in the morning, and reached the pretty
quiet town of Castro by two o'clock. The old governor had died since
our last visit, and a Chileno was acting in his place. We had a letter
of introduction to Don Pedro, whom we found exceedingly hospitable and
kind, and more disinterested than is usual on this side of the
continent. The next day Don Pedro procured us fresh horses, and
offered to accompany us himself. We proceeded to the south--generally
following the coast, and passing through several hamlets, each with its
large barn-like chapel built of wood. At Vilipilli, Don Pedro asked
the commandant to give us a guide to Cucao. The old gentleman offered
to come himself; but for a long time nothing would persuade him that
two Englishmen really wished to go to such an out-of-the-way place as
Cucao. We were thus accompanied by the two greatest aristocrats in the
country, as was plainly to be seen in the manner of all the poorer
Indians towards them. At Chonchi we struck across the island,
following intricate winding paths, sometimes passing through
magnificent forests, and sometimes through pretty cleared spots,
abounding with corn and potato crops. This undulating woody country,
partially cultivated, reminded me of the wilder parts of England, and
therefore had to my eye a most fascinating aspect. At Vilinco, which
is situated on the borders of the lake of Cucao, only a few fields were
cleared; and all the inhabitants appeared to be Indians. This lake is
twelve miles long, and runs in an east and west direction. From local
circumstances, the sea-breeze blows very regularly during the day, and
during the night it falls calm: this has given rise to strange
exaggerations, for the phenomenon, as described to us at S. Carlos, was
quite a prodigy.
The road to Cucao was so very bad that we determined to embark in a
_periagua_. The commandant, in the most authoritative manner, ordered
six Indians to get ready to pull us over, without deigning to tell them
whether they would be paid. The periagua is a strange rough boat, but
the crew were still stranger: I doubt if six uglier little men ever got
into a boat together. They pulled, however, very well and cheerfully.
The stroke-oarsman gabbled Indian, and uttered strange cries, much
after the fashion of a pig-driver driving his pigs. We started with a
light breeze against us, but yet reached the Capella de Cucao before it
was late. The country on each side of the lake was one unbroken
forest. In the same periagua with us, a cow was embarked. To get so
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