CHAPTER IV.

COLUMBUS ON THE COASTS OF HONDURAS, NICARAGUA, AND COSTA RICA.

1502-1506.

THE SOVEREIGNS DECLINE EITHER TO RESTORE TO THE ADMIRAL HIS

GOVERNMENT, OR TO CAPTURE FOR HIM THE HOLY SEPULCHRE—SO HE

SAILS ON A FOURTH VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY—FERNANDO COLON AND HIS

HISTORY—OVANDO DENIES THE EXPEDITION ENTRANCE TO SANTO DOMINGO

HARBOR—COLUMBUS SAILS WESTWARD—STRIKES THE SHORE OF HONDURAS

NEAR GUANAJA ISLAND—EARLY AMERICAN CARTOGRAPHY—COLUMBUS COASTS

SOUTHWARD TO THE DARIEN ISTHMUS—THEN RETURNS AND ATTEMPTS

SETTLEMENT AT VERAGUA—DRIVEN THENCE, HIS VESSELS ARE WRECKED

AT JAMAICA—THERE MIDST STARVATION AND MUTINY HE REMAINS A

YEAR—THEN HE REACHES ESPAÑOLA AND FINALLY SPAIN, WHERE HE

SHORTLY AFTERWARD DIES—CHARACTER OF COLUMBUS—HIS BIOGRAPHERS.

[Sidenote: FOURTH VOYAGE OF THE ADMIRAL.]

Since his last return to Spain, Columbus had rested at Granada under

the smiles of the sovereigns, who readily promised him all that he

might wish, while resolved to grant nothing which could interfere

with their absolute domination of the new lands that he had found for

them. When tired of begging the restoration of his rights he urged

their Majesties' assistance in seizing the holy sepulchre, that his

vow might be fulfilled, and his mind at rest. After profound study and

elaborate preparation he presented the case to them in a manuscript

volume of prophecies and portents intermingled with poetry. Failing

in winning them to this scheme, he promised, if ships were provided

him, to undertake new discoveries. Partly because they would know

more of their New World possessions, and partly to rid themselves of

uncomfortable importunities, the sovereigns assented to this proposal,

meanwhile intimating that after two years had been allowed in which to

quiet Española, the admiral should have his own again, but as clearly

indicating to others that he should not.

Four vessels, ranging in burden from fifty to seventy tons, were then

made ready, the _Capitana_, the _Santiago de Polos_, the _Gallego_,

and the _Vizcaino_, commanded respectively by Diego Tristan, Francisco

de Porras, Pedro de Terreros, and Bartolomé de Fresco, and embarked

at Cádiz the 9th of May, 1502. With the expedition sailed Diego de

Porras as chief clerk and notary, and Juan Sanchez as chief pilot; one

hundred and forty men and boys constituted the company. The admiral was

accompanied by his brother Bartolomé, the adelantado,[IV-1] and by his

son Fernando,[IV-2] then thirteen years of age. The sail across the

ocean was prosperous, with favorable winds and nothing to augur the

approaching misfortunes until the ships arrived off Santo Domingo on

the 29th of June.

[Sidenote: FATE OF BOBADILLA.]

During the past two years matters had not improved at Española. It

seems that others could govern badly as well as the admiral. Indeed, the

kings of Spain, most of them meaning well by their New World subjects,

were too often unfortunate in their choice of agents. Until recently

Bobadilla had held sway, the sovereigns being apparently in no haste to

displace him; from which course it was evident either that they had not

been properly informed of his conduct, or they approved of it. Perhaps

it was true that a knave was better for the place than an honest man. A

successor, however, had at length arrived in the person of Nicolás de

Ovando, and the superb fleet which had brought him, and was to carry

back the displaced governor to Spain, now rode at anchor in the harbor.

In following that contriving policy which others beside princes

sometimes regard as necessary when straightforwardness were better, it

had been deemed expedient that Columbus should not on this expedition

touch at Española, lest his presence engender fresh broils on the

island. And the admiral appeared to entertain no intention of breaking

the royal commands, until he found, on reaching the Indies, that one

of his vessels was unfit for service; or else he pretended that it was

so in order to look in on his late government. But whether in actual

or feigned distress, when the admiral sent the 29th of June to ask of

Ovando permission to exchange a leaky caravel, or at least to shelter

the vessels from an impending storm, his messenger Terreros returned

with a refusal.

It was certainly an anomalous position in which the great discoverer

found himself, vainly knocking at the door of a possession which he had

so lately given to Spain, and he not convicted, nay, scarcely accused

of any crime. Columbus sent again and warned the governor of approaching

bad weather. Ovando would not heed him. The gubernatorial fleet sailed;

but only to face a hurricane which soon strewed the shores of Española

with its fragments. Current biographies here read like a moral story. On

the wrecked vessels were Bobadilla, Roldan, and other inveterate enemies

of the admiral, who with a huge mass of ill-gotten treasure were buried

beneath the waves. On a little caravel which survived the tempest was

the good Bastidas with his property; and on another, which likewise

reached Spain in safety, were four thousand _pesos de oro_ belonging

to Columbus. Furthermore the admiral sheltered his vessels, and so

received no injury from the storm. From all which, grave deductions were

severally made—by Columbus, that the Almighty had preserved him; by his

enemies, that he had employed witchcraft to save himself and property;

by others, of a luckless order which providence refuses to recognize,

that the admiral and adelantado were good seamen. After certain ship

repairs, made without difficulty in a little port near Santo Domingo,

on the 14th of July Columbus sailed westward on his explorations.

[Sidenote: EARLY CARTOGRAPHY.]

It must be remembered that at this time, and for several years

afterward, the Spaniards did not know where they were. They supposed

the earth smaller than it is, and that they were on the barbarous

outposts of India,[IV-3] whose interior was civilized and wealthy; and

it was the present object of the admiral to find some strait or passage

between this border-land and the detached southern regions about Paria,

on which he might sail to these rich inner realms, still coasting Asia

south-westward.

[Sidenote: GUANAJA ISLAND.]

A storm greeted him, followed by a calm, during which he was carried

first southward by Jamaica, then northward past the western end of Cuba;

after which, the wind freshening, he continued his course, and on the

30th of July came to a small elevated island, called by the natives

Guanaja[IV-4], to which, from the trees that covered it, he gave the

name Isla de Pinos. On going ashore, the adelantado found the island

inhabited by people like those of Española and Cuba, except that they

seemed more intelligent and knew more of the useful arts. Presently a

large canoe appeared coming from the direction of Yucatan. It measured

eight feet in its greatest width, and was rowed by twenty-five men. In

the middle, under a palm-leaf awning, sat a _cacique_,[IV-5] or chief,

who manifested neither surprise nor fear on being brought into the

presence of the admiral. He signified to the Spaniards as best he was

able the extent and power of Mexico, and displayed utensils of copper,

stone, and wood, earthen-ware, and cotton cloth brought thence. Gold was

plentiful there, he also said; but the imagination of the admiral had

mapped his strait somewhere southward; so Mexico was kept for Cortés.

There was on the island an ancient aboriginal of scientific attainments

sufficient to enable him to draw for the Spaniards a chart of the

mainland coast, and tell them much of the country. Him they took on

board, and after dismissing the cacique with presents, crossed to

the continent, and anchored near a point which Columbus called Punta

de Caxinas,[IV-6] from the native name of a certain fruit abounding

thereabout. Here the Spaniards landed on the 14th of August, and

celebrated mass; then proceeding eastward some fifteen leagues to

the mouth of a river,[IV-7] they again landed on the 17th, and took

formal possession for Spain. About a hundred painted savages displayed

themselves, finer specimens than any on the islands, some naked,

and others partially covered with white or colored cotton. They were

friendly, and presented fruit and vegetables, fish, fowl, and maize. So

conspicuously distended were the ears of the natives at one place that

the name Costa de la Oreja was given to that vicinity.[IV-8]

[Sidenote: DISCOVERY OF HONDURAS.]

Proceeding, the discoverers encountered a succession of gales which

continued more than forty days, and having weathered them safely they

were so delighted that in sailing round the point of their deliverance

they thanked God, and called it Cape Gracias á Dios.[IV-9] All this

time Columbus suffered severely. Indeed, he was now but little better

than a wreck in body and mind. On the after part of the deck his bed

was placed, and there he lay overwhelmed with pain and melancholy, lost

in endless mazes of speculation. Now and then he would rouse himself

to translate his visions, or to direct the management of the ship, for

though half his senses should leave him, he was still a sailor from

instinct; but had it not been for the faithful energy of the adelantado,

the voyage might as well never have been undertaken.

The mariners had now entered a smooth sea; with a favorable wind they

passed rapidly down the Mosquito Coast, giving the name Limonares to a

cluster of islands on which grew something like lemons or limes, and on

the 16th of September anchored at the mouth of a large river. Boats were

sent ashore for water, and in returning one was upset and the whole crew

were drowned; from which melancholy occurrence the stream was named Rio

del Desastre.[IV-10] Continuing, the 25th found the Spaniards off the

Rio San Juan de Nicaragua, where, to escape a storm, they ran in behind

an island, the native name of which was Quiriviri,[IV-11] but which from

its verdant beauty Columbus called La Huerta, The Garden. There they

rested several days, and found sweet speculation, easily inducing the

savages to tell them such things as they should most delight to hear.

Indeed, all along the coast had vague information been given, by signs

ill interpreted, of a remarkable country called Ciguare, nine days'

journey westward beyond the mountains. The people there were like the

Spaniards, clothed, and armed with steel weapons, with horses and great

ships. The women wore bands of coral and strings of pearls, and the

commonest utensils were of gold. Ten days' journey from Ciguare must

lie the river Ganges; and best of all, there was a passage thither by

sea; all the Spaniards had to do was to keep right on; they could not

miss the way. The Europeans gave full credit to these assertions. Thus

from the beginning mankind have been directed, and oftentimes to the

grandest discoveries, by mingled accident and ignorance, and wise men

like Columbus have believed these supremely silly stories because it

pleased them to do so. These savages may have had rumors of Mexico or

Peru on which to build their brilliant fictions; their statements were

fictions none the less.

[Sidenote: SORCERIES, SAVAGE AND CIVILIZED.]

And indeed as they came together there for the first time, the white

men and the red, it is often difficult to tell on which side was the

greater simplicity and credulity. The folly of the Spaniard was moulded

into firmer consistence, was less inept and vapory than the folly of

the Americans, and that was about all. For instance, at the village of

Cariay,[IV-12] just opposite on the main-land, Columbus thought to raise

the Spaniards in the estimation of the savages by declining to take

the _guanin_, an inferior kind of gold which they presented; whereupon

for the same reason, and in retaliation, the natives refused European

trinkets. When the adelantado, seated on a knoll with the notary by his

side, sought to transfix some of the wild knowledge of those parts, the

natives fled terrorstruck, supposing some magic spell was being cast

upon them by the pens, ink, and paper so solemnly drawn forth by the

scribe. Presently with great caution they returned, and with exorcising

gesticulations burned and scattered in the air an odorous powder. On

the other hand, with equally enlightened common sense, the Christians,

unable to fathom the incantations of savagism, fancied these heathen

sorcerers bringing from the shades of their wilderness wrathful demons

to hurl upon their adversaries; and ever after on the voyage all the

ills that befell the Spaniards were attributed to the enchantments of

the people of Cariay.[IV-13] At another port called Huiva, Columbus

found the huts of the natives built in trees, which he attributed

to fear of griffins. After a short excursion into the interior the

adelantado returned to the ships. Near Cape Gracias á Dios the old man

of Guanaja had been liberated with presents, as no longer of use; now,

seven natives were seized and made to divulge what they knew of the

country, two of them being retained as guides.

Sailing from Cariay the 5th of October, the second day they came to

the Laguna de Chiriquí, the country thereabout being called by the

natives Cerebaro.[IV-14] If some distance back Columbus had found The

Garden, here was a pluralized paradise. The wonder was how nature

contrived such glories. Round the entrance clustered islands whose

outspread foliage brushed the venturesome sails that threaded the deep

narrow channels. Celestial beauty irradiated the land, and a celestial

brightness overspread the sea. But a small additional rent was necessary

in the ragged imagination of the admiral to fancy himself already

translated. The part of the laguna explored by this expedition was the

north-western, known to-day as the Bahía del Almirante; the southern

part was called by the natives Aburema.

[Sidenote: GATHERING GOLD.]

Hanging from the necks of the natives was pure gold in plates, now

first found since touching these shores, but the owners were content to

keep it. Further on, anywhere but here, they said, was plenty of gold,

notably at a place called Veragua, twenty-five leagues distant, where

these much-admired plates of gold were fabricated. Hastening forward,

the Spaniards arrived, on the 18th, at a river twelve leagues to the

eastward of Cerebaro, called by Fernando Colon, Guaiga, and by Porras,

Guyga, where the savages attempted at first to drive them away by

splashing water, brandishing wooden swords, beating drums, and sounding

conchs; which demonstration being over they quietly traded sixteen of

their gold-plates, valued at one hundred and fifty ducats, for three

hawk-bells. The following day the Spaniards were met in like manner by

other savages whom a shot sent scampering; after which they returned

and traded dutifully.

After this the discoverers touched at the provinces of Catibá and

Cobrabá, where they saw the ruins of a wall built of stone and lime,

which excited in them anticipations of a near approach to civilization;

but as they neared the rich river the wind freshened and carried them

past, without however preventing a glimpse of five towns, one of which

the guides assured them was Veragua.[IV-15] In the next province,

Cubigá, terminated the gold region, so they were told. Some were eager

to go back to Veragua and gather gold, but anxious to find his strait

Columbus put them off, saying he would return anon.

Fancy the old admiral groping in the darkness, the world, the universe

clear enough to him as mapped in his own mind, but unhappily not fitting

the substantial facts. Instinctively he seems to hover about this the

narrowest part of the continent, his ship's prow now pointed directly

toward Spain, with India so far away, and the vast water intervening,

and the small but mighty strip of land that makes his mental map of no

avail. Thus since the world began millions have mapped eternity, and

still do map it, the heavenly powers meanwhile laughing at the miserable

work men make of it.

Thus vainly searching, on the 2d of November Columbus finds his ships at

anchor in a beautiful and commodious harbor entered between two islands.

On every side are fields of maize, and orchards of fruit, and groves of

palm; for the people dwell in houses and cultivate the ground. There

he remains seven days, waiting the cessation of a storm; and he calls

the place Puerto Bello, also written Portobello, which name it has ever

since retained. Venturing forth on the 9th, he makes eastward eight

leagues, but is driven back, and takes refuge behind some islands in

a small harbor, which he calls Puerto de Bastimentos,[IV-16] from the

abundance of provisions brought them there. After repairing the ships,

now badly worm-eaten, he again on the 23d attempts an advance eastward,

but is speedily driven into a cove, which he names El Retrete, some

calling it Puerto de Escribanos, and which is so small as barely to

admit the ships, and so deep that bottom cannot be touched.[IV-17]

[Sidenote: END OF THE ADMIRAL'S DISCOVERIES.]

And now the mariners show signs of discontent; with gold so near they

are not Spaniards else. And the great discoverer, the admiral of the

ocean sea, must he bury in this little crevice of a barbarous shore

his mighty hopes? Bastidas was here,[IV-18] although it is not certain

how well informed the admiral is of the fact, whether he had notice

from Bastidas at Santo Domingo as to the termination of his voyage,

or whether the natives here had told him; in any event, there cannot

be now in the admiral's mind much doubt that the coast is practically

discovered from Trinidad to Guanaja, and that between these two islands

is a shore-line of continent unbroken by any strait. Yes, as well

unbrace here as elsewhere; and gold-hunting is not a bad occupation for

an old man after his life's work is done.

Turning then toward Veragua for solace, the Spaniards sailed from

El Retrete the 5th of December. But with this change the fickle wind

had likewise changed its course; wherever they went were storms and

buffetings, until Columbus pronounced upon that shore the name La Costa

de los Contrastes. Where now was the balmy breath of perfumed isles,

the sparkling sun dancing beneath the wanton waters? Demonized. Gale

followed gale in quick succession; winds contending, veering; now the

mariners were hurried on toward their destination, only to be driven

back to their starting-point. The stubborn waves struck the crazy barks

with such menacing force as to send the terror-stricken sailors to their

knees in confession, and prayer for deliverance. For nine days the sea

was white with angry foam; the sky blazed with electric fires; the men

fell sick; provisions spoiled. Long, lank, muscular sharks, weatherwise

monsters, followed the ships expectantly, until the hunger-smitten crews

eyed them ominously in return, until these creatures that had come to

eat were caught and eaten by these other creatures. All this time down

poured the rain in torrents and nearly submerged the ships. In the

midst of these cataclysmal horrors a water-spout was seen approaching,

"which," Fernando Colon is sure, "if they had not dissolved by reciting

the gospel of St John, would certainly have sunk whatever it had fallen

upon." Twenty-nine days were occupied in making as many leagues to

the westward. Once the ships parted company for three days; twice they

ran into Portobello, and twice they took refuge at other places on the

coast.

At length, with thanksgiving, January 6, 1503, they came to anchor at

the mouth of a river, the native name of which was Yebra; but Columbus,

in honor of the day, Epiphany, called it Santa María de Belen.[IV-19]

One league to the westward was the river Veragua. The admiral ordered

both streams to be sounded. The Veragua was found too shallow for the

ships. At the mouth of the Belen was a bar, which however could be

crossed at high water; above the bar the depth was four fathoms. On the

bank of the Belen stood a village, whose inhabitants at first opposed

the landing of the Spaniards; but being persuaded by the interpreter,

they at length yielded. They were a well-developed, muscular people,

rather above medium stature, intelligent, and exceptionally shrewd;

in fact, in point of native ability they were in no wise inferior to

the Spaniards. When questioned concerning their country, they answered

guardedly; when asked about their gold mines, they replied evasively.

First, it was from some far-off mysterious mountain the metal came;

then the river Veragua was made to yield it all; there was none at all

about Belen, nor within their territory, in fact. Finally they took a

few trinkets, and gave the intruders twenty plates of gold, thinking

to be rid of them. Within a day or two the vessels were taken over the

bar, and on the 9th two of them ascended the river a short distance.

The natives made the best of it, and brought fish and gold.

[Sidenote: THE QUIBIAN.]

With an armed force the adelantado sets out in boats to explore the

Veragua. He has not proceeded far when he is met by a fleet of canoes,

in one of which sits the _quibian_,[IV-20] the king of all that country,

having under him many subordinate chiefs. He is tall, well-modelled,

and compactly built, with restless, searching eyes, but otherwise

expressionless features, taciturn and dignified, and, for a savage,

of exceptionally bland demeanor. We shall find him as politic as he

is powerful; and as for his wealth, unfortunately for him, his domain

includes the richest gold mines of that rich coast. On the whole, the

quibian is as fine a specimen of his race as the adelantado is of his.

And thus they are fairly met, the men of Europe and the men of North

America; and as in the gladiatorial combat, which opens with a smiling

salutation, this four-century life-struggle begins with friendly

greetings. Pity it is, they are outwardly not more evenly matched; pity

it is that the European with his superior civilization, his saltpetre,

and blood-hounds, his steel weapons, and strange diseases, should be

allowed to do his robbery so easily! But ravenous beasts and bloody

bipeds are so made that they do not hesitate to take advantage of the

helpless; it is only civilized man, however, that calls his butcherings

by pleasant names, such as progress, piety, and makes his religion and

his law conform to his heart's unjust desires.

As the champions approach each other, we see about them both an air of

determination and command; and while extremely cordial, we see on either

side that courtesy common to those who fear while they suspect. With

princely grace the red man takes from his naked body some massive golden

ornaments and presents them to the white man; the adelantado, not to

be outdone in generosity by a savage, with equal dignity and solemnity

presents the red man a handful of valueless baubles. The ceremony over,

with mutual assurances of friendship the chieftains retire. Next day

the quibian visits the admiral in his ship. Neither has much to say;

presents are exchanged, and the savage returns to his people.

While the ships of the Spaniards lay by the bank in fancied security, on

the 24th of January the storm-demon, as if enraged at the escape of its

victims from the fury of the sea, rushed to the mountains, and opening

the windows of heaven, let down a deluge on the land. The rushing

torrents swept everything before them. The vessels were torn from their

moorings and carried down the river, only to be met at the mouth by the

incoming breakers from the sea. And thus to their imminent peril they

were tossed for several days by the contending waters.

[Sidenote: BARTOLOMÉ PENETRATES THE INTERIOR.]

The storm abating, and the ships made secure, the adelantado again

started in search of the gold-fields. With sixty-eight men he ascended

the Veragua to the village of the quibian, whose house was situated

on a hill round which were scattered the dwellings of his people. The

chieftain with a large retinue, unarmed in token of peace, welcomed

the visitors at the landing. Guides were readily furnished at the

adelantado's request; so leaving part of his company to guard the boats,

with the remainder he set out on foot for the base of the mountain,

distant six leagues, which he reached the following day. For many miles

he found the soil richly impregnated with gold, and returned elated,

as visions of populous cities and unbounded wealth floated through

his brain. Which seeing, the quibian grimly smiled that they should

deem their work already done, himself subdued, the land their own; and

he smiled to think how he had sent them round and away from his own

rich mines to the poorer and more distant fields of Urirá, his ancient

enemy. Then the adelantado explored westward, and came to the town and

river[IV-21] of this Urirá, and to the towns of Dururi, Cobrabá, and

Catibá, where he obtained gold and provisions.

* * * * *

There were here fifty leagues of coast, from Cerebaro to Veragua,

called by the Spaniards the _tierra de rescate_, or land of trade,

meaning trade in gold, that being the only thing worth trading for

in an expedition of this kind. This seaboard was heavily wooded, and

uninhabited except along the rivers, for three leagues inland. And

all things seeming so favorable, Columbus thought he would plant a

colony here, leave eighty men and one of the vessels in charge of

the adelantado, and with the remainder return to Spain, report the

results of his discovery, and obtain reinforcements. In a word, if

not restrained by some Ferdinand, or Fonseca, or other hateful friend,

he would repeat with fresh enthusiasm his former errors which had so

nearly wrought his ruin. But his usual ill-luck came to the rescue.

The quibian did not view with favor the preparations which he saw

the Spaniards making for a permanent residence on his lands, and he

determined it should not be. But how could he prevent it? For he was

well aware of the advantages these strangers possessed in open warfare.

Yet there were several ways open to him; if he did not wish to attack

them with an overwhelming force he could devastate the country around,

withdraw his people, and leave the Spaniards to die, meanwhile cutting

off such stragglers and foraging parties as he could easily handle. And

this he did, beginning operations by summoning the neighboring tribes,

ostensibly for the purpose of organizing an expedition against Urirá,

and Cobrabá.

The suspicions of the Spaniards were aroused. Diego Mendez, _escudero_,

esquire, or shield-bearer of the ship _Santiago_,[IV-22] a sharp, bold,

and somewhat boastful man, but courageous beyond the comprehension of

fear, asked and obtained permission to investigate the matter. Entering

the Veragua in an armed boat he found encamped below the quibian's

village about a thousand painted warriors. Assuming an air of unconcern

Mendez landed and strolled leisurely among the savages. Remarking on

their proposed expedition he offered to join them; but his services

were rejected, and his presence was manifestly distasteful to them.

He returned and reported that the savages were preparing to attack the

Spaniards. Yet to satisfy some who doubted, Mendez went again, this time

taking with him one companion, Rodrigo de Escobar, intending plainly to

demand of the quibian his purpose. A host of frowning savages greeted

the visitors, who asked to see the quibian. They were informed that he

was lying ill from the effects of a wound received in battle. "For that

very purpose," replied the ready Mendez, "I a surgeon am come to heal

him." But the Spaniards could not gain audience of the chief, and they

returned more than ever convinced of his bloody intention toward them.

[Sidenote: CAPTURE OF THE QUIBIAN.]

What was to be done? The admiral could not depart while hostilities

were pending, nor could the Spaniards delay their operations until it

should please the savages to attack them. The adelantado determined to

force an issue. With seventy-five men, on the morning of the 30th of

March, he ascended the Veragua, and landed unobserved near the quibian's

village. Hiding his men, he advanced, first with four attendants, then

alone, until after some difficulty he gained admission to the quibian's

presence. What Bartolomé was now attempting was the regular game,

afterward played for higher stakes, but now being pretty generally

practised in the New World; namely, to capture the chief and hold him

hostage for the good behavior of his people. It was at the door in

front of the quibian's dwelling that this interview took place. The

savage suspected nothing. The very boldness of the scheme, so foreign

to aboriginal warfare, tended to allay apprehension. Within were fifty

of his household, and at easy call five hundred warriors; what had

the quibian to fear? The two chiefs sat and talked, first on general

subjects; then the adelantado enquired concernedly about his host's

illness, examined the wound tenderly, passed his hands over the disabled

limb while proposing remedies. Suddenly the savage felt the grasp of the

Spaniard tighten upon him, and before his suspicions were fairly aroused

his arms were pinioned behind him. Mendez, who had been watching, fired

his arquebuse, and the concealed Spaniards rushed forward and surrounded

the house. The quibian struggled, but weakened by sickness he was easily

held in the iron grasp of the adelantado, until by the aid of the other

Spaniards he was made powerless. So adroitly was the feat performed,

that before the presence of the Spaniards was generally known among the

natives, their chief and all his family were captive, and on the way to

the boats. The savages lifted up the usual lamentations, and offered

enormous ransom; but it had been determined beforehand that the chief

personages of the nation should be sent to Spain; for in such procedure,

the admiral thought, lay the greater security of his plans.

At this juncture in the narrative historians, even modern writers of

fair intelligence, gravely discuss the probabilities of guilt in the

quibian's supposed treachery, some holding with Diego de Porras that

the natives did not meditate attack; as if they had not the right to

defend their country, their wives and little ones, from the ravages of

the invader by any means within their power.

Passing conventional twaddle—for if the quibian was not guilty he ought

in honor to have been—it is very certain that this action on the part of

the Spaniards was the cause of many woes, and of their final overthrow

in these parts.[IV-23] In any event it was now of the highest importance

to secure the quibian. The whole adventure on this coast depended upon

it; therefore the adelantado hastened to send his captives on board the

ships. Desirous of instituting other proceedings for the pacification

of that section before returning, the adelantado looked about him for

a reliable person to whom he might entrust his weighty charge. Present

was Juan Sanchez, chief pilot, an honest sailor, not wholly indifferent

to military honors, who earnestly offered service and was accepted. The

quibian, tied hand and foot, was firmly bound to his seat in the boat;

and superfluous as might appear any admonition, the adelantado charged

Juan Sanchez to look well to his prisoner. "Pluck out my beard hair by

hair if he escape me," was the vaunting reply of the pilot as he shoved

his boat from the bank and started down the river.

[Sidenote: JUAN SANCHEZ OUTWITTED.]

But alas for the overweening confidence of a Peter or a Juan Sanchez!

Fighting the elements at sea is a different thing from fighting Indians

on land. Quite a different order of tactics is required; and the

sailor's life is not the school in which to study the wiles of Indian

strategy. In the one place the sailor is not more superior than is the

savage in the other. The quibian, outwardly calm, inwardly is fiercely

excited; and like the wild beast when hotly pursued, his instincts

quicken with the occasion. He and his loved ones are prisoners,

treacherously entrapped by a strange species of the human kind in

return for fair words and generous hospitality. Their probable fate

possesses all the horrors of uncertainty. Swiftly with the swift boat

runs the time away; something must be done or all is lost. Narrowly,

but cautiously, the chief surveys his keeper. It is pleasant to look

upon the homely face of honest Juan Sanchez; not a lineament there

but shines with God's best message to man, and in language which

even dumb intelligence may read. Stern duty is largely diluted with

humanity, integrity with charming simplicity; from which the wily

quibian takes his cue, and thenceforth is master of the situation.

With quiet dignity and cheerful resignation he sits among his people,

hushing their lamentations and chiding their complaints. By words and

little acts of consideration he lightens the labors of the boatmen, and

studies for himself and people to give no unnecessary trouble. These

conciliatory measures are not lost on the warm-hearted sailor, whose

regard for his royal captive rises every moment. He is pronounced by all

a well-mannered savage, a most courteous savage. And now the quibian

modestly complains of the cords so tightly drawn by the too zealous

Mendez. They do indeed cut into the flesh, and constrain him to a most

uncomfortable position. And he such a gentleman-savage! Juan Sanchez

is not the man to sit there and see a fellow-creature unnecessarily

suffer; he cannot do it. The thongs which lacerate the prisoner's wrists

are loosened, the cord which binds him to the seat is untied; but for

security—for above all this great chief must be kept secure—one end of

it the ever-watchful pilot twists round his hand. Night comes on. It is

very dark, but the captives are quiet, and the boat glides noiselessly

down the stream. Suddenly the light craft sways; a plunge is heard; the

pilot feels his hand violently wrenched; he must loosen his hold or be

drawn into the water. It is all as the flash of a pistol in point of

time; the quibian's seat is empty; and honest Juan Sanchez is obliged

to present his hanging front before his comrades, a Spaniard outwitted

by a savage!

* * * * *

After scouring the country in several directions, the adelantado

returned to the ships, bringing gold-plates, wristlets, and anklets

to the value of three hundred ducats, which were divided, after

deducting the king's fifth. Among the spoils taken from the quibian

were two golden coronets, one of which was presented to Bartolomé by

the admiral. Notwithstanding the escape of the chief, who, after all,

was probably drowned, Columbus proceeded to execute his plans. There

were the king's household and his chief men safely on board, and these

should be sufficient to guarantee the tranquillity of the nations. So

the arrangements for the comfort and security of the colony during the

contemplated absence of the admiral were hastened to completion. The

three vessels, after discharging part of their cargoes, were carried by

the newly swollen stream over the bar, and reloaded. There they lay at

anchor waiting a favorable wind.

[Sidenote: THE COUNTRY ROUSED.]

All this time, however, the Spaniards were reckoning without their host.

The quibian was not dead. In spite of his bonds, he had made good his

escape. After his bold plunge, finding himself free from the boat, he

had extricated his wrists from the loosened cords, swam beneath the

water to the bank, and had set out for his village, resolving vengeance.

And now, hastily arming a thousand warriors, he attacked the Spaniards

under cover of the dense vegetation, killing one and wounding eight,

but was soon repulsed with heavy loss. Shortly afterward Diego Tristan,

coming ashore from one of the vessels with eleven men, recklessly

ascended the river a league for wood and water. All but one were

killed.[IV-24]

* * * * *

The aspect of affairs was serious. It was now evident that no fear

of what might befall his imprisoned household would deter the quibian

from his bloody purpose. Alive or dead might be his brothers, wives,

and children, he would rid his country of these perfidious strangers.

To this end he secured the coöperation of the neighboring chieftains,

and filled the forest with his warriors. Stealthily they lurked in the

vicinity of the settlement, and watched every pathway, ready to cut off

any who should venture abroad. Nowhere on the Islands had the Spaniards

met such stubborn opposition, and serious misgivings filled their minds.

Their own probable doom they saw foreshadowed in the mutilated bodies

of Tristan and his men, which came floating past them down the stream,

attended by ravenous fishes; and the requiems sung by quarrelling

vultures over the remains when afterward they were thrown back by

the waves upon the beach, tended in no wise to lessen their dismal

forebodings. To heighten their misfortunes, a furious storm arose,

which cut off all communication between the settlement and the ships.

The adelantado endeavored in vain to quiet the fears of his people, who

emboldened by despair would have seized the remaining caravel and put to

sea had the weather permitted. Yet closer pressed upon them the enraged

quibian, until dislodged they retreated to the river bank, before their

caravel, and threw up earthworks, which they capped with the ship's

boat, and behind which they planted their guns, and so kept the savages

at bay.

On shipboard matters were no better. The continued absence of Tristan

and his crew caused the admiral great anxiety. In such a heavy sea

it was unsafe to remain near the shore; the parting of a cable would

doom the clumsy craft to swift destruction. And as if this were not

enough, the spirit of the quibian broke out among his encaged family.

Preferring death to captivity they plotted escape. During the night the

prisoners were confined in the forecastle, and on the covering slept

a guard of soldiers. Collecting one night such articles as were within

reach, stones used as ballast, boxes, and provision casks, they piled

them up under the hatchway cover. Toward morning, when the guards were

sleeping soundly, as many of the captives as were able mounted the heap,

and placing their shoulders to the covering, by quick concerted action

burst it open, throwing the sleeping sentinels in every direction, and

springing out leaped into the sea. Those whose escape was prevented were

found next morning dead, some hanging to the roof and sides of their

prison, some strangled by means of strings round the neck drawn tight

with the foot.

[Sidenote: THE SETTLEMENT ABANDONED.]

It was now of the utmost importance to communicate with the shore,

as the admiral was convinced that the situation of the colonists was

becoming perilous in the extreme. At least, all hope of settlement

in that quarter must for the present be abandoned. The fate of the

captives, when once it was known, would move the very rocks to revenge.

But no boat could live in the surf intervening. Then stepped forward

Pedro Ledesma, a Sevillian pilot, and offered if rowed to the breakers

to attempt to gain the shore by swimming. The thing was done. Scarcely

had Ledesma picked himself up from the spot where the waves threw him

when he was surrounded by his forlorn countrymen, who informed him of

the fate of Tristan, and of their determination to quit that accursed

coast at any hazard. Ledesma returned and told the admiral, upon

whose mind thereupon gloom settled in yet denser shades. Unrighteously

deprived of his command at Santo Domingo, he had nourished the hope that

this last and most important of his discoveries might prove the base of

better fortune than was possible on the Spanish Isle. For had it not

been revealed to him that this Veragua was the source whence Solomon

drew the gold to build the temple? These lamentations continued during

the remainder of the storm, which lasted nine days longer; after which

preparations were made for the embarkation of the colonists, the admiral

consoling himself with the promise of return under more favorable

auspices.

Finally the caravel stationed in the river was dismantled, and out of

the spars and some Indian canoes was made a raft, by means of which the

colonists and their effects were in two days taken on board. The admiral

then bore away eastward for Española. And it may have been the lingering

hope of blind infatuation—so his followers thought it—that made him

cling to the shore until the Darien country was passed, before striking

out across the Caribbean Sea; others say it was to avoid contrary winds,

while he affirms it was to deceive his pilots that they might not be

able to find Veragua again without his charts. One worm-eaten caravel

he was obliged to drop at Portobello. The other two held together until

they reached Jamaica, where they were beached.

A new series of misfortunes here awaited the Great Unlucky One. From

June 1503 to June 1504 he was doomed to remain on his wrecks, which now

lay side by side, partially filled with water. Food became scarce, and

the foraging expeditions met with constantly increasing difficulties

in seeking the necessary supply. By desperate efforts Diego Mendez

succeeded in reaching Española in a canoe; but when he had notified

Ovando of the perilous situation of Columbus, the governor was in no

haste to relieve his rival. Sickness next followed, and then mutiny.

Francisco de Porras with forty-eight men threw off allegiance to the

admiral, and taking ten canoes set out for Española. Twice thrown back

upon Jamaica by adverse winds they abandoned the attempt, and gave

themselves up to licentious roving about the island. A second mutiny

was near its culmination when a small vessel appeared in the distance.

Presently Diego de Escobar approached in a boat, and without leaving

it, thrust in upon the admiral a letter, a side of bacon, and a barrel

of wine, all from Ovando; then he disappeared as mysteriously as he

had come. Following an attempted reconciliation with Porras was a fight

between his gang and the Spaniards under Bartolomé, in which six were

killed, among them our honest friend Juan Sanchez, who had cast his lot

with Porras. The doughty Ledesma, also a rebel, though badly wounded,

lived to be assassinated in Spain. Porras and several others were

taken prisoners and confined on board the wreck. The remainder of the

deserters then returned, penitent. Finally the admiral's agent at Santo

Domingo, Diego de Salcedo, came to his relief with two ships.

[Sidenote: DEATH OF THE ADMIRAL.]

It was infamous in Ovando to leave Columbus so long in such a strait.

The excuses he pleaded were absence at Jaraguá, and lack of suitable

ships; but had he been in earnest to deliver the admiral, means could

have been found before the lapse of a year. Although on arriving at

Santo Domingo Columbus received lodgings in Ovando's house, and the

governor was outwardly exceedingly attentive to his guest, in reality

there was little in common between the two men but jealousy and

distrust. Porras was allowed to roam at large, though finally sent to

Spain for trial. Columbus sailed for Spain September 12, 1504. For

a time he kept his bed at Seville, writing heart-rending letters to

the sovereigns, who paid little attention to them. By the help of the

adelantado, ever his most faithful friend and brother, Columbus managed

the following year to creep up to court and beg redress from the king,

for the queen was now dead. But Ferdinand was deeply disgusted; not so

much however as to prevent his granting the illustrious discoverer a

magnificent burial shortly after. It was the 20th of May, 1506, that

Columbus died at Valladolid, at the age of about seventy years.[IV-25]

* * * * *

Thus terminated the first attempt of Spaniards to plant a colony on the

main-land of North America. Columbus himself, the leader, advanced with

proffers of friendship in one hand and a sword in the other, retaliated

upon a fancied savage treachery by a still more insidious treachery,

and was driven from the country by a brave ruler, whose deeds deserve

to be enrolled beside those of patriots everywhere. One kind act of a

tender-hearted Spanish sailor—would I had more of them to record in this

history—brings the direst misfortune on his countrymen, delays for a

dozen years the occupation of Veragua, and turns the tide of conquest

in other directions.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF COLUMBUS.]

Most remarkable in the character of Columbus was the combination of

the theoretical and the practical; and most remarkable in his theories

was the anomaly that though nearly all of them were false, they led

to as grand results as if they had been true. The aperture through

which failure creeps into carefully laid schemes is usually some

glaring defect of character; and such defect often appears where little

suspected, in natures warped by genius, or where one quality is unduly

developed at the expense of another quality. We often see men of rare

ability wrecked by what would be regarded an act of folly unaccountable

in the stupidest person; but we do not often see success resulting from

these same defects. The greatest defect in the faculties of Columbus,

extravagance of belief, was the primary cause of his success. Simple to

us as is the reality of the earth's rotundity, and of the practicability

of a western route to Asia, no one could then have entertained those

doctrines without extraordinary credulity; even though Pythagoras and

others had so long ago expressed such ideas, no one could then have

acted on them short of infatuation bordering on insanity. To say the

world is round was not enough; Thales of Miletus proved it not a plane

two thousand years before. If it were round, the water would run off;

if it were flat, why then one safely might sail on it; if it be flat,

and the water runs not off, then at the other end there must be land

that keeps the water on, and one might sail over the flat sea to that

land—all such logic was less puerile than the feelings by which the

Genoese ordinarily reached conclusions. His efforts were the embodiment

of the ideas of many thoughtful men, timorous persons, perhaps, or

merely meditative and passive, but in none of whom united his ability,

courage, and enthusiasm; above all, none so scientific were at the

same time so determined. Often the knowledge of a prophecy is the

cause of its fulfilment. Some say Alonso Sanchez told him of Española,

and he himself affirms that once he visited Iceland. It may have been

that on this voyage he learned from the Norsemen of their Vinland and

Helluland. What then? Were this true, such stories would have had with

him scarcely greater weight than the sayings of the ancients, or than

current interpretations of holy writ.

Nothing more plainly proves the power that sent him forth than the fact

that in scarcely one of his original conceptions was he correct. He

thought to reach Asia over an unobstructed ocean sea by sailing west; he

did not. To the day of his death he thought America was Asia, and that

Cuba was mainland; that the earth was much smaller than it is, and that

six sevenths of it was land. He dwelt much on a society of Amazons who

never had existence, and at every step among the Islands he ingenuously

allowed his inflamed imagination to deceive him. He claimed to have

been divinely appointed for this mission; he affirmed his voyage a

miracle, and himself inspired with the conception of it by the most holy

Trinity; he vowed to rescue the holy sepulchre, which he never did; he

proclaimed visions which he never saw, such as St Elmo at the top-mast

with seven lighted tapers, and told of voices which he never heard; he

pictured himself a missionary to benighted heathen, when in truth he was

scattering among them legions of fiery devils. But what he knew and did,

assuredly, was enough, opening the ocean to highways, and finding new

continents; enough to fully entitle him to all the glory man can give to

man; and as for his errors of judgment, had he been able to map America

as accurately as can we to-day, had he been divine instead of, as he

claimed, only divinely appointed, with myriads of attendant ministers,

his achievement would have been none the greater. From the infirmities

of his nature sprang the nobility of Brutus; from the weaknesses of

Columbus was compounded his strength.

Assuredly it was no part of the experience and ingenuity which

springs from life-long application that made Columbus so essentially

a visionary; nor was it his scientific attainments, nor the splendid

successes which despite the so frequent frowns of fortune we must

accredit him. In his avocation of mariner he was a plain, thoughtful

man of sound judgment and wise discretion; but fired by enthusiasm he

became more than an ordinary navigator; he became more as he fancied

himself, superhuman, the very arm of omnipotence. Once born in him

the infatuation that he was the divinely appointed instrument for the

accomplishment of this work, and frowning monarchs or perilous seas were

as straws in his way. We see clearly enough what moved him, these four

hundred years after the event, though he who was moved in reality knew

little about it. By the pressure of rapidly accumulating ideas we see

brought to the front in discovery Christopher Columbus, just as in the

reformation of the church Martin Luther is crowded to the front. The

German monk was not the Reformation; like the Genoese sailor, he was

but an instrument in the hands of a power palpable to all, but called

by different persons different names.

While yet mingling in the excitements of progressive manhood, he

became lost in a maze of mysticism, and to the end of his life he

never recovered possession of himself. Not that self-mastery, the first

necessity of correct conduct, was wholly gone; there was method in his

madness; and he could deny the demons within him, but it was only to

leave open the door and give himself up to yet other demons.

In the centuries of battle now lately renewed between science and

religion, Columbus fought on both sides. Never was a man more filled

at once with the material and the spiritual, with the emotional and the

intellectual. Mingling with beatified spirits in the garden of his moral

paradise were naked wild men equally as glorious in their immoralities.

His creed, which was his very life, was not in his eyes a bundle of

supernatural abstractions, but concrete reality as much as were any

of his temporal affairs. Himself an honest devotee of science, and

believing science the offspring of religion, science and himself must

therefore finally be forever laid upon the same altar. He had no thought

of work apart from religion, or of religion apart from work. He had

ready a doctrine for every heavenly display, a theory for every earthly

phenomenon. When pictures of other lands rose in his imagination, he

knew them to be real, just as Juan Diego of Mexico knew to be real the

apparition of our Lady of Guadalupe at Tepeyacac. By the gnawing hunger

of temporal and spiritual ambition he was enabled to see the new lands

suggested by science, just as the imprisoned monk, starved and scourged

into the beholdings of insanity, sees angels of every incarnation.

While thus obliged to view all his achievements through the atmosphere

of creative mysticism, in weighing his manifold qualities, it is well

always to remember that there were achievements, and those of the very

highest order. His mysticism was the mysticism of practical life rather

than of inactive ideality. His faith was of value to him in giving

definiteness to energy otherwise vague and fitful. His all-potential

enthusiasm subordinated to one idea every erratic and incoherent

aspiration. It gave his life a fixedness of purpose which lust, avarice,

and every appetite combined could not have given without it; so that

while he brooded with misanthropic wistfulness he did not shirk any

fancied duty, even when attended by pain and misfortune. His was not

a cloistered inspiration, but an overwhelmingly active enthusiasm.

There was in him no longing after a perfect life; in his own eyes his

life was perfect. No restless questionings over the unknowable; there

was no unknowable. His oblique imagination encompassed all worlds and

penetrated all space. His positivism bound the metaphysical no less

firmly than the material. Abstract conceptions were more tangible

than concrete facts. Realities were but accidents; ideas were the

only true realities. The highway of the heavens which to profoundest

investigation is dusty with the débris of an evolving universe, to this

self-sufficient sailor was as plain as the king's road from Seville to

Cádiz.

[Sidenote: ANOMALIES AND ABERRATIONS.]

And as genius grows with experience, so grew his determination with the

errors he so frequently fell into. He was not a happy man, nor was he

always a pleasant companion. In his delusions he was self-satisfied;

in the loss of himself self-possessed. He endeavored to be prudent and

thought himself worldly wise; but, like many self-flatterers wrapped in

their own fancies he was easily imposed upon, even by the sovereigns,

with whom he aimed to be exceedingly shrewd. His contact with man did

not deepen his humanity, but seemed rather to harden his heart, and

drive his affections all the more from earth to heaven. His mind was of

that gloomy cast which made even his successes sorrowful. We have seen

among his practical virtues integrity of a high conventional order,

single-mindedness, courage, and indomitable perseverance; and in other

characteristics which were not so pleasing—pride displaying itself, as

it often does, in religious humility; a melancholy temper; a selfish

ambition, which with one grasp would secure to himself and his family

the uttermost that man and God could give; with all his devout piety

and heavenly zeal a painful and often ludicrous tenacity in clutching

at high-sounding titles and hollow honors—there were even in the most

unlovable parts of him something to respect, and in his selfishness a

self-sacrificing nobleness, a lofty abandonment of self to the idea,

which we can but admire. It was not for himself, although it was always

most zealously and jealously for himself; the ships, the new lands, the

new peoples, his fortunes and his life, all were consecrate; should the

adventure prove successful, the gain would be heaven's; if a failure,

the loss would fall on him. Surely the Almighty must smile on terms so

favorable to himself. And that he did not finally make good his promises

with regard to rescuing the holy sepulchre, and building temples, and

converting nations, was for the same reason that he did not finally

satisfy his worldly pretensions, and secure himself in his rulership. He

had not the time. In all his worldly and heavenly ambitions, the glory

of God and the glory of himself were blended with the happy consummation

of his grand idea. And never did morbid broodings over the unsubstantial

and shadowless produce grander results than these incubations of

alternate exaltation and despondency that hatched a continent. And in

all that was then transpiring, there are few intelligent readers of

history who cannot see an overshadowing, all-controlling destiny shaping

events throughout the world, so that this then unknown continent should

be prepared to fill the grand purpose which even then appeared to be

marked out for it.

While, therefore, in the study of this remarkable character, whose

description is but a succession of paradoxes, we see everywhere

falsehood leading up to truth and truth to falsehood; while we see

spring out of the ideal the real, results the most substantial and

success the most signal come from conceptions the most fantastical,

we can but observe, not only that penetrative vision which in the

mind of genius sees through the symbol the divine significance, but

that they have not been always or altogether fruitless of good, those

spectral fancies which riot in absurdities, building celestial cities,

and peopling pandemoniums, even in the absence of genius, symbol, or

significance.[IV-26]

[Sidenote: BIBLIOGRAPHY.]

Probably not one of the many accounts of Columbus which have been

published is presented with such fulness of detail, commanding vivid

interest from first to last, as that of Mr Washington Irving, _The Life

and Voyages of Christopher Columbus; to which are added those of His

Companions_, 3 vols., New York, 1869. The first editions, one in London,

in 4 vols., and one in New York, appeared in 1828; since which time

there have been many issues, in English and other languages. The author

was born in New York, in 1783, and died at Sunnyside, near Tarrytown, on

the Hudson River, in 1859. A strong literary taste was early displayed,

specially manifested in 1802 in a series of articles contributed to the

_Morning Chronicle_. In 1804 he visited Europe for his health, returning

in 1807. Then appeared the serial _Salmagundi_, and in 1809 _A History

of New York_. Again in 1815 he went to Europe, and after engaging for

a time in mercantile pursuits, abandoned them and gave himself up to

letters. The publication of the _Sketch Book_ was begun in numbers in

1818, and was followed by _Bracebridge Hall_ in 1822, and _Tales of

a Traveller_ in 1824. Then came _Columbus_, the material for which he

obtained from Navarrete in Spain. See chapter iii. note 9, this volume.

After serving as secretary of the American Legation in London from 1829

to 1832, he returned to New York and published _The Alhambra_; then

_Crayon Miscellany_ in 1835; _Astoria_ in 1836; _Captain Bonneville_ in

1837; and _Wolfert's Roost_ in 1855. From 1842 to 1846 he was American

Minister to Spain. His later works were _Goldsmith_, 1849; _Mahomet_,

1850; and _Washington_, 1855-9. Mr Irving has been most praised for

his genial manner, his gentleness of thought, and his charming style,

which carries the reader almost unconsciously along over details in

other hands dry and profitless. Among these is found his highest merit;

and yet one would sometimes wish the author not quite so meritorious.

Elegance and grace eternal tire by their very faultlessness. In handling

the rough realities of life one relishes now and then a rough thought

roughly expressed. Neither is Irving remarkable for historical accuracy,

or exact thinking. An early criticism on _Columbus_ complains of that

without which the works of Irving never would have attained great

popularity. He was pronounced too wordy, his details too long drawn. If

this was the case fifty years ago, it is much more so now. And yet how

fascinating is every page! And who but Irving could make thrilling such

trivial events? Permit him the use of words, and howsoever isolated the

ideas, or commonplace the events, the result was brilliant; but force

him within narrow compass, not only would the charm be lost, but the

work would be almost worthless.

The highest delight of a healthy mind, of a mind not diseased either by

education or affection, is in receiving the truth. The greatest charm

in expression, to a writer who may properly be placed in the category

of healthful, is in telling the truth. It is only when truth is dearer

to us than tradition, or pride of opinion, that we are ready to learn;

it is only when truth is dearer to us than praise or profit that we are

fit to teach. If the mind be intelligent as well as healthy, it knows

itself to be composed of truth and prejudice, the latter engendered of

ignorance and environment, holding it in iron fetters, and with which

it knows it must forever struggle in vain wholly to be free. Thus keenly

alive as well to the difficulties as to the importance of right thinking

and exact forms of expression, it nevertheless has its keenest pleasure

in striving toward concrete truth. It is truthfulness to nature in all

her beauties and deformities, rather than the construction of some more

beautiful than natural ideal, that alone satisfies art, whether in the

domain of painting, oratory, or literature. We of to-day, while holding

in high esteem works of the imagination, are becoming somewhat captious

in regard to our facts. The age is essentially informal and real; even

our ideal literature must be rigidly true to nature, while whatever

pretends to be real must be presented in all simplicity, without

circumlocution or disguisement.

Half a century ago it was deemed necessary, particularly by writers

of selected epochs of history, in order to clothe their narrative with

dramatic effect equal to fiction, to intensify characters and events.

The good qualities of good men were made to stand out in bold relief,

not against their own bad qualities, but against the bad qualities

of bad men, whose wickedness was portrayed in such black colors as to

overshadow whatever of good they might possess. Thus historical episodes

were endowed, so far as possible without too great discoloration of

truth, like a theatrical performance, each with a perfected hero and a

finished villain. Of this class of writers were Macaulay and Motley,

Froude, Freeman, Prescott, and Irving, whose works are wonderful in

their way, not only as art-creations, but as the truest as well as

most vivid pictures of their several periods yet presented, and which

for generations will be read with that deep and wholesome interest

with which they deserve to be regarded. For, although their facts are

sometimes highly varnished, their most brilliant creations are always

built upon a substantial skeleton of truth. I say that these, the

foremost writers of their day, are none of them free from the habit

of exaggeration, deception. Indeed, with a wasteful extravagance in

the use of superlatives it is almost impossible to draw character

strongly without in some parts of it exaggerating. But in these days of

rational reflection wherein romance and reality are fairly separated,

celestial fiction and mundane fact being made to pass under the same

_experimentum crucis_; mind becoming so mechanical that it introverts

and analyzes not only its own mechanism but the mechanism of its maker;

iconoclasm becoming spiritualized, and the doctrine revived of the old

Adamic serpent, that the knowledge of good and evil is not death but

life and immortality, this knowledge being king of kings, vying with

nature's forces and oftentimes defying them—I say, in days like these

mature manhood becomes impatient of the Santa Claus, or other fictitious

imagery, from which the infant mind derives much comfort, and prefers,

if necessary, the torments of truth to the elysium of fable. It is no

longer valid logic that if the hero stoops to trickery, his biographer

should stoop to trickery to cover it. For once undertake to shape the

stiff clay of material facts into the artistic forms of fiction, and

the result is neither history nor romance.

[Sidenote: WASHINGTON IRVING.]

Proud as I am of the names of Prescott and Irving, at whose shrines none

worship with profounder admiration than myself; thankless as may be the

task of criticising their classic pages, whose very defects shine with a

steadier lustre than I dare hope for my brightest consummations; still,

forced by my subject, in some instances, into fields partially traversed

by them, I can neither pass them by nor wholly praise them. In justice

to my theme, in justice to myself, in justice to the age in which I

live, I must speak, and that according to the light and the perceptions

given me.

Mr Irving's estimate of the value of honesty and integrity in a

historian may be gathered from his own pages. "There is a certain

meddlesome spirit," he writes, "which, in the garb of learned research,

goes prying about the traces of history, casting down its monuments,

and marring and mutilating its fairest trophies. Care should be taken

to vindicate great names from such pernicious erudition. It defeats one

of the most salutary purposes of history, that of furnishing examples

of what human genius and laudable enterprise may accomplish." Now, if

conscientious inquiry into facts signifies a meddlesome spirit; if the

plain presentment of facts may rightly be called pernicious erudition;

if the overthrow of fascinating falsehood is mutilating the trophies

of history; if fashioning golden calves for the worship of the simple

be the most salutary purpose of history; then I, for one, prefer

the meddlesome spirit and the pernicious erudition which mutilates

such monuments to the fairest trophies of historical deception.

Again—"Herrera has been accused also of flattering his nation;

exalting the deeds of his countrymen, and softening and concealing

their excesses. There is nothing very serious in this accusation. To

illustrate the glory of his nation is one of the noblest offices of the

historian; and it is difficult to speak too highly of the extraordinary

enterprises and splendid actions of the Spaniards in those days. In

softening their excesses he fell into an amiable and pardonable error,

if it were indeed an error for a Spanish writer to endeavor to sink them

in oblivion." When a writer openly avows his allegiance to falsehood,

to amiable falsehood, to falsehood perpetrated to deceive in regard

to one's own country, about which one professes to know more than a

stranger, nothing remains to be said. Nothing remains to be said as to

the veracity of that author, but much remains to be said concerning the

erroneous impressions left by him of the persons and events coming in

the way of this work.

With what exquisite grace, with what tender solicitude and motherly

blindness to faults Mr Irving defends the reputation of Columbus!

Is the Genoese a pirate, then is piracy "almost legalized;" is he a

slave-maker, "the customs of the times" are pleaded; without censure

he lives at Córdova in open adultery with Beatriz Enriquez, and there

becomes the father of the illegitimate Fernando; a bungling attempt

is made to excuse the hero for depriving the poor sailor of the prize

offered him who should first see land; Oviedo is charged with falsehood

because he sometimes decides against the discoverer in issues of

policy and character; Father Buil was "as turbulent as he was crafty"

because he disagreed with the admiral in some of his measures; the most

extravagant vituperation is hurled at Aguado because he is chosen to

examine and report on the affairs of the Indies; Fonseca is denounced

as inexpressibly vile because he thwarts some of the discoverer's

hare-brained projects; and so with regard to those who in any wise

opposed him, while all who smiled on him were angels of light. All

through his later life when extravagant requests were met by more

than the usual liberality of royalty, Irving is petulantly complaining

because more is not done for his hero, and because his petulant hero

complains. And this puerile pride from which springs such petulance the

eloquent biographer coins into the noble ambition of conscious merit.

Though according to his own statement the madness of the man increased

until toward the latter end he was little better than imbecile, yet we

are at the same time gravely assured that "his temper was naturally

irritable, but he subdued it by the magnanimity of his spirit." The

son Fernando denies that his father once carded wool; Irving does not

attempt to excuse this blemish because his readers do not regard work

ignoble.

Now it is not the toning-down of defects in a good man's character

that I object to so much as the predetermined exaltation of one

historical personage at the expense of others utterly debased under like

premeditation. Did Mr Irving, and the several scores of biographers

preceding and following him, parade the good qualities of Bobadilla,

Roldan, and Ovando as heartily as those of their hero, the world would

be puzzled what to make of it. We are not accustomed to such statements.

Unseasoned biography is tasteless, and we are taught not to expect

truth, but a model. We should not know what these writers were trying

to do if they catalogued the misdemeanors of Columbus and his brothers

with the same embellishments applied to Aguado, Buil, and Fonseca;

telling with pathetic exaggeration how the benign admiral of the ocean

sea was the first to employ bloodhounds against the naked natives; how

he practised varied cruelties in Española beyond expression barbarous;

and how he stooped upon occasion not only to vulgar trickery, but to

base treachery.

On the other hand, with those who seek notoriety by attempting to

degrade the fair fame of noble and successful genius because more credit

may have been given by some than is justly due, or by affecting to

disbelieve whole narratives and whole histories because portions of them

are untrue or too highly colored, I have no sympathy. Books have been

written to prove, what no one denies, that centuries before Columbus

other Europeans had found this continent, and that thereby the honor

of his achievement is lessened—of which sentiment I fail to see the

force. So far as the Genoese, his works, and merits are concerned, it

makes no whit difference were America twenty times before discovered,

as elsewhere in this volume has been fully shown.

[Sidenote: IRVING AND PRESCOTT COMPARED.]

Prescott was a more exact writer than Irving, though Prescott was not

wholly above the amiable weakness of his time. In the main he stated

the truth, and stated it fairly, though he did not always tell the whole

truth. The faults of his heroes he would speak, though never so softly;

he seldom attempted entirely to conceal them. He might exaggerate, but

he neither habitually practised nor openly defended mendacity. Prescott

would fain please the Catholics, if it did not cost too much. Irving

would please everybody, particularly Americans; but most of all he would

make a pleasing tale; if truthful, well; if not, it must on no account

run counter to popular prejudice. The inimitable charm about them both

amply atones in the minds of many for any imperfections. Since their

day much new light has been thrown upon the subjects treated by them,

but not enough seriously to impair the value of their works. In their

estimates of the characters of Ferdinand and Isabella, relatively and

respectively, these brilliant writers are not alone. They copied those

who wrote before them; and those who came after copied them. It has been

the fashion these many years, both by native and foreign historians,

to curse Ferdinand and to bless Isabella, to heap all the odium of the

nation and the times upon the man and exalt the woman among the stars.

This, surely, is the more pleasant and chivalrous method of disposing

of the matter; but in that case I must confess myself at a loss what to

do with the facts.

[Sidenote: FERDINAND AND ISABELLA.]

None but the simple are deceived by the gentle Irving when he insinuates

"she is even somewhat bigoted;" by which expression he would have us

understand that the fascinating queen of Castile was but little of a

bigot. Again: "Ferdinand was a religious bigot; and the devotion of

Isabella went as near to bigotry as her liberal mind and magnanimous

spirit would permit"—that is to say, as the plan of Mr Irving's story

would permit. Quite as well as any of us Irving knew that Isabella was

one of the most bigoted women of her bigoted age, far more bigoted than

Ferdinand, who dared even dispute the pope when his Holiness interfered

too far in attempting to thwart his ambitious plans. She was, indeed,

so deeply dyed a bigot as to allow her ghostly confessor to overawe her

finest womanly instincts, her commonly strict sense of honor, justice,

and humanity, and cause her to permit in Spain the horrible Inquisition,

the most monstrous mechanism of torture ever invented in aid of the most

monstrous crime ever perpetrated by man upon his fellows, the coercion

and suppression of opinion. Fair as she was in all her ways, and

charming—fair of heart and mind and complexion, with regular features,

light chestnut hair, mild blue eyes, a modest and gracious demeanor—she

did not scruple, for the extermination of heresy, to apply to such

of her loving subjects as dared think for themselves the thumb-screw,

the ring-bolt and pulley, the rack, the rolling-bench, the punch, the

skewer, the pincers, the knotted whip, the sharp-toothed iron collar,

chains, balls, and manacles, confiscation of property and burning at

the stake; and all under false accusations and distorted evidence. She

did not hesitate to seize and put to death hundreds of wealthy men like

Pecho, and appropriate to her own use their money, though her exquisite

womanly sensibilities might sometimes prompt her to fling to the widows

and children whom she had turned beggars into the street a few crumbs

of their former riches. This mother, who nursed children of her own

and who should not have been wholly ignorant of a mother's love, turned

a deaf ear to the cries of Moorish mothers as they and their children

were torn asunder and sold at the slave mart in Seville. Thousands of

innocent men, women, and children she cruelly imprisoned, thousands she

cast into the fiery furnace, tens of thousands she robbed and then drove

into exile; but it was chastely done, and by a most sweet and beautiful

lady. We can hardly believe it true, we do not like to believe it true,

that when old Rabbi Abarbanel pleaded before the king for his people,

"I will pay for their ransom six hundred thousand crowns of gold,"

Isabella's soft, musical voice was heard to say, "Do not take it," her

confessor meanwhile exclaiming "What! Judas-like, sell Jesus!" Besides,

thrice six hundred thousand crowns might be secured by not accepting

the ransom. And yet this was the bright being, and such her acts by

Prescott's own statements, cover them as he will never so artfully,

whose practical wisdom, he assures us, was "founded on the purest and

most exalted principle," and whose "honest soul abhorred anything like

artifice." Isabella was unquestionably a woman of good intentions; but

with such substance the soul-burner's pit is paved.

Prescott throws all the odium of the Inquisition on Torquemada, and

I concur. The monk's mind was the ashy, unmelting mould in which

the woman's more plastic affections were cast. But then he should be

accredited with some portion of the virtues that adorned the character

of Isabella, for he was the author of many of them. To be just, if

Isabella is accredited with her virtues, she must be charged with her

crimes. And if the queen may throw from her shoulders upon those of her

advisers the responsibility of iniquity permitted under her rule, why

not King Ferdinand, who likewise had men about him urging him to this

policy and to that? True, we excuse much in woman as the weaker, and

very justly so, which we condemn in the man of powerful cunning. But

Isabella was not exactly clay in the hands of those about her; or if

so, then praise her for her imbecility, and not for any virtue. But she

could muster will and spirit enough of her own upon occasion—witness

her threat to kill Pedro Giron with her own hand rather than marry

him, and the policy which speaks plainly her sagacity and state-craft

in the selection of Ferdinand, and in the strict terms of her marriage

contract which excluded her husband from any sovereign rights in Castile

or Leon. Most inconsistently, indeed, in reviewing the administration

of Isabella, at the end of three volumes of unadulterated adulation

Prescott gives his heroine firmness enough in all her ways; independence

of thought and action sufficient to circumscribe the pretensions of

her nobles; and she "was equally vigilant in resisting ecclesiastical

encroachment;" "she enforced the execution of her own plans, oftentimes

even at great personal hazard, with a resolution surpassing that of her

husband." When, however, she signed the edict for the expulsion of the

Jews, the excuse was that "she had been early schooled to distrust her

own reason." But why multiply quotations? The _Ferdinand and Isabella_

of Prescott is full of these flat contradictions.

We all know that when carried away by feeling women are more cruel

than men; so Isabella under the frenzy of her fanaticism was, if

possible, more cruel than Ferdinand, whose passions were ballasted by

his ambitions. Her feelings were with her faith; and her faith was with

such foul iniquity, such inhuman wrong as should cause her euphemistic

apologists to blush for resorting to the same species of subterfuge

that makes heroes of Jack Sheppard and Dick Turpin. Again, murder and

robbery for Christ's sake suits the devil quite as well as when done for

one's own sake. And here on earth, to plead in a court of justice good

intentions in mitigation of evil acts nothing extenuates in the eyes of

any righteous judge. Therefore there is little to choose between those

of whom it may be said—Here is a man who perfidiously robs, tortures,

and murders his fellow-beings by the hundred thousand in order to

glorify himself, and extend and establish his dominions; and, Here is

a woman who perfidiously robs, tortures, and murders her fellow-beings

by the hundred thousand in order to glorify herself, her priest, her

religion, and extend and establish the dominions of her deity. At the

farthest, and in the minds of the eloquent biographers themselves, the

relative refinement and nobility of the two characters must turn wholly

upon one's conception of the relative refinement and nobility of earthly

selfishness and heavenly selfishness.

What can we say then, if we make any pretensions to fairness in

portraying historical personages, in excuse for Isabella that cannot

as rightfully be said in excuse for Ferdinand? For even he, whom

sensational biographers array in such sooty blackness in order that the

satin robes of Isabella may shine with whiter lustre, has been called

in Spain the wise and prudent, and in Italy the pious. Of course there

were differences in their dispositions and their ambitions, but not such

wide ones as we have been told. He was a man, with a man's nature, cold,

coarse, stern, and artful; she a woman, with a woman's nature, warm,

refined, gentle, and artful. He was foxlike, she feline. Opposing craft

with craft, she jealously guarded what she deemed the interests of her

subjects, and earnestly sought by encouraging literature and art, and

reforming the laws, to refine and elevate her realm. He did precisely

the same. In all the iniquities of his lovely consort Ferdinand lent a

helping hand; man could do nothing worse; and all the world agree that

Ferdinand was bad. And yet, in what was he worse than she? Both were

tools of the times, incisive and remorseless. To the ecclesiastical

tyranny of which they were victims they added civil tyranny which they

imposed upon their subjects. Ferdinand was the greatest of Spain's

sovereigns, far greater than Charles, whose fortune it was to reap

where his grandfather had planted. It was Ferdinand who consolidated

all the several sovereignties of the Peninsula, save Portugal, into one

political body, weighty in the affairs of Europe. He was ambitious; and

to accomplish his ends scrupled at nothing. There was no sin he dared

not commit, no wrong he dared not inflict, provided the proximate result

should accord with his desires. He was less bound by superstition than

the average of the age; he was thoughtful, powerful, princely. Both were

personages magnificent, glorious, who achieved much good and much evil,

the evil being as fully chargeable to the times, which placed princes

above promises and religion, above integrity and humanity, as to any

special depravity innate in either of them. And what was the immediate

result of it; and what the more distant conclusion; and how much after

all were Spaniards indebted to these rulers? First Spain enwrapped in

surpassing glories! Spain the mistress of the world, on whose dominions

the sun refuses to go down. Fortunate Ferdinand! Thrice amiable

and virtuous Isabella! And next? Do we not see that these brilliant

successes, these gratified covetings are themselves the seeds of Spain's

abasement? Infinitely better off were Spain to-day, I will not say had

she not driven out her Moors and Jews, but had she never known the New

World. How much soever of honor Isabella may have brought upon herself

by her speculations in partnership with the Genoese, for the self-same

reason, resulting in the great blight of gold and general effeminacy

that followed, Spain's posterity might reasonably anathematize her

memory could they derive any comfort therefrom.

In regard to that much-lauded act of Isabella's in lending her

assistance to Columbus when Ferdinand would not, there is this to be

said. First, no special praise is due her for assisting the Genoese;

and secondly, she never assisted him in the manner or to the extent

represented. Santángel and the Pinzons were the real supporters of that

first voyage. Isabella did not pawn her jewels; she did not sell her

wardrobe, or empty her purse. But if she had, for what would it have

been? It makes a pleasing story for children to call her patronage by

pretty names, to say that it was out of pity for the poor sailor, that

it was an act of personal sacrifice for the public good, that it was

for charity's sake, or from benevolence, for the extension of knowledge

or the vindication of some great principle—only it is a very stupid

child that does not know better. Clearly enough the object was great

returns from a small expenditure; great returns in gold, lands, honors,

and proselytings—a species of commercial and political gambling more

in accordance with the character as commonly sketched of the "cold

and crafty Ferdinand," whose measureless avarice and insatiable greed

not less than his subtle state-craft and kingly cunning would have

prompted him to secure so great a prize at so small a cost, than with

the character of an unselfish, heavenly-minded woman. And were it not

for the danger of being regarded by the tender-minded as ungallant, I

might allude to the haggling which attended the bargain, and tell how

the queen at first refused to pay the sailor his price, and let him go,

then called him back and gave him what he first had asked, more like a

Jew than like even the grasping Ferdinand.

In conclusion, I feel it almost unnecessary to say that Columbus,

Isabella, and all those bright examples of history whose conduct and

influence in the main were on the side of humanity, justice, the useful,

and the good, have my most profound admiration, my most intelligent

respect. All their faults I freely forgive, and praise them for what

they were, as among the noblest, the best, the most beneficial to their

race—though not always so, nor always intending it—of any who have come

and gone before us. And I can hate Bobadilla, Roldan, and others of

their sort, all historical embodiments of injustice, egotism, treachery,

and beastly cruelty, with a godly hatred; but I hope never to be so

blinded by the brightness of my subject as to be unable to see the

truth, and seeing it, fairly to report it.