The 28th of January, 1849, found us on the Peruvian coast, abreast the
Island of San Lorenzo, a mountain of sand, where not a blade of grass
can vegetate; and rounding Galera Cape, we were shortly moored in the
port of Callao.
The bay is a wide, sweeping indentation, with Lorenzo, Fronton, and a
narrow spit of land jutting from the main, serving to keep the harbor
smooth from prevailing southerly winds. To the north, the spurs of the
Andes approach layer upon layer to the brink of the coast, while nearer
the land trends away, towards the interior, nearly plain-like--green,
fertile, and pleasant to gaze upon--with the clustering towers, and
spires of Lima abutting on the distant hills.
There is no difference of opinion about Callao: for it is a filthy,
bustling little port, reeking in garlic and drunken mariners, alive with
fleas, miserable, dirty soldiers, and their yet more slovenly wives.
The place is thriving, for steam frequents it; and on the curving quay
are piled mountains of English coals, enormous heaps of wheat, great
stacks of _pisco_, and _italia_ jars, where Haserac, the celebrated
captain, might have concealed an army of thieves with impunity.
Merchandise moves backwards and forwards on railway trucks, and lazy
villains in pale yellow jackets, with iron chains and anklets attached
to the legs, are at work after a fashion of their own.
The houses of the port are mean and irregular, built anywhere and any
how, either of adobies, boards, and on the outskirts, pleasant cottage
residences, built of bullocks' hides and poles. Streets and lanes run
hither and thither, and glaring English signs stare you in the face,
such as the "Jibboom House," "The Lively Pig," "Jackknife Corner," and
"House of Blazes." Along the beach are ranges of wicker, reed, and
mat-made sheds for bathing, which are thronged during the season. But
the most prominent features of Callao that attract the eye, are the
round, flat turrets of the Castle, flanked on either side by long lines
of curtains, bastions, embrasures, and batteries. It covers a great
space, enclosing within its thick and massive case-mated walls, ranges
of barracks--now happily converted into warehouses for the
customs--magazines, and a large square, with a fountain in the centre.
The fortification, from the nature of its position, is somewhat
irregular, constructed partly on a ridge of sand, leading towards the
southern arm of the bay, where in former times was the site of old
Callao, before its destruction by the memorable earthquake of 1746.
There is a wide, deep moat, like to the bed of a river, encircling the
fortress, with narrow channels cut on either side to the sea. This is
now dry and partially filled in nearest the town. The redoubts and
detached outworks are also in ruins, but yet enough remains to make us
reflect, that what the old Spanish engineers left incomplete in this
work would hardly be worth attempting in our day.
It was here where the last stand of the Royalists was made in New
Spain--where the bloodiest foot-prints were left since the days of the
Incas and Pizarro--and it was in this same castle, where the brave
Rodil, with a handful of devoted followers, clung to the soil of their
royal master with a tenacity and determination amounting to
heroism--where horse meat sold for a gold ounce the pound, and a chicken
for its weight in the same precious metal: when, hemmed in on all sides,
by sea and land--surrounded but not dismayed--they still kept their
assailants at bay, until gaunt famine stalked before them, and they were
forced to furl the well-worn colors of their King![7] A score of Rodils,
and another century might have intervened before South American patriots
could have wrested the continent from the old Spaniards.
If tired of contemplating these bloody reminiscences--or bathing under
the sheds and awnings, where all resemble, in their saturated black
frocks and trowsers, watery nuns; or if your temper is destroyed by the
fleas, you can fly to the harbor, where are sturdy merchantmen reeking
in guano, smoking steamers, and heavy ships of war--and thick fogs at
night--or, what is more diverting, you may watch the motions of swarms
of gulls that frequent the Port. Our good surgeon, who professed to be
an ornithologist, called them platoon birds. They fly in regular
battalions and divisions, in strict military apportionments--led and
apparently commanded by their chieftains. The reviews generally began
with fishing. At some understood, feathery signal, while sailing over
the bay, they wheel like a flash, and strike the water simultaneously
like a shower of bullets, and not with the eyes of Argus is it possible
to detect the smallest irregularity in movement, nor a stray winged
soldier out of the ranks.
However, all these amusements are, at best, dull recreation, and it is
a great relief to get quit of Callao. Omnibii encumber the uttermost
ends of the earth--so we go to the office, when the smiling
administrador behind a railing exclaims, "_Ah! Capitan!_ you want
_ascientos_! Ah! you give me one Spanish dollar--ah! _bueno!_" "Any
thieves?" we timidly ask. "_Ah, si_, yes; but you give him gold
ounce--no kill you, ah!" "Charming fellows, certainly; but suppose we
give him an ounce of some other metal!" _Ah! cuidado amigo!_--have a
care, my friend!
With five horses ahead, crack! crack! goes the thong of the negro
Jehu--over the paved street, into the dusty road, where the plunging
steeds are brought up floundering, tugging and straining the heavy
vehicle axle, through the finely powdered soil--now firmly stalled, we
get out per force, curse the roads, and threaten to whip the
driver--then we come on harder ground, until imperceptibly there comes a
rocky strata--loose stones, remains of adobie walls and ditches--but all
equally execrable: then, for a mile or more, fine trees bend their
towering arms over the road, and shortly after, we rattle through a huge
gateway--have travelled eight miles, and we are in the city of
kings--Lima! "See it and die," said the old land pirates of the days of
its founder, Pizarro, and their descendants. Whatever it may have been
two centuries ago, in these days it requires no very strong effort of
will to survive the sight.
The city is compact and populous, the buildings are very low, and quite
resemble the old Moriscan towns along the northern shores of Africa,
with close overhanging _jalousies_ and balconies, finely railed and
latticed. The streets are wide and straight, paved with small
pebbles--dreadfully torturing to the pedestrian--the side-walks beneath
the portals or arcades of the plazas, and in the gateways and patios of
dwellings are figured in coarse mosaic, formed by the white
knuckle-bones of sheep and pebbles. Handsome shops fringe the
fashionable avenues, glittering with costly fabrics and toys; then again
packed side by side, in nooks, alcoves, and niches, are small merchants,
who from their numbers, one would suppose to be all sellers and no
buyers.
The little river Rimac flows noisily through the city, fed from far away
by the silvered pinnacles of snows and ice in the lofty Andes. It is
spanned by a substantial and lofty bridge, whose every stone has been
loosened by the earthquake. Lima might be made one of the cleanest
cities in the world; for through all the main arteries runs a narrow
rivulet diverted from the Rimac. Nevertheless, it is excessively filthy,
and the _gallianzos_, or vultures, tame, and pampered by a profusion of
nastiness and offal, take their morning's meal in the streets and
squares, and afterwards hobble to the house-tops, where, with blood-red
eyes, and gorged bodies, they calmly endure repletion.
The most striking features upon approaching the city are the vast
clusters of domes, towers, and spires, that arise in such thick
profusion from the convents and churches, as to favor the belief that
every house has something of the kind attached thereto. From the
neighboring valley of Almencaes I have counted sixty. In the distance
they present a solid, imposing aspect, but on a nearer view, they will
generally be found mere paper structures of reeds and plaster. Many of
the grand edifices, the cathedral, convents, and parochial churches, are
partly of bricks, stone, or the most enormous adobies, up to the
belfreys, but above, all are similar to the pasteboard decorations of
the theatre; and although it seems reasonable to suppose they would
topple down at the first summons of the _tremblor_, yet it is the only
style of lofty work that will bear the frequent shocks, totter like a
tree, and still stand erect. Externally these buildings are elaborately
carved, painted, and imaged, without any consistent order of
architecture; and within they are profusely decorated with rich
gildings, paintings, and statues; all, however, destitute of taste; and
only when brilliantly illuminated, with the myriads of silken
parti-colored streamers pendant and fluttering from the lofty aisles,
swinging censers, organs pealing, with all the pomp and imposing
ceremony of the Catholic church, is the effect worthy of admiration.
The best position for viewing Lima--Asmodeus-like--is from the high
tower of San Domingo, that is, if, after mounting above the bells, you
can reconcile the flimsy quaking fabric you stand upon to any extreme
ideas of personal safety. The devil on this pair of sticks could not
have chosen a more eligible spot for inspecting the arcana of people's
dwellings. The city is spread like a map at your feet; composed of long
lines of crumbling walls, miles of flat roofs, and little patios, the
former loosely tiled, and sprinkled over with dirt, where even dead
cats, and tattered rags quietly repose for ages. There is not in the
universe to be seen such a large area of mud walls, reed, and rush-built
houses, all appearing so unfinished and incomplete. But in a climate
where it never rains, where it never blows, where even the thick
coatings of dust are hardly absorbed by the _dry rain_ of winter fogs,
it is not surprising that all these masses of reeds and plaster are
preserved for centuries without perceptible decay. Still there can be no
scepticism on one point, that if ever there chance to fall a heavy
tropical shower, the city of Pizarro will be swept, a heap of mud and
sticks, into the ocean.
Allowing the eyes to wander around and beyond the city, the discolored
Rimac is seen hurrying from the melting bosom of its Alpine mother down
between the distant hills, diffusing its fertilizing freshness over the
sloping valley--the margins encircled by verdant fields of cane, like
bright patches of emeralds, and the banks fringed by weeping willows,
that dip their bending branches to kiss the rapid torrent. On it comes,
over the stony bed, dashing its strength in fierce anger against the
arches of the sturdy bridge, and then glancing by the flowering meads
and slopes of Almencaes, flies rapidly to the placid waves of the
Pacific.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] In February, 1826.