when we plunged into the maze of the forest the occasional vistas
through the leafy vault revealed larger and larger patches of bright
blue sky. Our so-called road, however, was worse than anything I had
ever seen or heard of Flemish or South Louisiana synonymes of that
word,--miry lagoons and spongy mud as black and as sticky as pitch. I
followed at the heels of my carrier, who preferred the lagoons and
seemed to find the shallow places by a sort of instinct, and the Switzer
managed to propel his heavy boots through the toughest quagmire; but his
boy, after losing his shoes five or six times, slung them across his
shoulder and splashed on barefoot. We kept through a comparatively open
forest of cottonwood- and tulip-trees, with a dense jungle on our
right-hand side, while on our left the land sloped towards the bottom of
the Rio Verde, which is here about five hundred paces wide, and during
the rainy season fills its muddy banks to the brink. These lower coast
forests abound in gigantic trees, whose fruits are only accessible to
the winged and four-handed denizens of the forest, but farther up the
river-shores are lined for miles with a dense growth of wild-growing
plantains, of which the natives distinguish four varieties under as
many different names. The fruit of the largest, the _cuernavacas_
("cow-horns"), attains a weight of seven pounds, and resembles in shape
the crooked pod of the tamarind rather than the cucumber-shaped little
bananas which reach our Northern markets. They ripen very slowly, and
often rot on the tree before they become eatable, but the Mexicans
cure them over a slow fire of embers and green brushwood, after which
their taste can hardly be distinguished from that of the finest
yellow bananas. Palm-trees mingle here with the massive stems of the
cottonwoods, talipot-palms, and the _Palma prieta_, whose nut might
become a profitable article of export, having a close resemblance to a
filbert. The plum-clusters of the mango can only be reached by a bold
climber, as the trunk rises like a mast, often perfectly free from
branches for eighty or ninety feet, and the chief beneficiaries of
this region are still the macaws and squirrel-monkeys; but farther
up Pomona becomes more condescending, and the ancient Gymnosophists,
whose religion restricted true believers to a diet of wild-growing
tree-fruits, would have found their fittest home in the terrace-land
between the lower twenty miles of the Rio Verde and the foot-hills of
the Sierra de San Miguel.
Plum-bearing bushes abound from June to September with red, yellow,
and wax-colored fruit; the _morus_, or wild mulberry-tree, literally
covers the ground with its dark, honey-sweet berries; the crown of the
pino-palm is loaded with grape-like clusters, which, struck by a cudgel,
discharge a shower of rich acorn-shaped nuts; guavas, alligator-pears,
mamayos, chirimoyas, and wild oranges display flowers and fruit at the
same time, and under the alternate influence of heat and moisture
produce their perennial crops with unfailing regularity; the algarobe
(_Mimosa siliqua_), a species of mezquite not larger than an apple-tree,
yields half a ton of the edible pods known as carob-beans or St. John's
bread; the figs of the gigantic banyan-tree furnish an aromatic syrup;
the trunks of the _Robinia viridis_ exude an edible gum; and from
the vine-tangle forming the vault of the forest hang the bunches and
clusters of forty or fifty varieties of wild grapes, many of them
superior to our scuppernongs and catawbas, while the amber-colored _Uva
real_ rivals the flavor of the finest Damascene raisin-grapes. A forced
march of ten hours through fens and silent virgin woods brought us at
last to the hummock region; the plain swelled into mounds, and the
currents of the sluggish bayous became more perceptible. The higher
levels showed vestiges of cultivation; we crossed dykes and ditches,
a neglected fence here and there, and where the larger trees had been
felled grapes and liana figs covered even the bushes and hedges in
incredible profusion. A troop of capuchin monkeys leaped from a low
mango-tree, and two stumbling youngsters who brought up the rear in the
scramble for the high timber would have tempted us to a chase if we had
not been anxious to reach less malarious quarters before night. The
neighborhood of the great swamps still betrayed itself by that peculiar
miasmatic odor which emanates from stagnant pools and decaying vegetable
matter, and in the recesses of the forest fluttered the slate-colored
swamp-moth, the ominous harbinger of the mosquito. The tipulary pests
were getting ready for action; their skirmishers, the _sancudos_ and
_Moscas negras_, had already opened the campaign, and became sensible
as well as audible in spite of the rapidity of our march. One of the
twilight species, the _Mosca delgada_, a straw-colored little midge,
bites like a fire-ant,--a mischievous and, it seems, unpractical freak
of nature, since the superfluous virulence of its sting must certainly
interfere with the business facilities of a suctorial insect.
[As evening descended the travellers reached a cotton
plantation, and hastened to take refuge from the rising cloud
of mosquitoes.]
The cotton-gin loomed at the farther end of the field, and was taken by
storm over piles of muck and scattered fence-rails. Seeing no ladder,
we clambered through the pivot-hole in the ceiling of a musty-smelling
machine-shed, but in the open loft above we found a delicious breeze,
and--St. Hubert be praised!--not a single mosquito.
The carrier threw himself upon his pack with a sigh of relief, and we
squatted around the hatch to cool off before we opened our mess-bag.
From the hills on our right came the perfume of blooming tamarisks, and
from the jungle below a cool lake-air; and at times strange voices of
the wilderness,--the hoarse bark of a cayman, answered by the shriek of
swamp-geese in the canebrakes of the Rio Verde, and in the distance now
and then a queer rustling sound, like the shaking of a tree butted by
some heavy animal. Bats were circling above our heads in the moonlight,
and our advent seemed to have excited the curiosity of a troop of
flying-squirrels, who uttered their chirping squeak now on the roof, now
in the branches of a neighboring live-oak-tree.
After removing a layer of seed-cotton that might harbor scorpions or
centipedes, I spread my blanket near the hatch and made myself
comfortable for the night. My feet still smarted, though I had pulled
off my stockings as well as my boots; yet I could not regret the
hardships of a march which had brought us to such an encampment. The
portador was taking his ease in the centre of the floor, where the
night-wind played with his long hair, while the Swiss boy had fallen
asleep on the mantle of his countryman, who was sitting in the open
louvre, smoking his pipe in measureless content. The air up here was
delightfully cool, and, with the buzz of the legions of Beelzebub still
ringing in our ears, the sense of security itself was more than a
negative comfort.
Baron Savarin, who wrote a treatise on the art of enjoying life, should
have added a chapter on the happiness of contrast. A snug little cottage
in a stormy November night, a shade-tree on the Llano Estacado, the
silence of the Upper Alleghanies after a "revival-meeting" in the
valleys, a bath in the dog-days, would rank above all the luxuries of
Paris and Stamboul, if unbought enjoyments could ever become
fashionable.
The moon set soon after midnight, but we managed to readjust our luggage
by the light of greased paper spills, and entered the gates of the
foot-hills before the watch-call of the night-hawk had been silenced by
the reveille of the iris-crows. A keen land-breeze, tumbling the mists
through the fens of the Tierra Caliente, gave promise of a bright day.
What wonderful perfumes the morning wind brews from the atmosphere
of a moist tropical forest-land!--scents that haunt the memory more
persistently than the echo of a weird song. No latter-day nose could
analyze these odors and trace them to their several sources; but with or
without an attempt at further classification, they might be primarily
divided into sweet and pungent aromatic smells, the latter prevailing in
the coast jungles, the former in the mountain forests. A few of the
first named--the spicy scents--are so peculiar that, once identified,
they can be easily recognized: here, for instance, the effluvium of the
musk lianas, whose flowers diffuse a sort of odorous diapason which
predominates, even through the bouquet-medley of the South Mexican
flora.
As the white streaks in the east assumed a yellowish tint, the paroquets
in the crests of the pino-palms saluted the morning with sudden screams;
the multitudinous voices of a crow-swarm approached from the coast
forests; two and two, and in a series of pairs, the macaws came flying
across the sky; and in our near neighborhood the startling cry of the
_chachalaca_ or jungle-pheasant went up from an hibiscus thicket. Softly
first, then louder and louder, the _calanda_, the mocking-bird of the
tropics, intonated its morning hymn, and the fluting curlew rose from
the grass like a skylark; but a sweeter sound to our ears was the
murmuring of a little brook at the roadside. We had reached the region
of rocks and swift-flowing waters.
Of reptiles, as of Red Republicans, it may be said that they are least
dreaded in the countries where they most abound. While a New England
boarding-school virgin goes into epileptic spasms at the aspect of a
blindworm, the young Mexicanas surround themselves with a variety of
ophidian pets, and view a freckled tree-snake and a gay butterfly with
equal pleasure or equal unconcern. A little barefoot girl that met us on
her way to the spring put her toes caressingly on the smooth hide of a
green-and-white speckled _Vivora mansa_ that wriggled across the road;
and our barelegged portador kicked dozens of good-sized bush-snakes out
of our path after noticing that they frightened our young travelling
companion. More than ninety per cent of all South American snakes are as
harmless as lizards, and the four or five venomous varieties are well
known and easily avoided.
I will here add a word on the dreaded venomous insects of the tropics.
The ant and mosquito plagues of the coast jungles can hardly be
over-estimated, but the virulence of their larger congeners is
frequently and grossly exaggerated. The chief insect-ogres of sensation
romancers and fireside travellers are three: the scorpion, the
tarantula, and the centipede, either of whom can rival the homicidal
prestige of Victor Hugo's octopus. But I may confidently appeal to
the verdict of any personal observer who has passed a few years in
the African or American tropics when I assert that these supposed
express-messengers of Death are not more venomous and are far less
aggressive than our common North American hornet. I doubt if the sting
of twenty tarantulas could cause the death of a healthy child, and I am
quite sure that a poison-ivy blister and the bite of a fire-ant are more
painful than the sting of a centipede. An hysterical lady may succumb
to the bite of a common gadfly, but I hold that only co-operative
insects--termites, wasps, bumble-bees, etc.--could ever make away with
a normally constituted human being.
A swarm of vociferous iris-crows appeared in the sky overhead, and
before they had passed, the woods were wide awake all around. The
humming-birds were on the wing, the wood-pigeons repeated their
murmuring call in the taxus-groves, and from the lower depths of the
forest came the chattering scream of a squirrel-monkey. The rising sun
was hidden by the tree-tops of the eastern valleys when we halted on the
summit of a rocky bluff, but the mountain mists had disappeared, and the
vistas on our left afforded a dazzling view of the sunlit foot-hills and
the valley of the Rio Verde. The river is here crossed by a rope-ferry a
little above its junction with a tributary that drains the glorious
valley of Morillo and an Alpine group whose wooded heights stand in my
memory like a vision of a Ganadesha, the mountain park of Indra's
Paradise.
The air of these woodlands is the antithesis of our Northern workshop
atmosphere. There is a feeling of delight--our lost sixth sense, I am
tempted to call it--which gratifies the lungs rather than the olfactory
organ if you inhale the morning breezes, oxidated, and perhaps
ozonized, by the first influence of sunlight on the aromatic vegetation
of these hills,--a delight which, like the charm of harmonious sounds,
reacts on the soul, and awakens emotions which have lain dormant in the
human breast since we exchanged the air of our Summer-land home for the
dust of our hyperborean tenement-prisons.
The hum of insects soon mingled with the bird-voices of our forest. To
and fro, in fitful flight, flashed the _libellas_, the glitter-winged
dragon-flies, and a few large papilios flopped lazily through the
dew-drenched foliage. No gnats up here, but thousands of tiny,
honey-seeking wasps and midges, and bright-winged grasshoppers that rose
with a fluttering spring when the first sunbeams reached the damp
underbrush. Ants hurried about their daily toil, and when we ascended
the next ridge we saw various kinds of lizards flitting across the road
or basking on the wayside rocks, one of them a sort of dwarf iguana of a
moss-green tint, on which protective color it seemed to rely for its
safety, as its movements were as sluggish as those of a toad.
As we kept steadily up-hill, the sun seemed to mount very rapidly,
and, peak after peak, the summits of the upper Sierra rose into view.
Zempantepec, La Sirena, and the Nevada de Colcoyan towered above the
rest, the latter at least four thousand feet above the snow-line. Few
prospects on earth could efface the impression of that panorama. In the
Sierra de San Miguel our continent reproduces the Syrian Lebanon on a
grander scale. Septimius Severus, who vacillated between his throne and
the Elysian valleys of Daphne, would have renounced the empire of the
world for the mountain-gardens of the Val de Morillo, and the giants of
the cypress forests on the southeastern slope of the Sierra dwarf all
the cedars of Bashan and Hebron. The largest, though not the tallest,
of these trees, the cypress of Maria del Tule (twelve miles south of San
Miguel), which Humboldt calls the "oldest vegetable monument of our
globe," has a diameter of forty-two feet, a circumference of one hundred
and thirty-six feet near the ground and of one hundred and four feet
higher up, and measures two hundred and eighty-two feet between the
extremities of two opposite branches. Yet this tree has many rivals in
the Val de Morillo and near the sources of the Rio Verde, where groups
of grayish-green mountain-firs rise like hillocks above the surrounding
vegetation.
On our right extended the orange-gardens of Casa Blanca for two miles
along the base of the hill to a deep ravine, reappearing on the other
side, where their white-blooming tree-tops mingled with the copses of a
banana-plantation. Farther up, euphorbias and hibiscus prevailed, and
the upper limit of the foot-hills is marked by the paler green of the
cork-oak forests that cover the slopes of the sierra proper. In the
northeast this sierra becomes linked with the ramifications of the
central Cordilleras, and connected with our ridge by one of the
densely-wooded spurs that flank the plateau of the Llanos Ventosos. The
rocks at our feet belonged, therefore, to a mountain-chain that might be
called a lineal continuation of the Gila range in Arizona and Nueva
Leon. But what a difference in the climate and scenery! There arid
rocks and thorny ravines; here dense mountain forests, deep rivers,
a saturated atmosphere, and springs on almost every acre of ground.
The very brambles in the rock-clefts were fresh with dew, and the
sprouts of the broom-furze looked like wildering asparagus. The ravines
flamed with flowers of every size and every hue. An agent of a London
or Hamburg curiosity-dealer might make his living here with a common
butterfly-net. On any sunny forenoon an active boy could gather a
stock of Lepidoptera that would create a bonanza sensation among the
collectors of a North European capital. The rhododendron thickets of
the upper Rio Verde are frequented by gigantic varieties of nymphalis,
vanessa, and parnassius, which would retail in Brussels at from two to
ten dollars apiece.
The sun rose higher, but not the thermometer, and when we clambered up
through an orchard of scattered cherry-trees I am sure that the maximum
temperature in the shade did not exceed sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit.
We had reached the Llanos Ventosos, the air-plains of San Miguel, the
playground of the four winds of heaven, where sun-strokes are unknown,
though the mists of the rainy season never cloud their deep-blue sky.
Down in the coast jungles the Rain-fiend was at it again: dark-gray
showers swept visibly along the shore, while the foot-hills simmered
under the rays of a vertical sun. But up here the air was dry as well as
cool; the edge of the plateau is at least six thousand feet above the
level of the Pacific, which is in plain view from Punta Piedra to the
downs of Tehuantepec.
We entered the village about two P.M., and my companions conducted me
to a little frame house, where I was hospitably received by the Indian
gardener and the daughters of Pastor Wenck, the minister of the
Protestant part of the community, whose brother in Tehuantepec had
intrusted me with different letters, with a note of introduction. The
pastor had harnessed his mule an hour ago to get a load of Spanish moss
from the foot-hills, so I left my carrier in charge of the Indian
gardener and sauntered out into the village.
Neubern (New Bern) de San Miguel--or Villa Cresciente, as it was
originally called, from its situation on a crescent-shaped bluff--was
founded in 1865 under the happiest auspices, the charter of the colony
including such inducements as exemption from taxes for the first five
years, free roads and schools, gratuitous seed-corn, farming implements,
etc., to indigent immigrants, and attracted a considerable number of the
very best agriculturists from Tyrol and Southern Switzerland. But after
the collapse of the imperial government a waning moon would have
been the fitter emblem of the Crescent Village: its privileges were
abrogated, and many of the disappointed Bauern returned to their native
countries. Still, the appointment of a few half-Indian officials is the
only positive grievance of the colonists, and the advantages of their
climate and situation might well reconcile them to greater
inconveniences.
At a distance of only sixteen degrees from the equator, the average
temperatures of the coldest and warmest months differ less than spring
and summer in the United States, so that the September weather of
Geneva or Innspruck is here as perennial as a sea-fog in Newfoundland.
During a residence of seven years, Pastor Wenck has chronicled four
thunder-storms, twenty-two common storms, two hoar-frosts (both in
November), one sultry day, and two hundred and eight short showers,
leaving a balance of two thousand two hundred and ninety-two days of
_himmelswetter_,--heaven weather,--as he called it, alternating with
cool nights whose dew indemnifies the fields for the scantiness of the
annual rainfall. Yet the denizens of this Himmel-land come in for a
first-hand share of all the luxuries which a compensating nature has
lavished on the inhabitants of the sweltering Tierra Caliente.
Forty or fifty varieties of tropical fruits come to their tables in
a freshness and sun-ripened sweetness quite unknown to our Northern
markets; their builders may select their material from groves of
mahogany, iron-wood, American ebony, green-heart, euphorbia, and other
timber-trees of the coast swamps; cacao, vanilla, gums, and frankincense
can be bought at half trade prices, and an excursion of ten miles will
take them to a region where the pot-hunter can fill his bag day after
day without fear of ever exhausting the meat-supply, where the
adventurous sportsman may try his luck and the mettle of his dogs, and
where the naturalist can revel in all the wonders of a tropical terra
incognita.
AMONG THE RUINS OF YUCATAN.
JOHN L. STEPHENS.
[The Egypt of America, as one may fairly call the Maya region
of Yucatan, was first brought prominently into notice by John
L. Stephens, who did yeoman service in exploring the massive
monuments of a past civilization there scattered, and in
describing and picturing their remarkable details. Since his
period many travellers have visited and studied these vast
remains and described them in abundant detail. But Stephens
visited that region as a discoverer, and from his works we
select a description of the difficulties under which he labored
in his interesting work of exploration at Copan. He had taken
quarters in a hut near the ruins, and returned to his former
quarters for his luggage. The homeward journey was accomplished
under stress of opposing circumstances.]
In the mean time it began to rain; and, settling my accounts with the
senora, thanking her for her kindness, leaving an order to have some
bread baked for the next day, and taking with me an umbrella and a blue
bag, contents unknown, belonging to Mr. Catherwood, which he had
particularly requested me to bring, I set out on my return. Augustin
followed, with a tin teapot and some other articles for immediate use.
Entering the woods, the umbrella struck against the branches of the
trees and frightened the mule; and, while I was endeavoring to close it,
she fairly ran away with me. Having only a halter, I could not hold her,
and, knocking me against the branches, she ran through the woods,
splashed into the river, missing the fording-place, and never stopped
till she was breast-deep. The river was swollen and angry, and the rain
pouring down. Rapids were forming a short distance below. In the effort
to restrain her I lost Mr. Catherwood's blue bag, caught at it with the
handle of the umbrella, and would have saved it if the beast had stood
still; but as it floated under her nose she snorted and started back. I
broke the umbrella in driving her across, and, just as I touched the
shore, saw the bag floating towards the rapids, and Augustin, with his
clothes in one hand and the teapot in the other, both above his head,
steering down the river after it. Supposing it to contain some
indispensable drawing-materials, I dashed among the thickets on the
bank, in the hope of intercepting it, but became entangled among
branches and vines.
I dismounted and tied my mule, and was two or three minutes working
my way to the river, where I saw Augustin's clothes and the teapot,
but nothing of him, and, with the rapids roaring below, had horrible
apprehensions. It was impossible to continue along the bank; so, with a
violent effort, I jumped across a rapid channel to a ragged island of
sand covered with scrub-bushes, and, running down to the end of it, saw
the whole face of the river and the rapids, but nothing of Augustin. I
shouted with all my strength, and, to my inexpressible relief, heard
an answer, but, in the noise of the rapids, very faint; presently he
appeared in the water, working himself round a point and hauling upon
the bushes. Relieved about him, I now found myself in a quandary.
The jump back was to higher ground, the stream a torrent, and, the
excitement over, I was afraid to attempt it. It would have been
exceedingly inconvenient for me if Augustin had been drowned. Making his
way through the bushes and down to the bank opposite with his dripping
body, he stretched a pole across the stream, by springing upon which I
touched the edge of the opposite bank, slipped, but hauled myself up by
the bushes with the aid of a lift from Augustin.
All this time it was raining very hard, and now I had forgotten
where I tied my mule. We were several minutes looking for her, and,
wishing everything but good luck to the old bag, I mounted. Augustin,
principally because he could carry them more conveniently on his back,
put on his clothes.
[Reaching a village, he took shelter till the rain abated, but
it began worse than ever after he again took to the road.]
I rode on some distance, and again lost my way. It was necessary to
enter the woods on the right. I had come out by a foot-path which I had
not noticed particularly. There were cattle-paths in every direction,
and within the line of a mile I kept going in and out, without hitting
the right one. Several times I saw the print of Augustin's feet, but
soon lost them in puddles of water, and they only confused me more; at
length I came to a complete standstill. It was nearly dark; I did not
know which way to turn; and as Mr. Henry Pelham did when in danger of
drowning in one of the gutters of Paris, I stood still and halloed. To
my great joy, I was answered by a roar from Augustin, who had been lost
longer than I, and was even in greater tribulation. He had the teapot in
his hand, the stump of an unlighted cigar in his mouth, was plastered
with mud from his head to his heels, and altogether a most distressful
object.