studying and traveling in the States. He was dressed in the height of
American fashion, and bore himself as a young gentleman of means. As
he stepped from the train he was enveloped in the arms of another
youth of about his own age. They clasped their right hands and patted
each other on the small of the back with their left hands, and kissed
each other’s cheeks, and then he was similarly embraced by a big
stately man, over six feet in height, with a long gray beard, who
carried himself with great dignity. The two were dressed in full
Mexican costume, with tight-fitting _pantaloones_ flaring at the
bottom and laced with silver cording on the sides, short velvet
jackets embroidered with gold lace, high felt hats with gold cords and
tassels, and their monograms six inches high in burnished metal
fastened on the side of the crown. Several peons seized the young
man’s bags and American suit-case, and the party moved toward a
six-mule carryall, set high on enormous wheels. The traveler was
evidently the son of one of the great _haciendados_, whose estates lay
perhaps fifty miles away. Only grandees of the first magnitude travel
by carriage in Mexico.
Our colored porter, black as jet, was also in a happy mood. The first
of his series of Mexican sweethearts had come to greet him, bringing
him a basket of fruit. She was comely, with fine dark eyes, her long
hair coiled beneath her purple _rebozo_. There is no color line in
Mexico and Sam proved himself to be a great beau among the Mexican
_muchachas_.
Sitting in the smoking compartment of my car, during the morning, I
found myself in company with three Mexican gentlemen who entered at
Monterey. They could speak no English. My Spanish was limited. But as
we sat there I became conscious of a most friendly interchange of
sentiment between us. They were demonstratively gracious. One of them
offered me a fine cigar, the other insisted that I accept of his
_cigarettos_, and they would accept none of mine until I first took
one from them. They sent the porter for beer, and insisted that I
share with them. They even got out at one of the way stations and
bought fragrant light skinned oranges, and pressed me to share the
fruit. I could not speak to them, nor they to me, but I became aware
that they were members of the Masonic order. I wore my Master Mason’s
badge. They displayed no outward tokens, but their glances and
friendliness revealed their fraternal sentiments. They treated me with
distinguished courtesy through all the journey to Mexico City, and at
last said good-bye with evident regret. At a later time, I learned
that a Mexican of the Masonic Fraternity wears no outward sign of his
membership, owing to the hostility of the yet dominant Roman Church,
while the Masonic bond is of peculiar strength by very reason of that
animosity.
[Illustration: MULES CARRYING CORN]
After leaving San Louis Potosí, the great inland plain which we had
all day been traversing grew more and more broken. We came among small
hills, with here and there deep ravines, and we began turning slightly
toward the west and climbing by easy grades toward distant, towering
mountains far upon the horizon to the south. Water now became more
plentiful. We followed the course of a stream, wide, between high
banks, where were long reaches of sand interspersed with well filled
pools. There were adoby villages in increasing numbers, and here and
there were little churches or chapels, each surmounted with a large
cross. I counted more than a hundred of these chapels in the course of
a few miles. It was as though the whole population had for centuries
devoted its time to building these shrines. Some were dilapidated and
in ill repair, others looked as though recently constructed. Each has
its Madonna, and each is venerated and cared for by the family who may
have erected it. It was eight o’clock and dark when we reached
Acambaro where a good supper awaited us in the commodious station.
Just as the train was starting, I asked some questions of the American
conductor and, after a little conversation with him, was surprised to
find that he was a West Virginian from Kanawha. “_Señor_ Brooks,” he
said, who had grown up near “Coal’s Mouth,” now St. Albans. He was
delighted to learn from me of Charleston and the Kanawha Valley, and
hoped some day to return and see the home of his childhood. He now
loved Mexico. Its dry and sunny climate had given him life, when in
the colder latitude of West Virginia he would have perished.
During the night, while crossing the summit of the _Sierra_, at La
Cima,--nearly eleven thousand feet above the sea,--it became intensely
cold again, even colder than when we crossed the mountains near
Saltillo. The chill again awoke me, when I discovered that we were
rolling down into the valley of Anahuac toward the City of Mexico. We
were soon below the mists and beneath a cloudless sky, yet I felt no
undue heat, but rather, a quickening exhilaration in the pure, dry
air. As we curved and twisted and descended the sharp grades, many
vistas of exceeding beauty burst upon the eye. We were entering a wide
valley of great fertility surrounded by lofty mountains, and to the
far south, fifty miles away, the burnished domes of Popocatepetl and
Ixtacciuhatl, lifted their ice crests into space, eighteen thousand
feet above the level of the sea. Far beneath us glittered and glinted
the waters of Lakes Tezcoco, Xochimilco and Chalco, once joined, but
now separated, by the rescued land on which stood _Tenochtitlan_, the
mighty capital of Montezuma, even yet to-day a city exceeding four
hundred thousand souls (when Cortez conquered it, it is said to have
held more than a million). Everywhere the eye rested upon fruitful
land, tilled under irrigation, containing plantations of maguey,
orchards of oranges and limes, and pomegranates, and groves of figs
and olives--all forming a landscape where spring is perpetually
enthroned.
[Illustration: A CARGADORE BEARING VEGETABLES]
Along the roads, trains of pack mules and burros, heavily laden, were
toiling toward the great city, and many footfarers were bearing upon
their backs enormous packs, the weight resting on the shoulders, and
held in place by a strap about the forehead. When the Aztecs were
lords of Mexico and Montezuma ruled, the horse, the ox, the ass, the
sheep were unknown upon the American continent. All burdens and all
freight were then carried upon the backs and shoulders of the Indians,
who from their forefathers had inherited the hardy muscles and the
right to bear the traffic of the land. And from these ancestors the
Indian _cargadores_ of to-day have received the astonishing strength,
enabling them to bear these great loads with apparent ease; the
Indian, with his jog-trot gait, carrying a hundred pounds upon his
back a distance of fifty miles a day. A large part of the fruit,
vegetables and tropical products displayed each day in the markets of
the city are thus brought up from distant lowland plantations upon the
backs of men. As we approached the city, nearer and nearer, the
highways we ran beside or cut across were filled more and more with
these pack trains and _cargadores_, and with men and women faring
cityward.
We finally drew into a large newly-built station of white sandstone.
Pandemonium reigned upon the platform alongside which we stopped. Men
were embracing each other, slapping each other’s backs and kissing
either cheek. Women flew into each other’s arms and children kissed
their elders’ hands. We passed along through wide gateways and into a
paved semicircular courtyard, where were drawn up carriages with bands
of yellow or red or blue across the door. Those with yellow bands
are cheap and dirty, those with blue bands mean a double fare and
those with red bands are clean and make a reasonable charge, all of
which is regulated by the Federal government. I entered one of the
red-banded vehicles. The driver called two _cargadores_, who seized my
steamer trunks, loaded them on their backs and ran along beside us.
The horses started on a half gallop and when we reached the hotel, the
_cargadores_, with the trunks upon their backs were there as well,
less out of breath than the panting team, and each was gratified with
a Mexican quarter for his pay (equal to an American dime), while my
_cochero_ swore in profuse Spanish because I did not pay him five
times his legal fare.
[Illustration: PATIO--HOTEL ITURBIDE]
I was come to the one-time palace of the Emperor Iturbide, and was
welcomed by the American speaking _Administrador_, in softly accented
Louisianian speech.
V
First Impressions of Mexico City
HOTEL ITURBIDE,
_November 20th_.
When I awoke this morning, the bare stone walls of my chamber, the
stone-paved floor, the thin morning air drifting in through the
wide-open casements, all combined to give me that sensation of nipping
chilliness, which may perhaps only be met in altitudes as high as
these. I am a mile and a quarter in the air above the city of
Charleston-Kanawha, a mile and half above the city of New York. By the
time I had made my hasty toilet, my fingers were numb with the cold. I
put on my winter clothes, which I had brought with me for use when
returning to Virginia in January. I also put on my overcoat.
Leaving my vault-like chamber, I passed along the stone-flagged
hallways, down the stone flights of stairs, into the stone-paved
court, passed out through the narrow porter’s door and found myself
among the footfarers on the Calle de San Francisco. It was early. The
street was still in the morning shadows. The passers-by, whom I
met, were warmly wrapped up. The _rebozos_ of the women were wound
about the head and mouth. The _zerapes_ of the men were held closely
about the shoulders and covered the lower face. Overcoats were
everywhere in evidence, and scarfs shielded the mouths of the Frenchly
uniformed police. All these were precautions against the dread
pneumonia, the most feared and fatal ailment of Mexico.
[Illustration: CARGADORES TOTING CASKS]
I entered a restaurant kept by an Irishman speaking with a Limerick
brogue, but calling himself a citizen of the United States. I came
into a high, square room with stone walls, stone floor, windows
without glass, with many little tables accommodating three and four.
Here were a few Americans with their hats off, and many Mexicans with
their hats on. A dish of strawberries was my first course, the berries
not very large, a pale pink in color, very faint in flavor. These are
gathered every day in the year from the gardens in the neighborhood of
the city. My coffee was _con leche_ (with milk). I asked for rolls and
a couple of _blanquillos_ (eggs) _passados por agua_ (passed through
the water, i. e. soft boiled). For a tip, _cinco centavos_ (five cents
in Mexican, equal to two cents in United States) was regarded as
liberal by the Indian waiter. Upon leaving the wide entrance, I found
the shadows fled and the sunshine flooding its white rays upon the
street.
Leaving my overcoat in the hotel, I took my way toward the lovely
Alameda Park, where, choosing a seat beneath a splendid cypress, I sat
in the delicious sunshine and watched the moving crowds. Many droves
of mules, laden with products of the soil, were coming into the city.
Later in the day, these same carriers of freight go out again, laden
with merchandise for distribution to all the cities and villages of
the mountain hinterlands.
An Indian mother passes by, her baby caught in the folds of her
_rebozo_. I toss her a _centavo_, and she allows me to kodak herself
and child.
[Illustration: A SNAP-SHOT FOR A CENTAVO]
A handsome man riding a fine, black horse, pauses a moment at the
curb. He is gratified that I should admire the splendid animal. He
reins him in, and I capture a view.
A _rancherro_ in all the gaudy splendor of gilt braid, silver-laced
_pantaloones_, and costly saddle, behung with ornaments of trailing
angora goat’s wool, draws near me. He permits me to photograph his
fine sorrel horse, but will never allow me to take himself face to
face. He halts, that his animal may be admired by the passing throngs;
he chats with friends who linger by his side, but whenever I try to
catch his face he wheels about.
[Illustration: MY PROTECTORS OF THE MARKET]
[Illustration: ERRAND BOYS OF THE MARKET]
The _dulce_ sellers bearing sweets in trays upon their heads; the
flower venders carrying baskets piled high, such roses as only
veritable trees may yield, come also within the vision of my kodak.
Later, I take my way to the Plaza Grande, fronting the Cathedral, and
there again catch glimpses of the life of the city. Here are men
bearing upon their shoulders casks, apparently filled, bales of garden
produce, crates of chickens. Every sort of portable thing is here
borne upon the human back. Now and then one or another seats himself
upon the stone and iron benches and engages in gossip. Of these, also,
my camera makes note.
Later in the morning, I saunter through many streets, inquiring my way
to one of the great markets. Here I linger, going about from stall to
stall and taking a picture as my fancy urges. A policeman, uniformed
like a Paris _gendarme_, eyes me curiously, comprehends the power of
my camera, and comes up to me smiling. He drives back the crowd, calls
up his companion-in-arms and stands at attention, begging me to send
him a copy of the picture. A group of errand boys, who carry large
flat baskets, and will take anything home you buy, attracted by the
mysterious black box, line up and motion that their pictures also be
taken. The instantaneous movement of the shutter strikes them with
wonder, when, throwing a few _centavos_ among them, I catch them now
struggling for the coin. I have become the center of attraction. The
swarming street crowd crushes about me, all eager to face the magic
instrument, till I am fain to call upon my policemen friends to fend
them off.
Standing there, joking with my guardians and keeping the good will of
the increasing mob, I am accosted by a tall, thin-bearded gentleman in
rusty though once fashionable black. He speaks to me in French. He is
from Paris, he says; and Ah! have I really been there in Paris! _Très
jolie Paris!_ He also enjoys coming to the markets, and wandering
among the stalls, and watching the people, and noting their habits and
their ways. He guides me about among the different sections,
commenting on the fruits and vegetables and wares. When we have spent
an interesting hour, he invites me to share a bottle of French wine, a
delicious claret, and then, lifting his hat, bids me _adieu_ and is
lost forever among the swarming multitudes.
There is so much to see in this ancient city, so much to feel! It is
so filled with historical romance! As I wander about it, my mind and
imagination are continually going back to the pages of Prescott and
Arthur Helps, whose histories of Spanish invasion and conquest I
used to pore over when a boy, and to the tragedies which Rider Haggard
and Lew Wallace so graphically portray. I scarcely dare take up my
pen, so afraid am I of retelling what you already know. I am ever
seeing the house tops swarming with the dark hosts of Montezuma,
hurling the rocks and raining the arrows upon the steel-clad ranks of
Cortez and his Christian bandits as they fight for life and for
dominion in these very streets below.
[Illustration: A RANCHERRO DUDE]
I stood, this morning, within the splendid cathedral, built upon the
very spot where once towered the gigantic pyramid on whose summit the
Aztec priests sacrificed their human victims to their gods, while down
in the dungeons beneath my feet, the Holy Inquisition, a few years
later, had also tortured men to their death, human victims sacrificed
to the glory of the Roman Church. An Aztec pagan, a Spanish Christian,
both sped the soul to Paradise through blood and pain, and I wondered,
as I watched an Indian mother kneel in humble penitence before an
effigy of the Virgin, and fix a lighted taper upon the altar before
the shrine, whether she, too, felt clustering about her, in the sombre
shadows of the semi-twilight, memories of these tragedies which have
so oppressed her race.
On these pavements, also, I review in fancy the serried regiments of
France and Austria marshaled in the attempt to thrust Maximillian upon
a _cis_-Atlantic Imperial throne. In this day, one recalls almost with
incredulity the insolence of this conspiracy by European Monarchy to
steal a march on Western liberty, when it was thought that democracy
was forever smitten to the death by civil war. But the bold scheme was
done to death by Juarez, the Aztec, without Sheridan’s having to come
further south than the Rio Grande.
All these pictures of the past, and many more, crowd thick upon me as
I walk the streets and avenues of this now splendid modern city.
I have also tried to see what I could of the churches,--the more
important of them--which here abound, but my brain is all in a whirl,
and saints and Madonnas troop by me in confused and interminable
train.
Ever since Cortez roasted Guatemozin upon a bed of coals, to hasten
his conversion to the Roman faith and quicken his memory as to the
location of Montezuma’s hidden treasure, the Spanish conquerors have
been building churches, shrines and chapels to the glory of the
Virgin, the salvation of their own souls and the profit of their
private purse. Whenever a Spaniard got in a tight place, he vowed a
church, a chapel or a shrine to the Virgin or a saint. If luck was
with him, he hadn’t the nerve to back down, but made some show of
keeping his vow and, the work once started, there were enough other
vowing sinners to push the job along. Mexican genius has found its
highest expression in its many and beautiful churches, and perhaps it
has been a good thing for genius that so many sinners have been ready
to gamble on a vow.
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL--MEXICO CITY]
When Juarez shot Maximillian he also smote the Roman Church. The
Archbishop of Mexico, and the church of which he was virtual primate,
had backed the Austrian invader. Even Pope Pius IX had shed
benedictions on the plot. When the Republic crushed the conspirators,
the Roman Church was at once deprived of all visible power. Every foot
of land, every church edifice, every monastery, every convent the
church owned in all Mexico was confiscated by the Republic. The lands
and many buildings were sold and the money put in the National
Treasury. Monks and nuns were banished. Priests were prohibited from
wearing any but ordinary garb. The Roman Church was forbidden ever
again to own a rod of stone or a foot of land.
So now it is, that the priest wears a “bee-gum” hat and Glengarry
coat, and the state takes whatever church-edifices it wants for public
use. The church of San Augustin is a public library. Many churches
have been converted into schools. Others have been pulled down, and
modern buildings erected in their stead. The cloisters and chapel of
the monastery of the Franciscans are leased to laymen, and have become
the hotel Jardin. What churches the Republic did not need to use, it
has been willing to rent to the Roman hierarchy for the religious uses
of the people. So many have been these edifices that, despite the
government’s appropriations and private occupations, there yet remain
church buildings innumerable where the pious may worship and the
priesthood celebrate the mass. But the Roman hierarchy has no longer
the wealth and will to keep these buildings in repair and in all of
those I visited there was much dilapidation.
While it is true that the stern laws of the Republic debar the Roman
Church from owning land, yet, it is said, this law is now evaded by a
system of _subrosa_ trusteeships, whereby secret trustees already hold
vast accumulations of land and money to its use. And although the
church cannot go into court to enforce the trust, yet the threat of
dire pains in Purgatory is seemingly so effective that there is said
to have been extraordinary little loss by stealing. The promise of
easy passage to Paradise also makes easy the evasion of human law.
[Illustration: LA CASA DE AZULEJOS, NOW JOCKEY CLUB]
VI
Vivid Characteristics of Mexican Life
HOTEL ITURBIDE, MEXICO,
_November 22d_.
This limpid atmosphere, this vivifying sun,--how they redden the blood
and exhilarate the spirit! This is a sunshine which never brings the
sweat. But yet, however hot the sun may be, it is cold in the shadow,
and at this I am perpetually surprised.
The custom of the hotels in this Latin land is to let rooms upon the
“European” plan, leaving the guest free to dine in the separate café
of the hotel itself, or to take his meals wherever he may choose among
the city’s multitude of lunch rooms and restaurants. Thus I may take
my _desayuno_ in an “American” restaurant, where the dishes are of the
American type, and my _almuerzo_, the midmorning meal, in an Italian
restaurant where the dishes of sunny Italy are served; while for my
_comida_, I stroll through a narrow doorway between sky blue pillars,
and enter a long, stone-flagged chamber, where neat tables are set
about and where the Creole French of Louisiana is the speech of the
proprietor. Here are served the most delicious meals I have yet
discovered. If you want fish, a swarthy Indian waiter presents before
you a large silver salver on which are arranged different sorts of
fish fresh from the sea, for these are daily received in the city. Or,
perhaps, you desire game, when a tray upon which are spread ducks and
snipe and plover, the heads and wings yet feathered, is presented to
you. Or a platter of beefsteaks, chops and cutlets is held before you.
From these you select what you may wish. If you like, you may
accompany the waiter who hands your choice to the cook, and you may
stand and see the fish or duck or chop done to a turn, as you shall
approve, upon the fire before your eyes. You are asked to take nothing
for granted, but having ascertained to your own satisfaction that the
food is fresh, you may verify its preparation, and eat it contentedly
without misgiving. In this autumn season, flocks of ducks come to
spend their winters upon the lakes surrounding the city. At a cost of
thirty cents, our money, you may have a delicious broiled teal with
fresh peas and lettuce, and as much fragrant coffee as you will drink.
The food is cheap, wholesome and abundant. And what is time to a
cook whose wages may be ten or fifteen _centavos_ a day, although
his skill be of the greatest!
[Illustration: PLEASED WITH MY CAMERA]
The city is full of fine big shops whose large windows present lavish
displays of sumptuous fabrics. There is great wealth in Mexico. There
is also abject poverty. The income of the rich comes to them without
toil from their vast estates, often inherited in direct descent from
the Royal Grants of Ferdinand and Isabella to the _Conquestadores_ of
Cortez, when the fruitful lands of the conquered Aztecs were parceled
out among the hungry Spanish _compañeros_ of the Conqueror. Some of
these farms or _haciendas_, as they are called, contain as many as a
million acres.
Mexico is to all intents and purposes a free trade country, and the
fabrics and goods of Europe mostly supply the needs and fancies of the
Mexicans. The dry goods stores are in the hands of the French, with
here and there a Spaniard from old Spain; the drug stores are kept by
Germans, who all speak fluent Spanish, and the cheap cutlery and
hardware are generally of German make. The wholesale and retail
grocers have been Spaniards, but this trade is now drifting to the
Americans. There are some fine jewelry stores, and gems and gold work
are displayed in their windows calculated to dazzle even an American.
The Mexican delights in jewels, and men and women love to have their
fingers ablaze with sparkling diamonds, and their fronts behung with
many chains of gold. And opals! Everyone will sell you opals!