first view of the Pacific! What trains of mental pictures have gathered round the records of the early voyagers, the adventurers, the scientific explorers! Strangely enough, the most vividly impressed on my memory was a rough illustration in a child’s book, given to me on my seventh birthday, representing Vasco Nuñez, as, from the summit of the ridge of Darien, he, first of all western men, cast his wondering eyes over the boundless, till then unsuspected, ocean. He has climbed the steep shattered rocks, and, as he gains the crest of the ridge, has grasped a projecting fragment to steady himself on the edge of the dizzy declivity. Even now, after looking on the gently swelling hills, so completely forest-covered that without extensive clearing a distant view would be impossible, I find it hard to believe that that picture does not represent some portion of my actual past experience.
I do not know whether, in connection with the vivid recollection either of actual scenes or illustrations dating from early life, attention has been sufficiently called to the curious tricks which the brain not seldom performs in discharging its function of keeper of the records. In my experience it is common to find, on revisiting after many years a spot of which one believes one’s self to have a vivid and accurate recollection, that the mental picture has undergone some curious changes. The materials of the scene are, so to say, all present, but their arrangement has been unaccountably altered. The torrent, the bridge, the house, the tree, the peak in the background, are all there, but they are not in their right places. The house has somehow got to the wrong side of the torrent, or the peak rises on the right of the tree instead of the left. A picture vividly retained in the mind is one that has been frequently recalled to memory. If at any time, when it has been long dormant, the actual recollection has become somewhat imperfect, the imagination fills up by an effort the incomplete portion. When next summoned by some train of association, the image present to the mind is no longer the original picture, but the altered version of it in the state in which it was left after being last retouched.
GRAND HOTEL OF PANAMA.
In about four hours from Colon we reached the Panama terminus, and found a large waggonette, or roofless omnibus, waiting to convey us to the Grand Hotel. A pair of small ragged horses, rushing at a canter down the steep slopes and scrambling up on the other side over the rough blocks that form the pavement, made our vehicle roll and jolt in a fashion that would have disquieted nervous passengers. It would be difficult to find elsewhere in the world a stranger assemblage than that to be found at the Grand Hotel of Panama. The ground floor, with several large rooms, is occupied day and night for eating, drinking, smoking, and loud discussion by the floating foreign population of the town. At the present time the engineers and other officials connected with the Ship Canal formed the predominant element; but, along with a sprinkling of many other nationalities, the most characteristic groups consisted of refugees from all the republics of Central and South America, who find substantial reasons for quitting their homes, and who resort to Panama as a sanctuary whence some new turn in the wheel of revolution may recall them to some position of distinction and profit.
We were fortunate in having in our company Mr. W – , a gentleman of Polish descent, to whose lively conversation we had owed much information and amusement during the voyage from Southampton. Now the owner of a large estate in Ecuador, he had long known this region, and appeared to be on terms of familiar acquaintance with all the strange visitors gathered in the saloons at Panama, from the ex-President of Peru to the negro head-waiter. The latter, as we learned, was not the least important member of the assemblage. In one of the numerous revolutions at Panama he had played a leading part, and had attained the rank of colonel. His party being then out of office, he had for the time returned to private life, but may possibly at the present day be again an important person in the state.
For the first time since leaving England the heat at Panama during the midday hours was felt to be oppressive, and we were content with a short stroll, which, to any one familiar with old Spain, offered little novelty. Unlike such mushroom spots as Colon, Panama has all the appearance of an old Spanish provincial town. It has suffered less from earthquakes than most of the places on the west coast, and a large proportion of the buildings, including a rather large cathedral, remain as they were built two or three centuries ago.
As the anchorage for large steamers is about three miles from the town, we had an early summons to go on board a small tender that lay alongside of a half-ruined wharf, but were then detained more than an hour, for no apparent reason other than as a tribute to the habits of the population of this region. The time was not wholly wasted, as even the least observant passengers were struck with admiration at the performances of a swarm of small birds, many hundreds in number, that seemed to have selected the space over the shallow water opposite the town for their evolutions. For more than half an hour they continued to whirl in long loops or nearly circular sweeps, with no other apparent motive than the pleasure of the exercise. Seen from a distance, the appearance was that of a wreath; nearer at hand, the arrangement was seen to be constantly varying. Sometimes the birds were so close together that it seemed as if their wings must jostle; sometimes they were drawn out into long curves, looking silvery white when the sun fell upon their breasts, and of a darker tint at other incidences. Mr. W – asserted that the bird is a kind of snipe, but I have no doubt that it is a tern.
BIRDS IN PANAMA BAY.
At last the little tender glided from the wharf, and for the first time we gained a general view of the town, which has a full share of that element of picturesqueness which is so strangely associated with decay. The old ramparts fast crumbling away, here and there rent by earthquakes, and backed by time-stained buildings, would offer many a study to the painter. Sunset was at hand when we reached the steamer Islay, anchored under the lee of one of the small islands of the bay, and were fortunate in finding among the not too numerous passengers several whose society added to the interest of the voyage.
One of the effects of the habitual use of maps on a small scale is that untravelled persons, even though conversant with the facts of geography, feel it difficult to realize the great dimensions of the more distant parts of the world as compared with our diminutive European continent. Thus it came on me with something of surprise that the Bay of Panama is fully a hundred and twenty sea miles across from headland to headland, and that the run from Panama to Callao, which is scarcely one-third of the length of the South American continent, is rather longer than that from Bergen to the Straits of Gibraltar. The case, of course, is much worse with those accustomed to use maps on Mercator’s projection. It profits nothing to explain, even to the most intelligent youth, the nature and amount of the errors involved in that mode of representing a spherical surface on a plane. I verily believe that all the mischief done by the stupidity, ignorance, and perversity of the writers of bad school-books is trifling compared to the amount of false ideas spread through the world by the productions of that respectable Fleming.
The steamers of the Pacific Mail Company employed for the traffic between San Francisco and Valparaiso are as perfectly suited to the peculiar conditions of the navigation as they would be unfit for long sea-voyages in any other part of the world. In the calm waters of this region, rarely ruffled even by a stiff breeze, the fortunate seamen engaged in this service know no hardships from storm or cold. Their only anxiety is from the fogs that at some seasons beset parts of the coast. In each voyage they pass under a vertical sun, but the air and the water are cooler than in any other part of the equatorial zone; and all that is needed for their physical comfort, and that of their passengers, is free ventilation and shade from the sun. These desiderata are fully secured. The main-deck is open to the air, and the steerage passengers, who are encamped amidships and on the fore-deck, are satisfied at night with the amount of privacy secured by hanging some piece of stuff to represent a curtain round each family group. On the upper deck are ranged the state rooms of the first-class passengers, each with a door and window opening seaward. Above this, again, a spar-deck carried flush from stem to stern affords ample opportunity for exercise, and is itself sheltered from the sun by an awning during the hot hours. In such conditions, where merely to breathe is to enjoy, the only danger is that of subsiding into mere lotus-eating. From this I was fortunately preserved by the rather troublesome task of drying in satisfactory condition the plants which I had hastily gathered in
