Means by which the City was supplied with Water.--Aguadas.--A
delightful Bathing-place.--Manner of Living at the Ruins.--How to roast
a Pig.--Nameless Mound.--Excavations made in it.--Great Exertions.--A
bitter Disappointment.--An Attack of Fever.--Visit from the Cura of
Ticul.--Departure for Ticul.--A painful Journey.--Arrival at the
Convent.--Arrival of Dr. Cabot, ill with Fever.--Gloomy Prospects.--A
simple Remedy for Fever.--Aspect of Ticul.--The Church.--Funeral
Urn.--Monument and Inscription.--Convent.--Character of the
Cura Carillo.--The Date of the Construction of the Convent
unknown.--Probably built with the Materials furnished by the Ruins of
former Cities.--Archives of the Convent.
In the account of my former visit to the ruins of Uxmal, I mentioned
the fact that this city was entirely destitute of apparent means for
obtaining water. Within the whole circumference there is no well,
stream, or fountain, and nothing which bears the appearance of having
been used for supplying or obtaining water, except the subterraneous
chambers before referred to; which, supposing them to have been
intended for that purpose, would probably not have been sufficient,
however numerous, to supply the wants of so large a population.
All the water required for our own use we were obliged to procure from
the hacienda. We felt the inconvenience of this during the whole of our
residence at the ruins, and very often, in spite of all our care to
keep a supply on hand, we came in, after hard work in the sun, and,
parched with thirst, were obliged to wait till we could send an Indian
to the hacienda, a distance, going and returning, of three miles.
[Engraving 16: Aguada at Uxmal]
Very soon after our arrival our attention and inquiries were directed
particularly to this subject and we were not long in satisfying
ourselves that the principal supply had been drawn from aguadas, or
ponds in the neighbourhood. These aguadas are now neglected and
overgrown, and perhaps, to a certain extent, are the cause of the
unhealthiness of Uxmal. The principal of them we saw first from the top
of the House of the Dwarf, bearing west, and perhaps a mile and a half
distant. We visited it under the guidance of the mayoral, with some
Indians to clear the way. The whole intervening space was overgrown
with woods, the ground was low and muddy, and, as the rains still
continued, the aguada was at that time a fine sheet of water. It was
completely imbosomed among trees, still and desolate, with tracks of
deer on its banks; a few ducks were swimming on its surface, and a
kingfisher was sitting on the bough of an overhanging tree, watching
for his prey. The mayoral told us that this aguada was connected with
another more to the south, and that they continued, one after the
other, to a great distance; to use his own expression, which, however,
I did not understand literally, there were a hundred of them.
The general opinion with regard to these aguadas is the same with that
expressed by the cura of Tekoh respecting that near Mayapan; viz., that
they were "hechas a mano," artificial formations or excavations made by
the ancient inhabitants as reservoirs for holding water. The mayoral
told us that in the dry season, when the water was low, the remains of
stone embankments were still visible in several places. As yet we were
incredulous as to their being at all artificial, but we had no
difficulty in believing that they had furnished the inhabitants of
Uxmal with water. The distance, from what will be seen hereafter, in
that dry and destitute country amounts to but little.
At the time of our first visit to it, however, this aguada had in our
eyes a more direct and personal interest. From the difficulty of
procuring water at the ruins, we were obliged to economize in the use
of it, while, from the excessive heat and toil of working among the
ruins, covered with dust and scratched with briers, there was nothing
we longed for so much as the refreshment of a bath, and it was no
unimportant part of our business at the aguada to examine whether it
would answer as a bathing-place. The result was more satisfactory than
we expected. The place was actually inviting. We selected a little cove
shaded by a large tree growing almost out of the water, had a
convenient space cleared around it, a good path cut all the way through
the woods to the terrace of the Casa del Gobernador, and on the first
of December we consecrated it by our first bath. The mayoral, shrunken
and shattered by fever and ague, stood by protesting against it, and
warning us of the consequences; but we had attained the only thing
necessary for our comfort at Uxmal, and in the height of our
satisfaction had no apprehensions for the result.
Up to this time our manner of living at the ruins had been very
uniform, and our means abundant. All that was on the hacienda belonging
to the master was ours, as were also the services of the Indians, so
far as he had a right to command them. The property of the master
consisted of cattle, horses, mules, and corn, of which only the last
could be counted as provisions. Some of the Indians had a few fowls,
pigs, and turkeys of their own, which they were in general willing to
sell, and every morning those who came out to work brought with them
water, fowls, eggs, lard, green beans, and milk. Occasionally we had a
haunch of venison, and Doctor Cabot added to our larder several kinds
of ducks, wild turkeys, chachalachas, quails, pigeons, doves, parrots,
jays, and other smaller birds. Besides these, we received from time to
time a present from the Dona Joaquina or Don Simon, and altogether our
living was better than we had ever known in exploring ruins. Latterly,
however, on account of the thickness of the woods. Doctor Cabot had
become disgusted with sporting; having no dog, it was sometimes
impossible to find one bird out of six, and he confined his shooting to
birds which he wanted for dissection. At this time, too, we received
intelligence that the fowls at the hacienda were running short, and the
eggs gave out altogether.
There was no time to be lost, and we forthwith despatched Albino with
an Indian to the village of Moona, twelve miles distant, who returned
with a back-load of eggs, beans, rice, and sugar, and again the sun
went down upon us in the midst of plenty. A pig arrived from Don Simon,
sent from another hacienda, the cooking of which enlisted the warmest
sympathies of all our heads of departments, Albino, Bernaldo, and
Chaipa Chi. They had their own way of doing it, national, and derived
from their forefathers, being the same way in which those respectable
people cooked men and women, as Bernal Dias says, "dressing the bodies
in their manner, which is by a sort of oven made with heated stones,
which are put under ground." They made an excavation on the terrace,
kindled a large fire in it, and kept it burning until the pit was
heated like an oven. Two clean stones were laid in the bottom, the pig
(not alive) was laid upon them, and covered over with leaves and
bushes, packed down with stones so close as barely to leave vent to the
fire, and allow an escape for the smoke.
While this bake was going on I set out on a business close at hand, but
which, in the pressure of other matters, I had postponed from day to
day. On a line with the back of the Casa del Gobernador rises the high
and nameless mound represented in the frontispiece, forming one of the
grandest and most imposing structures among all the ruins of Uxmal. It
was at that time covered with trees and a thick growth of herbage,
which gave a gloominess to its grandeur of proportions, and, but for
its regularity, and a single belt of sculptured stones barely visible
at the top, it would have passed for a wooded and grass-grown hill.
Taking some Indians with me, I ascended this mound, and began clearing
it for Mr. Catherwood to draw. I found that its vast sides were all
incased with stone, in some places richly ornamented, but completely
hidden from view by the foliage.
The height of this mound was sixty-five feet, and it measured at the
base three hundred feet on one side and two hundred on the other. On
the top was a great platform of solid stone, three feet high and
seventy-five feet square, and about fifteen feet from the top was a
narrow terrace running on all four of the sides. The walls of the
platform were of smooth stone, and the corners had sculptured
ornaments. The area consisted entirely of loose rough stones, and there
are no remains or other indications of any building. The great
structure seemed raised only for the purpose of holding aloft this
platform. Probably it had been the scene of grand religious ceremonies,
and stained with the blood of human victims offered up in sight of the
assembled people. Near as it was, it was the first time I had ascended
this mound. It commanded a full view of every building. The day was
overcast, the wind swept mournfully over the desolate city, and since
my arrival I had not felt so deeply the solemnity and sublimity of
these mysterious ruins.
Around the top of the mound was a border of sculptured stone ten or
twelve feet high. The principal ornament was the Grecque, and in
following it round, and clearing away the trees and bushes, on the west
side, opposite the courtyard of the Casa de Palomos, my attention was
arrested by an ornament, the lower part of which was buried in rubbish
fallen from above. It was about the centre of this side of the mound,
and from its position, and the character of the ornament, I was
immediately impressed with the idea that it was over a doorway, and
that underneath was an entrance to an apartment in the mound. The
Indians had cleared beyond it, and passed on, but I called them back,
and set them to excavating the earth and rubbish that buried the lower
part of the ornament. It was an awkward place to work in: the side of
the mound was steep, and the stones composing the ornament were
insecure and tottering. The Indians, as usual, worked as if they had
their lifetime for the job. They were at all times tedious and trying,
but now, to my impatient eagerness, more painfully so than ever. Urging
them, as well as I could, and actually making them comprehend my idea,
I got them to work four long hours without any intermission, until they
reached the cornice. The ornament proved to be the same hideous face,
with the teeth standing out, before presented, varying somewhat in
detail, and upon a grander scale. Throwing up the dirt upon the other
side of them, the Indians had made a great pile outside, and stood in a
deep hole against the face of the ornament. At this depth the stones
seemed hanging loosely over their heads, and the Indians intimated that
it was dangerous to continue digging, but by this time my impatience
was beyond control. I had from time to time assisted in the work, and,
urging them to continue, I threw myself into the hole, and commenced
digging with all my strength. The stones went rolling and crashing down
the side of the mound striking against roots and tearing off branches.
The perspiration rolled from me in a stream, but I was so completely
carried away by the idea that had taken possession of me, so sure of
entering some chamber that had been closed for ages, that I stopped at
nothing; and with all this I considered myself cool and calm, and with
great method resolved, as soon as I reached the doorway, to stop and
send for Mr. Catherwood and Doctor Cabot, that we might all enter
together, and make a formal note of everything exactly as it was found;
but I was doomed to a worse disappointment than at El Laberinto de
Maxcanu. Before getting below the cornice I thrust the machete through
the earth, and found no opening, but a solid stone wall. The ground of
my hope was gone, but still I kept the Indians digging, unconsciously,
and without any object. In the interest of the moment I was not aware
that the clouds had disappeared, and that I had been working in this
deep hole, without a breath of air, under the fall blaze of a vertical
sun. The disappointment and reaction after the high excitement,
co-operating with the fatigue and heat, prostrated all my strength. I
felt a heaviness and depression, and was actually sick at heart, so
that, calling off the Indians, I was fain to give over and return to
our quarters. In descending the mound my limbs could scarcely support
me. My strength and elasticity were gone. With great difficulty I
dragged myself to our apartments. My thirst was unquenchable. I threw
myself into my hammock, and in a few moments a fiery fever was upon me.
Our household was thrown into consternation. Disease had stalked all
around us, but it was the first time it had knocked at our door.
On the third day, while in the midst of a violent attack, a gentleman
arrived whose visit I had expected, and had looked forward to with
great interest. It was the cura Carillo of Ticul, a village seven
leagues distant. A week after our arrival at the ruins the mayoral had
received a letter from him, asking whether a visit would be acceptable
to us. We had heard of him as a person who took more interest in the
antiquities of the country than almost any other, and who possessed
more knowledge on the subject. He had been in the habit of coming to
Uxmal alone to wander among the ruins, and we had contemplated an
excursion to Ticul on purpose to make his acquaintance. We were,
therefore, most happy to receive his overture, and advised him that we
should anxiously expect his visit. His first words to me were, that it
was necessary for me to leave the place and go with him to Ticul. I was
extremely reluctant to do so, but it was considered advisable by all.
He would not consent to my going alone, or with his servant, and the
next morning, instead of a pleasant visit to the ruins, he found
himself trotting home with a sick man at his heels. In consequence of
some misunderstanding, no coche was in readiness, and I set out on
horseback. It was my interval day, and at the moment the bare absence
of pain was a positively pleasant sensation. In this humour, in the
beginning of our ride, I listened with much interest to the cura's
exposition of different points and localities, but by degrees my
attention flagged, and finally my whole soul was fixed on the sierra,
which stood out before us at a distance of two leagues from San Jose.
Twice before I had crossed that sierra, and had looked upon it almost
with delight, as relieving the monotony of constant plains, but now it
was a horrible prospect. My pains increased as we advanced, and I
dismounted at the hacienda in a state impossible to be described. The
mayoral was away, the doors were all locked, and I lay down on some
bags in the corridor. Rest tranquillized me. There was but one Indian
to be found, and he told the cura that there were none to make a coche.
Those in the neighbourhood were sick, and the others were at work more
than a league away. It was impossible to continue on horseback, and,
fortunately, the mayoral came, who changed the whole face of things and
in a few minutes had men engaged in making a coche. The cura went on
before to prepare for my reception. In an hour my coche was ready, and
at five o'clock I crawled in. My carriers were loth to start, but, once
under way, they took it in good part, and set off on a trot. Changing
shoulders frequently, they never stopped till they carried me into
Ticul, three leagues or nine miles distant, and laid me down on the
floor of the convent. The cura was waiting to receive me. Albino had
arrived with my catre, which was already set up, and in a few minutes I
was in bed. The bells were ringing for a village fiesta, rockets and
fireworks were whizzing and exploding, and from a distance the shrill
voice of a boy screeching out the numbers of the loteria pierced my
ears. The sounds were murderous, but the kindness of the cura, and the
satisfaction of being away from an infected atmosphere, were so
grateful that I fell asleep.
For three days I did not leave my bed; but on the fourth I breathed the
air from the balcony of the convent. It was fresh, pure, balmy, and
invigorating.
In the afternoon of the next day I set out with the cura for a stroll.
We had gone but a short distance, when an Indian came running after us
to inform us that another of the caballeros had arrived sick from the
ruins. We hurried back, and found Doctor Cabot lying in a coche on the
floor of the corridor at the door of the convent. He crawled out
labouring under a violent fever, increased by the motion and fatigue of
his ride, and I was startled by the extraordinary change a few days had
made in his appearance. His face was flushed, his eyes were wild, his
figure lank; and he had not strength to support himself, but pitched
against me, who could barely keep myself up, and both nearly came down
together. He had been attacked the day after I left, and the fever had
been upon him, with but little intermission, ever since. All night, and
all the two ensuing days, it continued rising and decreasing, but never
leaving him. It was attended with constant restlessness and delirium,
so that he was hardly in bed before he was up again, pitching about the
room.
The next day Mr. Catherwood forwarded Albino, who, with two attacks,
was shaken and sweated into a dingy-looking white man. Mr. Catherwood
wrote that he was entirely alone at the ruins, and should hold out as
long as he could against fever and ghosts, but with the first attack
should come up and join us.
Our situation and prospects were now gloomy. If Mr. Catherwood was
taken ill, work was at an end, and perhaps the whole object of our
expedition frustrated; but the poor cura was more to be pitied than any
of us. His unlucky visit to Uxmal had brought upon him three infermos,
with the prospect every day of a fourth. His convent was turned into a
hospital; but the more claims we made upon him, the more he exerted
himself to serve us. I could not but smile, when speaking to Doctor
Cabot of his kindness, as the latter, rolling and tossing with fever,
replied, that if the cura had any squint-eyed friends, he could cure
them.
The cura watched the doctor carefully, but without venturing to offer
advice to a medico who could cure biscos, but the third day he alarmed
me by the remark that the expression of the doctor's face was _fatal_.
In Spanish this only means very bad, but it had always in my ears an
uncomfortable sound. The cura added that there were certain indices of
this disease which were mortal, but, happily, these had not yet
exhibited themselves in the doctor. The bare suggestion, however,
alarmed me. I inquired of the cura about the mode of treatment in the
country, and whether he could not prescribe for him. Doctor Cabot had
never seen anything of this disease, particularly as affected by
climate. Besides, he was _hors de combat_ on account of the absence of
our medicine-chest, and in such constant pain and delirium that he was
in no condition to prescribe for himself.
The cura was the temporal as well as spiritual physician of the
village; there were daily applications to him for medicine, and he was
constantly visiting the sick. Doctor Cabot was willing to put himself
entirely into his hands, and he administered a preparation which I
mention for the benefit of future travellers who may be caught without
a medicine-chest. It was a simple decoction of the rind of the sour
orange flavoured with cinnamon and lemon-juice, of which he
administered a tumblerful warm every two hours. At the second draught
the doctor was thrown into a profuse perspiration. For the first time
since his attack the fever left him, and he had an unbroken sleep. On
waking, copious draughts of tamarind water were given; when the fever
came on again the decoction was repeated, with tamarind water in the
intervals. The effect of this treatment was particularly happy, and it
is desirable for strangers to know it, for the sour orange is found in
every part of the country, and from what we saw of it then and
afterward, it is, perhaps, a better remedy for fever in that climate
than any known in foreign pharmacy.
The village of Ticul, to which we were thus accidentally driven, was
worthy of the visit, once in his life, of a citizen of New-York. The
first time I looked upon it from the balcony of the convent, it struck
me as the perfect picture of stillness and repose. The plaza was
overgrown with grass; a few mules, with their fore feet hoppled, were
pasturing upon it, and at long intervals a single horseman crossed it.
The balcony of the convent was on a level with the tops of the houses,
and the view was of a great plain, with houses of one story, flat
roofs, high garden walls, above which orange, lemon, and plantain trees
were growing, and, after the loud ringing of the matin and vesper bell
was over, the only noise was the singing of birds. All business or
visiting was done early in the morning or toward evening; and through
the rest of the day, during the heat, the inhabitants were within
doors, and it might almost have passed for a deserted village.
Like all the Spanish villages, it was laid out with its plaza and
streets running at right angles, and was distinguished among the
villages of Yucatan for its casas de piedra, or stone houses. These
were on the plaza and streets adjoining; and back, extending more than
a mile each way, were the huts of the Indians. These huts were
generally plastered, enclosed by stone fences, and imbowered among
trees, or, rather, overgrown and concealed by weeds. The population was
about five thousand, of which about three hundred families were
vecinos, or white people, and the rest Indians. Fresh meat can be
procured every day; the tienda grande, or large store of Guzman, would
not disgrace Merida. The bread is better than at the capital.
Altogether, for appearance, society, and conveniences of living, it is
perhaps the best village in Yucatan, and famous for its bull-fights and
the beauty of its Mestiza women.
The church and convent occupy the whole of one side of the plaza. Both
were built by the Franciscan monks, and they are among the grandest of
those gigantic buildings with which that powerful order marked its
entrance into the country. They stand on a stone platform about four
feet high and several hundred feet in front. The church was large and
sombre, and adorned with rude monuments and figures calculated to
inspire the Indians with reverence and awe. In one place, in a niche in
the wall, was a funeral urn, painted black, with a white streak around
the top, which contains the ashes of a lady of the village. Under it
was a monument with this inscription:
iHombres!
He aqui el termino de nuestros afanes;
La muerte, tierra, nada.
* * *
En esta urna reposan los restos de Dna Loretta Lara,
Muger caritativa, y esposa fiel, madre tierna,
prudente y virtuosa.
* * *
iMortales!
Al Senor dirigamos por ella nuestras preces.
Fallecio
El 29 de Novembre del ano 1830, a los 44 de su edad.
* * * * *
iO Man!
Behold the end of our troubles--
Death, Earth, Nothing.
* * *
In this urn repose the remains of Dna Loretta Lara,
A charitable woman, faithful wife, and tender mother,
prudent and virtuous.
* * *
iMortals!
To the Lord let us direct our prayers for her.
She died
The 29th of November, in the year 1830, aged 44.
One of the altars was decorated with human skulls and cross-bones, and
in the rear of the church was a great charnel-house. It was enclosed by
a high stone wall, and was filled with a collection of skulls and
bones, which, after the flesh had decayed, had been dug up from the
graves in the cemetery of the church.
The convent is connected with the church by a spacious corridor. It is
a gigantic structure, built entirely of stone, with massive walls, and
four hundred feet in length. The entrance is under a noble portico,
with high stone pillars, from which ascends a broad stone staircase to
a spacious corridor twenty feet wide. This corridor runs through the
whole length of the building, with a stone pavement, and is lighted in
two places by a dome. On each side are cloisters, once occupied by a
numerous body of Franciscan friars. The first two and principal of
these cloisters on the left are occupied by the cura, and were our
home. Another is occupied by one of his ministros, and in the fourth
was an old Indian making cigars. The rest on this side are unoccupied,
and on the right, facing the great garden of the convent, all the
cloisters are untenanted, dismantled, and desolate; the doors and
windows are broken, and grass and weeds are growing out of the floors.
The garden had once been in harmony with the grandeur and style of the
convent, and now shares its fortunes. Its wells and fountains,
parterres and beds of flowers, are all there, but neglected and running
to waste, weeds, oranges, and lemons growing wildly together, and our
horses were turned into it loose, as into a pasture.
Associated in my mind with this ruined convent, so as almost to form
part of the building, is our host, the pride and love of the village,
the cura Carillo. He was past forty, tall and thin, with an open,
animated, and intelligent countenance, manly, and at the same time
mild, and belonged to the once powerful order of Franciscan friars, now
reduced in this region to himself and a few companions. After the
destruction of the convent at Merida, and the scattering of the friars,
his friends procured for him the necessary papers to enable him to
secularize, but he would not abandon the brotherhood in its waning
fortunes, and still wore the long blue gown, the cord, and cross of the
Franciscan monks. By the regulations of his order, all the receipts of
his curacy belonged to the brotherhood, deducting only forty dollars
per month for himself. With this pittance, he could live and extend
hospitality to strangers. His friends urged him to secularize, engaging
to procure for him a better curacy, but he steadily refused; he never
expected to be rich, and did not wish to be; he had enough for his
wants, and did not desire more. He was content with his village and
with the people; he was the friend of everybody, and everybody was his
friend; in short, for a man not indolent, but, on the contrary,
unusually active both in mind and body, he was, without affectation or
parade, more entirely contented with his lot than any man I ever knew.
The quiet and seclusion of his village did not afford sufficient
employment for his active mind, but, fortunately for science and for
me, and strangely enough as it was considered, he had turned his
attention to the antiquities of the country. He could neither go far
from home, nor be absent long, but he had visited every place within
his reach, and was literally an enthusiast in the pursuit. His friends
smiled at this folly, but, in consideration of his many good qualities,
excused it. There was no man in the country whom we were so well
pleased to meet, and as it was a rare thing for him to associate with
persons who took the slightest interest in his hobby, he mourned that
he could not throw up all his business and accompany us in our
exploration of the ruins.
It is worthy of remark, that even to a man so alive to all subjects of
antiquarian interest, the history of the building of this convent is
entirely unknown. In the pavement of the great corridor, in the
galleries, walls, and roof, both of the church and convent, are stones
from ancient buildings, and no doubt both were constructed with
materials furnished by the ruined edifices of another race, but when,
or how, or under what circumstances, is unknown. On the roof the cura
had discovered, in a situation which would hardly have attracted any
eyes but his own, a square stone, having roughly engraved on it this
inscription:
26
Marzo,
1625.
Perhaps this had reference to the date of the construction, and if so,
it is the only known record that exists in relation to it; and the
thought almost unavoidably occurs, that where such obscurity exists in
regard to a building constructed by the Spaniards but little more than
two hundred years ago, how much darker must be the cloud that hangs
over the ruined cities of the aborigines, erected, if not ruined,
before the conquest.
Daring the first days of my convalescence I had a quiet and almost
mournful interest in wandering about this venerable convent. I passed,
too, some interesting hours in looking over the archives. The books had
a time-worn aspect, with parchment covers, tattered and worm-eaten. In
some places the ink had faded, and the writing was illegible. They were
the records of the early monks written by their own hands, and
contained a register of baptisms and marriages, including, perhaps, the
first Indian who assented to these Christian rites. It was my hope to
find in these archives some notice, however slight, of the
circumstances under which the early fathers set up the standard of the
cross in this Indian town, but the first book has no preamble or
introduction of any kind, commencing abruptly with the entry of a
marriage.
This entry bears date in 1588, but forty or fifty years after the
Spaniards established themselves in Merida. This is thirty-eight years
anterior to the date on the stone before referred to, but it is
reasonable to suppose that the convent was not built until some time
after the beginning of the archives. The monks doubtless commenced
keeping a register of baptisms and marriages as soon as there were any
to record, but as they were distinguished for policy and prudence as
well as zeal, it is not likely that they undertook the erection of this
gigantic building until they had been settled in the country long
enough to understand thoroughly its population and resources, for these
buildings had not only to be erected, but to be kept up, and their
ministers supported by the resources of the district. Besides, the
great churches and convents found in all parts of Spanish America were
not built by means of funds sent from Spain, but by the labour of the
Indians themselves, after they were completely subdued and compelled to
work for the Spaniards, or, more generally, after they had embraced
Christianity, when they voluntarily erected buildings for the new
worship and its ministers. It is not probable that either of these
events occurred in this interior village so early as 1588.
These first entries are of the marriage, or rather marriages, of two
widowers and two widows--X. Diego Chuc with Maria Hu, and Zpo-Bot with
Cata Keul. In running over the archives, it appeared, I found, that
there was in those days an unusual number of widowers and widows
disposed to marry again, and, in fact, that the business of this kind
was in a great measure confined to them; but probably, as the relation
of husband and wife was not very clearly defined among the Indians,
these candidates for Christian matrimony had only parted from former
companions, and, through the charity or modesty of the monks, were
called widowers and widows.
The first baptisms are on the twentieth of November, 1594, when
considerable business seems to have been done. There are four entries
on that day, and, in looking over the pages, from my acquaintance with
the family I was struck with the name of Mel Chi, probably an ancestor
of our Chaipa Chi. This Mel seems to have been one of the pillars of
the padres, and a standing godfather for Indian babies.
There was no instruction to be derived from these archives, but the
handwriting of the monks, and the marks of the Indians, seemed almost
to make me a participator in the wild and romantic scenes of the
conquest; at all events, they were proof that, forty or fifty years
after the conquest, the Indians were abandoning their ancient usages
and customs, adopting the rites and ceremonies of the Catholic Church,
and having their children baptized with Spanish names.