In summer everybody
rushes out into the street, no matter what hour of the day or night it
may be, as soon as the first symptoms of an earthquake are felt; but
during the winter, when the shocks are never so severe, the alarm
caused is not so great. The old town was about two miles distant from
the present site, near a place now called Penco, but after being
demolished in the ordinary way, an immense wave rolled up and
completely destroyed all traces of its existence.
We drove out to Puchacai, Mr. Mackay's hacienda, a pretty little
thatched cottage, surrounded by a verandah, in the midst of a garden,
where laburnums and lilacs bloom side by side with orange-trees and
pomegranates. Round the garden are groves of shady English oaks (the
first we have seen since leaving home) and Norfolk Island pines, the
effect of the whole scene being strangely suggestive of the idea that
a charming little bit of English rural scenery has in some mysterious
manner been transported to this out-of-the-way spot in Chili. The
interior of the house, which is simply but tastefully furnished, and
at the time of our visit was full of fresh flowers, arranged with an
artistic eye to colour, bears the same indescribable _homelike_ air.
We were kindly received and regaled with luncheon, including, amongst
other good things, fried _pejerey_ (king of fish), deservedly so
called.
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