HISTORIC TOMBS AND LONELY GRAVES.
How much I would like to paint the beauties of Mexico in colors so
faithful that the people in the States could see what they are losing
by not coming here. How I would like to show you the green valley where
the heat of summer and blast of winter never dare approach; where every
foot of ground recalls wonderful historical events, extinct races of
men and animals, and civilization older by far than the pyramids. Then
would I take you from the table-land to the mountain, where we descend
into deep canons that compare in their strange beauty with any in the
world; the queer separation of the earth, not more than 100 feet from
edge to edge of precipice, but 400 feet deep. More wonderful still is
the sight when the rainy season fills these gorges with a mad, roaring
torrent. Then would I lead you to the edge of some bluff that outrivals
the Palisades--and let you look down the dizzy heights 500 feet to the
green meadows, the blooming orchards, the acres of pulque plant, the
little homes that nestle at the foot of this strange wall. Then further
up into the mountains you could see glaciers, grander, it is claimed,
than any found in the Alps. Here are buried cities older than Pompeii,
sculptures thousands of years old, hieroglyphics for the wise to study,
and everywhere the picturesque people in their garb and manners of
centuries ago--and all this within a day's travel from the city. Surely
in all the world there is none other such wonderful natural museum.
Business men who wish to rest from their labors find perfect quiet in
this paradise. All cares vanish. Some strange magic seems to rob one
of all care, of every desire to hurry. Railways furnish comfortable
and safe transportation; the people are attentive and polite, and
as many comforts are attainable as at any other place away from the
States. People who have any desire to see Mexico in all its splendor
should come soon, for civilization's curse or blessing, whichever it
may be, has surely set a firm foot here, and in a few years, yielding
to its influence, all will be changed. Already the dark-eyed senora
has changed the lovely, graceful mantilla for stiff, ugly bonnets
and hats; the poor Indian woman is replacing the fascinating reboza
with a horrid shawl; the Indian man is changing sandals for torturing
shoes and the cool linen pantaloons and serape for American pantaloons
and coat. Civilization and its twin sister, style, have caught them
in their grasp, and unless you come soon Mexico will cease to be
attractive except as a new California.
There is one thing I hope will ever remain, and that is the graveyard
of San Fernando, where most of the illustrious dead of Mexico are
entombed. But it is doubtful, as a little beyond are the fine houses of
the foreign representatives, and the houses are crowding up to the gate
of this dead city as though trying to push it out of existence. An old
cathedral, faced by a green plaza, rears its head at one side, near the
massive iron gates which the keeper, sitting just within its portals,
swings open and admits one with a welcome that is surprising. All
around are people buried in the walls. The plates are decorated in all
manner of ways. Some have a little niche which hold the image of the
Virgin and several candles. Others are hung with wreaths, and some with
crepe. The majority have places to hold candles, which are burnt there
on certain days. The nearest tomb to the gate holds the remains of a
young girl who died, quite suddenly, on the day she was to be married,
just an hour before the time appointed. Near here is erected a fine
shaft in honor of General Ignacio Comonfort, who was a President once,
but was shot at Molino de Toria, November 13, 1863, by the Americans.
Several yards beyond is a plain, brown stone, built in an oblong box
shape, with a large, stone cross in the center. It is weather-beaten
and worn, and looks to be centuries old. All the information it gives a
stranger is in two large initials, T. M., rudely cut on the side.
No date or usual verse of regret from loving friends is inscribed, and
somehow a thrill of pity strikes one for T. M., as it seems to be the
only grave in all that quiet city that bears no mark of loving hands.
I took my penknife and hastily cut in the soft stone R.I.P. When the
Mexican friend, who had during this time been engaged with the gateman
getting some information, came up he said: "The grave you stand beside
is that of General Tomas Mejia, who was shot with Maximilian, and here
is the tomb of the other." It was similar in shape to General Mejia's,
but some kind hand had hung wreaths on the cross. General Miguel
Miramon was president of the Republic before Maximilian. He was a brave
and good man, and the emperor well knew his worth.
When they stood up to be shot, Maximilian in the center, Mejia on the
right and Miramon on the left, the center of course being considered
the place of honor, Maximilian, touching Miramon on the shoulder,
said: "You are more worthy this place than I," and he exchanged places,
and so they died.
The tomb of Benito Juarez, the Indian President, is the finest in the
place. It is a long marble tomb. On it lies the life-size body of
Juarez, partly covered with a mantle. Sitting at his head, with her
hands on his heart, is a beautiful woman, representative of the nation
mourning for its much beloved President. The whole is a perfect study,
and was designed and executed by a Mexican.
The life of Juarez is a very romantic one. He is familiarly known as
the "Lincoln of Mexico." He was born in the State of Oaxaca, 1806,
and at the age of twelve years could neither read nor write. He was a
full-blooded Indian, and could not even speak the Spanish language.
However, he tried to improve his time, and in 1847 he was Governor of
his native State. He went to New Orleans, on being banished by Santa
Anna, but returned to Mexico in 1855 and became President of the Court
of Justice. When Comonfort was overthrown by the clerical party,
Juarez set himself up at Vera Cruz as Constitutional President of the
Republic. The United States recognized him as such, and he successfully
fought the priesthood and confiscated all the church property. When
Maximilian ascended the throne, Juarez sent his family to New Orleans,
but he remained here until compelled to cross the frontier. The United
States, which had always favored Juarez, interfered in his behalf. At
the termination of the War of the Rebellion Maximilian was betrayed and
shot, and Juarez was re-elected in 1871, and died in office June 18,
1872.
He has a daughter who is married and living in Mexico in greater style
than the president. She resembles her father. A story is told of Juarez
that is new at the very least. He had plenty of enemies, especially
among the church party. One day he sent a band out to capture an
outlaw, who, notwithstanding his enemies, stood well with the clergy.
The bandit was met on the highway and shot before he could utter a
prayer. They said his soul was lost, and Juarez was to blame. When he
was dying it was endeavored to keep the matter quiet, and the people
were in ignorance of his fatal illness until one morning they saw a
notice posted on street corners, which read in this style:
"Hell, 1.30. Juarez just arrived. Devil putting on his
tail."
It was signed by the name of the bandit.
General Ignacio Zaragoza, the conqueror of the French in Puebla, May 5,
1862; General Vincente Guerrero, one of the principal heroes of the War
of Independence; Mariano Otero, one of Mexico's most famous orators;
Melchor Ocampo, a very distinguished philosopher and politican, and
the companion and right hand of Juarez, helping him to establish the
liberal principles; Francisco Zarco, one of the Constitutionalists;
General Jose Joaquin de Herrera, one of the best Presidents the
Republic ever had, and other famous generals, statesmen, writers,
and artists' fill up this quiet spot. The gates are only open now to
visitors. They no longer register dead guests.
Among many other things Mexico can boast of is the public library. It
is situated on Calle de San Augustin, in the old church and convent
of Saint Augustin. The high iron fence which incloses it is topped
with marble busts of famous orators and authors. The little green plot
in front is filled with rare plants and fountains. The face of the
church is a mass of wondrous carvings, and the vestibule is a crown of
splendid architecture. Directly over the door leading into the room
is the "World." On one side brass hands and figures tell the hour.
Standing on one foot on top of it is a life-size figure of "Time," in
bronze. The attitude, the scythe over the shoulder, the expression
on the face, the long, flowing beard and hair are perfect. Opposite
Time, and at the other end of the room is the Mexican coat of arms.
Book-cases line each side, and in the center are reading-desks and
easy-chairs. At the right entrance is a large statue of Humboldt, and
on the left Cuvier. Opposite one another are Descartes and Copernicus,
Dante and Alarcon. Origen and Virgil, Plato and Cicero, Homer and
Confucius, and in the center a large figure with a book in hand marked
"Science."
The books are catalogued under the heads of philosophy, history,
fiction, etc., and are placed in cases alphabetically. They are in all
languages, and many of them are very ancient. Some are on parchment
and in picture writing. The library has catalogued one hundred and
sixty thousand volumes, and owns many besides that are not yet sorted
and arranged. It is open from 10 A.M. to 5 P.M., and is equally free
to all. It is well patronized by men, but it is safe to say no woman
has ever read a book inside its walls. The only women who ever enter
are tourists. The books are not permitted to go outside the building.
A man gets a printed card. On it he writes the title, number and case
of his book, and when the hour comes to close he lays the book on the
desk of the janitor and gives his card to the superintendent. Many of
the ancient books were taken at the time of the confiscation of the
monasteries and convents.
The carnival passed off very quietly. As I said before, Mexico is
becoming civilized, and doing away with many ancient and beautiful
customs. In former years every day on carnival week the paseo was
crowded with masked men and women in historic and comic garb, and
battles were fought with empty egg-shells and queerly constructed
things for the same purpose. This year every person went, but only
the fewest number were masked. Some few among the lower class threw
egg-shells. Beyond this all was quiet. It has also been the custom to
give fancy-dress and masked balls. In all the theaters public balls
were held and the clubs gave private receptions. The French Club had
their rooms nicely decorated and the best people attended, dressed in
the finest and most original costumes. Perhaps the most striking one
was a creamy satin embroidered with red roses and covered with natural
butterflies of gorgeous and brilliant hue. The young ladies all wore
their dresses just reaching their knees, and the fancy boots displayed
were something marvelous; satin of all shades, embroidered with gold
and silver, and trimmed with flowers.
One couple, who have been lately engaged, were dressed alike. The girl
wore a short dress of white satin, profusely trimmed with pompons of
white fur; white satin boots trimmed the same way, and over her loose
hair of marvelous length and thickness was a point lace veil. The groom
wore satin knee breeches, short coat, high hat and boots, all covered
with the white fur pompons. They were accompanied by the mother, in a
brocade crimson velvet on a canary background and rich yellow lace,
low-necked and en train, and the father in common dress suit. The
Mexican boys never appeared better than in the grand old dregs of
former days. Mostly crimson velvet and satin were affected, showing
to an advantage their superb eyes and complexion. The women were
remarkable for their homeliness.
A grand supper of thirty-five courses was served and more wine,
champagne and cigarettes consumed than would be done at forty
receptions in the East.
Now, having shown you now they do at private balls where only the
_elite_ are permitted to attend, would you like to don a mask and
domino and sit with these very same people in the boxes at the
theaters, and watch the promiscuous crowd beneath? It is not a select
crowd by any means, but one composed of the lowest in the land. Yet men
take their wives, sisters, and friends, masked, that they may watch
through opera glasses this wonderful sight, and wives and sweethearts
get friends to take them, that they, unseen, may see if husband
or lover takes part in the revel, for the men are of the best and
wealthiest families.
At 11 o'clock the doors are flung open and people come in slowly. The
two bands play alternately the Spanish danza and the waltz. The women
come in dressed in all the styles ever invented. One beautiful woman
wore a blue satin dress, embroidered with pink rose buds. Another
wore blue, trimmed with beaded lace, which glittered like hundreds of
diamonds in the gas-light. Two came together, one in black, the other
in crimson velvet, profusely and gayly embroidered. Some were dressed
after the style of the male dudes of the States, but the majority wore
nothing but a comic-opera outfit, dotted with silver or gold spangles,
according to the color. The men, with the exception of a half dozen,
wore their common suits, and never removed their hats. Nearly all the
women wore their hair short, which they had powdered.
At first they wore masks, but in a short time they were removed, and
by 3 o'clock everybody was drunk. When a man refused to dance with a
woman, a fight was the result, and everybody would quit dancing until
it was settled. One year fifteen men were killed during the week it
lasted. This year but one has met his death. The actions and dancing
of this mob will bear no description, and at 7 o'clock the performance
ended. The manager of the National Theater has promised that his house
shall never be used for this purpose again.
The carnival was celebrated in fine style at Amecameca, right at the
foot of the White Lady. Indians came from all parts of the country
and paraded the entire week around the church and temple with lighted
candles. At Puebla they had egg battles, and in all little places the
feast was carried on as in former days.
Sights in the city have begun to assume a familiar look, although one
never tires of them, and I begin to think of moving elsewhere.
The buried city is slowly being unearthed at San Juan. Already they
have brought to light a house of magnificent size and finish, and in a
few days it will be well worth a visit. Tourists have been going down
regularly, but beyond a few men at work, little was to be seen. What
they missed they furnished with their imagination, as did also some
correspondents who would not wait to get legitimate news.
The mint, which is situated in the suburbs of the city, is turning out
fifty thousand dollars in silver per day. The first coin struck was in
1535, and in three hundred years they coined $2,200,000,000. The men
employed get from one to two dollars a day. In a month from now the
government is going to make fifteen million cents. Gold coin, although
in use here, is not made more than once a month.
The arsenal is in a fine old building directly in the opposite
direction from the mint. All departments are not running--for the lack
of money, so they say. They make but three hundred and fifty entire
guns a day, but have one million dollars' worth in stock. In one room
they have a fine collection of arms, such as are used by every nation
in the world. The iron and wood used is Mexican, the latter a superb
walnut, which requires no oil or varnish. The people here employed
get from one real (twelve and a half cents) to two dollars a day, the
highest that is paid.
The tourists who have such a mania for mementos have brought disgrace
on themselves and others also. The governor has been very kind, and
has thrown open the embassadors' hall, without reserve, for their
inspection. It is a beautiful place, containing life-size paintings of
Washington, Juarez, Hidalgo and other illustrious men. The chandeliers,
hung with brilliant cut-glass pendants, terra cotta and alabaster vases
and handsome clocks, were once the property of Maximilian. At either
end of the long hall are crimson velvet and gold-hung thrones, where
the president receives his guests. Some trophy fiend, most probably
some girl with the thought of a crazy patch, cut a large piece out of
one of these damask curtains; consequently the governor has issued
orders that no visitors shall be admitted, and the Yankees have gone
down one notch further in the scale where they already, by their own
conduct, hold a low position. It is to be hoped that those who come in
the future may act so that no more shame will fall on us.