These wilds of San Mateo reminded us forcibly of the miniature wilds of Glencoe, remarkable in Scottish history; and we thought, as we passed them, of the bard of Cona (Ossian), who, in honour of the orb which the Peruvians once adored, sung with sublimity and touching pathos,
“O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers, whence are thy beams, O Sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course?”
The Indian’s eyrie on the summit of some steep and lofty mountain, (seldom visited by a white man, save the curate,) may be easily passed many times unnoticed by a stranger, who has occasion to go over the usual routes in any of the principal ravines and valleys of the Sierra, and who may never be led to suspect its existence till he one day meets a swift-footed Indian, closely followed by a person on a well-accoutred and elegant mule, whose gear is all laden with silver ornaments; and the rider, who sits at his ease in a saddle of the country with a rich pellon, wears a large-brimmed hat, with a black silk cap emerging to view at the ears and temples. He has on at least a couple of ponchos (mantles) well-decorated and fringed; his black or brown stockings are of warm Vicuña wool; and the heel of a small shoe, half-concealed in a clumsy and costly, though wooden stirrup, is armed with a prodigiously disproportioned silver spur, with a large tinkling roller, used to keep his noble animal in mind that she is but the harbinger of death, and carries on her back the keeper of the sinner’s conscience.