Their remains were buried in one large grave, in the cemetery of the Recoleta, and the spot is now marked by a square piece of ground, full of bright flowers, enclosed by iron railings, almost hidden by the creepers that entwine them, and shaded by willows, orange-trees, cypresses, and pomegranates.  In the centre is a large cross, and on either side of the iron railings there is a marble tablet with the simple but touching inscription, in Spanish—­

’Incendio de la Iglesia
  de la Compania,
8 de Diciembre, 1863. 
Restos de las Victimas;
  2000, mas o menos.’

(Burning of the Church of the Compania, December 8th, 1863
Remains of the victims. 2,000, more or less.)

Almost every household in Santiago had lost one of its members.  One lovely girl of seventeen was pulled out through the roof and taken to Madame Cousino’s residence, where she lay for nearly a fortnight.  She suffered the greatest agonies, but was sensible to the last, and gave a graphic account of the whole harrowing scene.  The site of the church, hallowed by such sad memories, has never been built upon, but is preserved as an open space, surrounded by a strip of garden, and having in its centre a finely carved monument.

The Houses of Congress were the next thing we went to see, after which we drove through a great part of the city and over a handsome bridge with statues and small niches on either side.  Beneath it, however, there is little more than a dry torrent bed; and it is said that an American, when visiting this spot with a Santiago friend, who was showing him round, remarked, ’I guess you ought either to buy a river or sell this here bridge.’  We also went to the Church of La Recoleta.  From the church we went to the cemetery of the same name, which is prettily laid out, and well stocked with flowers and trees.

It being now past eleven o’clock, we began to think about breakfast, and accordingly returned to the hotel, where I was disappointed to find no news from Tom and no answer to the telegram I sent last night.

At one o’clock we started again, and had a pleasant but rather dusty drive of eight miles to Macul, the stud-farm established by the late Don Luis Cousino.

We had some luncheon at Mr. Canning’s house, in a room that had recently been split from top to bottom by an earthquake, and afterwards sat in the verandah to see the horses and some of the cattle, which were brought round for our inspection.  Amongst them were Fanfaron, Fandango, and other beautiful thoroughbreds, three fine Cleveland coach-horses, Suffolk cart-horses and percherons, and some of the young stock.  We saw only a few of the beasts, as at this time they are away feeding on the hills, but I believe they are as good as the horses.  Mr. Long had arranged for us all to ride round the farm, and I was mounted on a lovely chestnut mare, sixteen hands high, daughter of Fanfaron, and niece to Kettledrum.  I should have liked to have bought her and sent her home, but she was not for sale, though her value was 400_l_.  English horses here are as dear, in proportion, as native horses are cheap.  The latter may be bought for from twenty to sixty dollars apiece; and some of them make capital little hacks.