and sprinkle the blood over such places as have been enjoined, in honour
and propitiation. And the conjurors come, and the ladies, in the number
that was ordered, and when all are assembled and everything is ready,
they begin to dance and play and sing in honour of the spirit. And they
take flesh-broth, and drink, and lign-aloes, and a great number of
lights, and go about hither and thither, scattering the broth and the
drink, and the meat also. And when they have done this for a while, one
of the conjurors will again fall flat, and wallow there foaming at the
mouth, and then the others will ask if he have yet pardoned the sick man.
And sometimes he will answer ‘Yes,’ and sometimes he will answer ‘No.’
And if the answer be ‘No,’ they are told that something or other has to
be done all over again, and then he will be pardoned; so this they do.
And when all that the spirit has commanded has been done with great
ceremony, then it will be announced that the man is pardoned, and will be
speedily cured. So when they at length receive this reply, they announce
that it is all made up with the spirit, and that he is propitiated, and
they fall to eating and drinking with great joy and mirth, and he who had
been lying lifeless on the ground gets up and takes his share. So when
they have all eaten and drunken, every man departs home. And presently
the sick man gets sound and well.”
* * * * *
[Sir A. Phayre testifies that this account of the exorcism of evil
spirits in cases of obstinate illness tallies exactly with what he
himself has seen in similar cases among the Burmese; and, in truth, the
practice extends widely among the non-Aryan races. Bishop Caldwell
furnishes the following description of “devil-dancing” as it still exists
among the Shanars of Tinnevelly:—
“When the preparations are completed and the devil-dance is about to
commence, the music is at first comparatively slow; the dancer seems
impassive and sullen, and he either stands still or moves about in gloomy
silence. Gradually, as the music becomes quicker and louder, his
excitement begins to rise. Sometimes, to help him to work himself up
into a frenzy, he uses medicated draughts, cuts and lacerates himself
till the blood flows, lashes himself with a huge whip, presses a burning
torch to his breast, drinks the blood which flows from his own wounds, or
drains the blood of the sacrifice, putting the throat of the decapitated
goat to his mouth. Then, as if he had acquired new life, he begins to
brandish his staff of bells, and to dance with a quick, but wild,
unsteady step. Suddenly the afflatus descends; there is no mistaking
that glare, or those frantic leaps. He snorts, he stares, he gyrates.
The demon has now taken bodily possession of him; and though he retains
the power of utterance and motion, both are under the demon’s control,
and his separate consciousness is in abeyance. The bystanders signalize
the event by raising a long shout, attended with a peculiar vibratory
noise, caused by the motion of the hand and tongue, or the tongue alone.
The devil-dancer is now worshipped as a present deity, and every
bystander consults him respecting his diseases, his wants, the welfare of
his absent relatives, the offerings to be made for the accomplishment of
his wishes, and, in short, everything for which superhuman knowledge is
supposed to be available.”]
* * * * *
“And now,” says Marco Polo, in concluding his wonderful narrative,—“and
now ye have heard all that we can tell you about the Tartars and the
Saracens and their customs, and likewise about the other countries of the
world, so far as our researches and information extend. Only we have
said nothing whatever about the Greater Sea [the Mediterranean], and the
provinces that lie round it, although we know it thoroughly. But it
seems to me a needless and endless task to speak about places which are
visited by people every day. For there are so many who sail all about
that sea constantly, Venetians, and Genoese, and Pisans, and many others,
that everybody knows all about it, and that is the reason that I pass it
over and say nothing of it.
“Of the manner in which we took our departure from the Court of the Great
Khan you have already heard, and we have related the fortunate chance
that led to it. And you may be sure that, but for that fortunate chance,
we should never have got away, in spite of all our trouble, and never
have returned to our country again. But I believe it was God’s pleasure
we should return, in order that people might learn about the things the
world contains. For according to what has been said in the introduction
at the beginning of the book, there never was man, be he Christian or
Saracen or Tartar or heathen, who ever travelled over so much of the
world as did that noble and illustrious citizen of the city of Venice,
Messer Marco, the son of Messer Nicolo Polo.
“Thanks be to God! Amen! Amen!”
* * * * *
We incline to believe, out of consideration for the modesty of “Messer
Marco, the son of Messer Nicolo Polo,” that he finished his narrative at
the word “contains,” and that the last sentence was added by his
amanuensis. Yet the assertion it contains does not go beyond the truth.
Of all the mediæval travellers it may be repeated that Marco Polo is the
first and foremost; and the world is indebted to him for a vast amount of
valuable information, which, but for his industry, his perseverance, and
his intelligence, would have been wholly or partly lost. We owe to him a
graphic and, as it is now known to be, an accurate picture of the
condition of Asia in the thirteenth century; a picture full of lights and
shadows, but interesting and instructive in every detail.
MR. GEORGE F. RUXTON,
AND HIS ADVENTURES IN MEXICO AND THE
ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
A.D. 1847.
MR. RUXTON’S sweeping condemnation of the Mexicans is, unfortunately,
confirmed by most reputable authorities, or we might hesitate to
reproduce it here. “From south to north,” he says, “I traversed the
whole of the Republic of Mexico, a distance of nearly ten thousand miles,
and was thrown amongst the people of every rank, class, and station; and
I regret to have to say that I cannot remember to have observed one
single commendable trait in the character of the Mexican; always
excepting from this sweeping clause the women of the country, who, for
kindness of heart and many sterling qualities, are an ornament to their
sex, and to any nation.” Whatever may be affirmed to the discredit of
the people, it cannot be doubted that they inhabit a country which was at
one time the seat of a remarkable civilization, which presents to the
traveller a succession of remarkable and frequently romantic scenery, and
a wonderful variety and luxuriance of vegetation.
From the southern frontier of the United States it stretches down to the
isthmus which connects the northern and southern mainlands of the great
American continent. On the west its shores are washed by the waters of
the Pacific; on the east, by those of the Mexican Gulf and Caribbean Sea.
Roughly speaking, its area is about 850,000 square miles; its population
may number ten souls to a square mile. Its form of government is
pseudo-republican; and for administrative purposes it is divided into
twenty-five provinces. Its capital, Mexico, has 200,000 inhabitants: its
only other important towns are Puebla, 75,000 inhabitants; Guadalajara,
65,000; Guanajuata, 50,000; and San Luis and Merida, about 45,000 each.
A glance at the map will show you that Mexico consists in the main of an
elevated table-land, which in the south rises up into the Cordilleras of
Central America, and on the east and west descends, by more or less
gradual terraces, to the sea-coast. Owing to its geographical position,
this table-land enjoys the profuseness and beauty of a tropical
vegetation; on the other hand, its climate is so tempered by its various
elevations, which lie between 5000 and 9000 feet, that it has been found
possible to naturalize the European fauna and flora. A remarkable
geological feature is the volcanic belt or chain that runs from ocean to
ocean between the parallels of 18° 15′ and 19° 30′ north latitude, and is
marked by several active as well as extinct volcanoes. Among them may be
named Orizaba, Cittalapetl (“The Mountain of the Star”), Popocatapetl
(“The Smoking Mountain”), 17,884 feet, Istaccihuatl (“The White Woman”),
and Toluca. Most of the mountain chains that break up the table-land are
of comparatively low altitude; the principal is the Sierra Madre, or Tepe
Serene. The two chief streams are the Rio Santiago and the Rio Grande
del Norte.
In company with a young Spaniard who was travelling as far as Durango,
Mr. Ruxton quitted Mexico one fine day in September, 1847, bent on
crossing the country to the United States. He passed at first through a
mountainous district, covered with dwarf oak and ilex; afterwards he
entered upon a tract of open undulating downs, dotted with thickets.
Villages were few and far between, and when found, not very attractive,
consisting only of a dozen huts built of adobes, or sun-dried bricks.
Crossing a rocky sierra, he came to the town of San Juan del Rio; its
one-storied houses of stone, whitewashed, with barred windows, looking
out upon a fair expanse of vineyard and garden. Forty miles beyond lay
Queretaro; a large and well-built town of 40,000 inhabitants, surrounded
by gardens and orchards. Its chief trade is the manufacture of cigars.
These, as made at Queretaro, are of a peculiar shape, about three inches
long, square at both ends, and exceedingly pungent in flavour. Excellent
pulque is another of its products. Pulque, the national liquor of
Mexico, is made from the saccharine juice of the American aloe, which
attains maturity at the age of eight or fourteen years, and then flowers.
Only while it is flowering may the juice be collected. The central stem
which encloses the coming flower is cut off near the bottom, and a basin
or hollow exposed, over which the surrounding leaves are closely gathered
and fastened. The juice distils into the reservoir thus provided, and is
removed three or four times during the twenty-four hours, by means of a
syphon made of a species of gourd called acojote. One end is placed in
the liquor, the other in the mouth of the operator, who by suction draws
up the sweet fluid into the pipe, and forces it out into a bowl.
Afterwards it receives the addition of a little old pulque, and is
allowed to ferment for two or three days in earthen jars. When fresh,
pulque, according to Mr. Ruxton, is brisk and sparkling, and the most
cooling, refreshing, and delectable drink ever invented for mortals when
athirst. The Mexicans call it “vino divino;” but, admirable as may be
its qualities, it needs to be very temperately used.
Between Queretaro and Celaya the traveller gradually descends from the
table-lands, and the air comes upon him with a warm tropical breath.
Nopalos, or prickly-pears, line the road; the Indians collect the
fruit—which is savoury and invigorating—with a forked stick. At Silao
striking evidence of the geniality of the climate is supplied by the
variety of fruit exposed for sale: oranges, lemons, grapes, chirimoyas,
batatas, platanos, plantains, cumotes, grenadillas, mamayos, tunas,
pears, and apples—a list which would have delighted Keats’s Porphyro when
he was preparing a refection for his lady-love Madeline. But if fruit be
abundant, so are beggars and thieves; and Silao is not a comfortable
place to live in! Mexico, according to its climatic conditions, is
divided into three great divisions—the _Tierras Frias_, or Cold lands;
the _Tierras Templadas_, or Temperate lands; and the _Tierras Calientes_,
or Hot lands. From Celaya our travellers stooped down rapidly into the
_Tierra Caliente_, and the increased temperature was every day more
perceptibly felt. Jalisco, the most important town on their route, is
situated on the western declivity of Anahuac, a Cordillera which unites
the Andes of South and Central America with the great North American
chain of the Rocky Mountains. Mr. Ruxton describes the table-land on the
western ridge of the Cordillera as blessed with a fertile soil and a
temperate climate. It is studded with the populous towns of Silao, Leon,
Lagos, and Aguas Calientes. The central portion, of a lower elevation
and consequently higher temperature, produces cotton, cochineal, vanilla,
as well as every variety of cereal produce. While the littoral, or coast
region, teems with fertility, and lies in the shadow of immense forests,
unfortunately it is cursed by the ever-prevalent vomito, or yellow fever,
and its climate is scarcely less fatal to its inhabitants than to
strangers.
At La Villa de Leon, a town celebrated for robbers and murderers, Mr.
Ruxton met with an adventure. About nine o’clock in the evening he was
returning from the plaza, which with its great lighted fires, the stalls
of the market-people, the strange garb of the peasantry, and the
snow-white sarapos, or cloaks, of the idlers of the town, presented a
stirring aspect, when, striking into a dark and narrow street, a group of
vagabonds, at the door of a pulque shop, detected that he was a stranger,
and, mistaking his nationality, yelled at him: “Let’s kill him, the
Texan!” Having no weapon but a bowie-knife, and not desiring an
encounter with such overwhelming numbers, he turned off into another
street; but the rascals followed him, renewing their wild cries.
Happily, a dark doorway invited him to seek its shelter, and while
crouching in its obscurity, he could see them rush by, knives in hand.
When he thought they had all passed, he stepped forth, to find himself
confronted by three wretches who brought up the rear, and who,
brandishing their knives and rushing headlong at him, cried, “Here he is,
here he is; kill him!” As the foremost rushed at him with uplifted
blade, he swiftly stepped aside, and at the same moment thrust at him
with his bowie. The robber fell on his knees with a cry of “Me ha
matado!” (“He has killed me!”), and fell on his face. One of his
companions hastened to his assistance; the other dashed upon Mr. Ruxton,
but, confused by his calm attitude of preparation, fell back a few paces,
and finally slunk away. Mr. Ruxton returned at once to his quarters,
ordered out the horses, and in a few minutes was on his road.
By way of Aguas Calientes, a very pretty town, and Zacatecas, a populous
mining town, he proceeded towards the Hacienda (or farm) of San Nicolas,
with the view of traversing that singular volcanic region, the _Mal
Pais_. Down to a comparatively recent period, it would seem to have been
the theatre of plutonic phenomena of an extraordinary character. The
convexity of the district enables the traveller to judge very readily of
the extent of the convulsion, which has spread to a distance of twelve or
fourteen miles from the central crater. The said crater measures about
fifteen hundred feet in circumference, and its sides are covered with
dwarf oaks, mezquito, and cocoa trees, which find a rich nourishment in
the chinks and crevices of the lava. At the bottom stagnate the green
and slimy waters of a small lake, which is fringed with rank shrubs and
cacti, growing among huge blocks of lava and scoriæ. Not a breath of air
disturbs its inky surface, save when a huge water-snake undulates across
it, or a duck and her progeny swim out from their covert among the
bushes.
“I led my horse,” says Mr. Ruxton, “down to the edge of the water, but he
refused to drink the slimy liquid, in which frogs, efts, and reptiles of
every kind were darting and diving. Many new and curious water-plants
floated near the margin, and one, lotus-leaved, with small delicate
tendrils, formed a kind of network on the water, with a superb crimson
flower, which exhibited a beautiful contrast with the inky blackness of
the pool. His Mexicans, as they passed this spot, crossed themselves
reverently, and muttered an _Ave Maria_; for in the lonely regions of the
Mal Pais, the superstitious Indian believes that demons and gnomes and
spirits of evil persons have their dwelling-places, whence they not
unfrequently pounce upon the solitary traveller, to carry him into the
cavernous bowels of the earth. The arched roof of the supposed
prison-house resounding to the tread of their horses as they pass the
dreaded spot, they feel a sudden dread, and, with rapidly muttered
prayers, they handle their amulets and charms to drive away the
treacherous bogies who invisibly beset the path.”
From the Mal Pais Mr. Ruxton travelled onward to the rancho of La Punta,
a famous cattle-breeding station.
In the preceding autumn it had been harried by a party of Comanche
Indians, who, one day, without warning, rode across the sierra and
swooped down upon it, killing, as they passed, the peones, or labourers,
whom they found at work in the road. On their appearance the men made no
attempt to defend the rancho, but fled at full speed, abandoning the
women and children to their terrible fate. Some were carried away
captives; some pierced with arrows and lances, and left for dead; others
made the victims of unspeakable outrages. The ranchero’s wife, with her
two adult daughters and several younger children, fled from the rancho at
the first alarm, to conceal themselves under a wooden bridge, which
crossed a neighbouring stream. For several hours they escaped detection;
but at last some Indians drew near their hiding-place, and a young chief
took his station on the bridge to issue his commands. With keen eyes he
examined the spot, and discovered the terror-stricken fugitives; but he
pretended not to have seen them, playing with them as a cat might with a
mouse. He hoped, he was heard to say, that he should find out where the
women were concealed, for he wanted a Mexican wife and a handful of
scalps. Then he leaped from the bridge, and thrust his lance under it
with a yell of exultation; the point pierced the woman’s arm, and she
shrieked aloud. She and her children were forthwith drawn from their
retreat.
“Alas, alas, what a moment was that!” said the poor woman, as she told
her painful story. The savages brandished their tomahawks around her
children, and she thought that the last farewell had been taken. They
behaved, however, with unusual clemency; the captives were released, and
allowed to return to their home—to find it a wreck, and the ground strewn
with the dead bodies of their kinsmen and friends.
“Ay de mi!” (“Woe is me!”)
While at La Punta, our traveller was witness of the Mexican sport of the
“Coléa de toros” (or “bull-tailing”), for the enjoyment of which two or
three hundred rancheros had assembled from the neighbouring plantations.
A hundred bulls were shut up in a large corral, or enclosure, at one end
of which had been erected a building for the convenience of the lady
spectators. The horsemen, brave in their picturesque Mexican costume,
were grouped around the corral, examining the animals as they were driven
to and fro in order to increase their excitement, while the ranchero
himself, and his sons, brandishing long lances, were busily engaged in
forcing the wilder and more active bulls into a second enclosure. When
this had been effected, the entrance was thrown open, and out dashed,
with glaring eyes, tossing head, and lashing tail, a fine bull, to gallop
at his topmost speed over the grassy plain before him, followed by the
whole crowd of shouting, yelling horsemen, each of whom endeavoured to
outstrip the other, and overtake the flying animal. At first they all
kept close together, riding very equally, and preserving excellent order,
but very soon superior skill or strength or daring began to tell, and in
front of the main body shot forth a few of the cavaliers. Heading them
all, in swift pursuit of the rolling cloud of dust which indicated the
bull’s track, rode the son of the ranchero, a boy about twelve years old;
and as he swayed this way and that when the bull doubled, the women made
the air ring with their shrill vivas. “Viva, Pepito! viva!” cried his
mother; and, dashing his spurs into his horse’s streaming flanks, the
brave lad ran the race. But before long the others came up with stealthy
strides; soon they were abreast of him. The pace quickened; the horses
themselves seemed to share the excitement; the men shouted, the women
screamed; each urged on her favourite—“Alza!—Bernardo!—Por mi amor, Juan
Maria!—Viva, Pepitito!” A stalwart Mexican, mounted on a fine roan,
eventually took the lead, and every moment increased the distance between
himself and his competitors. But Pepito’s quick eyes detected a sudden
movement of the bull, and saw that, concealed by the dust, he had wheeled
off at a sharp angle from his former course. In an instant Pepe did the
same, and dashed in front of him, amid a fresh outburst of cheers and
vivas. Getting on the bull’s left quarter, he stooped down to seize his
tail, and secure it under his right leg, so as to bring him to the
ground. But for a manœuvre which requires great muscular power, Pepe’s
strength was not equal to his spirit, and, in attempting it, he was
dragged from his saddle, and thrown to the ground, senseless. Several
horsemen had by this time come up, and the bold rider of the roan
galloping ahead, threw his right leg over the bull’s tail, and turning
his horse sharply outwards, upset the brute in the midst of his fiery
charge, rolling him over and over in the dust.
Another bull was then let loose, and the wild ride recommenced; nor,
until the corral was empty, and every horse and horseman completely
spent, did the game cease. It is a rude game, though full of excitement;
a rude game, and, perhaps, a cruel one; but we must not be harsh in our
judgment, remembering that our English sports and pastimes have not
always been exempt from a taint of ferocity.
A less manly and much more cruel equestrian game is called “el Gallo”
(“the Cock)”. Poor chanticleer is tied by the leg to a post driven into
the ground, or to a tree, his head and neck being well greased. At a
given signal the horsemen start all together, and he who first reaches
the bird, and seizing it by its neck, releases it from the fastenings,
carries off the prize. The well-greased neck generally eludes the eager
fingers of him who first clutches it; but whoever gets hold of the prize
is immediately pursued by the rest, intent upon depriving him of it. In
the _mêlée_ the unfortunate rooster is literally torn to pieces, which
the successful horsemen present as _gages d’amour_ to their lady-loves.
At Durango, the capital of Northern Mexico, popularly known as “the City
of Scorpions,” the traveller was shown a large mass of malleable iron,
which lies isolated in the centre of the plain. It is supposed to be an
aerolite, because identical in physical character and composition with
certain aerolites which fell in some part of Hungary in 1751. Durango is
650 miles from Mexico, and, according to Humboldt, 6845 feet above the
sea. At the time of Mr. Ruxton’s visit, it was expecting an attack from
the Comanche Indians, of whose sanguinary ferocity he tells the following
“owre true” story:—
Half-way between Durango and Chihuahua, in the Rio Florido valley, lived
a family of hardy vaqueros, or cattle-herders, the head of whom, a
stalwart man of sixty, rejoiced in the sobriquet of El Coxo (“The
Cripple”). He had eight sons, bold, resolute, vigorous fellows, famous
for their prowess in horsemanship, their daring and skill at the “colea”
or “el Gallo.” Of this goodly company, reminding us of the Nortons in
Wordsworth’s “White Doe of Rylstone”—
“None for beauty or for worth
Like those eight sons—who, in a ring
(Ripe men, or blooming in life’s spring),
Each with a lance, erect and tall,
A falchion and a buckler small,
Stood by their sire,”—