SANTIAGO. 239 
Monday, September 9th. — This morning, Dojia Rosario, Don Jose 
Antonio, Mr. de Roos, and I, attended by my peon Felipe, left the 
city on a little expedition to the hacienda of Don Justo Salinas, a son- 
in-law of my host. The road lies over the plain of Maypu, which is 
perfectly level between the city and the river, a distance of from twenty 
to thirty miles ; and this is the part newly fertilised by the Director’s 
canal, which waters the land formerly barren between the Mapocho 
and Maypu. The old.Spanish government had at one time the same 
object in view ; but after spending a large sum in preparation for the 
water-courses, nothing was done. The republic has laid out 25,000 
dollars on the main canal ; and by selling the land at a nominal valu- 
ation, a small annual quitrent only being payable, but requiring 500 
dollars for the water sufficient for a large farm, has repaid itself, or 
rather I should say, has raised a large sum, — near 200,000 dollars, I 
am told. The proprietor of each farm is bound to face his part of 
the canal with stone, and to maintain the water-course. The crops 
are looking very fine all along the plain ; the soil seems to me to be 
a light vegetable mould mixed with sand, and full of pebbles, as if it 
had been long under water : these pebbles are larger and more irre- 
gular on the plain than in the beds of the Mapocho or Maypu, ex- 
cepting where the latter, in the very midst of its channel, has lodged 
or uncovered rocks of considerable size: Midway between the city 
and the river, one of the little ranges of hills which cross the plain 
at right angles with the Andes, and seem to connect the inferior 
ridges of the Prado and others with the grand cordillera, runs across 
the road, sinking completely into the plain before it reaches the 
mountain. The pass between the last little cone of this range and 
the main part is called the Portesuelo of St. Austin de Fango; and 
just at its entrance there are @ few cottages, surrounded by some little 
orchards watered by an old cut from the Maypu, the sight of which 
was quite refreshing after a fifteen miles’ ride without a variety. 
Fifteen miles more, very nearly as monotonous, brought us to the ford 
of the rapid and turbid Maypu. This river flows out of the Andes, 
