A HORSEBACK RIDE OVER HISTORIC GROUNDS.
A Sunday in Mexico is one long feast of champagne, without a headache
the next day. When the first streaks of dawn appear in the east
people bob out from this street and that, hostlers hurry horses off
to private residences, gay riders whirl by as if eager to catch the
shades of night as they are sinking in the west, and by 6:30 it looks
as if all Mexico was on horseback. Ladies wear beautiful costumes, dark
habits, short skirts, silver and gold buttons, and broad sombreros. Men
display greater variety of costumes: some wear yellow buckskin suits
trimmed with gold or silver, others have a drab skin suit artistically
trimmed, still others wear light cloth suits and high boots, buttoned
at the side, and reaching the knee. A belt holding a revolver, and a
Mexican saddle to which is fastened a sword complete this beautiful
riding suit. And then what riders! It is the poetry of motion; they are
as but part of the perfect horse they ride. Take the beautiful horses,
artistic outfit, grand eyes glancing at you from beneath a pretty
sombrero, and you have a Mexican scene which is irresistible. Even
Americans are a thousand times handsomer when they don this outfit,
and it is safe to wager that if the men in the States would adopt the
Mexican riding-suit, there would not be a single man left after a two
months' trial.
After searching the whole city over we at last found a woman we knew,
who owned a habit. "Certainly you may have it, with great pleasure,"
and we thought what an angel she was until the time we needed it, when
she sent a reply: "My riding-dress is, as I told you, at your service
any day in the week but Sunday. I am surprised that you find need of
it on that blessed day." That evening on going to a house for dinner
we found her there, dressed to the height of fashion, discussing the
people who had attended church in the morning and telling what a lovely
drive she had on the _paseo_ in the afternoon. She is a missionary.
However, as the sun was creeping up trying to catch night unawares, I
mounted a horse, clad in a unique and original costume, to say the very
least, which the gallant young men, however, pronounced odd and pretty,
and wanted to know if it was the style of the States. The boulevard of
the Reform looked as cool and sweet as a May morning in the country,
and finer than a circus parade with the hundreds of horsemen going
either way. "_Vamos?"_ (Let us go). "_Con mucho gusto"_ (with much
pleasure), was our reply, and away flew our willing steeds, bearing us
soon to the paradise of Mexico--Chapultepec.
Greeting the guards at the gate, we entered, riding under trees which
sheltered Montezuma and his people, Cortes and his soldiers, poor
Maximilian and Charlotta, where Mexican cadets laid down their lives
in defense of their country, where the last battle was fought with
the Americans, and where now is being prepared the future home of
President Diaz. Around the castle and through the grounds we at last
emerged at the opposite side. Here a scene worthy of an artist's brush
was found. In a small adobe house, faced in front by a porch, were
half-clad Mexicans dealing out coffee and pulque to the horsemen who
surrounded the place. One had even ridden into the house. Awaiting
our turn we viewed the scene. On our left were mounted and unmounted
uniformed soldiers guarding one of the gates to Chapultepec. At our
back were trains of loaded burros, about 200, on their way to market
in the city. They stood around and about the old aqueduct, the picture
of patience. Some few had lain down with their burdens and had to be
assisted to their feet by their masters. Numerous little charcoal
fires, above which were suspended pans and kettles, were being fanned
by enterprising peons, who had started this restaurant to make a
few pennies from their fellowmen. One fellow cut all kinds of meat,
on a flat stone, into little pieces, which he deposited together in
a kettle of boiling water, and picking them out again with a long
stick sold them, half-cooked, to the waiting people. Some women were
busily knitting, weaving baskets, etc., as they waited for this
dainty repast. At last our turn came, and we turned our back on the
outdoor restaurants while we endeavored to swallow a little bit of the
miserable stuff they called coffee. As we started we saw the people
adjust the burdens to their backs, take up their long walking-poles,
and start their burros toward the city. They had feasted and were now
ready to continue their journey.
Leaping a ditch we left the highway and traveled through the fields,
stopping to gather a few pepper berries with which to decorate
ourselves, admiring the many-colored birds flitting from tree to tree.
Another ditch, which the horses cleared beautifully, was left behind,
and we were once again on a highway, with dust about a foot deep,
which made horses cough as well as their riders. "This is bad," one
of the gentlemen managed to say at last. We were only able to give a
sympathetic grunt and then had to gasp fifteen minutes before we could
regain our breath. "There is a hacienda near where we will get a drink
and change roads. Vamos." Off we went, leaving the dust behind, and
were soon in the shaded drive leading to the hacienda.
Here, at Huischal, we soon forgot the scorching sun and blinding dust
and gave ourselves up to the pleasure of the moment, watching the ever
picturesque people gathered in groups beneath the shade. Under the
trees were droves of horses, which were taken two by two, and led into
a large walled pond. A peon walked on the wall, holding the bridle of
the tethered horses, who swam from one end to the other, covered all
but the head. After the bath the horses were rubbed well until they
glistened like satin.
Climbing the hill we passed all kinds of Indians and huts. There were
homes built entirely of the maguey plant, where straw mats served for
beds. The people were all awake and engaged in various occupations;
some women were washing, some were making their toilet--combing their
hair with the same kind of brush they scrub with, and washing their
bodies with a porous soapstone common to the country. Very few of the
children had any clothing at all, but happiness reigned supreme. We
passed several plain wooden crosses with inscriptions on them, asking
travelers to pray for the deceased's soul. It brought forcibly to mind
Byron's "Childe Harold."
Quite on the top of the hill, and facing Chapultepec, gleams a marble
monument erected in honor of the Mexicans killed while defending Casa
de Mata (the house of the dead) and El Molino del Rey (the mill of the
king). The Americans discovered, while encamped near here, that cannon,
etc., were being manufactured at El Molino, so they decided to storm
the place; they found the work more difficult than they expected. The
Mexicans were fighting for a country they loved, and for which they had
been compelled to fight for generations. Their walls were strong, but
at last they gave way before the heavy artillery of the Americans, and
their dead covered the battlefield. Casa de Mata is now a garrison, and
the soldiers march back and forth with sad faces. El Molino del Rey now
furnishes flour for the city. It shows no trace of the assault. Near by
is a foundry for the manufacture of guns and munitions.
The city of the dead, Dolores, lies to the back of the mill. Funeral
cars and draped street cars were just returning from the cemetery, and
as the people are not allowed to ride or drive along this carway, we
crossed into a plantation of pulque plant. It is a resentful thing,
and a whole army in itself. It ran its sharp prongs into the legs of
the men, endeavored to pull the skirts off the women, and played spurs
on the horses; but we finally emerged at the entrance of the cemetery,
alive, but wiser from our experience.
Mexican cemeteries have a certain peculiar beauty, and yet they are
ugly. No one is allowed to ride or drive through; coffins are carried
in and everybody is compelled to walk. Beautiful trees are cultivated,
even the apple and the peach being reared for ornament. The walks
are laid out nicely. Spruce trees are trained to form an arbor for
long distances. Where they are divided or meet another walk, flowing
fountains with large basins and statues grace the spot. One statue,
which looked rather singular, was apparently carved out of wood. It
represented a man with flowing locks and beard, clad in a long gown and
holding in one hand a round ball. Time had its hand on heavily, and the
wood was seamed and browned. Altogether it was a disreputable-looking
thing. The keeper said it represented Christ with the world in
his hand. Not a sprig of grass is permitted to grow in any of the
graveyards, and they are swept as clean as our grandmother's backyard
used to be.
Men were busy digging graves, and new ones were completely hidden by
fresh flowers, and the flowers on others were withered and dead, as
if the one so lately buried was already forgotten. The monuments are
quite fine. Some have little altars on which candles are lighted on
certain days. The prevailing style of marble shaft is coffin shaped.
Some graves have miniature summer-houses built over them, the framework
covered with Spanish moss. The effect is beautiful. The poor have
only black and white wooden crosses to mark their ashes. One family
had built a cave, formed of volcanic stone, over the grave, the effect
being quite pretty and unique.
After partaking of refreshments at a long, low building, just outside
the cemetery gate, we rode across the country and into Tacubaya, an
ancient city once the home of Montezuma's favorite chief, where the
American soldiers were encamped, now the home of Mexican millionaires,
the site of the feast of the gamblers, and the prettiest village in
Mexico. The gambling feast has ended and the town has been restored to
its usual quietness. In the center plaza a band was holding forth, as
is the custom in every Mexican village on Sunday mornings. People had
gathered in sun and shade listening. The markets were in full blast;
the thousands of luscious fruits looking fresh and inviting as they
were spread on the ground awaiting buyers. The native ware was so
peculiar and the "merchant"--half-dressed, brown and pleasant--was more
than we could resist, so buying two small cream jugs, made after the
style in vogue fifty years ago, we paid him two reals (fifty cents) and
departed, leaving him happy.
Once again the willing horses climbed the hill, and reaching the summit
we inspected the waterworks which have so faithfully supplied the
city for years. A weather-beaten frame house hid the well or spring
that has given such a generous supply. A wooden wheel as large as the
house itself, moved slowly, as if age and rheumatism had stiffened its
joints. The water flowed gently through an open trench into another
building, whence it rushed, white, foaming and sparkling, into the
ground, leaving only high brick air-pipes to mark its course to the
aqueduct.
By the side of the trench a woman was doing her washing, and two little
lads, with poles across their shoulders and buckets suspended from
either end, were carrying water to the houses down in the valley. An
old cow with curly horns gazed at us in astonishment as we invaded her
private meadow to get a view of a paper mill, which is built in the
shape of an old English castle, down in a deep ravine in a nest of
lovely green trees. The old cow had evidently come to the conclusion,
after deliberate reasoning, that we were intruding, and she charged
our horses in a first-class "toro" style. There were no _capeadores_
to attract her attention, no _bourladeras_ for us to hide behind, so
we thought it best to fly, which we did with a Maud S speed. I did not
mention I had lost my hat in the retreat until we were over the trench,
and one of the young men gallantly started to recover it, against the
protestations of the entire crowd. We expected to see him killed, but
the cow stood watching him as he dismounted for the feminine headgear,
gesticulating with head and tail and beating the earth with her fore
legs. Remounting, he saluted her, then putting spurs to his horse he
cleared the ditch, leaving the baffled and angry cow on the other side.
La Castaneda, the great pleasure-garden of the Mexicans, was next
visited. Beautiful flowers, shrubbery and marble statues grace the
well-kept resort. Neat little benches, cunning little vine-draped
nooks, sprinkling-fountains, secluded dancing-stands, deep
bathing-basins, are a few of the many attractions. Shaded walks and
twisting stairways would always bring us to some new beauty. Music
and dancing are always held here every afternoon, and although it was
nearly noon they had not even so much as a cracker in the house. In
Mexico nothing in the line of edibles is kept in the house overnight.
At Mixcoac we visited the famous flower gardens, and viewed the site
where the American soldiers were garrisoned during the war. The
Mexicans have found a new thing--a pun, and they are enjoying it
heartily. It is not very brilliant or very funny, but it is traveling
over the city, and every person has to repeat it to you. An American
wanted to see Mixcoac--pronounced "Mis-quack." The conductor failed to
let him out at the place, and turning to the Mexicans he said: "We have
mis-t-quack." But it was funnier still to an American who was being
showed around by a Mexican who spoke very little English. "I will take
you to see Mis-quack," said the Mexican. The American expressed his
pleasure and willingness. "This is all Mis-quack," said the Mexican,
pointing around the entire town. "Indeed," ejaculated the astonished
tourist; "Miss Quack must be very wealthy."
Down the dusty road we came, passing natives shooting the pretty birds
just for the fun of the thing. All other riders had disappeared, and
people looked at us from beneath the shade in amazement, and even we
felt a little tired and heated after a thirty-mile ride. We reached
home at one o'clock. Since then I have been wearing blisters on my
cheeks and nose, and making frequent applications with the powder rag
of the literary widow and old-maid artist who room across the way.