It is a very instructive book, containing much curious matter, is worthy of better adornment in the form of itspresentation to the world, and ought to have a title more suggestiveof its antiquarian lore. I should call it “Fossil Remains of OldMaryland Law, with Notes by an Antiquary.”
It fell into my hands by a purchase at auction, some twenty yearsafter I had abandoned the Legend of the Cave and the Hawks as ahopeless quest. In running over its contents, I found that a ColonelGeorge Talbot was once the Surveyor-General of Maryland; and in twoshort marginal notes (the substance of which I afterwards found inChalmers’s “Annals”) it was said that “he was noted in the Provincefor the murder committed by him on Christopher Rousby, Collector ofthe Customs,”–the second note adding that this was done on board avessel in Patuxent River, and that Talbot “was conveyed for trial toVirginia, from whence he made his escape; and after being retaken,and” (as the author expresses his belief) “tried and convicted, wasfinally pardoned by King James the Second.”
These marginal notes, though bringing no clear support to the storyof the Cave, were embers, however, of some old fire not entirelyextinct,–which emitted a feeble gleam upon the path of inquiry. Thename of the chief actor coincided with that of the tradition; thetime, that of James the Second, conformed pretty nearly to myconjecture derived from the age of the hawks; and the nature of thecrime was what I had imagined. There was just enough in this briefrevelation to revive the desire for further investigation. But wherewas the search to be made? No history that I was aware of, no sketchof our early time that I had ever seen, nothing in print was known tobe in existence that could furnish a clue to the story of theOutlaw’s Cave.
And here the matter rested again for some years. But after thislapse, chance brought me upon the highway of further development,which led me in due time to a strange realization of the old proverbthat “Murder will out,”–though, in this case, its discovery couldbring no other retribution than the settlement of an historicaldoubt, and give some posthumous fame to the subject of thedisclosure.
In the month of May, 1836, I had a motive and an opportunity to makea visit to the County of St. Mary’s. I had been looking into thehistories of our early Maryland settlement, as they are recounted inthe pages of Bozman, Chalmers, and Grahame, and found there someinducements to persuade me to make an exploration of the whereaboutsof the old city which was planted near the Potomac by our firstpilgrims. Through the kindness of a much valued friend, whoseacquirements and taste–both highly cultivated–rendered him a mosteffective auxiliary in my enterprise, I was supplied with anopportunity to spend a week under the hospitable roof of Mr.Carberry, the worthy Superior of the Jesuit House of St. Inigoes onthe St. Mary’s River, within a short distance of the plain of theancient city.
Mr. Campbell and myself were invited by our host to meet him, on anappointed day, at the Church of St. Nicholas on the Patuxent, nearthe landing at Town Creek, and we were to travel from there across toSt. Inigoes in his carriage,–a distance of about fifteen miles.
Upon our arrival at St. Nicholas, we found a full day at our disposalto look around the neighborhood, which, being the scene of muchhistorical interest in our older annals, presented a pleasanttemptation to our excursion. Our friendly guide, Mr. Carberry, tookus to Drum Point, the southern headland of the Patuxent at itsentrance into Chesapeake Bay. Here was, at that time, and perhapsstill is, the residence of the Carroll family, whose ancestorsoccupied the estate for many generations. The dwelling-house was acomfortable wooden building of the style and character of the presentday, with all the appurtenances proper to a convenient and pleasantcountry homestead. Immediately in its neighborhood–so nearthat it might be said to be almost within the curtilage of thedwelling–stood an old brick ruin of what had apparently been asubstantial mansion-house. Such a monument of the past as this, ofcourse, could not escape our special attention, and, upon inquiry, wewere told that it was once, a long time ago, the family home of theRousbys, the ancestors of the present occupants of the estate; thatseveral generations of this family, dating back to the early days of theProvince, had resided in it; and that when it had fallen into decay,the modern building was erected, and the old one suffered to crumbleinto the condition in which we saw it. I could easily understand andappreciate the sentiment that preserved it untouched as part andparcel in the family associations of the place, and as a relic of theolden time which no one was willing to disturb.
The mention of the name of the Rousbys, here on the Patuxent River,was a sudden and vivid remembrancer to me of the old story of Talbot,and gave new encouragement to an almost abandoned hope of solvingthis mystery.
CHAPTER III.
A GRAVEYARD AND AN EPITAPH.
Within a short distance of this spot, perhaps not a mile from DrumPoint, there is a small creek which opens into the river and bearsthe name of Mattapony. In early times there was a notable fort here,and connected with it a stately mansion, built by Charles Calvert,Lord Baltimore, for his own occasional residence. The fort andmansion are often mentioned in the Provincial records as the placewhere the Council sometimes met to transact business; and accordinglymany public acts are dated from Mattapony.
Calvert was doubtless attracted to this spot by the pleasant sceneryof the headland which here looks out upon the noble water-view of theChesapeake, and by its breezy position as an agreeable refuge fromthe heats of summer.
Our party, therefore, determined to set out upon a search for somerelics of the mansion and fort; and as a guide in this enterprise, weengaged an old negro who seemed to have a fair claim in his ownconceit to be regarded both as the Solomon and the Methuselah of theplantation. He was a wrinkled, wise-looking old fellow, with a wateryeye and a grizzled head, and might, perhaps, have been about eighty;but, from his own account, he left us to infer that he was not muchbehind that great patriarch of Scripture whose years are described asone hundred and threescore and fifteen.
Finding that he was native to the estate, and had lived here all hislife, we interrogated him with some confidence in his ability tocontribute something useful to the issue of our pursuit. Amongst allthe Solomons of this world, there is not one so consciously impressedwith the unquestionable verity of his wisdom and the intensity of hisknowledge as one of these veterans of an old family-estate upon whichhe has spent his life. He is always an aristocrat of the mostuncompromising stamp, and has a contemptuous disdain and intolerancefor every form of democracy. Poor white people have not the slightestchance of his good opinion. The pedigree and history of his master’sfamily possess an epic dignity in his imagination; and the liberty hetakes with facts concerning them amounts to a grand poeticalhyperbole. He represents their wealth in past times to have amountedto something of a fabulous superfluity, and their magnificence sounbounded, that he stares at you in describing it, as if its excessastonished himself.
When we now questioned our venerable conductor, to learn what hecould tell us of the old Proprietary Mansion, he said, in his way, he”membered it, as if it was built only yesterday: he was fotch up sonear it, that he could see it now as if it was standing before him:if _he_ couldn’t pint out where it stood, it was time for him to giveup: it was a mighty grand brick house,”–laying an emphasis on_brick_, as a special point in his notion of its grandeur; and thenhe added, with all the gravity of which his very solemn visage was acopious index, that “Old Master Baltimore, who built it, was a realfine gentleman. He knowed him so well! He never gave anything butgold to the servants for tending on him. Bless you! he wouldn’t eventhink of silver! Many a time has he given me a guinea for waiting onhim.”
This account of Old Master Baltimore, and his magnificent contempt ofsilver, and the intimacy of our patriarch with him, rather startledus, and I began to fear that the story of the house might turn out tobe as big a lie as the acquaintance with the Lord Proprietary,–forMaster Baltimore had then been dead just one hundred and twenty-oneyears. But we went on with him, and were pleasantly disappointed whenhe brought us upon a hill that sloped down to the Mattapony, andthere traced out for us, by the depression of the earth, the visiblelines of an old foundation of a large building, the former existenceof which was further demonstrated by some scattered remains of theold imported brick of the edifice which were imbedded in the soil.
This spot had a fine outlook upon the Bay, and every advantage oflocality to recommend its choice for a domestic establishment. Wecould find nothing to indicate the old fort except the commandingcharacter of the hill with reference to the river, which mightwarrant a conjecture as to its position. I believe that the house wasincluded within the ramparts of the fortification, as I perceive insome of the old records that the fortification itself was called theMattapony House, which was once beleaguered and taken by Captain JohnCoode and Colonel Jowles.
After we had examined all that was to be seen here, our next point ofinterest was a graveyard, which, we had been informed by some of thehousehold at Mrs. Carroll’s, had been preserved upon the estate froma very early period. Our old gossip professed to know all about this,from its very first establishment. It was in another direction fromthe mansion-house, about a mile distant, on the margin of an inletfrom the Bay, called Harper’s Creek; and thither we accordingly went.Before we reached the spot, the old negro stopped at a cabin that layin our route and provided himself with a hoe, which, borne upon hisshoulder, gave a somewhat mysterious significance to the office hehad assumed. He did not explain the purpose of this equipment to us,and we forbore to question him. After descending to the level of thetide and passing through some thickets of wild shrubbery, we arrivedupon a grassy plain immediately upon the border of the creek; andthere, in a quiet, sequestered nook of rural landscape, the smoothand sluggish little inlet begirt with waterlilies and reflecting woodand sky and the green hill-side upon its surface, was the chosenresting-place of the departed generations of the family. A few simpletombstones–some of them darkened by the touch of Time–lay clusteredwithin an old inclosure. The brief memorials engraved upon them toldus how inveterately Death had pursued his ancient vocation andgathered in his relentless tribute from young and old in times pastas he does to-day.
Here was a theme for a sermon from the patriarch, who now leaned uponhis hoe and shook his head with a slow ruminative motion, as if hehoped by this action to disengage from it some profound moralreflections, and then began to enumerate how many of these goodpeople he had helped to bury; but before he had well begun thisdiscourse we had turned away and were about leaving the place, whenhe recalled us by saying, “I have got one tombstone yet to show you,as soon as I can clear it off with the hoe: it belongs to old MasterRousby, who was stobbed aboard ship, and is, besides that, thegrandest tombstone here.”
Here was another of those flashes of light by which my story seemedto be preordained to a prosperous end. We eagerly encouraged the oldman to this task, and he went to work in removing the green sod froma large slab which had been entirely hidden under the soil, and in abrief space revealed to us a tombstone fully six feet long, uponwhich we were able to read, in plainly chiselled letters, aninscription surmounted by a carved heraldic shield with its properquarterings and devices.
Our group at this moment would have made a fine artistic study. Therewas this quiet landscape around us garnished with the beauty of May;there were the rustic tombs,–the old negro, with a countenancesurcharged with the expression of solemn satisfaction at hisemployment, bending his aged figure over the broad, carved stone, andscraping from it the grass which had not been disturbed perhaps for aquarter of a century; and there was our own party looking on witheager interest, as the inscription every moment became more legible.That interest may be imagined, on reading the inscription, which,when brought to the full light of day, revealed these words:–
“Here lyeth the body of Xph’r Rousbie Esquire, who was taken out ofthis world by a violent death received on board his Majesty’s shipThe Quaker Ketch, Capt. Tho’s. Allen Commander, the last day ofOctober 1684. And also of Mr. John Rousbie, his brother, who departedthis naturall life on board the Ship Baltimore, being arrived inPatuxen the first day of February 1685.”
This was a picturesque incident in its scenic character, but a stillmore engaging one as an occurrence in the path of discovery. Here wasmost unexpectedly brought to view a new link in the chain of ourstory. It was a pleasant surprise to have such a fact as thisbreaking upon us from an ambuscade, to help out a half-formednarrative which I had feared was hopeless of completion. Theinscription is a necessary supplement to the marginal notes. As aninsulated monument, it is meagre in its detail, and stands in need ofexplanation. It does not describe Christopher Rousby as the Collectorof the Customs; it does not affirm that he was murdered; it makes noallusion to Talbot: but it gives the name of the ship and itscommander, along with the date of the death. “The Landholder’sAssistant” supplies all the facts that are wanting in this briefstatement. These two memorials help each other and enlarge the commoncurrent of testimony, like two confluent streams coming from oppositesources. From the two together we learn, that Colonel Talbot, theSurveyor-General in 1684, killed Mr. Christopher Rousby on board of aship of war; and we are apprised that Rousby was a gentleman of rankand authority in the Province, holding an important commission fromthe King. The place at which the tomb is found shows also that he wasthe owner of a considerable landed estate and a near neighbor of theLord Proprietary.
The story, however, requires much more circumstance to give it theinterest which we hope yet to find in it.
CHAPTER IV.
DRYASDUST.
I have now to change my scene, and to pursue in another quarter moreimportant investigations. I break off with some regret from my visitto St. Mary’s, because it had many attractions of its own, whichwould form a pleasant theme for description. Some of the results ofthat visit I embodied, several years ago, in a fiction which I fearthe world will hardly credit me in saying has as much history in itas invention. [Footnote: _Rob of the Bowl._] But my journey had nofurther connection with the particular subject before us, after thediscovery of the tomb. I therefore take my leave, at this juncture,of good Father Carberry and St. Inigoes, and also of my companion inthis adventure,–pausing but a moment to say, that the Superior ofSt. Inigoes has, some time since, gone to his account, and that I amnot willing to part with him in my narrative without a gratefulrecognition of the esteem I have for his memory, in which I sharewith all who were acquainted with him,–an esteem won by the simple,unostentatious merit of his character, his liberal religioussentiment, and his frank and cordial hospitality, which had the bestflavor of the good old housekeeping of St. Mary’s,–a commendationwhich every one conversant with that section of Maryland willunderstand to imply what the Irish schoolmaster, in one of Carleton’stales, calls “the hoighth of good living.”
After my return from this excursion, I resolved to make a searchamongst the records at Annapolis, to ascertain whether any memorialsexisted which might furnish further information in regard to theevents to which I had now got a clue. And here comes in a morsel ofofficial history which will excuse a short digression.
The Legislature had, about this time, directed the Executive to causea search through the government buildings, with a view to thediscovery of old state papers and manuscripts, which, having beenconsigned, time out of mind, to neglect and oblivion, were known onlyas heaps of promiscuous lumber, strewed over the floors of dampcellars and unfrequented garrets. The careless and unappreciativespirit of the proper guardians of our archives in past years hadsuffered many precious folios and separate papers to be disposed ofas mere rubbish; and the not less culpable and incurious indolence oftheir successors, in our own times, had treated them with equalindifference. The attention of the Legislature was awakened to theimportance of this investigation by Mr. David Ridgely, the StateLibrarian, and he was appointed by the Executive to undertake thelabor. Never did beagle pursue the chase with more steady foot thandid this eager and laudable champion of the ancient fame of the Statehis chosen duty. He rummaged old cuddies, closets, vaults, andcocklofts, and pried into every recess of the Chancery, the LandOffice, the Committee-Rooms, and the Council-Chamber, searchingup-stairs and down-stairs, wherever a truant paper was supposed to lurk.Groping with lantern in hand and body bent, he made his way throughnarrow passages, startling the rats from their fastnesses, where theyhad been intrenched for half a century, and breaking down the thickdrapery–the Gobelin tapestry I might call it–woven by successivefamilies of spiders from the days of the last Lord Proprietary. Thevery dust which was kicked up in Annapolis, as the old newspaperstell us, at the passage of the Stamp Act, was once more set in motionby the foot of this resolute and unwearied invader, and everywheresomething was found to reward the toil of the search. But the mostvaluable discoveries were made in the old Treasury,–made, alas! toolate for the full fruition of the Librarian’s labor. The Treasury,one of the most venerable structures in the State, is that lowly andquaint little edifice of brick which the visitor never fails tonotice within the inclosure of the State-House grounds. It wasoriginally designed for the accommodation of the Governor and hisCouncil, and for the sessions of the Upper House of the ProvincialLegislature; the Burgesses, at that time, holding their meetings inthe old State House, which occupied the site of the present moreimposing and capacious building: this latter having been erectedabout the year 1772.
In some dark recess of the Treasury Office Mr. Ridgely struck upon amine of wealth, in a mouldy wooden box, which was found to containmany missing Journals of the Provincial Council, some of which boredate as far back as 1666. It was a sad disappointment to him, whenhis eye was greeted with the sight of these folios, to see themcrumble, like the famed Dead-Sea Apples, into powder, upon everyattempt, to handle them. The form of the books was preserved and thecharacter of the writing distinctly legible, but, from the effect ofmoisture, the paper had lost its cohesion, and fell to pieces atevery effort to turn a leaf. I was myself a witness to thistantalizing deception, and, with the Librarian, read enough to showthe date and character of the perishing record.
Through this accident, the Council Journals of a most interestingperiod, embracing several years between 1666 and 1692, wereirretrievably lost. Others sustained less damage, and were partiallypreserved. Some few survived in good condition.
Our Maryland historians have had frequent occasion to complain of thedeficiency of material for the illustration of several epochs in theProvincial existence, owing to the loss of official records. Noresearch has supplied the means of describing the public events ofthese intervals, beyond some few inferences, which are onlysufficient to show that these silent periods were marked by incidentsof important interest. The most striking of these privations occurstowards the end of the seventeenth century,–precisely that period towhich the crumbling folios had reference.
This loss of the records has been ascribed to their frequent removalsduring periods of trouble, and to the havoc made in the rage ofparties. The Province, like the great world from which it was so farremote, was distracted with what are sometimes called religiousquarrels, but what I prefer to describe as exceedingly irreligiousquarrels, carried on by men professing to be Christians, andgenerated in the heat of disputes concerning the word of the greatTeacher of “peace on earth.” Out of these grew any quantity ofrebellion and war, tinctured with their usual flavor of persecution.For at this era the wars of Christendom were chiefly waged in supportof dogmas and creeds, and took a savage hue from the fury ofreligious bigotry. The wars of Europe since that period have arisenupon commercial and political questions, and religion has been freedfrom the dishonor of promoting these bloody strifes so incompatiblewith its high office. In these quarrels of the fathers of Maryland,the archives of government were seized more than once, and, perhaps,destroyed. On one occasion they were burnt. And so, amongst all thesedisorders, it has fallen out that the full development of the Statehistory has been rendered impossible.
Mr. Ridgely’s foray, however, into this domain of dust and darknesshas happily rescued much useful matter to aid the future chroniclerin supplying the deficiency of past attempts to trace the path of ourmodest annals through these silent intervals. Incidentally theLibrarian’s work has assisted my story; for, although the recoveredfolios did not touch the exact year of my search, the pursuit of themled me to what I may claim as a discovery of my own. I found what Icould not say was wholly lost, but what, until Mr. Ridgely’sexploration drew attention to the records, might have been said tohave shrunk from all notice of the present generation, and to be fastfalling a prey to the tooth of time and the visit of the worm. A fewyears more of neglect and the ill usage of careless custodians, andit would have passed to that depository of things lost upon theearth, which fable has placed in the moon. It was my good fortune, inthis upturning of relics of the past, to lay my hand upon a sadlytattered and decayed MS. volume,–unbound, without beginning andwithout end, coated with the dust which had been gathering upon itever since Chalmers and Bozman had done their work of deciphering itsquaint old text. It lay in the state of rubbish, in an old case,where many documents of the same kind had been consigned to the sameoblivion, and with it had been sleeping for as many years, perhaps,as the Beauty in the fairy tale,–happily destined, at last, to beawakened, as she was, by one who by his perseverance had won a titleto herself.
This manuscript was now, in this day of revival, brought out from itshiding-place, and, upon inspection, proved to be a Journal of theCouncil for some few years including the very date of the death ofthe Collector on the Patuxent.
The record was complete, neatly written in the peculiar manuscriptcharacter of that age, so difficult for a modern reader to decipher.Its queer old-fashioned spelling suggested the idea that ourancestors considered both consonants and vowels too weak to standalone, and that therefore they doubled them as often as they could;and there was such an actual identification of its antiquity in itsexterior aspect as well as in its forms of speech, that, when I havesat poring over it alone at midnight in my study, as I have oftendone, I have turned my eye over my shoulder, expecting to see theapparition of Master John Llewellin–who subscribes his name with avery energetic nourish as Clerk of the Council–standing behind me ingrave-colored doublet and trunk-hose, with a starched ruff, awide-awake hat drawn over his brow, and a short black feather fallingamongst the locks of his dark hair towards his back.
This Journal lets in a blaze of light upon the old tradition ofTalbot’s Cave. The narrative of what it discloses it is now mypurpose to make as brief as is compatible with common justice to mysubject.
CHAPTER V.
A FRAGMENT OF HISTORY.
Charles Calvert, Lord Baltimore, the son of Cecilius, was, accordingto the testimony of all our annalists, a worthy gentleman and anupright ruler. He was governor of Maryland, by the appointment of hisfather, from 1662 to 1675, and after that became the Lord Proprietaryby inheritance, and administered the public affairs in person. Hisprudence and judgment won him the esteem of the best portion of hispeople, and the Province prospered in his hands.
All our histories tell of the troubles that beset the closing yearsof his residence in Maryland. They arose partly out of his religion,and in part out of the jealousy of the crown concerning theprivileges of his charter.
He was a Roman Catholic; but, like his father, liberal and tolerantin opinion, and free from sectarian bias in the administration of hisgovernment. Apart from the influence of his father’s example, thetraining of his education, his real attachment to the interests ofthe Province, and his own natural inclination,–all of which pointedout to him the duty as well as the advantage of affording the utmostsecurity to the freedom of religious opinion,–the conditions underwhich he held his proprietary rights rendered a departure from thispolicy the most improbable accusation that could be made against him.The public mind of England at that period was fevered to a state ofmadness by the domestic quarrel that raged within the kingdom againstthe Catholics. The people were distracted with constant alarms ofPopish plots for the overthrow of the government. The King, aheartless profligate, absorbed in frivolous pleasures, scarcelyentertained any grave question of state affairs that had not someconnection with his hatreds and his fears of Catholics andDissenters. Then, also, the Province itself was composed, in far thegreater part, of a Protestant population,–computed by somecontemporary writers at the proportion of thirty to one,–apopulation who were guarantied freedom of conscience by the Charter,and who possessed all necessary power both legal and physical toenforce it.
Under such circumstances as these, how is it possible to imputedesigns against the old established toleration, which had marked thehistory of Maryland from its first settlement to that day, to soprudent and careful a ruler as Charles Calvert, without imputing tohim, at the same time, a folly so absurd as to belie every opinionthat has ever been uttered to his advantage?
Yet, notwithstanding these improbabilities, the accusation was madeand affected to be believed by the King and his Council; the resultof which was that a royal order was sent to the Proprietary,commanding him to dismiss every Catholic from employment in theProvince, and to supply their places by the appointment ofProtestants.
The most plausible theory upon which I can account for this harshproceeding is suggested by the fact that parties in the Province tookthe same complexion with those in the mother country and ran parallelwith them,–that the same excitements which agitated the minds of thepeople in England were industriously fomented here, where no similarreason for them existed, as the volunteer work of demagogues who sawin them the means of promoting their own interest,–that, in fact,this opposition to the Proprietary grew out of a failing in ourancestors which has not yet been cured in their descendants, aweakness in favor of the loaves and fishes. The party in the majoritycarried the elections, and felt, of course, as all parties do whoperform such an exploit, that they had made a very gigantic sacrificefor the good of the country and deserved to be remunerated for suchan act of heroism, and thereupon set up and asserted that venerabledoctrine which has been erroneously and somewhat vaingloriouslyclaimed as the conception of a modern statesman, namely,–“that tothe victors belong the spoils.” I rejoice in the discovery that adogma so profound and so convenient has the sanction of antiquity tocommend it to the platform of the patriots of our own time.
I must in a few words notice another charge against Lord Baltimore,which was even more serious than the first, and to which the cupidityof the King lent a willing ear. Parliament had passed an act forlevying certain duties on the trade of the Southern Colonies, whichwere very oppressive to the commerce of Maryland. These duties weregathered by Collectors specially appointed for the occasion, who heldtheir commissions from the Crown, and who were stationed at theseveral ports of entry of the Province. The frequent evasion of theseduties gave rise to much ill-will between the Collectors and thepeople. Lord Baltimore was charged with having connived at theseevasions, and with obstructing the collection of the royal revenue.His chief accusers were the Collectors, who, being Crown officers,seemed naturally to array themselves against him. Although there wasreally no foundation for this complaint, yet the King, who neverthrew away a chance to replenish his purse, compelled the Proprietaryto pay by way of retribution a large sum into the Exchequer.
I have no need to dwell upon this subject, and have referred to itonly because it explains the relation between Lord Baltimore andChristopher Rousby, and has therefore some connection with my story.Rousby was an enemy to the Proprietary; and from a letter preservedby Chalmers it appears there was no love lost between them. LordBaltimore writes to the Earl of Anglesey, the President of the King’sCouncil, in 1681,–“I have already written twice to your Lordshipabout Christopher Rousby, who I desired might be removed from hisplace of Collector of his Majesty’s Customs,–he having been a greatknave, and a disturber of the trade and peace of the Province”; whichletter, it seems, had no effect,–as Christopher Rousby was continuedin his post. He was doubtless emboldened by the failure of thisremonstrance against him to exhibit his ill-will towards theProprietary in more open and more vexatious modes of annoyance.
All these embarrassments threw a heavy shadow over the latter yearsof Lord Baltimore’s life, and now drove him to the necessity ofmaking a visit to England for the purpose of personal explanation anddefence before the King. He accordingly took his departure in themonth of June, 1684, intending to return in a few months; but a tideof misfortune that now set in upon him prevented that wish, and henever saw Maryland again.
In about half a year after Calvert’s arrival in England, King Charlesthe Second was gathered to his fathers, and his brother, the Duke ofYork, a worse man, a greater hypocrite, and a more crafty despot,reigned in his stead.
James the Second was a Roman Catholic, and Calvert, on that scorealone, might have expected some sympathy and favor: he might, atleast, have expected justice. But James was heartless and selfish.The Proprietary found nothing but cold neglect, and a contemptiblejealousy of the prerogatives and power conferred by his charter.James himself claimed to be a proprietary on this continent by virtueof extensive royal grants, and was directly interested with WilliamPenn in defeating the claims of the Baltimore family to the countryupon the Delaware; he was, therefore, in fact, the secret andprepossessed enemy of Calvert. Instead of protection from the Crown,Calvert found proceedings instituted in the King’s Bench to annul hischarter, which, but for the abrupt termination of this short,disgraceful reign in abdication and flight, would have beenconsummated under James’s own direction. The Revolution of 1688brought up other influences more hostile still to the Proprietary;and the Province, which was always sedulous to follow the fashions ofLondon, was not behindhand on this occasion, but made, also, itsrevolution, in imitation of the great one. The end of all was theutter subversion of the Charter, and a new government of Marylandunder a royal commission. How this was accomplished our historiansare not able to tell. From 1688 to 1692 is one of our dark intervalsof which I have spoken. It begins with a domestic revolution and endswith the appointment of a Royal Governor, and that is pretty nearlyall we know about it. After this, there was no Proprietary dominionin Maryland, until it was restored upon the accession of George theFirst in 1715, when it reappears in the second Charles Calvert, aminor, the grandson of the late Proprietary. This gentleman was theson of Benedict Leonard Calvert, and was educated in the Protestantfaith, which his father had adopted as more consonant with theprosperity of the family and the hopes of the Province.
Before Lord Baltimore took his departure, he made all necessaryarrangements for the administration of the government during hisabsence. The chief authority he invested in his son Benedict Leonard,to whom I referred just now,–at that time a youth of twelve orfourteen years of age. My old record contains the commission issuedon this occasion, which is of the most stately and royal breadth ofphrase, and occupies paper enough to make a deed for the route of thePacific Railroad. In this document “our dearly beloved son BenedictLeonard Calvert” is ordained and appointed to be “Lieutenant General,Chief Captain, Chief Governor and Commander, Chief Admiral both bysea and land, of our Province of Maryland, and of all our Islands,Territories, and Dominions whatsoever, and of all and singular ourCastles, Forts, Fortresses, Fortifications, Munitions, Ships, andNavies in our said Province, Islands, Territories, and Dominionsaforesaid.”
I hope to be excused for the particularity of my quotation of thisyoung gentleman’s titles, which I have given at full length only byway of demonstration of the magnificence of our old Palatine Provinceof Maryland, and to excite in the present generation a becoming prideat having fallen heirs to such a principality; albeit BenedictLeonard’s more recent successors to these princely prerogatives mayhave reason to complain of that relentless spirit of democracy whichhas shorn them of so many worshipful honors. But we republicans arephilosophical, and can make sacrifices with a good grace.
As it was quite impossible for this young Lieutenant General to goalone under such a staggering weight of dignities, the samecommission puts him in leading-strings by the appointment of nineDeputy or Lieutenant Governors who are charged with the execution ofall his duties. The first-named of these deputies is “our dearlybeloved Cousin,” Colonel George Talbot, who is associated with “ourwell-beloved Counsellor,” Thomas Tailler, Colonel Vincent Low,Colonel Henry Darnall, Colonel William Digges, Colonel WilliamStevens, Colonel William Burgess, Major Nicholas Sewall, and JohnDarnall, Esquire. These same gentlemen, with Edward Pye and ThomasTruman, are also commissioned to be of the Privy Council, “for and inrelation to all matters of State.”
These appointments being made and other matters disposed of, CharlesCalvert took leave of his beautiful and favorite Maryland, never tosee this fair land again.
CHAPTER VI.
A BORDER CHIEFTAIN.
I have now to pursue the narrative of my story as I find thenecessary material in the old Council Journal. I shall not incumberthis narrative with literal extracts from these proceedings, but givethe substance of what I find there, with such illustration as I havebeen able to glean from other sources.
Colonel George Talbot, whom we recognize as the first-named in thecommission of the nine Deputy Governors and of the Privy Council,seems to have been a special favorite of the Proprietary. He was thegrandson of the first Baron of Baltimore, the Secretary of State ofJames the First. His father was an Irish baronet, Sir George Talbot,of Cartown in Kildare, who had married Grace, one of the youngersisters of Cecilius, the second Proprietary and father of CharlesCalvert. He was, therefore, as the commission describes him, thecousin of Lord Baltimore, who had now invested him with a leadingauthority in the administration of the government.
He was born in Ireland, and from some facts connected with hishistory I infer that he did not emigrate to Maryland until after hismarriage, his wife being an Irish lady.
That he was a man of consideration in the Province, with largeexperience in its affairs, is shown by the character of theemployments that were intrusted to him. He had been, for some yearsbefore the departure of Lord Baltimore on his visit to England, aconspicuous member of his Council. He had, for an equal length oftime, held the post of Surveyor-General, an office of highresponsibility and trust. But his chief employment was of a militarynature, in which his discretion, courage, and conduct were inconstant requisition. He had the chief command, with the title andcommission of Deputy Governor, over the northern border of theProvince, a region continually exposed to the inroads of the fierceand warlike tribe of the “Sasquesahannocks.”
The country lying between the Susquehanna and the Delaware, thatwhich now coincides with parts of Harford and Cecil Counties inMaryland and the upper portion of the State of Delaware, was known inthose days as New Ireland, and was chiefly settled by emigrants fromthe old kingdom whose name it bore. This region was included withinthe range of Talbot’s command, and was gradually increasing inpopulation and in farms and houses scattered over a line of someseventy or eighty miles from east to west, and slowly encroachingupon the thick wilderness to the north, where surly savages lurkedand watched the advance of the white man with jealous anger.
The tenants of this tract held their lands under the Proprietarygrants, coupled with a condition, imposed as much by their ownnecessities as by the law, to render active service in the defence ofthe frontier as a local militia. They were accordingly organized on amilitary establishment, and kept in a state of continual preparationto repel the unwelcome visits of their hostile neighbors.
A dispute between Lord Baltimore and William Penn, founded upon theclaim of the former to a portion of the territory bounding on theDelaware, had given occasion to border feuds, which had imposed uponour Proprietary the necessity of building and maintaining a fort onChristiana Creek, near the present city of Wilmington; and there werealso some few block-houses or smaller fortified strongholds along theline of settlement towards the Susquehanna.
These forts were garrisoned by a small force of musketeers maintainedby the government. The Province was also at the charge of a regimentof cavalry, of which Talbot was the Colonel, and parts of which wereassigned to the defence of this frontier.
If we add to these a corps of rangers, who were specially employed inwatching and arresting all trespassers upon the territory of theProvince, it will complete our sketch of the military organization ofthe frontier over which Talbot had the chief command. The whole orany portion of this force could be assembled in a few hours to meetthe emergencies of the time. Signals were established for the musterof the border. Beacon fires on the hills, the blowing of horns, andthe despatch of runners were familiar to the tenants, and often calledthe ploughman away from the furrow to the appointed gathering-place.Three musket-shots fired in succession from a lonely cabin, atdead of night, awakened the sleeper in the next homestead; the threeshots, repeated from house to house, across this silent waste offorest and field, carried the alarm onward; and before break of day ahundred stout yeomen, armed with cutlass and carbine, were on foot tocheck and punish the stealthy foray of the Sasquesahannock againstthe barred and bolted dwellings where mothers rocked their childrento sleep, confident in the protection of this organized and effectivesystem of defence.
In this region Talbot himself held a manor which was called NewConnaught, and here he had his family mansion, and kept hospitalityin rude woodland state, as a man of rank and command, with hisretainers and friends gathered around him. This establishment wasseated on Elk River, and was, doubtless, a fortified position. Ipicture to my mind a capacious dwelling-house built of logs from thesurrounding forest; its ample hall furnished with implements of war,pikes, carbines, and basket-hilled swords, mingled with antlers ofthe buck, skins of wild animals, plumage of birds, and other trophiesof the hunter’s craft; the large fireplace surrounded with hardywoodsmen, and the tables furnished with venison, wild fowl, and fish,the common luxuries of the region, in that prodigal profusion towhich our forefathers were accustomed, and which their descendantsstill regard as the essential condition of hearty and honesthousekeeping. This mansion I fancy surrounded by a spacious picketedrampart, presenting its bristling points to the four quarters of thecompass, and accessible only through a gateway of ponderous timberstudded thick with nails: the whole offering defiance to the grimsavage who might chance to prowl within the frown of its midnightshadow.
Here Talbot spent the greater portion of the year with his wife andchildren. Here he had his yacht or shallop on the river, and oftenskimmed this beautiful expanse of water in pursuit of its abundantgame,–those hawks of which tradition preserves the memory hiscompanions and auxiliaries in this pastime. Here, too, he had hishounds and other hunting-dogs to beat up the game for which the banksof Elk River are yet famous.
This sylvan lodge was cheered and refined by the presence of his wifeand children, whose daily household occupations were assisted bynumerous servants chosen from the warm-hearted people who had lefttheir own Green Isle to find a home in this wilderness.
Amidst such scenes and the duties of her station we may suppose thatMrs. Talbot, a lady who could not but have relinquished many comfortsin her native land for this rude life of the forest, found sufficientresource to quell the regrets of many fond memories of the home andfriends she had left behind, and to reconcile her to the fortunes ofher husband, to whom, as we shall see, she was devoted with an ardorthat no hardship or danger could abate.
Being the dispenser of her husband’s hospitality,–the bread-giver,in the old Saxon phrase,–the frequent companion of his pastime, andthe bountiful friend, not only of the families whose cottages threwup their smoke within view of her dwelling, but of all who came andwent on the occasions of business or pleasure in the commonintercourse of the frontier, we may conceive the sentiment of respectand attachment she inspired in this insulated district, and theservice she was thus enabled to command.
This is but a fancy picture, it is true, of the home of Talbot,which, for want of authentic elements of description, I am forced todraw. It is suggested by the few scattered glimpses we get in therecords of his position and circumstances, and may, I think, bereceived at least as near the truth in its general aspect andcharacteristic features.
He was undoubtedly a bold, enterprising man,–impetuous, passionate,and harsh, as the incidents of his story show. He was, most probably,a soldier trained to the profession, and may have served abroad, asnearly all gentlemen of that period were accustomed to do. That hewas an ardent and uncompromising partisan of the Proprietary in thedissensions of the Province seems to be evident. I suppose him, also,to have been warm-hearted, proud in spirit, and hasty in temper,–aman to be loved or hated by friend or foe with equal intensity. It ismaterial to add to this sketch of him, that he was a RomanCatholic,–as we have record proof that all the Deputy Governorsnamed in the recent commission were, I believe, withoutexception,–and that he was doubtless imbued with the dislike andindignation which naturally fired the gentlemen of his faith againstthose who were supposed to be plotting the overthrow of the Proprietarygovernment, by exciting religious prejudice against the Baltimorefamily.
[To be continued.]
HUNTING A PASS.
A SKETCH OF TROPICAL ADVENTURE.
[Continued.]
CHAPTER II.
On the 18th of April, having collected such information bearing onour purposes as it was possible to obtain, we left La Union, andfairly commenced the business of “Hunting a Pass.” To reach thevalley of the Goascoran, on the extent and character of which so muchdepended, it was necessary to go round the head of the Bay of LaUnion. For several miles our route coincided with that of the _caminoreal_ to San Miguel, and we rode along it gayly, in high and hopefulspirits. The morning was clear and bright, the air cool andexhilarating, and the very sense of existence was itself a luxury. Atthe end of four miles we struck off from the high road, at rightangles, into a narrow path, which conducted us over low grounds,three miles farther, to the Rio Sirama, a small stream, scarcelytwenty feet across, the name of which is often erroneously changed inthe maps for that of Goascoran or Rio San Miguel. Beyond this streamthe path runs over low hills, which, however, subside into plainsnear the bay, where the low grounds are covered with water at hightide. The natives avail themselves of this circumstance, as did theIndians before them, for the manufacture of salt. They incloseconsiderable areas with little dikes of mud, leaving openings for theentrance of the water, which are closed as the tide falls. The waterthus retained is rapidly evaporated under a tropical sun, leaving themud crusted over with salt. This is then scraped up, dissolved inwater, and strained to separate the impurities, and the saturatedbrine reduced in earthen pots, set in long ranges of stone and clay.The pots are constantly replenished, until they are filled with asolid mass of salt; they are then removed bodily, packed in dryplantain-leaves, and sent to market on the backs of mules. Sometimesthe pots are broken off, to lighten the load, and great piles oftheir fragments–miniature _Monti testacci_–are seen around the_Salinas_, as these works are called, where they will remain longafter this rude system of salt-manufacture shall be supplanted by abetter, as a puzzle for fledgling antiquaries.
Six miles beyond the Rio Sirama we came to another stream, called theSiramita or Little Sirama, for the reason, probably, as H. suggested,that it is four times as large as the Sirama. It flows through a bedtwenty feet deep and upwards of two hundred feet wide, paved withwater-worn stones, ragged with frayed fragments of trees, andaffording abundant evidence that during the season of rains it is arough and powerful torrent. Between this stream and the Goascoranthere is a maze of barren hills, relieved by occasional levelreaches, covered with acacias and deciduous trees. Through these theroad winds in easy gradients, and there are numerous passes perfectlyfeasible for a railway, in case it should ever be deemed advisable tocarry one around the head of the bay to La Union.
The traveller emerges suddenly from among these hills into the valleyof the Goascoran, and finds the river a broad and gentle streamflowing at his feet. At the time of our passage, the water at theford was nowhere more than two feet deep, with gravelly bottom andhigh and firm banks, without traces of overflow. We had now passedthe threshold of the unknown region on which we were venturing, andalthough we had a moral conviction that the valley before us affordedthe requisite facilities for the enterprise which we had in hand, yetit was not without a deep feeling of satisfaction, almost ofexultation, that, on riding to the summit of a bare knoll close by,we traced the course of the river, in a graceful curve, along thefoot of the green hills on our left, and saw that it soon resumed itsgeneral direction north and south, on the precise line most favorablefor our purposes. In the distance, rising alone in the very centre ofthe valley, we discerned the castellated Rock of Goascoran, behindwhich, we were told, nestled the village of Goascoran, where weintended passing the night. We had taken its bearings from the top ofConchagua, and were glad to find that the intervening country waslevel and open, chiefly savanna, or covered with scattered trees.There was no need of instrumentation here, and so, ordering Doloresto bring up the baggage as rapidly as possible, we struck across theplain in a right line, in total disregard of roads or pathways, forthe Rock of Goascoran. A smart gallop of two hours brought us to itsfoot, and in a few minutes after we entered the village, and rodestraight to the _Cabildo_, or House of the Municipality, tied ourmules to the columns of the corridor, pushed open the door, and madeourselves at home.
And here I may mention that the _Cabildo_, throughout Honduras, isthe stranger’s refuge. Its door is never locked, and every traveller,high or low, rich or poor, has a right to enter it unquestioned, and”make it his hotel” for the time being. Its accommodations, it istrue, are seldom extensive and never sumptuous. They rarely consistof more than one or two hide-covered chairs, a rickety table, and twoor three long benches placed against the wall, with a _tinaja_ or jarfor water in the corner, and possibly a clay oven or rude contrivancefor cooking under the back corridor. In all the more importantvillages, which enjoy the luxury of a local court, the end of the_Cabildo_ is usually fenced off with wooden bars, as a prison.Occasionally the traveller finds it occupied by some poor devil of aprisoner, with his feet confined in stocks, to prevent his digging ahole through the mud walls or kicking down his prison-bars, whoexhibits his ribs to prove that he is “_muy flaco_,” (very thin,) andsolicits, in the name of the Virgin and all the _Santos_, _”algo paracomer”_ (something to eat).
In most of the _cabildos_ there is suspended a rude drum, made bydrawing a raw hide over the end of a section of a hollow tree, whichis primarily used to call together the municipal wisdom of the place,whenever occasion requires, and secondarily by the traveller, whobeats on it as a signal to the _alguazils_, whose duty it is torepair at once to the _Cabildo_ and supply the stranger with what herequires, if obtainable in the town, at the rates there current. Notan unwise, nor yet an unnecessary regulation this, in a country wherenobody thinks of producing more than is just necessary for his wants,and, having no need of money, one does not care to sell, lest hisscanty store should run short, and he be compelled to go to work orpurchase from his neighbors.
The people of Goascoran stared at us as we rode through theirstreets, but none came near us until after we had vigorously poundedthe magical drum, when the _alguazils_ made their appearance,followed by all the urchins of the place, and by a crowd of lean andhungry curs,–the latter evidently in watery-mouthed anticipation ofobtaining from the strangers, what they seldom got at home, a straycrust or a marrow-bone. We informed our _alguazils_ that we had mulescoming, and wanted _sacate_ for them. To which they responded,–
_”No hay.”_ (There is none.)
“Then let us have some maize.”
_”Tampoco.”_
“What! no maize? What do you make your _tortillas_ of?”
“We have no _tortillas_.”
“How, then, do you live?”
“We don’t live.”
“But we must have something for our animals; they can’t be allowed tostarve.”
To which our _alguazil_ made no reply, but looked at us vacantly.
“Do you hear? we _must_ have some _sacate_ or some maize for theanimals.”
Still no reply,–only the same vacuous look,–now more stolid, ifpossible, than before.
I had observed that the _Teniente’s_ wrath was rising, and that anexplosion was imminent. But I must confess that I was not a littlestartled, when, drawing his bowie-knife from his belt, he strodeslowly up to our impassible friend, and, firmly grasping his rightear, applied the cold edge of the steel close to his head. Thesupplementary _alguazil_ and the rabble of children took to theirheels in affright, followed by the dogs, who seemed to sympathize intheir alarm. But, beyond a slight wincing downwards, and a partialcontraction of his eyes and lips, the object of the _Teniente’s_wrath made no movement, nor uttered a word of expostulation. Heevidently expected to lose his ears, and probably was surprised atnothing except the pause in the operation. My own apprehensions wereonly for an instant; but, had they been more serious than they were,they must have given way before the extreme ludicrousness of thegroup. I burst into a roar of laughter, in which the _Teniente_ couldnot resist joining, but which seemed to be incomprehensible to the_alguazil_, whose face assumed an expression which I can onlydescribe as that of astonished inanity. I don’t think he is quitecertain, to this day, that the incident was not altogether an uglydream. At any rate, he lost no time in obeying my order to gostraight to the first _alcalde_ of the village, and tell him that hewas wanted at the _Cabildo_.
Reassured by seeing the _alguazil_ come out alive, the _muchachos_returned, greatly reinforced, edging up to the open door timidly,ready to retreat on our slightest movement. We had not long to waitfor the first _alcalde_, of whose approach we were warned by a suddenscramble of curs and children, who made a broad lane for his passage.Evidently, our _alcalde_ was a man of might in Goascoran, and heestablished an immediate hold on our hearts by stopping on thecorridor and clearing it of its promiscuous occupants by liberalapplications of his official cane. He was a man of fifty, burly inperson, and wore his shirt outside of his trousers, but, altogether,carried himself with an air of authority. He was prompt in speech,and, although evidently much surprised to find a party of foreignersin the _Cabildo_, rapidly followed up his salutation by puttinghimself and the town and all the people in it “at the disposition ofour Worships.”
I explained to him how it was that he had been sent for, placing dueemphasis on the stupidity of the _alguazil_. He heard me withoutinterruption, keeping, however, one eye on the _alguazil_, andhandling his cane nervously. By the time I had finished, the canefairly quivered; and the delinquent himself, who had scarcelyflinched under the _Teniente’s_ knife, was now uneasily stealing awaytowards the door. Our _alcalde_ saw the movement, and, with a hurriedbow, and _”Con permiso, Caballeros”_ (With your permission,gentlemen,) started after the fugitive, who was saluted with _”Quebestia!”_ (What a beast!) and a staggering blow over his shoulders.He hurried his pace, but the _alcalde’s_ cane followed close, andwith vigorous application, half-way across the _plaza_. And when the_alcalde_ returned, out of breath, but full of apologies, he receiveda welcome such as could be inspired only by a profound faith in hisability and willingness to secure for us not merely _sacate_ andmaize, but everything else that we might desire. We told him that hewas a model officer and a man after our own hearts, all of which helistened to with dignified modesty, wiping the perspiration from hisface, meanwhile, with–well, with the tail of his shirt!
The _alcalde_ was very hard on his constituency, and, from all thatwe could gather, he seemed to regard them collectively as_”bestias_,” and _”hombres sin vergueenza”_ (men without shame). Weconcurred with him, and regretted that he had not a wider and moreelevated official sphere, and gave him, withal, a _trago_ of brandy,which he seemed greatly to relish, and then again approached thesubject of _sacate_ for our mules. To our astonishment, the _alcalde_suddenly grew grave, and interrupted me with–
_”Pero, no hay, Senor_.” (But there is none, Sir.)
“Well, maize will answer.”
_”Tampoco_.”
“What! no maize? What do you make your _tortillas_ of?”
“We have no _tortillas_.”
“How, then, do you live?”
“We don’t live.”
A general shout of laughter greeted this last reply, in which, aftera moment of puzzled hesitation, the _alcalde_ himself joined.
“So, you don’t live?”
“Absolutely, no!”
“But you eat?”
“Very little. We are very poor.”
“Well, what do you eat?”
“Cheese, _frijoles_, and an egg now and then.”
“But, no _tortillas_?”
“No. We planted the last kernel of maize two days ago.”
And so it was. The little stock of dried grass and maize-stalksstored up from the present rainy season had long ago been consumed,and the maize itself, which is here the real staff of life, had runshort,–and that, too, in a country where three crops a year mighteasily be produced by a very moderate expenditure of labor in the wayof tillage and irrigation.
Fortunately for our poor animals, Dolores had provided againstcontingencies like this, and taken in a supply of maize at La Union.As for ourselves, what with a few eggs and _frijoles_, furnished bythe _alcalde_, in addition to the stock of edibles, pickled oystersand other luxuries, prepared for us by Dona Maria, we contrived tofare right sumptuously in Goascoran. We afterwards found out,experimentally, what it was not to live, in the sense intended to beconveyed by the unfortunate _alguazil_ and the impetuous _alcalde_,and which H. declared logically meant to be without _tortillas_–Butwe could never make out why the alcalde should call the _alguazil_ “abeast,” and beat him over his shoulders with a cane, withal.
Goascoran is a small town, of about four hundred inhabitants, andboasts a tolerably genteel church and a comfortable _cabildo_. It issituated on the left bank of the river to which it gives its name,and which here still maintains its character of a broad and beautifulstream. On the opposite side from the town rises a high, picturesquebluff, at the foot of which the river gathers its waters in deep,dark pools with mirror-like surfaces, disturbed only by the splash offishes springing at their prey, or by the sudden dash of water-fowlssettling from their arrowy flight in a little cloud of spray.
I have alluded to the castellated Rock of Goascoran, which, however,is only a type of the general features of the surrounding country.The prevailing rock is sandstone, and it is broken up in fantasticpeaks, or great cubical blocks with flat tops and vertical walls,resembling the mesas of New Mexico. At night, their dark masses,rising on every hand, might be mistaken for frowning fortresses ormassive strongholds of the Middle Ages. They seem to mark the linewhere the volcanic forces which raised the high islands in the Bay ofFonseca had their first conflict with the sedimentary and primitiverocks of the interior. The river is full of boulders of quartz andgranite reddened by fire, resembling jasper, and alternating withworn blocks of lava,–further evidences of volcanic action.Altogether, the country, in its natural aspects, reminds thetraveller of the district lying between Pompeii and Sorrento, inItaly, and probably owes its essential features to the same causes.
From Goascoran to Aramacina, a distance of twelve miles, the roadtraverses a slightly broken country, while the river pursues itscourse, as before, through a picturesque valley, narrowed in placesby outlying _mesas_, but still regular, and throughout perfectlyfeasible for a railway. Aramacina itself is prettily situated, in abend of one of the tributaries of the Goascoran, the Rio Aramacina,and numbers perhaps three hundred inhabitants. Immediately in frontrises a broad sandstone table or _mesa_, at the foot of which thereare some trickling springs of salt water, much frequented by cattle,and corresponding to the _saltlicks_ of our Western States.
Behind the town is a high spur of the mountain range of Lepaterique,covered with pines, and veined with silver-bearing quartz. We visitedthe abandoned mines of Marqueliso and Potosi, but the shafts werefilled with water, and only faint traces remained of the ancientestablishments. Extravagant traditions are current of the wealth ofthese mines, and of the amounts of treasure which were taken fromthem in the days of the Viceroys. A few specimens of the refuse ore,which we picked up at the mouth of the principal shaft, proved, onanalysis, to be exceedingly rich, and gave some color to the localtraditions.
The _cabildo_ of Aramacina was very much dilapidated, and promised usbut poor protection against the rain, which now began to fall everynight with the greatest regularity. We nevertheless selected thecorner where the roof appeared soundest, and managed to pass thenight without a serious wetting. The evening was enlivened by visitsfrom all the leading inhabitants, whom we found to be far morecommunicative than their neighbors of Goascoran. Our mostentertaining visitor, however, was a “countryman,” as he styledhimself, a negro by the name of John Robinson, born in New York, andnow a magnate in Aramacina, where he had resided for upwards ofsixteen years. Although he had fallen into the habits of the nativepopulation, and wore neither shirt nor shoes, he entertained for thema superlative contempt, which he expressed in a strange jumble of badEnglish and worse Spanish. He had been with Perry on Lake Erie, andafterwards on board various vessels of war, in some capacity which hedid not explain with great clearness, but which he evidently intendedshould be understood as but little lower than that of commander. Aglass of brandy made him eloquent, and he took a position in themiddle of the _cabildo_, and gave us an oration on the people ofHonduras, in a style singularly grotesque and demonstrative. Inbroken and scarcely intelligible English,–for he had nearlyforgotten the language of his youth,–he denounced them as “thievesand liars,” and then asked them, “Is it not true?” Imagining,doubtless, that he was declaiming their praises, the enthusiasticassemblage responded, _”Si! si!”_ (Yes! yes!) Not a crime so gross,nor a trait of character so degraded, but he laid it to their charge,receiving always the same vehement response, _”Si! Si!”_
We got rid of our _paisano_ with difficulty, and only under a promiseto visit his _chacra_, somewhere in the vicinity, next morning. Butwe saw no more of him,–not much to our regret; for John Robinson, Ifear, was sadly addicted to brandy, of which our supply was far toosmall to admit of honoring many such drafts as he had made thepreceding evening.
One and a half miles to the southeast of Aramacina is a ledge ofsandstone rock, with a smooth vertical face, which is covered overwith figures, deeply cut in outline. This ledge forms one side of arural amphitheatre overlooking the adjacent valley, and is by naturea spot likely to be selected as a “sacred place” by the Indians. Itfaces towards the west, and from all parts of the amphitheatre, whichmay have answered the purposes of a temple, the morning sun wouldappear to rise directly over the rock. The engravings in some placesare much defaced or worn by time, so that they cannot be made out;but generally they are deep and distinct,–so deep, indeed, that Iused those which run horizontally as steps whereby to climb up theface of the ledge. I should say that they were two and a half inchesdeep. A portion had been effaced by a rude quarry which the people ofAramacina had opened here to obtain stone for their church.
Some of the figures are easily recognizable as those of men andanimals, while others appear entirely arbitrary, or designed simplyfor ornament. Enough can be clearly made out to show the affiliationof the engravers with the ancient Mexican families of Nicaragua andSan Salvador. The space covered by these inscriptions is about onehundred feet long, by twelve or fifteen in height. A quarter of amile to the southward are other smaller rocks with figures, too muchdefaced, however, to be traced satisfactorily. Vases of curiousworkmanship, human bones in considerable quantities, and other relicsand remains, it is said, may be discovered by digging in the earthanywhere within the natural amphitheatre to which I have referred.This is another circumstance going to favor the belief that this wasanciently a place of great sanctity; for it is a universal customamong all nations to bury their dead in the neighborhood of shrinesand temples.
Although the immediate district in which these aboriginal traces arefound does not seem to have fallen within the region occupied by theNahuatt or Mexican tribes of Central America at the time of theConquest, but in what was called the country of the Chontals, yet itis not difficult to suppose, that, in the various hostile encounterswhich we know took place between the two nations, the Nahuatts mayhave penetrated as far as Aramacina, and left here some record oftheir visit,–if, indeed, they did not succeed in effecting atemporary lodgment. At any rate, there can be but little doubt that aportion of the engravings on the rocks above described, butparticularly those which seem to record dates, were made by them.
From Aramacina to Caridad, the next town on our course, and fourleagues distant, the road is laid out on Spanish principles, whichare the very reverse of scientific. Instead of keeping along theriver-valley, it passes directly over a high, rocky spur of thelateral mountains, through a pass called _El Portillo_, (The Portal,)elevated fifteen hundred feet above the sea. The view from itssummit, whence we were enabled to trace our course up to this point,as if on a map, in some degree compensated us for the labor of theascent. From here we could also look ahead, beyond the town ofCaridad; and we saw, with some misgivings, that there the lateralranges of mountains seemed to send down their spurs boldly to theriver, leaving only what the Spaniards call a _canon_ or narrowgorge, walled in with precipitous rocks, for its passage. A shadowcame over every face, in view of the possible obstacles in our path;and although we tried to reassure ourselves by the reflection, that,where so large a stream could pass, there must certainly be roomenough for a road, yet, it must be confessed, we wound down the hillof El Portillo to Caridad with spirits much depressed. Moreover, adrizzling rain set in before we reached the village, and clouds andvapor settled down gloomily on the surrounding hills and mountains,rendering us altogether more dismal than we had been since leavingNew York. We rode up to the _cabildo_ of Caridad in silence, andfortunately found it new, neat, and comfortable, with cover for ourmules, ample facilities for cooking, and an abundance of dry wood fora fire, now rendered necessary to comfort by the damp, and theproximity of high mountains. Fortunately, also, we experienced nodifficulty in getting fodder for our animals and food forourselves,–a bright-eyed Senora, wife of the principal _alcalde_,volunteering to send us freshly baked and crisp _tortillas_, whichwere brought to us hot, in the folds of the whitest of napkins. Afterdinner and coffee, and under the genial influences of a fire of thepitch-pine, which gave us both light and heat, our spirits returned,and we did not refuse a hearty laugh, when H. read from a dingypaper, which he found sticking on the wall of the _cabildo_, thereport of the day’s transactions on the Caridad Exchange, “marked bya great and sudden decline in railway shares, caused by the timidityof holders, and by an equally sudden reaction, occasioned by twodozen of soft-boiled eggs and a peck of _tortillas_.”
Caridad is a neat little town, of about three hundred inhabitants,situated on a level plateau nearly surrounded by high mountains,–thevalley of the river, both above and below, being reduced to itsnarrowest limits. To the northeastward of the town, and on a shelf ofthe Lepaterique Mountains, which rise abruptly in that direction, andare covered with pine forests to their summits, is distinctly visiblethe Indian town of Lauterique,–its position indicating clearly thatit had been selected with reference to defensive purposes. We hadseen its white church from El Portillo, looking like a point ofsilver on the dark green slope of the mountain.
Rain fell heavily during the night; but the morning broke bright andclear. The increased roar of the river, however, made known to usthat it was greatly swollen, and when we walked down to its brink wefound it a rapid and angry torrent, with its volume of water morethan double that of the previous day. This was not an encouragingcircumstance; for we had learned, that, if we intended following upthe stream, instead of making a grand _detour_ over the mountains, itwould be necessary to ford the river, about a mile above the town.All advised us against attempting the passage. _”Manana_,”(Tomorrow,) they said, would do as well, and we had better wait.Meanwhile the waters would subside. Nobody had ever attempted thepassage after such a storm; and the river was _”muy bravo”_ (veryangry). I have said that all advised us against moving; but I shouldexcept the second _alcalde_, who had taken a great fancy to us, andwanted to enter our service. His dignity did not rebel at theposition of _arriero_ or muleteer; any place would suit him, so thatwe would agree to take him finally to “El Norte,”–for such is theuniversal designation of the United States among the people ofCentral America. He shared in none of the fears of his townsmen, andtold them, that, fortunately, all the world was not as timid asthemselves, and wound up by volunteering to accompany us and get usacross. We gladly accepted his offer, and started out with the leastpossible delay. I need not say that we made rather an anxious party.The unpromising observations of the preceding day, and thepossibilities of the mountains’ closing down on the river so as toforbid a passage, were uppermost in every mind; but all sought tohide their real feelings under an affectation of cheerfulness, not tosay of absolute gayety. As we advanced, and rounded the hills whichshut in the little _plateau_ of Caridad on the north, we saw that thehigh lateral mountains sent down their rocky spurs towards each otherlike huge buttresses, lapping by, and, so far as the eye coulddiscern, forming a complete and insurmountable barrier. Over the browof one of these, a zigzag streak of white marked the line of themule-path. Our guide traced it out to us with his finger, and assuredus that it traversed a bad _portillo_, over which the wind sometimessweeps with such force as to take a loaded mule off his feet, anddash him down the steep sides of the mountain. Half a mile of levelground still intervened between us and the apparent limit of ouradvance, and we trotted over it in silence, pulling up on the abruptbank of the deep trough of the river, which foamed and chafed amongthe great boulders in its bed, and against its rocky shores, nearly ahundred feet below us. A break-neck path wound down to a littlesandpit; and on the opposite side of the stream another path woundup, in like manner, to a narrow _plateau_, on which stood a singlehut, with its surroundings of plantain-trees and maize-fields. Ilooked anxiously up the stream, but a sudden bend, a few hundredyards above, shut off the view; and there the flinty buttresses ofthe mountain rose sheer and frowning, perpendicularly from thewater’s edge.
The eyes of the Lieutenant had followed mine, and we exchanged aglance which expressed as plainly as words, that, unless themountain-spur which projected into the bend of the river should provesufficiently narrow to be tunnelled, or should fall off so as toadmit of a side-cutting in the rock, our project might be regarded asat an end. To determine that point was our next and most importantstep. Down the steep descent, scrambling amongst rocks and bushes,where it seemed a goat would hardly dare to venture,–down we plungedto the water’s edge. Here the stream was not less than a hundredyards broad, flowing over a rocky bed full of rolling stones andboulders, with a velocity which it seemed impossible for man or beastto stem. But our _alcalde_ was equal to the emergency.
Stripping himself naked, he took a long pole shod with iron, whichseemed to be kept here for the purpose, and started out boldly intothe stream, for the purpose of making a preliminary survey of theline of passage. Planting his pole firmly down the stream, so as tosupport himself against the current, he cautiously advanced, step bystep, “prospecting” the bottom with his feet, so as to ascertain theshallowest ford, and that freest from rocks and stones. Sometimes heslipped into deep holes and disappeared beneath the surface, but bealways recovered himself, and went on with his work with the greatestdeliberation and composure. After crossing and recrossing the riverin this manner three or four times, he succeeded in fixing on aserpentine line, where the water, except for a few yards near theopposite bank, was only up to his shoulders, and which he pronounced_”muy factible”_ (very feasible).
“But, _amigo”_ exclaimed H., in an excited tone, “you forget that youare six feet high, and that I am but five feet five!”
_”No hay cuidado!”_ (Have no care!) was the reassuring reply of thealcalde, as he slapped his broad chest with his open palm; _”soyresponsable!”_ (I am responsible!)
The mules were now unsaddled, and the trunks taken over, one by one,on the _alcalde’s_ head. Next, the animals were forced into thewater, and, after vehement flounderings, now swimming, now stumblingover rolling stones, they were finally, bruised and bleeding and theforlornest of animals, got across in safety. Next came our turn, andI led the way, with a thong fastened around my body below thearmpits, and attached, in like manner, to our stalwart _alcalde_.Long before we reached the middle of the stream, notwithstanding Icarried a large stone under each arm by way of ballast, I was sweptfrom my feet out to the length of my tether, and thus towed over byour guide. When all were snugly across, the laughter was loud andlong over the ridiculous figure which everybody had cut ineverybody’s eyes, except his own. H. immortalized the transit in whatthe French call _un croquis_, but it would hardly bear reproductionin the pages of a narrative so staid as this.
Intent on determining, with the least possible delay, the importantquestion, whether the mountains really opposed an insurmountableobstacle to our project, I left my companions and Dolores to resaddleand get under way at their leisure, and pushed ahead with the_alcalde_. Striking off from the mule-path, we climbed up, amongloose rocks and dwarf-trees and bushes, to the top of the mountain.My excitement gave me unwonted vigor, and my sturdy guide, streamingwith perspiration long before we reached the summit, prayed me, “inthe name of all the saints,” to moderate my rate of speed, and givehim a _trago_ of Cognac. My suspense was not of long duration; for,on reaching the crest of the eminence, I found that we were indeed ona narrow spur, easily tunnelled, or readily turned by galleries inthe rock, and that, beyond, the country opened out again in a broadtable-land sloping gently from the north, and traversed nearly in itscentre by the gorge of the river. The break in the Cordilleras wasnow distinct, and I could look quite through it, and see the bluepeaks of the mountains on the Atlantic slope of the continent. Asingle glance sufficed to disclose all this to my eager vision, andthe next instant six rapid shots from my revolver conveyed theintelligence to my companions, who were toiling up the narrowmule-path, half a mile to my right. The _Teniente_ dismounted, evidentlywith the intention of joining us, but soon got back again into hissaddle,–having experienced, as H. explained, “a sudden recurrence ofpalpitation.”
Rejoining my companions, I dismissed our guide with a reward whichsurprised him, and we pursued our way to the _Portillo_. This name isgiven to the point where the path, after winding up the side of themountain half-way to its summit, suddenly turns round its brow, andcommences its descent. It is a narrow shelf, in some places scarcelymore than a foot wide, rudely worked in the living rock, which fallsoff below in a steep and almost precipitous descent to the river; andalthough it did not quite realize the idea we had formed of it fromthe description of our guide, it was sufficiently pokerish to inspirethe most daring mountaineer with caution. At any rate, most of ourparty dismounted, preferring to lead their mules around the point tohaving their heads turned in riding past it. Exposed to the fullforce of the winds, which are drawn through this river-valley asthrough a funnel, and with a foothold so narrow, it was easy tobelieve that neither man nor beast could pass here during the seasonof the northers, except at great risk of being dashed down thedeclivity.
A little beyond the _Portillo_, the road diverges from the valleyproper of the river, and is carried over an undulating country to thevillage of San Antonio del Norte, finely situated on a grassy plain,of considerable extent, a dependency of the valley of the Goascoran.We had intended stopping here for the night; but the _cabildo_ wasalready filled with a motley crowd of _arrieros_ and others on theirway to San Miguel. A tall _mestizo_, covered with ulcers, sat in thedoorway, and two or three culprits extended their claw-like handstowards us through the bars of their cage and invoked alms in thename of the Virgin and all things sacred. We therefore contentedourselves with a lunch under the corridor of a neighboring house,and, notwithstanding it was late in the afternoon, pressed forwardtowards the little Indian town of San Juan, three leagues distant.
It was a long and rough and weary way, and as night fell without anysign of a village in front, we began to have a painful suspicion thatwe had lost our road,–if a narrow mule-path, often scarcelytraceable, can be dignified by that name. So we stopped short, toallow a man on foot, whom we had observed following on our track forhalf an hour, to come up. He proved to be a bright-eyed, good-naturedIndian, who addressed us as _”Vuestras Mercedes_,” and who informedus not only that we were on the right road to San Juan, but also thathe himself belonged there and was now on his way home.
“Good, _amigo!_–but how far is it?”
_”Hay no mas”_ (There is no more,) was the consoling response.
“But where is the town?”
_”Alla!”_ (There!)
And he threw his hand forward, and projected his lips in thedirection he sought to indicate,–a mode of indication, I may add,almost universal in Central America, and explicable only on theassumption that it costs less effort than to raise the hand.
Our new friend was communicative, and told us that he had been allthe way to Caridad to bring a priest to San Juan, _”para hacer cosasde familia_,” (to attend to family affairs,) which he explained asmeaning “to marry, baptize, and catechize.” The people of San Juan,he added, were too poor to keep a priest of their own; they couldn’tpay enough; and, moreover, their women were all old and ugly. And heindulged in a knowing wink and chuckle.
Meantime we had kept on our course, and it had become quite dark;still there was no sign of the village,–not even the flicker oflights or the barking of dogs.
“What did the fellow say about the distance?” inquired H., angrily.
“That there was no more distance.”
“Ask him again; he couldn’t have understood you.”
_”Amigo_, where is your village? You said just now that it was closeby.”
_”Hay no masita, Senor!”_
“What’s that?”
“He says that the distance was nothing before, and is still lessnow!”
“Bah! he’s a fool!” Half an hour later, which to H.’s indignantimagination seemed an age, we reached the top of a high ridge, andsaw the first glimmer of the lights of the village, on the fartheredge of a broad plain, a mile and a half distant.
_”Estamos aqui!”_ (Here we are!) exclaimed our guide, triumphantly.
Our mules pricked forward their ears at the welcome sight, and wetrotted briskly over the plain, and, as usual, straight to the_cabildo_,–a newly constructed edifice of canes plastered with mud,but, for a tropical country, suffering under the slight defect ofhaving no windows or aperture for ventilation besides the door. Thedrum brought us the most attentive of _alguazils_, and we fared by nomeans badly in San Juan; that is to say, we had plenty of milk andeggs.
When supper was over, H. lighted a pine splinter, and put on recordhis “Observations on the Standard of Measurement in Honduras,” whichI am allowed to copy for the information of travellers.
“Distances here are computed by what may be called Long Measure.League is a vague term, and, like _x_ in an algebraic equation,stands for an unknown quantity. It may mean ten miles, more orless,–any distance, in fact, over five miles. The unit of measure,as fixed by law, is _estamos aqui_, (here we are,) which is a mileand a half; _hay no masita_ (a little less than nothing) is fivemiles; _hay no mas_ (there is no more) is ten miles; and _muy cerca_(very near) is a hard day’s journey. As regards spirituous liquors, a_trago_ of brandy, or ‘a drink,’ is whatever may be in the bottle, bethe same large or small, and the quantity more or less.”
San Juan is insignificant in point of size, but its population seemsto be well to do in the world, in the relative sense in which thatterm is to be interpreted in Central America. Here we found that theriver forks,–the principal branch, however, which retains the nameof Goascoran, still preserving its general course north and south.The smaller branch, called Rio de San Juan, descends from highmountains to the westward, having its rise, we were told, near thesecluded Indian _pueblos_ of Similaton and Opotoro. We found theelevation of San Juan to be nine hundred feet above the sea,–analtitude sufficiently great, combined with the proximity of theCordilleras, to give it a generally cool and delightful climate. Thechange in temperature from that of the sea-coast, however, is lessmarked than the change in scenery and vegetation. It is true, we findthe ever-graceful palm, the orange, plantain, and other tropicalfruit-trees; but the country is no longer loaded down with forests.It spreads out before the traveller in a succession of swelling hillsand level savannas, clothed with grass, and clumped over with pines,and miniature parks of deciduous trees, sufficiently open to permitcattle and horsemen to roam freely in every direction. During the dryseason, however, this open region becomes dry and parched, and thetraveller passing over it then would be apt to pronounce the wholecountry sterile and without cultivation. But in little lateralvalleys and _coves_ among the mountains, sheltered from the sun, andwatered by springs or running streams, there are many plantations ofsugar-cane, maize, rice, and other standard products of the tropics,of unsurpassed luxuriance. We sometimes came on these green placesunexpectedly, far away from any habitation, and all the more gem-likeand beautiful from their rough setting of sere savanna and ruggedmountain.
We left San Juan early in the morning, crossing to the left bank ofthe river, still a noble stream, a hundred and fifty feet broad, andpure as crystal. A government _tambo_, or _rancho_, opposite thetown, on the bank, indicated that even here the river was sometimesunfordable. Hence the construction of this public shelter fortravellers obliged to wait for the subsidence of the waters. Thesegovernment _ranchos_ are common on all the roads, in the lesspopulous parts of the country, or where the towns are widelyseparated, and are the refuge of the wayfarer benighted or overtakenby a storm in his journey. They seldom consist of more than fourforked posts planted in the ground, supporting a roof of _paja_ orthatch. Occasionally one or two sides are wattled up with canes, orclosed with poles placed closely together. They are usually builtwhere some spring or stream furnishes a supply of water, and wherethere is an open patch of pasturage; and although they afford nothingbeyond shelter, they are always welcome retreats to the weary orbelated traveller. For one, I generally preferred stopping in them topassing the night in the little villages, where the _cabildos_ areoften dirty and infested with fleas, and where a horrible concert iskept up by the lean and mangy curs which throughout Central Americadisgrace the respectable name of dog. In fact, a large part of theromance and many of the pleasantest recollections of our adventuresin Honduras are connected with these rude shelters, and with the longnights which we passed in them, far away in dark valleys, or onmountain-crests, but always amongst Nature’s deepest solitudes.
After crossing the river, our path, with the perversity of allSpanish roads, instead of following up the valley of the stream,diverged widely to the right through a cluster or knot of hills, inwhich we were involved until we reached a rapid stream called RioGuanupalapa, flowing through a narrow gorge, over a wild mass ofstones and boulders. Here we breakfasted, picturesquely enough, and,resuming our course, soon emerged from the hilly labyrinth on aseries of terraces, falling off like steps to the river on our left.They had been burned over, and the young grass was sprouting up,under the freshening influence of the early rain, in a carpet oftranslucent green. At a distance of four leagues from San Juan, afterdescending from terrace to terrace, we again reached the river, nowflowing through a valley three hundred yards broad, and about fiftyfeet below the general level of the adjacent _plateau_. Here we foundanother fork in the stream: the principal body of water descending,as before, from the right, and called Rio Rancho Grande; the smallerstream, on the left, bearing the name of Rio Chaguiton; and the twoforming the Rio Goascoran. Half a mile beyond the ford is acollection of three or four huts, called Rancho Grande. Here westopped to determine our position. We were now at the foot of the”divide,” and close to the pass, if such existed, of which we were insearch. Immediately in front rose a high peak, destitute of trees,which the people called _El Volcan_. It had deep breaks or valleys oneither side, evidently those of the streams to which I have alluded.Outside of these, the mountains, six or eight thousand feet inheight, swept round in a majestic curve. Were there, then, two passesthrough the Cordilleras, separated by the conical peak of El Volcan?or did the great valley of the Goascoran divide here, only to wasteitself away in narrow gorges, leaving a summit too high to betraversed except by mountain mules?
Strange to say, the occupants of the huts at Rancho Grande could giveus no information on these points, but to all our inquiries onlyanswered, _”Quien sabe?”_ (Who knows?)–and pointed out to us theline of the mule-path, winding over the intervening hills and alongthe flank of El Volcan. Up to this time we had had comparativelysmall experience, and did not quite understand, what we afterwardscame to know too well, that a Spanish road is perfect only when itruns over the highest and roughest ground that by any possibility maybe selected between two given points.
We did not waste much time with the people of Rancho Grande, buturged on our mules as rapidly as possible. Turning abruptly to theright and leaving the _plateau_ behind us, we advanced straight upthe high ridge intervening between the two valleys, and thence in azigzag course to the foot of El Volcan, a mass of igneous rock,protruded through the horizontal sandstone strata,–the gradualrecession of which gives to the country the terraced character towhich I have so often alluded. Leaving our mules here, H. and myselfclambered up amongst rough and angular rocks, strewn in wildestdisorder, to the bare and rugged summit of El Volcan. From thiscommanding position the view was unobstructed all the way back to thePacific. The whole valley of the river, and line of our_reconnaissance_, the _Portillo_ of Caridad, the Rock of Goascoran,the Volcano of Conchagua, and the high islands of the Bay of Fonseca,were all included in the view. Rancho Grande and the fork of theriver appeared at our feet; and on the right hand and the left,extending upwards in nearly parallel directions, were the deepvalleys of the rivers Rancho Grande and Chaguiton,–that of theformer clothed with pines, while that of the latter presented only asuccession of savannas, with here and there a group of forest-trees.Our view to the northward, however, was obstructed by hills andforests, and our ascent of El Volcan failed to give us a view of thePass, which we knew must now be near at hand. We descended,therefore, and resumed our course,–anxiously, it is true, but withfew of the serious misgivings which had beset us at Caridad.
The path wound around the base of El Volcan, on the level terrace orshelf from which it springs. As we advanced, we could distinctlyperceive that the valley to our right rose gradually, with a gentle,but constant grade. At a distance of three miles it had nearlyreached the level of the terrace along which we rode, and at the endof our fourth mile the terrace and the valley merged into each other,and the mule-path dipping into the waters of the stream, now reducedto a sparkling brook, resumed its direction on the opposite bank. Westopped here, in a natural park of tall pines, and lunched beneaththeir shade, drinking only the cool, clear water which murmured amongthe mossy stones at our feet. We needed no artificial stimulus; ourspirits were high and buoyant; we had almost traced theGoascoran to its source; half an hour more must bring us to itsfountain-head,–and then? We knew not exactly what then; but onething was certain, that nothing in the form of a hill or mountainobstructed our advance, for the light, reflected from a clear sky,streamed horizontally between the tree-trunks in front, while on eitherhand the vistas were dark, and the outlines of gigantic mountains could bediscerned towering to mid-heaven.
Half a mile farther on, crossing in the interval a number of littletributary streams, we came where the pines were more scattered; theysoon disappeared, and we emerged upon an open glade or naturalmeadow. A high mountain, dark with forests, rose on our right; on theleft was a long range of grassy hills; but in front all was clear! Agovernment _rancho_, built under the shade of a couple of tallfruit-trees, stood in the middle of the savanna, and on its farther edgewere the cane buildings of a cattle-_hacienda_, just visible throughthe wealth of plantain-trees by which they were surrounded, while thecattle themselves were dotted over the intervening space, croppingthe young grass, which here looked brighter and fresher than in thevalley below. Impulsively my mule pricked her ears forward, and brokeinto a rapid trot. Soon she stepped across the stream, which we hadfollowed to its birthplace, now reduced to a trickling rivuletstealing out from a spring, “an eye of water,” (_ojo de agua_,) coylyhidden away under a clump of trees draped with evergreen vines at thefoot of the neighboring hills. I knew that we were at the “summit”;the faint swell of the savanna, scarcely perceptible to the eye,which supported the government _rancho_, it was clear, was thehighest point between the two great oceans, and the cool breeze whichfanned our foreheads was the expiring breath of the trade-windscoming all the way from the Bay of Honduras! My mule halted at the_rancho_; I threw the bridle over her neck, and went forward on foot;but I had not proceeded a hundred paces before my attention wasarrested by the cheerful murmur of another little stream, alsodescending from the foot of the mountain at our right,–but thistime, after traversing half the width of the savanna, it turned awaysuddenly to the north, and with a merry dash and sparkling leapstarted off on its journey to the Atlantic! In that direction,however, a forest of tall pines still shut off the view, and it wasnot until I reached the summit of one of the lateral hills that Icould look over and beyond them. Then, for the first time, I saw thegreat plain of Comayagua, at a level some hundreds of feet below us,spreading away for a distance of forty miles, in a rich succession ofsavannas and cultivated grounds, dotted with villages, andintersected by dark waving lines of forest, marking the courses ofthe various streams that traverse it like the veins on an out-spreadhand. At its northeastern extremity, its white walls now gleaminglike silver in the sunlight, and anon subdued and distant under theshadow of a passing cloud, was the city of Comayagua, unmistakable,from its size, but especially from the imposing mass of itscathedral, as the principal town of the plain, and the capital of theRepublic. Circling around this great plain, and, with the exceptionof only a narrow opening at its northern extremity, literallyshutting it in like an amphitheatre, is a cincture of mountains,rising to the height of from three to six thousand feet,–a fittingframe-work for so grand a picture.
I returned slowly to the _rancho_, where my companions were preparingour encampment, and communicated to them the result of myobservations. Singularly enough, there was no excitement; even H.forgot to inquire “what was the price of stock.” But we took ourdinner in calm satisfaction,–if four _tortillas_, three eggs, sixonions, and a water-melon, the total results of Dolores’s foragingexpedition to the cattle-_hacienda_, equally divided between eighthungry men, can be called a dinner.
We spent the evening, a good part of the night, and the next dayuntil afternoon, in determining our position and altitude, and invarious explorations in both directions from the summit. We foundthat we were distant seventy-eight miles in a right line from LaUnion, and (barometrically) 2958 feet above mean-tide in the Pacific.We afterwards ascertained that the hut in which we passed the nightis called Rancho Chiquito, and that name was accordingly given tothis summit, and to the Pass, as distinguished from another breakthrough the mountains, to the westward, which we subsequentlydiscovered and designated as the Pass of Guajoca.
After Rancho Chiquito, the first town which is reached in the plainof Comayagua, entering it from this direction, is Lamani,–a smallvillage, it is true, but delightfully situated in an open meadow,relieved only by fruit-trees and the stems of the _nopal_ or palmatedcactus, which here grows to a gigantic size, frequently reaching theheight of twenty or thirty feet. The _cabildo_ was in a state ofextreme dilapidation, and we called on the first _alcalde_ for betteraccommodations. He took us to the house of the _padre_, who was awayfrom home, and installed us there. It was the best house in theplace, whitewashed, and painted with figures of trees, men, animals,and birds, all in red ochre, and in a style of art truly archaic. The_padre’s_ two servants, an old woman and her boy, were the soleoccupants of the establishment, and did not appear at all delightedto see us. According to their account, there was nothing in thehouse to eat; they had no _tortillas_, no eggs, no chickens,_”absolutamente nada”_ (absolutely nothing). All this was affirmedwith the greatest gravity, while a dozen fat fowls were distinctlyvisible through the open doorway, perched, for the night, among thebare limbs of the _jocote_ trees in the court-yard. I pointed themout to the old woman, and, producing a handful of silver, told herthat we were willing to pay for such as we required.
_”Pero no puedo venderles_.” (But I can’t sell them.)
“Why?”
_”No puedo”_
Dolores meantime took a stick, knocked three of the finest from theirperches, and quietly wrung their necks. I expected to see the olddame swoon away, or at least go off in a paroxysm of tears; but,instead of committing any such civilized folly, she silently took upher slaughtered innocents, dressed and cooked them, and thanked meprofoundly for the _medio_ each, which I handed her next morning. Thelesson was not lost on us, in our subsequent travels; for we found italmost universal, that the lower classes are utterly indisposed tosell their domestic commodities. Their services may be purchased; buttheir chickens are above price. When, however, you have helpedyourself, you are astonished to find how ridiculously small a sumwill heal the wound you have made and atone for the loss you haveinflicted.
From Lamani to Comayagua the road is direct, over a slightlyundulating plain, subsiding gently to the north, and traversed nearlyin its centre by the Rio Hanuya, fed by numerous tributaries fallingfrom the mountains on either hand. We forded it at a distance of tenmiles from Lamani, and were surprised to find it already a large anddeep stream, frequently impassable for days and weeks together,during the season of rains. Half a mile beyond the ford we came tothe Villa de San Antonio, a considerable place, and, next to thecapital itself and the town of Las Piedras, the largest in the plain.Here we stopped at the house of the first _alcalde_, who gave us acordial reception, and an ample dinner, in a civilized fashion,–thatis to say, we had veritable plates, and knives and forks withal.
In Central America, curiosity is unchecked by our conventional laws,and the traveller soon ceases to be surprised at any of itsmanifestations, however extraordinary. When, therefore, a couple ofdozen spectators, of all ages and both sexes, invaded the house ofour host, and huddled around us while eating, we were in no degreeastonished, but continued our meal as if unconscious of theirpresence. One yellow dame, however, was determined not to be ignored,and insisted on speaking English, of which she had a vocabulary offour or five words, picked up in her intercourse with Americansailors at the port of Truxillo. We were hungry, and did not muchheed her; whereupon she disappeared, as if piqued, but soon returnedwith what she evidently regarded as an irresistible appeal to ourinterest, in the shape of a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired child, perhapsthree years old, perfectly naked, but which she placed triumphantlyon the table before us.
_”Mira estos caballeros! son paisanos tuyos, ninito!”_ (See thesegentlemen, child! they are your countrymen!)
“Yes!” ejaculated the brat, to the infinite entertainment of thespectators, none of whom appeared to discover the slightestimpropriety in the proceeding.
Of course, we had not come all the way to the Villa de San Antonio toset up our standard of what is moral or amusing; so we laughed also,and asked the mother to give us the history of the phenomenon. It wasgiven without circumlocution; and we learned, in most direct phrase,that Captain —- of —-, who traded to Truxillo, was responsiblefor this early effort towards what H. called “the enlightenment ofthe country.” So far from feeling ashamed of her _escapade_ with theCaptain, the mother gloried in it, and rather affected a socialsuperiority over her less fortunate neighbors, in consequence. It is,however, but right to say, that the freedom with which matters ofthis sort are talked about in Central America does not necessarilyimply that the people at large are less virtuous than in othercountries. _Honi soit qui mal y pense_ is a motto universally actedon; legs are called legs; and even the most delicate relations andcomplaints are spoken of and discussed without the slightest attemptat concealment or periphrasis. It is no doubt true, that marriage isfar from general among the middle and lower classes; and a woman maylive with a man in open concubinage without serious detriment to hercharacter or position, so long as she remains faithful to him.[1] Itis only when she becomes “light o’ love” and indiscriminate in herconduct, that she is avoided and despised. And although the remarkmay sound strangely to American ears, I have no question that thisleft-hand compact, on the whole, is here quite as well kept as thevows which have secured the formal sanction of the law and theChurch.
[Footnote 1: But few statistics relating to this subject are inexistence; but those few quite bear out these observations. Accordingto the official returns of the District of Amatitlan in Guatemala,the whole number of births in that Department for the year 1858 was1394, of which 581 were illegitimate!]
[To be continued.]
THE “CATTLE” TO THE “POET.”[Footnote]
How do _you_ know what the cow may know,As under the tasselled bough she lies,When earth is a-beat with the life below,When the orient mornings redden and glow,When the silent butterflies come and go,–The dreamy cow with the Juno eyes?
How do _you_ know that she may not knowThat the meadow all over is lettered, “Love,”Or hear the mystic syllable lowIn the grasses’ growth and the waters’ flow?How do _you_ know that she may not knowWhat the robin sings on the twig above?
[Footnote: See “The Poet’s Friends,”_Atlantic Monthly_, vol. v., p. 185.]
MORE WORDS ABOUT SHELLEY.
There is a moral or a lesson to be found in the life of almost everyman, the chief duty of a biographer being to set forth and illustratethis; and a history of the commonest individual, if written truly,could not fail to be interesting to his fellows; for the feelings andaspirations of men are pretty much alike all the world over, and theelements of genius not very unequally distributed through the mass ofmankind,–the thing itself being a development due to circumstances,very probably, as much as to anything singular in the man. But thereare few good biographies extant; the writers, for the most part,contenting themselves with superficial facts, refusing or unable tofollow the mind and motive powers of the subject,–or following theseimperfectly. For this reason, they who would read the truest kind ofbiographies must turn to those written by men of themselves,–thatis, the autobiographies; and these are, in fact, found to be amongthe most attractive specimens of literature in our language, or anyother.
The life of any man is more or less of a mystery to other men, andone who would write it effectively must have been intimate with himfrom his youth onward. When the biography is that of a man of genius,the difficulty is greatly increased, even to the writer who has beenhis life-long familiar; for genius, by the necessity of its being,implies a departure in a variety of ways from the thoughts and rulesof that regulated existence which is most favorable to the progressand welfare of men in the mass,–at least, as these are generallyunderstood. But if the life-long intimacy be wanting in thisinstance, the task of the writer is the most difficult of all, andalmost always a failure,–save in some rare case, where the writerand his subject have been men of a similar stamp.
Few biographies are written by the life-intimates of the dead. Inmost instances they are composed as tasks or duties by comparativestrangers; or if now and then by the friends or associates of thesubject, these are very likely the observers of only a part of hislife, the _seri studiorum_ of his latter or middle career, andunacquainted with that period when the strong lines of character areformed and the mental tendencies fixed. Boswell’s “Life of Johnson”is considered one of the best performances of its kind in ourlanguage; but it is, after all, only half a biography, as it were. Wehave the pensioned and petted life of the rough and contemptuous manof genius,–whose great renown in English literature, by-the-by, isowing far more to that garrulous admirer of his than to his ownworks,–but we have little or nothing about those days of study orstruggle when he taught and flogged little boys, or felt all thecontumely excited by his shabby habiliments, or knocked down hispublisher, or slept at night with a hungry stomach on a bulkhead inthe company of the poor poet Savage. All the racier and stronger partof the man’s history is slurred over. No doubt he would not encourageany prying into it, and neither cared to remember it himself norwished others to do so. He had a sensitive horror of having his lifewritten by an ignorant or unfriendly biographer, and even spoke ofthe justice of taking such a person’s life by anticipation, as theytell us. Others, feeling a similar horror, and some of them consciousof the enmities they should leave behind them, have themselveswritten the obscurer portions of their own lives, like Hume, Gibbon,Gifford, Scott, Moore, Southey. These men must have felt, that, evenat best, and with the fairest intentions, the task of the biographeris full of difficulties, and open to mistakes, uncertainties, andfalse conclusions without number.
The autobiographies are the best biographies. No doubt, self-love andsome cowardly sensitiveness will operate on a man in speaking of hisown doings; but all such drawbacks will still leave his narrative farmore trustworthy, as regards the truth of character, than that of anyother man: and this is more emphatically the case in proportion tothe genius of the writer; for genius is naturally bold and true, theantipodes of anything like hypocrisy, and prone to speak out,–if itwere but in defiance of hatred or misrepresentation, even though thebetter and more philosophic spirit were wanting. We should havebetter and more instructive autobiographies, if distinguished menwere not deterred by the self-denying ordinance so generallyaccepted, that it is not becoming in any one to speak frankly ofhimself or his own convictions. We have no longer any of the strong,wayward egotists,–the St. Augustines, the Montaignes, the Rousseaus,the Mirabeaus, the Byrons; even the Cobbetts have died out. But theCarlyles and the Emersons preserve amongst us still the evidences ofa stronger time.
There are two sorts of biographies, which may be described, in arough way, as biographies of thought and biographies of action. Itmay not be a very difficult thing, perhaps, to write the life of apolitician or a general, or even of a statesman or a great soldier.At any rate, the history of such a one is an easy matter, comparedwith that of a mere man of thought, of a man of genius. In the formercase, we have the marked events, which are, as it were, thestepping-stones of biography,–events belonging to the narrative of thetime,–and the individual receives a reflected light from many menand things. Dates and facts make the task of statement or commentarymore easy to the writer, and his work more interesting to the generalreader. But the case of the mere thinker, the man of inaction, whosesphere of achievement is for the most part a little room, and whoproduces his effects in a great measure in silence or solitude, is avery different one. The names of his publications, the dates of them,the number of them, the publisher’s price for them, the critic’sopinion of them, are meagre facts for the biographer; and if the manof genius be a man of quiet, sequestered life, the record of it willbe only the more uninteresting to the reader. It is only whensomething painful has been suffered, something eccentric done andmisunderstood and denounced or derided, that the biography rouses thelanguid interest of the public. Indeed, so imperfect and false arethe plan and style of the literary biographies, that such opprobriaare, as it were, necessary to them,–necessary stimulants ofattention, and necessary shades of what would otherwise be amonotonous and ineffective picture; and thus the unlucky men ofletters suffer posthumously for the stupidity of others as well astheir faults or divergencies. When biographers have not facts, theyare not unwilling to make use of fallacies: they set down “elephantsfor want of towns.” Dean Swift is a case in point. Society hasavenged itself by calumniating the man who spat upon its hypocrisiesand rascalities; and to appease the wounded feelings of the world, heis attractively set down as a savage and a tyrant. Mr. Thackeray andothers find such a verdict artistically suitable to their criticismsor their narratives, (a French author has written a romantic bookabout the Dean and Stella,) and so the man is still depicted andexplained as the slayer of two poor innocent women, a sort ofclerical Bluebeard, and the horrid ogre who proposed to kill and eatthe fat Irish babies. Thackeray’s plan of dissertation, indeed, wasinconsistent with any displacing or disturbing of the preconceivednotions; the success of it was, on the contrary, to be built upon thecustomary old impressions of the subject. Everybody is pleased tofind his own idea in Thackeray, liking it all the better for thegraphic way in which it is set forth and illustrated; and the resultshows the shrewd artistic judgment of the critic, who apparently(especially in the Dean’s case) understands his readers rather betterthan his theme. As for Swift,–though a fair knowledge of the man maybe gleaned from the several biographies of him that we have, his lifehas not yet been fairly written and interpreted; and we believe thesame may be said of most literary men of genius.
It must certainly be said of Shelley,–and this brings us to thebeginning of our remarks. Not one man in ten thousand would becapable of writing the life of that poet as it should bewritten,–even supposing the biographer were one of his intimate friends.Shelley went entirely away from the ranks of society,–farther awaythan Byron, and was a man harder to be understood by the generalityof men. An autobiography of such a man was more needed than that ofany other; but we could not expect an autobiography from Shelley. Hefelt nothing but pain and sorrow in the retrospect of his life, and,like Byron, shrank from the task of explaining the mixture of self-will,injustice, falsehood, and impetuous defiance that made up thegreater part of his history; and when he died, he left everything atsixes and sevens, as regarded his place and acts in the world.Accordingly, until lately, no one ventured forward with a biographyof the departed poet, who has been for more than a generation lookedon, as it were, through the medium of two lights: one, that of hispoetry, which represents him as the loftiest and gentlest of minds;and the other, the imperfect notices of his life, which show himforth a cruel, headstrong, and reckless outlaw,–hooted at,anathematized, (and by his own father first,) driven out, like aleper in the Middle Ages, and deprived of the care of his children.In his case, however, the tendency to dwell upon and bring out thedarker traits of biography does not exhibit itself in any remarkableway; and, on the whole, Shelley’s character wears a mild and retiringrather than a defiant or fiendish aspect. The world is inclined tomake allowances for him, on account of his beautiful poetry; and thisis something of the justice which, on other grounds also, is probablydue to him. Still, nobody has come forward to write his biography asit should be written; and we are yet to seek for the illustratedmoral of a sensitive, unaccommodating, and impulsive being, rebellingagainst the rules of life and the general philosophy of hisfellow-creatures, and shrinking with a shy, uncomprehended pride from thecompanionship of society. Shelley’s disposition was a marked and rareone, but there is nothing of the riddle in it; for thousands, of histemperament, may always be found going strangely through the world,here and there, and the interpretation of such a character could bemade extremely interesting, and even instructive, by any one capableof comprehending it.