 Sophie Treadwell interviews Pancho Villa from the New York Tribune, August 28, 1921. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Visit to Villa, A Bad Man, Not So Bad, by Sophie Treadwell This first authentic interview with Francisco Villa was obtained by Sophie Treadwell, the Tribune correspondent who sent out from Mexico the first story of the flight of Carranza. This correspondent was granted the first interview with President Obregon of Mexico when he took the reins of government after the overthrow of Carranza. The Tribune's correspondent also sent out the first authentic and detailed story of the killing of Carranza. The story of the flight of Carranza was a graphic piece of detailed writing. This story of Villa, the most picturesque figure of modern Mexico, reveals a Villa hitherto a stranger to the American press. The author's acknowledgment is due to Eduardo John Wiedemeyer of Monterey, Mexico, the friend de confianza of Villa, who made this long-desired interview a reality. Is man's reputation just another of the God's little jokes? Is, they say, always a perversity? And a man who, always a paradox? Is black really white and white really black? And things always not what they seem? Was Lord Chesterfield a boar and Dr. Johnson a boar? Was Solomon celibate and little George Washington a liar? I ask because I have just come to know that famed so-called bandit Francisco Villa. Villa lays down his arms. Nobody believed it. This was a year ago in Mexico City. Carranza overthrown. Gonzales out politicode. Obregón triumphant. And then the headlines. Villa lays down his arms. We read after the headlines. Villa, from an unknown village called Musquis, near Sabinas in the state of Coahuila, had called up the national palace in the capital and offered to quit fighting. How came Villa in the village of Musquis in Coahuila when the news before had announced him in Chihuahua bottled up, his little army surrounded. General Amaro and his yakis about to close in on him. We read further. Villa had ridden overland more than 450 miles, leading several hundred men, all that was left of his following, across terrible open country in absolute secrecy, so that instead of surrendering to the then Federals where they had him, he made his terms with them from where they didn't have him or the least chance of getting him. And his terms were, land of the patria for himself and his followers to retire to in peace. In peace? Derisive laughter from half a world. Villa in peace? Ha! Ha! He asked the ranch of Canutillo, far off in the hills of Durango. Where was this Canutillo exactly? I wanted to go out there then. From Mexico City north on the main line to El Paso, two days and nights to Jimenez, from Jimenez west one day on a side road, through Parral to Rosario, the end of the line. And from Rosario, horseback three days to Canutillo. At least that is what they told me at Obrigón's headquarters. I was getting ready when an emissary came to say I could not make the trip alone overland with a mosso, as had been my intention, but would have to have an escort of soldiers. You think you know Mexico, senorita, but you know nothing. These people up there are very different from those of the south. They have been living the life of bandits for ten years. And, well, it would not be safe. All right, an escort, and thank you. The next day another emissary, this time from the provisional president de la huerta. He would allow correspondence to go wherever they wished. He would put no obstacle in anyone's way. To me personally, he would grant every facility passes, safe conduct, escorts. But if I went at this time, something unforeseen might happen that could develop into a serious embarrassment. So if I would postpone or... So I didn't go to Canutillo last year. But this year I have been. I have just returned. It has all been very simple. The trip was as I had been told, except, and this was a disappointment. The last lap was made not on horseback, but in a Ford, and took not three days, but three hours. The next day, when we were all at dinner at the ranch, we were discussing automobiles. Villa wanted our advice about the best American car for his family's pleasure. Don Eduardo urged a Packard, but I was strong for a piercero. At the height of the argument, Villa gave us a little smile. Well, friends, perhaps we could all agree on a Ford. No, no, don Francisco, not a Ford. But he meant it. Truly, friends, he said, the Ford is an exquisite thing. He sighed and then laughed away he has. How many hundreds of leagues in the past I have cavorted over the land in one of those little Fords so strong they are, so unpretentious, and so to be trusted. Truly, friends, una cosa esquisita. And in one of these exquisite things, it was that we made the trip from the end of the railroad at Rosario to the ranch of Canutillo. Rosario, a poblito of a few low adobe houses that cling to the earth under great sky-reaching trees, alamos, cottonwoods. Under one of these, the Fordito, waiting, to veest us in the front seat, they drive over and greet us cordially. It seems another Villa follower has come in on the same train. A tall young Indian dressed in a black corduroy suit and black satine shirt, his trousers are full like a Parisian Apaches, and his jacket belted like a Greenwich Village Artists. But his hat is porro mexicano. He seems to be partial to hats, for in his hand he carries three more of straw, one big, one medium, and one teeny-weeny, in size like the three bears of the nursery story. We saw him the next day carrying his baby around with the littlest hat proudly superimposed at a rakish angle. The other two veestas, the chauffeur and the assistant, for no matter how insignificant or battered the car in Mexico, it always has two men on the front seat, are not so picturesque as the Indian. Like the majority of Mexicans of the North, they are dressed a la americano. The driver has khaki pants and an O.D. shirt. The ayudante blew overalls. We get in. The federal soldiers, lawling thick about the station, watch us curiously. Is there a garrison here? Oh no, senorita, merely the escort for the train. But I think to myself that even with Villa, one whole year of farmer, those in power have not relaxed their vigilance. The suitcases are tied on the running board. The Indian has one too. We are off. In a flash, the little town and the station are left behind, and we are in the open country, rolling grass-covered hills, a brilliant green, even unmarred like a vast lawn, stretching out to fill the fastidious eye of some tremendous god, dark trees masked against the skyline in enchanting groupings, and overall, and very close, a sky so clear, so pure, one feels like a child being first told about heaven. There is indeed something divine about the whole landscape. Its loveliness stretches on mile after mile without any sign of man or any of his works to once break the illusion. Its silence and its vastness and its beauty seem that of eternity, of infinity, of God. So perfect in its spell, it seems an unknown paradise not yet discovered by any angel. Here dwells Via. I have never known a land of such celestial beauty and such profound isolation. It does not seem to really belong to this earth. One is aware of the sense of elevation, but not as in the high mountains. Rather, one seems to have chance upon a new and completely separate level of existence. One might be jack of the beanstalk just stepping from his glorious vine. What far-reaching silence! Through it, the car hummed ahead like a little launch, chugging manfully through a horizonless sea. Then it lurched up over the edge of a hill like the crest of a wave, and there the spell breaks for a moment in the sight of a wrecked village Via Ocampo. Via knew Canutillo well when he asked for it. For ten years it had been part of his fighting terrain. The ruined village is swiftly back of the eyes. Again, enchantment. But here and there, faint, almost unsuspected signs of reality begin. A solitary peon working alone in the midst of the wide endlessness, low-wheeling buzzard, three horses. On and on we go, up and down over the gentle breasts of these eternally old, young hills. A turn, a little row of adobes that seem part of the earth itself by curious mud nests of who knows what strange birds. A man stands in one doorway, waiting. The car stops. He comes forward. There is the usual Mexican exchange of affectionate courtesies. Is there a letter? Yes, one. Here you have it. No more? No more. What a pity. He turns the letter over wistfully in his brown hand. Evidently it was not the one he was awaiting. A horseman comes up, dismounts. The horse standing, bridal dragging. The rider takes off his beautiful hat, draws near. Señorita, permit me to present General José de Garcia. My first view of a villista officer, thin, intelligent face, great pride here and great endurance. My eye is drawn to the lovely carved cartridge belt and holster, and to the gorgeous boots of soft brown leather fitting like a glove over the foot, leg, and knee, delicately tooled and held together above the knee by inch-long fasteners of carved white ivory. General Garcia was the only man on the entire ranch with the exception of the jefe, the chief, via himself, that I was to see armed. But I was to meet other via officers, and they were all to give me something of the same suggestion of men worn down by hardship to an unflinchable residue. Thin, sinewy men with sad, unconquered eyes. It was here I got my first feeling of what, after all, it means to be a villista to follow the fortunes of one man for ten years through struggle, triumph, and defeat, to be outcast with him to the farthest mountain tops, not safe during years for one hour's release from vigilance, hunger, danger, everyday companions. General Garcia's gentle voice, would I not care to meet General O'Neilas? That was the old man's house, the next, the one with flowers at the windows. These were his two daughters sewing on the porch. I had heard of old General O'Neilas. Two stories. One of how, when via's fortunes were at their lowest, and via paper not worth the match to burn it, the old general had sold all his possessions, one thousand head of cattle, and when they offered to pay him in good American dollars, he had refused it, saying, I want only the money of my general via. And the other story? When the old man came to live here at Canutillo, to be near his general in the final settling, he found he had left behind four little burrows, so he made a long journey back to get them, and hired a whole boxcar to bring them safely by express. Yet there are people who actually will try to tell you that no Mexican was ever loyal. The car went on. Another long stretch of smooth green undulating plain, one last rise over a little hill, and there, Canutillo, the Hacienda of Villa. It does not look much like a ranch. It looks like a small town. Several blocks of adobe houses along well laid out streets, larger indiscriminate buildings on all sides. There is a church big and beautiful enough to hold the worship of a large community. Beyond the church lies the Hacienda house, the dwelling of the patron. The car turned into the archway entrance and stopped. It was cool and dark there under the adobe wall. We climbed out and went on into the sunshine of the patio, a patio as big as a small block. The house is built close around all its four sides. We crossed to the left where the screen doors were and entered the sala. Villa's family reception room is also his bedroom. A tremendous brass bed looms up in one corner. There are a wardrobe, a dressing table, a trunk rack with a small trunk on it, a parlor table, a piano. On a homemade stool by the wardrobe, there is a bowl and pitcher of water. A single white scrim curtain hangs at the one big window. There are pictures, a small oil painting of Villa over the piano, evidently a copy from a photograph, other portraits and colored prints. The walls are high and white and the floor is of native tile. A sense of scrupulous cleanliness is in the whole room. We were received by a young girl, but hardly were we seated when the screen door from the patio opened and he came in swiftly, limping slightly. Villa, the jefe. He does not look like his pictures, better looking somehow, different. Rather heavy with a tremendous chest like the pictures, a white shirt, corduroy trousers and a great double decked cartridge belt and holster with pistols. That too was like the pictures. Small head, short cropped black curly hair, small ears lying close, rather fine nose, large mouth, black mustache, strong yellowish teeth, extraordinary eyes. Villa's eyes are really remarkable. They have all the intensity of deep set black eyes, but they slightly protrude and are brown and small. Protruding as they do and burning, they give the effect of some fiery power within, concentrated and bursting to come out. These eyes impress one first and the sense of great bodily strength and the voice. Senorita, here you have your house. He says even the simple phrases of everyday politeness in a strange, resonant voice of heavy timber but placed high in his head. It is difficult to describe Villa's voice. It has an even singing quality and seems to come from far off to be detached, something like Ethel Barrymore's only booming and powerful. After a full exchange of all the usual courtesies, we are finally seated opposite one another, staring frankly. After a long, close, silent scrutiny of me, he spoke again. Here you see me, Senorita, a simple farmer who knows nothing of what is going on in the outside world. Once so isolated, he does not even see a paper. Anything that such a man can say to be of interest to you, I cannot imagine. But I am at your service and you are welcome. I have been expecting you for two days. The car has been waiting for you in Rosario all that time that you might not arrive and suffer disappointment. But I am afraid that I have little here that can please you, only a ranch, Senorita, a ranch that has been totally destroyed and that is very slow in rebuilding. I give all my mind to this work and my men give all their will, but we are struggling against great difficulties and it is slow. Perhaps you will do me the honor to return to my house in a year's time and then I shall be more able to entertain you. As soon as you have rested, I shall show you with pleasure the little that there is now to be seen. He sighed, and here I got my next impression of Villa, the one that was to grow stronger, the impression of great, of profound sadness. Are you not contented here, mi general? No, I am not. But, he hesitated, I should not say that. You find it lonely here? No, no, not that. It is in lonely places I find my life, Senorita. His spirit seemed to lift a little. He laughed, a delightful hearty laugh with little twinkling, perhaps cynical highlights in it. I remember one day during the revolution I came across a newspaper in a deserted ranchel. It said in big letters, Nothing is left to Villa but the mountain tops. I roared with laughter at those reporters. Nothing is left to Villa, I said to myself, But what he likes best, the mountain tops. The laugh, the sigh, then. But your brothers of the papers have not always made me laugh, Senorita. In fact, I think no man has ever suffered as much as I from the deceptions of the press been so brutally misinterpreted via el bandido, via el asasinado, via el enemigo de los americanos. Senorita, I am not a bandit and I am not an assassin and I am not an enemy of Americans. Surely you must believe that or you would not have come here as you have. I have killed men, but I am a soldier and never have I lifted my hand against an American just as an American. Will you believe me when I tell you that I did not go into Columbus and that I knew nothing of the massacre of Santa Isabel? He stared at me, steadily, a long moment. Then you must remember that I have had thousands of men under my leadership and that due perhaps to the defeat of our arms or due to the inability to get food there have come times of almost complete disorganization when but a few of the most loyal remained with me directly subject to my orders and the rest broke up into small bands roaming the country at will. I was not responsible for these separated bands. I could not be. But oh, how many depredations these have committed in my name before I could turn my hand and my vengeance against them. He seemed to be pondering the whole matter deeply. Then he went on more lightly. Of course, some of the things they say, I have done, I have done. These I do not deny. It is true, for example, that I kidnapped an American called Joe Askew and held him for ransom. Would you like to know something of the circumstances of that kidnapping, senorita? Again, the cynical smile. And it was like this. A certain American mining company here needed desperately to transport one million dollars worth of silver bullion from their smelter to the main line. Not having the confidence they perhaps should have had, it is not for me to say, in the Carranza troops, they asked my aid to transport that one million dollars in safety. Asked. Solicited. Notice that, senorita. They offered to pay me a certain sum, a hundred thousand pesos, if I accomplished it for them. Well, I and my men escorted that silver bullion to the main line at Jimenez, where you came through. Very good. But now at that time I did not need all the pay promised me. So I arranged to take half and leave half on call. Very good. But, but, senorita, some months later when I needed that balance, payment was refused me. A long pause then. It was after that, some time after that, that I took Joe Askew. He was the administrator of the San Fernando Ranch at Lardo. I kept him sixteen days. His ransom was the amount of that balance do me. And it was paid, senorita. There are certain relations between certain mines and certain ranches by the very men who had refused me that balance before. Another period of pondering. Then it is true, too, that I have taken to eat for my men from Americans and Mexicans alike, but not in pure robbery, senorita, but as a need in a bitterly fought and poverty-stricken revolution. I have not only not been the enemy of Americans, but I have been their friend, their protector. There are many of your countrymen who have lived here who will tell you that, but they do not write for your press. In 1912, when Orozco was on the stampede and the situation looked bad, I ordered all American families from the surroundings to concentrate in Torreón. I put twenty cars at their disposal when cars were like the very breadth of our fighting life. I gave them all I could possibly get together of eatables. I gave them muscles to do the work and an escort of my best men. And I sent them through, like this, to the border. In 1915, again, I sent out hundreds of families under my protection. And later again, truly, senorita, I tell you that I, via alone, have been responsible for the saving of hundreds of American lives and millions of American dollars. Millions of pesos of silver have been carried by me in safety from American mines to the main line of railroads. And yet your people call me via the bandit. This weighs upon me. This injustice weighs. I wish your people, instead of judging me through your papers, would actually try me before a tribunal. I would ask for nothing better than that to be judged for my deeds before an open court. Again, the heavy sigh, silence. Then the laugh, the hefe, was on his feet. No matter, senorita, for I am a man in everything desilusionado de la vida, disillusioned with life. Let us give you some coffee until the time of supper, and then I will present you to via the worker, the organizer, the farmer, and builder. The family came in to be presented. The present senora de Villa is a gentle, pretty, Mexican woman, about thirty. She wore a white percale dress, and her hair was brushed back softly into a small knot at the nape of her neck. Her voice was exceptionally low, almost a whisper. Then there was Agustin, Villa's oldest son. Agustin is nine. Then Octavio, about seven, and two little girls. Each child came up and bowed very prettily, and then ran over to Villa and took his hand and kissed it. He patted them all, but it was clear from the first moment that Agustin, the oldest, holds the biggest part of his father's affection. This boy, senorita, said the hefe, can ride any horse on the ranch and shoot, show your rifle to the senorita, my son. Agustin produced, from behind the piano, a huge rifle. It was bigger than he. So big he could hardly handle it alone. He laid it across his father's knees and tugged to take off its case, then its wrappings, then the leather breech protector. He held up the long, shiny gun barrel proudly. But that isn't a twenty-two. Of course not, scorned Agustin, age nine. It is a thirty-thirty. We are poor sombres here, senorita, said Villa. And then, tomorrow, my little son, you can invite the senorita to shoot at the target with you in the orchard and see who shall win. The invitation accepted. The gun wrapped and retired to its peaceful post behind the piano. The children sent out to play, and we went across the sun-drenched patio to the dining-room. This is another big, plain, square room of white walls and tile floors. It's only furniture, a huge table, with a bench on either side, and a hat rack. A window cut in one wall, with a shelf below, gave to the kitchen. One had a vista of a stove, like a restaurant range, and two or three women servants at work. We were served by an old ranchman named Pepe, coffee with milk and sweetbread and butter. Villa urged the butter upon us, homemade from the cream of the jerseys. Did we not find it to our taste? Then he noticed Don Eduardo's 90-Peso Stetson lying negligently on the floor. But what is this, amigo, when I have had a rack built especially for fine hats? He ordered Pepe to install the Stetson in state. He asked us about the United States. What sort of man was harding? What sort of man was this other one, Hughes? What were their intentions to Mexico? What of the Petroleros? This oil question should be settled. That is what he had said to those in power now in the capital. The oil question must be settled first and with justice. Mexico must keep friends with the United States. We were neighbors. Neighboring ranchers stood together when there was trouble from the outside. And so it was with countries. And there might be trouble for the United States from the outside. Who knows? Now she was powerful, and all others were flattering and pretending friendship. But in their hearts there was envy. And all were whispering to themselves. Garamba, que ricos están estos. Gee, how rich those people are. Envy is a terrible force. If trouble should come, why Mexico would fight for her neighbor? Of course. The creation of false feeling between the two countries was all wrong. It was the game of the politicos in both nations. But the pueblos understood. Especially did the American people understand. Here was a pueblo culto. A cultured people. A people that could not be imposed upon. That was the strength of the United States. It's pueblo culto. While my poor people, so ignorant, so helpless, so easily imposed upon. He sighed his strange, thick sigh and looked out the door into the glorious Mexican sunshine. We were all still. A sudden sadness. A hopelessness seemed to permeate everything. The jifte's personality is so powerful that he impresses his moods overwhelmingly on all who are near him. He brought his eyes back to us, fixing us with his stare. A democracy was a useless thing unless its people were cultured. Yes, he had come to this conclusion. Worse than useless. Dangerous. The only hope for Mexico was to educate the poor people. And for this they could learn much from the United States. He himself had once lived eight months in California. He could not speak English. Only a few words. But he knew the American people. He laughed now and went on. When he was in San Francisco he had two thousand pesos in his pocket. But he was hungry all day because he did not know how to ask for anything to eat. Only a little fruit from a wagon. Finally at night hunger armed his courage. He went into a restaurant and sat down. When the waiter came he gave him ten dollars and pointed first to himself and then to the kitchen. The waiter understood. And taking his hand let him out into the kitchen and from one pot to another. All the food was different from any I had ever known so I decided by the smell. I said Asta and Asta until I had picked out enough. Then the waiter took me back to the table and brought me what I had chosen. It was a good meal too. The nose is much to be trusted. Later I went to Los Angeles. One day I tried to speak in English to a gentleman on the street and he hit me. I did not hit back because I did not know why we were fighting. Instead I stepped aside and followed him until he arrived at his home. That evening I sent a friend who could speak English to this house to inquire why I had been hit. The American was so pleased by my attitude he became my friend and later gave me a concession for cutting wood up in the hills. I lived here with another American family and as the senora was not very well and as is the custom in the United States the house was without even one servant I used to get up early. I have always been accustomed to get up early and make the fire and lay the table and have everything in movimiento before the family came down. They liked me very much that American family was sorry when I felt I had to return to my country. And now if you are enough refreshed we gathered our hats decorously from the rack and went out into the white light again the beautiful white light of late afternoon in Mexico. Fia led the way across the patio to the entrance arch. On the left the office a big oak roller top desk building cabinet. Truly an office said Fia with pride. On the right the room of Los Gallos row after row of fighting cocks piled in crates one on top of the other. I like fighting cocks said the jefe I am a man without vices I do not drink and I do not gamble and I smoke but little but I like Los Gallos. This is a beautiful bird El Charo and look at this one El Valiente. Ah here is one you will want to see Wilson. Come here Wilson. He is not much of a bird this Wilson but it just occurred to me then that the bedraggled fighting cock he was holding out for my inspection was named in honor of our former president. Not much of a bird you say laughed Don Eduardo. Oh he's all right only he stopped. Only what Don Francisco? Nothing I was just thinking that is all. Of course Wilson was not my friend but never mind Stubbian. Better name one for Harding was Don Eduardo's tactful suggestion after a rather uncomfortable pause. The heife laughed. Harding good I'll pick out a fighter. The senora drew me aside. What does that mean? Harding she asked and why do they laugh? We left the gallows Wilson Harding at all and went out into the front past the church to a building in course of construction. Workmen were very busy here. This is the school Senorita soon it will be done. Now the children go every day to an ordinary little house and a young lady hears their lessons but in a few months all will be installed here. We will have desks, books, teachers all that is necessary. The building is according to my ideas. There were long narrow rooms built around the four sides of a court. We went into the first one. This is for the beginners. You see the windows are high. That is my special idea so that no child can look out and be diverted from his studies. Here all must be serious. Here children must learn. When a youngster enters this school all he needs is inside these walls. The key can be turned and nobody can get out except to eat. Children should go to school. I shall see to that. Again the sigh. I myself have never had one day in school. Not one day. I am very ignorant. I can read a little and write a little. That is all. And I learned after I was a man. However, now the laugh I can sign my name. Serious again. But my son shall be instructed. First here at Kanuteo where they will learn in the school from books and in the life of the ranch from natural things. That is important for a man. Most important of all. Tomorrow you shall see at the Blanco how my son Agustin can shoot. Later I shall send them away to learn more in the United States. Then we saw the bodegas full of wheat. How many hectoliters did we guess? Don Eduardo must see if he could calculate 10,000? Close. Good. And C, running through the fingers, was it not clean? We saw the moors and the thrashers and the plows and the heros. All American made. We saw the carpenter shop. We saw the blacksmith shop. Then we saw the new stalls with concrete feed boxes for the horses. We looked over the hair-face favorite mount and Agustin's pony and many others. We saw the cows and the goats. By then it was almost dark. We crossed a small stream on a plank and went into the orchard. A wide path led under the trees. The shadows were long. It was beautiful. There were many men just laying off work. They stepped aside as we passed and saluted the hefe. They were working among the potatoes and tomatoes and onions and garlic planted between the trees. Fia stepped up to three of them. Will you, friends, have the kindness to go to the lower field and bring us some watermelons? The men started off eager to be of service. We sat on the ground to wait. The talk was of different melons, which varieties were the better. That was something that was to impress me continually during our visit. There was a so-called fierce and dictatorial fia asking our advice again and again on all sorts of subjects. He said he wished to get hold of some seeds of American melons. Then the friends came with two fine big ones. We took them with us to the house. The hefe carrying one and Don Eduardo, the other. Back again in the salla. The first seeded himself on a straight back chair, and we grouped ourselves in a little semi-circle about him. First he called for plates and a knife. While these were being brought, he called for water to wash his hands. A young woman brought him the little stand with the bowl and pitcher. She poured out the water for him and handed him the soap. Then she poured clear water over. This done, she handed him the towel. On the 14th in all the grandeur of Versailles could not have accomplished his ablutions with more primitive formality. The little washing outfit was then put before each of us, and the same general ceremony gone through with, while Villa proceeded to cut the melon with great deafness. He proportioned the thin slices between us and called for boxes. The young woman brought two and set them before us. They were for the rinds. We ate with relish. Hardly was this over when it was supper time. The hefe it seemed never takes supper, but he went with us to the table. A figure appeared outside in the dark. Excuse me, General, but Antonio is angry against Ignacio Martinez and has gone to his house for his pistol. Take it away from him immediately, you and Felipe, and lock him up with the gallows for tonight. Está bien, mi general. The incident passed without comment. Later, out in the patio, in the fresco, what profound stillness, what an overwhelming sense of isolation, how many, many stars. Tell me, friend, said the hefe, suddenly to Don Eduardo, do you believe there is a God? Yes, I do. Don't you, Don Francisco? I don't know. I wonder. Sometimes I wonder very much, and then I look at the stars, so many and so mysterious, and I tell myself all these questions are too big for the little minds of men to answer. He stopped and pondered. That is another characteristic, a habit of pondering heavily. When it is light and you can see his face, you can actually see, in the strain of his expression, the great effort he is making to think, to think out whatever is baffling him. After one of these queer, silent inward efforts, he went on, but if there is a God, I say if, my friend, if, and if he made the earth, surely he is too good to have made anything as mean as a hell. Don't you believe that, my friend? There is no hell. Don Eduardo agreed. More silence, more pondering. Then, but of what good are churches to God, friend, or to men? We have turned our church into a warehouse, and we are all better off. Why, even the saints on the wall have gotten fatter. Surely they have. Tomorrow you look and you'll see, especially those on the same side with the potatoes. I tell you, between the rats and the saints, it is hard for a man to make a living here. Are there many rats here, Don Francisco? Whole armies of them. We have fought them day and night, until now there are scarcely any left, but still there are fleas. Of what use are fleas, friend? If there is a God, why should he make such things as a flea? How could a God think of a flea? That is what I don't understand. Of what purpose is a flea? Born only to idleness, to eat, and then to passear. Muy passeadores fleas. Never sleep nor let sleep. Rats, mice, fleas. What a fight it has been to establish order here. Do you not think, friend, you could send me some sort of powders to serve these last? Surely I will send you some flea powder, Don Francisco. How much do you want? About fifty kilos. But that's enough to kill all the fleas in the world. Well, we've got all the fleas in the world. Unfortunate prospect for bed. It was time after nine. The via family, like most Mexican families, retires early. The children had gone long before. It seems I was to have the big brass bed in state. The jefe and his senora would hear of no other arrangement, declaring they would find themselves very comfortable in the next room with the children. The young girl brought fresh water. The senora turned down the covers. Via put a chair at the head and set the lamp on it. May you rest well, senorita, until tomorrow. I undressed and slipped into immaculately clean sheets. Over me a white embroidered counterpane. My tired, dusty head on an exquisite handmade pillow slip. So this was the bed of Via. I blew out the light. Soon the door opened softly, the senora's gentle voice. The general says to leave the door to us open, that you may not feel alone or afraid during the night. Morning, seven o'clock, no, not one all night. The senora was waiting to take breakfast. The jefe had long since been up. It was his custom to rise at four. There was much to be looked after. Soon, Via and Don Eduardo joined us. They came from a tribunal. Afterward, Don Eduardo told me about it. You remember that little disturbance last night when Don Francisco ordered somebody's pistol taken away from him and the man locked up? Well, the trial was this morning in the office, very simple. The jefe sat at the desk and the man was brought in. The jefe asked him what he had to say. The man said, nada. Then the jefe said, it is necessary that there be order here. Nothing but order. The integrity of all of us is involved. If you feel in your heart that you are henceforth able to comply, return to your work as usual. But if you feel in your heart that you are not able to comply, tell me now. And I shall arrange to have you and your family transported this very day to wherever you wish to go. What do you say? I shall be orderly henceforth, mi general. That is well. Go to your house. We spent the morning going around the Hacienda, how endless it was. Not a ranch, not a little town, but a separate state. And over it all, never lifting for a second that unearthly sense of silent isolation. Much activity, men on horseback, mule teams, wagon loads of wheat, scrapers, but all the work going on very stillly. No jangling of harness, no clang of tools, no talk of men, silence, shadows moving in a dream. How to explain this strange, unreal stillness that hangs over the Hacienda of Canutillo. Is it but the natural hush of vast, empty, low hills, stretching out endlessly in clear, high air? Or is there too some curious repression in the souls of these people now living there? The repression of men moving dumbly through unaccustomed tasks. The oppression of heart of the yestas, turned farmers. We have no drinking here, senorita, no gambling, no disorderly houses, not even a baile, nothing but work, puro trabajo. Now and then a workman would come up to the jefe, take off his hat and wait respectfully until Villa would say, What now, friend? Excuse me, mi general, but shall we put the tomatoes in the small boxes or in the large? In the small, pack them not too closely and put one box over the other with sticks between in piles of six. Stabian mi general. Every time in the two days that anyone came to Villa for an order and they came to him about everything, he answered them immediately without a moment's hesitation, clearly, directly, finally, as though he do all his orders from some swift infallible source. And I began to understand something of his power over men for how surely and how gratefully even the strong among us respond to complete decisiveness. We went into the church, now a warehouse. It was swept clean and piled high with boxes, crates, and sacks. There was a counter halfway along the front and scales, but high on the side walls still hung the saints and the altar big and gilt was untouched but uncandled at the room's end. We had hardly entered when an old peon appeared at the door hat in hand. He came on the material errand of getting a kilo of rice, but the surroundings were too much for his habit-trained, devout old soul. He asked for a kilo of rice and then one eye on the scale and one eye on the altar he crossed himself. Just then he saw the heife and suddenly, feeling his devotion to have been misplaced, he put on his hat. Then realizing that was a breach to his general, he took it off as quickly. Then he put it on to take his rice and turning face the altar again and anxiously took it off. Pobre viejito, poor little old man, smile via, taking it all in. So good but so ignorant. Then he was serious, that is the trouble with all of us, senorita. We are good people, but we are so ignorant. Where is the man with the power to lift up my race? He sighed, again that overwhelming sadness. I knew that he had once dreamed of being that man. At dinner we had another guest, General Nicolás Fernández. He had ridden over with his small son from his particular part of the ranch at San Isidro on the river Florido, 18 leagues distant. He was another of those silent, sad, sinewy men. The talk was ranch talk. General Fernández was having difficulty over some water right. It was a question of politics, very difficult. Who was your deputy from over there, asked the hefe. I don't know. Those are things you should know, my friend. We must occupy ourselves with these questions now. The talk was of crops and cattle. Villas said he wanted to go to Juárez to buy hinado. He asked advice of General Fernández, of Don Eduardo, and yes, of me, again that incredible eagerness to be instructed, to be told, to be advised, and that strained drinking in expression with which he listens, like an anxious child standing beside the teacher. General Fernández thought the hefe would do better to go to Maramoros than to Juárez, but Don Eduardo didn't like Texas longhorns anywhere, and I preferred herfords. Why did I prefer herfords? Why were they better for him than Holsteins? And what about jerseys? And what crosses were considered best in the United States? The talk drifted to great ranchers. Did I know the American of the Cadena y Pelayo Ranch, Don Jacob, sweet? That one was puro hombre, así divinidades a caballo, a real man, he does divine things on horseback. There was a gringo to be admired. And General Scott, of all the Americans he had ever known he liked best, here he turned with a courteous gesture to Don Eduardo, putting aside for the moment your friendship, amigo. He had liked best General Scott, un verdadero soldado, a true soldier. At the time of siesta, the señora and I sat together in the cool of the bedroom sala. She was sewing on a bit of thin, pink silk. What are you making, señora? She looked at me uneasily, un toaíta, but of such fine material a doily? She blushed and murmured something about it being for a friend. We talked of other things, the servant problem, very difficult to get good help on a ranch. She had two women in the kitchen and two men to do nothing but grind for them. Everything, corn for tortillas, wheat for bread, is ground by hand on a metate and one man to wait on the table. But neither the food nor the service of it was as she wanted, and two girls to take care of the rooms, but she must constantly see to everything herself. They were not to be trusted alone to keep everything perfectly clean. We spoke of the hefe. He seems very sad, I said, too sad. How can it be otherwise, senorita, when one has suffered so? Sometimes he tells me a little of what he has endured, and it is more than I can bear just the telling. I would like you to know some of them, but he would not wish it. There are things a real man does not speak of. But perhaps if you would ask him, senorita, for example, about his days hiding in the cave when your army was hunting him, perhaps I don't know. He might say a little. We were silent for a while. I could feel her looking at me. Then she got up and opening the wardrobe with one of the usual many keys of the Mexican lady of the house. She shyly brought out a bundle of tiny clothes, and without a word put it on my lap. There were almost a dozen little dresses of pink silk and a dozen of white linen. All the same pattern, but each adorned with fine handwork. I never knew before there was such an infinite variety of stitches. Each little one different she whispered and blushed like a girl. Augustine came in shining with excitement. We are going to have the target contest. Here is the rifle, but where are the cartridges? Much rummaging through the whole house of Villa to find any cartridges. Finally, we are off. Augustine and I, the contestants, Villa, the senora, Don Eduardo Magrita, and quite a gallery of Villistas. The Blanco target was a white bottle placed on a stump at 25 meters. I lifted the rifle, but Augustine, a moment senorita, do you not want to rest the rifle by a tree? But no, the little lad looked very unhappy, then after a moment. But senorita, it is necessary that I rest it by a tree, because I cannot hold it otherwise it weighs too much. All right, you rest it Augustine because you are little, I shall shoot like this because I am big. But he was not to be comforted. Please senorita, do me the favor to rest it on the tree, you too, so that we shall be equal in the contest. Is it a disgrace, I wonder, for a grown woman to be outshot by a child of nine, when that child happens to be the firstborn son of Francisco Villa. He challenged Don Eduardo to a pistol contest, a bottle still at 25 meters. Don Eduardo shot first, via his pistol. Even the jefe was impressed. He turned to me, his eyes shining with pleasure at his friend's prowess. Carrae, senorita, que buenos estilos, gee, what good shots. Then the jefe, good shooting, guardos, perhaps not quite as good. Estoy viejo, I am old, he murmured, when we were going back through the dusk. He is forty-four. Again, the sadness. Will you not tell me of some of the hard tasks you have accomplished in your ten years of revolution, me general? Ah, senorita, a man does not talk of those things. Well, will you not tell me why you fought for ten years? That is simple, senorita. I first went into revolution because life was insupportable for the low people during the time of this, and I was of the low people. I followed the little madero. Then he was killed by Huerta. And I overcame Huerta. Then was Carranza. But nothing was better for the low people. Nothing had yet been won. So I kept on fighting until, well, now Carranza is dead, and how do you feel about the death of Carranza? His face darkened. Una mancha barbara. A horrible stain that will defile the history of my poor country forever. Again, that pondering. Then, well, he is dead. And the patria needs peace. More than anything else, the patria needs peace. So I have quit fighting. I am a farmer. When I thought it was best for my people, I would not quit fighting. And when I thought it was best for my people, I would not go on fighting. How many battles have you been in, mi general? A battle, senorita? And by that, I shall mean combats where at least 100 men were left on the field. Over 1,300. I have had luck. Eh? Never wounded? Oh yes, of course. I have a bullet here, and here, and here, and here, and in this leg, not so lucky. Three. And the last time, three different places. When we reach the house, I shall show you why I shall never walk well again and why I have pain without ending. That was when the Americans came in? Yes. Tell me about that? About your lying in a cave so long? I have heard about it, but there is not much to tell, senorita. After the battle of Herero, where I was wounded, my leg, as I told you, broken in three places, I disbanded what was left of my forces that they might escape without the burden of me. And with two men only, both my first cousins, I ran for the higher hills to a secret cave I knew. We reached it just in the nick of time to hide, but without a moment to get food. We had with us only three kilos of rice and one and one half kilos of sugar. We lay there thirty-three days, senorita, thirty-three days with nothing to eat, but three kilos of rice and one and one half kilos of sugar among three men. Luckily there was water in the cave and water is the most essential. There were in pursuit of us sixteen thousand carancistas and twelve thousand Americans. On several different days during the first week we heard them beating the brush all around us, but so cleverly had nature arranged our hiding place never, unless they knew the cave. During the second week I felt that I was to die, and I made my cousins swear to build a great fire of hardwood and burn me until not a piece of bone remained. My great, my only fear was that my dead body might be taken captive to a foreign country. A long pause then, after a month of that I thought it safe to try to go and I directed my cousins to build me a structure of branches. On the thirty third day they carried me out into the air of night. Traveling that way, carrying me by night and hiding me by day, they brought me to the house of a friend. Here I lay some days while they hid food in all necessaries in another larger cave where we then retired but not in agony this time for six weeks more until I was cured but cured is hardly the word as the wound still pained almost continually. We had reached the house. If you would look at my leg, friend and you, senorita and tell me if you think it will ever quit its aching again that childlike confidence in our poor knowledge. Like a little boy he pulled up his corduroy trouser's leg and the white cotton drawers and we looked at the three ugly irregular scars and both agreed on something of which we knew nothing that in time it would stop aching. Then after a moment it has been wonderful me henarao hearing about the cave. Will you not tell me of other brave things? I had made a mistake. I silenced him. A man does not talk of brave things senorita, he does them. Your last ride from chihuahua to muskis that must have been hard to endure. The endurance was my men's and they endured it for my pride that I might not be dictated to but be free to state my own terms. For this they rode 180 leagues across what you call desert 50 leagues without water going out of their minds some of them these men whom you see all around working they made that ride with me. Supper time once again. Tonight the heife asked for a cup of chocolate to bear his company it was brought to him with a fly in it throw this out soon he was bought another cup throw that out to throw it all out do you suppose we can eat of it after such a thing the senorita looked her distress he turned to her kindly don't cry linda pretty one it is not thy fault but of those stupidities in the kitchen women in the kitchen are no good too careless and now that you may feel better I shall tell you of a surprise I have for you I have engaged a man to cook tendability always choose a man he arrives tomorrow a very good a very fine cook and above all most clean you will be pleased pretty one again the evening hour in the patio again the stars coming so near the silence stretching so far from a distant doorway a square of yellow light lies on the darkness and a small dull red fire dimly shows us the face of a bending Indian woman near us the children walking around and around in a sedate circle holding hands their pretty voices singing softly Augustine suddenly dropped the other's hands came to his father I do not care to play any longer papasito Stavien what does thou wish to do I wish to do a turn in the night alone Stavien do a turn in the night alone my little son Augustine started off somberly into the dark the other children without him lost interest in play and came to hang about the knees of the senora looking at us shyly my son is like me said the hefe he likes to be alone in the night an old man drew near and after being recognized by the hefe's usual what does thou wish friend he asked for orders for the morning and got them with the hefe's usual swift decision then does thou want anything further friend and the old man's voice quavering with age but with strong respect and carrigno nothing more except only to serve my general another sleep in the great brass bed eyes hardly closed it seemed when the hefe holding high a lighted lamp stood in the door senorita I am sorry but it is the hour three o'clock time to get up and move fast to catch the seven o'clock train from rosario via's voice if you will permit me I shall light your lamp for you he came like some kind woman to the bedside and lit the lamp on the chair there my senora is rising to bid you goodbye but she is not yet ready and the servants are not about before for with your permission senorita he went out going softly in his sandals limping as he must always the self-starter was working beautifully on the Ford that early morning we backed out swiftly from the archway that leads into the patio of the house of Villa goodbye don Francisco goodbye mi general goodbye senorita goodbye amigo remember here you always have your house until soon hasta luego adios we turned into the black before dawn back to the town of rosario to the train to Jimenez back to the capital adios canutillo adu Villa yes I believe in Francisco Villa in the sincerity of his feeling for his country and for his people his people the poor, the ignorant the helpless of Mexico the history of his country offers no parallel to his career of ignorant men of power there have been plenty of revolutionaries plenty of generals plenty but there never has been one of these willing to lay down his arms for the good of all and to retire in peace to an inglorious life of toil San Antonio the whole border today is a hotbed of discontented patriots involving themselves in every sort of plot against the present victors in Havana Paris, Madrid, New York others of thinner patriotism because of fatter purse squander the profits of former power Villa alone stays with his land and works and I for one feel that his talents are being wasted I for one feel that in spite of his ignorance his profound ignorance he has great gifts extraordinary gifts gifts amounting to genius for organization for order for command this and a supreme instinct for handling common men I can see him at the head of a national organization of Ruales of mounted police making Mexico to its furthest Sierra safer to travel in and Central Park at Noonday yes by a whole lot I for one know of no man to whose integrity to protect and to whose power to defend I would more confidently in trust either my money or my life Villa and of Sophie Treadwell interviews Pancho Villa from the New York Tribune August 28th 1921 read from LibriVox by Sue Anderson Tasman Explores Australia by Hendrik Willem van Loon from the golden book of the Dutch navigators this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org read by Piotr Natter it often happened that ships of the Dutch East India Company on their way to the Indies were blown out of their course or were carried by the currents in a southern direction then they were driven into a part of the map which was as yet unknown and they had to find their way about very much as a stranger might do who has left the well-known track of the desert sometimes these ships were lost more often they reached a low flat which seemed to extend both east and west as far as the eye could reach which offered very little food and very little water and appeared to be the shoreline of a vast continent which was remarkably poor in both plants and animals indeed so unattractive was this big island as it was then supposed to be to the captains of the company that not a single one of them had ever taken the trouble to explore it they had followed the coastline until once more they reached the well-known regions of their map and then they had hastened northward to the comfortable waters of their own Indian Ocean but of course people talked about this mysterious big islands and they wondered they wondered whether perhaps the stories of the Old Testament the stories of the golden land of Ofir which had never yet been found might not yet be proved true in that large part of the map which showed a blank space and was covered with the letters of Terra Incognita if there was any such land still to be discovered by any European people the Dutch East India Company decided that they ought to benefit by it therefore their directors studied the question with great care and deliberation a number of expeditions were sent out one after the other in the year 1636 two small vessels were ordered to make a careful examination of the island of New Guinea which was supposed to be the peninsula part of the unknown southern continent but New Guinea itself is so large that the two vessels after spending a very long time along the coast were obliged to return without any definite information Anton van Demen the governor general of the Dutch East Indies however was a man of stubborn purpose and he refused to discontinue his search until he should have positive knowledge upon this puzzling subject six years after this first attempt he appointed a certain Franz Jakobs Wischer to study the question theoretically from every possible angle and to write him a detailed report Wischer had crossed the Pacific Ocean a few years after the discovery of Strait La Mer and he had visited Japan and China and was familiar with all the better known parts of the Asiatic seas to work and he gave the following advice the ships of the company must take the island of Moritius as their starting point they must follow a southeastern course until they should reach the 54° of latitude if in the meantime they had not found any land they must turn toward the east until they should reach New Guinea and from there using this peninsula or island or whatever it was as a starting point they should establish its correct relation to the continent of which it was supposed to be a solid part if it should prove to be an island then the ships must chart the strait which separated it from the continent and they must find out whether these did not offer a short route from India to Strait La Mer and the Atlantic Ocean Van Diemen studied those plans carefully he approved of them and ordered two ships to be made ready for the voyage they were small ships there were the Kerk with 60 men and the Zehein with only 40 Wiescher was engaged to act as pilot and general advisor of the expedition the command was given to one Abel Tasman like most of the great men of the Republic he had made his own career born in an insignificant village in the northern part of the Republic somewhere in the province of Chroningen the name of the village was Lutiegat he had started life as a sailor had worked his way up through ability and force of character and in the early 30s of the 17th century he had gone to India thereafter he had spent most of his life as captain or maid of the different ships of the company he had been commander of an expedition sent out to discover a new gold land which according to rumor must be situated somewhere off the coast of Japan and although he did not find it since it did not exist he had added many new islands to the map of the company since he was a man of very independent character he was specially fitted to be in command of an expedition which might meet with many unforeseen difficulties his instructions gave him absolute freedom of action the chief purpose of this expedition was a scientific one professional draftsmen were appointed to accompany the hemskerk and make careful maps of everything that should be discovered special attention must be paid to the currents of the ocean and to the prevailing direction of the wind furthermore a careful study of the natives must be made their mode of life, their customs and their habits must be investigated and they must be treated with kindness if the natives should come on board and should steal things the hollanders must not mind such trifles the chief aim of the expedition was to establish relations with whatever races were to be discovered of course there was little hope of finding anything except long-haired papuans but if by any chance Tasman should discover the unknown southland and find that this continent contained the rumored riches he must not show himself desires of getting gold and silver on the contrary he must show the inhabitants lead and brass and tell them that these two metals were the most valuable commodities in the country which had sent him upon his voyage finally whatever land was found must be annexed officially for the benefit of the estates general of the Dutch Republic and of this fact some lasting memorial must be left upon the coast in the form of a written document well hidden below a stone or a board planted in such a way that the natives could not destroy it on the 19th of August Tasman and his two ships went to Mauritius where the tanks were filled with fresh water and all the men got a holiday they were given plenty of food to strengthen them for the voyage which they were about to undertake through the unknown seas after a month of leisure the two ships left on the 6th of October of the year 1642 and started out to discover whatever they might find the farther southward they got the colder the climate began to be snow and hail and fog were the order of the day and everything indicated that they were reaching the arctic ocean of the southern hemisphere day and night they kept a man in the crowd's nest to look for land Tasman offered a reward of money and rum for the sailor who should first see a light upon the horizon but they found nothing except salt water and the cloudy sky Tasman consulted Wischer and asked him whether it would not be better to follow the 44° altitude then to go further into the stormy region since they had been sailing in a southern direction for almost a month without finding anything at all Wischer agreed to the change in his original plans once more there followed a couple of weeks of dreary travel without a sight of anything hopeful at last on the 29th of November of the year 1642 at four o'clock of the afternoon land was seen and we thought that it was part of his continent and called it Van Diemen's land after the governor general who had sent him out we know that it was an island to the south of the Australian continent and we now call it Tasmania on the 2nd of December Tasman tried to go on shore with all his officers but the weather was bad and the surf was too dangerous for the small boat of the Hemskerk the ship's carpenter then jumped overboard of the Dutch Republic and a flagpole under his arm he reached the shore, planted his pole and with Tasman and his staff floating on the high waves of the Australian surf and applauding him the carpenter hoisted the orange, white and blue colors which were to show to all the world that the white men had taken possession of a new part of the world the carpenter once more swam through the waves was pulled back into the boat the ceremony connected with the southern continent was over the voyage was then continued but nowhere could the ships find a safe bay in which they might drop anchor everywhere the coast appeared to be dangerous the surf was high and the wind blew hard at last on the 18th of December after another long voyage across the open sea more land was seen this time the coast was even more dangerous than it had been in Tasmania and the land was covered with high mountains furthermore the Hollanders had to deal with a new sort of native much more savage and more able to defend themselves than those who had looked at the two ships from the safe distance of Van Diemen's land but had fled whenever the white men tried to come near their shore at first the natives of this new land rode out to the Hemske and the Zehen and paddled around the ship without doing any harm one day the boat of the Zehen tried to return their visit it was at once attacked by the ferocious natives three dark sailors were killed with clubs and several were wounded with spears not until after the Hemske had fired a volley and had sunk a number of canoes did the others flee and leave the Dutch boat alone the wounded men were taken on board where several of them died next day Tasman did not dare to risk a further investigation of this bay with his small vessel and after the loss of several of his small company he departed the place of disaster he called Tasman Bay and sailed further toward the north if he had gone a few miles to the east he would have discovered that this was not a bay at all but the Strait which divides the northern and southern part of New Zealand now it is called Cook Strait after the famous British sailor who a century later explored that part of the world and who found that New Zealand is not a part of the continent but a large island which offered a splendid chance for a settlement it was very fertile and the natives had reached a much higher degree of civilization than those of the Australian continent Cook made another interesting discovery the natives who had seen the first appearance of the white man had been so deeply impressed by the arrival of the two Dutch ships that they turned their mysterious appearance into a myth this myth had grown in size and importance with each new generation and when Captain Cook dropped anchor of the coast of New Zealand and established relations with the natives the latter told him a wonderful story of two gigantic vessels which had come to their island ever so long ago and which had been destroyed by their ancestors while all the men on board had been killed it was not easy to follow Tasman on the modern map after leaving Cook Strait he went northward and passing between the most northern part of the island which he called Cape Maria Van Diemen and a small island which, because it was discovered on the 6th of January was called the Three Kings Island he reached open waters once more he now took his course due north in the hope of reaching some of the islands which Le Mer had discovered instead of that at the end of January the two ships found several islands of the Tonga group also called the friendly islands they baptized these with names of local Dutch celebrities and famous men in the nautical world of Holland near one of them called Amsterdam because it looked a little more promising than any of the others the ships stopped and once more an attempt was made to establish amicable relations with the natives these came rowing out to the ship and whenever anything was thrown overboard they dived after it and showed an ability to swim and to remain underwater which ever since has been connected with the idea of the South Sea population by means of signs and after all sorts of presence such as little mirrors and nails and small dives had been thrown overboard to be fished up by the natives Tasman got into communication with the Tonga people and pointed to his stomach the natives understood this and brought him fresh food he showed an empty glass and went through the motion of drinking the natives pointed to the land and showed him by signs that they knew what was wanted and that there was fresh water to be obtained on shore gradually the natives lost their fear and climbed on board in exchange for the coconuts which they brought they received a plentiful supply of dirty nails when those on shore heard that the millennium of useful metal had come sailing into their harbour their eagerness to get their own share was so great that hundreds of them came swimming out to the Dutch vessels to offer their wares before the supply of nails should be exhausted Tasman himself went on land and the relations between natives and visitors were so pleasant that the first appearance of the white man was the Tonga epic which was still recited among the natives when the next European ship landed here a century and a quarter later going from island to island and everywhere meeting with the same sort of long-haired vigorous looking men Tasman now sailed in a southwestern direction he spent several weeks between the Fiji islands and the group now called Samoa during all this time his ships were in grave danger of running upon the hidden reefs which are plentiful in this part of the Pacific at last the winter began to approach and the weather grew more and more unstable and as the ships after their long voyage were in need of a safe harbour and repair it was decided to try and return within the confines of the map of the known and explored world accordingly the ships sailed westward and discovered several islands of the Solomon group sailed through the Bismarck archipelago which it is called now and after several months reached the northern part of New Guinea which they too supposed to be the northern coast of the large continent of which they had touched the shores at so many spots but which instead of the promised offir was a dreary flat land surrounded by little islands full of coconut natives and palm trees but without a scrap of either gold or silver Tasman then found himself in a well-known regions he sailed away for Batavia and on the 15th of January of the year 1644 he landed to report his adventures to the Governor General and the Council of the Indian Company a few months later he was sent out upon a new expedition this time with three ships he made a detailed investigation of the northern coast of the real Australian continent he sailed into the Gulf of Carpentaria he found the Torres Strait which was supposed to be a bay of New Guinea and Australia for the report of the Torres Discovery in 1607 was as yet unknown in the dusty archives of Manila and had not been given to the world and once more he returned by way of the western coast of New Guinea to inform the Governor General that whatever continent he had found produced nothing which could be of any material profit to the Dutch East India Company in short New Holland as Australia was then called was not settled by the Hollanders because it had no immediate commercial value after this last voyage no further expeditions were sent out to look for the supposed southern continent from the reports of several ships which had reached the west coast of Australia and from the information brought home by Tasman it was decided that whatever land there might still be hidden between the 110 and 111 degree of longitude offered no inducement to a respectable trading company which looked for gold and silver and spices but had no use for kangaroos and the duck-built platpus New Holland was left alone until the growing population of the European continent drove other nations to explore this part of the world once more 120 years later End of Tasman Explores Australia by Hendrik Willem Van Loon The Tomb of Keats by Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rob Marland The Tomb of Keats As one enters Rome from the Via Ostiensis by the Porta San Paolo the first object that meets the eye is a marble pyramid which stands close at hand on the left There are many Egyptian obelisks in Rome tall, snake-like spires of red sandstone mottled with strange writings which remind us of the pillars of flame which led the children of Israel through the desert away from the land of the pharaohs But more wonderful than these to look upon is this gaunt, wedge-shaped pyramid standing here in this Italian city unshattered amid the ruins and wrecks of time looking older than the eternal city itself like terrible impassiveness turned to stone And so in the Middle Ages men supposed this to be the sepulcher of Remus who was slain by his own brother at the founding of the city so ancient and mysterious it appears What we have now Perhaps unfortunately more accurate information about it and know that it is the tomb of one Caius Castius a Roman gentleman of small note who died about 30 BC Yet though we cannot care much for the dead man who lies in lonely state beneath it and who is only known to the world through his sepulcher Still this pyramid will be ever dear to all English-speaking people because at evening its shadow falls on the tomb of one who walks with Spencer and Shakespeare and Byron and Shelley and Elizabeth Barrett Browning in the great procession of the sweet singers of England For at its foot there is a green, sunny slope known as the Old Protestant Cemetery and on this a common looking grave which bears the following inscription This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet who on his deathbed in the bitterness of his heart desired these words to be engraven on his tombstone Here lies one whose name was written in water February 24th 1821 and the name of the young English poet is John Keats Lord Horton calls this cemetery one of the most beautiful spots on which the eye and heart of man can rest and Shelley speaks of it as making one in love with death to think one should be buried in so sweet a place and indeed when I saw the violets and the daisies and the poppies that overgrow the tomb I remembered how the dead poet had once told his friend that he thought the intensest pleasure he had received in life was in watching the growth of flowers and how another time after lying a while quite still he murmured in some strange prescience of early death I feel the flowers growing over me but this time worn stone and these wild flowers are but poor memorials of one so great as Keats footnote recently some well-meaning persons have placed a marble slab on the wall of the cemetery with a medallion profile of Keats on it and some mediocre lines of poetry the face is ugly and rather hatchet shaped with thick sensual lips and is utterly unlike himself who was very beautiful to look upon his countenance says a lady who saw him at one of Haslett's lectures lives in my mind as one of singular beauty and brightness it had the expression as if he had been looking on some glorious sight and this is the idea which Seven's picture of him gives even Hayden's rough pen and this marble libel which I hope will soon be taken down I think the best representation of the poet would be a coloured boss like that of the young Raja of Kulapur at Florence which is a lovely and lifelike work of art end of footnote most of all too in this city of Rome which pays such honour to her dad where troops and emperors and saints and cardinals lie hidden in porphyry wombs or couched in baths of Jasper and Chalcedony and Malachite ablaze with precious stones and metals and tended with continual service for very noble is the sight and worthy of a noble monument behind looms the grey pyramid symbol of the world's age and filled with memories of the Sphinx and the Lotus leaf and the glories of old Nile in front is the Monte Tostaccio built it is said with the broken fragments of the vessels in which all the nations of the east and the west brought their tribute to Rome and a little distance off along the slope of the hill under the Aurelian wall some tall, gaunt cypresses like burnt out funeral torches to mark the spot where Shelly's heart that heart of hearts lies in the earth and above all the soil on which we tread is very Rome as I stood beside the mean grave of this divine boy I thought of him as a priest of beauty slain before his time and the vision of Guido's Saint Sebastian came before my eyes as I saw him at Genoa a lovely brown boy with crisp, clustering hair and red lips bound by his evil enemies to a tree and though pierced by arrows raising his eyes with divine impassioned gaze towards the eternal beauty of the opening heavens and thus my thoughts shaped themselves to rhyme you Miserandei poor rid of the world's injustice and its pain he rests at last beneath God's veil of blue taken from life while life and love were new the youngest of the martyrs here is Lane fair is Sebastian and as foul is slain no cypress shades his grave nor funeral you but daisies violets drenched with dew and sleepy poppies catch the evening rain oh proudest heart that broke for misery oh saddest poet that the world hath seen oh sweetest singer of the English land thy name was written water on the sand but our tears shall keep thy memory green and make it flourish like a basil tree Rome 1877 End of the Tomb of Keats by Oscar Wild