us that she "rode up one great ascent, where hills were tumbled about
confusedly; and suddenly, across the broad ravine, above the sunny grass
and the deep-green pines, rose in glowing and shaded red against the
glittering blue heaven, a magnificent and unearthly range of mountains,
as shapely as could be seen, rising into colossal points, cleft by deep
blue ravines, broken up into shark's teeth, with gigantic knobs and
pinnacles rising from their inaccessible sides, very fair to look
upon--a glowing, heavenly, unforgettable sight, and only four miles off.
Mountains they looked not of this earth, but such as one sees in dreams
alone, the blessed ranges of 'the land which is very far off.' They were
more brilliant than those incredible colours in which painters array
the fiery hills of Moab and the Desert, and one could not believe them
for ever uninhabited, for on them rose, as in the East, the similitude
of stately fortresses, not the grey castellated towers of feudal Europe,
but gay, massive, Saracenic architecture, the outgrowth of the solid
rock. They were vast ranges, apparently of enormous height, their colour
indescribable, deepest and reddest near the pine-draped bases, then
gradually softening into wonderful tenderness, till the highest summits
rose all flushed, and with an illusion of transparency, so that one
might believe that they were taking on the hue of sunset. Below these
lay broken ravines of fantastic rocks, cleft and canyoned by the river,
with a tender unearthly light over all, the apparent warmth of a glowing
clime, while I on the north side was in the shadow among the pure
unsullied snow.
"'With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom.'
"The dimness of earth with me, the light of heaven with them. Here,
again, worship seemed the only attitude for a human spirit, and the
question was ever present, 'Lord, what is man, that Thou art mindful of
him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him?' I rode up and down
hills laboriously in snow-drifts, getting off often to ease my faithful
Birdie by walking down ice-clad slopes, stopping constantly to feast my
eyes upon that changeless glory, always seeing some new ravine, with its
depths of colour or miraculous brilliancy of red or phantasy of form.
Then below, where the trail was locked into a deep canyon, where there
was scarcely room for it and the river, there was a beauty of another
kind in solemn gloom. There the stream curved and twisted marvellously,
widening into shallows, narrowing into deep boiling eddies, with
pyramidal firs and the beautiful silver spruce fringing its banks, and
often falling across it in artistic grace, the gloom chill and deep,
with only now and then a light trickling through the pines upon the cold
snow, when, suddenly turning round, I saw behind, as if in the glory of
an eternal sunset, those flaming and fantastic peaks. The effect of the
combination of winter and summer was singular. The trail rose on the
north side the whole time, and the snow lay deep and pure white, while
not a wreath of it lay on the south side, where abundant lawns basked in
the warm sun."[43]
There is something in the majesty of mountain scenery, in the lofty
peaks, the shadowy ravines, and the tremendous precipices; in the glow
and light and glory which the sun pours out upon the heights, and the
strange gloom and haunted darkness which sleep in the mysterious depths,
that deeply impresses the imagination and the thoughts of men, and
appeals to that higher, purer nature which too often lies dormant in us.
However unmoved we may be by the ordinary sights and sounds which fill
up the landscapes, we are most of us hushed and breathless among the
mountains, mutely acknowledging the manifestations of a Presence and a
Power which are not of the earth--earthy. As the rose of dawn blushes on
each waving crest in the birth-hour of the day, or the purple splendour
invests them in regal robes when the sun goes down, they seem to reveal
to us a vision of the other world; those changing lights that fall upon
them are surely the passing gleams of wings of angels; those mystic
voices that linger among their echoes, what can they be but the divine
chords of that glorious harmony which for ever goes up around the "great
white throne"?
* * * * *
Let us now glance at one or two of the personal experiences of Miss
Bird, who, we need hardly say, carried in her bosom a man's heart, and
was never wanting in courage or resolution. Among the Rocky Mountains
one sometimes meets with strange companions; and on her ride from Hall's
Gulch to Deer Valley Miss Bird was joined by a horseman, who would have
made a fine hero of melodrama. A picturesque figure he looked on his
good horse, with his long fair curls drooping from under a big slouch
hat almost to his waist; a fine beard, good blue eyes, a ruddy
complexion, a frank expression of countenance, and a courteous,
respectful bearing. He wore a hunter's buckskin suit, ornamented with
beads, and a pair of very big brass spurs. His saddle was elaborately
ornamented. What chiefly drew attention in his equipment was the number
of weapons hung about him; he was a small arsenal in himself! Two
revolvers and a knife were thrust into his belt, and across his back was
slung a carbine; in addition, he had a rifle resting on his saddle, and
a pair of pistols in the holsters.
This martial rider was Comanche Bill, whom gossip described as one of
the most notorious desperadoes of the Rocky Mountains, and the greatest
Indian "exterminator" on the frontier. His father and family had been
massacred at Spirit Lake by the hands of Indians, who carried away his
sister, a child of eleven. Since then he had mainly devoted himself to
the double task of revenging the victims and searching for this missing
sister.
Riding from Golden City, a place which every day and every hour gave the
lie to its gorgeous name, Miss Bird lost her way on the prairie. A
teamster bade her go forward to a place where three tracks would be
seen, and then to take the best-travelled one, steering all the time by
the north star. Following his directions she came to tracks, but it was
then so dark she could see nothing, and soon the darkness so increased
that she could not see even her horse's ears, and was lost and
benighted. Hour after hour our heroine--for a lady who crosses the Rocky
Mountains alone may surely claim the title!--rode onward in the darkness
and solitude, the prairie sweeping all around her, and a firmament of
frosty stars glittering overhead. At intervals might be heard the howl
of the prairie wolf, and the occasional lowing of cattle gave her hope
of the neighbourhood of man. But there was nothing but the wild and
lonely plain, and she felt a keen desire to see a light or hear a voice,
the solitude was so oppressive. It was very cold, and a hard frost lay
on the ground. At last, however, she heard the bark of a dog, and then
the too common sound of a man swearing; she saw a light, and in another
minute found herself at a large house eleven miles from Denver, where a
hospitable reception cheered the belated traveller.
* * * * *
Here is another and more startling episode, which occurred during her
journey from Esteo "Park" to Longmount, a ride of 100 miles on a bitter
cold December morning:--
"We all got up before daybreak on Tuesday, and breakfasted at seven....
I took only two pounds of luggage, some raisins, the mail bag, and an
additional blanket under my saddle.... The purple sun rose in front. Had
I known what made it purple I should certainly have gone no farther.
These clouds, the morning mist as I supposed, lifted themselves up
rose-lighted, showing the sun's disc as purple as one of the jars in a
chemist's window, and having permitted this glimpse of their king, came
down again as a dense mist; the wind chopped round, and the mist began
to freeze hard. Soon Birdie and myself were a mass of acicular
crystals; it was a true easterly fog. I galloped on, hoping to get
through it, unable to see a yard before me; but it thickened, and I was
obliged to subside into a jog-trot. As I rode on, about four miles from
the cabin, a human figure, looking gigantic like the spectre of the
Brocken, with long hair white as snow, appeared close to me, and at the
same moment there was the flash of a pistol close to my ear, and I
recognized 'Mountain Jim,' frozen from head to foot, looking a century
old with his snowy hair. It was 'ugly' altogether, certainly a
'desperado's' grim jest, and it was best to accept it as such, though I
had just cause for displeasure. He stormed and scolded, dragged me off
the pony--for my hands and feet were numb with cold--took the bridle,
and went off at a rapid stride, so that I had to run to keep them in
sight in the darkness, for we were off the road in a thicket of scrub,
looking like white branch-coral, I knew not where. Then we came suddenly
on his cabin ... and the 'ruffian' insisted on my going in, and he made
a good fire, and heated some coffee, raging all the time.... He took me
back to the track; and the interview, which began with a pistol-shot,
ended quite pleasantly. It was an eerie ride, one not to be forgotten,
though there was no danger."
It would be difficult to point out any deficiency on Miss Bird's part in
those qualifications which constitute a great traveller. Physically as
well as mentally she seems to have proved herself the equal of men.
Endurance, courage, promptitude, decision, the capacity for quiet and
accurate observation, the ready adaptability to circumstances--she
possessed all these high virtues. Her "Ride in the Rocky Mountains"
shows what may be accomplished by a brave, strong woman under very
difficult conditions. In one respect, perhaps, her sex was an advantage;
it appears to have ensured her an uniform courtesy of treatment and
cordiality of reception in the most remote places and among the wildest
and most reckless men; but it is obvious that in other respects it must
frequently have been found an inconvenience and even a danger, had it
not been for her true patience, her unfailing good humour, and her
indomitable "pluck."
Miss Bird is also the author of a charming book on Hawaii, and a not
less charming record of her wanderings in "Unbeaten Tracks in Japan."
* * * * *
Time was, and not so very long ago, when a visit to the wilds of
Patagonia on the part of an English lady would have been regarded as a
wonderful achievement. Now-a-days it excites but little comment The
interest excited by Lady Florence Dixie's book, "Across Patagonia," was
the legitimate interest inspired by her fresh and lively description of
"unexplored and untrodden ground," and not the idle curiosity which a
sensational achievement sometimes excites. If one lady can make a voyage
round the world, why should not another ride across Patagonia? To our
grandmothers a French or Italian tour was an event of novelty and
importance; but _nous avons change tout cela_. It is quite understood
that no "terra incognita" exists into which our female travellers would
fear to penetrate.
Lady Florence Dixie frankly tells us her reason for venturing into
Patagonia, and no doubt it is the reason which has actuated many of her
sisters in their world-wanderings. She went to "an outlandish place so
many miles away"--as her friends called it--"precisely because it _was_
an outlandish place and so far away." She adds: "Palled for the moment
with civilization and its surroundings, I wanted to escape somewhere
where I might be as far removed from them as possible. Many of my
readers have doubtless felt the dissatisfaction with oneself and
everybody else that comes over one at times in the midst of the
pleasures of life; when one wearies of the shallow artificiality of
modern existence; when what was once excitement has become so no longer,
and a longing grows up within one to taste a more vigorous unction than
that afforded by the monotonous round of society's so-called pleasures."
In this state of mind she looked round for some country that would
satisfy her requirements, and decided upon Patagonia, because nowhere
else could she find an area of 100,000 square miles for "equestrian
exercise," where one would be free from the presence of savage tribes
and obnoxious animals, as well as from the persecution of morning calls,
invitations, garden parties, telegrams, letters, and all the other
"resources of civilization." To these attractions was added the
thought, always alluring to an active mind, that there she would be able
to penetrate into vast wilds, untrod as yet by the foot of man. "Scenes
of infinite beauty and grandeur might be lying hidden in the silent
solitude of the mountains which bound the barren plains of the Pampas,
into whose mysterious recesses no one as yet had ever ventured. And I
was to be the first to behold them!--an egotistical pleasure, it is
true; but the idea had a great charm for me, as it has had for many
others."
Accompanied by her husband, brothers, and three friends, Lady Florence
left Liverpool on the 11th December, 1878. Early in January they reached
Rio de Janeiro, of which she furnishes a pleasantly graphic sketch, that
gives a true idea of her descriptive powers. "Nowhere," she says, "have
the rugged and the tender, the wild and the soft, been blended into such
exquisite union as at Rio; and it is this quality of unrivalled
contrasts that, to my mind, gives to that scenery its charm of
unsurpassed loveliness. Nowhere else is there such audacity, such
fierceness even of outline, coupled with such multiform splendour of
colour, such fairy-like delicacy of detail. As a precious jewel is
encrusted by the coarse rock, the smiling bay lies encircled by frowning
mountains of colossal proportions and the most capricious shapes. In the
production of this work the most opposite powers of nature have been
laid under contribution. The awful work of the volcano--the immense
boulders of rock which lie piled up to the clouds in irregular
masses--have been clothed in a brilliant web of tropical vegetation,
purple and green, sunshine and mist. Here nature revels in manifold
creation. Life multiplies itself a millionfold, the soil bursts with
exuberance of fertility, and the profusion of vegetable and animal life
beggars description. Every tree is clothed with a thousand luxuriant
creepers, purple and scarlet-blossomed; they in their turn support
myriads of lichens and other verdant parasites. The plants shoot up with
marvellous rapidity, and glitter with flowers of the rarest hues and
shapes, or bear quantities of luscious fruit, pleasant to the eye and
sweet to the taste. The air resounds with the hum of insect-life;
through the bright green leaves of the banana skim the sparkling
humming-birds, and gorgeous butterflies of enormous size float, glowing
with every colour of the rainbow, on the flower-scented breezes. But
over all this beauty--over the luxuriance of vegetation, over the
softness of the tropical air, over the splendour of the sunshine, over
the perfume of the flowers--Pestilence has cast her fatal miasmas, and,
like the sword of Damocles, the yellow fever hangs threateningly over
the heads of those who dwell among these lovely scenes."[44]
After touching at Monte Video, Lady Florence Dixie's party proceeded
southwards to the Straits of Magellan, and landed at Sandy Point, a
settlement belonging to the Chilians, who call it "La Colonia de
Magellanes." Here they procured horses and mules and four guides, and,
having completed all the necessary arrangements, rode along the shore of
the famous Strait to Cape Negro. On the opposite side they could
distinctly see the Tierra del Fuego, and at different points tall
columns of smoke rising up into the still air denoted the presence of
native encampments, just as Magellan had seen them four centuries ago,
when he gave to the island, on that account, the name it still bears. At
last they started into the interior, and began their exploration of the
wide region of the Pampas. Game was plentiful, and the fowling-pieces of
the party brought down numerous victims. As they advanced they came into
occasional contact with the Patagonians, and her observations of their
physical character are important and valuable in relation to the
marvellous accounts which we find in the old voyagers. "I was not so
much struck by their height," she says, "as by their extraordinary
development of chest and muscle. As regards their stature, I do not
think the average height of the men exceeded six feet, and, as my
husband stands six feet two inches, I had a favourable opportunity for
forming an accurate estimate. One or two there were, certainly, who
towered far above him, but these were exceptions. The women were mostly
of the ordinary height, though I noticed one who must have been quite
six feet, if not more."
Lady Florence speaks of the features of the pure-bred Tchuelche, or
Patagonian aboriginal as extremely regular, and by no means unpleasant
to look at. "The nose is generally aquiline, the mouth well-shaped and
beautified by the whitest of teeth, the expression of the eye
intelligent, while the form of the whole head indicates the possession
of considerable mental capabilities. But such is not the case with the
Tchuelches in whose veins is a mixture of Fuegian or Araucanian blood.
Of these latter the flat noses, oblique eyes, and badly proportioned
figures excite disgust, and they are as different from a pure-bred
Tchuelche as a racer is from an ordinary cart-horse. Their long coarse
hair is worn parted in the middle, and is prevented from falling over
their faces by means of a handkerchief, or fillet of some kind, bound
round the forehead. They suffer no hair to grow on the face, and some
extract even their eyebrows. Their dress is simple, consisting of a
'chiripa' or piece of cloth round the loins, and the indispensable
guanaco cape, which is hung loosely over the shoulders and held round
the body by the hand, though it would obviously seem more convenient to
have it secured round the waist with a belt of some kind. Their
horse-hide boots are only worn, for reasons of economy, when hunting.
The women dress like the men except as regards the chiripa, instead of
which they wear a loose kind of gown beneath the cape, which they fasten
at the neck with a silver brooch or pin. The children are allowed to run
about naked till they are five or six years old, and are then dressed
like their elders. Partly for ornament, partly also as a means of
protection against the wind, a great many Indians paint their faces,
their favourite colour, as far as I could see, being red, though one or
two I observed had given the preference to a mixture of that colour with
black, a very diabolical appearance being the result of this
combination."
We cannot follow Lady Florence Dixie through all her Patagonian
experiences, which in their infinite variety must have fully satisfied
her craving for new things. She hunted pumas, ostriches, guanacos;
witnessed the wild and wayward movements of the wild horses on the
plains, which for ages have belonged unto them; suffered from the burden
of the heat, and the attacks of the gnats; explored the recesses of the
Cordilleras, and came upon a broad and beautiful lake, on which, in all
probability, no human eye before had ever looked; until at last she grew
weary of adventure, and she and her companions turned their faces once
more towards the commonplace comforts of civilization. All this, and
more, she tells with much animation, quite unaffectedly, and in a style
which, if marked by no special literary merit, is always clear and
vigorous. One can do much worse than while away an hour by the fireside
with Lady Florence Dixie's book in one's hand. One will close it with
the conviction that the writer is a courageous, lively, and intelligent
woman, who can ride across country with a firm hand, and hold her own in
any dangerous or novel position.
* * * * *
Not inferior to her in courage and endurance, and her superior in
literary qualifications, is Miss Gordon Cumming, who, I think, among
female travellers has no rival except Ida Pfeiffer. The worthy
representative of a name famous in the annals of adventure and
enterprise, she has put a girdle round about the world with unfailing
ardour, and plunged into the remote and almost inaccessible regions of
the great Asiatic table-land. Her first book, "From the Hebrides to the
Himalayas," attracted a great deal of attention by the freshness of its
sketches, the grace of its style, the unconventionality of its
treatment, and by the space which its author devoted to popular
superstitions and antiquities. Her pictures of life in Tibet, of the
scenery of the Himalayas, of the manners and customs of the Indian
people, of Benares and Hurdwar and Agra, were all so bright and clear as
to indicate the pencil of no ordinary artist. Miss Gordon Cumming next
betook herself to the Pacific, and spent two years "at Home in Fiji;"
two years which she utilized in the collection of much interesting
material. She was preparing in 1880 to return to England, when an
opportunity was offered to her of effecting that return in a manner
which could not but be delightful to a lady of adventurous disposition,
with a proper scorn for social "Mrs. Grundyism." A French man-of-war,
the _Seignelay_, which was carrying a Roman Catholic bishop on a cruise
round his oceanic diocese, arrived at Levaka, and its officers making
the acquaintance of Miss Cumming, courteously invited her to accompany
them on the remainder of their cruise. There was a delightful
originality in the invitation, and a no less delightful originality in
the acceptance of it. The French officers fitted up a pretty little
cabin for her accommodation, and without more ado she took up her
quarters on board the _Seignelay_, with no other escort or chaperonage
than that of the good bishop.
From Fiji the _Seignelay_ proceeded to Tonga, in the Friendly Islands,
where, in the usages of the population and in the insular antiquities,
Miss Cumming found much to interest her and her readers. As might be
expected, the old picturesqueness of the native life is fast
disappearing under the pressure of Western civilization, and we have
reason to be thankful to those travellers who do their best to catch its
waning features, and transfer them as faithfully as may be to the
printed page. The chief archaeological curiosities here are the tombs of
the old Tongan kings, cyclopean monuments built up of huge volcanic
blocks, which seem to have been brought from the Wallis group of islands
in open canoes, and erected on their present site with an immense
expenditure of human labour. Scarcely less remarkable is the great
solitary dolmen, which still exists intact, though of its origin nothing
is known, even in tradition. But that it marks the last resting-place of
some great chief or hero may be inferred from the fact that until within
the last few years an immense _Kana_ tent stood upon the transverse
capstone of the dolmen, and that feasts were celebrated on the spot. As
Miss Cumming reminds, similar celebrations take place in many parts of
Britain and Brittany "at the stones" to the present day.
From Tonga Miss Cumming was conveyed to Samoa, where she was very
hospitably received by the Samoan notables, and might have enjoyed
herself greatly, but for the civil war in which the group is always
plunged. It is to the credit of the inhabitants, however, that they
agree to abstain from fighting on at least one day of the week. In their
manners and customs they retain more of the primitive simplicity than is
found now-a-days in most of the Polynesian islands.