THE PAINTER’S STORY.
TWENTY days, and most of them days of intense heat and sea-sickness,
were spent on a brig from New York to the mouth of the Magdalena. In
twenty minutes all that tedious voyage was sailed over again, and he was
in the best humor possible for the next nine days in a steamboat up the
river, a mighty stream, whose forests appear like hills of verdure
ranging along its almost endless banks.
After the steamboat, came a tiresome time in a canoe, followed by a dark
and fireless night in the great woods, where they were stung by the
ants, and startled by the hootings and howlings, and all the strange
voices and noises of a tropical forest.
Then the tale kept pace with the mules all day, jogging on slowly, an
all-day story that pictured to the listener’s mind all the passing
scenery and incidents, the people and the travellers themselves, even
the ears of the self-willed, ever-curious mules. Towards sunset, the
wayfarers found themselves journeying along the slope of a mountain,
willing to turn in for the night at almost any dwelling that appeared at
the road-side. The guide and the baggage were behind, and suggested the
propriety of an early halt. But each place, to which they looked
forward, seemed sufficiently repulsive, upon coming up, to make them
venture on to the next. They ventured, without knowing it, beyond the
very last, and got benighted where it was difficult enough in the broad
day. After a weary ride up and up, until it did appear that they would
never go down again in that direction, they stopped and consulted, but
finally concluded to continue on, although the darkness was almost
total, trusting to the mules to keep the path. At length it was evident
that they were at the top of the mountain, and passing over upon its
opposite side. Very soon, the road, a mere bridle-path, became steep and
rugged, leading along the edges of precipices, and down rocky, zigzag
steps, that nothing but the bold, sure-footed mule would or could
descend. The fact was, they were going down a fearfully dangerous
mountain-road, on one of the darkest nights. And, wonderful to tell,
they went down safely, coming out of the forest into a level vale beset
with thickets and vine-covered trees, a horrible perplexity, in which
they became heated, scratched, and vexed beyond all endurance. At last,
they lost the way and came to a dead halt. Here C—— got off, and
leaving the mule with F——, plunged into the bushes to feel for the
path, pausing occasionally to shout and to wait for an answer. No path,
however, could be found. In his discouragement, he climbed a tree with
the hope of seeing a light. He climbed it to the very top, and gazed
around in all directions into the wide, unbroken night. There was a star
or two in the black vault, but no gleam of human dwelling to be seen
below.
Extremes do indeed meet, even the dreadful and the ridiculous. And so it
was with C—— in the tree-top. From almost desperation, he passed into
a frolicsome mood, and began to talk and shout, at the top of his voice,
in about the only Spanish he could then speak, that he would give cinco
pesos, cinco pesos,—five dollars, five dollars, to any one that would
come and help them. From five he rose to ten. But being scant of
Spanish, he could express the ten in no other way than by doubling the
cinco—cinco cinco pesos, cinco cinco pesos. Fruitless effort! A
thousand pounds would have evoked no friendly voice from the
inhospitable solitude.
The airing, though, was refreshing, and he clambered down and attempted
his way back, shouting as usual, but now, to his surprise, getting no
reply. What could it mean? Where was F——? Had he got tired of waiting,
and gone off? With redoubled energy C—— pushed on through the
interminable brush to see. He was in a perfect blaze of heat, and
dripping with perspiration. A thousand vines tripped him, a thousand
branches whipped him in the face. When he stopped to listen, his ears
rung with the beating of his own heart, and he made the night ring too
with his loud hallooing. But no one answered, and no mules could be
found. Nothing was left but to push forward, and he did it, with a still
increasing energy. Instantly, with a crack and crash he pitched headlong
down quite a high bank into a broad brook. For a moment he was
frightened, but finding himself sound, and safely seated on the soft
bottom of the brook, he concluded to enjoy himself, moving up and down,
with the warm water nearly to his neck, till he had enough of it; when
he got up, and felt his way to the opposite bank, which, unfortunately
for him, was some seven or eight feet of steep, wet clay. Again and
again did he crawl nearly to the top, and slip back into the water—a
treadmill operation that was no joke. A successful attempt at scaling
this muddy barrier was made, at length, through the kindly intervention
of some vines.
But how was all that? Where was he? He never crossed a stream in going
to the tree. He must be lost. He must have become turned at the tree,
and gone in a wrong direction. And yet he could not relinquish the
notion that all was right. He decided to continue forward, pausing more
frequently to halloo. To his exceeding joy, he presently heard a faint,
and no very distant reply. He quickly heard it again—close at
hand—“C——, come here!—come here!” He hastened forward. F—— was
sitting on the mule. He said, in a low tone of voice, “Come here, and
help me off. I am very sick.” He was alarmingly sick. C—— helped him
down, and laid him on the ground. The only thing to be done was to make
a rough bed of the saddles and blankets, secure the mules, and wait for
daylight. While engaged in this, one of the mules suddenly broke away,
and with a perilous flourish of heels about C——’s head, dashed off
through the thickets, and was seen no more. To crown their troubles, a
ferocious kind of ant attacked them at all points, and kept up their
assault during the remainder of the miserable night. They had made their
bed upon a large ant-hill. In the morning, there they were, they knew
not where, with but one mule, trappings for two, and F—— too
indisposed to proceed. C—— mounted the mule and set off for relief. A
short ride brought him out upon the path, which soon led down to the
border of a wide marsh. The crossing of the marsh was terrible. The poor
animal sank into the mire to the girth, reared, plunged and rolled,
plastering himself and rider all over and over again with the foulest
mud. When they reached the solid ground, and trotted along towards some
natives coming abroad to their labor, the appearance of our traveller,
in quest of the sublime and beautiful, was certainly not imposing. He
told his story to the staring Indians in the best way his ingenuity
could invent, none of which they could be made to comprehend. He
inquired the way to the town, the very name of which they seemed never
to have heard. He asked the distance to any place,—the nearest,—no
matter what. It was just as far as he was pleased to make it.
“Was it two leagues?”
“Si, Señor.”
“Was it five leagues?”
“Si, Señor.”
“Was it eight, nine, ten leagues?”
“Si, Señor.”
“For how much money would they guide him to the town?”
Ah! that was a different thing; they had more intelligence on that
subject. They would guide him for a great deal. In fact, they would do
it for about ten times its value. He spurred his muddy mule, galloped
out of sight and hearing, more amused than vexed, and went ahead at a
venture. The venture was lucky. In the course of the morning he made his
entrance into the city, succeeded in finding out the residence of the
person to whom he had letters of introduction, presented himself to the
gentleman of the house, an American, and had both a welcome and a
breakfast. Before the day was past, F—— and himself were comfortably
settled, and, with their kind host, were making merry over their first
ride on the mountains of South America. I am sure I was made merry at
the quiet recital. Lying as I was in my berth, rolled in cloak and
blanket, and looking neither at the face nor motions of the speaker, but
only at the blank beams and boards close above, I laughed till the tears
ran copiously, and I forgot that I was miserable and sea-sick.