Early next morning the settler’s boat came up, and took us a mile down the river, where we found a larger one to convey us to Fort Vancouver. The crew were a Maltese sailor and a man who had been in the United States army. Each had his private opinions as to her management. Naturally, the Maltese should have been captain, but the soldier was both supercargo and part owner, and though it was blowing hard and the sails were fully large, the foreigner, who was but a poor little creature, had to obey orders.
As the river widened and grew rougher, we were wetted from stem to stern at every plunge; and when it became evident that the soldier could not handle the sails if the Maltese was kept at the helm, the heavy rifleman who was on board, declaring that he knew the river, took upon himself to steer us. In a few minutes the boat was nearly swamped. The Maltese prayed and blasphemed in language which no one understood. The oaths of the soldier were intelligible enough. The ‘heavy,’ now alarmed, nervously asked what had better be done. My advice was to grease the bowsprit, let go the mast, and splice the main brace. ‘In another minute or two,’ I added, ‘you’ll steer us all to the bottom.’
Fred, who thought it no time for joking, called the rifleman a ‘damned fool,’ and authoritatively bade him give up the tiller; saying that I had been in Her Majesty’s Navy, and perhaps knew a little more about boats than he did. To this the other replied that ‘he didn’t want anyone to learn him; he reckon’d he’d been raised to boating as well as the next man, and he’d be derned if he was going to trust his life to anybody!’ Samson, thinking no doubt of his own, took his pipe out of his mouth, and towering over the steersman, flung him like a child on one side. In an instant I was in his place.
It was a minute or two before the boat had way enough to answer the helm. By that time we were within a dozen yards of a reef. Having noticed, however, that the little craft was quick in her stays, I kept her full till the last, put the helm down, and round she spun in a moment. Before I could thank my stars, the pintle, or hook on which the rudder hangs, broke off. The tiller was knocked out of my hand, and the boat’s head flew into the wind. ‘Out with the sweeps,’ I shouted. But the sweeps were under the gear. All was confusion and panic. The two men cursed in the names of their respective saints. The ‘heavy’ whined, ‘I told you how it w’d be.’ Samson struggled valiantly to get at an oar, while Fred, setting the example, begged all hands to be calm, and be ready to fend the stern off the rocks with a boathook. As we drifted into the surf I was wondering how many bumps she would stand before she went to pieces. Happily the water shallowed, and the men, by jumping overboard, managed to drag the boat through the breakers under the lee of the point. We afterwards drew her up on to the beach, kindled a fire, got out some provisions, and stayed till the storm was over.
Whatwas then called Fort Vancouver was a station of the Hudson’s Bay Company. We took up our quarters here till one of the company’s vessels—the ‘Mary Dare,’ a brig of 120 tons, was ready to sail for the Sandwich Islands. This was about the most uncomfortable trip I ever made. A sailing merchant brig of 120 tons, deeply laden, is not exactly a pleasure yacht; and 2,000 miles is a long voyage. For ten days we lay at anchor at the mouth of the Columbia, detained by westerly gales. A week after we put to sea, all our fresh provisions were consumed, and we had to live on our cargo—dried salmon. We three and the captain more than filled the little hole of a cabin. There wasn’t even a hammock, and we had to sleep on the deck, or on the lockers. The fleas, the cockroaches, and the rats, romped over and under one all night. Not counting the time it took to go down the river, or the ten days we were kept at its mouth, we were just six weeks at sea before we reached Woahoo, on Christmas Day.
How beautiful the islands looked as we passed between them, with a fair wind and studding sails set alow and aloft. Their tropical charms seemed more glowing, the water bluer, the palm trees statelier, the vegetation more libertine than ever. On the south the land rises gradually from the shore to a range of lofty mountains. Immediately behind Honolulu—the capital—a valley with a road winding up it leads to the north side of the island. This valley is, or was then, richly cultivated, principally withtaro, a large root not unlike the yam. Here and there native huts were dotted about, with gardens full of flowers, and abundance of tropical fruit. Higher up, where it becomes too steep for cultivation, growth of all kind is rampant. Acacias, oranges, maples, bread-fruit, and sandal-wood trees, rear their heads above the tangled ever-greens. The high peaks, constantly in the clouds, arrest the moisture of the ocean atmosphere, and countless rills pour down the mountain sides, clothing everything in perpetual verdure. The climate is one of the least changeable in the world; the sea breeze blows day and night, and throughout the year the day temperature does not vary more than five or six degrees, the average being about eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. In 1850 the town of Honolulu was little else than a native village of grass and mat huts. Two or three merchants had good houses. In one of these Fred and Samson were domiciled; there was no such thing as a hotel. I was the guest of General Miller, the Consul-General. What changes may have taken place since the above date I have no means of knowing. So far as the natives go, the change will assuredly have been for the worse; for the aborigines, in all parts of the world, lose their primitive simplicity and soon acquire the worst vices of civilisation.
Even King Tamehameha III. was not innocent of one of them. General Miller offered to present us at court, but he had to give several days’ notice in order that his Majesty might be sufficiently sober to receive us. A negro tailor from the United States fitted us out with suits of black, and on the appointed day we put ourselves under the shade of the old General’s cocked hat, and marched in a body to the palace. A native band, in which a big drum had the leading part, received us with ‘God save the Queen’—whether in honour of King Tamy, or of his visitors, was not divulged. We were first introduced to a number of chiefs in European uniforms—except as to their feet, which were mostly bootless. Their names sounded like those of the state officers in Mr. Gilbert’s ‘Mikado.’ I find in my journal one entered as Tovey-tovey, another as Kanakala. We were then conducted to the presence chamber by the Foreign Minister, Mr. Wiley, a very pronounced Scotch gentleman with a star of the first magnitude on his breast. The King was dressed as an English admiral. The Queen, whose ample undulations also reminded one of the high seas, was on his right; while in perfect gradation on her right again were four princesses in short frocks and long trousers, with plaited tails tied with blue ribbon, like the Miss Kenwigs. A little side dispute arose between the stiff old General and the Foreign Minister as to whose right it was to present us. The Consul carried the day; but the Scot, not to be beaten, informed Tamehameha, in a long prefatory oration, of the object of the ceremony. Taking one of us by the hand (I thought the peppery old General would have thrust him aside), Mr. Wiley told the King that it was seldom the Sandwich Islands were ‘veesited’ by strangers of such ‘desteenction’—that the Duke of this (referring to Fred’s relations), and Lord the other, were the greatest noblemen in the world; then, with much solemnity, quoted a long speech from Shakespeare, and handed us over to his rival.
His Majesty, who did not understand a word of English, or Scotch, looked grave and held tight to the arm of the throne; for the truth is, that although he had relinquished his bottle for the hour, he had brought its contents with him. My salaam was soon made; but as I retired backwards I had the misfortune to set my heel on the toes of a black-and-tan terrier, a privileged pet of the General’s. The shriek of the animal and the loss of my equilibrium nearly precipitated me into the arms of a trousered princess; but the amiable young lady only laughed. Thus ended my glimpse of the Hawaian Court. Mr. Wiley afterwards remarked to me: ‘We do things in a humble way, ye’ll obsairve; but royalty is royalty all over the world, and His Majesty Tamehameha is as much Keng of his ain domeenions as Victoria is Queen of Breetain.’ The relativity of greatness was not to be denied.
The men—Kanakas, as they are called—are fine stalwart fellows above our average height. The only clothing they then wore was themaro, a cloth made by themselves of the acacia bark. This they pass between the legs, and once or twice round the loins. TheWyheenes—women—formerly wore nothing but a short petticoat or kilt of the same material. By persuasion of the missionaries they have exchanged this simple garment for a chemise of printed calico, with the waist immediately under the arms so as to conceal the contour of the figure. Other clothing have they none.
Are they the more chaste? Are they the less seductive? Hear what M. Anatole France says in his apostrophe to the sex: ‘Pour faire de vous la terrible merveille que vous êtes aujourd’hui, pour devenir la cause indifférente et souveraine des sacrifices et des crimes, il vous a fallu deux choses: la civilisation qui vous donna des voiles, et la religion qui vous donna des scrupules.’ The translation of which is (please take note of it, my dear young ladies with ‘les épaules qui ne finissent pas’):
‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter.’
‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter.’
Be this as it may, these chocolate-skinned beauties, with their small and regular features, their rosy lips, their perfect teeth—of which they take great care—their luxurious silky tresses, their pretty little hands and naked feet, and their exquisite forms, would match the matchless Cleopatra.
Through the kindness of Fred’s host, the principal merchant in the island, we were offered an opportunity of becoming acquainted with theéliteof the Honolulu nymphs. Mr. S. invited us to what is called aLoohoufeast got up by him for their entertainment. The head of one of the most picturesque valleys in Woahoo was selected for the celebration of this ancient festival. Mounted on horses with which Mr. S. had furnished us, we repaired in a party to the appointed spot. It was early in the afternoon when we reached it; none of the guests had arrived, excepting a few Kanakas, who were engaged in thatching an old shed as shelter from the sun, and strewing the ground with a thick carpet of palm-leaves. Ere long, a cavalcade of between thirty and forty amazons—they all rode astride—came racing up the valley at full speed, their merry shouts proclaiming their approach. Gaudy strips ofmarowere loosely folded around their legs for skirts. Their pretty little straw hats trimmed with ribbons, or their uncovered heads with their long hair streaming in the wind, confined only by a wreath of fresh orange flowers, added to their irresistible charm. Certainly, the bravest soldiers could not have withstood their charge. No men, however, were admitted, save those who had been expressly invited; but each lady of importance was given acarte blancheto bring as many of her own sex as she pleased, provided they were both pretty and respectable.
As they rode up, we cavaliers, with becoming gallantry, offered our assistance while they dismounted. Smitten through and through by the bright eyes of one little houri who possessed far more than her share of the first requirement, and, taking the second for granted, I courteously prepared to aid her to alight; when, to my discomfiture, instead of a gracious acknowledgment of my services, she gave me a sharp cut with her whip. As, however, she laughed merrily at my wry faces, I accepted the act as a scratch of the kitten’s claws; at least, it was no sign of indifference, and giving myself the benefit of the doubt, lifted her from her saddle without further chastisement, except a coquettish smile that wounded, alas! more than it healed.
The feast was thus prepared: poultry, sucking-pigs, and puppies—the last, after being scalded and scraped, were stuffed with vegetables and spices, rolled in plantain leaves, and placed in the ground upon stones already heated. More stones were then laid over them, and fires lighted on the top of all. While the cooking was in progress, the Kanakas groundtaroroots for the paste called ‘poe’; the girls danced and sang. The songs were devoid of melody, being musical recitations of imaginary love adventures, accompanied by swayings of the body and occasional choral interruptions, all becoming more and more excited as the story or song approached its natural climax. Sometimes this was varied by a solitary dancer starting from the circle, and performing the wildest bacchanalian antics, to the vocal incitement of the rest. This only ended with physical exhaustion, or collapse from feminine hysteria.
The food was excellent; the stuffed puppy was a dish for an epicure. Though knives and forks were unknown, and each helped herself from the plantain leaf, one had not the least objection to do likewise, for the most scrupulous cleanliness is one of the many merits of these fascinating creatures. Before every dip into the leaf, the dainty little fingers were plunged into bowls of fresh water provided for the purpose. Delicious fruit followed the substantial fare; a small glass ofkava—a juice extracted from a root of the pepper tribe—was then served to all alike. Having watched the process of preparing the beverage, I am unable to speak as to its flavour. The making of it is remarkable. A number of women sit on the ground, chew the root, and spit its juice into a bowl. The liquor is kept till it ferments, after which it becomes highly intoxicating. I regret to say that its potency was soon manifested on this occasion. No sooner did the poison set their wild blood tingling, than a free fight began for the remaining gourds. Such a scratching, pulling of hair, clawing, kicking, and crying, were never seen. Only by main force did we succeed in restoring peace. It is but fair to state that, except on the celebration of one or two solemn and sacred rites such as that of theLoohou, these island Thyades never touch fermented liquors.
Itwas an easier task when all was over to set the little Amazons on their horses than to keep them there, for by the time we had perched one on her saddle, or pad rather, and adjusted her with the greatest nicety, another whom we had just left would lose her balance and fall with a scream to the ground. It was almost as difficult as packing mules on the prairie. For my part it must be confessed that I left the completion of the job to others. Curious and entertaining as the feast was, my whole attention was centred and absorbed in Arakeeta, which that artful little enchantress had the gift to know, and lashed me accordingly with her eyes more cruelly than she had done with her whip. I had got so far, you see, as to learn her name, the first instalment of an intimacy which my demolished heart was staked on perfecting. I noticed that she refused thekavawith real or affected repugnance; and when the passage of arms, and legs, began, she slipped away, caught her animal, and with a parting laugh at me, started off for home. There was not the faintest shadow of encouragement in her saucy looks to follow her. Still, she was a year older than Juliet, who was nearly fourteen; so, who could say what those looks might veil? Besides:
Das Naturell der FrauenIst so nah mit Kunst verwandt,
Das Naturell der FrauenIst so nah mit Kunst verwandt,
that one might easily be mistaken. Anyhow, flight provoked pursuit; I jumped on to my horse, and raced along the plain like mad. She saw me coming, and flogged the more, but being the better mounted of the two, by degrees I overhauled her. As I ranged alongside, neither slackened speed; and reaching out to catch her bridle, my knee hooked under the hollow of hers, twisted her clean off her pad, and in a moment she lay senseless on the ground. I flung myself from my horse, and laid her head upon my lap. Good God! had I broken her neck! She did not stir; her eyes were closed, but she breathed, and her heart beat quickly. I was wild with terror and remorse. I looked back for aid, but the others had not started; we were still a mile or more from Honolulu. I knew not what to do. I kissed her forehead, I called her by her name. But she lay like a child asleep. Presently her dazed eyes opened and stared with wonderment, and then she smiled. The tears, I think, were on my cheeks, and seeing them, she put her arms around my neck and—forgave me.
She had fallen on her head and had been stunned. I caught the horses while she sat still, and we walked them slowly home. When we got within sight of her hut on the outskirts of the town, she would not let me go further. There was sadness in her look when we parted. I made her understand (I had picked up two or three words) that I would return to see her. She at once shook her head with an expression of something akin to fear. I too felt sorrowful, and worse than sorrowful, jealous.
When the night fell I sought her hut. It was one of the better kind, built like others mainly with matting; no doors or windows, but with an extensive verandah which protected the inner part from rain and sun. Now and again I caught glimpses of Arakeeta’s fairy form flitting in, or obscuring, the lamplight. I could see two other women and two men. Who and what were they? Was one of those dark forms an Othello, ready to smother his Desdemona? Or were either of them a Valentine between my Marguerite and me? Though there was no moon, I dared not venture within the lamp’s rays, for her sake; for my own, I was reckless now—I would have thanked either of them to brain me with his hoe. But Arakeeta came not.
In the day-time I roamed about the district, about thetarofields, in case she might be working there. Every evening before sundown, many of the women and some of the well-to-do men, and a few whites, used to ride on the plain that stretches along the shore between the fringe of palm groves and the mountain spurs. I had seen Arakeeta amongst them before theLoohoufeast. She had given this up now, and why? Night after night I hovered about the hut. When she was in the verandah I whispered her name. She started and peered into the dark, hesitated, then fled. Again the same thing happened. She had heard me, she knew that I was there, but she came not; no, wiser than I, she came not. And though I sighed:
What is worthThe rest of Heaven, the rest of earth?
What is worthThe rest of Heaven, the rest of earth?
the shrewd little wench doubtless told herself: ‘A quiet life, without the fear of the broomstick.’
Fred was impatient to be off, I had already trespassed too long on the kind hospitality of General Miller, neither of us had heard from England for more than a year, and the opportunities of trading vessels to California seldom offered. A rare chance came—a fast-sailing brig, the ‘Corsair,’ was to leave in a few days for San Francisco. The captain was an Englishman, and had the repute of being a boon companion and a good caterer. We—I, passively—settled to go. Samson decided to remain. He wanted to visit Owyhee. He came on board with us, however; and, with a parting bumper of champagne, we said ‘Good-bye.’ That was the last I ever saw of him. The hardships had broken him down. He died not long after.
The light breeze carried us slowly away—for the first time for many long months with our faces to the east. But it was not ‘merry’ England that filled my juvenile fancies. I leaned upon the taffrail and watched this lovely land of the ‘flowery food’ fade slowly from my sight. I had eaten of the Lotus, and knew no wish but to linger on, to roam no more, to return no more, to any home that was not Arakeeta’s.
This sort of feeling is not very uncommon in early life. And ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ is also a known experience. Long before we reached San Fr’isco I was again eager for adventure.
How magnificent is the bay! One cannot see across it. How impatient we were to land! Everything new. Bearded dirty heterogeneous crowds busy in all directions,—some running up wooden and zinc houses, some paving the streets with planks, some housing over ships beached for temporary dwellings. The sandy hills behind the infant town are being levelled and the foreshore filled up. A ‘water surface’ of forty feet square is worth 5,000 dollars. So that here and there the shop-fronts are ships’ broadsides. Already there is a theatre. But the chief feature is the gambling saloons, open night and day. These large rooms are always filled with from 300 to 400 people of every description—from ‘judges’ and ‘colonels’ (every man is one or the other, who is nothing else) to Parisian cocottes, and escaped convicts of all nationalities. At one end of the saloon is a bar, at the other a band. Dozens of tables are ranged around. Monte, faro, rouge-et-noir, are the games. A large proportion of the players are diggers in shirt-sleeves and butcher-boots, belts round their waists for bowie knife and ‘five shooters,’ which have to be surrendered on admittance. They come with their bags of nuggets or ‘dust,’ which is duly weighed, stamped, and sealed by officials for the purpose.
I have still several specimens of the precious metal which I captured, varying in size from a grain of wheat to a mustard seed.
The tables win enormously, and so do the ladies of pleasure; but the winnings of these go back again to the tables. Four times, while we were here, differences of opinion arose concerning points of ‘honour,’ and were summarily decided by revolvers. Two of the four were subsequently referred to Judge ‘Lynch.’
Wishing to see the ‘diggings,’ Fred and I went to Sacramento—about 150 miles up the river of that name. This was but a pocket edition of San Francisco, or scarcely that. We therefore moved to Marysville, which, from its vicinity to the various branches of the Sacramento river, was the chief depot for the miners of the ‘wet diggin’s’ in Northern California. Here we were received by a Mr. Massett—a curious specimen of the waifs and strays that turn up all over the world in odd places, and whom one would be sure to find in the moon if ever one went there. He owned a little one-roomed cabin, over the door of which was painted ‘Offices of the Marysville Herald.’ He was his own contributor and ‘correspondent,’ editor and printer, (the press was in a corner of the room). Amongst other avocations he was a concert-giver, a comic reader, a tragic actor, and an auctioneer. He had the good temper and sanguine disposition of a Mark Tapley. After the golden days of California he spent his life wandering about the globe; giving ‘entertainments’ in China, Japan, India, Australia. Wherever the English language is spoken, Stephen Massett had many friends and no enemies.
Fred slept on the table, I under it, and next morning we hired horses and started for the ‘Forks of the Yuba.’ A few hours’ ride brought us to the gold-hunters. Two or three hundred men were at work upon what had formerly been the bed of the river. By unwritten law, each miner was entitled to a certain portion of the ‘bar,’ as it was called, in which the gold is found. And, as the precious metal has to be obtained by washing, the allotments were measured by thirty feet on the banks of the river and into the dry bed as far as this extends; thus giving each man his allowance of water. Generally three or four combined to possess a ‘claim.’ Each would then attend to his own department: one loosened the soil, another filled the barrow or cart, a third carried it to the river, and the fourth would wash it in the ‘rocker.’ The average weight of gold got by each miner while we were at the ‘wet diggin’s,’i.e.where water had to be used, was nearly half an ounce or seven dollars’ worth a day. We saw three Englishmen who had bought a claim 30 feet by 100 feet, for 1,400 dollars. It had been bought and sold twice before for considerable sums, each party supposing it to be nearly ‘played out.’ In three weeks the Englishmen paid their 1,400 dollars and had cleared thirteen dollars a day apiece for their labour.
Our presence here created both curiosity and suspicion, for each gang and each individual was very shy of his neighbour. They did not believe our story of crossing the plains; they themselves, for the most part, had come round the Horn; a few across the isthmus. Then, if we didn’t want to dig, what did we want? Another peculiarity about us—a great one—was, that, so far as they could see, we were unarmed. At night the majority, all except the few who had huts, slept in a zinc house or sort of low-roofed barn, against the walls of which were three tiers of bunks. There was no room for us, even if we had wished it, but we managed to hire a trestle. Mattress or covering we had none. As Fred and I lay side by side, squeezed together in a trough scarcely big enough for one, we heard two fellows by the door of the shed talking us over. They thought no doubt that we were fast asleep, they themselves were slightly fuddled. We nudged each other and pricked up our ears, for we had already canvassed the question of security, surrounded as we were by ruffians who looked quite ready to dispose of babes in the wood. They discussed our ‘portable property’ which was nil; one decided, while the other believed, that we must have money in our pockets. The first remarked that, whether or no, we were unarmed; the other wasn’t so sure about that—it wasn’t likely we’d come there to be skinned for the asking. Then arose the question of consequences, and it transpired that neither of them had the courage of his rascality. After a bit, both agreed they had better turn in. Tired as we were, we fell asleep. How long we had slumbered I know not, but all of a sudden I was seized by the beard, and was conscious of a report which in my dreams I took for a pistol-shot. I found myself on the ground amid the wrecks of the trestle. Its joints had given way under the extra weight, and Fred’s first impulse had been to clutch at my throat.
On the way back to San Francisco we stayed for a couple of nights at Sacramento. It was a miserable place, with nothing but a few temporary buildings except those of the Spanish settlers. In the course of a walk round the town I noticed a crowd collected under a large elm-tree in the horse-market. On inquiry I was informed that a man had been lynched on one of its boughs the night before last. A piece of the rope was still hanging from the tree. When I got back to the ‘hotel’—a place not much better than the shed at Yuba Forks—I found a newspaper with an account of the affair. Drawing a chair up to the stove, I was deep in the story, when a huge rowdy-looking fellow in digger-costume interrupted me with:
‘Say, stranger, let’s have a look at that paper, will ye?’
‘When I’ve done with it,’ said I, and continued reading. He lent over the back of my chair, put one hand on my shoulder, and with the other raised the paper so that he could read.
‘Caint see rightly. Ah, reckon you’re readen ’baout Jim, ain’t yer?’
‘Who’s Jim?’
‘Him as they sus-spended yesterday mornin’. Jim was a purticler friend o’ mine, and I help’d to hang him.’
‘A friendly act! What was he hanged for?’
‘When did you come to Sacramenty City?’
‘Day before yesterday.’
‘Wal, I’ll tell yer haow’t was then. Yer see, Jim was a Britisher, he come from a place they call Botany Bay, which belongs to Victoria, but ain’t ’xactly in the Old Country. I judge, when he first come to Californy, ’baout six months back, he warn’t acquainted none with any boys hereaway, so he took to diggin’ by hisself. It was up to Cigar Bar whar he dug, and I chanst to be around there too, that’s haow we got to know one another. Jim hadn’t been here not a fortnight ’fore one of the boys lost 300 dollars as he’d made a cache of. Somehow suspicions fell on Jim. More’n one of us thought he’d been a diggin’ for bags instead of for dust; and the man as lost the money swore he’d hev a turn with him; so Jim took my advice not to go foolin’ around, an’ sloped.’
‘Well,’ said I, as my friend stopped to adjust his tobacco plug, ‘he wasn’t hanged for that?’
‘’Tain’t likely! Till last week nobody know’d whar he’d gone to. When he come to Sacramenty this time, he come with a pile, an’ no mistake. All day and all night he used to play at faro an’ a heap o’ other games. Nobody couldn’t tell how he made his money hold out, nor whar he got it from; but sartin sure the crowd reckoned as haow Jim was considerable of a loafer. One day a blacksmith as lives up Broad Street, said he found out the way he done it, and ast me to come with him and show up Jim for cheatin’. Naow, whether it was as Jim suspicioned the blacksmith I cain’t say, but he didn’t cheat, and lost his money in consequence. This riled him bad, so wantin’ to get quit of the blacksmith he began a quarrel. The blacksmith was a quick-tempered man, and after some language struck Jim in the mouth. Jim jumps up, and whippin’ out his revolver, shoots the t’other man dead on the spot. I was the first to lay hold on him, but ef it hadn’t ’a’ been for me they’d ’a’ torn him to pieces.
‘“Send for Judge Parker,” says some.
‘“Let’s try him here,” says others.
‘“I don’t want to be tried at all,” says Jim. “You all know bloody well as I shot the man. And I knows bloody well as I’ll hev to swing for it. Gi’ me till daylight, and I’ll die like a man.”
‘But we wasn’t going to hang him without a proper trial; and as the trial lasted two hours, it—’
‘Two hours! What did you want two hours for?’
‘There was some as wanted to lynch him, and some as wanted him tried by the reg’lar judges of the Crim’nal Court. One of the best speakers said lynch-law was no law at all, and no innocent man’s life was safe with it. So there was a lot of speakin’, you bet. By the time it was over it was just daylight, and the majority voted as he should die at onc’t. So they took him to the horse-market, and stood him on a table under the big elm. I kep’ by his side, and when he was getting on the table he ast me to lend him my revolver to shoot the foreman of the jury. When I wouldn’t, he ast me to tie the knot so as it wouldn’t slip. “It ain’t no account, Jim,” says I, “to talk like that. You’re bound to die; and ef they didn’t hang yer I’d shoot yer myself.”
‘“Well then,” says he, “gi’ me hold of the rope, and I’ll show you how little I keer for death.” He snatches the cord out o’ my hands, pulls hisself out o’ reach o’ the crowd, and sat cross-legged on the bough. Half a dozen shooters was raised to fetch him down, but he tied a noose in the rope, put it round his neck, slipped it puty tight, and stood up on the bough and made ’em a speech. What he mostly said was as he hated ’em all. He cussed the man he shot, then he cussed the world, then he cussed hisself, and with a terr’ble oath he jumped off the bough, and swung back’ards and for’ards with his neck broke.’
‘An Englishman,’ I reflected aloud.
He nodded. ‘You’re a Britisher, I reckon, ain’t yer?’
‘Yes; why?’
‘Wal, you’ve a puty strong accent.’
‘Think so?’
‘Wal, I could jest tie a knot in it.’
This is a vulgar and repulsive story. But it is not fiction; and any picture of Californian life in 1850, without some such faithful touch of its local colour, would be inadequate and misleading.
ASTEAMERtook us down to Acapulco. It is probably a thriving port now. When we were there, a few native huts and two or three stone buildings at the edge of the jungle constituted the ‘town.’ We bought some horses, and hired two men—a Mexican and a Yankee—for our ride to the city of Mexico. There was at that time nothing but a mule-track, and no public conveyance of any kind. Nothing could exceed the beauty of the scenery. Within 160 miles, as the crow flies, one rises up to the city of Mexico some 12,000 feet, with Popocatepetl overhanging it 17,500 feet high. In this short space one passes from intense tropical heat and vegetation to pines and laurels and the proximity of perpetual snows. The path in places winds along the brink of precipitous declivities, from the top of which one sees the climatic gradations blending one into another. So narrow are some of the mountain paths that a mule laden with ore has often one panier overhanging the valley a thousand feet below it. Constantly in the long trains of animals descending to the coast, a slip of the foot or a charge from behind, for they all come down the steep track with a jolting shuffle, sends mule and its load over the ledge. We found it very difficult in places to get out of the way in time to let the trains pass. Flocks of parrots and great macaws screeching and flying about added to the novelty of the scene.
The villages, inhabited by a cross between the original Indians and the Spaniards, are about twenty miles apart. At one of these we always stayed for the night, sleeping in grass hammocks suspended between the posts of the verandah. The only travellers we fell in with were a party of four Americans, returning to the Eastern States from California with the gold they had won there. They had come in our steamer to Acapulco, and had left it a few hours before we did. As the villages were so far apart we necessarily had to stop at night in the same one. The second time this happened they, having arrived first, had quartered themselves on the Alcalde or principal personage of the place. Our guide took us to the same house; and although His Worship, who had a better supply of maize for the horses, and a few more chickens to sell than the other natives, was anxious to accommodate us, the four Americans, a very rough-looking lot and armed to the teeth, wouldn’t hear of it, but peremptorily bade us put up elsewhere. Our own American, who was much afraid of them, obeyed their commands without more ado. It made not the slightest difference to us, for one grass hammock is as soft as another, and the Alcalde’s chickens were as tough as ours.
Before the morning start, two of the diggers, rifles in hand, came over to us and plainly told us they objected to our company. Fred, with perfect good humour, assured them we had no thought of robbing them, and that as the villages were so far apart we had no choice in the matter. However, as they wished to travel separate from us, if there should be two villages at all within suitable distances, they could stop at one and we at the other. There the matter rested. But our guide was more frightened than ever. They were four to two, he argued, for neither he nor the Mexican were armed. And there was no saying, etc., etc. . . . In short we had better stay where we were till they got through. Fred laughed at the fellow’s alarm, and told him he might stop if he liked, but we meant to go on.
As usual, when we reached the next stage, the diggers were before us; and when our men began to unsaddle at a hut about fifty yards from where they were feeding their horses, one of them, the biggest blackguard to look at of the lot, and though the fiercest probably the greatest cur, shouted at us to put the saddles on again and ‘get out of that.’ He had warned us in the morning that they’d had enough of us, and, with a volley of oaths, advised us to be off. Fred, who was in his shirt-sleeves, listened at first with a look of surprise at such cantankerous unreasonableness; but when the ruffian fell to swear and threaten, he burst into one of his contemptuous guffaws, turned his back and began to feed his horse with a corncob. Thus insulted, the digger ran into the hut (as I could see) to get his rifle. I snatched up my own, which I had been using every day to practise at the large iguanas and macaws, and, well protected by my horse, called out as I covered him, ‘This is a double-barrelled rifle. If you raise yours I’ll drop you where you stand.’ He was forestalled and taken aback. Probably he meant nothing but bravado. Still, the situation was a critical one. Obviously I could not wait till he had shot my friend. But had it come to shooting there would have been three left, unless my second barrel had disposed of another. Fortunately the ‘boss’ of the digging party gauged the gravity of the crisis at a glance; and instead of backing him up as expected, swore at him for a ‘derned fool,’ and ordered him to have no more to do with us.
After that, as we drew near to the city, the country being more thickly populated, we no longer clashed.
This is not a guide-book, and I have nothing to tell of that readers would not find better described in their ‘Murray.’ We put up in an excellent hotel kept by M. Arago, the brother of the great French astronomer. The only other travellers in it besides ourselves were the famous dancer Cerito, and her husband the violin virtuoso, St. Leon. Luckily for me our English Minister was Mr. Percy Doyle, whom I had known asattachéat Paris when I was at Larue, and who was a great friend of the De Cubriers. We were thus provided with many advantages for ‘sight-seeing’ in and about the city, and also for more distant excursions through credentials from the Mexican authorities. Under these auspices we visited the silver mines at Guadalajara, Potosi, and Guanajuata.
The life in Mexico city was delightful, after a year’s tramp. The hotel, as I have said, was to us luxurious. My room under the verandah opened on to a large and beautiful garden partially enclosed on two sides. As I lay in bed of a morning reading Prescott’s ‘History of Mexico,’ or watching the brilliant humming birds as they darted from flower to flower, and listened to the gentle plash of the fountain, my cup of enjoyment and romance was brimming over.
Just before I left, an old friend of mine arrived from England. This was Mr. Joseph Clissold. He was a schoolfellow of mine at Sheen. He had pulled in the Cambridge boat, and played in the Cambridge eleven. He afterwards became a magistrate either in Australia or New Zealand. He was the best type of the good-natured, level-headed, hard-hitting Englishman. Curiously enough, as it turned out, the greater part of the only conversation we had (I was leaving the day after he came) was about the brigandage on the road between Mexico and Vera Cruz. He told me the passengers in the diligence which had brought him up had been warned at Jalapa that the road was infested by robbers; and should the coach be stopped they were on no account to offer resistance, for the robbers would certainly shoot them if they did.
Fred chose to ride down to the coast, I went by coach. This held six inside and two by the driver. Three of the inside passengers sat with backs to the horses, the others facing them. My coach was full, and stifling hot and stuffy it was before we had done with it. Of the five others two were fat priests, and for twenty hours my place was between them. But in one way I had my revenge: I carried my loaded rifle between my knees, and a pistol in my belt. The dismay, the terror, the panic, the protestations, the entreaties and execrations of all the five, kept us at least fromennuifor many a weary mile. I doubt whether the two priests ever thumbed their breviaries so devoutly in their lives. Perhaps that brought us salvation. We reached Vera Cruz without adventure, and in the autumn of ’51 Fred and I landed safely at Southampton.
Two months after I got back, I read an account in the ‘Times’ of ‘Joe’ Clissold’s return trip from Mexico. The coach in which he was travelling was stopped by robbers. Friend Joseph was armed with a double-barrelled smooth-bore loaded with slugs. He considered this on the whole more suitable than a rifle. When the captain of the brigands opened the coach door and, pistol in hand, politely proffered his request, Mr. Joe was quite ready for him, and confided the contents of one barrel to the captain’s bosom. Seeing the fate of their commander, and not knowing what else the dilly might contain, the rest of the band dug spurs into their horses and fled. But the sturdy oarsman and smart cricketer was too quick for one of them—the horse followed his friends, but the rider stayed with his chief.
Thefollowing winter, my friend, George Cayley, was ordered to the south for his health. He went to Seville. I joined him there; and we took lodgings and remained till the spring. As Cayley published an amusing account of our travels, ‘Las Aforjas, or the Bridle Roads of Spain,’ as this is more than fifty years ago—before the days of railways and tourists—and as I kept no journal of my own, I will make free use of his.
A few words will show the terms we were on.
I had landed at Cadiz, and had gone up the Guadalquivir in a steamer, whose advent at Seville my friend was on the look-out for. He describes his impatience for her arrival. By some mistake he is misinformed as to the time; he is a quarter of an hour late.
‘A remnant of passengers yet bustled around the luggage, arguing, struggling and bargaining with a contentious company of porters. Alas! H. was not to be seen among them. There was still a chance; he might be one of the passengers who had got ashore before my coming down, and I was preparing to rush back to the city to ransack the hotels. Just then an internal convulsion shook the swarm around the luggage pile; out burst a little Gallego staggering under a huge British portmanteau, and followed by its much desired, and now almost despaired of, proprietor.
‘I saw him come bowling up the slope with his familiar gait, evidently unconscious of my presence, and wearing that sturdy and almost hostile demeanour with which a true Briton marches into a strange city through the army of officious importunates who never fail to welcome the true Briton’s arrival. As he passed the barrier he came close to me in the crowd, still without recognising me, for though straight before his nose I was dressed in the costume of the people. I touched his elbow and he turned upon me with a look of impatient defiance, thinking me one persecutor more.
‘How quickly the expression changed, etc., etc. We rushed into each other’s arms, as much as the many great coats slung over his shoulders, and the deep folds of cloak in which I was enveloped, would mutually permit. Then, saying more than a thousand things in a breath, or rather in no breath at all, we set off in great glee for my lodgings, forgetting in the excitement the poor little porter who was following at full trot, panting and puffing under the heavy portmanteau. We got home, but were no calmer. We dined, but could not eat. We talked, but the news could not be persuaded to come out quick enough.’
Who has not known what is here described? Who does not envy the freshness, the enthusiasm, of such bubbling of warm young hearts? Oh, the pity of it! if these generous emotions should prove as transient as youth itself. And then, when one of those young hearts is turned to dust, and one is left to think of it—why then, ’tis not much comfort to reflect that—nothing in the world is commoner.
We got a Spanish master and worked industriously, also picked up all the Andalusian we could, which is as much like pure Castilian as wold-Yorkshire is to English. I also took lessons on the guitar. Thus prepared, I imitated my friend and adopted the ordinary costume of the Andalusian peasant: breeches, ornamented with rows of silvered buttons, gaiters, a short jacket with a red flower-pot and blue lily on the back, and elbows with green and scarlet patterns, a redfajaor sash, and the sombrero which I believe is worn nowhere except in the bull-ring. The whole of this picturesque dress is now, I think, given up. I have spent the last two winters in the south of Spain, but have not once seen it.
It must not be supposed that we chose this ‘get-up’ to gratify any æsthetic taste of our own or other people’s; it was long before the days of the ‘Too-toos,’ whom Mr. Gilbert brought to a timely end. We had settled to ride through Spain from Gibraltar to Bayonne, choosing always the bridle-roads so as to avoid anything approaching a beaten track. We were to visit the principal cities and keep more or less a northerly course, staying on the way at such places as Malaga, Cordova, Toledo, Madrid, Valladolid, and Burgos. The rest was to be left to chance. We were to take no map; and when in doubt as to diverging roads, the toss of a coin was to settle it. This programme was conscientiously adhered to. The object of the dress then was obscurity. For safety (brigands abounded) and for economy, it was desirable to pass unnoticed. We never knew in what dirtyposadaor road-sideventawe should spend the night. For the most part it was at the resting-place of the muleteers, which would be nothing but a roughly paved dark chamber, one end occupied by mules and the other by their drivers. We made our own omelets and salad and chocolate; with the exception of the never failingbacallao, or salt fish, we rarely had anything else; and rolling ourselves into our cloaks, with saddles for pillows, slept amongst the muleteers on the stone flags. We had bought a couple of ponies in the Seville market for 7l.and 8l.Ouralforjasor saddlebags contained all we needed. Our portmanteaus were sent on from town to town, wherever we had arranged to stop. Rough as the life was, we saw the people of Spain as no ordinary travellers could hope to see them. The carriers, the shepherds, the publicans, the travelling merchants, the priests, the barbers, themolinerasof Antequera, the Maritornes’, the Sancho Panzas—all just as they were seen by the immortal knight.
From themozos de la cuadra(ostlers) andarrieros, upwards and downwards, nowhere have I met, in the same class, with such natural politeness. This is much changed for the worse now; but before the invasion of tourists one never passed a man on the road who did not salute one with a ‘Vaya usted con Dios.’ Nor would the most indigent vagabond touch the filthybacallaowhich he drew from his wallet till he had courteously addressed the stranger with the formula ‘Quiere usted comer?’ (‘Will your Lordship please to eat?’) The contrast between the people and the nobles in this respect was very marked. We saw something of the latter in the club at Seville, where one met men whose high-sounding names and titles have come down to us from the greatest epochs of Spanish history. Their ignorance was surprising. Not one of them had been farther than Madrid. Not one of them knew a word of any language but his own, nor was he acquainted with the rudiments even of his country’s history. Their conversation was restricted to the bull-ring and the cockpit, to cards and women. Their chief aim seemed to be to stagger us with the number of quarterings they bore upon their escutcheons; and they appraised others by a like estimate.
Cayley, tickled with the humour of their childish vanity, painted an elaborate coat of arms, which he stuck in the crown of his hat, and by means of which he explained to them that he too was by rights a Spanish nobleman. With the utmost gravity he delivered some such medley as this: His Iberian origin dated back to the time of Hannibal, who, after his defeat of the Papal forces and capture of Rome, had, as they well knew, married Princess Peri Banou, youngest daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. The issue of the marriage was the famous Cardinal Chicot, from whom he—George Cayley—was of direct male descent. When Chicot was slain by Oliver Cromwell at the battle of Hastings, his descendants, foiled in their attempt to capture England with the Spanish Armada, settled in the principality of Yorkshire, adopted the noble name of Cayley, and still governed that province as members of the British Parliament.
From that day we were treated with every mark of distinction.
Here is another of my friend’s pranks. I will let Cayley speak; for though I kept no journal, we had agreed to write a joint account of our trip, and our notebooks were common property.
After leaving Malaga we met some beggars on the road, to one of whom, ‘an old hag with one eye and a grizzly beard,’ I threw the immense sum of a couple of 2-cuarto pieces. An old man riding behind us on an ass with empty panniers, seeing fortunes being scattered about the road with such reckless and unbounded profusion, came up alongside, and entered into a piteous detail of his poverty. When he wound up with plain begging, the originality and boldness of the idea of a mounted beggar struck us in so humorous a light that we could not help laughing. As we rode along talking his case over, Cayley said, ‘Suppose we rob him. He has sold his market produce in Malaga, and depend upon it, has a pocketful of money.’ We waited for him to come up. When he got fairly between us, Cayley pulled out his revolver (we both carried pistols) and thus addressed him:
‘Impudent old scoundrel! stand still. If thou stirr’st hand or foot, or openest thy mouth, I will slay thee like a dog. Thou greedy miscreant, who art evidently a man of property and hast an ass to ride upon, art not satisfied without trying to rob the truly poor of the alms we give them. Therefore hand over at once the two dollars for which thou hast sold thy cabbages for double what they were worth.’
The old culprit fell on his knees, and trembling violently, prayed Cayley for the love of the Virgin to spare him.
‘One moment,caballeros,’ he cried, ‘I will give you all I possess. But I am poor, very poor, and I have a sick wife at the disposition of your worships.’
‘Wherefore art thou fumbling at thy foot? Thou carriest not thy wife in thy shoe?’
‘I cannot untie the string—my hand trembles; will your worships permit me to take out my knife?’
He did so, and cutting the carefully knotted thong of a leather bag which had been concealed in the leg of his stocking, poured out a handful of small coin and began to weep piteously.
Said Cayley, ‘Come, come, none of that, or we shall feel it our duty to shoot thy donkey that thou may’st have something to whimper for.’
The genuine tears of the poor old fellow at last touched the heart of the jester.
‘We know now that thou art poor,’ said he, ‘for we have taken all thou hadst. And as it is the religion of the Ingleses, founded on the practice of their celebrated saint, Robino Hoodo, to levy funds from the rich for the benefit of the needy, hold out thy sombero, and we will bestow a trifle upon thee.’
So saying he poured back the plunder; to which was added, to the astonishment of the receiver, some supplementary pieces that nearly equalled the original sum.
Beforesetting out from Seville we had had our Foreign Office passports dulyviséd. Our profession was given as that of travelling artists, and theviséincluded the permission to carry arms. More than once the sight of our pistols caused us to be stopped by thecarabineros. On one occasion these road-guards disputed the wording of thevisé. They protested that ‘armas’ meant ‘escopetas,’ not pistols, which were forbidden. Cayley indignantly retorted, ‘Nothing is forbidden to Englishmen. Besides, it is specified in our passports that we are ‘personas de toda confianza,’ which checkmated them.
We both sketched, and passed ourselves off as ‘retratistas’ (portrait painters), and did a small business in this way—rather in the shape of caricatures, I fear, but which gave much satisfaction. We charged one peseta (seven-pence), or two, a head, according to the means of the sitter. The fiction that we were earning our bread wholesomely tended to moderate the charge for it.
Passing through the land of Don Quixote’s exploits, we reverentially visited any known spot which these had rendered famous. Amongst such was theventaof Quesada, from which, or from Quixada, as some conjecture, the knight derived his surname. It was here, attracted by its castellated style, and by two ‘ladies of pleasure’ at its door—whose virginity he at once offered to defend, that he spent the night of his first sally. It was here that, in his shirt, he kept guard till morning over the armour he had laid by the well. It was here that, with his spear, he broke the head of the carrier whom he took for another knight bent on the rape of the virgin princesses committed to his charge. Here, too, it was that the host of theventadubbed him with the coveted knighthood which qualified him for his noble deeds.
To Quesada we wended our way. We asked the Señor Huesped whether he knew anything of the history of hisventa. Was it not very ancient?
‘Oh no, it was quite modern. But on the site of it had stood a fineventawhich was burnt down at the time of the war.’
‘An old building?’
‘Yes, indeed!a cosa de siempre—thing of always. Nothing, was left of it now but that well, and the stone trough.’
These bore marks of antiquity, and were doubtless as the gallant knight had left them. Curiously, too, there were remains of an outhouse with a crenellated parapet, suggestive enough of a castle.
From Quesada we rode to Argamasilla del Alba, where Cervantes was imprisoned, and where the First Part of Don Quixote was written.
In his Life of Cervantes, Don Gregorio Mayano throws some doubt upon this. Speaking of the attacks of his contemporary, the ‘Aragonian,’ Don Gregorio writes (I give Ozell’s translation): ‘As for this scandalous fellow’s saying that Cervantes wrote his First Part of “Don Quixote” in a prison, and that that might make it so dull and incorrect, Cervantes did not think fit to give any answer concerning his being imprisoned, perhaps to avoid giving offence to the ministers of justice; for certainly his imprisonment must not have been ignominious, since Cervantes himself voluntarily mentions it in his Preface to the First Part of “Don Quixote.”’
This reasoning, however, does not seem conclusive; for the only reference to the subject in the preface is as follows: ‘What could my sterile and uncultivated genius produce but the history of a child, meagre, adust, and whimsical, full of various wild imaginations never thought of before; like one you may suppose born in a prison, where every inconvenience keeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation?’
We took up our quarters in the little town at the ‘Posada de la Mina.’ While ourollawas being prepared; we asked the hostess whether she had ever heard of the celebrated Don Miguel de Cervantes, who had been imprisoned there? (I will quote Cayley).
‘No, Señores; I think I have heard of one Cervantes, but he does not live here at present.’
‘Do you know anything of Don Quixote?’
‘Oh, yes. He was a greatcaballero, who lived here some years ago. His house is over the way, on the other side of theplaza, with the arms over the door. The father of the Alcalde is the oldest man in thepueblo; perhaps he may remember him.’
We were amused at his hero’s fame outliving that of the author. But is it not so with others—the writers of the Book of Job, of the Pentateuch, and perhaps, too, of the ‘Iliad,’ if not of the ‘Odyssey’?
But, to let Cayley speak:
‘While we were undressing to go to bed, three gentlemen were announced and shown in. We begged them to be seated. . . . We sat opposite on the ends of our respective beds to hear what they might have to communicate. A venerable old man opened the conference.
‘“We have understood, gentlemen, that you have come hither seeking for information respecting the famous Don Quixote, and we have come to give you such information as we may; but, perhaps you will understand me better if I speak in Latin.”
‘“We have learnt the Latin at our schools, but are more accustomed to converse in Castilian; pray proceed.”
‘“I am the Medico of the place, an old man, as you see; and what little I know has reached me by tradition. It is reported that Cervantes was paying his addresses to a young lady, whose name was Quijana or Quijada. The Alcalde, disapproving of the suit, put him into a dungeon under his house, and kept him there a year. Once he escaped and fled, but he was taken in Toboso, and brought back. Cervantes wrote ‘Don Quixote’ as a satire on the Alcalde, who was a very proud man, full of chivalresque ideas. You can see the dungeon to-morrow; but you should see thebatanes(water-mills) of the Guadiana, whose ‘golpear’ so terrified Sancho Panza. They are at about three leagues distance.”’
The old gentleman added that he was proud to receive strangers who came to do honour to the memory of his illustrious townsman; and hoped we would visit him next day, on our return from the fulling-mills, when he would have the pleasure of conducting us to the house of the Quijanas, in the cellars of which Cervantes was confined.
To thebataneswe went next morning. Their historical importance entitles them to an accurate description. None could be more lucid than that of my companion. ‘These clumsy, ancient machines are composed of a couple of huge wooden mallets, slung in a timber framework, which, being pushed out of the perpendicular by knobs on a water-wheel, clash back again alternately in two troughs, pounding severely whatever may be put in between the face of the mallet and the end of the trough into which the water runs.’
It will be remembered that, after a copious meal, Sancho having neglected to replenish the gourd, both he and his master suffered greatly from thirst. It was now ‘so dark,’ says the history, ‘that they could see nothing; but they had not gone two hundred paces when a great noise of water reached their ears. . . . The sound rejoiced them exceedingly; and, stopping to listen from whence it came, they heard on a sudden another dreadful noise, which abated their pleasure occasioned by that of the water, especially Sancho’s. . . . They heard a dreadful din of irons and chains rattling across one another, and giving mighty strokes in time and measure which, together with the furious noise of the water, would have struck terror into any other heart than that of Don Quixote.’ For him it was but an opportunity for some valorous achievement. So, having braced on his buckler and mounted Rosinante, he brandished his spear, and explained to his trembling squire that by the will of Heaven he was reserved for deeds which would obliterate the memory of the Platirs, Tablantes, the Olivantes, and Belianesas, with the whole tribe of the famous knights-errant of times past.
‘Wherefore, straighten Rosinante’s girths a little,’ said he, ‘and God be with you. Stay for me here three days, and no more; if I do not return in that time you may go to Toboso, where you shall say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that her enthralled knight died in attempting things that might have made him worthy to be styled “hers.”’
Sancho, more terrified than ever at the thoughts of being left alone, reminded his master that it was unwise to tempt God by undertaking exploits from which there was no escaping but by a miracle; and, in order to emphasize this very sensible remark, secretly tied Rosinante’s hind legs together with his halter. Seeing the success of his contrivance, he said: ‘Ah, sir! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has ordained that Rosinante cannot go,’ and then warned him not to set Providence at defiance. Still Sancho was much too frightened by the infernal clatter to relax his hold of the knight’s saddle. For some time he strove to beguile his own fears with a very long story about the goatherd Lope Ruiz, who was in love with the shepherdess Torralva—‘a jolly, strapping wench, a little scornful, and somewhat masculine.’ Now, whether owing to the cold of the morning, which was at hand, or whether to some lenitive diet on which he had supped, it so befell that Sancho . . . what nobody could do for him. The truth is, the honest fellow was overcome by panic, and under no circumstances would, or did, he for one instant leave his master’s side. Nay, when the knight spurred his steed and found it could not move, Sancho reminded him that the attempt was useless, since Rosinante was restrained by enchantment. This the knight readily admitted, but stoutly protested that he himself was anything but enchanted by the close proximity of his squire.
We all remember the grave admonitions of Don Quixote, and the ingenious endeavours of Sancho to lay the blame upon the knight. But the final words of the Don contain a moral apposite to so many other important situations, that they must not be omitted here. ‘Apostare, replicó Sancho, que pensa vuestra merced que yo he hecho de mi persona alguna cosa que no deba.’ ‘I will lay a wager,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your worship thinks that I have &c.’ The brief, but memorable, answer was: ‘Peor es meneallo, amigo Sancho,’ which, as no translation could do justice to it, must be left as it stands.Quieta non movere.
We were nearly meeting with an adventure here. While I was busy making a careful drawing of thebatanes, Cayley’s pony was as much alarmed by the rushing waters as had been Sancho Panza. In his endeavours to picket the animal, my friend dropped a pistol which I had lent him to practise with, although he carried a revolver of his own. Not till he had tied up the pony at some little distance did he discover the loss. In vain he searched the spot where he knew the pistol must have escaped from hisfaja. Near it, three rough-looking knaves in shaggy goatskin garments, with guns over their shoulders, were watching the progress of my sketch. On his return Cayley asked two of these (the third moved away as he came up) whether they had seen the pistol. They declared they had not; upon which he said he must search them. He was not a man to be trifled with, and although they refused at first, they presently submitted. He then overtook the third, and at once accused him of the theft. The man swore he knew nothing of the lost weapon, and brought his gun to the charge. As he did so, Cayley caught sight of the pistol under the fellow’s sheepskin jacket, and with characteristic promptitude seized it, while he presented a revolver at the thief’s head. All this he told me with great glee a minute or two later.
When we got back to Argamasilla the Medico was already awaiting us. He conducted us to the house of the Quijanas, where an old woman-servant, lamp in hand, showed the way down a flight of steps into the dungeon. It was a low vaulted chamber, eight feet high, ten broad, and twenty-four long, dimly lighted by a lancet window six feet from the ground. She confidently informed us that Cervantes was in the habit of writing at the farthest end, and that he was allowed a lamp for the purpose. We accepted the information with implicit faith; silently picturing on our mental retinas the image of him whose genius had brightened the dark hours of millions for over three hundred years. One could see the spare form of the man of action pacing up and down his cell, unconscious of prison walls, roaming in spirit through the boundless realms of Fancy, his piercing eyes intent upon the conjured visions of his brain. One noted his vast expanse of brow, his short, crisp, curly hair, his high cheek-bones and singularly high-bridged nose, his refined mouth, small projecting chin and pointed beard. One noticed, too, as he turned, the stump of the left wrist clasped by the remaining hand. Who could stand in such a presence and fail to bow with veneration before this insulted greatness! Potentates pass like Ozymandias, but not the men who, through the ages, help to save us from this tread-mill world, and from ourselves.
We visited Cuenca, Segovia, and many an out-of-the-way spot. If it be true, as Don Quixote declares, that ‘No hay libro tan malo que no tenga alguna cosa buena’ (‘there is no book so worthless that has not some good in it’), still more true is this of a country like Spain. And the pleasantest places are just those which only by-roads lead to. In and near the towns every other man, if not by profession still by practice, is a beggar. From the seedy-looking rascal in the street, of whom you incautiously ask the way, and who piteously whines ‘para zapatos’—for the wear and tear of shoe leather, to the highest official, one and all hold out their hands for the coppercuartoor the eleemosynary sinecure. As it was then, so is it now; the Government wants support, and it is always to be had, at a price; deputies always want ‘places.’ For every duty the functionary performs, or ought to perform, he receives his bribe. The Government is too poor to keep him honest, but hispour-boiresare not measured by his scruples. All is winked at, if the Ministry secures a vote.
Away in the pretty rural districts, in the little villages amid the woods and the mountains, with their score or so of houses and their little chapel with its tinkling old bell and its poverty-stricken curate, the hard-working, simple-minded men are too proud and too honest to ask for more than a pinch of tobacco for thecigarillo. The maidens are comely, and as chaste as—can reasonably be expected.
Madrid is worth visiting—not for its bull-fights, which are disgusting proofs of man’s natural brutality, but for its picture gallery. No one knows what Velasquez could do, or has done, till he has seen Madrid; and Charles V. was practically master of Europe when the collection was in his hands. The Escurial’s chief interests are in its associations with Charles V. and Philip II. In the dark and gloomy little bedroom of the latter is a small window opening into the church, so that the King could attend the services in bed if necessary.
It cannot be said of Philip that he was nothing if not religious, for Nero even was not a more indefatigable murderer, nor a more diabolical specimen of cruelty and superstition. The very thought of the wretch tempts one to revolt at human piety, at any rate where priestcraft and its fabrications are at the bottom of it.
When at Madrid we met Mr. Arthur Birch. He had been with Cayley at Eton, as captain of the school. While we were together, he received and accepted the offer of an Eton mastership. We were going by diligence to Toledo, and Birch agreed to go with us. I mention the fact because the place reminds me of a clever play upon its name by the Eton scholar. Cayley bought a Toledo sword-blade, and asked Birch for a motto to engrave upon it. In a minute or two he hit off this:Timetoletum, which reads Time Toletum=Honour Toledo, or Timeto Letum=Fear death. Cayley’s attempts, though not so neat, were not bad. Here are a couple of them:—
Though slight I am, no slight I stand,Saying my master’s sleight of hand.
Though slight I am, no slight I stand,Saying my master’s sleight of hand.
or:—
Come to the point; unless you do,The point will shortly come to you.
Come to the point; unless you do,The point will shortly come to you.
Birch got the Latin poem medal at Cambridge the same year that Cayley got the English one.
Before we set forth again upon our gipsy tramp, I received a letter from Mr. Ellice bidding me hasten home to contest the Borough of Cricklade in the General Election of 1852. Under these circumstances we loitered but little on the Northern roads. At the end of May we reached Yrun. Here we sold our ponies—now quite worn out—for twenty-three dollars—about five guineas. So that a thousand miles of locomotion had cost us a little over five guineas apiece. Not counting hotels at Madrid and such smart places, our daily cost for selves and ponies rarely exceeded six pesetas, or three shillings each all told. The best of it was, the trip restored the health of my friend.