Deep in the interior of the American Continent--more than a thousand
miles from the shores of any sea--lies our scene.
Climb with me yonder mountain, and let us look from its summit of snow.
We have reached its highest ridge. What do we behold?
On the north a chaos of mountains, that continues on through thirty
parallels to the shores of the Arctic Sea! On the south, the same
mountains,--here running in separate sierras, and there knotting with
each other. On the west, mountains again, profiled along the sky, and
alternating with broad tables that stretch between their bases.
Now turn we around, and look eastward. Not a mountain to be seen! Far
as the eye can reach, and a thousand miles farther, not a mountain.
Yonder dark line rising above the plain is but the rocky brow of another
plain--a _steppe_ of higher elevation.
Where are we? On what summit are we standing? On the Sierra Blanca,
known to the hunter as the "Spanish Peaks." We are upon the western rim
of the _Grand Prairie_.
Looking eastward, the eye discovers no signs of civilisation. There
_are_ none within a month's journeying. North and south,--mountains,
mountains.
Westward, it is different. Through the telescope we can see cultivated
fields afar off,--a mere strip along the banks of a shining river.
Those are the settlements of Nuevo Mexico, an oasis irrigated by the Rio
del Norte. The scene of our story lies not there.
Face once more to the eastward, and you have it before you. The
mountain upon which we stand has its base upon a level plain that
expands far to the east. There are no foot-hills. The plain and the
mountain touch, and at a single step you pass from the naked turf of the
one to the rocky and pine-clad declivities of the other.
The aspect of the plain is varied. In some places it is green, where
the gramma-grass has formed a sward; but in most parts it is sterile as
the Sahara. Here it appears brown, where the sun-parched earth is bare;
there it is of a sandy, yellowish hue; and yonder the salt effervescence
renders it as white as the snow upon which we stand.
The scant vegetation clothes it not in a livery of verdure. The leaves
of the agave are mottled with scarlet, and the dull green of the cactus
is still further obscured by its thickly-set spines. The blades of the
yuccas are dimmed by dust, and resemble clusters of half-rusty bayonets;
and the low scrubby copses of acacia scarce offer a shade to the dusky
_agama_ and the ground rattlesnake. Here and there a solitary palmetto,
with branchless stem and tufted crown, gives an African aspect to the
scene. The eye soon tires of a landscape where every object appears
angular and thorny; and upon this plain, not only are the trees of that
character, but the plants,--even the _very_ grass carries its thorns!
With what sensations of pleasure we turn to gaze into a lovely valley,
trending eastward from the base of the mountain! What a contrast to the
arid plain! Its surface is covered with a carpet of bright green,
enamelled by flowers that gleam like many-coloured gems; while the
cotton-wood, the wild-china-tree, the live-oak, and the willow, mingle
their foliage in soft shady groves that seem to invite us. Let us
descend!
We have reached the plain, yet the valley is still far beneath us--a
thousand feet at the least--but, from a promontory of the bluff
projecting over it, we command a view of its entire surface to the
distance of many miles. It is a level like the plain above; and gazing
down upon it, one might fancy it a portion of the latter that had sunk
into the earth's crust, so as to come within the influence of a
fertilising power denied to the higher region.
On both sides of it, far as the eye can reach, run the bordering cliffs,
stepping from one level to the other, by a thousand feet sheer, and only
passable at certain points. There is a width of ten miles from cliff to
cliff; and these, of equal height, seem the counterparts of each other.
Their grim savage fronts, overhanging the soft bright landscape of the
valley, suggest the idea of a beautiful picture framed in rough
oak-work.
A stream, like a silver serpent, bisects the valley--not running in a
straight course, but in luxuriant windings, as though it loved to tarry
in the midst of that bright scene. Its frequent curves and gentle
current show that it passes over a surface almost plane. Its banks are
timbered, but not continuously. Here the timber forms a wide belt,
there only a fringe scarce shadowing the stream, and yonder the grassy
turf can be distinguished running in to the very water's edge.
Copse-like groves are scattered over the ground. These are of varied
forms; some perfectly circular, others oblong or oval, and others
curving like the cornucopias of our gardens. Detached trees meet the
eye, whose full round tops show that Nature has had her will in their
development. The whole scene suggests the idea of some noble park,
planted by design, with just timber enough to adorn the picture without
concealing its beauties.
Is there no palace, no lordly mansion, to correspond? No. Nor palace
nor cottage sends up its smoke. No human form appears within this wild
paradise. Herds of deer roam over its surface, the stately elk reposes
within the shade of its leafy groves, but no human being is there.
Perhaps the foot of man never--
Stay! there is one by our side who tells a different tale. Hear him.
"That is the valley of San Ildefonso." Wild though it appears, it was
once the abode of civilised man. Near its centre you may note some
irregular masses scattered over the ground. But for the trees and rank
weeds that cover them, you might there behold the ruins of a city.
"Yes! on that spot once stood a town, large and prosperous. There was a
_Presidio_ with the flag of Spain flying from its battlements; there was
a grand Mission-house of the Jesuit padres; and dwellings of rich miners
and `hacendados' studded the valley far above and below. A busy
populace moved upon the scene; and all the passions of love and hate,
ambition, avarice, and revenge, have had existence there. The hearts
stirred by them are long since cold, and the actions to which they gave
birth are not chronicled by human pen. They live only in legends that
sound more like romance than real history.
"And yet these legends are less than a century old! One century ago,
from the summit of yonder mountain could have been seen, not only the
settlement of San Ildefonso, but a score of others--cities, and towns,
and villages--where to-day the eye cannot trace a vestige of
civilisation. Even the names of these cities are forgotten, and their
histories buried among their ruins!
"The Indian has wreaked his revenge upon the murderers of Moctezuma!
Had the Saxon permitted him to continue his war of retaliation, in one
century more--nay, in half that time--the descendants of Cortez and his
conquerors would have disappeared from the land of Anahuac!
"Listen to the `Legend of San Ildefonso'!"