From the Western Monthly Magazine.
We live in a country pre-eminently rich in mental and physical resources. We have whatever internally or externally is requisite to promote national greatness and prosperity. We live in the full possession and enjoyment of a government founded on the experience of the past, and reared by the genius and wisdom of an unrivalled ancestry. The mind here blooms and grows under the protecting wings of the Genius of Freedom—its native boldness and vigor unrestrained. Here it may be aroused to all that is noble in enterprise, or excellent in virtue. Here the aliments of its growth are as rich and as inspiriting, as they are abundant. It enjoys the choice fruit of the loftiest minds of departed ages; and may feast on the wisdom and learning of every modern age. It enjoys the bland influence of the christian spirit; and may attain a superior standard in moral greatness and power. But these are not the only advantages which tend to the development of American mind. In whatever direction we gaze, nature's beauties, as profuse and lovely as the stars of the sky, meet the vision. We behold landscape after landscape, enchanting beyond measure; the graceful undulations of luxuriant prairies; tall forests, clothed in the magnificent robes of summer, or cheerless with the storms of winter; noble and beautiful rivers, over whose placid waters genius and enterprise have scattered the wonders and researches of science; towering mountains, fairy groves, and silver-sparkling lakes. Add to these, the wild traditions of a people unknown to former minds: traditions, over which curiosity loves to linger, and philosophy to speculate; traditions, which, imbodying the terrific, the romantic, and the ennobling of the savage state, throw over the page of fiction a charm and an interest, enchanting and enchaining.
From this view, we might indulge the prophetic thought, that our national mind would attain to the highest degree of intellectual pre-eminence. Now, the mind is the prime source of literature, creating it, and giving to it an enduring form. If all its powers are fully developed in their varied beauty and might, that literature to which it gives character, will be of an exalted nature. Should then our national mind be made to appreciate its advantages, it naturally follows, that our literature will be all that is grand and sublime—will soar to the loftiest summit of the Olympian mount. But whatever will have a tendency to pervert these advantages, to draw the mind into pursuits below its real nature, will impede its growth. We behold around us such impediments. It shall be our object to exhibit a few of them, feeling convinced that if the obstacles which retard the transit of our literature in its ascent to greatness, be once known and surmounted, its destiny will be bright and glorious.
Individual character is the combined result of early impressions. The same is true in regard to national character. Whatever most influences the young mind, gives tone to its future action. Those circumstances, which most excite and agitate the mind of a nation, likewise mould and shape its future action. What has most deeply interested the American mind? If we trace back the chain of our history to the fearless days of our infancy, we shall find that its absorbing interests have been of a political nature. True, there were some minds among that matchless band of our New England ancestry, who, with the great volume of nature open before them, wrote with a spirit of inspiration, and soared to the high heavens of literature. They were few in number. We need not ask what now moves and engrosses the thoughts and feelings of the American mind. We need not now ask what form of character it is fast assuming: for it is truly becoming a political mind. Now, what will be the effect of such a cast of intellect in impeding the march of our literature, is obvious to any one of common discernment. Themindthat would create an exalted literature, should drink at all the fountains of knowledge; should be clothed in forms of grace and loveliness; should have all its powers and faculties developed; its delicate and masculine, its placid, its stormy and religious: it should be like Phidias' Minerva, perfect in all its proportions. Political pursuits do not producethis mind. If we examine them, we shall find their elements to be the united effects ofbadambition and immature intellect. It is true, they encourage activity of mind; but it is not that kind of activity which develops its beauties and majesty. That mental action which they promote, has its origin in lawless passions, in inordinate and ungenerous emulation. The political aspirant of the day is attracted by the false glory which beams around our political temple, and thinks no means too low, too debased, to gain entrance there. It is true, politics may bring into the field of competition, timid and shrinking intellect; but they do not impart to it a masculine boldness and nobleness. They train it to deeds of cunning and hypocrisy. We have reference now to the general politics of the age. Party strifes, the natural result of excess in politics, keep the mind in an unhealthy state: at one time raising it to the highest pitch of excitement; at another, causing the most extreme depression. That calm serenity, which moderates and chastens its powers, passions and emotions, is a stranger in a political contest. That mind, inured to party feelings and party interests, can never attain its full vigor and manhood—such is the nature of excess in political pursuits. We would ask, do they cause a full development of the mental powers? Do they awaken the fancy? Do they clothe human thoughts in radiant and brilliant robes? Do they promote mental research? Do they create pure and soaring eloquence? or tune the lyre of poesy to notes celestial? Let the genius of American Literature, as she wings her slow flight upwards, give the answer.
This political spirit, contagious and diffusive in its nature, has spread itself throughout the entire frame of our government. All classes of society, from the proudest to the humblest spheres of life, have imbibed it, feel it, and act under its influence. It composes the chief interests, and engages the active feelings, of almost every community. Who can be insensible to the fact, that our universal mind has already assumed a political character? The aspect of the times prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt. The consequences to our literature are obvious. The majority of our gifted, shining minds, prefer the honors of state to classic fame—rush headlong into fierce unnatural intellectual conflicts, rather than enjoy the calm, soul-ennobling, and sublime strifes of literary pursuit. The goddess of learning is uncourted in her temple. Pure mental illumination shines only on a few isolated spots. Public taste, which may be styled the protectress of literature in every country, instead of being refined and elevated, is corrupted and debased. In short, our literary mind, which, under the influence of our free institutions, might, like the eagle, soar with might and majesty, is chained down and impeded in its action.
It cannot be expected, that such a state of society would patronize noble, intellectual effort. Genuine literary merit, is unnoticed amid the whirl of party. The beauteous and serene beams of the star of science, are lost in the dazzling brightness of the political sun. How feeble the inducement held out in our land to the poet, the historian, or philosopher! The reading portion of our population is but a trifle, compared with the whole. We have a few mature minds, who, soaring above the common level, have taken their seats in the halls of literary eminence. Are they appreciated? Their names are unknown to a majority of the various classes of society? Who read the classic and eloquent orations of Webster and Everett, full of deep principles and splendid thoughts? Who, the placid, flowing and pathetic verse of Bryant, whose thoughts, so melancholy, yet so beautiful, steal over the soul like evening music on the still water? Who are delighted with the brilliant imagery, and chaste conceptions ofCooperandIrving?Their productions, the results of long, close, and patient thought, serve for parlor-ornaments, and parlor-reading. They are not studied; and who, without studying, can master the real, pure meaning of a fine thought? A work on modern philosophy is rarely seen, even among the learned circles of society: it never reaches the great mass. How could it be otherwise, when the general mind is agitated and convulsed by political strifes! How could it be otherwise, when all that is beautiful in the heart, and sunshine in the intellect, is debased and destroyed?
We may be told, that learning has flourished in other countries, under similar inauspicious influences; that the mightiest geniuses the world has ever seen, wrote their superior works under the frowns of patronage. They were exceptions to all rule. There are few minds cast in the same moulds as those of Cervantes, Petrarch, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton. If we mark the history of mankind, we will find, that there are now and then, in almost every nation, some unconquerable minds that would, in spite of circumstance, illumine the world. But the principle is a natural one. Mankind are fond of the fame of the moment; self-love is the predominant feature of human character. Men, in general, live not for posthumous glory. The present is more selfish than past ages. There is something exhilarating, spirit-stirring in the smiles and praises of our own countrymen. Genius, orholy ambition, then, cannot be aroused to vigorous action, unpatronized. Let it not be supposed, that we would have the mind think for gold. We would have it write,—and it would write, and that, too, with an immortal pen, in lofty and impassioned strains,—under the favor and good-feeling of society. But how can the literary mind be thus stimulated, when the general feeling of society is diametrically opposite to its interests? As well might we ascribe the splendid and magnificent architecture of the pantheon, to the skill and workmanship of the unlettered barbarian. We would not be misunderstood. We would not have our political interests forgotten. We would have them engage a share, but not the universal mind of the nation. We would have communities feel the same degree of interest in literary as in political greatness. We would have them combined; for their united results will increase our power, and throw around the arch of our glory, a radiance, lovely and sublime.
What periods in the history of mankind, are most distinguished for mental superiority? When did Grecian literature assume its brightest charms? Who has studied the character of the Pereclean age, and not experienced feelings of inexpressible delight, as he then beheld the mind in its noblest form? Then, the true value of mind was appreciated, and its efforts liberally patronized. Munificent gifts were the reward of mental exertion. Then, all grades of society, on the return of their Olympia, assembled with joyful hearts, to celebrate the festivities of mind. Then, art shone in original splendor; and science, in utility and nobleness, was unrivalled. Then, the muses were courted in their heavenly abodes, and Grecian poetry breathed a spirit of immortality. The tragedies ofEuripidesandSophoclesstill illume the path of the modern dramatist. Then, the poor of Athens listened to the instructions of the divineSocrates. Then, the sacred groves and shades resounded to the eloquence ofPlato, as the 'soul of philosophy' flowed from his lips. Then, Athens became the magnificent sun of all antiquity. It was no political age. All literary eras of the modern world, are analagous to the Pereclean of the ancient world. The most resplendent galaxys of modern mind have shone in times of the greatest literary feeling and patronage.
But this political influence of national feelings and interests will not be confined to the people. It will, indeed it has, entered within the walls of our academies and universities. Now, it is founded in reason and experience, that in the morning bloom of a literature, there is most need of active mental vigor. It requires untiring and unrelenting strength, to raise the stately pyramid. Alladin's magic lamp of Arabian story, is not an inheritance of this age. Such strength is in youthful mental cultivation. This invigorating influence must then come from our seats of learning. They are to our literature, what the consecrated groves and shades of Athens were to the Grecian—the resort of its protecting spirits. Here, the mind should be trained to action, should commence its acquisitions in knowledge. Here, it should be taught to think, and to feel, with depth and sublimity. Here, a fondness for whatever is great or commanding in human thoughts, should be created. Here, the characteristic features of such minds as Shakspeare and Milton, Newton and Franklin, should be studied; for like bright stars they will shed a cheering light on the obscure wanderings of the youthful intellect. When such is the case, and it never can fail to be, if our universities preserve their characters, the success of American literature will rest on a steadfast foundation. But such cannot be, when their interests and those of the people run in counter channels. In a republic, where public opinion works such magic spells, it is the interest of the minority to yield to its sway. Upon a principle of human nature, the weak cling to the strong. Can, then, our colleges maintain their high, original standing? They must conform, in some degree, to the feelings of the mass of society. Besides, the youth who resort to them, come from the people, and must necessarily bear with them the malady of the people. Who will deny, that this political spirit is now, in many instances, the great stimulus of the American student? He seldom turns his aspiring gaze toward the celestial mount of the muses. He looks abroad upon society, and marks its character. His grasping mind longs for fame. He beholds but one road to eminence—the political. He beholds the splendid career of the mighty intellects of the land; marks a growing and powerful people doing them reverence; hears their name trumpeted by a thousand tongues; and like the Grecian hero, whose slumbers were troubled by the trophies of Miltiades, he burns for action. Nor is this all. In the political world, he sees mind battling with mind; all life, all activity, the congenial elements of panting, fiery ambition. In the literary world, he sees the mind pursuing a silent, unobserved, noiseless march; and not dreaming of the unfading brightness of its matured glories, he disdains its pursuits as unworthy of his attention. The result is natural. The grand, animating, and powerful thoughts of the splendid intellects of the past and the present, which, when sought, come all eloquent from the living page, never breathe their inspiriting energies into his mind. His course being finished, he rushes, full of sanguine hope, on the theatre of action, unskilled and unprepared. His success hangs on a point. An inordinate ambition urges him onward; he faces the storms and tempests, and opposes the thousand counter currents which run in, and keep in perpetual commotion the mountain wave of the political sea. His career is about closing, and, as he imagines, the diadem of glory about settling on his forehead; by some unforeseen stroke of bad fortune, he is hurled from his high elevation, sinks, and falls, and is heard of no more. In this way, many minds meet an unhonored and untimely end—minds, that might have proved great and useful to society—minds, which might have illuminated the arts and sciences with improved splendor—minds, which might have been 'founts of beauty' to our literature.
What preserves, in its original strength and grandeur, the rich and massy arch of German literature? The incomparable exertions of the German student. The German student! whose mind knows no other commune than the thoughts of the mighty dead. The German student! who knows the power and majesty of truth, and thinks no care, nor labor, too great to possess it; and whose intellectual eye takes in all that is lovely and sublime in creation. The universities of Germany are unequalled in the world. Is it wonderful that its literature is unequalled? But they are supported by the good feeling of society. Let then the current of public feeling be changed in our beloved land; let the American mind feel sensible of the importance of youthful mental cultivation; let the youthful intellect be taught to ascribe as much value, as much greatness, and as much immortality, to literary as to political interests. Let this be done, and our universities will surpass even those of Germany; will furnish to their country, instead of Schillers and Goethes, their prototypes, Shakspeares and Miltons.
But apart from these impediments to American literature, there is another. It glares in the face of every one. It lies in the periodical press. The benefits and glories of the press are familiar to every mind. Disseminating knowledge with unexampled rapidity, its influence is spread over and reaches the extreme borders of society. Being a universal mental aliment, it moulds, and fashions, and directs the thoughts and feelings of the man. Thousands on thousands of minds are developed by its effects, never enjoying any other. To the growing, varied classes of our society, it is the only light of information. How important that its action be pure, healthy, and vigorous! How important that it be the vehicle of virtuous and elevated thought! How important that it send forth on its hundred rapid wings and eloquence, which, like the written eloquence of the lamented Grimke, more enduring than marble or brass, should beautify the affections, and arouse to glorious action the intellect of this and coming ages! Thus mighty in its influence, and thus important in its character, it cannot maintain too high, too noble a standard. It should imbody whatever is great and excellent in human thought. It should teach the people how to apply the principles of science to the arts; and, therefore, should ever preserve, with vestal care, the temple of learning. In short, it should be the tribunal of public taste—an ordeal of criticism—severe, but highminded. Such being its characteristics, the periodical press will be the strongest pillar that shall support the towering fabric of our literature. It cannot fail to be, because through its instrumentality, public feeling is formed and swayed; and we have seen, that the right direction of this feeling will ever insure permanent, liberal, literary patronage. But what is the general character of this branch of the press? Is it a fountain from which flows the pure streams of knowledge? Is it a messenger of eloquent and exalted thoughts? Is it a friend to literature, or the efforts of original and powerful mind? Facts speak to the contrary. The majority of our periodicals, bear upon their very face, a political stamp. They contain in their broad folds, no more than the creations of rankling and disappointed passion, of unripened and undeveloped intellect. Do such minds as Johnson and Addison, spread beauty and interest through their columns? How paltry, how much to be lamented the spirit of their criticisms!—They breathe the essence of fanaticism. True, we have a few quarterlys and monthlys, that rise above the ordinary grade, and will compare, in all the excellencies of thought, with any productions of the kind, in any country or clime. The North American Review, is a fair and splendid specimen of what should characterize that department of our literature. Who ever closed its pages, beaming with a sun-like brilliancy, without having, in some degree, his knowledge enriched, his taste refined, his thoughts enlarged, and his intellect expanded? But shining only on the high peaks of society, its glorious beams never find their way to the mass: its influence, amid the universal debasement of the press, is unseen, unfelt. We have, likewise, a few literary papers; but in the delicate idea and beautiful expression of one of the contributors of the Magazine, they are the mere "sprays of the intellectual wave." We repeat it, the periodical press is, in the strongest sense of the word, political. Now, it is plain to every observing mind, that being the most influential, it should be the purest and noblest portion of our literature. How far it falls short of such a standard, our national mind has fatally experienced. Our country's glory and pride, our own genius, our own talent, call loudly and decidedly for a reformation.
We have now set forth a faint view of some of the impediments to the growth of American literature. We have seen, that political pursuits do not tend to the full development and vigor of the mind, and that without such a cast of mind, there cannot be eloquent and sublime mental action. We have seen, that our nation's mind is absorbed in political interests; in short, that the age is too political. We would ask, if there is no necessity of a change? He who feels the heavenly glow of patriotic devotion, and hopes to see his country the brightest star in the firmament of modern glory, will return an affirmative response.
Our literature has not, as yet, assumed any permanent form. Its features are just beginning to develope. What character it will take, we cannot judge with any degree of certainty. Now, it is a familiar principle, that in the formation of the mind, there is need of the most unceasing care and attention, to shape and direct its budding energies to virtue and excellence. Let the American mind have this attention, and we have a literature purer, nobler, and richer, than has ever illumined mankind. Do we desire a glorious immortality? And is not literary immortality—the mind set forth in visible, enchanting, and enduring forms—far more desirable, than political? How has the greatness and grandeur of all antiquity, been perpetuated? Who will compare the Pereclean age of Greece—an age, as we have seen, when literature shone purely, brightly—with those that followed, when political feuds rent every state? Who will compare the fame of Homer, the mirror-mind of the ancient world, with the most distinguished politician of antiquity? of Milton, with that of Cromwell? of Shakspeare, with that of the profoundest statesman of the Elizabethan age. Political glory, is as the short-lived plant—literary, as the majestic oak. Political glory, is as the flashing meteor—literary, as the splendor of the noon-day sun.
H. J. G.
From Mrs. Jamieson's Visits and Sketches.
1This little tale (written in 1830) is founded on a striking incident related in Humboldt's narrative. The facts remain unaltered.
The monuments which human art has raised to human pride or power may decay with that power, or survive to mock that pride; but sooner or later they perish—their place knows them not. In the aspect of a ruin, however imposing in itself, and however magnificent or dear the associations connected with it, there is always something sad and humiliating, reminding us how poor and how frail are the works of man, how unstable his hopes, and how limited his capacity compared to his aspirations! But when man has made to himself monuments of the works of God; when the memory of human affections, human intellect, human power, is blended with the immutable features of nature, they consecrate each other, and both endure together to the end. In a state of high civilization, man trusts to the record of brick and marble—the pyramid, the column, the temple, the tomb:
"Then the bustAnd altar rise—then sink again to dust."
"Then the bustAnd altar rise—then sink again to dust."
In the earlier stages of society, the isolated rock—the mountain, cloud-encircled—the river, rolling to its ocean-home—the very stars themselves—were endued with sympathies, and constituted the first, as they will be the last, witnesses and records of our human destinies and feelings. The glories of the Parthenon shall fade into oblivion; but while the heights of Thermopylæ stand, and while a wave murmurs in the gulph of Salamis, a voice shall cry aloud to the universe—"Freedom and glory to those who can dare to die!—woe and everlasting infamy to him who would enthral the unconquerable spirit!" The Coliseum with its sanguinary trophies is crumbling to decay; but the islet of Nisida, where Brutus parted with his Portia—the steep of Leucadia, still remain fixed as the foundations of the earth; and lasting as the round world itself shall be the memories that hover over them! As long as the waters of the Hellespont flow between Sestos and Abydos, the fame of the love that perished there shall never pass away. A traveller, pursuing his weary way through the midst of an African desert—a barren, desolate, and almost boundless solitude—found a gigantic sculptured head, shattered and half-buried in the sand; and near it the fragment of a pedestal, on which these words might be with pain deciphered: "I am Ozymandias, King of kings; look upon my works, ye mighty ones, and despair!" Who was Ozymandias?—where are now his works?—what bond of thought or feeling, links his past with our present? The Arab, with his beasts of burthen, tramples unheeding over these forlorn vestiges of human art and human grandeur. In the wildest part of the New Continent, hidden amid the depths of interminable forests, there stands a huge rock, hallowed by a tradition so recent that the man is not yet gray-headed who was born its contemporary; but that rock, and the tale which consecrates it, shall carry down to future ages a deep lesson—a moral interest lasting as itself—however the aspect of things and the conditions of people change around it. Henceforth no man shall gaze on it with careless eye; but each shall whisper to his own bosom—"What is stronger than love in a mother's heart?—what more fearful than power wielded by ignorance?—or what more lamentable than the abuse of a beneficent name to purposes of selfish cruelty?"
Those vast regions which occupy the central part of South America, stretching from Guinea to the foot of the Andes, overspread with gigantic and primeval forests, and watered by mighty rivers—those solitary wilds where man appears unessential in the scale of creation, and the traces of his power are few and far between—have lately occupied much of the attention of Europeans; partly from the extraordinary events and unexpected revolutions; which have convulsed the nations round them; and partly from the researches of enterprising travellers who have penetrated into their remotest districts. But till within the last twenty years these wild regions have been unknown, except through the means of the Spanish and Portuguese priests, settled as missionaries along the banks of the Orinoco and the Paraguay. The men thus devoted to utter banishment from all intercourse with civilized life, are generally Franciscan or Capuchin friars, born in the Spanish colonies. Their pious duties are sometimes voluntary, and sometimes imposed by the superiors of their order; in either case their destiny appears at first view deplorable, and their self-sacrifice sublime; yet, when we recollect that these poor monks generally exchanged the monotonous solitude of the cloister for the magnificent loneliness of the boundless woods and far-spreading savannahs, the sacrifice appears less terrible; even where accompanied by suffering, privation, and occasionally by danger. When these men combine with their religious zeal some degree of understanding and enlightened benevolence, they have been enabled to enlarge the sphere of knowledge and civilization, by exploring the productions and geography of these unknown regions; and by collecting into villages and humanizing the manners of the native tribes, who seem strangely to unite the fiercest and most abhorred traits of savage life, with some of the gentlest instincts of our common nature. But when it has happened that these priests have been men of narrow minds and tyrannical tempers, they have on some occasions fearfully abused the authority entrusted to them; and being removed many thousand miles from the European settlements and the restraint of the laws, the power they have exercised has been as far beyond control as the calamities they have caused have been beyond all remedy and all relief.
Unfortunately for those who were trusted to his charge, Father Gomez was a missionary of this character. He was a Franciscan friar of the order of Observance, and he dwelt in the village of San Fernando, near the source of the Orinoco, whence his authority extended as president over several missions in the neighborhood of which San Fernando was the capital. The temper of this man was naturally cruel and despotic; he was wholly uneducated, and had no idea, no feeling, of the true spirit of christian benevolence: in this respect, the savages whom he had been sent to instruct and civilize were in reality less savage and less ignorant than himself.
Among the passions and vices which Father Gomez had brought from his cell in the convent of Angostara, to spread contamination and oppression through his new domain, were pride and avarice; and both were interested in increasing the number of his converts or rather of his slaves. In spite of the wise and humane law of Charles the Third, prohibiting the conversion of the Indian natives by force, Gomez, like others of his brethren in the more distant missions, often accomplished his purpose by direct violence. He was accustomed to go, with a party of his people, and lie in wait near the hordes of unreclaimed Indians: when the men were absent he would forcibly seize on the women and children, bind them, and bring them off in triumph to his village. There, being baptized and taught to make the sign of the cross, they werecalledChristians, but in reality were slaves. In general, the women thus detained pined away and died; but the children became accustomed to their new mode of life, forgot their woods, and paid to their Christian master a willing and blind obedience; thus in time they became the oppressors of their own people.
Father Gomez called these incursions,la conquista espiritual—the conquest of souls.
One day he set off on an expedition of this nature, attended by twelve armed Indians; and after rowing some leagues up the river Guaviare, which flows into the Orinoco, they perceived through an opening in the trees, and at a little distance from the shore, an Indian hut. It is the custom of these people to live isolated in families; and so strong is their passion for solitude, that when collected into villages they frequently build themselves a little cabin at a distance from their usual residence, and retire to it, at certain seasons, for days together. The cabin of which I speak was one of these solitaryvillas—if I may so apply the word. It was constructed with peculiar neatness, thatched with palm leaves, and over-shadowed with cocoa trees and laurels; it stood alone in the wilderness, embowered with luxuriant vegetation, and looked like the chosen abode of simple and quiet happiness. Within this hut a young Indian woman (whom I shall call Guahiba, from the name of her tribe) was busied in making cakes of the cassava root, and preparing the family meal, against the return of her husband, who was fishing at some distance up the river; her eldest child, about five or six years old, assisted her; and from time to time, while thus employed, the mother turned her eyes, beaming with fond affection, upon the playful gambols of two little infants, who, being just able to crawl alone, were rolling together on the ground, laughing and crowing with all their might.
Their food being nearly prepared, the Indian woman looked towards the river, impatient for the return of her husband. But her bright dark eyes, swimming with eagerness and affectionate solicitude, became fixed and glazed with terror when, instead of him she so fondly expected, she beheld the attendants of Father Gomez, creeping stealthily along the side of the thicket towards her cabin. Instantly aware of her danger (for the nature and object of these incursions were the dread of all the country round) she uttered a piercing shriek, snatched up her infants in her arms, and, calling on the other to follow, rushed from the hut towards the forest. As she had considerably the start of her pursuers, she would probably have escaped, and have hidden herself effectually in its tangled depths, if her precious burthen had not impeded her flight; but thus encumbered she was easily overtaken. Her eldest child, fleet of foot and wily as the young jaguar, escaped to carry to the wretched father the news of his bereavement, and neither father nor child were ever more beheld in their former haunts.
Meantime, the Indians seized upon Guahiba—bound her, tied her two children together, and dragged her down to the river, where Father Gomez was sitting in his canoe, waiting the issue of the expedition. At the sight of the captives his eye sparkled with a cruel triumph; he thanked his patron saint that three more souls were added to his community; and then, heedless of the tears of the mother, and the cries of her children, he commanded his followers to row back with all speed to San Fernando.
There Guahiba and her infants were placed in a hut under the guard of two Indians; some food was given to her, which she at first refused, but afterward, as if on reflection, accepted. A young Indian girl was then sent to her—a captive convert of her own tribe, who had not yet quite forgotten her native language. She tried to make Guahiba comprehend that in this village she and her children must remain during the rest of their lives, in order that they might go to heaven after they were dead. Guahiba listened, but understood nothing of what was addressed to her; nor could she be made to conceive for what purpose she was torn from her husband and her home, nor why she was to dwell for the remainder of her life among a strange people, and against her will. During that night she remained tranquil, watching over her infants as they slumbered by her side; but the moment the dawn appeared, she took them in her arms and ran off to the woods. She was immediately brought back; but no sooner were the eyes of her keepers turned from her than she snatched up her children, and again fled;—again—and again! At every new attempt she was punished with more and more severity; she was kept from food, and at length repeatedly and cruelty beaten. In vain!—apparently she did not even understand why she was thus treated; and one instinctive idea alone, the desire of escape, seemed to possess her mind and govern all her movements. If her oppressors only turned from her, or looked another way, for an instant, she invariably caught up her children and ran off towards the forest. Father Gomez was at length wearied by what he termed her "blind obstinacy;" and, as the only means of securing all three, he took measures to separate the mother from her children, and resolved to convey Guahiba to a distant mission, whence she should never find her way back either to them or to her home.
In pursuance of this plan, poor Guahiba, with her hands tied behind her, was placed in the bow of a canoe. Father Gomez seated himself at the helm, and they rowed away.
The few travellers who have visited these regions agree in describing a phenomenon, the cause of which is still a mystery to geologists, and which imparts to the lonely depths of these unappropriated and unviolated shades an effect intensely and indescribably mournful. The granite rocks which border the river, and extend far into the contiguous woods, assume strange, fantastic shapes; and are covered with a black incrustation, or deposit, which contrasted with the snow-white foam of the waves breaking on them below, and the pale lichens which spring from their crevices and creep along their surface above, give these shores an aspect perfectly funereal. Between these melancholy rocks—so high and so steep that a landing place seldom occurred for leagues together—the canoe of Father Gomez slowly glided, though urged against the stream by eight robust Indians.
The unhappy Guahiba sat at first perfectly unmoved, and apparently amazed and stunned by her situation; she did not comprehend what they were going to do with her; but after a while she looked up towards the sun, then down upon the stream; and perceiving, by the direction of the one and the course of the other, that every stroke of the oar carried her farther and farther from her beloved and helpless children, her husband, and her native home, her countenance was seen to change and assume a fearful expression. As the possibility of escape, in her present situation, had never once occurred to her captors, she had been very slightly and carelessly bound. She watched her opportunity, burst the withes on her arms, with a sudden effort flung herself overboard, and dived under the waves; but in another moment she rose again at a considerable distance, and swam to the shore. The current, being rapid and strong, carried her down to the base of a dark granite rock which projected into the stream; she climbed it with fearless agility, stood for an instant on its summit, looking down upon her tyrants, then plunged into the forest, and was lost to sight.
Father Gomez, beholding his victim thus unexpectedly escape him, sat mute and thunderstruck for some moments, unable to give utterance to the extremity of his rage and astonishment. When, at length, he found voice, he commanded his Indians to pull with all their might to the shore; then to pursue the poor fugitive, and bring her back to him, dead or alive.
Guahiba, meantime, while strength remained to break her way through the tangled wilderness, continued her flight; but soon exhausted and breathless, with the violence of her exertions, she was obliged to relax in her efforts, and at length sunk down at the foot of a huge laurel tree, where she concealed herself, as well as she might, among the long, interwoven grass. There, crouching and trembling in her lair, she heard the voices of her persecutors hallooing to each other through the thicket. She would probably have escaped but for a large mastiff which the Indians had with them, and which scented her out in her hiding place. The moment she heard the dreaded animal snuffing in the air, and tearing his way through the grass, she knew she was lost. The Indians came up. She attempted no vain resistance; but, with a sullen passiveness, suffered herself to be seized and dragged to the shore.
When the merciless priest beheld her, he determined to inflict on her such discipline as he thought would banish her children from her memory, and cure her forever of her passion for escaping. He ordered her to be stretched upon that granite rock where she had landed from the canoe, on the summit of which she had stood, as if exulting in her flight,—THE ROCK OF THE MOTHER, as it has ever since been denominated—and there flogged till she could scarcely move or speak. She was then bound more securely, placed in the canoe, and carried to Javita, the seat of a mission far up the river.
It was near sunset when they arrived at this village, and the inhabitants were preparing to go to rest. Guahiba was deposited for the night in a large barn-like building, which served as a place of worship, a public magazine, and, occasionally, as a barrack. Father Gomez ordered two or three Indians of Javita to keep guard over her alternately, relieving each other through the night; and then went to repose himself after the fatigues of his voyage. As the wretched captive neither resisted nor complained, Father Gomez flattered himself that she was now reduced to submission. Little could he fathom the bosom of this fond mother! He mistook for stupor, or resignation, the calmness of a fixed resolve. In absence, in bonds, and in torture, her heart throbbed with but one feeling; one thought alone possessed her whole soul:—her children—her children—and still her children!
Among the Indians appointed to watch her was a youth about eighteen or nineteen years of age, who, perceiving that her arms were miserably bruised by the stripes she had received, and that she suffered the most acute agony from the savage tightness with which the cords were drawn, let fall an exclamation of pity in the language of her tribe. Quick she seized the moment of feeling, and addressed him as one of her people.
"Guahibo," she said, in a whispered tone, "thou speakest my language, and doubtless thou art my brother! Wilt thou see me perish without pity, O son of my people? Ah, cut these bonds which enter into my flesh! I faint with pain! I die!"
The young man heard, and, as if terrified, removed a few paces from her and kept silence. Afterward, when his companions were out of sight, and he was left alone to watch, he approached, and said, "Guahiba!—our fathers were the same, and I may not see thee die; but if I cut these bonds, white man will flog me:—wilt thou be content if I loosen them, and give thee ease?" And as he spoke, he stooped and loosened the thongs on her wrists and arms; she smiled upon him languidly, and appeared satisfied.
Night was now coming on. Guahiba dropped her head on her bosom, and closed her eyes, as if exhausted by weariness. The young Indian believing that she slept, after some hesitation laid himself down on his mat. His companions were already slumbering in the porch of the building, and all was still.
Then Guahiba raised her head. It was night—dark night—without moon or star. There was no sound, except the breathing of the sleepers around her, and the humming of the moschetos. She listened for some time with her whole soul; but all was silence. She then gnawed the loosened thongs asunder with her teeth. Her hands once free, she released her feet: and when the morning came she had disappeared. Search was made for her in every direction, but in vain; and Father Gomez, baffled and wrathful, returned to his village.
The distance between Javita and San Fernando, where Guahiba had left her infants, is twenty-five leagues in a straight line. A fearful wilderness of gigantic forest trees, and intermingling underwood, separated these two missions;—a savage and awful solitude, which, probably, since the beginning of the world, had never been trodden by human foot. All communication was carried on by the river; and there lived not a man, whether Indian or European, bold enough to have attempted the route along the shore. It was the commencement of the rainy season. The sky, obscured by clouds, seldom revealed the sun by day; and neither moon nor gleam of twinkling star by night. The rivers had overflowed, and the lowlands were inundated. There was no visible object to direct the traveller; no shelter, no defence, no aid, no guide. Was it Providence—was it the strong instinct of maternal love, which led this courageous woman through the depths of the pathless woods—where rivulets, swollen to torrents by the rains, intercepted her at every step; where the thorny lianas, twining from tree to tree, opposed an almost impenetrable barrier; where the moschetos hung in clouds upon her path; where the jaguar and the alligator lurked to devour her; where the rattle-snake and the water-serpent lay coiled up in the damp grass, ready to spring at her; where she had no food to support her exhausted frame, but a few berries, and the large black ants which build their nests on the trees? How directed—how sustained—cannot be told: the poor woman herself could not tell. All that can be known with any certainty is, that the fourth rising sun beheld her at San Fernando; a wild, and wasted, and fearful object; her feet swelled and bleeding—her hands torn—her body covered with wounds, and emaciated with famine and fatigue;—but once more near her children!
For several hours she hovered round the hut in which she had left them, gazing on it from a distance with longing eyes and a sick heart, without daring to advance: at length she perceived that all the inhabitants had quitted their cottages to attend vespers; then she stole from the thicket, and approached, with faint and timid steps, the spot which contained her heart's treasures. She entered, and found her infants left alone, and playing together on a mat: they screamed at her appearance, so changed was she by suffering; but when she called them by name, they knew her tender voice, and stretched out their little arms towards her. In that moment the mother forgot all she had endured—all her anguish, all her fears, every thing on earth but the objects which blessed her eyes. She sat down between her children—she took them on her knees—she clasped them in an agony of fondness to her bosom—she covered them with kisses—she shed torrents of tears on their little heads, as she hugged them to her. Suddenly she remembered where she was, and why she was there: new terrors seized her; she rose up hastily, and, with her babies in her arms, she staggered out of the cabin—fainting, stumbling, and almost blind with loss of blood and inanition. She tried to reach the woods, but too feeble to sustain her burthen, which yet she would not relinquish, her limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At this moment an Indian, who was watching the public oven, perceived her. He gave the alarm by ringing a bell, and the people rushed forth, gathering round Guahiba with fright and astonishment. They gazed upon her as if upon an apparition, till her sobs, and imploring looks, and trembling and wounded limbs, convinced them that she yet lived, though apparently nigh to death. They looked upon her in silence, and then at each other; their savage bosoms were touched with commiseration for her sad plight, and with admiration, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism of maternal love.
While they hesitated, and none seemed willing to seize her, or to take her children from her, Father Gomez, who had just landed on his return from Javita, approached in haste, and commanded them to be separated. Guahiba clasped her children closer to her breast, and the Indians shrunk back.
"What!" thundered the monk: "will ye suffer the woman to steal two precious souls from heaven? two members from our community? See ye not, that while she is suffered to approach them, there is no salvation for either mother or children? part them, and instantly!"
The Indians, accustomed to his ascendancy, and terrified at his voice, tore the children of Guahiba once more from her feeble arms: she uttered nor word nor cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the earth.
While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel mercy, ordered her wounds to be carefully dressed: her arms and legs were swathed with cotton bandages; she was then placed in a canoe, and conveyed to a mission, far, far off, on the river Esmeralda, beyond the Upper Orinoco. She continued in a state of exhaustion and torpor during the voyage; but after being taken out of the boat and carried inland, restoratives brought her back to life, and to a sense of her situation. When she perceived, as reason and consciousness returned, that she was in a strange place, unknowing how she was brought there—among a tribe who spoke a language different from any she had ever heard before, and from whom, therefore, according to Indian prejudices, she could hope nor aid nor pity;—when she recollected that she was far from her beloved children;—when she saw no means of discovering the bearing or the distance of their abode—no clue to guide her back to it:—then, and only then, did the mother's heart yield to utter despair; and thence forward refusing to speak or to move, and obstinately rejecting all nourishment, thus she died.
The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends his oar with a sigh as he passes theROCK OF THE MOTHER. He points it out to the traveller, and weeps as he relates the tale of her sufferings and her fate. Ages hence, when these solitary regions have become the seats of civilization, of power, and intelligence; when the pathless wilds which poor Guahiba traversed in her anguish, are replaced by populous cities, and smiling gardens, and pastures, and waving harvests,—still that dark rock shall stand, frowning o'er the stream; tradition and history shall preserve its name and fame; and when even the pyramids, those vast, vain monuments to human pride, have passed away, it shall endure, to carry down to the end of the world the memory of the Indian Mother.