And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace,
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.”
THE VOLCANO AGUA.
Two other Americans, residents of the country, were going and invited me to join them. The liveries wanted three hundred dollars each from us for three saddle mules, a cargo mule and mozo (servant). An old Indian in the country furnished the same for sixty-five dollars each—just about five dollars in gold—which was cheap enough for a four days’ journey to the railroad and back.
It was the intention of our party to start at five o’clock in the morning, as we had to cover forty-eight miles that day in order to reach a decent stopping-place for the night. The old Indian did not show up until nearly six, and he then came very much excited for some one had broken into his stable and stolen a saddle and a couple of bridles. He was able, however, to fit us out in fairly respectable style, and we started on our long and—to me—uncomfortable but never-to-be-forgotten journey. It was just at sunrise and the beauty of the picture as we left the city and climbed the encircling girdle of hills will ever remain with me. I could not refrain from looking back several times at the historic old city with its low buildings and lofty churches which seemed to have such an unusual height. The bells were ringing out the mass and all was quiet, for the traffic had not yet begun in the city. In the distance the great volcano Agua looked down upon the slumbering city from its stately, cloud-flecked cone.
A few drivers of oxen had started their awkward trains for the day’s work. The skill with which these drivers guided, turned, stopped, and started these bulky “critters,” who draw their loads entirely from the yokes attached to their horns, is remarkable. No goad or whip was needed, for a long slim stick, and a shrill, sibilant hiss, seemed all that was necessary to guide them. With heads bowed in submission, these mild-eyed beasts of burden and faithful friends of man seemed to obey the carreteros implicitly except when, once in a while, an unruly one might display a slight perverseness. Then it was a revelation to listen to the blood-curdling blasphemy that poured forth in an unremitting stream from the amber-hued driver’s lips.
For about twenty miles there is a rough carriage road, and many journeyed in vehicles that far in order to avoid as much of the long ride on mules as possible. The scenery is beautiful as the road winds along near a stream for a long distance. We caught many glimpses of domestic scenes in the little huts along the road where the chickens, pigs and dogs seemed as much at home in the house, which usually consists of one room, as any of the human members. One writer gives an account of stopping at one of these huts at night. He says that