the abodes of the Mexican ranchmen,--have two rooms, and sometimes
three, but these are generally so dark that the eye must accustom itself
to the gloom before their contents can well be discerned. This arises
from the scarcity and diminutive size of the windows. Here in San Juan,
indeed, I saw roughly sashed windows in many houses, or else a single
pane of glass set in; but often only a grating is used to guard the
aperture, or else holes in the walls are left so small that no enemy
could crawl through. You can imagine the darkness inside, therefore,
even on a bright day. Originally the pueblo was common property, and
both men and women assisted in building it, but new ideas of individual
possessions are invading the old notions. It was the former custom, too,
to mix ashes with earth and charcoal into a substitute for mortar; yet,
as we shall see later, the very ancient, ruined buildings of the
ancestors of these Puebloans show an architecture in stone, with a
cement now as hard, or even more tenacious, than the blocks it binds
together. "They take great pride," says an old book "in their, to them,
magnificent structures, averring that as fortresses they have ever
proved impregnable. To wall out black barbarism was what the Pueblos
wanted; under these conditions time was giving them civilization."
Entering one of the houses here in San Juan, we shall find the floor is
only of earth, but that many skins are spread about. In one corner, or
else beside the entrance door, will be one of the queer little
round-topped fireplaces prevalent all over Spanish America; but if in
the latter place, a low wall or wing of masonry runs out into the room,
protecting the fire from contrary drafts. The cooking in summer is done
out of doors almost wholly; but in cold weather, when utilizing these
fireplaces, they use the iron pots and skillets which civilization has
brought them, eking out with variously shaped earthen utensils of their
own make, and baskets obtained from Apache and Navajo visitors.
You must expect to see very little furniture in an Indian's house,
though occasionally some familiar objects are found. The beds are made
on the floor, and consist entirely of skins and blankets. The walls are
often whitewashed, and though they never heard of Eastlake, they always
make a dado of clay water. The soft brown tint contrasts well with the
white frieze, and would be attractive in itself; but the clay here is
full of specks of mica, which dust the walls with gleaming points not to
be spurned in mural decoration.
The Indians admire pictures, but are not scrupulous as to artistic
superiority. In nearly every house you will find a board a few inches
square, upon which is painted a religious subject, usually in red and
yellow, of some saint, or a group of them. Such pictures, and others
whenever they can get them, are highly valued and will be adorned with
peacock feathers and bright berries.
They love gay colors and choose them in their dress, which is a singular
mixture of Indian, Mexican and American. There go a man and woman ahead
of us who are fair types. Neither are of large size, and though an
oddity of gait comes from their habit of walking with their toes
straight before them, both are of erect carriage. The man is dressed in
brown flannel shirt, hanging blouse-like about him, tightly fitted
leggings of buckskin, with a broad seam-flap in place of fringe on the
outside of each leg, and moccasins. Over his right shoulder and under
his left arm is loosely draped a striped blanket made by the Navajo or
Apache Indians of the interior, and diligently repaired in its worn
places. His head is bare, under the blaze of the hot sun, save for a
wreath of cottonwood leaves. Under this "bay crown" his smoothly-brushed
and jet black hair, accurately parted in the middle along a line of red
or yellow ochre, is plaited on either side into two long braids,
intertwined and lengthened out with strips of red flannel and tufts of
otter-skin.
The woman wears a long, loose tunic of coarse cloth, almost devoid of
sleeves, and belted at the waist; but sometimes this is of buckskin, Her
extremities are not clad in leggings, but encased in short, shapeless
boots having a moccasin foot, and stiff legs, which reach nearly to her
knees, and often afford the only recognizable distinction between a male
or a female, who, to a stranger's eye, are confusingly alike. She wears
thrown over her head a shawl-like expanse of common pink-printed calico;
but if you could see her hair you would discover that none of the
attention had been bestowed upon it which her husband's has received; it
has been cut short, particularly across the forehead, and is likely to
be tangled and dirty. In this respect these Rio Grande Indians have
fallen from grace into the slovenliness of their nomadic neighbors. The
maidens of the purer Moqui pueblos, for example, take great care of
their raven locks. Parting the hair at the back of the head, they roll
it around hoops, when it is fastened in two high bunches, one on each
side, a single feather being sometimes placed in the center. The Moqui
wives gather it into two tight knots at the side, or one at the back of
the head; and the men cut their hair in front of the ears and in a line
with the eyebrows, while at the back it is plaited or gathered into a
single bunch and tied with a band.
[Illustration: OLD CHURCH OF SAN JUAN.]
This woman is going to one of the public wells to draw water, and
presently is joined by a young Hebe, with bare, shapely ankles and
rotund bust, whose laughing talk is like the gurgling chatter of the
blackbirds in the rushes. They each carry classically shaped and gaily
ornamented jars of earthenware, made by themselves, and which they will
tell you are _tinájas_. Some of the wells are so shallow that an
inclined passage-way has been cut down to the water from the surface;
from others the liquid must be drawn in buckets. Having filled their
vessels, each woman lays a little pad on her head, skillfully poises
the heavy tinája upon it, and marches off, as erect, elastic of tread
and graceful in mien as any Ganymede who ever handed about the nectar on
Olympus. You can see the trimmed and painted gourd-dipper floating about
in the neck of the jar, and thus know that the water is level with the
top; yet up hill and down, along the dusty roadway, through the
half-concealing corn, and under the low doorway go the dusky carriers,
and not a drop is lost.
A short distance back we had met a superannuated governor, or chief,
called in Spanish Attencio. His long, straight hair, of ashy hue, and
deeply furrowed features gave a most venerable appearance to his
attenuated but still upright form. His garments evinced more design,
were better fitting, and somewhat fantastically decorated; while from
his neck was suspended a drum, a tribute apparently to growing
infirmities which had not quite obscured the dream of place and
circumstance. We halted in curiosity while the Photographer, by specious
argument and a gentle subsidizing process, overcame the half-scruples of
the patriarch, and transferred his semblance to a "dry plate," an
operation he repeated a little later with the maid and matron whom we
had seen at the well, though in their case with more difficulty and
overcoming of native shyness. The results of this enterprise are
commended to the reader.
The pueblo pottery is of all sizes and shapes,--jars, pitchers,
canteens, bowls, platters, and images of men and animals, made as
playthings for their children, or merely for amusement, and the latter
often called their "gods" by ignorant tourists.
It is evident everywhere that originally much finer and more symmetrical
pottery was made by all these Village Indians than now. They seem to
have understood the art of mixing a finer paste, and they worked with
more careful hands. The resemblance of this antique ware to that of
Egypt and Cyprus, has been noted in its structure, and in the "scrolls,
straight lines and walls of Troy," with which it is embellished. Birds,
too, were painted upon some of the oldest ware extant, recalling certain
Chinese symbols, while "in the animal handles and in a design known as
the old Japanese seal," the early ware of Japan is simulated. The
ancient and (in ruins) most widely distributed form of pottery known is
the "corrugated," fragments of which are also found in the mounds of the
Ohio and Mississippi valleys and on the Pacific slope. This variety was
made by winding around and above one another slender strings or ropes of
red clay, expanding and contracting the coil to suit the varying
diameters of the vessel. Pressure of the fingers alone, or aided only by
a smooth stone, then compressed the coils into compactness and on the
inside into some smoothness. There was also a kind of ware in use in
prehistoric times which bore a red or black glaze beyond anything seen
in later manufacture; but this fine finish is thought to have been
accidental.
At San Juan, as in all other pueblos, the old adobe church, with its
absurdly barbaric furniture and uncouth appearance, is a center of
interest. Climbing the rickety ladder to its little gallery, and thence
ascending to the roof, one gets the best idea of how valuable a garden
spot this district is. As far as the eye can reach, up and down the
river, stretch farms and orchards and plazitas. I suppose that from the
mouth of the cañon down to the village of San Ildefonso, a distance of
about thirty miles, the river-bottom is almost continuously cultivated,
the chief crops being wheat and Indian corn, the latter notable for its
variegated and bright colors, and for which the people here keep the
original name, _maiz_; but every sort of grain and vegetable is also
produced in abundance.
The population sustained consists largely of Indians, in some
localities, as here at San Juan, almost entirely so; and they are quite
as industrious and skillful in their farming as the Mexicans. In most of
the villages the tillage of the reservation is wholly in common, but
here the Indians many years ago divided up their farming lands into
individual properties, not all equally either, for it was apportioned to
each man in proportion to his needs, abilities and desire. It is said
that there has been little change in the ownership of this property, the
same fields descending from father to son, generation after generation.
This being the case, it is not strange to learn the second fact, that
there is small variation in the fortunes of the different families, and
that there is slight disposition on the part of any to become rich while
others grow poor. All are self-supporting, and proud of the fact that no
aid is asked or received from the government.
Nothing reminds the traveler more of the Holy Land than to witness these
people threshing their grain, which happens, of course, in August, since
they do not stack the grain in the straw at all. The threshing-floors
are circular spaces of high level ground in the outskirts of the pueblo,
around which poles ten or twenty feet high are set, though there is no
need of more than mere posts. When the threshing is to be done, a
rawhide rope or two is stretched about these posts to form a fence, and
often upon this are hung many blankets, the gay colors and striped
ornamentation of which make an exceedingly picturesque scene. Sometimes
in place of the ropes a cordon of bare-legged small boys and girls, to
whom the duty is great sport, does service as a girdle. The diameter of
such a prepared space, hardened by service for half a century to the
consistency of brick, is sixty or a hundred feet. In the middle of it
are heaped the sheaves of the three or four families who are accustomed
to join in this work until a suitable quantity has been obtained, and
then the fun begins.
Through an opening in the extemporized fence is driven a flock of sheep
and goats, or else a small herd of horses. They at once fall to eating
the fresh grain, but are quickly beaten off and started into a run
around the enclosure, trampling down the edges of the stack, and all the
time getting more and more of it under their beating hoofs. Behind them
race two or three athletic, bare headed and scantily-dressed youths,
cracking long whips, hustling the laggards, and nimbly keeping out of
the way of the kicking, crowding and bewildered animals. This is quite
as hard work as any of the horses or goats do, and is accompanied by
continual halloos and trilling cries, which almost make a song when
heard at a little distance. Now and then a young horse will make a leap
at the rope, and snap the rawhide lariat, or dodge under it; or a
venturesome goat will elude his guard and escape; but there are excited
youngsters enough to speedily give chase and bring him back; and from
time to time the panting drivers are changed, the animals given a rest,
and the grain heaped into a new pile in the center. It is a wonderfully
lively and gay picture, which will never be forgotten, and entirely
unlike anything else to be seen in the United States. Toward evening,
when the incessant tramping has threshed all the grains out of their
husks, comes the winnowing. This is quite as primitive and idyllic as
its forerunner. Having lifted away the bulk of the straw, several men
and women take long-handled, flat-bladed wooden shovels, and toss up the
grain which lies thick on the hard clay floor, thus allowing the wind to
blow away the chaff. There is generally a breeze at sunset every day,
and the largest part of the chaff is gotten rid of by the shoveling; but
to perfect the process, the women take half a bushel at once of the
grain, and re-winnow it, by tossing it a second time in and out of one
of the large Navajo wicker-baskets, of which every family owns a number.
The rough, wasteful threshing, and the cleansing, only partial at best,
having thus been accomplished, the grain is divided out to its owners,
and by them packed away in huge jars of coarse earthenware, called
_ollas_, some of which will hold several bushels. These vessels keep it
dry and safe from rats, so long as the covers are tight. All these
processes are followed not only by the Indians, but by all Mexican
farmers throughout the Spanish southwest.
We were never weary of wandering about these Indian towns, and watching
the people at their work and sunny-tempered play. They are the happiest
men and women on the continent. Well sheltered, well fed, well
companioned, peaceful, guileless,--what else do they wish? Not theirs to
know carking care, and the fluctuating markets which imperil hard-earned
gains; nor to suffer the hurt unsatisfied ambition feels, or know the
terrors of a crime-haunted or doubt-stricken conscience. The broad,
bright sunshine of their latitude suffuses their whole lives and
dispositions, turning their rock-bounded lowlands into a Vale of Tempe.
IX
SANTA FE AND THE SACRED VALLEY.
Ages are made up
Of such small parts as these, and men look back,
Worn and bewilder'd, wond'ring how it is.
--JOANNA BAILLIE.
I have referred to Española as the southern terminus of the railway.
From this point, however, another company is actively engaged in
constructing a line to Santa Fe, a distance of thirty-four miles by the
survey, and its prospective early completion will afford a direct and
desirable connection with the ancient capital. At present the
communication is by means of stages, which run in conjunction with the
trains, and, not being restricted in the matter of grades, accomplish
the trip in about twenty-five miles. The journey is interesting, and is
made comfortably.
Santa Fe claims the distinction of being the oldest town in the United
States, a claim that is readily admitted when we consider that it was a
populous Indian pueblo when the first Spaniards crossed the territory
now known as New Mexico, less than forty years after the discovery of
the western continent by Columbus. The earliest European who penetrated
this region was Alvar Nuñez Cabeça de Vaca, a Spanish navigator, whose
vessel was wrecked on the coast of Texas in 1528, and who, with three of
his crew, wandered for six years through the plains and mountains, until
finally he joined his countrymen under Cortez in Mexico. His report of
the section through which he passed led to an expedition, in 1539, by
Marco de Niça, a Franciscan friar, who was frightened away by the
Indians, and returned to Mexico with a marvelous account of the extent,
population and wealth of the country, the magnificence of its cities,
and the ferocity of its people. In 1540 the famous expedition of Vasquez
de Coronado passed through the pueblo where Santa Fe now stands, crossed
the range, and traversed the plains until he came to the Missouri river,
at a point probably near the present site of Atchison or Leavenworth. In
1581, Friar Augustin Ruyz, with one companion, reached a village called
Poala, a few miles north of Albuquerque, where they were killed by the
Indians. Antonio de Espejo came with an expedition, in 1582, to seek
Ruyz, and discovered Zuñi, Acoma and other pueblos. In 1595 Juan de
Oñate founded a colony near the junction of the Rio Chama with the Rio
Grande, in the immediate vicinity of Española. It was about this date
that a Spanish settlement was formed in Santa Fe, and the church of San
Miguel erected. In 1680 there was a great uprising of the natives, who
entirely drove out the Spaniards, and obliterated as far as possible all
evidences of their occupation, dismantling, among other buildings, the
old church. Twelve years later they were reconquered by Diego de Bargas.
From that time to the present Santa Fe has had an eventful career. The
Mexicans, in 1821, declared their independence of Spanish rule, and
after that there were numerous insurrections, until the occupation of
the territory by the United States, in 1846. Then came the War of the
Rebellion, in 1861-65, in the course of which Santa Fe was captured by
the confederates, and recaptured by the Union forces.
[Illustration: PUEBLO DE TAOS.]
During all these years Santa Fe has changed its character but little,
and is to-day, in general appearance, very much the same old Mexican
town that it has been for nearly three hundred years. There is the same
broad plaza, with the same adobe buildings nearly all the way around it;
the same one-story houses, surrounding the same plazitas; the same
suburban fields and gardens; and the same swarthy, dark-eyed population,
still speaking the musical Spanish tongue. Wood is still brought into
town on the backs of burros, and by this conveyance can be left inside
the dwellings. Among the other objects of attraction to the stranger,
are the governor's palace; the ruins of old Fort Marcy, on a bluff, from
which is had a fine view of the city; and the extensive and beautiful
garden of Bishop Lamy. The famous chapel of San Miguel, the oldest in
America, still rears the same mud walls that have stood for three
centuries, and internally is well preserved and in presentable shape. It
has no exterior beauty and no interior magnificence, its only interest
being in its age and the sacred uses for which it has been kept up
during almost the entire period of American civilization. On a great
beam, as plain as if made but yesterday, is the Spanish inscription,
traced there one hundred and seventy-four years ago, to the effect that
"The Marquis de la Penuela erected this building, the Royal Ensign Don
Augustin Flores Vergara, his servant, A.D. 1710." Original documents
show that this refers to its restoration after the wood-work was burned
by the rebel Indians. A dark picture of the Annunciation, on one side of
the altar, bears on its back a notation, seemingly dated A.D. 1287,
leading to the belief that it is one of the oldest oil paintings in the
world. By the side of the church is a two-story adobe house, which
tradition says was in existence when Coronado marched through the town.
The neighborhood of Santa Fe is rich in precious stones, including
turquoise, bloodstone, onyx, agate, garnet and opal. The manufacture of
Mexican filigree jewelry, largely carried on here, will be found
interesting. The work is done by natives, to whom the trade has been
handed down by their ancestors, who derived it from the Italians. The
primitive Spanish records of the aborigines of all tropical America say
that there were "no better goldsmiths in the world;" so that the Indian
blood mixed in the veins of most of the modern artisans may have
increased their skill.
But even quaint old Santa Fe is catching the spirit of the age, and now
boasts a colony of northern residents, cultivated society, and many
handsome structures, among which are a new hotel, a large public
hospital built of stone and brick, a Methodist church, Santa Fe Academy,
and San Miguel College. The tendency of this innovation will be to
rapidly dissipate the aroma of antiquity and sentiment which has
hitherto attached to the town's romantic history.
* * * * *
On the return northward, our cars were again set out at Embudo, the
gentlemen of the party having determined not to omit from this itinerary
the Taos pueblos, possibly the most antiquated, and certainly the best
preserved of all, and whose people are still awaiting with pathetic
patience the returning Montezuma, who shall restore their pristine
glory, and the kingdom that stretched from river to sea. When questioned
as to her desires, the Madame did not advance the staple feminine
excuse, a council with the dressmaker, but boldly proclaimed her
aversion to the thirty-mile equestrian trip. So we left her behind
reluctantly, with many injunctions to our _chef de cuisine_ and still
more trustworthy railway friends.
After no little wrangling, a sufficient number of spiritless quadrupeds
were procured from the natives, and we turned our faces to the north.
And right here let me advise the reader who may hereafter contemplate
this pilgrimage, to address, in ample season, Mr. Henry Dibble,
Fernandez de Taos, New Mexico, who will undertake to have a team in
waiting at Embudo, thus saving the traveler much time and even more bad
Spanish. The ride was thoroughly enjoyable, and formed a fitting prelude
to the novel experiences that followed. I have said "ride," though the
statement is not altogether exact, since we took pity,--and largely from
necessity,--on our miserable under-sized and under-fed ponies and
ourselves, and walked a full third of the distance. Occasionally we
passed small Mexican villages, which seemed as peacefully asleep in the
afternoon sunshine as we could ever have pictured them. Flocks of ugly
yellow-spotted goats, attended by dusky urchins in scanty attire,
browsed on the near hill-slopes. Over the eaves of almost every one of
the low adobe houses hung great ropes of red peppers,--the _chili
colorado_ of the Mexican,--that gave the one brilliant dash of color to
a perspective whose tones were otherwise the most subdued. Not
unfrequently, however, an entire family would be seen ranged along in a
row on the shady side of the house, the women generally dressed in gay
colors, solid red, blue, or green, and all as silent as the scene on
which they looked. But for the dogs, these hamlets might have passed
for the ruins they appeared. The _caretta_, or great, clumsy,
two-wheeled cart, and the plow made of a pointed stick, were here and
there reposing before the abodes, not seeming like implements of daily
use, but as appropriate details in the worn-out landscape.
To pick one's way through Taos valley, even by daylight, might be a
task; in the darkness, which at length overtook us, success was a lucky
chance. The very populousness of the locality was against us. How many
times we took the divergent road and brought up against the fence of
some ranchero's threshing-floor; or crossed the stream _not_ at the
ford; or engaged in a broil with some awakened native who persisted in
misunderstanding our gesticulated inquiries, may never be related. The
houses, too, were a mystery. To find the front door of the rectangular
heap of mud; to determine in what part of its cavernous recesses the
inmates might now be residing; or to decide whether, after all, it was
not the stable, taxed our ingenuity and tempers through several hours of
that memorable evening. Finally, in the plaza of a great communistic
ranch-house, that covered an area half as large as a city block, we
managed to secure the services of a _muchacho_, who preceded us on
horseback, and led us into one of the narrow and crooked streets of
Fernandez de Taos, where we soon found the hostelry of "Pap" Dibble.