Islands is the most highly prized, probably
for its extreme dryness, as the islands lie
within those latitudes in which—on that
coast—rain never falls.

And now, having anchored between the
north and middle islands, at the latter of
which we are to load, we will borrow the
boat and have a closer look at the huge muck
heap. Pulling half round the island to the
landing-place, we step ashore on a narrow
slip of sandy beach, which appears to be
cleared from the surrounding rocks for our
special convenience. Our appearance disturbs
thousands of the web-footed natives; these
thousands count with the old hands as nothing,
for they tell us that the shipping have driven
all the birds away. Sailing above us is a flock
of pelicans, hovering over the clear water like
hawks, which they resemble in their mode of
darting down or stooping on their prey. One
of these every instant drops from the flock as
though a ball had whistled through his brain,
but, after a plunge, he is soon seen rising to
the surface with a fish struggling in his capacious
pouch. Nearer to us, whirling round
our heads, are gannets, mews, mutton-birds,
divers, gulls, guano-birds, and a host of others
whose names are unknown to the vulgar. On
the detached rocks and the lower edge of the
island—member of a pretty numerous
convocation—stands the penguin, the parson-bird
of the sailor, whose good name is fairly earned
by his cut-away black coat, white tie, and
solemn demeanour. His short legs planted
far back, and his long body, do not fit him for
a walk ashore; but he will sit for hours on a
little rock just washed by the waves,
apparently in such deep absence of mind, that
passers-by are tempted to approach in hope
of catching him. Just as the boat nears him,
and a hand is already stretched out to grasp
his neck, away he goes head over heels in a
most irreverent and ridiculous manner, dives
under the boat, and shows his head again
about a quarter of a mile out at sea, where
the sailor may catch him who can, for he is
the fastest swimmer and the best diver that
ever dipped. Stepping over the mortal
remains of several sea-lions, in a few strides
we are on the guano, and at the next step, in
it up to our knees.

The guano is regularly stratified: the lower
strata are solidified by the weight of the
upper, and have acquired a dark red colour,
which becomes gradually lighter towards the
surface. On the surface it has a whitey-brown
light crust, very well baked by the sun; it
is a crust containing eggs, being completely
honeycombed by the birds, which scratch
deep, oblique holes in it to serve as nests,
wherein eggs, seldom more than two to each
nest, are deposited. These holes often
running into each other, form long galleries
with several entrances, and this mining system
is so elaborately carried out, that you can
scarcely put a foot on any part of the islands
without sinking to the knee and being tickled
with the sense of a hard beak digging into
your unprotected ankles. The egg-shells and
the bones and remains of fish brought by the
old birds for their young, must form a considerable
part of the substance of the guano,
which is thus in a great measure deposited
beneath the surface, and then thrown out by
the birds.

Having with some difficulty and the loss of
sundry inches of skin from our legs, reached
the summit of the island, we descend the side
leading to the diggings, and soon arrive at
the capital. It stands on a small space
cleared of guano, and consists of twenty or
thirty miserable shanties, each formed by
four slender posts driven into the ground,
with a flat roof of grass matting and pieces
of the same material stretched on three sides,
the other side being left open. Scarcely an
article of furniture do these town residences
contain, except a few rude benches, two or
three dirty cooking-pans, and some tin pots.
In one or two of the huts stands a small
"botiga" (a curiously shaped earthen jar)
filled with pisco, the spirit before mentioned.
The beds are simply thin mats, and only a
few of the inhabitants possess the usual red
blanket of the Peruvian.

Clothes seem to be almost discarded: an old
poncho and a ragged pair of calico trowsers,
form the dress of the aristocracy, but many
are all but entirely naked. One hut of
greater pretensions than the rest is occupied
by two English sailors, who have taken a
fancy to the island, and call themselves pilots,
as they profess to moor and take charge of
the ships during the business of loading.

Close to the town is a rough and steep path
to the sea, up which are brought the
provisions and water, the latter supplied by the
shipping in turns. On the north island is a
similar but larger collection of dwellings ,
there, too, resides the commandant, a military-looking
old gentleman—one of the high
aristocracy, for he lives in a house that has
a window in it. On the north island are
about two hundred men, on the middle about
eighty, usually; the number varying with the
demand for guano. These people are nearly
all Indians, and appear to be happy enough in
their dusty territory; though everything
about them, eatables included, is impregnated
with guano. They earn plenty of
money, live tolerably well according to their
taste, work in the night and smoke or sleep
all day. To get rid of their wages they take
an occasional trip to Pisco, where they spend
their money much in the same fashion as
sailors, substituting pisco and chicha (maize
beer) for rum and ale, and the guitar and
fandango for the fiddle and hornpipe.

In getting the guano, the diggers have
commenced originally at the edge of the
precipitous side of the island, and worked
inland; so that the cutting now appears like
the face of a quarry worked into the side of
a hill. The steep, perpendicular face of the