We left Chanandaigua early in the morning, for we had a long march before us, and desired to avoid the intense heat of midday as far as possible. The road led most of the way through an almost unbroken forest, interrupted at long intervals by a patch of corn or sugar-cane, with a footpath winding off to some invisible and isolated farmhouse. Except in the towns and villages, I do not remember seeing more than one building during our whole march;—the country seemed uninhabited, and the fat and fertile soil suffered for want of hands to trim its waste luxuriance. Among the strange trees of the forest, the mahogany seemed like an old acquaintance. Those that we saw were about the size of our largest oaks, and closely resembled them in the size and formation of the branches.
We passed this day through one or two small towns, the inhabitants of which came running to the doors to feast their eyes on so unusual a spectacle. Everywhere we were received with shouts of welcome;—even the little children joining in the cry of "los buenos Americanos!" Yet it must be confessed that our appearance was by no means prepossessing;—we looked more like a band of robbers or ragamuffins than the peaceful representatives of the greatest country in the known world, and perhaps owed more to our reals and revolvers than our vanity would have been willing to allow. But whatever may have been the reason, we had no cause to complain of incivility, and the only serious annoyance was the everlasting "poco tiempo." In the mouth of a Spaniard or an Indian these words possess the most perplexing significance. They are a sufficient answer to all complaint or expostulation. They are expected to feed the hungry, to quiet the impatient, and to satisfy the inquisitive. They afford the best possible refuge for indolence and stupidity, and there is reason to fear that as long as the Spaniard retains these words in his vocabulary he will continue to be distinguished for both those vices.
It was by a strange misnomer that we called our driver hombre. He had, to be sure, the outward semblance of a man, but he had no right to such a distinctive title. Curiosity, not that of the monkey, but of the philosopher, is man's most striking characteristic. Instead of defining him as a laughing animal or a cooking animal, I would define him as a curious animal. From this definition our hombre would certainly have been excluded. Of curiosity of any sort he had not, apparently, a single particle, and his intelligence was of the most contracted order. This was just the character for poco tiempo. He understood the uses of the phrase to perfection. If he delayed starting in the morning long after the last of our companions had disappeared, poco tiempo was his ready answer. If he loitered on the road without any assignable reason, when twilight was already stealing upon us, it was still poco tiempo. There was no use in getting into a passion,—in the first place he did not understand English, and if he had he would only have shrugged his shoulders a little more expressively, without losing a jot of his abiding complacency. We at length gave up the contest in despair, and submitted to a fate we could not resist, consoling ourselves with the reflection that an animal, who lived on cheese and sour Indian bread of the consistency of a bullet, must needs be of a very heavy, phlegmatic temper.
At several places by the roadside we found women and children with little tables covered with oranges, coarse brown sugar, lemonade, and bottles of milk. As bottles were apparently difficult to obtain, they were seldom willing to part with them; but rather than lose the sale of the milk, they would follow the cart a long distance, eagerly watching the bottle the whole time, as it rose from a horizontal to an upright position, as if fearful that that too would be swallowed by the voracious Americano. In spite of the intense heat we drank but little water on our journey, preferring to quench our thirst with oranges, of which I sometimes ate, or rather drank, twenty in a single day. They were not only far superior to any ever seen in the States, but surpassed, in almost the same degree, those we had eaten at Rio and Havana, the intensest heat of the tropics being required to bring this fruit to perfection. Of the pineapples I can only say, they seemed more fit to be the food of angels than of men; and if, as some suppose, our character be really affected by the nature of our food, then those who live on the pineapples of the equator must be of all men the most subtilized and ethereal. I am quite satisfied in my own mind the amiable Elia must, some time in his life, have visited Central America, or he never could have written with such feeling and unction on a subject that can be appreciated only by those who have been fortunate enough to enjoy similar opportunities. We travelled this day thirty-six miles, and came late in the evening to Leon. Our clumsy caravan, that seemed sufficiently rude and primitive in the depths of the forest, harmonized still less with the paved streets of a great and splendid city. It was like the relic of a barbarous age, and I could not help thinking that the inhabitants of Leon would regard it with as much curiosity as I had done myself. Yet it produced no greater sensation than a market wagon in Boston or New York,—our hombre drove carelessly along, past long blocks of lofty houses, and under magnificent cathedrals, without a thought of the ludicrous contrast we presented. He stopped at length before a hotel, where a crowd of our companions were already assembled. Some of them had been here several hours; they had eaten their supper, and were now grumbling in good set terms at the imposition that had been practised upon them. In the first place the supper was detestable, and in the second place there was not half enough of it. Putting these two together, and sagely concluding that the case could not be much worse, we determined to try our fortunes in another direction. An American, who had been residing several months in Leon, directed us to a private house, where he said we should be sure to obtain an excellent supper.
This house stood on one corner of the plaza, directly opposite the great cathedral. It presented the same appearance of squalid magnificence to which I have already alluded;—the walls were of stone, and the apartments lofty and spacious, but there were no carpets, no sofas, no mirrors, and no sign of comfort except a netted hammock of twisted grass swung between the corners of what must be called the parlour.
After a long delay, which Ohio bore with provoking good nature, supper was brought in by a fat señora, assisted by a peeping señorita, and displayed upon the rickety little table. The plates were of different patterns,—the cups were without saucers,—the knives without forks,—and, for want of a more convenient seat, Texas was fain to trust himself to the hammock;—but, as Ohio declared, with his mouth full of chicken, and eggs, and frijoles, it was a supper fit for a king; but then, unfortunately, we were no king, but four half-starved Californians. When our chicken, who had doubtless been the lean and hungry Cassius to some Cæsar of the dunghill, had disappeared almost bodily down our throats,—and when the eggs and beans had followed, without at all diminishing our ardour,—we, all at once, turned upon our hostess a look of inquiry mingled with the utmost complacency and benevolence. It was as much as to say, "So far good,—you have made, my dear señora! a very tolerable commencement,—after this little skirmish, we feel ready for the more important engagement that is to follow."
But the señora, looking coldly and ungratefully upon our enthusiasm, replies, that what we have just eaten is really and absolutely our supper, that there is, in fact, not another morsel of food in the house. Slowly and reluctantly we dropped our four reals into the skinny hands of the withered old beldame, and walked back to our hotel a sadder and wiser man.
Having slept very comfortably on the dirty floor of the dining-room, we walked out next morning to see the city. There can hardly be a greater contrast than that between the towns and cities of Central America and those of our own country. The latter are emphatically of to-day,—they have nothing to do with the past, and hardly any thing more to do with the future. If our buildings do not tumble down in the progress of erection, they are almost sure to be removed in a few years to give place to others. But the buildings of Leon seemed to have locked up in them the story of a thousand years, and as if they might live to tell of a thousand years to come. There are no unfinished houses, no piles of stone or lumber blocking up the streets, no sound of the saw, or pleasant tinkling of the mason's hammer. These things may have been some centuries ago, but one would rather suppose the whole city had suddenly sprung from the ground, like Minerva full grown from the head of Jupiter. Yet it has nothing of the warmth, and brilliancy, and fantastic variety of tropical vegetation;—instead of the gaudy kiosk and slender minaret, like bundles of sunbeams converted into stone, which harmonize so well with the glowing regions of the sun, there is nothing but a heavy, cubic monotony, better suited to the snows of Siberia, or Dickens' London fog.
The cathedral is a vast, ungainly structure, built entirely of stone, and with no pretensions to beauty; but being advantageously situated on one side of the great square, with several massive towers, it presents a very imposing and commanding appearance. Ascending to the top by a narrow, winding stairway, in the thickness of the wall, we obtained a grand and extensive prospect. From this elevated island of brick, and stone, and mortar, we overlooked an immense sea of foliage which closed around us on every side, dotted, here and there, with smaller islands, and watched over by the cloud-girdled, pyramidal mountain we had seen in ascending the Realejo, seemingly thrown forward, like a solitary sentinel, in advance of the mighty host behind. We stood on a building, and in the midst of a city belonging to the civilization of the old world, while all around lay the untamed barbarism of the new. The inhabitants of Leon are not Americans, but Europeans, and such as Europe saw two hundred years ago. They have gained nothing of new life and vigour by being transplanted on to this virgin soil, but seem rather to have lost what little they possessed. This country has not proved to them the harsh stepmother that New England was to our Puritan ancestors; but, like a foolish grandam, has spoilt them by her foolish indulgence. The result is that they can do nothing for themselves,—England supplies them with manufactures, and the United States furnish their flour. Their cities, without good roads to connect them with the country and with each other, languish and go out like scattered embers.