Browne John Ross
Crusoe's Island: A Ramble in the Footsteps of Alexander Selkirk
Not long after Mr. Dana's visit this settlement was entirely broken up. The houses and fortifications were destroyed by an earthquake, and the penal establishment was discontinued.
From time to time, up to the present date, there have been straggling settlers on this island, but there has been no attempt since 1835 to colonize it permanently until recently. It has been occasionally visited by vessels of different nations for supplies of wood and water, and such vegetable productions as the valleys afford. American whalers have found it a very convenient stopping-place in their cruisings on the coast of Chili and Peru; but of late years, the whales becoming scarce in these seas, they are forced to push their voyages into more remote regions. Many still touch there, however, on their way to and from the northern coast.
At the time of the writer's visit to Juan Fernandez (May, 1849), the gold excitement had but recently broken out, and vessels bound to California had just commenced making it a place of resort for refreshments in their outward voyages. Since that period, it is stated in the newspapers that an enterprising American has taken the island on lease from the Chilian government, and established a settlement upon it of a hundred and fifty Tahitians, with the design of cultivating the earth, and furnishing vessels touching there with supplies of fruit and vegetables.
CHAPTER XXVI.
ALEXANDER SELKIRK AND ROBINSON CRUSOE
It is stated in Howel's life of Selkirk that the singular history of this man (Alexander Selkirk) was soon made known to the public, and immediately after his arrival in London he became an object of curiosity, not only to the people at large, but to those elevated by rank and learning. Sir Richard Steele, some time after, devoted to him an article in the paper entitled "The Englishman," in which he tells the reader that, as Selkirk is a man of good sense, it is a matter of great curiosity to hear him give an account of the different revolutions of his mind during the term of his solitude. "When I first saw him," continues this writer, "I thought, if I had not been let into his character and story, I could have discovered that he had been much separated from company, from his aspect and gesture; there was a strong but cheerful seriousness in his look, and a certain disregard of the ordinary things around him, as if he had been sunk in thought. In the course of a few months," as it appears by the same writer, "familiar converse with the town had taken off the loneliness of his aspect, and quite altered the expression of his face."
"De Foe's romance of Robinson Crusoe was not published till the year 1719, when the original facts on which it was founded must have been nearly forgotten. There is no record of any interview having taken place between Selkirk and De Foe, so that it can not be decided whether De Foe learned our hero's story from his own mouth, or from such narratives as those published by Steele and others."
On this point a biographer of De Foe remarks: "Astonishing as was the success of De Foe's romance, it did not deter the curious from attempting to disparage it. The materials, it was said, were either furnished by or surreptitiously obtained from Alexander Selkirk, a mariner who had resided for four years on the desert island of Juan Fernandez, and returned to England in 1711. Very probably his story, which then excited considerable interest and attention, did suggest to De Foe the idea of writing his romance; but all the details and incidents are entirely his own. Most certainly De Foe had obtained no papers or written documents from Selkirk, as the latter had none to communicate."
Robinson Crusoe, however, can not be considered altogether a work of fiction. Without adhering strictly to the actual adventures of Selkirk, or of the Musquito Indian who preceded him, it gives, in the descriptions of scenery, the mode of providing food, the rude expedients resorted to for shelter against the weather, and all the trials and consolations of solitude, a faithfully-drawn picture from these narratives, and a most truthful and charming delineation of solitary life, with such reflections as the subject naturally suggested. De Foe was the great medium through which the spirit of the whole was fused; it required the splendor of his genius to preserve from oblivion the lessons therein taught – of the advantages of temperance, fortitude, and, above all, an implicit reliance in the wisdom and mercy of the Creator. He presents them in a most fascinating garb, with all the originality of a master-mind; and it detracts nothing from his credit to say that the pictures are drawn strictly from nature.
As Captain Rodgers well observes in his simple narrative of the adventures of Selkirk, "One may see by this that solitude and retirement from the world is not such an insufferable state of life as most men imagine, especially when people are fairly called or thrown into it unavoidably, as this man was; who, in all probability, must otherwise have perished in the seas, the ship which left him being cast away not long after, and few of the company escaped. We may perceive by this story that necessity is the mother of invention, since he found means to supply his wants in a very natural manner, so as to maintain his life, though not so conveniently, yet as effectually as we are able to do with all our arts and society. It may likewise instruct us how much a plain and temperate way of living conduces to the health of the body and the vigor of the mind, both of which we are apt to destroy by excess and plenty, especially of strong liquor, and the variety as well as the nature of our meat and drink; for this man, when he came to our ordinary method of diet and life, though he was sober enough, lost much of his strength and agility."
De Foe does not, as may be seen by reference to the fourth section of "Robinson Crusoe," lay the scene of his narrative in Juan Fernandez. Robinson starts from the Brazils, where he has been living as a planter, on a voyage to the coast of Guinea. Driven to the northward along the coast of South America by heavy gales, the captain of the vessel found himself "upon the coast of Guinea, or the north part of Brazil, beyond the River Amazon, toward that of the River Oronoco, commonly called the Great River; and began to consult with me," says Robinson, "what course he should take, for the ship was leaky and very much disabled, and he was for going directly back to the coast of Brazil. I was positively against that; and looking over the charts of the sea-coast of America with him, we concluded there was no inhabited country for us to have recourse to till we came within the circle of the Caribbee Islands, and therefore resolved to stand away for Barbadoes; which, by keeping off to sea, to avoid the indraught of the Bay or Gulf of Mexico, we might easily perform, as we hoped, in about fifteen days' sail; whereas we could not possibly make our voyage to the coast of Africa without some assistance both to our ship and ourselves.
"With this design we changed our course, and steered away N.W. by W. in order to reach some of our English islands, where I hoped for relief; but our voyage was otherwise determined; for, being in the latitude of 12° 18´, a second storm came upon us, which carried us away with the same impetuosity westward, and drove us so out of the very way of all human commerce, that, had our lives been saved as to the sea, we were rather in danger of being devoured by savages than ever returning to our own country.
"In this distress, the wind still blowing very hard, one of our men early in the morning cried out Land! and we had no sooner run out of the cabin to look out, in hopes of seeing whereabouts in the world we were, but the ship struck upon a sand, and in a moment her motion being so stopped, the sea broke over her in such a manner that we expected we should all have perished immediately; and we were immediately driven into our close quarters to shelter us from the very foam and spray of the sea."
It will be seen from the above that Robinson Crusoe was not wrecked on the island of Juan Fernandez. In all probability he never saw that island. I regret the fact as much as any body can regret it, because I always thought so till I referred more particularly to his history; but a due regard for truth compels me to give the facts as I find them.
"The History of Robinson Crusoe," says the biographer of De Foe, already quoted, "was first published in the year 1719, and its popularity may be said to have been established immediately, since four editions were called for in about as many months, a circumstance at that time almost unprecedented in the annals of literature. It rarely happens that an author's expectations are surpassed by the success of his work, however astonishing it may seem to others; yet perhaps even De Foe himself did not venture to look forward to such a welcome on the part of the public, after the repulses he had experienced on the part of the booksellers; for, incredible as it now appears, the manuscript of the work had been offered to, and rejected by, every one in the trade.
"The author of Robinson Crusoe would be entitled to a prominent place in the history of our literature even had he never given to the world that truly admirable production; and yet we may reasonably question whether the name of De Foe would not long ago have sunk into oblivion, or at least have been known, like those of most of his contemporaries, only to the curious student, were it not attached to a work whose popularity has been rarely equaled – never, perhaps, excelled. Even as it is, the reputation due to the writer has been nearly altogether absorbed in that of his hero, and in the all-engrossing interest of his adventures: thousands who have read Robinson Crusoe with delight, and derived from it a satisfaction in no wise diminished by repeated perusal, have never bestowed a thought on its author, or, indeed, regarded it in the light of a literary performance. While its fascination has been universally felt, the genius that conceived it, the talent that perfected it, have been generally overlooked, merely because it is so full of nature and reality as to exhibit no invention or exertion on the part of the author, inasmuch as he appears simply to have recorded what actually happened, and consequently only to have committed to paper plain matter of fact, without study or embellishment. We wonder at and are struck with admiration by the powers of Shakspeare or Cervantes; with regard to De Foe we experience no similar feeling: it is not the skill of the artist that enchants us, but the perfect naturalness of the picture, which is such that we mistake it for a mirror; so that every reader persuades himself that he could write as well, perhaps better, were he but furnished with the materials for an equally interesting narrative."
A DANGEROUS JOURNEY
CHAPTER I.
THE CANNIBAL
In the summer of 1849 I had occasion to visit San Luis Obispo, a small town about two hundred and fifty miles south of San Francisco. At that time no steamers touched at the Embarcadera, and but little dependence could be placed upon the small sailing craft that occasionally visited that isolated part of the coast. The trail through the Salinas and Santa Marguerita valleys was considered the only reliable route, though even that was not altogether as safe as could be desired. A portion of the country lying between the Old Mission of Soledad and San Miguel was infested by roving bands of Sonoranians and lawless native Californians. Several drovers, who had started from San Francisco by this route to purchase cattle on the southern ranches, had never reached their destination. It was generally believed that they had been murdered on the way. Indeed, in two instances, this fact was established by the discovery of the mutilated remains of the murdered men. No clew could be obtained to the perpetrators of the deed, nor do I know that any legal measures were taken to find them. At that period the only laws existing were those administered by the alcaldes, under the Mexican system, which had been temporarily adopted in connection with the provisional government established by General Riley. The people generally were too deeply interested in the development of the gold regions to give themselves much concern about the condition of other parts of the country, and the chances of bringing criminals to punishment in the southern districts were very remote.
My business was connected with the revenue service. A vessel laden with foreign goods had been wrecked on the coast within a short distance of San Luis. It was necessary that immediate official inquiry should be made into the circumstances, with a view of securing payment of duties upon the cargo. I was also charged with a commission to establish a line of post-offices on the land-route to Los Angeles, and enter into contracts for the carrying of the mails.
By the advice of some friends in San Francisco, I purchased a fine-looking mule recently from the Colorado. The owner, a Texan gentleman, assured me that he had never mounted a better animal; and, so far as I was capable of judging, the recommendation seemed to be justly merited. I willingly paid him his price – three hundred dollars. Next day, having provided myself with a good pair of blankets, a few pounds of coffee, sugar, and hard bread, and a hunting-knife and tin cup, I bade adieu to my friends and set out on my journey. A tedious voyage of six months around Cape Horn had given me a peculiar relish for shore-life. There was something very pleasant in the novelty of the scenery and the inspiring freshness of the air. The rush of emigrants from all parts of the world; the amusing scenes along the road; the free, social, and hopeful spirit which prevailed among all classes; the clear, bright sky, and wonderful richness of coloring that characterized the atmosphere, all contributed to produce the most agreeable sensations. It was a long and rather hazardous journey I had undertaken, and it would doubtless be very lonesome after passing San Jose; but the idea of depending solely on my own resources, and becoming, in some sort, an adventurer in an almost unknown country, had something in it irresistibly captivating to one of my roving disposition. I had traveled through Texas under nearly similar circumstances, and enjoyed many pleasant recollections of the trip. There is a charm about this wild sort of life, the entire freedom from restraint, the luxury of fresh air, the camp under the trees, with a bright fire and a canopy of stars overhead, that, once experienced, can never be forgotten.
Nothing of importance occurred till the evening of the fourth day. I met crowds of travelers all along the road, singing and shouting in sheer exuberance of spirit; and not unfrequently had some very pleasant and congenial company, bound either to the mines or in search of vacant government land for the location of claims. The road through the valleys of Santa Clara and San Jose was perfectly enchanting, winding through oak groves, and fields of wild oats and flowers; and nothing could exceed the balminess of the air. Indeed, the whole country seemed to me more like a succession of beautiful parks, in which each turn of the road might bring in view some elegant mansion, with sweeping lawns in front, and graceful ladies mounted on palfreys, than a rude and uncivilized part of the world hitherto almost unknown.
I stopped a night at San Jose, where I was most hospitably received by the alcalde, an American gentleman of intelligence, to whom I had a letter of introduction. Next day, after a pleasant ride of forty-five miles, I reached the Mission of San Juan, one of the most eligibly located of all the old missionary establishments. It was now in a state of decay. The vineyards were but partially cultivated, and the secos, or ditches for the irrigation of the land, were entirely dry. I got some very good pears from the old Spaniard in charge of the mission – a rare luxury after a long sea-voyage. The only tavern in the place was the "United States," kept by an American and his wife in an old adobe house, originally a part of the missionary establishment. Having secured accommodations for my mule, I took up my quarters for the night at the "United States." The woman seemed to be the principal manager. Perhaps I might have noticed her a little closely, since she was the only white woman I had enjoyed the opportunity of conversing with for some time. It was very certain, however, that she struck me as an uncommon person – tall, raw-boned, sharp, and masculine – with a wild and piercing expression of eye, and a smile singularly startling and unfeminine. I even fancied that her teeth were long and pointed, and that she resembled a picture of an ogress I had seen when a child. The man was a subdued and melancholy-looking person, presenting no particular trait of character in his appearance save that of general abandonment to the influence of misfortune. His dress and expression impressed me with the idea that he had experienced much trouble, without possessing that strong power of recuperation so common among American adventurers in California.
It would scarcely be worth while noticing these casual acquaintances of a night, since they have nothing to do with my narrative, but for the remarkable illustration they afford of the hardships that were encountered at that time on the emigrant routes to California. In the course of conversation with the man, I found that he and his wife were among the few survivors of a party whose terrible sufferings in the mountains during the past winter had been the theme of much comment in the newspapers. He did not state – what I already knew from the published narrative of their adventures – that the woman had subsisted for some time on the dead body of a child belonging to one of the party. It was said that the man had held out to the last, and refused to participate in this horrible feast of human flesh.
So strangely impressive was it to be brought in direct contact with a fellow-being, especially of the gentler sex, who had absolutely eaten of human flesh, that I could not but look upon this woman with a shudder. Her sufferings had been intense; that was evident from her marked and weather-beaten features. Doubtless she had struggled against the cravings of hunger as long as reason lasted. But still the one terrible act, whether the result of necessity or insanity, invested her with a repellant atmosphere of horror. Her very smile struck me as the gloating expression of a cannibal over human blood. In vain I struggled against this unchristian feeling. Was it right to judge a poor creature whose great misfortune was perhaps no offense against the laws of nature? She might be the tenderest and best of women – I knew nothing of her history. It was a pitiable case. But, after all, she had eaten of human flesh; there was no getting over that.
When I sat down to supper this woman was obliging enough to hand me a plate of meat. I was hungry, and tried to eat it. Every morsel seemed to stick in my throat. I could not feel quite sure that it was what it seemed to be. The odor even disgusted me. Nor could I partake of the bread she passed to me with any more relish. It was probably made by her hands – the same hands that had torn the flesh from a corpse and passed the reeking shreds to her mouth. The taint of an imaginary corruption was upon it.
The room allotted to me for the night was roughly furnished, as might reasonably be expected; but, apart from this, the bedding was filthy; and, in common with every thing about the house, the slatternly appearance of the furniture did not tend to remove the unpleasant impression I had formed of my hostess. Whether owing to the vermin, or an unfounded suspicion that she might become hungry during the night, I slept but little. The picture of the terrible ogress that I had seen when a child, and the story of the little children which she had devoured, assumed a fearful reality, and became strangely mingled in my dreams with this woman's face. I was glad when daylight afforded me an excuse to get up and take a stroll in the fresh air.
