having authorized it; but the nobles were jealous of his superior rank, and Ferdinand dissatisfied with the small profits received from the expedition to the New World. The only subsequent employment Columbus received was the command of four caravels to search through the sea, now the gulf, of Mexico. He sailed from Cadiz, 9 May, 1502, coasted along the south side of the gulf, and, after much suffering from hardship and famine, reached San Lucar, 7 Nov., 1504, where he lay sick for several months, and, on his recovery and return to Spain, had his claim finally rejected by the king. At length, infirm in body, but in full possession of his faculties, having, in his own words, “no place to repair to but an inn, and often with nothing to pay for his sustenance,” the discoverer of a new world died at No. 2 Calle Ancha de la Magdalena on Ascension day, in a small apartment of a modest house, with a few faithful friends and followers standing by his bedside. A small tablet on the front of the two-story stone building, some 600 years old, briefly states, “Here died Columbus.”
The travels of the discoverer did not cease with his death. His remains, after burial at Valladolid, were removed to Seville. In 1536 they were taken with great pomp to Santo Domingo and interred in the cathedral. In 1796 what were supposed to be his ashes were again removed to the cathedral of Havana and buried there with imposing ceremonials; but it is believed by many authorities that the remains conveyed to Cuba were not those of Columbus, but those of his son Diego. On this point, and in answer to the recent assertion that he was a native of Calvi, in Corsica, the Duke of Veragua says in a letter to the writer: “I do not think any of the historians or writers have been successful in their attempts to deprive Genoa of the honor of being the birthplace of Columbus or in taking from Havana the glory of possessing his ashes.”
The name and fame of Columbus are not local or limited; they do not belong to any single country or people. They are the proud possession of the whole civilized world. In all the transactions of history there is no act which for vastness and performance can be compared to the discovery of the continent of America, “the like of which was never done by any man in ancient or in later times.” After forming his great and glorious designs, Columbus still continued, even during his most destitute days, the promiser of kingdoms, holding firmly in his grasp “the keys of the ocean sea,” claiming as it were from heaven the Indies as his own, and “dividing them as he pleased.” He never knew the extent or value of his discovery. He died in the conviction that, the land he had reached was the long-sought Indies. But it was a country far richer than the Indies; and had he, in quitting Cuba, struck into a westerly instead of a southerly direction, it would have carried him into the very depths of the golden regions whose existence he had so long and so vainly predicted. As it was, he “only opened the gates,” to use his own language, for others more fortunate than himself; and before he left Hispaniola for the last time the young adventurer arrived there who was destined, by the conquest of Mexico, to realize all the magnificent visions, which had been derided only as visions, in the lifetime of Columbus.
The accompanying illustration is a representation of a noble statue by Sunal, a Spanish sculptor, which will be set up in the Central park on the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of our continent, an event which it is believed will be celebrated by the governments of Spain and the United States, other European and American nations perhaps participating in the quadricentennial of the momentous event. The late king of Spain, who said to the writer, “Columbus should form an enduring bond between Spain and the United States,” was deeply interested in the proposed celebration, expecting to visit the New World with a large Spanish fleet, and perhaps to witness the unveiling of the Columbus statue in the Central park.
The following remarkable letter, not to be found
in any of the biographies of Columbus, was written
in Spanish by the great admiral two days before
he jailed from Saltes in search of “that famous
land.” It was addressed to Agostino Barberigo,
doge of Venice, to whom the discoverer had previously
made proposals of exploration, and has lain
perdu for three hundred and ninety-two years
among the fifteen millions of Venetian archives
contained in an ancient monastery near the grand
canal. There is a surprising tone of confidence
about the letter, and the reference to “the famous
land” is certainly remarkable:
“Magnificent Sir: Since your republic has not deemed it convenient to accept my offers, and all the spite of my many enemies has been brought in force to oppose my petition, I have thrown myself in the arms of God, my Maker, and He, by the intercession of the saints, has caused the most clement king of Castile not to refuse to generously assist my project toward the discovery of a new world. And praising thereby the good God, I obtained the placing under my command of men and ships, and am about to start on a voyage to that famous land, grace to which intent God has been pleased to bestow upon me.” Like Shakespeare, the “Inventor de las Indias” has suffered a series of feeble and foolish attacks from those who would fain rob him of the glory of being the most suc-
