WHERE MAXIMILIAN'S AMERICAN COLONY LIVED.
On opening my door one morning to leave for the railway station a man,
who had evidently been waiting by the side of the entrance, sprung
forward and seized my baggage. My first impression was that he was a
robber; but I retained my screams for another occasion and decided
it was a mozo who wanted to help me to the train. Remembering former
experience, and wishing to profit thereby, I rushed after and caught
him just at the head of the stairway. Clutching his blouse with a
death grip, I yelled, "Cuanto?" "Un peso," he answered. Well, as I was
a healthy American girl, and as strong as one can be after several
months' training on beans and cayenne pepper, I had no intention of
giving a great, big, brown fellow $1 for carrying a five-pound sachel
half a square. I said "no" in a pretty forcible manner, and gave weight
and meaning to my monosyllable by jerking the sachel away. He looked
at me in amazement, and as he saw I was not going to be cheated he
said fifty cents. I said nothing, and, picking up the sachel, trudged
down-stairs. At the door he once more approached me and asked how much
I would give. "Un medio" (six and a quarter cents), I replied. "Bueno,"
he said, and took it at the price, while I congratulated myself on
saving ninety-three and three-quarter cents.
The car was full of people who, we found out afterward, composed a
Spanish opera troupe. Although they were not many they filled the
car, and in order to get a seat we had to put down shawls, beer and
wine-bottles, band-boxes, lunch-baskets, a pet dog, a green parrot, and
numerous small things. Every woman had at least three children, which
were cared for by as many nurses. Oh, what a howling, dirty, lazy mob!
The pretty little town of Cordoba lies about two miles from the
station, and street cars, hauled by four mules, await each train and
carry the passengers to the village--first-class, twelve and a half
cents; the cars wind through little streets shaded on either side by
beautiful foliage, which, every here and there, gives the tourist
tantalizing glimpses of the exquisite tropical gardens within; the
street car passes the only hotel in the town--the Diligencia. It is
a low, one-story structure, and looks more like a cattle-yard than a
habitation for human beings; the overhanging roof droops toward the
pavement, and is within a few feet of the ground. Inside one sees a
little porch on one side, which, covered with many trailing, curling
vines, serves for the dining-room. Opposite is an office and bedroom
combined, where, at the desk, sits a grizzly-haired man writing, ever
writing, from morning until night's shade hides the tracing from his
aged eyes.
He greets one with a weary, pathetic smile, and a far-away look in his
saddened eyes, as though wondering what has become of all the guests
who used to trip in gayly, with black eyes and white teeth sparkling
in evident pleasure at reaching his hospitable board, with whom he
grasped hand, and in true Mexican style said, "My house is yours," and
that friend responded, "Your humble servant." Poor old landlord, he
has lived too long! The advent of civilization has rushed in upon his
friends and crushed out his trade. The noisy old diligencia has long
ceased to rattle except in his memory, and the modern street-car stops
at his door once in many months to leave him a white-faced, curious
stranger, whom he greets with that strange smile and then returns to
his writing, waiting for that which is nevermore.
A man and woman came in on the same train, and the latter offered
her services to us, being able to speak the two languages. When we
entered, the chambermaid took my troublesome baggage and led us back
to where the rooms formed a circle around the court. In the center
stood a large basin where several old horses and mules--which looked
like old "Rip" after his long sleep--were lazily drinking. They paused
long enough to survey the unusual arrival. When we entered our room
the chambermaid--who is always of the male gender in Mexico--set down
my baggage and demanded fifty cents. I, not feeling disposed to throw
money away, decided not to pay one cent. Accordingly, I laid aside my
few words of Spanish and spoke to him in English. "What do you want? I
don't understand," etc. At last he took two quarters from his pockets
and held them before me on his open palm. I calmly reached out, and,
taking them, was going to transfer them to my pocket when he, in great
alarm, yelled: "No, no!" and grabbing them, tied them up in the corner
of his handkerchief, with great haste and evident pleasure. It had the
effect of curing him, for he immediately shook hands and left without
demanding more.
Cordoba, or Cordora, was established April 26, 1617, with 17
inhabitants. It was during the time of the Viceroy Diego Fernandez
de Cordoba, Marquis of Guadalcazar, and was named for him. King
Philip III. of Spain issued the charter on November 29 of the same
year. The population to-day, composed of Mexicans, 2 Germans and 1
American, is 44,000. It is built compactly. The town is clean and
healthful. Nearly all the streets are paved, but everything has a
quiet, Sunday-afternoon appearance. There are no public works, but the
surrounding plantations, which mark it as one of the prettiest places
in Mexico, furnish work for the populace. The Indians are cleaner and
better looking than those around the City of Mexico, and children
are not so plentiful. But one pulque shop is running, consequently
there are less drunken people than elsewhere, yet the jail is full of
prisoners. On Sunday people are permitted to visit their friends in
jail. They cannot go in, but they can go as far as the bars and look
through. The prisoners are herded like so many cattle. Their friends
carry them food. They push a small basket through the bars, and the
intervening officer puts it through another set of bars into the hands
of the fortunate receiver. Sometimes the prisoners get a few pence
and are enabled to buy what they want from the venders who come there
to sell. Indeed, it is ofttimes difficult to say which mob looks the
worse, the one on the inside or the visitors.
The market at present is situated on the ground around the plaza, but
some well-disposed Spanish gentleman is building what will be one of
the handsomest market houses in Mexico. It is situated on the edge
of town, and the surroundings are most pleasing. On one side is the
ruins of an old convent, famous for the goodness of the sisters, their
exquisite needlework, their intelligence and beauty. But time has laid
his hand heavily on the structure, and it has fallen into decay. At
the back stands a high marble shaft, broken at the top, and dotted
with green cacti which have sprung forth from the little crevices. It
has the appearance of very old age, but was erected in honor of those
who fell in the fight for liberty. One of the finest gardens in Mexico
bounds the other side. It is the property of the gentleman who gave the
ground and is building the market house, which alone will cost $50,000.
It is a marvel of beautiful walks and cunning retreats. It seems absurd
that such a spot, so fitted for love-making, should be placed in a
country where they don't know how to make use of it. In the center
stands a Swiss cottage built of cane, with a stained-glass window.
A stairway, also of cane, leads to the second story, and little
balconies surrounding the colored windows give one a lovely view of
the entire valley and surrounding hills. I wish it were in my power
to give some idea of the bountiful flowers which are forever opening
up their pretty perfumed faces in this entrancing spot; there are
thousands of roses, of all colors and shades, from the size of a gold
dollar to that of the fashionable female's hat. One spot shows tiny
flowers fit for the fairies, of wonderful shade and mold; next would
be a large, healthy, rugged tree, which bore flowers as delicate and
dainty as any plant in existence. It reminded one of a strong father
with his tiny babe in his protecting arms; the handsome avenues are
perfect bowers of beauty; the little birds in the foliage twitter
softly but incessantly. It is all life, but in a subdued, gentle
monotone, soft as the last lullaby over the little child who has closed
its eyes and, with a smile, joined that heavenly band to which it
rightly belongs.
This is the only place in Mexico where we found a man who knew enough
to have the flowers separated by a green lawn. It is the universal
rule here to grow anything but grass, which is considered an unsightly
weed. A Spanish gentleman once took me to see the grounds surrounding
a Mexican mansion. The trees, flowers, and shrubs, as well as the
statuary and fountains, could not be excelled, but the ground was bare
as Mother Hubbard's cupboard, and swept as clean as a dancing floor.
"This place cost more than five million dollars, and thousands more
yearly," explained the gentleman. "You have nothing in the States to
compare with it."
Cordoba supports three public schools and male and female academies,
one theater and about thirty churches. The finest church, located
next to the plaza, cost thousands of dollars. It has a marble floor
and twenty altars, dressed in the finest lace, with silver and gold
ornaments. The frescoing displays exquisite workmanship. The images are
wax-clad, and quaint.
The plantations surrounding Cordoba grow oranges, pineapples, coffee,
bananas, tobacco, rice, cocoanuts and peanuts. Coffee was introduced
into the West Indies in 1714, and here in 1800. It grows best in a
temperate zone, and Vera Cruz raises more than any other state in
Mexico. Most every variety requires protection from the sun, and will
die if set out alone, so those having large groves plant coffee in
them. Others make double use of their fertile land by planting groves
of cocoa palms with the alternate rows of coffee trees. The leaf and
bark of a coffee tree resemble that of a black cherry. The blossom
is white and wax-like, with a faint perfume, and the berries grow
on a branch like gooseberries. A tree will bear three years after
planting the seed, and on one branch will have ripe and green coffee
and blossoms all at the same time. When ripe it is gathered and laid
on the ground to dry, being stirred every morning to dry it equally.
This whips the hull off, and it is taken to the village, where it sells
for four cents a pound. Each hull holds two grains. One tree will live
and bear, with little or no cultivation, for eighty years. Bananas are
four years old before they bear. The finer banana is never seen in the
States, as it will not bear shipping. The kind shipped there the people
here consider unfit to eat unless cooked, and they prepare some very
dainty dishes from them. There are more than fifty different varieties,
from three inches in length to three-quarters of a yard. The small ones
are the best. The leaves are used by the merchants for wrapping-paper,
and by the Indians for thousands of different things.
Tobacco now grows in about half the states of the Republic, and thrives
up to an elevation of six thousand feet. Formerly its cultivation was
restricted to Orizaba and Cordoba, and a leaf of it found growing
elsewhere, either accidentally or for private consumption, was, by
law, promptly uprooted by officials appointed to watch for it. In 1820
two million pounds of it grew in this district, but now the output is
greatly decreased, owing to the heavy taxes. Sugar cane grows in all
but six states, up to an elevation of six thousand feet. It requires
eighteen months for crops to mature, except in warmer soil, when it
takes from eight to ten months.
One remarkable thing is, that the men who own the fine gardens
surrounding the village do not live near them, as one would suppose,
but inhabit stuffy little houses in the midst of the town. One bachelor
has on his plantation plants from all parts of the world, over which he
has traveled ten times. He cultivates all kinds of palms in existence,
among which we noticed what is known as the "Traveler's tree." It is
a strange looking thing, with long, flat, thick leaves growing up as
though planted in the center and hanging loose at the ends. The flower
is beautiful, with three long petals, the upper two white and the under
one a sky blue. It is of a wax-like stiffness. Readers of books of
travel will be familiar with the tree, it derives its name from the
fact that it grows in the desert where no water is to be found. On
thrusting a penknife into its body a clear stream of water, probably a
pint and a half, will flow from one cut, and people traveling through
the desert quench their thirst from this source, hence its name. The
water is very cool and has a slight mineral taste, but is rather good
and pleasing. It gives water freely all day, but, after the sun sets,
is perfectly dry.
The bread and quinine trees are among his interesting collection.
One odd plant attracted attention. It bore a round, green leaf, but
wherever there is to be a blossom the four leaves turn a pretty red
and form a handsome flower, each leaf forming a petal. The true
blossom, which does not amount to much, being long and slim, like a
honeysuckle, forms the stamens. It is of foreign importation, and grows
in a climbing vine, whole arbors being covered with it. The grounds
are surrounded by a hedge of cactus, which is strong and impassable.
The Yucca palm and fruit cactus grew off in a corner by themselves.
Several small streams run through this plantation, spanned by lovely
rustic bridges. In the deep ravines are found ferns of every variety
known, and on the trees a collection of orchids which, I believe, has
no equal in any country. The happy owner, who is a bachelor worth about
$20,000,000, lives in a little house in the center of this town, which
has never been furnished until last winter, but in the courtyard he has
plants from every country in the world, for which the shipment alone
cost $40,000.
Down by Cordoba I found a tribe of Indians who are not known to many
Mexicans excepting those in their vicinity; they are called the
Amatecos, and their village, which lies three miles from Cordoba, is
called Amatlan; their houses, although small, are finer and handsomer
than any in the Republic. Flowers, fruit, and vegetables are cultivated
by them, and all the pineapples, for which Cordoba is famous, come from
their plantations; they weave all their own clothing, and have their
own priest, church, and school. Everything is a model of cleanliness,
and throughout the entire village not one thing can be found out of
place; the women are about the medium height, with slim but shapely
bodies; their hands and feet are very small, and their faces of a
beautiful Grecian shape; their eyes are magnificent, and their hair
long and silky; they dress in full skirt, with an overdress made like
that we see in pictures of Chinese women, or like vestments worn by
priests of the Catholic Church. It is constructed of cotton in the
style and pattern of lace. Around the neck and ends it is beautifully
embroidered in colored silk, the dresses always being white. On the
feet they wear woven slippers of a pink color, and on their heads a
square pink cloth long enough in the back to cover the neck, like those
worn by peasant girls in comic operas; the arms are bare, covered
alone with bands and ornaments; the neck is encircled with beads of
all descriptions, and is also hung with silver and gold ornaments; the
earrings are very large hoops, like those introduced into the States
last fall; they never carry a baby like other tribes, but all the
children are left religiously at home.
The men are large and strongly built, not bad-featured, and wear a very
white, low-necked blouse and pantaloons, which come down one-third the
distance between waist and knee. They also wear many chains, ornaments,
bracelets, and earrings. They are always spotlessly clean, and if
they have a scratch on their body--of which they get many traveling
the thorny roads--they do not go outside their village until entirely
healed. They are industrious and rich, and never leave their homes but
once a week, where they bring their marketing and sell to the Indians
in Cordoba, as they are never venders themselves, selling always by the
wholesale. Their language is different from all the others, but they
also speak Spanish. The women are sweet and innocent. They look at one
with a smile as frank as a good-humored baby's, and are undoubtedly the
handsomest and cleanest people in the Republic. I would not have missed
them for anything, and can now believe there are some Indians like the
writers of old painted them.
In the time of Maximilian a colony of Americans asked the emperor for
land on which to settle. He kindly gave them their own choice, and they
settled at Cordoba, where they had the advantage of the tropical clime
and were secure from yellow fever. They were three hundred in number,
and in a short time, with true American industry, they made business
brisk. Three American hotels were established, and the plantations were
the finest and most prosperous in the land. Maximilian looked on the
little band with favor and gave them ample aid and protection. During
the rebellion the liberty party made raids on their homes, destroyed
their property, and not only made them prisoners and hurried them off
to Yucatan--a place from which there is no escape--but murdered them
whenever they wanted some new amusement. Maximilian was powerless to
help those who had prospered under his care, and just when he was
to be shot the last of the colony, who feared the liberty party,
deserted their once happy homes and went to another country. Only one
remained, Dr. A. A. Russell, who has been the solitary American here
for twenty years. The hotels have disappeared, and the plantations, now
possessed by Mexicans, bear no traces of their once tidy and prosperous
appearance; this is the history of the first and last American colony
ever formed in Mexico, given me by the last remaining colonist, who
reminds one of the last chief, inconsolable and disconsolate, keeping
vigil at the tombs of his people until death shall claim him too.