ESQUIPULAS AND QUIRIGUA.
I have grouped in this chapter two most interesting monuments of the
past,—a Christian temple whose mission seems to have been fulfilled, and
a pagan graveyard where stand the monuments of unknown kings or heroes.
They are not inaptly joined; for in this busy, matter-of-fact, commercial
age, it is well that the less perishable records of our brothers who have
preceded us in the unending march of life upon this globe should detain
us, if but for a moment, with the lessons they may teach to thoughtful
minds,—the temple raised lay pious labor to signify that there is more
than the present to live for, the monuments of the dead to carry on the
personalities so soon lost in earthly life.
We gazed from the precipice at the white building, large even on so vast
a plain, and began the steep descent. The little village was almost dead
in appearance. There were many houses and rooms to let, but no posada;
and as our mozos had not arrived, we rode to the Santuario down the
single street of the town. It was wide, paved with cobbles, and bordered
on either side by the booths and lodging-sheds for the merchants and
devotees who still crowd the town at the festival season. Two streams,
one the headwaters of the Rio Lempa, flowed across the road beneath solid
masonry bridges. Into two of the posts of one of these were inserted
two ancient sculptures, said to have been brought from Peten, but more
probably from the neighboring ruins of Copan, just beyond the mountains.
One was the grotesque head of a griffin, the other a small human figure
with a preposterous head-dress. The Santuario is an imposing structure,
massive rather than elegant, and dazzling in its whiteness. Towers rise
at the four corners, divided into four stages, of which the lower one is
broken only by a small oval window on the side; the second is pierced by
an arched window and decorated with pilasters; the third, still square,
rises above the general roof with two windows on each side; the fourth,
octagonal in shape, has a single window on the alternate sides. A large
dome rises in the midst, figures of saints and a clock mark the façade,
and the whole structure rises from an extensive platform surrounded by an
iron fence with masonry posts, and approached by a broad and easy flight
of steps.
[Illustration: SANTUARIO AT ESQUIPULAS.]
On entering, the first thing noticed was the immense thickness of the
walls, ten or twelve feet at least,—a reminder that this is an earthquake
country. The floor was paved with large red tiles, needing repairs in
places. Among the pictures was one of the Last Supper, and near it a
decidedly local one of people lassoing Christ. We had hardly glanced
about, when a curious figure presented himself, speaking tolerable
English very rapidly, and, after the usual interchange of compliments,
introduced himself as Dr. José Fabregos y Pares, a traveller; and
then presented his companion, the handsome young cura, Padre Gabriel
Dávila, who welcomed us to his church and showed us the curiosities
of the place. First, of course, we wanted to see the famous black
Christ, “Our Lord of Esquipulas.” This miraculous image, to whose
shrine devout pilgrims have gathered even from distant Mexico and
Panama,—pilgrims numbered in former years as many as fifty thousand at a
single festival,—was made in Guatemala City in 1594 by Quirio Cataño, a
Portuguese, at the order of Bishop Cristobal de Morales, on the petition
of the pueblo of Esquipulas. The sculptor was paid “cien tostones,”—a
testoon being of the value of four reals, or half a dollar; and to
meet this expense the Indios planted cotton on the very land where the
sanctuary now stands. For more than a century and a half the image stood
in the village church, where the miracles wrought spread its fame very
far. The first archbishop of Guatemala, Pedro Pardo de Figueroa, laid the
foundation of the present temple, which he did not live to finish, but
died Feb. 2, 1751, praying with his last breath that his bones might rest
at the feet of this image of his Lord. In 1759 Señor D. Alonso de Arcos y
Moreno, President of the Real Audiencia of Guatemala, completed the great
work, at a cost, it is said, of three million dollars; and on January 6
of that year the image was translated with all the pomp of the Romish
Church. Twelve days later, the remains of the pious archbishop followed.
The founder established a brotherhood of worthy people who should take
upon themselves the material support of the edifice; but Padre Miguel
Muñoz, writing in 1827, says that this laudable custom had died out among
the whites, only the Indios holding to the compact. Those of Totonicapan
furnish a certain amount of wax and provide for some offices of the
Church; those of Mexico visit the shrine in Holy Week with offerings
of wax; while from Salvador are brought wax, incense, balsam, oil, and
brooms.
Now, with all this we expected to see something remarkable, but saw
only an ordinary altar-piece, with plain curtains before the miraculous
image. It was not a holy-service time, consequently the curtains could
not be raised; the padre, however, after sending Frank’s revolver out
of the holy place, took us behind the altar and admitted us to a small
glass room where the black image stands. It was much less than life
size, very black,—painted, however, only by time,—inferior in conception
and execution, and wearing long female hair. Ex-voto pictures and gold
and silver images and tokens hung upon and around this figure, and in
the same chamber were figures of Joseph and Mary, together with angels
with cotton-wool wings. It was impossible for me to feel any of the awe
with which past generations of Indios have regarded this black Christ.
My imagination is not wholly dulled, and I have felt curious sensations
before the horrible idols of the Pacific islanders, before the placid
features of a gigantic Buddha, in the Hall of Gods at Canton, and
before the Jove of the Vatican. I have been in the holy places of many
nations, and have felt a sympathy with the worshippers; even the black
cliffs of the supposed Sinai have led my thoughts captive. But here in
Esquipulas there was nothing but the husk,—nothing solemn, nothing holy;
the portrait of Figueroa was the most respectable thing in the church.
It was, moreover, no strange thing to pass into the vestry and overhaul
the boxes of gold and silver ex-votos; these we could purchase at so
much an ounce. They were indeed, as our new friend Dr. José declared,
“very curibus.” All parts of the human body, healthy or diseased, many
animals, and other objects of human desire or solicitude, were to be
found here. To our matter-of-fact Northerners it may be necessary to
explain the theory and object of these works of native _platerías_.
Medical men and surgeons are almost unknown in the remote regions of
Central America, and a sick or injured man, while applying all known
remedies, sends also to the nearest _platero_, or silversmith (common
enough among the aborigines), and has a model of the affected part made;
this token some friend, if the patient be unable to make the journey
himself, carries to the mysterious image, whose power to heal he devoutly
believes in. It is a faith, rather than a mind, cure. The barren woman
in the northern climes, instead of being bowed down with her sad lot,
obtains an easy consolation in a pug or lap-dog; but her Indian sister
takes a truer view of the purpose of her life, and in her prayerful
longing devotes in effigy the coveted offspring,—much as Hannah, the
wife of Elkanah, devoted the unbegotten Samuel to the Lord. Like the
Hebrew barren wife, the Indian goes up on a pilgrimage to the most sacred
shrine, makes her offering, and breathes her prayer. The Eli of the
Sanctuary bids her “go in peace.”
The accumulated offerings of gold and silver images are sold to pay the
charges of the Templo,—not always, however; for report has it that the
Government some years ago seized fifty thousand dollars’ worth of this
treasure and appropriated it to its own use.
Dr. José invited us to share his room, which we gladly did. He had just
returned from Honduras, and was on his way to an Indian city in Guatemala
where was buried, to his certain information, an immense treasure of the
ancient kings. I will not tell my readers the exact locality, though I
fear Don José will find no treasures greater than the beautiful opals
he brought from beyond the Merendon Mountains. As we left the Templo I
bought oranges of a little girl, giving her the price she asked,—ten for
a cuartillo (three cents); and I almost believed in the miracle-working
image when the girl brought me three more oranges! I ought to have
insisted on having twenty for a cuartillo. Very late in the afternoon the
mozos arrived, having been lost in the Cerros, where we strangers had
found a plain path without guides. There was not enough daylight left to
give us a photograph of the image, but we got the white Santuario. Even
at the present day the annual festival, extending from the sixth to the
ninth of January, brings together many people,—but perhaps quite as much
for trade as for worship.
As we rode out of the town in the morning we passed men repairing the
aqueduct,—which reminds me that the water in Esquipulas is very bad.
We climbed an unbroken hill eighteen hundred feet to an altitude of
forty-six hundred, glancing back for a last look at the great white
temple, monarch of the plain. As we crossed the divide, we had a fine
view of Quezaltepeque, with Monte Rico and Suchitan looking in the
distance much more volcanic than when we passed them on the road. Hard
as the ascent was, the descent was even worse; twenty-one hundred feet
of exceedingly bad road delayed us greatly, and it was long after noon
when we arrived at Quezaltepeque. There was not much to see here. In
the dirty church I noticed a picture of the “Virgen de Lourdes,” and a
contribution-box for offerings to that modern shrine; and Frank found a
very curious incense-burner, which certainly did not give evidence that
the second commandment had been broken. As we stayed only an hour for our
almuerzo and comida combined, we did not see much besides the Plaza and
the main street; we followed the latter out of the town, fording a stream
of some size, with gravelly bed and bordered with fruit-trees.
[Illustration: Incense-burner.]
We were now in the picturesque valley of the Hondo,—a winding, clear,
and generally rapid stream; our path sometimes crossed it, and again was
high above it on the cliffs. We passed through San Jacinto about dusk and
camped a few miles beyond, having to go a long way after dark, as both
sides of the road were fenced, a most unusual thing. We at last stopped
at a very unsuitable place, kindled a fire which guided Santiago to our
camp, and then decided to have our mozo and his family with us for an
early start in the morning. Frank took his revolver and went back nearly
two miles, where he found the Indio sound asleep in a house. Father,
mother, and child were quickly routed out, and when they came up we
comforted them with some hot coffee. Towards morning it rained, but not
through our blankets; and before the morning mist had risen quite above
the hills around us, I had my camera at work. The daylight showed what
a queer bedchamber we had chosen. Acacia-brambles were thick enough, and
there was no level ground; while behind us was a high limestone cliff
closely resembling a columnar basaltic formation, and just across the
road a precipitous descent to the river. We sent the mozos on at six
o’clock, and followed soon after. At Santa Elena we saw many fan-palms,
cultivated as material for hats. At Vado Hondo we could resist the
tempting river no longer, but had a delightful swim in the clear, cool
water. All the valley was beautiful, and generally cultivated,—here with
sugar, there with corn, and we saw several small sugar-mills.
As we approached the lower valley the sun broke through the clouds and
was very hot; but when we came to the wide gravel bed of the sometimes
broad river above which Chiquimula stands, the heat was most unbearable.
On a plateau to the right stood the ruins of an immense church, while far
away to the left stretched a fertile valley. We rode up hill into the
town at eleven o’clock, and, as usual, found no posada. We did, however,
find good food and a very comfortable room at the large mercantile house
of Señora Anacleta Nufio de Monasterio (this was the mark on her china).
The house was large, and in the patio were orange-trees and a fountain of
good water. The important matter of lodgings settled, we went to church,
finding it out of repair and dingy. To put ourselves in thorough moral
order, I decided to offer here at this ecclesiastical centre two tallow
candles,—a penance we wished to perform at Quezaltepeque, but could
find no candles for sale near at hand. I placed the candles, lighted,
in silver candlesticks, which were empty on the grand altar, and sat
down on the doorstep to see what would happen. Soon an attendant came
and asked if I had offered the candles; and on being assured that I
had, exclaimed “Buen!” in a very satisfied tone; nevertheless he took
the poor candles from their place of honor and put them before an empty
saint-case. Well, the saints above were perhaps as well satisfied; but
Frank here below was rather indignant, and declared he would never offer
a candle again. But what else could we expect for making light of the
candles?
We called on the Jefe, Don Ezequel Palma, a military man past middle
age, who was very polite and who sent his private secretary, Dr. Domingo
Estrada, to show us the lions of Chiquimula. We rode first to the ruins
of the ancient town where we had seen the remains of the church in the
morning. The same earthquake that in 1773 destroyed Antigua shattered
this town and caused the removal of the inhabitants some distance to the
westward. The old site was a better one; but the people moved away to
save the trouble of clearing up the ruins. The church was two hundred
and fifty feet long, and seventy-five wide. The immense walls, ten feet
thick, were still standing; but the vaulted roof blocked the interior
with its fragments. The ruins of this once holy place were now used as a
cemetery, the rank in this world of the occupier determining the distance
of each grave from the altar-end; while outside were the neglected ashes
of the commoners. The brambles and thorny plants made the locality
unpleasant for living beings, and we got our horses away as soon as
possible.
We passed the new hospital, which Dr. Estrada showed us with pride;
it will be, if ever completed, the best in Guatemala. A visit to a
sugar-estate in the valley showed us fields of red cane, small, but very
sweet. There were two small mills, both made in Buffalo, N. Y.,—one
turned by wind, the other by oxen; and the product is about nine hundred
pounds of brown sugar a day.
At five the next morning we were serenaded by the military band of the
town,—an honor we had received several times before; and the music was
very good. We left the ancient town of Chiquimula at eight o’clock,
although our hostess, Señora Anacleta, wished us to stay and join an
expedition of her friends to Copan to examine “las ruinas,”—an excursion
we longed to make, but could not then.
The road to Zacapa was good, and we saw many gigantic cylindrical
cacti. These curious trees looked pulpy and fragile; but Frank tried a
branch with his raw-hide lasso, and the horse could not pull it off! We
shall never again lasso a prickly cactus. On trees by the road (chiefly
euphorbiaceous trees) were large nests, eighteen to twenty inches long,
of some mud-wasp. As we approached Zacapa we crossed the Hondo by a ford
where the water was not two feet deep; but the path was very long and
winding, and the current rapid. As usual, there was no posada; but a
call on the Jefe, Don Brígido Castañeda, resulted in a page being sent
to conduct us to the decent house of a widow, where we found lodging
and comida. Our first search was for a blacksmith, our animals needing
re-shoeing. There were three _herreras_ in the town; but one was sick,
another had no charcoal, while the third had no nails,—and there was no
lending among these sons of Thor. So Frank had to do the work himself
with hammer and axe; and his general handiness again stood us in stead.
There was little enough to attract us in this town, and early the next
morning (Sunday) we sent the mozos ahead and followed before the weekly
drill of the militia was finished. In Zacapa the Government has a large
tobacco-factory; and the “Zacapa puros” are much liked by smokers.
All the way out of town the fields were dry, although we passed several
small streams, and beyond San Pablo a grove of fan-palms watered by a
fine brook. No fruit was anywhere to be seen, not even on the great
cacti. The Motagua River we had looked for at every turn, and at last we
came upon a stream so rapid that it does not even water its dry banks. A
swim was out of the question, but our bath was very refreshing.
At Zacapa we left the volcanic region; and afterwards we saw no more
lava or tufa, but a formation resembling old red sandstone, mica schist,
slates, milk-quartz, and some serpentine. We were then in the metamorphic
mountain-belt. The shapes of the hills of course changed with their
geological nature, and we missed the beautiful cones that had formed a
characteristic of our daily landscape since we had our first glimpse of
Tajumulco from the Chixoy valley many weeks before.
On this road we saw the Palo Cortez,—one of the most splendid
flowering-trees I ever saw. It was large, leafless, and covered with
dark-pink flowers. Never in large numbers, it brightened the dark
forests with its mass of rich color, and as many as five or six would be
in sight at once. Surely we could have made a calendar marked by some
remarkable plant each day; and this Sunday was a red-letter day, marked
by this tree named in honor of the great Conquistador. A fine arborescent
composite, with dark-orange blossoms of the size and shape of thistles,
closely recalled the Hesperomannia that my dear friend Horace Mann (the
younger) discovered during our explorations in the Hawaiian Islands,
twenty years before.
In the afternoon we passed the rancho of Don Cayetano, where we saw good
cattle, but did not stop until some distance beyond, when we boiled our
coffee by the roadside and I photographed our travelling arrangements.
Although we arrived at Gualan at half-past five, we had more than the
usual trouble in finding a lodging; but at last a deaf old man, who was
also burdened with a large goitre, took us into his comfortable house of
two rooms, while Santiago, who professed to be familiar with the place,
took our animals in charge. The town was insignificant and decayed,
although on the main road from Guatemala City to the coast. After a
supper of the toughest meat we had found in this republic, our host gave
us his daughter’s room; and while Frank attempted to make the little bed
comfortable, I slung my hammock from the dusty rafters. The daughter,
about sixteen, was rather pretty, and we were sorry to incommode her; but
she turned in with the old man, and we could hear that they were both
asleep long before we got used to the squeaking noise of a lizard in the
thatch and to the showers of dust every motion of my hammock shook down
from above.
We were at the head of navigation on the Motagua, and decided to send
our mozos on to Los Amates by land, while we took a canoa. Santiago had
promised us one in the morning, but could not find it; whereupon Frank
found a boatman, and reduced his price from $4.00 to $2.50. Just as
we were returning to the house to get our luggage, we met our useless
Santiago with a man who had kindly consented, as an especial favor to
him, to take us for $6.00. In going to the river we passed the Calvario,
which was elaborately walled; but the roots of many shrubs were prying
the masonry open. A descent of about two hundred feet brought us to the
river bank, and we found the water cool and good.
Our canoa was a good “dugout,” with a mat of split bambu for our seat,
and our boatman managed it very skilfully, avoiding the frequent shoals
and taking full advantage of the current. Bathers and washerwomen were
common along the banks,—the latter with precious little clothing, but
usually working under a palm-leaf shelter. Often they did not hear the
paddle, so noisy were their tongues, until we were close upon them; and
they generally ducked when they saw us. White herons, alligators, and
iguanas were common enough, and we saw two very round turtles about a
foot in diameter. Twice we touched bottom in the rapids; but the skill of
the paddler kept us bows on and saved us a wetting.
At Barbasco the river was wide, and we saw three mules crossing, as our
bestias would have to do later in the day. They waded two thirds of the
distance and swam the rest, one being carried by the current into the
bushes down stream.[29] The exhilarating motion was in marked contrast to
our struggle up the Rio Polochic; but there was no such interest in the
valley of the Rio Motagua as in that of the Polochic, and not until we
approached Los Amates did we come to the forest. In many places banana
or plantain suckers had got entangled in the bushes overhanging the
banks or on shoals, and were rooting and growing. The river is about a
hundred yards wide at Los Amates, where we landed after a canoa voyage
of five hours and a half. The steep bank was muddy, and the whole town
likewise, as far as we could see. Four open-walled reed huts shelter all
the inhabitants, both man and beast. The view riverwards was attractive,
as the river seemed the only way out of this forest-environed spot. We
walked into the woods on the trail northward to El Mico, about three
quarters of a league; here the ground was utterly water-soaked, and we
saw nothing interesting except two humming-birds having a bitter duel.
They were so absorbed in their deadly hatred that we stood some minutes
within arm’s length without interrupting them. Near the houses the
manàca-palms overspread the path in most perfect Gothic arches, forming
groined vaults of living green. Our comida was tolerable; but flies and
mosquitoes were abundant, so were dogs and pigs, and there were many
chickens with their wings turned inside out and their feathers put on the
wrong way. We could throw stones at the dogs without attracting notice;
but I found the people evidently did not like to have the pigs insulted.
Our señora was a curious specimen, all skin and bones, clad in a scant
dress, a large straw hat, and apparently nothing else, and smoking
an ever-burning cigar. At night she put us on a shelf of slim bambus
that would not bear our weight standing, though they made a fairly
comfortable bed. We shared this loft with corn and poultry; and looking
down into the common room beneath us, we saw by the light of a bowl of
oil strange domestic scenes. Women were swinging in hammocks and smoking
cigars, and children lying naked on the bare earth floor; and it was
pleasant to see such at-one-ness and the utter absence of anything like
bashfulness.
Our calendar alone informed us that the next day was Christmas, and we
spent it in waiting for our mozos and bestias, who arrived about three
o’clock. We sat on the sheet-iron pipes, fifteen inches in diameter,
which were resting here on their way to the Friedmann mines, farther
south. They kept us out of the mud, and were the only comfortable seats
in the town. On the mango and orange trees we found a pretty little
yellow orchid (_Oncidium_?). In the houses we saw tanning done, without a
vat, by making a bag of the hide and filling it with the bark decoction,
which slowly percolated through and was replaced. The remains of an
English steam-launch were scattered about, sheets of copper from her
bottom serving as clapboards to part of the house where we lodged. At
night the men of the place were all drunk and very noisy. The fires were
kept burning late, and cast weird gleams through the open slat walls into
the darkness.
Having engaged a guide for the so-called Ruinas at Quirigua, at eight
o’clock the next morning we said our adios (after paying our hostess
nineteen reals for ourselves and mozos) and started down the river bank.
Across the river were the largest bambus we had seen in the country,
some joints at least six inches in diameter. Our path led through a
canebrake, and often so close on the loose banks of the Motagua that I
feared we should drop in. For two hours we went on in this way, stopping
only to rifle a turtle’s nest of fourteen small eggs (less in size
than a pullet’s). We then turned to the left and came to the Quirigua
river,—which more resembled a creek; and here my heart sank, for I have a
great dread of black waters and muddy bottoms. Santiago waded in first,
and I followed close on the little mule; and we all crossed safely, our
mozo leading his wife by the hand with great care. Once in the thick
forest, our guide did his best to empty a generous bottle of aguardiente
he had brought with him; so that within an hour he knew very little about
the road, or anything else useful. Cohune and similar palms were on all
sides, and we first saw here the _pacaya_ (_Euterpe edulis_?),—a slender
palm with edible pods or buds. Enormous trees with buttresses even the
goyava took this form here—were prominent among the lower palms, and
ginger and wild bananas bordered the rather indefinite path, which we had
constantly to clear of vejucos and fallen palm-leaves. Many round holes,
as large as a flour-barrel, showed where palm-stumps had been eaten out
by insects.
[Illustration: Remains at Quirigua.]
A little brook with chalybeate waters cost us both a wetting; for Frank’s
mare stuck in a mud-hole, and my mule slid down a steep bank backwards
into the water, soaking my saddlebags. After travelling three hours on
this muddy road, we came to a clearing, where were two large champas
fast going to ruin. Mr. A. P. Maudslay, an Englishman who has spent much
labor and money in exploring Guatemaltecan antiquities, had been here
twice, and not only cleared a considerable space around the principal
monuments, but had cleaned the stones, and even made moulds in plaster of
some of them; he had also built the champas that sheltered us. We spread
our wet things over a fire, and went to the first monument (A on the
plan), which was close at hand. Mr. Catherwood’s sketches, published in
Stephens’s most interesting Travels, led us to expect rough menhirs quite
analogous to the Standing Stones of Stennis, or those better known of
Stonehenge. Here, rising from a pool of water collected in the excavation
Mr. Maudslay had made to examine the foundation, was a monolith of
light-colored, coarse-grained sandstone, well carved over its entire
surface except top and bottom. On the front and back were full-length
human figures, not deities, but attempted likenesses, joined with the
tigre’s head to indicate chieftainship, and a skull to represent death.
Both sides were covered with hieroglyphic inscriptions quite distinct,
but not intelligible to any living being. (See Frontispiece.) What would
I have given to be permitted to read the stone-cut story! No locked
chamber ever inspired half the curiosity. When was this stone set up,
by whom, and to what purpose? Whose are the portraits, when did these
persons live, and what did they do for their fellows. The mocking answer
to all these questions is cut in the stone before us. The native name of
_idolos_ is an idle one, unless used in the Greek sense; for these are no
gods, but memorials of the dead as distinctly as the tombstones in our
modern graveyards. While the hieroglyphs are similar to those at Copan
and Palenque, they are not, I think, identical, and I fancy they are
of the nature of the denominative cartouches of the Egyptian obelisks.
I copy Mr. Maudslay’s plan of this group of monuments, from which it
will at once be seen that their relative position to the other remains
is puzzling in the extreme. We left our imaginings for the time, and
proceeded to the practical work of photography. This was no light task;
for the sun was behind trees which cast shadows on the monuments, while
the shady side was almost invisible in the camera. Insects swarmed in
front of the lens, and the heat was almost insupportable under the rubber
focusing-cloth. However, I succeeded fairly in carrying away a dozen
pictures. Whether I can with no greater difficulty explain to my readers
what this cemetery looked like, even with the aid of Mr. Maudslay’s rough
plan, is more questionable.
We entered a clearing, some four hundred feet square, made only the
year before, but already covered with undergrowth, so that our men had
to use their machetes freely to expose the stones. The level was low
and the soil full of water, which stood in pools here and there. On our
left was a mound, more than two hundred feet long, which we did not
inspect, and in front of this were placed three monoliths. The first
(A) was the smallest; the second (B) was four feet wide, three feet
deep, and perhaps sixteen feet high; the third (C) was four feet nine
inches wide, two feet nine inches deep, and eighteen feet high. Both
B and C stood on irregular ends, and the tops of all were left much
as they came from the quarry. Two taller ones stood on the opposite
side of the clearing. One (F) was inclined (as it was to a much less
extent when Mr. Catherwood made his drawing, forty years ago), and the
under side has been protected from the weather, so that the face is
well preserved, the large nose being intact. This face, unlike the one
on the opposite side, is below the general level of the sculptures,
suggesting a substitution of the present portrait for the original one.
The inclination is about thirty-six degrees from the vertical; and as
the stone is about twenty-five feet above ground, it must be wedged with
large foundation-stones, or be buried deep in the soft earth.
[Illustration: MONOLITH AT QUIRIGUA, E.]
[Illustration: Monolith at Quirigua, F.]
Of all the portraits cut upon these stones, this leaning monolith has
the most remarkable. The hands and feet are represented in the same
conventional manner as on the stone marked E; but the immense size of the
nose, as well as of the ears, distinguishes it from all others. The cast
of countenance is very Egyptian. On many of these sculptures are seen
indications of the worship of the cross (as in the figure on the reverse
of E), although this symbol is usually of complicated form, as on the
celebrated tablet at Palenque. The monolith B has on the breast, in place
of the cross, the double triangle, sometimes called Solomon’s Seal, and,
like the cross, a well-known symbol of primitive worship. The nose of the
figure on what is now the upper side of F, is broken, but was of large
size originally.
There were several curious features in the decorative or symbolic work
on the monument marked E on the plan. The plumes above the head are very
extensive, and there are two distinct heads of the tigre, superimposed
with two well-modelled hands extending from the union. The face is much
injured. The ears are enormous, and beneath the chin is a projection
reminding one of the “beard-case” of the ancient Egyptians. One arm,
with ruffled sleeve, holds an instrument much like a “jumping-jack,”
or else a human body impaled, while the other is concealed beneath a
richly ornamented target. The feet are turned out, and on them rest
what closely resemble felt hats with plumes, while the pedestal (part
of the one stone) on which the figure stands, bears the death’s-head
surmounted by a small head with the remarkable ears of the chief figure.
On the reverse the features of the figure are better preserved. A diadem
is distinct under a large and very realistic jaguar-head, the ears are
covered by strap-like ornaments, the sandals elaborately wrought, and the
hat-like ornaments much more distinct than on the other side. The costume
is more elaborate, although not cut in so high relief.
[Illustration: Monolith. E (back).]
Two large bowlder-like masses (D and G) of the same stone are placed
unsymmetrically in relation to the other monoliths, and rest on separate
cross-stones. They are carved all over with figures and inscriptions, G
being fashioned at one end into the head and claws of some monster. A
decidedly Aryan head, with mustache and flowing beard, is carved in high
relief on the other.[30] If these were altars, they must have been very
inconvenient ones, as they are about five feet high, and very little of
the upper surface is level. We did not visit the other portions of the
cemetery as shown on the plan, because we did not at the time know of
their existence, our guide being still under the malign influence of the
bottle.
We boiled our turtle’s eggs (these, by the way, no boiling ever hardens),
drank coffee and limonade, and ate sardines among these Maya relics,
and then departed, after an interesting visit of only three hours. The
heat and the swarms of insects by day gave us no encouragement to pass
the night there, though we could not leave without a hope that we might
return, and perhaps dig about the stones. Although visitors do not often
get to these monuments, some have left the proofs of their low sense
of propriety in inscriptions scratched on the stone. Truly the Indios
who wander through this cemetery and call the figures _idolos_ are more
civilized than those fellows who have desecrated the stones by their
otherwise unimportant names.
Our way out was a return for two miles, and then branched into another
path, where the marks of the railway surveyors were plainly visible, and
it seems that the Ferro-carril del Norte will come close to the Ruinas
of Quirigua. As we left the lowlands we came upon ledges of sandstone
perhaps a mile from the Ruinas, of the same kind used for the monoliths;
but we could not find, perhaps owing to the dense vegetation, any signs
of quarry work. In the path we saw fragments of pottery apparently
ancient; and there are no modern habitations near at hand. As the path
wound up the hill we crossed a sandstone ridge and had fine views over
the valley of the Motagua. It was pleasant to get among the pines
again, and on solid dry ground: I think I dread mud more than any other
impediment in the road. When we struck the “camino real” late in the
afternoon, Santiago went to the little village of Quirigua to get the
traps he had left there, while Frank and I went on to the hacienda
of Señor Rascon, late Jefe of Izabal, whom we had met in the office
of Secretario Sanchez in the City of Guatemala. This hacienda was a
mud-house with poor accommodations and little food; but as it cost us
only two reals, we had no reason to grumble. The old señora in charge had
only one egg; but overcome by Frank’s plaintive appeal, she scrambled
under the bed where the hens were roosting, and managed to coax another
from one of them. We were here entertained by the process of branding
cattle,—not an attractive exhibition of brute force and brute suffering.
[Illustration: STONES AT QUIRIGUA.]
We were in the saddle at seven, expecting a hard day’s journey. The
road was bad enough, muddy even when steep. In places it was paved; but
this was worse still. The flowers were interesting, and the splendid
butterflies were flitting all the way. A fine passion-flower which Frank
gathered for me, and a cypress-vine (_Ipomœa_), were among the old
friends in a new place. Several trains of pack-mules on their way to
Guatemala City passed us, and we had to use care to avoid being bruised
by their loads, which they did not hesitate to push into us if not driven
aside. As Mabel had cast a shoe, Frank walked almost all the way, using
the mare occasionally as a bridge when the stream to be forded was wide.
As we came out on the northern slope of El Mico we had an attractive view
of the Lago de Izabal, and later of the town itself, where we arrived
early in the afternoon, finding quarters in the posada of Señora Juana,
an ancient mulattress. Her house, at the extreme east end of the town,
was large and ruinous; but we had a comfortable and cool room and a very
decent comida. In the garden the señora had roses, gardenias, caladiums,
hibiscus, and the Mexican vine (_Antigonon leptopus_). The town, with
its white houses, low level, and ditched streets, reminded us of Belize;
but while the capital of British Honduras is alive, Izabal is dead. On
the hill westward was a fort, with lighthouse and town-bell. At 5 and
6 A.M., and at 6, 8, and 9 P.M., the fort made a noise. The wharf at
the custom-house was long, but had only two feet of water, so shallow
is the lake at this side. The shore was sandy, and the water clear. The
principal streets are lighted by _gaz_ (kerosene); and as the ditches
on either side are worse than the gutters in New Orleans, this is a
necessary precaution.
In the photograph of Izabal, taken from the end of the dilapidated wharf,
the fort is seen on the hill above the large warehouse; at the right is
the cluster of buildings belonging to Mr. Potts,—a gentleman who has a
fine collection of native orchids in his garden, the only one in all the
republic who seemed to take much interest in horticulture. The church is
just behind this dwelling, and on the hill at the extreme right of the
view is the Campo Santo. In the foreground the corroded piles show well
the action of wood-destroying animals in the tropical fresh waters.
[Illustration: Izabal.]
We saw also in Izabal a very interesting collection of antiquities from
the mines of Las Quebradas, on the Motagua. There were clay heads of
curious workmanship, obsidian and flint knives, arrow and spear heads;
but what attracted me most were three small whistles of terra-cotta. They
represented human figures in a squatting position, all with _maxtlis_,
or waist-cloths, about the loins, and a coif, or turban, on the heads.
One little fat fellow reminded me of the Chinese roly-poly mandarins, and
was of light-colored clay. Another, who also had a paunch of generous
proportions, presented the profile of an Egyptian sphinx. But the third,
which was four and a quarter inches high and of a dark bronze color, bore
a close resemblance to a North American Indian. The figure had earrings
precisely like those copper ones that Professor Putnam discovered in
the Ohio mounds. This whistle could be made to sound three notes, the
mouthpiece being at the posterior base. I tried to buy these interesting
relics, which were found buried at a considerable depth, but the owner
would not part with them; and as the whole collection is kept in a basket
and often handled, I suppose the photographs I took will soon be all
that is left of them. Clay whistles modelled in grotesque form, which
also sound three notes, may be found to-day in the plazas for sale; but
the material and workmanship of these ancient terra-cottas surpasses any
of the work of modern Indios.
During the night we were awakened by the noise of the surf on the beach;
but when I went out on the piazza there was no wind. Before morning the
“City of Belize”—the very steamer that had nearly finished our journey in
the Rio Polochic—arrived from Pansos. At daybreak I found that the bats
had ruined my raw-hide lasso, the reins of my bridle, and had eaten the
seeds of some _toranjas_, or shaddocks, which we had carefully saved for
planting. We hung all these articles from the ceiling to avoid rats or
cockroaches.
Frank and Santiago had no end of difficulty in getting our animals on
board the steamer; but it was done at last, as everything else that Frank
attempted, and just before noon we started, after an excellent breakfast
on board, in which Señor Gomez, the newly appointed Jefe politico, joined
us. We were now back to the land of rains; and as we steamed across the
lake to Santa Cruz we had a tropical downpour. As the steamer was out of
fuel, we coasted the lake to a place about a league above Castillo de San
Felipe, where, after getting some three cords of wood on board, we tied
to the trees for the night. At daybreak we took on more wood, and then
went on to the old fort, where the comandante had some wood to sell, and
used his authority to press the soldiers and bystanders to load it. As it
was Sunday there were plenty of loafers around; but one dandy who had on
a clean shirt would not work, and another fellow had a stomach-ache and
could not; but the military authority was respected, and the wood soon
loaded. The pilot-house was a fine, roomy place on the upper deck, and
our comfort was in marked contrast to the experience of the canoa-voyage
up, some months before. Islands and lagoons succeeded each other rapidly,
and we soon crossed the Golfete and were in the beautiful Rio Dulce. At
three in the afternoon we arrived at the wharf in Livingston, and our
pleasant journey was at an end.
[Illustration: Whistle from Las Quebradas.]