Having fallen out of favour with Ferdinand V. of Spain (Isabella had died in 1504), Balboa endeavoured to propitiate the king by sending home an envoy with gifts for him, and amongst these presents was the great pearl. The beauty of the jewel was at once recognised; it was named "La Pelegrina," and took its place amongst the treasures of the Spanish Crown. After Ferdinand V.'s death, the great pearl with the other Crown jewels came into the possession of his grandson, the Hapsburg Emperor Charles V., and from Charles "La Pelegrina" descended to his son, Philip II. of Spain. When Philip married Queen Mary Tudor of England, he gave her "La Pelegrina" as a wedding present. The portrait of Queen Mary in the Prado at Madrid, shows her wearing this pearl, so does another one at Hampton Court, and a small portrait in Winchester Cathedral, where her marriage with Philip took place. After Mary's death "La Pelegrina" returned to Spain, and was handed down from sovereign to sovereign until Napoleon in 1808 placed his brother Joseph on the throne of Spain. It was a somewhat unsteady throne, and after many vicissitudes, Joseph fled from Spain in the Spring of 1813. Anticipating some such enforced retirement, Joseph, like a prudent man, had had some of the smaller and more valuable pictures from the Spanish palaces packed in wagons and despatched towards the frontier. These pictures fell into the hands of Wellington's troops at the Battle of Vittoria, and are hanging at this moment in Apsley House, Piccadilly, for Ferdinand VII., on his restoration to the throne, presented them to the Duke of Wellington; or rather, to be quite accurate, "lent" them to the Duke of Wellington and to his successors. Joseph Bonaparte also thoughtfully placed some of the Spanish Crown jewels, including "La Pelegrina," in his pockets, and got away safely with them. Joseph died, and left the great pearl to his nephew, Prince Louis Napoleon, afterwards Napoleon III. When Prince Louis came to London in exile, he brought "La Pelegrina" with him. Prince Louis Napoleon was a close friend of my father's and had been his "Esquire" at the famous Eglinton tournament. The Prince came to see my father one day and confided to him that he was in great pecuniary difficulties. He asked my father to recommend him an honest jeweller who would pay him the price he wanted for "La Pelegrina." He named the price, and drew the great pearl out of his pocket. My father, after examining the jewel and noticing its flawless shape and lustre, silently opened a drawer, drew a cheque, and handed it to Prince Louis without a word. That afternoon my father presented my mother with "La Pelegrina." To my mother it was an unceasing source of anxiety. The pearl had never been bored, and was so heavy that it was constantly falling from its setting. Three times she lost it; three times she found it again. Once at a ball at Buckingham Palace, on putting her hand to her neck, she found that the great pearl had gone. She was much distressed, knowing how upset my father would be. On going into supper, she saw "La Pelegrina" gleaming at her from the folds of the velvet train of the lady immediately in front of her. Again she lost it at Windsor Castle, and it was found in the upholstery of a sofa. As a child, on the rare occasions when "La Pelegrina" came out of its safe, I loved to stroke and smooth its sleek, satin-like sheen. The great pearl somehow fascinated me. When it came into my brother's possession after my father's death, he had "La Pelegrina" bored, though it impaired its value, so my sister-in-law was able to wear the great jewel as often as she wished without running the constant danger of losing it. I liked that distant glimpse of the Pearl Islands, for they were the birthplace of the jewel which had attracted me so curiously as a child.
We returned from Panama by a train after dark. As the night-air from the swamps has the reputation of being deadly, every window in the car was shut. I noticed a dark-skinned citizen of either Peru or Ecuador in some difficulties with the conductor, owing to his lack of knowledge of English. The Peruvian pulled up a window (up on the American Continent, not down as with us) and sat in the full draught of the night-air. A pleasant young Irishman named Martin, a near relative of the Miss Martin who collaborated with Miss Somerville in the inimitable Experiences of an Irish R.M. noticed this. "By Gad! that fellow will get fever if he sits in the draught from the swamps. I'll go and warn him." I told Martin that the South American spoke no English. "That's all right," cried Martin. "I speak a little Spanish myself." Taking a seat by the Peruvian, Martin tapped him on the shoulder to secure his attention, pointed a warning finger at the open window, and said slowly but impressively, in a strong Co. Galway accent, "Swamp—o, mustn't-sit-in-draught—o; sit-in-draught—o, get-chill—o; get-chill—o, catch-fever—o; catch-fever—o, damned-ill —o; damned-ill—o, die—o." He repeated this twice, and upon the Peruvian turning a blank look of incomprehension at him, returned to his place saying, "I don't believe that fellow understands one single word of Spanish," so I went myself and warned the Peruvian in Spanish of the risk he was running, and he closed the window. I do not know whether he suffered for his imprudence, but Martin was down next day with a sharp bout of fever.
Martin next announced that the Southern Cross had gone stark, staring mad, and had moved round by mistake to the North. We were travelling from the Pacific to the Atlantic, therefore presumably going from West to East, and there, through the window, sure enough was that much-overrated constellation, the Southern Cross, shining away gaily in the North. Upon reflexion, it seemed unreasonable to suppose that the Southern Cross could have so far forgotten its appointed place in the heavens, the points of the compass, and the very obligations its name imposed upon it, as to establish itself deliberately in the North: there must be some mistake somewhere. So we got a map, and discovered, to our amazement, that, though Colon is on the Atlantic and Panama on the Pacific, yet Colon is West of Panama, owing to the kink in the Isthmus at this point. The railway from the Pacific runs North-west to the Atlantic, though at this particular part of the line we were travelling due West, so the Southern Cross was right after all, and we were wrong.
The track from ocean to ocean seemed to be lined with one continuous street of wooden stores, eating-houses, and dance-halls, all erected for the benefit of the workers on the canal, and all alike blazing with paraffin lamps. It was like one continuous fair, but the kindly night masked the endless cemeteries.
We bought in Colon a little book of verse entitled Panama Patchwork. It was the work of an American, James Stanley Gilbert, who had lived for six years on the Isthmus, and had seen most of his friends die there. Gilbert's lines have, therefore, a certain excusable tinge of morbidity, as, for example:
"Beyond the Chagres River
Are paths that lead to death:
To fever's deadly breezes,
To malaria's poisonous breath."
I refrain from quoting others which are really too gruesome to reproduce, but I like his welcome to the Trade wind, the boisterous advent of which announces the end of the very unhealthy wet season, and a brief spell of dry weather. It must be remembered that the author was unused to the pen:
"Blow thou brave old Trade wind, blow!
Send the mighty billows flashing
In the radiant sunlight, dashing
O'er the reef, like thunder crashing,
Blow thou brave old Trade wind, blow!"
One can almost hear the great seas thundering on the coral reefs in reading these lines, and can see in imagination the nodding cocoanut palms bending their pliant green heads to the life-giving Trades.
It is curious the different terms used for these continuous winds: we call them "Trade winds"; the French, "Vents alizes"; the Germans, "Passatwinde"; the Spanish "Vientos generates." All quite different.