Atlantic Monthly Vol. 6, No. 33, July, 1860 by Various

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Our mules pricked forward their ears at the welcome sight, and we
trotted briskly over the plain, and, as usual, straight to the
_cabildo_,--a newly constructed edifice of canes plastered with mud,
but, for a tropical country, suffering under the slight defect of
having no windows or aperture for ventilation besides the door. The
drum brought us the most attentive of _alguazils_, and we fared by no
means badly in San Juan; that is to say, we had plenty of milk and
eggs.

When supper was over, H. lighted a pine splinter, and put on record
his "Observations on the Standard of Measurement in Honduras," which
I am allowed to copy for the information of travellers.

"Distances here are computed by what may be called Long Measure.
League is a vague term, and, like _x_ in an algebraic equation,
stands for an unknown quantity. It may mean ten miles, more or
less,--any distance, in fact, over five miles. The unit of measure,
as fixed by law, is _estamos aqui_, (here we are,) which is a mile
and a half; _hay no masita_ (a little less than nothing) is five
miles; _hay no mas_ (there is no more) is ten miles; and _muy cerca_
(very near) is a hard day's journey. As regards spirituous liquors, a
_trago_ of brandy, or 'a drink,' is whatever may be in the bottle, be
the same large or small, and the quantity more or less."

San Juan is insignificant in point of size, but its population seems
to be well to do in the world, in the relative sense in which that
term is to be interpreted in Central America. Here we found that the
river forks,--the principal branch, however, which retains the name
of Goascoran, still preserving its general course north and south.
The smaller branch, called Rio de San Juan, descends from high
mountains to the westward, having its rise, we were told, near the
secluded Indian _pueblos_ of Similaton and Opotoro. We found the
elevation of San Juan to be nine hundred feet above the sea,--an
altitude sufficiently great, combined with the proximity of the
Cordilleras, to give it a generally cool and delightful climate. The
change in temperature from that of the sea-coast, however, is less
marked than the change in scenery and vegetation. It is true, we find
the ever-graceful palm, the orange, plantain, and other tropical
fruit-trees; but the country is no longer loaded down with forests.
It spreads out before the traveller in a succession of swelling hills
and level savannas, clothed with grass, and clumped over with pines,
and miniature parks of deciduous trees, sufficiently open to permit
cattle and horsemen to roam freely in every direction. During the dry
season, however, this open region becomes dry and parched, and the
traveller passing over it then would be apt to pronounce the whole
country sterile and without cultivation. But in little lateral
valleys and _coves_ among the mountains, sheltered from the sun, and
watered by springs or running streams, there are many plantations of
sugar-cane, maize, rice, and other standard products of the tropics,
of unsurpassed luxuriance. We sometimes came on these green places
unexpectedly, far away from any habitation, and all the more gem-like
and beautiful from their rough setting of sere savanna and rugged
mountain.

We left San Juan early in the morning, crossing to the left bank of
the river, still a noble stream, a hundred and fifty feet broad, and
pure as crystal. A government _tambo_, or _rancho_, opposite the
town, on the bank, indicated that even here the river was sometimes
unfordable. Hence the construction of this public shelter for
travellers obliged to wait for the subsidence of the waters. These
government _ranchos_ are common on all the roads, in the less
populous parts of the country, or where the towns are widely
separated, and are the refuge of the wayfarer benighted or overtaken
by a storm in his journey. They seldom consist of more than four
forked posts planted in the ground, supporting a roof of _paja_ or
thatch. Occasionally one or two sides are wattled up with canes, or
closed with poles placed closely together. They are usually built
where some spring or stream furnishes a supply of water, and where
there is an open patch of pasturage; and although they afford nothing
beyond shelter, they are always welcome retreats to the weary or
belated traveller. For one, I generally preferred stopping in them to
passing the night in the little villages, where the _cabildos_ are
often dirty and infested with fleas, and where a horrible concert is
kept up by the lean and mangy curs which throughout Central America
disgrace the respectable name of dog. In fact, a large part of the
romance and many of the pleasantest recollections of our adventures
in Honduras are connected with these rude shelters, and with the long
nights which we passed in them, far away in dark valleys, or on
mountain-crests, but always amongst Nature's deepest solitudes.

After crossing the river, our path, with the perversity of all
Spanish roads, instead of following up the valley of the stream,
diverged widely to the right through a cluster or knot of hills, in
which we were involved until we reached a rapid stream called Rio
Guanupalapa, flowing through a narrow gorge, over a wild mass of
stones and boulders. Here we breakfasted, picturesquely enough, and,
resuming our course, soon emerged from the hilly labyrinth on a
series of terraces, falling off like steps to the river on our left.
They had been burned over, and the young grass was sprouting up,
under the freshening influence of the early rain, in a carpet of
translucent green. At a distance of four leagues from San Juan, after
descending from terrace to terrace, we again reached the river, now
flowing through a valley three hundred yards broad, and about fifty
feet below the general level of the adjacent _plateau_. Here we found
another fork in the stream: the principal body of water descending,
as before, from the right, and called Rio Rancho Grande; the smaller
stream, on the left, bearing the name of Rio Chaguiton; and the two
forming the Rio Goascoran. Half a mile beyond the ford is a
collection of three or four huts, called Rancho Grande. Here we
stopped to determine our position. We were now at the foot of the
"divide," and close to the pass, if such existed, of which we were in
search. Immediately in front rose a high peak, destitute of trees,
which the people called _El Volcan_. It had deep breaks or valleys on
either side, evidently those of the streams to which I have alluded.
Outside of these, the mountains, six or eight thousand feet in
height, swept round in a majestic curve. Were there, then, two passes
through the Cordilleras, separated by the conical peak of El Volcan?
or did the great valley of the Goascoran divide here, only to waste
itself away in narrow gorges, leaving a summit too high to be
traversed except by mountain mules?

Strange to say, the occupants of the huts at Rancho Grande could give
us no information on these points, but to all our inquiries only
answered, _"Quien sabe?"_ (Who knows?)--and pointed out to us the
line of the mule-path, winding over the intervening hills and along
the flank of El Volcan. Up to this time we had had comparatively
small experience, and did not quite understand, what we afterwards
came to know too well, that a Spanish road is perfect only when it
runs over the highest and roughest ground that by any possibility may
be selected between two given points.

We did not waste much time with the people of Rancho Grande, but
urged on our mules as rapidly as possible. Turning abruptly to the
right and leaving the _plateau_ behind us, we advanced straight up
the high ridge intervening between the two valleys, and thence in a
zigzag course to the foot of El Volcan, a mass of igneous rock,
protruded through the horizontal sandstone strata,--the gradual
recession of which gives to the country the terraced character to
which I have so often alluded. Leaving our mules here, H. and myself
clambered up amongst rough and angular rocks, strewn in wildest
disorder, to the bare and rugged summit of El Volcan. From this
commanding position the view was unobstructed all the way back to the
Pacific. The whole valley of the river, and line of our
_reconnaissance_, the _Portillo_ of Caridad, the Rock of Goascoran,
the Volcano of Conchagua, and the high islands of the Bay of Fonseca,
were all included in the view. Rancho Grande and the fork of the
river appeared at our feet; and on the right hand and the left,
extending upwards in nearly parallel directions, were the deep
valleys of the rivers Rancho Grande and Chaguiton,--that of the
former clothed with pines, while that of the latter presented only a
succession of savannas, with here and there a group of forest-trees.
Our view to the northward, however, was obstructed by hills and
forests, and our ascent of El Volcan failed to give us a view of the
Pass, which we knew must now be near at hand. We descended,
therefore, and resumed our course,--anxiously, it is true, but with
few of the serious misgivings which had beset us at Caridad.

The path wound around the base of El Volcan, on the level terrace or
shelf from which it springs. As we advanced, we could distinctly
perceive that the valley to our right rose gradually, with a gentle,
but constant grade. At a distance of three miles it had nearly
reached the level of the terrace along which we rode, and at the end
of our fourth mile the terrace and the valley merged into each other,
and the mule-path dipping into the waters of the stream, now reduced
to a sparkling brook, resumed its direction on the opposite bank. We
stopped here, in a natural park of tall pines, and lunched beneath
their shade, drinking only the cool, clear water which murmured among
the mossy stones at our feet. We needed no artificial stimulus; our
spirits were high and buoyant; we had almost traced the
Goascoran to its source; half an hour more must bring us to its
fountain-head,--and then? We knew not exactly what then; but one
thing was certain, that nothing in the form of a hill or mountain
obstructed our advance, for the light, reflected from a clear sky,
streamed horizontally between the tree-trunks in front, while on either
hand the vistas were dark, and the outlines of gigantic mountains could be
discerned towering to mid-heaven.

Half a mile farther on, crossing in the interval a number of little
tributary streams, we came where the pines were more scattered; they
soon disappeared, and we emerged upon an open glade or natural
meadow. A high mountain, dark with forests, rose on our right; on the
left was a long range of grassy hills; but in front all was clear! A
government _rancho_, built under the shade of a couple of tall
fruit-trees, stood in the middle of the savanna, and on its farther edge
were the cane buildings of a cattle-_hacienda_, just visible through
the wealth of plantain-trees by which they were surrounded, while the
cattle themselves were dotted over the intervening space, cropping
the young grass, which here looked brighter and fresher than in the
valley below. Impulsively my mule pricked her ears forward, and broke
into a rapid trot. Soon she stepped across the stream, which we had
followed to its birthplace, now reduced to a trickling rivulet
stealing out from a spring, "an eye of water," (_ojo de agua_,) coyly
hidden away under a clump of trees draped with evergreen vines at the
foot of the neighboring hills. I knew that we were at the "summit";
the faint swell of the savanna, scarcely perceptible to the eye,
which supported the government _rancho_, it was clear, was the
highest point between the two great oceans, and the cool breeze which
fanned our foreheads was the expiring breath of the trade-winds
coming all the way from the Bay of Honduras! My mule halted at the
_rancho_; I threw the bridle over her neck, and went forward on foot;
but I had not proceeded a hundred paces before my attention was
arrested by the cheerful murmur of another little stream, also
descending from the foot of the mountain at our right,--but this
time, after traversing half the width of the savanna, it turned away
suddenly to the north, and with a merry dash and sparkling leap
started off on its journey to the Atlantic! In that direction,
however, a forest of tall pines still shut off the view, and it was
not until I reached the summit of one of the lateral hills that I
could look over and beyond them. Then, for the first time, I saw the
great plain of Comayagua, at a level some hundreds of feet below us,
spreading away for a distance of forty miles, in a rich succession of
savannas and cultivated grounds, dotted with villages, and
intersected by dark waving lines of forest, marking the courses of
the various streams that traverse it like the veins on an out-spread
hand. At its northeastern extremity, its white walls now gleaming
like silver in the sunlight, and anon subdued and distant under the
shadow of a passing cloud, was the city of Comayagua, unmistakable,
from its size, but especially from the imposing mass of its
cathedral, as the principal town of the plain, and the capital of the
Republic. Circling around this great plain, and, with the exception
of only a narrow opening at its northern extremity, literally
shutting it in like an amphitheatre, is a cincture of mountains,
rising to the height of from three to six thousand feet,--a fitting
frame-work for so grand a picture.

I returned slowly to the _rancho_, where my companions were preparing
our encampment, and communicated to them the result of my
observations. Singularly enough, there was no excitement; even H.
forgot to inquire "what was the price of stock." But we took our
dinner in calm satisfaction,--if four _tortillas_, three eggs, six
onions, and a water-melon, the total results of Dolores's foraging
expedition to the cattle-_hacienda_, equally divided between eight
hungry men, can be called a dinner.

We spent the evening, a good part of the night, and the next day
until afternoon, in determining our position and altitude, and in
various explorations in both directions from the summit. We found
that we were distant seventy-eight miles in a right line from La
Union, and (barometrically) 2958 feet above mean-tide in the Pacific.
We afterwards ascertained that the hut in which we passed the night
is called Rancho Chiquito, and that name was accordingly given to
this summit, and to the Pass, as distinguished from another break
through the mountains, to the westward, which we subsequently
discovered and designated as the Pass of Guajoca.

After Rancho Chiquito, the first town which is reached in the plain
of Comayagua, entering it from this direction, is Lamani,--a small
village, it is true, but delightfully situated in an open meadow,
relieved only by fruit-trees and the stems of the _nopal_ or palmated
cactus, which here grows to a gigantic size, frequently reaching the
height of twenty or thirty feet. The _cabildo_ was in a state of
extreme dilapidation, and we called on the first _alcalde_ for better
accommodations. He took us to the house of the _padre_, who was away
from home, and installed us there. It was the best house in the
place, whitewashed, and painted with figures of trees, men, animals,
and birds, all in red ochre, and in a style of art truly archaic. The
_padre's_ two servants, an old woman and her boy, were the sole
occupants of the establishment, and did not appear at all delighted
to see us. According to their account, there was nothing in the
house to eat; they had no _tortillas_, no eggs, no chickens,
_"absolutamente nada"_ (absolutely nothing). All this was affirmed
with the greatest gravity, while a dozen fat fowls were distinctly
visible through the open doorway, perched, for the night, among the
bare limbs of the _jocote_ trees in the court-yard. I pointed them
out to the old woman, and, producing a handful of silver, told her
that we were willing to pay for such as we required.

_"Pero no puedo venderles_." (But I can't sell them.)

"Why?"

_"No puedo"_

Dolores meantime took a stick, knocked three of the finest from their
perches, and quietly wrung their necks. I expected to see the old
dame swoon away, or at least go off in a paroxysm of tears; but,
instead of committing any such civilized folly, she silently took up
her slaughtered innocents, dressed and cooked them, and thanked me
profoundly for the _medio_ each, which I handed her next morning. The
lesson was not lost on us, in our subsequent travels; for we found it
almost universal, that the lower classes are utterly indisposed to
sell their domestic commodities. Their services may be purchased; but
their chickens are above price. When, however, you have helped
yourself, you are astonished to find how ridiculously small a sum
will heal the wound you have made and atone for the loss you have
inflicted.

From Lamani to Comayagua the road is direct, over a slightly
undulating plain, subsiding gently to the north, and traversed nearly
in its centre by the Rio Hanuya, fed by numerous tributaries falling
from the mountains on either hand. We forded it at a distance of ten
miles from Lamani, and were surprised to find it already a large and
deep stream, frequently impassable for days and weeks together,
during the season of rains. Half a mile beyond the ford we came to
the Villa de San Antonio, a considerable place, and, next to the
capital itself and the town of Las Piedras, the largest in the plain.
Here we stopped at the house of the first _alcalde_, who gave us a
cordial reception, and an ample dinner, in a civilized fashion,--that
is to say, we had veritable plates, and knives and forks withal.

In Central America, curiosity is unchecked by our conventional laws,
and the traveller soon ceases to be surprised at any of its
manifestations, however extraordinary. When, therefore, a couple of
dozen spectators, of all ages and both sexes, invaded the house of
our host, and huddled around us while eating, we were in no degree
astonished, but continued our meal as if unconscious of their
presence. One yellow dame, however, was determined not to be ignored,
and insisted on speaking English, of which she had a vocabulary of
four or five words, picked up in her intercourse with American
sailors at the port of Truxillo. We were hungry, and did not much
heed her; whereupon she disappeared, as if piqued, but soon returned
with what she evidently regarded as an irresistible appeal to our
interest, in the shape of a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired child, perhaps
three years old, perfectly naked, but which she placed triumphantly
on the table before us.

_"Mira estos caballeros! son paisanos tuyos, ninito!"_ (See these
gentlemen, child! they are your countrymen!)

"Yes!" ejaculated the brat, to the infinite entertainment of the
spectators, none of whom appeared to discover the slightest
impropriety in the proceeding.

Of course, we had not come all the way to the Villa de San Antonio to
set up our standard of what is moral or amusing; so we laughed also,
and asked the mother to give us the history of the phenomenon. It was
given without circumlocution; and we learned, in most direct phrase,
that Captain ---- of ----, who traded to Truxillo, was responsible
for this early effort towards what H. called "the enlightenment of
the country." So far from feeling ashamed of her _escapade_ with the
Captain, the mother gloried in it, and rather affected a social
superiority over her less fortunate neighbors, in consequence. It is,
however, but right to say, that the freedom with which matters of
this sort are talked about in Central America does not necessarily
imply that the people at large are less virtuous than in other
countries. _Honi soit qui mal y pense_ is a motto universally acted
on; legs are called legs; and even the most delicate relations and
complaints are spoken of and discussed without the slightest attempt
at concealment or periphrasis. It is no doubt true, that marriage is
far from general among the middle and lower classes; and a woman may
live with a man in open concubinage without serious detriment to her
character or position, so long as she remains faithful to him.[1] It
is only when she becomes "light o' love" and indiscriminate in her
conduct, that she is avoided and despised. And although the remark
may sound strangely to American ears, I have no question that this
left-hand compact, on the whole, is here quite as well kept as the
vows which have secured the formal sanction of the law and the
Church.

[Footnote 1: But few statistics relating to this subject are in
existence; but those few quite bear out these observations. According
to the official returns of the District of Amatitlan in Guatemala,
the whole number of births in that Department for the year 1858 was
1394, of which 581 were illegitimate!]

[To be continued.]

THE "CATTLE" TO THE "POET."[Footnote]

How do _you_ know what the cow may know,
As under the tasselled bough she lies,
When earth is a-beat with the life below,
When the orient mornings redden and glow,
When the silent butterflies come and go,--
The dreamy cow with the Juno eyes?

How do _you_ know that she may not know
That the meadow all over is lettered, "Love,"
Or hear the mystic syllable low
In the grasses' growth and the waters' flow?
How do _you_ know that she may not know
What the robin sings on the twig above?

[Footnote: See "The Poet's Friends,"
_Atlantic Monthly_, vol. v., p. 185.]

MORE WORDS ABOUT SHELLEY.

There is a moral or a lesson to be found in the life of almost every
man, the chief duty of a biographer being to set forth and illustrate
this; and a history of the commonest individual, if written truly,
could not fail to be interesting to his fellows; for the feelings and
aspirations of men are pretty much alike all the world over, and the
elements of genius not very unequally distributed through the mass of
mankind,--the thing itself being a development due to circumstances,
very probably, as much as to anything singular in the man. But there
are few good biographies extant; the writers, for the most part,
contenting themselves with superficial facts, refusing or unable to
follow the mind and motive powers of the subject,--or following these
imperfectly. For this reason, they who would read the truest kind of
biographies must turn to those written by men of themselves,--that
is, the autobiographies; and these are, in fact, found to be among
the most attractive specimens of literature in our language, or any
other.

The life of any man is more or less of a mystery to other men, and
one who would write it effectively must have been intimate with him
from his youth onward. When the biography is that of a man of genius,
the difficulty is greatly increased, even to the writer who has been
his life-long familiar; for genius, by the necessity of its being,
implies a departure in a variety of ways from the thoughts and rules
of that regulated existence which is most favorable to the progress
and welfare of men in the mass,--at least, as these are generally
understood. But if the life-long intimacy be wanting in this
instance, the task of the writer is the most difficult of all, and
almost always a failure,--save in some rare case, where the writer
and his subject have been men of a similar stamp.

Few biographies are written by the life-intimates of the dead. In
most instances they are composed as tasks or duties by comparative
strangers; or if now and then by the friends or associates of the
subject, these are very likely the observers of only a part of his
life, the _seri studiorum_ of his latter or middle career, and
unacquainted with that period when the strong lines of character are
formed and the mental tendencies fixed. Boswell's "Life of Johnson"
is considered one of the best performances of its kind in our
language; but it is, after all, only half a biography, as it were. We
have the pensioned and petted life of the rough and contemptuous man
of genius,--whose great renown in English literature, by-the-by, is
owing far more to that garrulous admirer of his than to his own
works,--but we have little or nothing about those days of study or
struggle when he taught and flogged little boys, or felt all the
contumely excited by his shabby habiliments, or knocked down his
publisher, or slept at night with a hungry stomach on a bulkhead in
the company of the poor poet Savage. All the racier and stronger part
of the man's history is slurred over. No doubt he would not encourage
any prying into it, and neither cared to remember it himself nor
wished others to do so. He had a sensitive horror of having his life
written by an ignorant or unfriendly biographer, and even spoke of
the justice of taking such a person's life by anticipation, as they
tell us. Others, feeling a similar horror, and some of them conscious
of the enmities they should leave behind them, have themselves
written the obscurer portions of their own lives, like Hume, Gibbon,
Gifford, Scott, Moore, Southey. These men must have felt, that, even
at best, and with the fairest intentions, the task of the biographer
is full of difficulties, and open to mistakes, uncertainties, and
false conclusions without number.

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