THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN.
Entering Mexico from El Paso on the Mexican Central R. R., we traverse
the plateau that is continuous from Santa Fe to the City of Mexico; and
dreary enough, too, is the journey, with a perpetual landscape of
mesquite brush, cactus and chaparral. The first place of interest is
Chihuahua, two hundred and twenty-four miles from the Rio Grande, with
its famous silver mines of Santa Eulalia. The city laid a tax of
twenty-five cents on every pound of silver taken from the mine, and with
its share of the revenue, built the famous church of San Francisco at a
cost of eight hundred thousand dollars.
This is the home of the Chihuahua dog, a beautiful nervous little
creature that is smaller than a squirrel and can easily be carried in
the pocket. It somewhat resembles a marmoset, and is bought by people
who are inclined toward pets. I have heard it darkly hinted that the
Mexican hot tamale was largely made up of Chihuahua dogs, but after
seeing the animal I do not believe it, as it would not pay dividends.
Judging by the size, a person with an ordinary appetite could easily
misplace two of them, and as tamales sell for a cent a piece or twelve
cents for a square meal, the dearest principle of speculation would be
sacrificed with a dollar dog cooked up with a plebeian mongrel. It is
true I have never known what was in the scores of tamales with which I
have made a personal acquaintance, but I will never believe that a
Chihuahua dog was actually _killed_ for that purpose. With the armadilla
it is different. His market value is only rated by the number of steaks
or tamales he will make up, and of him I can believe anything.
All of this country for almost a thousand miles is devoted to mining,
which forms almost the only industry. At Lerdo, near the Nazas River is
the choicest cotton-growing section of the country. This is the Laguna
region and is very similar to the Nile. It rarely rains, but with
irrigation, wheat and corn grow all the time, and cotton has to be
planted only once in seven years, as it grows that long from one
planting. Eight hundred miles from the Rio Grande and four hundred and
forty miles from the city is Zacatecas, a city of eighty-five thousand
and the capital of Zacatecas. Nothing grows here but rocks and silver,
and I believe they do not grow any more, but they have a great deal of
the old stock still on hand. In the heart of the Sierra Madres, this old
town is built upon a silver mine which was discovered in 1546 and since
then has disgorged a billion dollars.
The sight of the town from the north is startling. You have climbed to a
height of 8,000 feet and see no indication of a city until the train
crosses the crest. At night when the city is a blaze of light it
surpasses anything seen outside of Fairyland, as the train winds in a
spiral down into town, dropping 136 feet to the mile. At the station the
mules have pulled up the street cars and gone back to town, and as you
get aboard the driver loosens the brake and lets the car roll into town
by gravity. Like the nests of swallows clinging to the cliffs are the
houses of Zacatecas, perched far up where it seems only a goat could
climb.
And Zacatecas also has its Guadalupe, upon whose summit is the church of
Los Remedios, and up the road, as narrow as the one which leads to
righteousness and as rocky as the one up from Jordan, lined with sharp
stones and crull cactus, crawl devotees on bleeding knees to do penance
for their souls’ salvation, at the behests of priests who grow rich from
their savings. Of course all the saints have churches named for them,
and here is probably the oldest Presbyterian Church in the world. It was
once dedicated to San Augustin, but has now become the property of the
Presbyterians. In the old church of Guadalupe is probably more to
interest the stranger than in any other church in this land of churches.
In the main altar are life-size figures of the crucifixion, and behind
these is a painting of Calvary with the Jews and Roman soldiers, drawn
to affiliate with the statues in front with startling effect. The church
is filled with people kneeling at the altars and whispering in the
confessionals. The old art gallery is filled with pictures of the saints
in all gradations of trials and temptations which prepared them for
immortality. The new chapel is the gift of a maiden lady of great
wealth, and is the finest chapel in Mexico. The floor is inlaid with
hard woods in different colors, and the altar is rich with silver and
gold and gilding and wax figures, and silk and satin hangings. The altar
rail is of onyx and solid silver. The walls are finely frescoed, and
arched to a dome fifty feet above the floor. Everywhere are mines,
mines, and from their yawning mouths the Mexican laborers climb ladders
all day, bearing on their back canvas sacks holding two hundred pounds
of ore, and receive the princely sum of thirty-five cents a day. The
richest churches and the poorest people in Mexico are always found in
the same town and are correlative. The very fact that the people are
poor, is because they have made the church rich. A million dollar church
whose portals are filled with a hundred ragged paupers begging alms is
an every day occurrence.
As the train leaves Zacatecas going south, it climbs a grade one hundred
and seventy-five feet to the mile, and ere long reaches Aguas Calientes,
“Hot Waters,” and the town runs riot in smoking, steaming, hot waters
that burst from the mountain side and offer free baths and prepared
laundry facilities free gratis for nothing to all who wish them, and
they are thoroughly appreciated. Men, women and children paddle in the
water and bathe and dress and undress with no worry at all about the
small conventionalities of privacy, etc. Now and then you will see a
baby tied to a string, who paddles to the length of his tether while his
mother is busy with her laundering. The town was built in 1520 and is
worthy of a visit at any time, but to see it in its glory you must come
to La fiesta de San Marcos. Saint Mark is the patron saint of the city,
and from April 23 to May 10, all the turkeys in reach are slaughtered
to grace the festal board and the business houses close for a holiday.
There is a fine old bell in the great church by the plaza, and whenever
it is heard the peons uncover their heads, cross their hands and engage
in prayer. People from all over the country come here to bathe in the
hot waters and take life easy. It is better than heating water at home.
Fruit is abundant and cheap, oranges selling two for a cent in Mexican
money, or four for a cent in Uncle Samuel’s coin. Flowers grow so
luxuriously in this warm moist atmosphere, that geraniums and oleanders
grow to the height of trees.
Below Aguas Calientes is the city of Leon, on the river Turbois, in the
state of Guanajuata. It contains a hundred thousand population and is
the third city in importance in Mexico. It has five hundred and seven
streets, two hundred and thirty-six manzanas and ten plazas. Nearly
everything in use by the citizen is made here, but the leather industry
prevails. There is no machinery whatever, but everywhere are handlooms
for weaving _rebosas_, shops for the making of bridles and the cruel
spade-like bridle-bits, saddles, leather clothing and sombreros, so much
prized by cow-boys and haciendados.
Guanajuata is the capital of the state and is pronounced
“Wah-nah-water.” The original name of the town was Guanashuata, “The
Hill of the Frogs” in the Tarascan tongue, on account of the fanciful
shape of the overhanging mountain. For three hundred years mining has
been the business of this city which contains sixty crushing mills to
reduce the quartz. The richest silver mine in the country is here, the
Veta Madre, which has already produced $800,000,000 by the crude methods
in vogue here, which never secure over sixty percent of the real value.
Owing to the scarcity of fuel and water, machinery is impractical, so
the usual method of extraction is as follows: the rock is ground into a
fine powder and made into a paste with water, and spread upon the floor
of a large court a hundred feet square, after the manner of a brick-yard
mortar-pit; then certain preparations of salt, sulphate of iron and
quicksilver are added, and for three weeks a drove of broken-down
donkeys and men tramp leg-deep in this huge mud-pie. When the
amalgamation is complete and the quicksilver has collected all the
silver, it is taken in wheel-barrows to washing tanks, where half-naked
men and boys puddle it till the metal falls to the bottom and the refuse
washes away. It is barbarous treatment for men and animals, and a slow
method, but the only practical one where coal sells for $20 a ton and
wood $11 a cord. Wading naked in quicksilver and vitriol is not
calculated to lengthen life, and the life of mules in this business is
generally four years and of the drivers eight, and yet they never lack
for drivers. The mines average $33 to every ton of raw material handled,
and the silver is so plentiful and the profits so satisfactory that the
forty percent. loss does not trouble the owners. The 85,000 people all
get a living and are happy and what more is needful.
Queretaro with its fifty thousand population is especially noted for
opals. It is a remarkable fact that every industry in Mexico is
distributed by towns. Irapuato for strawberries, Celaya for dulces,
Lerdo for cotton goods, Leon for leather, Puebla for onyx, Orizaba for
fruits, Saltillo for Zerapes, Guadalajara for pottery, Jalapa for
beautiful women, and so on from Dan to Beersheba. And so Queretaro
contains the mines which produce the fiery opal which brings so much ill
luck to the owners, according to the reigning superstition. This was an
Aztec town, captured by the Spaniards in 1531. It was here the treaty of
peace with the United States was finally ratified in 1848, and where Mr.
Seward was met with so much honor in 1869. The Hercules Cotton Mill is
the greatest attraction of Queretaro and one of the greatest in the
country. It has an over-shot waterwheel forty-six and a half feet in
diameter, and also a Corliss steam engine which burns wood costing
sixteen dollars a cord. One thousand eight hundred employees work here
twelve hours a day with wages from thirty-seven and a half to fifty
cents a day, and weavers get six or seven dollars a week. The premises
are walled in by a fort, and in front is stationed a company of
thirty-seven men with Winchester rifles. All large establishments have
to do this, as the large amount of money changing hands on payday is but
an invitation to desperate men of the Jesse James persuasion to make an
informal call. This mill has twenty-one thousand spindles and seven
hundred looms, and manufactures the unbleached cotton which the common
people wear. In the midst of a profusion of flowers stands a statue of
Hercules which cost fourteen thousand dollars before it left Italy.
Protective tariff in favor of this mill against imports is nine and
three quarter cents per square metre, which enables it to sell its cloth
at thirteen cents per square yard wholesale. A better grade of goods is
sold in the United States for five cents. Free Trade is yet a long ways
off in Mexico.
Maximilian and his two generals were shot here, and the saddest thing
connected with the history is the fate of poor Carlotta, his wife. She
was very dear to the people of Mexico, and when Maximilian was taken
prisoner many people pleaded for his life. The governments of Europe
protested against his execution, and the United States asked a stay of
his sentence. The princess Salm-Salm rode a hundred and sixty miles on
horseback and on bended knee prayed Juarez to spare his life. The next
day after his capture, Carlotta hurried to Vera Cruz and set sail for
France and begged Napoleon III to keep his word and uphold the treaty of
Miramar, and Napoleon insulted her for her trouble. She then went to
Rome and prayed to Pope Pius IX., but fared no better and distracted by
her failures she became a raving maniac, and for these thirty years no
light of reason has ever returned, but in the Austrian capital she sits
in gross darkness, babbling the name of Maximilian. As for the Indian
president, Juarez, he listened to all petitions but gave but one answer;
that war was war, and as for sickly sentimentalism, he had gone out of
the posing business, and they who lived by the sword should die by the
sword.
While Maximilian was in power, he issued a decree that every officer
taken in arms against the government should be shot without trial, and
he executed that decree with every Mexican officer he captured. Now
Juarez was in power and the law had never been repealed, and he decided
it would work as well with Juarez as with Maximilian. Aside from all
this he decided that one dead Austrian Emperor on Mexican soil was worth
a hundred live ones, and Juarez always lived up to his convictions.
P. S. Maximilian was shot.
Pachuca is the capital of Hidalgo, eight thousand feet above the sea,
and overcoats are needed the whole year. There are three hundred mines
here and the business has been carried on four hundred years, and the
quantity of silver taken out will never be known. The Trinidad alone in
ten years yielded fifty million dollars. The other principal mines are
the Rosario, Caridado, Xacal, Santa Gertrudis, Caxyetana and Dolores. At
Acambaro we change cars for the Lake Region, through the beautiful towns
of Morelia, the capital of Michoacan and the residence of the Bishop. In
olden times when the Tarascan Kings got tired acting King, they took
their boats, and leaving Tzintzuntzan, their capital, paddled over to
Patzcuaro, “Place of Pleasure.”
The town is very old and the streets are very crooked, with shrines and
saints set in the walls at every corner, but the old settlers were right
when they called it a place of pleasure. After a good night’s rest it is
the proper thing to see the sunrise, that will leave its impression with
you forever. Up the street to the Hill of Calvary you pass fourteen
stations of the Cross where the faithful pray. You hurry on to Los
Balcones, a stone parapet in front of the church of Calvary and what a
sight meets your eye! From your elevation of a mile and a half above
the sea, the world is spread before you like a panorama. Spread at your
feet is Laguna Patzcuaro, “Lake Beautiful,” with its green islands and
giant trees, and as the sun comes up out of the Sierras he discloses to
your enchanted gaze a level plain with forty-three towns with a setting
of mountains and valleys worth a journey to see. Lake Patzcuaro is the
highest navigable water on the globe, being over seven thousand feet
high. It is a thousand feet below you on Los Balcones, but its thirty
miles of length and twelve of width are before you as a mirror. On its
bosom is the quaintest little steamboat that ever paddled a wheel, the
Mariano Jiminez, and it will take you among all the beautiful islands,
and to the old town of Tzintzuntzan. This was once the capital of the
ancient Kingdom of Tarasco that resisted to the last the sovereignty of
Montezuma, and after the Conquest was the seat of the Bishopric of
Tarasco. This Bishopric was held in such high esteem by Philip II of
Spain that he presented the cathedral with the finest creation from the
brush of Titian, “The Entombment.” The old church is crumbling down, but
the Indians venerate the painting so much the Bishop has forbidden its
removal. Art lovers have offered immense sums for it, but the church
authorities refuse to entertain offers in any sum, and so it hangs where
it was hung over three hundred years ago.
The lake is dotted with innumerable fisher boats and timber rafts and
large flat-bottom boats hewn from giant trees. The fishermen simply dip
their nets in the water at random and catch the fish, which here form
one of the chief articles of food; but we started out to study art, and
not fish, so we land on the opposite side to see the famous painting
which is so zealously guarded. You are admitted through the outer wall
into the patio where sit a number of Indian women braiding mats, and the
padre said they were doing penance. With a lighted candle the padre
leads you through a dark corridor to a grim door, barred, chained and
padlocked. This door leads into a chamber dark as night. The padre opens
a grated window and lets in a flood of light and the picture lies
revealed with its life-size figures. You know you are in the presence of
the great master, because everybody says so.
Artists from every part of the world have come to see this painting and
they all say it is a genuine Titian, and I knew this was the proper
place and time to expiate on art as I had heard those learned critics do
before the Transfiguration. I had finished nearly all the phrases they
said when the padre closed the window and the flood-gate of my
eloquence. Ah, but it was grand! After the padre had blown out the
light, barred, chained and pad-locked the door, a new idea came to me.
The bishop of Mexico has offered these Indians fifty thousand dollars
for the picture and they laughed at him, and ten times that figure
cannot buy it. All the figures are life-size and it is large enough, but
fifty thousand dollars will plaster both sides. My idea is to go down
there to Tzintzuntzan and get a job of doing penance in that old church
and finally get myself elected guardian of the keys to that room, and
then I will write this letter to the bishop of Mexico: “Dear Bishop: I
hear that you have money to burn; also that you have fifty thousand
dollars to invest in old canvas, especially the brand that adorns the
dark alcove in the old cathedral at Tzintzuntzan. If you mean b-i-z,
meet me at the Rialto on Lake Beautiful this P. M., just as the moon is
rising in China, and we will give that old canvas the first fresh air
bath it has had in three hundred years.
“P. S.--Come prepared to move in light marching order, because the state
of Michoacan will hardly be large enough for you and the picture after
morning mass.
“N. B., P. S. No. 2.--Don’t forget the fifty thousand dollars, for
RIGHT
“Yours Truly.”
If ever I get to be doorkeeper down there I shall certainly vote to use
that fresh air fund to the best advantage, and there will still be
profit enough to give all those enthusiastic art lovers a square meal
after I have started to Canada, and I certainly would do that much for
them. In coming years when the Tzintzuntzan poets shall say, “What are
the wild waves saying?” they will answer, that they saw the only
hustling doorkeeper that old church ever had, cross that lake between
two days once, and before Aurora, child of the morn, had awakened from
her sleep, he had reached the other side of the mountains and lit
running.