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Eliza and Etheldreda 
 In Mexico 
 
 NOTES OF TRAVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 PATTY GUTHRIE 
 
 BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 835 Broadway, New York 
 
 BRANCH OFFICES: CHICAGO. WASHINGTON. BALTIMORE. 
 ATLANTA. NORFOLK. DES MOINES. IOWA 
 
Copyright, 191 1, 
 
 By 
 
 Broadway Publishing Company 
 
 
 ©CI,Aa97593 |\ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter 1 5 
 
 Chapter II. . . . . , . 9 
 
 Chapter III 15 
 
 Chapter IV 19 
 
 Chapter V ' . . .23 
 
 Chapter VI 28 
 
 Chapter VII 34 
 
 Chapter VIII 42 
 
 Chapter IX 46 
 
 Chapter X 55 
 
 Chapter XI 81 
 
 Chapter XII 92 
 
 Chapter XIII 97 
 
 Chapter XIV. 103 
 
 Chapter XV no 
 
 Chapter XVI 114 
 
 Chapter XVII 121 
 
 Chapter XVIII 127 
 
 Chapter XIX 136 
 
 Chapter XX 143 
 
Eliza and Etheldreda 
 in Mexico 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 It is with a feeling of real pleasure one leaves 
 the train at the Central Station in the City of Mexico. 
 The trip through the desert has been so depressing, 
 the landscape so hideous and barren and the dust so 
 all-encompassing that one cannot help but heave a 
 sigh of infinite relief when the domes, the turrets and 
 the whitewashed walls of the city come into view. 
 The hope that there is something better awaiting one 
 is more than realized. One always falls in with 
 charming people on the way down, however, because 
 charming people are going everywhere in these, our 
 twentieth-century days, and they do much toward 
 breaking the tedium of the trip. 
 
 Still, there is the limitless cactus-covered region 
 that stretches away toward the barren mountains, 
 the burning sun glittering on the shifting sand, and 
 the endless succession of little typical Mexican vil- 
 lages with their high walls, and low mud houses. 
 And, always, as the train drew up to the station, 
 we were met by the same dirty, ragged, poverty- 
 stricken crowd asking alms. When we halted for 
 
 5 
 
OBIija ano (CtftelBteBa 
 
 any length of time the passengers went out on the 
 platform for a little fresh air and exercise, and the 
 same cringing, curious crowd followed us at each 
 place. "Dame um centavo" (Give me a cent) is the 
 unvarying request of these people. ''Yes, yes. Have 
 you change for a dollar?" inquired the absent- 
 minded professor from an Eastern seminary, reaching 
 down into a commodious pocket. The crowd of trav- 
 elers smiled and disintegrated, and when I explained 
 the professor's question, looking into the tense al- 
 mond-shaped eyes of a little, unkempt, untaught 
 daughter of Eve, she, too, looked foolish at the 
 learned man's question, and turned away as he slipped 
 a coin into her hand, having come to himself. 
 
 The dreary waste of the landscape, the dust that 
 filters through, in spite of the double windows, the 
 filth, the rags, the poverty, and the ignorance of the 
 people is so impressive, however, that careless mock- 
 ery seems out of place. Then night comes slowly 
 and drearily down, as we wait in a desolate little In- 
 dian village, and I go to sleep, thinking to myself, 
 *Tf this be Mexico, let me go back to prosperous, well- 
 satisfied Missouri." 
 
 After a time, however, the scene began to change. 
 The great sea of eddying, drifting sand was receding 
 in the distance; the thorny inhospitable cactus dis- 
 appearing from the landscape, and the more lively and 
 cheerful mesquite began to show itself. It was not 
 till Zacatecus was reached and passed, that there came 
 any appreciable change, however; then it was with 
 slow gradation, that we passed from the desert to 
 the mountains. 
 
 Zacatecus and its surrounding towns — children of 
 the mountain and desert — clings, each like an eagle 
 
 6 
 
in ^mto 
 
 in its eyrie, to the Mexican hills. They might have 
 been transported from the Orient, and settled there 
 to sleep and dreams in happy oblivion. For cen- 
 turies they slept thus, then the shriek of the iron 
 horse from the North awoke them from their dreams, 
 and with this iconoclastic touch, came the spirit of 
 modern commercialism, and a world of fancy was lost 
 to the artist and the romanticist. 
 
 Queretero, too, is changed since those days when 
 Maximillian, in the glitter of royalty, carrying his 
 jeweled sword, walked in melancholy introspection, 
 and lingered in the silent cloisters with his visionary 
 crown upon his head. Fate, in the person of General 
 Escobeda, with his tireless soldiers, each day drew 
 the cordon closer to its vortex, till the last play of 
 the mimic empire came tragically to its close. 
 
 We left the train here to try to get a glimpse of the 
 hill of Las Campanas, where Maximillian and his 
 faithful generals were shot. The Austrian govern- 
 ment has, very appropriately, built a chapel, beautiful, 
 in its neatness and simpHcity, at the summit of this 
 hill to commemorate the memory of its martyred son, 
 and the men who died with him. 
 
 After leaving Queretero behind we went speeding 
 through the mountains, higher and higher with each 
 revolution of the wheel, till at noon on a certain day 
 we reached the Mexican capital. 
 
 Mexico City stands on the ancient plains of 
 Anahuac, nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, 
 in her setting of snow-capped mountains, the fairest 
 jewel of the Sierra Madras — the Rome of America. 
 
 To the south stands the lordly Popocatepetl inso- 
 lent, threatening, morose, in his forced inactivity, 
 while at his side sits Ixtlachiuhuatl, the Beautiful 
 
 Z 
 
OBIi^a anD OBtfteiatetia 
 
 White Lady, pure, indifferent, seductive, in her 
 frozen chastity, wrapped forever in her gHttering 
 mantle of snow. 
 
 When Cortez, in his pomp and heraldry, marched 
 with his gilded legions through the mountain gorge 
 and gazed down upon the ancient Tenochtitlan, he 
 thought that it must have been the work of fairies and 
 not of human hands. He saw, below him, a city of 
 magnificent temples, palaces, and imposing obeUsks. 
 Clear, sparkling waterways coursed through every 
 street, and the natives in white dress, glided, gon- 
 dolier fashion, through them. In the destruction and 
 havoc wrought by Cortez and his bestial followers, 
 the appearance of the city was so changed that the 
 streets, where once flowed the waters and glided the 
 canoes are now paved or cobbled. 
 
 There are magnificent temples and palaces also to 
 be seen, but the obelisks, with their legends told in 
 hieroglyphics, have disappeared. 
 
 As you walk through the gate at the station, which 
 is just like stations you have seen every day of your 
 life, you are met by an army of hack drivers, who 
 implore you in tones indicating every shade of feel- 
 ing, to honor him by riding in his hack, and the 
 most astonishing thing is everybody speaks Spanish. 
 The hack drivers, the policeman on his beat, the 
 newsboy (which is usually a woman), why, even 
 the dogs understand it. Your first thought is, "What 
 a cultivated city this must be with everybody speak- 
 ing a foreign language so fluently." 
 
 8 
 
in ^ttito 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "I had only one objection to coming to you when 
 my Cousin Harry went home — only one objection," 
 Etheldreda reiterated, arranging a large spray of 
 La France roses in a sea-green Haviland vase. It 
 was the one we had picked up a few days previously 
 at the Thieves' Market. "That was your nam.e," 
 she went on, after a long pause, during which time 
 I lazily surveyed her from my pile of cushions on 
 the couch. "You will pardon me, I know," she 
 added with conviction; "but, you know, I never did 
 like that name !" 
 
 "Well, I never cared for it myself until I heard 
 the Man in Gray speak it. You never heard him 
 say 'A-lee-sa,' did you, Etheldreda?" 
 
 "Yes, I have; and that's just what I'm saying. 
 I never liked it till I heard him talking to you the 
 
 other- and, honestly, I would almost consent to 
 
 be called that myself, if ever}^body said it as he does. 
 You know I really can't be blamed though, Eliza, 
 because I got an early distaste to that name, and one's 
 youthful impressions, even in regard to names, are 
 ineradicable, don't you know. But I had an Aunt 
 Eliza who used to make annual, and semi-annual visits 
 to our house when I was a child, and if you had 
 known her you would not have wondered at my an- 
 tipathy for the name. Auntie told me I must try to 
 be patient with her, that she had suffered a dread- 
 
Cli^a anU CtftelOteaa 
 
 ful disappointment, the man to whom she was en- 
 gaged having died just before they were to have 
 been married. They said he was an architect — quite 
 a genius, in fact; though I never heard of but one 
 thing he did, and that was to plan the house they 
 were to Hve in." 
 
 "Was it something exceptional?" I inquired from 
 the depth of my cushions. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" replied Etheldreda, taking all the roses 
 out of the vase and beginning to arrange them anew. 
 "They said it was perfect, just the most perfect 
 house that had ever been constructed, the only thing 
 wrong with it, being," went on Etheldreda innocently, 
 "that no carpenter known to the business could ever 
 have roofed it." 
 
 That was one thing about Etheldreda, you never 
 knew when she was really innocent, or as wise as a 
 serpent. 
 
 "So it ruined your aunt's disposition?" I queried. 
 
 "No, not the house; her lover's dying did it," re- 
 plied my companion as I turned my head and smiled. 
 
 Etheldreda came to Mexico a few weeks ago in 
 company with a cousin and his wife. The cousin has 
 some kind of interests here in mines, livestock, drawn 
 work, or something I can't remember what. When 
 they had been in town only a few days he was sud- 
 denly called home on account of some important 
 business, and his wife wished to accompany him. 
 Naturally, they did not want to leave Etheldreda 
 alone in a foreign city, and insisted that she should 
 return with them. She, however, protested, coaxed, 
 and finally refused, point blank, to go. They, on 
 the other hand, argued, pleaded, and threatened, but 
 the girl was obdurate and refused to budge. The 
 
 lO 
 
in Qgeiico 
 
 gentleman, who was an old schoolmate of my broth- 
 er's, learned accidentally that I was in the city, so 
 he and his good wife came to me and importuned me 
 to take their willful young cousin under my charge. 
 With some trepidation, and much reluctance I con- 
 sented, and that is how it happened that Etheldreda 
 is now sharing my rooms at the Jardin Hotel. 
 
 Etheldreda, like myself, is charmed with Mexico, 
 on the whole, and thoroughly enjoys the picturesque- 
 ness and beauty of the land ; the blue, blue, sky hung 
 so far above the earth, the moon that lays as soft as 
 snow on the mountain crest, the air odorous and 
 seductive that, blowing from the sun-kissed south, 
 seems always to envelop you and steal away your 
 senses till there is no desire left but to drowse and 
 dream your life away. And the quaintness and 
 strangeness of it all! 
 
 "This," said a man to me who has visited many 
 lands, "this is the most foreign country I have seen." 
 
 We pass many hours wandering about the city, 
 Etheldreda, the Man in Gray, and I. Sometimes we 
 spend a whole afternoon loitering through some broad 
 residence street, lingering, as long as we may, before 
 some open door to catch a glimpse of the life within, 
 admiring the flowers and the beauty and chasteness 
 of the architecture. More especially though do we 
 find entertainment and food for conversation and 
 thought in watching the young girls and women as 
 they stand for hours in their balconies, looking from 
 their gilded cages, down on the leisure world be- 
 low. Most of the buildings are white or gray; but 
 some of them, especially those in the wealthy sub- 
 urban towns, are exquisitely tinted. In regard to 
 the general plan of the houses, not only in Mexico 
 
 II 
 
(ffilifa anD dEtftelDtefla 
 
 City, but throughout the RepubHc, there may be said 
 to be the house universaL The homes of the Indians 
 are long, low, sombre-colored abodes with roof of 
 cane stalks, straw, or maguey plant, and that of the 
 better class is the eternal square built around an 
 open court. In the cities, these courts are usually 
 filled with fruits and flowers, singing birds, playing 
 fountains, and laughing children. Some of these are 
 dreams of beauty and poetic adornment, and are called 
 jardines — gardens. Everywhere, as one goes about 
 the republic, one sees the same square exterior, the 
 fiat front without projection of any kind, and the 
 same heavy, mediaeval door with brass knocker. A 
 few of the buildings are ornamented about the copings 
 with gargoyles, and other realistic designs, but the 
 majority are without ornate ornamentation, heavy, 
 massive, made to endure with the ages. Almost any 
 one of them might have been transplanted bodily from 
 some Moorish stronghold and set on the crest of the 
 Cordilleras. 
 
 You must know, however, that there is only one en- 
 trance to the Mexican house, that one being in the 
 middle front. Those who have recently come from 
 the States marvel to see huge hampers of bread, live 
 chickens, vegetables and trains of patient, burden- 
 bearing burros pass through the lordly portals. Then, 
 too, in the houses of many of the wealthiest and 
 most exclusive, the lower floors are used as offices or 
 other public places, and under each is the stable and 
 carriage house. Incongruous? Yes, but you get 
 used to anything in time. 
 
 It all becomes somewhat monotonous as the days 
 go by, the same square house, the great door, the 
 generally shut-in appearance of everything, and the 
 
 12 
 
in &^tnto 
 
 white, white houses blinking at you. Still, one is 
 impressed with the grandeur of the whole. 
 
 One of the first things one notices on arriving in 
 Mexico City is the almost smokeless, chimneyless ap- 
 pearance of the place. Where, in the cities of our 
 land, the smoke ascends in funnels, clouds and masses, 
 and fills the sky with inky humity; here, in the dry 
 season, the sky above is as clear, blue, and smokeless 
 as on a bright June, day in the open country. And 
 assuredly there is not a more quiet city to be found 
 in all the world. Even after nightfall almost an 
 Arcadian stillness prevails, except down near the 
 center of the city. There is never the hurry, the 
 never-ending mad rush, for, we know not what, and 
 the tense, strained look on the faces of the people 
 that one sees on the faces of the throng in our 
 Northern cities. It seems a surety that the people 
 in general obey the Scriptures, in that they take no 
 apparent thought for the morrow in regard to what 
 they shall eat, what they shall drink, or wherewithal 
 they shall be clothed, and especially with reference 
 to the latter clause. 
 
 The street cars, also, run along in a much more 
 leisurely and dignified way, and the electric cars, 
 especially those that go out to the suburban towns, 
 have whistles. They have a gong also, I have dis- 
 covered, but these gongs are not rung so persistently 
 nor so aggressively as are the bells in the sister re- 
 public. But when the motorman does find it neces- 
 sary to sound this instrument of torture he does it in 
 a kind of subdued and apologetic way that fills the be- 
 holder with wonder and admiration. And when he 
 runs by you without taking you in, which is fre- 
 quently the case — as they do not permit people to 
 
 13 
 
(Blna anD (EtIjelDreUa 
 
 fill the cars until they are packed to suffocation — 
 he bows so politely, and looks so regretful, you feel 
 almost as though he had bestowed a favor. 
 
 I have said that it all becomes monotonous after 
 a time, but this is only half a truth ; always the little 
 side street in which a foreigner seldom intrudes, re- 
 tains a charm for me. The little places of business 
 seem tucked away in the most unaccountable way, 
 and the name, ''Hole in the Wall," that is given to 
 one of the well-known curio stores, would apply to 
 many others in the city. In the arrangement of the 
 commodities contained in them they are conformable 
 to no known law; each holding an egregious collec- 
 tion, purely Mexican, and individual. In one is dis- 
 played corals and miniature sombreros, in another, 
 Indian blankets made in the national colors, and all 
 showing the Mexican emblem, the eagle perched on 
 the cactus, holding a snake in its talons. In others 
 we would find restaurants furnished with small deal 
 tables, and perhaps a variety of cheap laces and pic- 
 tures of Christ in the window. Pottery and saints, 
 the ever-present lottery ticket, pulque, prayer books 
 and rosaries all in a jumble, but none to be bought 
 without a wrangle. 
 
 14 
 
in Q^mco 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 I first met Etheldreda at a large reception given 
 in honor of a well-known bishop from the States, 
 who had come to Mexico to look into the mission 
 work being done there, and get rid of the gout, espe- 
 cially the latter. There were present at this recep- 
 tion a good many Mexicans, still more Americans, a 
 few English, one or two Frenchmen, a professor 
 from the Fatherland, and several from nowhere in 
 particular. 
 
 My hostess, who was amiability itself, seated me 
 among a mass of odorous, perfume-laden flowers, in 
 the midst of which was a huge palm, with gigantic, 
 overshadowing leaves. When I turned, with smiling 
 solicitude, to reply to the questions of the musically 
 
 low voice of Sefior Del , one of those aggressive 
 
 palm leaves made an assault on my right ear. As 
 I turned again to speak to Mrs. Silvermine Devon- 
 shire I was attacked in a similar way on the left 
 side. It was she who had on the diamond earrings 
 that Etheldreda said looked like headlights on a loco- 
 motive, but as I did not know that they were the 
 real thing until later, am afraid I was not sufficiently 
 impressed. Looking up, I bowed low to the salu- 
 tation of Senora B and was caught in my high 
 
 piled hair; then, with determination, I raised my 
 head only to be taken under the chin. I continued 
 to smile, though at heart I was a villain still. If 
 
 15 
 
OBli^a atiB CtfielDteaa 
 
 it had been a real, sure-enough palm, I could have 
 stood it with more inward composure — I flattered 
 myself, however, that my outward composure was 
 perfect — but Etheldreda, who has wonderful ability 
 for fathoming out the inward working of things, told 
 me afterwards that they were only some mammoth 
 leaves that had been bought and stuck into a costly 
 jardiniere just for the occasion. The effect was all 
 right, and that is the only requisite in La Republica. 
 
 In Mexico City, as in all cities where people from 
 every land are congregated, one finds many psycho- 
 logical peculiarities. I noticed this particularly among 
 Americans as I, of course, was thrown more often 
 among my own countrymen. The American dweller 
 in a foreign city is, in the main, an anomalous com- 
 munity. He is often an interesting and puzzling 
 problem. He tells you, with evident pride, that he 
 no longer is provincial ; that his travels and resi- 
 dence abroad have made him more liberal, less exact- 
 ing; in short, has broadened him to almost any ex- 
 tent. He forgets, however, that as a stream broadens, 
 it becomes correspondingly shallow, and that the 
 shallow stagnate, and become putrid. He refuses to 
 accept the moral code of his adopted land and repudi- 
 ate those of his own. His notions in regard to the 
 Deity are vague and pantheistic, and he applies them 
 in an impersonal way to nothing in particular. It 
 were better for a man to be the narrowest churchman, 
 or a **yellow-dog Democrat," than to entertain no seri- 
 ous convictions in these subjects, for the man with 
 an opinion, at least, feels enthusiasm and interest, 
 and what really is life without these sensations? 
 
 So the American resident abroad returns to his 
 home, out of tune with America, and things American, 
 
 i6 
 
in ^tiito 
 
 vaguely dissatisfied at what he sees about him, and 
 without having really lived his life at all. 
 
 The Mexicans, as is the case with all the Latins, 
 are an excessively polite people ; at least, at first blush, 
 so they impress those who are lately on the ground; 
 but if you remain for any length of time, you will, 
 no doubt, on occasion, be astounded at the degree of 
 rudeness shown. If, however, there comes a better 
 understanding of the people, and the feelings often 
 evinced toward foreigners, especially toward Ameri- 
 cans, this apparent rudeness is not so inexplicable. 
 For many years there has been a steady flow of 
 Americans into the Aztecs' land, and still the tide 
 continues. They have builded railroads, power 
 houses, and manufactories. The Americans' hand is 
 at the throttle that drives the engine from the yel- 
 low Rio Grande to the mountain peaks of Tehuante- 
 pec. They own hundreds of haciendas, and control 
 mining stock. "The peaceful conquest of Mexico by 
 the Americans," some of the Mexicans themselves 
 laughingly say, while others, and quite naturally, bit- 
 terly resent this invasion. 
 
 In regard to this excessive politeness that comes 
 so naturally, and at times is so lacking, Etheldreda 
 and I feel a little resentful sometimes. The other 
 day, as we sat in a car, we watched two Mexicans 
 arise, with their old world courtesy, and shake hands 
 in the most solicitous and leisurely manner, each 
 making inquiries in minutest detail as to the state 
 of health of the other, his family, parents, brothers, 
 sisters, and all near and some distant relatives, and 
 the fact that two women, each carrying a big, fat 
 baby and a satchel did not seem in the least to em- 
 barrass them, or hasten their long-drawn-out greet- 
 
 17 
 
mi^a ann ©tftelDrena 
 
 ings. After the Mexicans were seated two typical 
 Americans, who had stood aside to let the women 
 come in — sturdy, earnest, clear of eye, they halted 
 abruptly, each gave the other a cordial, pump-handle 
 shake — inquired in one sentence, and in rather a loud 
 voice as to the general, not particular, health of the 
 other, and the rate of the exchange of money on 
 that day. There is a peculiarity among people in 
 general, and that is when they are in a foreign coun- 
 try, or among people who do not speak the same 
 language as themselves, they seem to get the idea 
 that they are in a colony of partial deaf mutes, and 
 raise their voices accordingly. I know a dear old 
 Mexican woman who fairly shouts every time she 
 addresses me. 
 
 When our two Americans had shaken hands — 
 time required, about fifteen seconds — and had in- 
 quired as to the health of the other, and the condi- 
 tion of the money market — time required, about thirty 
 seconds — each selected a seat, dropped into it, and 
 was immediately absorbed in a newspaper. 
 
 There is a beautiful Httle senorita down here — Our 
 Maria — who frequently says to me, "You Americans 
 make me horribly tired. I never go anywhere with 
 one of you that you are not in a hurry to go, and a 
 hurry to get back. You are always looking at your 
 watches, walking impatiently up and down, and won- 
 dering when something, or somebody, is going to 
 start. Then, when they start, you wonder when they 
 will stop. In the meantime you walk up and down 
 some more, look at your watches again, and wonder 
 all over again. What is it you have? Nervous 
 
 pros . What is it you call it ? Prostration ? Well, I 
 
 don't wonder; you are giving it to the whole world." 
 
 i8 
 
in Q^e^EicD 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Do not imagine that you have seen all there is of 
 interest in Mexico City when you have driven through 
 the principal residence streets, visited the national 
 palace, pawn shops, cathedral, and museum. You 
 must see Tlalpam, where they raise flowers, and 
 Coyoacan, where they have the cattle shows. And — 
 but you have not really been to Mexico till you have 
 seen Chapultepec. Of course, all the world knows 
 what Chapultepec is, but in order to refresh the mem- 
 ory a little, will say that it is the White House of 
 Mexico, and is also a military school and fortress, 
 built on a mountain of solid porphyry, and was the 
 country place of Montezuma and his ancestors. Near 
 by is the viaduct built by this sadly abused monarch, 
 and a little farther down is the driveway, called the 
 Paseo, constructed by Maximillian, and which greatly 
 facilitated the access to the castle. There is a grand 
 natural park at the back and side of Chapultepec, 
 for which nature has done wonders, and art quite a 
 little. Huge weeping willows — like one sees in all 
 the pictures of graveyards — border a little natural 
 stream, that bursts out of the side of the mountain 
 just below where the American soldiers poured such 
 deadly shot and shell into the superb fortress that 
 stood so gloomily and picturesquely above them. A 
 little farther down lie buried the young Mexican 
 soldiers who fell in that last fight, and it is said that 
 
 19 
 
OEli^a ana dEtftelDteDa 
 
 the cadets of the present day take fresh flowers every 
 morning to put on the graves of those fallen heroes. 
 All along the drive by the little lake — that is natural 
 also — are beautiful and romantic spots, where one can 
 find enticing and inviting seats, ideal for love making. 
 
 One cannot describe this fortress with its imposing 
 grandeur, and fascinating historical memories, but 
 just imagine a huge rambling castle in a tale of love 
 and Spanish knight errantry, and you have it. As 
 one writer says, *'It is with a feeHng of deepest rev- 
 erence and almost awe one enters the gates to this 
 magnificent castle, imposing and soul-subduing, where 
 the soft air sighs through the cypress trees, and seems 
 to speak in broken accents of the sad and voiceless 
 past." I was so sorry I had not thought of saying 
 all this myself, before somebody else wrote it — ^but 
 am positive I could never have expressed it so 
 poetically. I liked that part especially where it speaks 
 of "the voiceless past." 
 
 It is well worth the trip to Tlalpam, too; beautiful, 
 aristocratic, dainty Tlalpam, where the very air is 
 redolent of romance, and moonlight serenades. 
 
 The houses are nearly all of adobe, and are large, 
 imposing, and artistic, with colorings of the most re- 
 fined and harmonious. Through one of the large open 
 doorways Etheldreda and I stood one day and looked 
 at the scene within. A huge rose clustered over one 
 side of the corridor, the weighted vines hanging in 
 long, langourous profusion; jessamines, crepe myrtles 
 and acacias intertwined their arms in seductive em- 
 brace — the air was heavy with the perfume of it all, 
 and in the center was a fountain, crowned by a beau- 
 tifully chiseled Niobe that cast her opal mists out over 
 
 20 
 
in ^mco 
 
 the drooping flowers. At the far end of the garden 
 a number of girls, dressed in white, were singing 
 their favorite play-song, Doila Blanca. 
 
 "Are they really, truly fairies?" whispered Ethel- 
 dreda. 
 
 It is just beyond Tlalpam, up on a picturesque, tree- 
 covered mountain, where one or more rivers are borne. 
 Some day when you have a little leisure, and you 
 will go a mile with me I can show you where they 
 come bursting out of a cave, and go tumbling over 
 a little fall into the lake below. 
 
 Each of these suburban places has its ancient mag- 
 nificent cathedral, and inviting little plaza. Com- 
 fortable seats are always to be found in these plazas, 
 as well as the never-failing glorietta, with its clear, 
 dancing water and the fountain in the center. The 
 chiseling on these gloriettas, or basins, and the fig- 
 ures adorning the fountains are always chaste and 
 beautifully done, some of them being real works of 
 art. Out at Popotla, just beyond the confines of the 
 city, stands El Arbol de la Nothe Triste, or the tree 
 of the sad night. This tree is a weather-beaten and 
 scarred cypress, that was hoary with age when Cortez 
 landed with his galleons at the port of Vera Cruz. 
 On the dark night when the players had left the stage 
 in riot and confusion, and the curtain had gone down 
 on the last act in the tragedy this intruder had 
 wrought, disappointed and humiliated he leaned 
 against this tree and wept, then throwing himself 
 upon the ground where he was hidden by its shel- 
 tering bough, he spent the night in bitter grief and 
 retrospection; weeping, not like Alexander because 
 there were no more worlds to conquer, but because he 
 
 21 
 
mi^n ano OBtfteiarelia 
 
 could not conquer this one little world. Etheldreda 
 has said to me a dozen times, I know, "Have you told 
 about Santa Fe?" 
 
 "Santa Fe?" I repeat dreamily, **Santa Fe?" But 
 that is another story. 
 
 ^ 
 
in ^mto 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 To reach Santa Fe you go on the electric line to 
 Tacubaya, then take a little mule car that meanders 
 through the town and out over a rather narrow moun- 
 tain-top, with San Angel, and Mixcoax showing in 
 the distance like mediaeval mirages. 
 
 We got a basket of strawberries, some chico za- 
 potes, oranges and pasteles in the little market near 
 the plaza for our lunch. Old Juana, the tortilla wo- 
 man, wanted to sell us some mole de guajolote, the 
 most delicious of all Mexican meats, but we con- 
 sidered it not very well adapted for lunches. **Si, 
 Nina," persisted the old woman. "Un pokito," indi- 
 cating an infinitesimal amount. There is one thing 
 about Mexico I like particularly, and that is, the peons 
 always call you "Nina" (child), which makes you 
 feel so fresh and young, even though you be white- 
 haired and seventy. 
 
 Francisca went along, of course, to take charge 
 of the lunch baskets, wraps and cushions, and we 
 relegated the making of further purchases to her, as 
 the natives sell much cheaper to each other than 
 to Americans. 
 
 The town of Santa Fe is not much in itself, being 
 only a typical Mexican village; but the bosque is 
 everything. You go through the town; first, do^vn 
 a little, narrow, cobble-paved street, where the people 
 are living in ignorance and contentment. You pass 
 
 23 
 
€li5a ann (CtftelDtena 
 
 the town hall, the most imposing edifice in the place, 
 where the water trickles lazily in the fountain, and 
 where the judges seem to have nothing to do all day 
 long but smoke cigars. And the children, like Lady 
 Godiva, are clothed only in chastity. Then on, by 
 the grand, weather-beaten old church, that seems to 
 hang precipitately over the mountain side; and there, 
 in the valley beyond, lays the bosque — an ideal wood, 
 a perfect sylvan retreat. The huge moss-covered 
 beeches and cypress, the curious mosaic waterways, 
 the sound of ever-running water, the ruins of the 
 convent that stands in bold relief against the deep 
 blue of the sky above, all make a picture that is in- 
 delibly stamped on heart and brain. The bosque is 
 always cool, damp and serene, and as one sits in the 
 enveloping shade, one is sure to catch the soft sigh of 
 the breeze, the sound of the shrill whistle of a modern 
 factory farther up the valley, the solemn subdued 
 tones of the old church bell — and a deep cold. 
 
 After eating our lunch, sitting on the hard, straight- 
 up little seats in the bosque, and wandering around 
 until we were tired, we went up on the side of the 
 mountain, and lay down in the shadows of the ruined 
 convent, and tried to take a nap. 
 
 We had scarcely composed ourselves, however, till 
 we heard a slight commotion, as of the breaking 
 away of some rocks farther up the mountain side, and 
 almost immediately there came, borne down to us in 
 a fresh, young American voice, "I — dream of all — 
 things — free, of all things — free," with a neat little 
 cadenza on the *'dream," and a sostenato trill on the 
 "free." 
 
 **Why, who on earth ? What do you sup- 
 
 24 
 
in ^tmto 
 
 pose ?" exclaimed Etheldreda springing up, her 
 
 big brown eyes growing bigger with wonder. 
 
 It certainly did sound incongruous and unexpected 
 to hear that hearty, care-free burst of English in 
 such a place. The crumbling convent just above us, 
 the deep wood beneath, with the hush of Sabbath 
 stillness, the hitherto silence of the place being broken 
 only by the desultory singing of a wayward Zenzontl, 
 the Mexican mocking bird. 
 
 Etheldreda had scarcely begun till there came a 
 small rock sizzing over our heads, and almost on the 
 instant a young American dressed in a gray business 
 suit appeared from the rear of the convent. 
 
 ''Oh, I beg your pardon," he instantly exclaimed, 
 his surprise being greater than ours. '1 hope that 
 rock I just threw did not strike either of you." 
 
 ''No, but it just missed my head " began Ethel- 
 dreda a little wrathfully. 
 
 "Well, I am so sorry. It was inexcusable of me, 
 but you know, some way, I was possessd with an 
 insane desire to shy a rock off of that mountain. 
 Grand old fellow, isn't he? I never thought of any- 
 body being about, though; don't know why I didn't. 
 Found these things a little farther back. Do they 
 belong to either of you ladies?" producing a wisp of 
 lace that, on occasion, did duty as a handkerchief. 
 
 "Yes; that's mine," said Etheldreda, looking de- 
 lighted. "Thank you so much!" 
 
 "And this purse," the young stranger said, taking 
 a small metal one from another pocket. 
 
 "Oh, yes; look, Eliza, the purse Carolyn brought 
 me from Florence. I would not have lost it for 
 worlds." 
 
 25 
 
(IBIi^a anD (EtftelDteDa 
 
 "And these ?" he went on, bringing some side combs 
 to light. 
 
 "Those are mine," I interrupted.^ 
 
 "And these," he continued, this time producing a 
 pair of blue silk garters with a detached silver buckle. 
 His face was suspiciously sober, but I could detect an 
 underlying twinkle in his eye. 
 
 "Oh," gasped Etheldreda, her face becoming sim- 
 ultaneously blank. 
 
 "Are those yours, Eliza?" 
 
 "No, Etheldreda," I remarked with asperity; "you 
 know perfectly well they are not mine." 
 
 "Oh, thank you," as she held out a limp hand for 
 her lost property. "So much obliged to you for find- 
 ing our things. We had no idea we left anything 
 up on the mountain." 
 
 "Not at all. Glad I found them. My name is 
 Frank Carpenter," he went on, producing a gray 
 tweed cap from somewhere on the back of his head. 
 "Fm a representative of the American Press Syndi- 
 cate, down here looking up these ruins. Have you 
 ladies found out anything about this convent?" whip- 
 ping out his blank book. 
 
 "No," quickly replied Etheldreda with interested 
 animation; "but I've been thinking up a lovely story 
 about it as I lay here. I began to make up one 
 about a beautiful young lady " 
 
 "We don't want stories," interrupted the American, 
 a little brusquely, I thought. "It's facts we are after. 
 Got any facts ?" 
 
 As he stood there with the soft mountain haze about 
 him and looked at his notebook, Etheldreda and I 
 looked at him. Square of shoulder, sturdy of frame, 
 glowing with manly energy, clear-eyed, his strong, 
 
 26 
 
{n Q$t^ito 
 
 honest face free from lines of care and worry, he 
 stood before us, a goodly specimen even from a land 
 where unmanly men are the exception and not the 
 rule. 
 
 "No," replied Etheldreda stiffly, "I don't know any 
 facts. I hate facts ; it's nice spicy stories I like." 
 
 Mr, Carpenter looked up at this reply, and burst 
 into a fresh hearty laugh. "No, I don't suppose you 
 ladies do care for facts. It's only something catchy 
 and interesting you are after; but we fellows have 
 got to hustle the facts, or lose our jobs, you see. 
 Queer country, isn't it?" with a comprehensive wave 
 of the hand. 
 
 "Yes, until you get used to it," I replied. 
 
 "Oh, you do get used to it, do you ? Had an idea 
 you didn't. Are you stopping in the city?" he went 
 on, addressing his question to me evidently, but look- 
 ing at Etheldreda. "Glad I met you," and as we 
 acknowledged a like pleasure, the young man again 
 discovered his cap on the back of his head, and dis- 
 appeared down the valley. 
 
 After an incredibly short time, however, he reap- 
 peared, walking with long, rapid strides up the moun- 
 tain side, so steep it gave you acute palpitation of 
 the heart only to think of it, which dusty path detracts 
 no little from the quiet joys of a trip to this Edenic 
 retreat. But I was to tell you about Santa Fe. Well, 
 that is all there is to it — the bosque, and our meeting 
 there with Frank. 
 
 2? 
 
aBlt^a anti dBtbtmtM 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A few weeks after Etheldreda came to stay with 
 me, we were invited by a friend of mine, who Hves in 
 Bucareli, near the Iron Horse, to spend a fortnight 
 with her. Of course, we gladly accepted, and in 
 due time were installed in lovely rooms looking out on 
 a charming little patio, where the flowers were always 
 in bloom, and always exhaling their fragrance, and 
 where the water in the fountain came merrily all day 
 long out of a horn of plenty, held by a laughing 
 cherub. 
 
 The parlor, a long, narrow room extending the 
 whole length of the front, was laid in hardwood, 
 with rugs thrown here and there. The furniture 
 had been picked up in pawn shops and out-of-the- 
 way places, some of it being bought for a mere song. 
 There were rare, old tables of Marie Antoinette de- 
 sign, Empire sofas, of bent wood and ebony, with 
 chairs to match, quaint vases, and marble figures on 
 what-nots and mantels. The dining room was cool 
 and delightful, with floor of dull red tile, Venetian 
 blinds being over the windows, and the furniture, 
 though American, tastefully matched the mediaeval 
 setting. 
 
 On the second morning of our stay we begged to 
 be allowed to go to market with our friend, and she, 
 of course, gave us the desired permission. Marketing 
 
 28 
 
 mk!'£;£S{mmutm-i&,iii^:i7iffiiMmm 
 
in ^ttico 
 
 Sit home is often fraught with the gravest and most 
 soul-absorbing interest, and in Mexico it is no less 
 novel and inspiring to a stranger, especially when ac- 
 companied by a grave and dignified Mozo. Our 
 friend told us that when she first came to the city 
 she intrusted the marketing to her Mozo, but after a 
 time she concluded to take this duty upon herself, 
 and that when she first announced her intention to 
 that worthy, his astonishment and disapproval knew 
 no bounds. He begged her, almost with tears in 
 his eyes, not to do such a thing, as ladies — elegantes 
 — never went marketing themselves; that this alwavs 
 devolved on the Mozo. The poor fellow assured her 
 repeatedly that ''No es costumbre" (It is not the cus- 
 tom) — and until very recent years, woe be to the per- 
 son who was so rash as to do anything that was ''no 
 costumbre." 
 
 Before going further I think it best to enter into 
 some details as to what a Mozo is, as I feel sure some 
 of you, at least, will be glad to know. Well, a Mozo 
 is not an Aztec idol, nor a fresco, neither is he an 
 ancient barbaric painting, nor a statue, but the in- 
 dispensable, incomparable, relentless man-servant, 
 called by all grades and conditions of men, "The 
 Mozo." 
 
 No family with any pretentions to gentility can 
 possibly run an establishment without one of these 
 indescribables. A Mozo is not as despotic as an Eng- 
 lish butler perhaps, still his powers and capabilities are 
 just as absolute in a great many ways. This is espe- 
 cially true of his manner of quitting service. My 
 friend, who has had countless Mozos, tells me they 
 are as one man in this particular. She rarely, or 
 never, has any outspoken words of disagreement with 
 
 29 
 
(BU'^a attti aBtl)eItitelia 
 
 them, they being, in the main, too polite to dispute 
 with a woman; but when one has become thoroughly 
 acquainted with the Mozo problems, one can tell by 
 observing the movements, the disgusted gestures, and 
 the indescribable grunts "That the time for his de- 
 parture is at hand." Without a note of warning or 
 complaint, this soft-voiced, obsequious personage 
 picks up his sombrero, and with an expression on his 
 face that the heavy villain in a play might envy, an- 
 nounces, in the most final way, "Bueno yo voy" 
 (Well, I am going), and you realize that one more 
 implacable Mozo has gone to join the band of in- 
 vincibles. One soon learns the utter futility and 
 hopelessness of attempting to persuade them to stay 
 after they have once made up their minds to go. 
 "Yo voy," and, as sure as fate, they are gone. 
 
 To return to the subject of marketing, Etheldreda, 
 my friend and I, started off with a newly acquired 
 and disapproving Mozo, who had on a spotless white 
 jacket, painfully tight trousers with an umbrella 
 spring at the ankle — the kind affected by all Mozos, 
 by the way — and a sardonic smile. Reproof, polite 
 and apologetic, though insistent, permeated the air 
 and made itself felt. Nearly all of the markets are 
 large, pavilion-like buildings, occupying the center 
 of a plaza. Some of them are clean and attractive, 
 but the majority are dirty and ill-kept. Vegetables, 
 fruits, flowers, dogs, babies, parrots, pottery, and 
 hot tamales are piled up in the most indiscriminate 
 way. But the vegetables look fresh and tempting, the 
 beautiful piles of the whitest onions and the reddest 
 radishes, baskets of aguacates — the vegetable butter, 
 which also makes a delicious salad — tomatoes, cab- 
 bage, cauliflower, and the babies ; babies everywhere ! 
 
 30 
 
 V '- -■^■•^-r --^-7rf- '>¥?[r7./.rf1in(r . f V-r-r^ ■;-rrr-m\\ff^ <t f '^> 
 
in ggeiico 
 
 on the floor, among the vegetables, on the backs of 
 women. 
 
 You never hear anything of race suicide in Mexico. 
 Then, there are bright, half-naked children, mothers, 
 grandmothers, hideous old crones, cripples, thieves, 
 beggars, all, ever present. Whole families seem to 
 find an eternal abiding place in these markets. There 
 are fine specimens for the artist, the physical culturist, 
 and the psychologist. 
 
 The vegetables, fruits, nuts and chile of the small 
 dealers in the markets, as well as on the streets, are 
 all counted out in little piles, each pile being an exact 
 counterpart of the other, and the retail system is 
 used by these people with adamantine firmness. You 
 can buy as many of these little heaps as you please, 
 if you buy them one at a time, and pay for them in 
 that way, but under no consideration will one of 
 these venders sell the whole lot at a time. Etheldreda 
 and I tried on several occasions to buy out the stock 
 of one of these women, but always failed ignomini- 
 ously. One poor, forlorn old woman's entire stock 
 consisted of three minute heaps of chile, two or three 
 of bananas, one of oranges and two of nuts, and 
 when we insisted on buying the whole outfit just to see 
 if we could, for once, break down this time-honored 
 custom, the old woman became very angry and 
 threatened to call an gendarme, so we desisted. 
 
 There are no delivery wagons here, consequently 
 all of these things are carried in huge baskets on the 
 head of Mozos and other servants. Almost any time 
 a man or woman may be seen going down the street 
 in their peculiar little Indian trot carrying a basket 
 containing a live chicken or turkey, fish, vegetables of 
 all varieties, flowers and dulces. 
 
 31 
 
dBIi^a ann Ct&eI9teDa 
 
 The heavy weights the men carry on their backs are 
 something appalHng. For twenty cents they will take 
 a Saratoga trunk from one end of the town to the 
 other, and I have seen one man carry iron safes, 
 immense chiffoniers, and other large and unwieldy 
 pieces of furniture for blocks. 
 
 Of course I would not mention it for worlds if I 
 thought it would be repeated out of the United 
 States, but I think that we Americans always call up 
 thoughts of commerce, and things commercial. Now, 
 the other day Francisca asked Etheldreda and me 
 what was the name of the city in the States where 
 we lived, and when we told her St. Louis, she was 
 delighted that she had heard of the place. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she replied, "I know St. Louis perfecta- 
 mente; all the world knows St. Louis and Milwau- 
 kee, very great cities, very grand. They make much 
 beer there." 
 
 Etheldreda looked at me, and I looked at Ethel- 
 dreda, and each asked the other the mental question, 
 "Now, is there anything about me that suggests beer ?" 
 
 As in days of old when the fame of Egypt went 
 abroad because of the much corn there, so now the 
 fame of St. Louis and Milwaukee goes abroad be- 
 cause of their much beer. 
 
 St. Louis has palaces of granite and marble, sub- 
 stantial homes of brick and stone, and the most 
 home-like homes of any city that the writer knows. 
 She proudly sits on the lordly Mississippi, extending 
 her length for forty miles up and down her richly 
 verdured bluffs. She has large and sumptuous 
 churches, universities, schools of art and science, mu- 
 seums and libraries. Her parks are the most natur- 
 
 32 
 
in QpeiiCD 
 
 ally beautiful of any in the land, yet the world knows 
 not of these things at all, has never heard of them. 
 It is only for her beer, that amber froth and fer- 
 mentation, that her fame has gone abroad. 
 
 33 
 
dBH^a anD dEtftelDteBa 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Etheldreda and I were so delighted with our visit 
 
 to Mrs. W that we decided to launch a little 
 
 housekeeping craft of our own, provided we could 
 find an apartment — vivienda, as they are universally 
 called — to suit our fancy. The agent whom we en- 
 gaged to find one, assured us every day for a round 
 month that he was searching deligentemente, and 
 would "sin falta" produce the very thing we were 
 after, in "poco tiempo." We waited till our patience 
 had dribbled slowly away, then we started out, guide 
 book in hand, and frequently accompanied by the 
 Man in Gray. 
 
 House-hunting is not a pleasant diversion in any 
 country, or under any circumstances, and the fact 
 that the streets in Mexico change their nomenclature 
 every few blocks, does not expedite matters very 
 much. 
 
 I had been in the country only a few weeks when 
 Maria and I came across the Zocalo one day, and in 
 order to avoid the crowd, passed through the portales 
 and into the first street we came to. It was the feast 
 of Corpus Christi, and the press of the throng made 
 us hurry away. 
 
 "We will go up Profesa, as it is more convenient," 
 panted Maria, who abhorred a crowd. 
 
 "So this is Profesa Street," I remarked after we 
 had pushed our way along several blocks. 
 
 34 
 
in ^ttito 
 
 "No, that was Profesa back there ; this is San Fran- 
 cisco." 
 
 "Oh," I repHed, "and this is San Francisco? I 
 thought you said Profesa. San Francisco seems to 
 be quite a busy street." 
 
 "But this isn't San Francisco; this is Aveneda 
 Jaurez." 
 
 "But, I thought you said " 
 
 "So I did, but after you pass San Juan de Letran 
 it is Aveneda Jaurez." 
 
 "First it was Profesa, then San Francisco 
 
 What is it after you go a Httle farther?" 
 
 "After you pass the Iron Horse, it is the Paseo. 
 Don't you name your streets that way in the States ?" 
 elevating her nose. "You Americans are so critical." 
 
 "But, Maria, I haven't said a word." 
 
 "Ah, but your face, your face, Eliza; you don't 
 have to say what you think." 
 
 "Well, Maria, you will have to admit that it is a 
 little discouraging, to say the least, to a stranger." 
 
 Etheldreda and I being new to the business, ap- 
 pealed to several policemen which shows how really 
 new we were. Now, there is no law in Mexico 
 against applying to a policeman, but nobody ever 
 thinks of doing such a thing, and, poor man, he has 
 his hands full trying to manage the half-drunken 
 populacho ; then it cannot be wondered at that he 
 does not learn the city, as he changes his beat every 
 day. He is willing enough to help you, and tell all 
 he knows — and a great deal he does not know. He 
 is, I believe, the most ambiguous person living. If 
 you ask him where a certain street is he will tell you 
 to go in a certain direction — ten or twelve blocks, 
 then "poco mas" (a little more). 
 
 35 
 
OBIi^a an ft ©tftelDteDa 
 
 Ethel dreda and I came to say in time that we did 
 not mind the ten or twelve blocks at all, it was the 
 ''poco mas" that made us footsore and weary. 
 
 ''Well, after three weeks devoted exclusively to 
 house-hunting, and with the assistance of two dozen 
 or more friends, we found a lovely little vivienda 
 just under the shadow of the great San Fernando 
 church, and overlooking the Alameda. And he who 
 would not be charmed with it must possess a carking 
 soul indeed. 
 
 Though our vivienda was small we could boast of 
 two numbers, which is not an uncommon occur- 
 rence. Many years ago the city was numbered some- 
 thing in accordance with the naming of the streets, 
 I imagine; that is, when the street changed its name, 
 the numbering began all over again. In somewhat 
 recent years the authorities attempted to renumber 
 the city something in accordance with those of our 
 land, but Mexicans do not like changes ; what they did 
 yesterday, they want to do to-day, and to-rriorrow ; so, 
 generally speaking, the old number was continued 
 in use, though the houses are still adorned with the 
 new. It is not uncommon to see on one side of a 
 massive entrance No. 3016, while on the other side 
 will shine out at you No. 2. We got a few pieces 
 of inexpensive furniture from the people who were 
 moving out; then, for a few weeks we haunted the 
 pawn shops, and some Mexican friends found several 
 more pieces for us. With two or three improvised 
 couches, supporting piles of cushions, our pottery, 
 Indian blankets, pictures, and curios, we had as dainty 
 a little apartment as could be found within hearing 
 of our church bells. But the very best thing about 
 it all was that I found Francisca. Francisca was one 
 
 36 
 
in ^ttico 
 
 of the chambermaids at a place where I had been 
 boarding. 
 
 During a visit to Cuernavoca she and the landlady 
 had quarreled and Francisca had gone, nobody knew 
 where. I was almost in tears when I heard what 
 had happened, though I did not wonder, as Francisca 
 was a lady. 
 
 Then began my long search for the vanished girl; 
 up and down the streets, through the Zocalo, the 
 Alameda and in the street cars, I looked to find her. 
 Many a gentle, blue-rebozoned Muchacha have I 
 stopped in all these places and asked, ''Have you seen 
 Francisca? Do you know where she has gone?" 
 
 "Francisca ?" they would repeat in open-eyed won- 
 der; "what Francisca? No; but will surely help you 
 find her." 
 
 So, one day just after we moved in I was going 
 down a tiny side street. The short dusk of a tropical 
 day was slipping into a starless night. It had rained 
 nearly all day, one of those depressing, spiritless kind 
 of rains, when. the whole heavens seem to be weep- 
 ing. Francisca was just passing through a dingy 
 door, going to her room, the most cheerless, win- 
 dowless, dampest hole of a room you ever saw. I called 
 to her just as she was passing out of sight, and the 
 people going by stopped to watch, as we stood cry- 
 ing and laughing all at once, she clinging to my hands. 
 I can't tell exactly why, but I . think I love Francisca 
 better than almost anybody in Mexico. 
 
 Well, I took her home with me that night, and 
 Etheldreda and I could never have run our little 
 launch without her. 
 
 Etheldreda was standing in the balcony one day 
 looking, with a little pucker between her eyes, across 
 
 37 
 
 slt^ 
 
OBIi^a anD OBtftelliretia 
 
 the hot, white street and down the cool length of the 
 banana walk in the Alameda. A squad of soldiers 
 clanked with their sabres down the street and around 
 the corner out of sight. A pale boy with a soft, dis- 
 consolate voice sang out "La fl-o-r de San J-u-a-n, 
 La — flor-de San Juan" as he drew some dampened 
 grape leaves over his fragrant waxlike flowers; while 
 the bugle call of a gendarme way off down the street 
 denoted the hour of four. 
 
 As Etheldreda leaned, in pensive attitude, against 
 the balcony railing and hummed a little air from "La 
 Boheme," a tall young American, dressed in gray, 
 came, with long, rapid strides, out of the Alamedo 
 and halted, with surprise, as he glanced up at the 
 balcony. 
 
 "Why, howdy do," he began in evident pleasure. 
 
 "How do you do?" 
 
 The response came from the balcony a little coldly. 
 Pause 
 
 "Are you well?" 
 
 "Oh, very well, thank you." Longer pause 
 
 "Did you — did you get in all right from the picnic 
 the other day?" 
 
 "Why, good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter," I said as I 
 crossed over from a downtown car. "Won't you come 
 up? Etheldreda and I have gone to housekeeping 
 since we saw you in the bosque." 
 
 "Well, I think you have," he agreed with cordial 
 surprise, as he looked about our cozy quarters. "Say, 
 
 this is great. Where did you get all these queer 
 
 I suppose I should say artistic things?" 
 
 "Oh, we poked around in pawn shops and such 
 places." 
 
 "Been loafing around all the afternoon waiting for 
 
 38 
 
in ^ttito 
 
 a fellow, one of the reporters on the Imparcial," went 
 on the visitor as he dropped with his one hundred and 
 eighty pounds into one of our rather frail bamboo 
 chairs that stood in the corridor. 
 
 "Have you ?" I remarked as I looked at my beloved 
 chair with much trepidation. 
 
 "Did he tell you in a very positive manner he would 
 come ?" 
 
 "Yes, told me to expect him without fail." 
 
 "And you waited for him? Well, that shows you 
 have not been here long. 
 
 "It is frequently disconcerting and sometimes even 
 amusing the nonchalance with which a Mexican 
 treats an engagement. If one of them tells you he 
 will be around at a certain time, you may not be 
 particularly surprised if he comes. If he says he 
 will be there, nothing preventing, you need not look 
 for him, and if he says he will positively come, you 
 may, with safety, put on your hat and go out, as you 
 may be sure he won't show up." 
 
 "That is funny, isn't it?" remarked Mr. Carpenter, 
 looking around to see if Etheldreda were not going 
 to make her appearance. 
 
 "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it is otherwise," 
 I repHed as the door opened and Etheldreda, in pale 
 blue batiste, her red-brown hair showing like an 
 aureola about her face, trailed out and sank into the 
 bamboo chair Mr. Carpenter had, with polite discre- 
 tion, discarded for a stronger one. Etheldreda looks 
 seraphic in pale blue, and she knows it. Just leave 
 it to a daughter of Mother Eve to find out a thing 
 of that kind, and I wish you might have seen the 
 smile she bestowed on our visitor, and after her 
 freezing reception, too. But there is no accounting 
 
 39 
 
Clfja anti ©tfjeinteDa 
 
 for Etheldreda — I think the episode of the blue silk 
 garter still rankled in her mind. 
 
 ''Have you succeeded in discovering any mummies 
 and ruins, and — facts. I believe it's facts you are 
 looking up especially," remarked Etheldreda, v^ith a 
 provoking smile, and critically examining the scarab 
 in her bracelet. 
 
 '*Oh, yes," replied the young American, with a 
 fresh, hearty laugh, *'but you turned me down hard 
 at the bosque that day. Wouldn't tell me a thing about 
 the convent." 
 
 "Well, I don't think I have really remembered one 
 fact since I've been here. I don't care for them. 
 I like the spooky stories, and the legends and love 
 tales." 
 
 "They are all right, too. Beat facts, only when 
 you are sending stuif back to the firm. I could listen 
 to a lot of stories and love tales now, if you'd tell 
 me some. I am just in the mood for them," and 
 he settled himself more comfortably in his chair. 
 "Yes, I saw a lot of the old chaps, mummies, you 
 know, in the panteon at Guanajuato; great old fel- 
 lows ; then I've visited the ruins of Mitla and Xochi- 
 calco, and next week am going to Palenque. Got 
 some fine snap-shots while I was out — I'm rather good 
 at such things," he added modestly. 
 
 "It must be fine to see all those places," remarked 
 Etheldreda with more enthusiasm than she had yet 
 shown. 
 
 "Oh, yes it is, rather; especially if you chance to 
 run across some charming young ladies," with an 
 expansive smile and bow. "I think I shall always 
 like those ruins in the bosque. 
 
 "Say," he called back when halfway down the 
 40 
 
in Mexico 
 
 steps, "Miss Etheldreda, did you say you wanted me 
 to bring those snap-shots around to-morrow for you 
 to look over?" 
 
 And they both laughed as young Carpenter ran 
 down the steps and into the street. 
 
 41 
 
€1153 anD Ctfteldteua 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In the olden times, Mexico City was not the place 
 of magnificent palaces, of historic temples with 
 graceful minarets and hovering domes, nor yet of 
 winding thoroughfares, or costly public buildings ; in- 
 stead it was a little Indian village, of mud and rush 
 houses, stuck in the quagmire of the Texcoco Lake 
 region. Lordly pelicans stalked critically about, or 
 viewed their mud-ensconced feet with supernatural 
 wisdom. The migratory loon took flight from marsh 
 to swamp, and thousands of ducks and geese made 
 the air black with frequent passages. It was after 
 long wandering over plateau and mountain that the 
 Aztecs were guided to settle at this spot, so the legend 
 tells us, by auspicious omens; for here had they be- 
 held the sight of an eagle sitting on a nopol-cactus 
 eating a live snake. Because of this omen the city 
 was called Tenochtitlan, but was afterwards changed 
 to Mezitli in honor of the war god, hence the name 
 Mexico. 
 
 Next to the cathedral the most interesting building 
 in the capitol city is, perhaps, the old viceregal resi- 
 dence, now called the national palace. This build- 
 ing is interesting not only from a historical standpoint, 
 but for its present uses. It contains most of the 
 government offices, and is the repository for the ar- 
 chives and meteorological exhibits, is riiagnificently 
 
 42 
 
in S^mto 
 
 furnished, and contains some noted paintings by Mi- 
 randa and native artists. 
 
 On great feast days the President and Mrs. Diaz 
 hold receptions here, and frequently he watches a 
 military parade from the balconies. 
 
 To the north of the palace and apparently con- 
 nected with it, are the post office and National Museum 
 of Natural History, and antiquities. Some of these 
 antiquaries are of priceless value, the most inter- 
 esting among them being the calendar and sacrificial 
 stones. 
 
 Not far away from this fascinating neighborhood 
 is the school of art, in which are large brass and 
 iron foundries, and just beyond is the church of the 
 Jesuits. 
 
 Around the beautiful little plaza San Domingo, are 
 grouped the various buildings of the convent that 
 bears the name, the old Spanish inquisition, now 
 the School of Medicine, and the custom house. On 
 our way over we passed the exquisite church of 
 Santa Tereza which, though small, has the most im- 
 posing dome in the city. 
 
 Just down the street from the museum is the Na- 
 tional picture gallery of San Carlos, said to be the 
 finest in America. The building is, in itself, the 
 dream of an artist, being of dull red stone with faded 
 gray trimmings. All the old masters are represented 
 there, especially those of the Flemish and Florentine 
 schools. Not the least among them, by any means, 
 are some of the paintings done by native artists, 
 the scenes of war and pictures of war heroes are 
 especially fine, most of them being terribly and 
 graphically true to life. There, too, is found the 
 
 43 
 
(Eli^a anD ©tftelDreDa 
 
 famous Las Casas, by Felix Parra, and several of the 
 best works of Velasguez and Millais. 
 
 Lying to the west of the Cathedral are the flower 
 market and the national pawn shop, both being places 
 of never-ending interest and delight to the tourist and 
 curio-hunter. At the flower market are piled cartloads 
 of marguerites, poppies, roses, pansies, forget-me- 
 nots, lilies; all the world of color, beauty and frag- 
 rance, from the floating gardens up the Viga, and 
 from those around the city. For fifty or seventy- 
 five cents, you may buy a whole armful of American 
 Beauty or La France roses, and for a dollar or two, 
 there can be bought a wreath of jessamine a yard in 
 diameter. 
 
 And the pawn shop ! Well, you will have to go to 
 Mexico to see for yourself, because I could not, in a 
 year, tell you all that is found within its walls. 
 
 Just over the way from the Zocalo, and around the 
 corner from the old viceregal palace, hidden away be- 
 hind tall buildings and the too prying eyes of the 
 world, is the queerest little corner of a place you 
 ever saw. The natives call it El Volador, but to the 
 English-speaking community it is known as the 
 Thieves' Market. In those days when Spain domi- 
 nated the land, the Vice Reyes spent many hours 
 here in their favorite sport of kite flying. When, 
 however, they were banished from the country, and 
 the practice fell into disuse, the garden was turned 
 into a market place of a very disreputable nature. 
 Frequently those who go out in search of stolen goods 
 locate them at the Thieves' Market. 
 
 A pious Indian goes into a church to pray, his 
 sombrero pulled down low over his head, his scar- 
 let zarape wrapped close about him. He reverently 
 
 44 
 
in 9@exico 
 
 kneels by a sacred altar and the next morning a 
 brass candelabra, or a pictured saint appears among 
 the heterogeneous collection in his little booth. Not 
 everything found here is contraband goods, by any 
 means, though many times it is, if it has any value. 
 One corner is devoted to cheap sombreros, straw mats, 
 and the narrow-pointed Indian shoes. In another, 
 Mexican emblems are displayed ; while in other booths 
 may be found prayer books, crucifixes, rosaries and 
 old iron. But, sometimes hidden away among all 
 this, there may be found some article of great value 
 that can be purchased for a song; a rare piece of 
 china, a bit of exquisite jewelry, a carved ivory, or 
 mother-of-pearl jewelry box, or a beautiful painting. 
 
 45 
 
(Bli^n anD (EtDelDreDa 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 There are, perhaps, few countries in the world so 
 thoroughly steeped in tales of poetic and mytho- 
 logical fancy, or abounding in romantic and legend- 
 ary lore as Mexico. Some of these legends hark back 
 to the days of Maximillian with his stilted dignity, his 
 consequential piety, and his unhappy queen. Others 
 trace their origin to the reign of Cortez and his ra- 
 pacious legions, while many go back to the misty ages 
 and the days of the Toltecs and Quiche-Mayas, fad- 
 ing away into the twilight of fable and song. Always 
 a country in which the imagination of the populace 
 was easily fired, in which the supernatural and un- 
 real find ready credence, it is easy to divine that tales 
 of love and adventure are lavishly woven with the 
 historic and true. Cities and hamlets, mountains and 
 rivers, churches and residences, each has its tale of 
 fact and fancy, and no street in the world perhaps 
 can boast of more of these stories than San Fran- 
 cisca. The conquering and the vanquished have 
 marched through its length. It has witnessed scenes 
 of war and bloodshed, revels of love and adventure, 
 plots and counterplots. There are as many stories 
 and legends concerning it as there are cobbles in its 
 pavement. It is only a short street, just a few blocks, 
 sheltered in between walls of handsome masonry; 
 greatly changed, yet much the same, as on that dark 
 
 46 
 
in ^mco 
 
 night when Miramon was led a captive through its 
 length and on to Queretero and death. 
 
 The Paseo is really the only creditable drive about 
 the city, and is as redolent of romance and legend 
 as the highways are of flowers. It lies like a shimmer- 
 ing white ribbon, with its dull green border of Euca- 
 lyptus between Chapultepec and the city. It dimples 
 and smiles, showing soft and seductive under the 
 glow of its arch lights, and the lace work of the 
 dancing leaves. It whispers stories of yesterday and 
 to-day — stories that must be whispered, yet stories 
 that all the world likes to hear. 
 
 There is laughter and gesture, the meeting of eyes, 
 the signaled appointment, the perfume from patio and 
 corsage. And the world, the debauchee and courtesan, 
 sedate mothers and blushing daughters, drive up and 
 down in glittering equipages, up and down and inter- 
 mingle. 
 
 ''This street," said the Man in Gray, during one 
 of our rambles about the city, ''is called Cruz Verde 
 on account of a very pretty romance that took place 
 here many years ago. It was during the reign of 
 the cruel Spaniards in this country, and two of their 
 governors had tyrannized over the city till a revolt 
 caused their removal. There was a great fiesta in 
 course of progress. The city was gay with flying 
 banners, and streamers of red, white, and green. 
 The houses were decked with flowers and palms, 
 and every balcony bore its bouquet of young girls, 
 each arrayed in her most becoming costume, with 
 faces radiant and smiling, their black hair half hidden 
 by the lace mantilla — the most bewitching of all head 
 coverings — ^looking down on the scene about them. 
 In the balcony of one of the most pretentious houses 
 
 47 
 
(lBH5a anil (Btbtimtna 
 
 was a young girl who attracted the attention of every 
 swain in the long procession, by the unusual beauty of 
 her face and a glory of red-gold hair. 
 
 *'Among the men who passed the house that day 
 was a gallant young Spaniard, who gayly rode near 
 the head of the procession. Naturally, too, his eye 
 was drawn by the magnet of the red-gold hair, and 
 when he had' passed with the train through the city 
 and on to Chapultepec, he returned the moment he 
 was dismissed to seek again the fair occupant of 
 the balcony. It seems, so the story beautifully runs, 
 that the lady of the red-gold hair had been attracted 
 by the handsome young Spaniard as he by her; but, 
 sad to relate, there was an unsurmountable barrier 
 between them — they were of different social rank. It 
 is the old story of love laughing at locksmiths," went 
 on the Man in Gray. "The mother of the girl with 
 the red-gold hair fell ill, and thus her vigilance was 
 relaxed, and the anxious lover cleverly managed to 
 smuggle a note to the object of his adoration. With 
 the astuteness born of uncertainty, and foreseeing 
 this might be the only opportunity he would have of 
 communicating with the sefiorita, he took the wise 
 precaution of providing a signal code. 'If you return 
 my love,' he wrote, 'put a green crucifix on the bal- 
 cony, and by that token I shall be made happy. But 
 if, alas ! you cannot love me, place instead a white 
 crucifix, where it will meet my waiting gaze, and cast 
 me down in sorrow.' The name this little street 
 has borne for more than three centuries — Cruz 
 Verde — bears testimony to the fact that it was the 
 green crucifix that greeted the eyes of the young 
 Spaniard." 
 
 48 
 
in ^mto 
 
 "You have heard the legend of El Puente del 
 Clerigo?" said the Man in Gray. 
 
 We were lingering one perfect afternoon, near the 
 close of April, in Chapultepec Park. He had come 
 upon me as I leaned over a little rustic bridge, look- 
 ing with listless interest into the gray-green waters of 
 the lake where were reflected, in bold outline, the 
 giant cypress trees growing on the several natural 
 islands and on the shore. These trees were heavy 
 with the weight of centuries, as also were the lonely 
 weeping willows bending in mournful submission, to 
 the elements and the flight of time. 
 
 "Are you fishing for dreams with a stray sun- 
 beam?" he asked me as I smiled up at him. 
 
 "No," I replied, "I never have to go fishing for 
 dreams, never. They come all too readily to me as 
 it is. All my life I've had to fight away the dreams 
 to make place for the real and natural." 
 
 "Oh, yes, but what would Hfe be without our 
 dreams? A poor, bare thing, indeed, just like that 
 rosebush there, if it were shorn of all but its branches 
 and thorns, or the rugged mountain yonder under the 
 castle, if it wxre robbed of all its wild untamed ver- 
 dure, or of its gay vagrant colors. We must hold 
 to our dreams if we let the real and natural, the 
 material go, eh, Gringita?" he questioned as we 
 dropped upon the little, narrow, backless seat on the 
 Poet's walk near the lake, with the rose petals van- 
 ishing into the green. The place was all aglow with 
 the warmth and luxuriance of the late afternoon sun. 
 Great swarms of yellow butterflies danced about in 
 the golden glow, or undulated in waves back into the 
 shadow. Heliotropes, heavy with blossom and per- 
 
 49 
 
(BU^n ana aBtftelDtetia 
 
 fume, trained low on the ground, while the La 
 Frances and jacqueminots drooped languorously under 
 the ardent kisses of the sun. One of the keepers 
 of the park, dressed in his picturesque suit of gray, 
 strolled slowly by, his hands behind his back, looking 
 patiently at some boys inclined to mischief, who floated 
 idly about in one of the small boats on the lake. A 
 young Aztec, tall, lithe and quick-sighted as a deer, 
 came trotting down the walk calling, in high, clear 
 notes, ''Fresas, fresas, de Irapauta, fresas, senorita?" 
 and he held out a basketful of strawberries for my 
 inspection. I shook my head and he passed on, his 
 voice dying in musical decadence outside the castle 
 gates. The zeuzontl had a plaintive note, as he sang 
 to his mate in the bower of my Lady Nasturtium, and 
 a ruesenior perched on a swaying acacia, sang a 
 vibrating lyric to a new moon come over early and 
 showing dimly in an amethyst sky just over the euca- 
 lyptus trees bordering the drive to the city. The 
 clanging of the church bells at Tacubaya sounded 
 faint and remote, and from far afield came the sound 
 of the reveille of the cadets at practice. The sun's 
 last rays shot like flaming rapiers through the glade, 
 the violets smiled up at us from the shadows, the rose 
 petals vanished into the green. 
 
 'Tt is a gruesome tale, that of the priest," the Man 
 in Gray went on after a long pause. "But there are 
 those who love it for its gruesomeness, and believe 
 in its accordingly. 
 
 "It was during those unhappy years when Mexico 
 was ruled by Vice Reys, from Spain, there lived in 
 the eastern part of the city a priest by the name 
 of Don Juan de Nava. The blood of the royalty of 
 Spain flowed in his veins, it is said, and this was 
 
 50 
 
in ^mto 
 
 not difficult of belief when one saw with what lordly- 
 grace he carried his tall, manly figure, and with what 
 dignified courtesy he talked with those with whom he 
 came in contact. The story came to be told that 
 he had loved an Andalusian maiden, but that her 
 father had compelled her to marry a knight of the 
 court who was old, but very rich. The day the wed- 
 ding took place, however, she had repaired to a vme- 
 covered arbor, where she kept tryst with her young 
 lover and had killed herself with a small dagger, a 
 gift from de Nava. The next day he left Spam, 
 taking with him only the memory of a face and of an 
 unhappy love. It was thus he came to take priestly 
 vows, and to live in the humble little house by the 
 Traza. He was a holy man, just and brave, and his 
 days were filled with acts of benevolence and charity. 
 With the poor he shared his small fortune, he visited 
 and cared for them in pestilence and want, and m the 
 hour of death; to the rich and influential he showed 
 himself equally kind and loving. They came to 
 to him with their confessions, even the bishop and 
 canons, and sought his help and advice on questions 
 of religion and state. .1.1, 
 
 "One day as Don Juan passed out of the cathedral 
 his quick ear caught the cry of a child and, turning, 
 he saw a small, scantily clad little girl standing by 
 the side of a beggar, who but halfway sheltered 
 her with a ragged blue rebozo. The priest was struck 
 by the beauty of the pinched little face, and of the 
 pathos of her cry, and taking her up in his arms car- 
 ried her to his home. Studying and dreaming under 
 the acacias, gathering and twining the roses, hibiscus 
 and heliotrope into wreaths to crown herself queen 
 of all the flowers, playing with her queer little toys, 
 
 51 
 
(Bli^a anD (CtftelDteDa 
 
 and the many things of pottery bought at the booths, 
 and being rocked to sleep by old Ana, the house- 
 keeper, she passed her childhood in happy content. 
 Juan loved her as his own child, treating her as such, 
 and with great care and vigilance he guarded her 
 from the outside world. 
 
 "As the years flew by, Beatrix de Milan, for such 
 was her name, grew in beauty and rare graces, till 
 she had reached womanhood. When she went to 
 church, escorted by old Ana, the youths on the street 
 looked at her as though they had seen a vision. The 
 birds came at her call, and, perching on her head 
 and shoulder, ate from her hand; the gold fish in 
 the little glorietta in the middle of the patio permitted 
 her to fondle them, and the flowers in the jars 
 bordering the corridor grew under her care as they 
 never had for old Ana. 
 
 "One day as she sat on the edge of the glorietta, 
 a dove came, and, alighting on her shoulder, be- 
 gan to nibble at the dulce she held between her Hps. 
 The young girl laughed in glee, while the priest and 
 Ana stood looking on in smiling contentment. 
 
 "There chanced to be passing just at this time Don 
 Domingo Saraza, the wealthiest, handsomest, most 
 dissolute man of the city. He looked through the 
 open door of the saguan, and, beholding the scene, 
 stood for many seconds spellbound. From that hour 
 he haunted the little house by the Traza, trying, by 
 all his subtle, fascinating devices, to win the love of 
 Beatrix. Juan de Nava had himself once been a 
 man of the world, so he knew him for what he was 
 and foiled all of his efforts to steal the girl away. 
 Beatrix was torn between love and honor, but she 
 would not desert the man who had been more than a 
 
 52 
 
in 9@enco 
 
 father to her, and she knew Saraza would never 
 make her his wife. Hers would be only a life of 
 shame. At times she was ready to yield, but the priest 
 kept watch day and night, and it was only on rare 
 occasion that Saraza could gain an audience with 
 the girl. 
 
 "As the days went by, and still Beatrix had not 
 been won, there sprang up in his heart a bitter, cruel 
 hatred for the old priest. Not far from Don Juan's 
 house was a little bridge which he often crossed going 
 about on his errands of mercy. Saroza knew that he 
 often passed that way, and, waiting for him there one 
 dark, rainy night, he plunged a poniard, in which 
 gleamed a brilliant ruby, into the skull of the old 
 man. Then, with a fiendish yell, threw the body into 
 the sullen waters of the Traza. 
 
 "Drunk with the blood of his victim, and his unholy 
 love for the girl, he rushed to the house where she 
 sat listening for the footsteps of her foster-father. 
 Looking, with wild, cruel eyes, through the bars 
 of the window, he said, 'He for whom you wait you 
 wait in vain.* 
 
 "Beatrix knew enough of the horrors of the time 
 to understand all his words meant, and knowing that 
 her folly had occasioned the crime, she fell conscience- 
 stricken upon the floor. It is said she spent the re- 
 mainder of her days in doing deeds of mercy. And, 
 strange to say, Saraza was filled with remorse, yet 
 he tried to kill thought and memory by gaming, de- 
 bauchery and vice. One day as he sat in the plaza, 
 his head bowed in bitter retrospection, a beautiful 
 woman, with face half hidden behind a veil, came 
 and beckoned to him, 'Meet me on the bridge at twelve 
 to-night,' she said in soft low tones. Saraza had 
 
 53 
 
(Eli^a anD OBtftelDreDa 
 
 never been to the bridge on the Traza since that awful 
 night, but though his heart quailed, he had never re- 
 fused the call of a beautiful woman. So the appointed 
 hour found him waiting there. For some time he 
 stood and listened for the velvet footfall and seductive 
 voice of the fair expected. He had not waited long, 
 however, till, instead of these delightful sounds, there 
 sprang up a sinister noise, a terrible groaning and 
 rumbling in the begrimed waters beneath : then came 
 a prolonged cry as of a soul in pain. Saraza stood 
 frozen, almost inert for a short space, and then it 
 seemed to him that his throat was clasped in a grasp 
 of steel. In the morning all the world went out to 
 see the horror that had been wrought, and there 
 they found Saraza lying prone on the bridge, his throat 
 held in the iron grasp of a skeleton, in the skull of 
 which was a poniard, a ruby gleaming from the 
 handle. That is the story of El Puente del Clerigo, 
 a gruesome tale enough," concluded the Man in 
 Gray. 
 
 The sun, weary with running its course, dropped 
 behind the distant mountains. A blood-red color 
 throbbed in the sky, then faded into a tawny yellow. 
 
 A young girl, daughter of one of the keepers near 
 the adobe house among the periwinkle, burst into a 
 wild, passionate love song. The night birds twittered 
 uneasily. A breeze, soft as a lover's kiss stole through 
 the trees caressingly, fanning brow and cheek. 
 
 A new moon shone like a white disk over the castle, 
 the stars showed pale and distant. The mystic sorcery 
 of a tropical night was stealing down the valley, the 
 rose petals vanishing into the green. 
 
 54 
 
in Q^ttito 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 "Eliza, have you been to the flower market since 
 the rainy season set in?" Etheldreda rushed into my 
 room one day bubbHng forth all these italics in rapid 
 succession. She was followed by an obsequious car- 
 gador carrying a huge hamper of flowers on his 
 closely cropped head. Her hazel eyes were smiling 
 and joyous, a bright flush flamed in her usually rather 
 pale cheeks. Tossing back the red-brown hair that 
 waved, wind-blown, about her face, she sank into a 
 chair with a little spent laugh. 
 
 "Oh, yes," I quietly replied from the depth of a 
 new magazine and my low bamboo chair. 
 
 "No, you haven't!" returned Etheldreda with de- 
 cision. "I'm positive you have not, Eliza, or you 
 
 could not sit there in that unresponsive to be 
 
 honest, Eliza, I must say, stupid way, and say, 'Oh, 
 yes.' " 
 
 "But, you see, my girlie," I replied without being 
 in the least offended, "I have been through all those 
 stages you are going through with now, you know; 
 the enthusiasm, the disgust, the rapture, delight and 
 repulsion, the ecstasies, and complaints, till at length 
 I got back to normal again. And, besides," I went 
 on, "I could never have bought all those flowers at 
 one time, my money would have given out." 
 
 "Oh, they didn't cost much. Some of them are 
 ridiculously cheap, you know." 
 
 55 
 
(Eli^a anD OBtftelDteDa 
 
 I made no reply, as I well knew that my idea 
 of "much" money would not accord with Etheldreda's, 
 as she had been reared by an aunt who held the 
 strings of her well-filled purse all too loosely, while 
 I was one of six girls. 
 
 Etheldreda took the flowers out of the basket and 
 carefully arranged them around her on the floor: 
 piles of corn flowers, stacks of marguerites, great 
 bunches of poppies, and so on through the list. 
 Kneeling before them like a vestal virgin before a 
 shrine, she picked up now one bunch and now another, 
 smelling, caressing and pressing her face tenderly 
 against them. 
 
 "When you are through with your worship you 
 would better put them in water. Some of them, espe- 
 cially the roses, are drooping their heads already," I 
 suggested after a time. 
 
 So Etheldreda proceeded to fill the wash basin — • 
 and a wash basin is a wash basin in Mexico — the 
 two pitchers, the tooth-brush holder, the chafing dish, 
 the tea pot, pin tray, and all of my pottery I would 
 permit her to use. Then she collected the remains 
 together and sent them to a little sick boy across the 
 street. 
 
 But, anent the question of flowers, you ' should 
 come to Mexico to see them in all their glorious 
 splendor. Mere words cannot describe them. Roses, 
 La Marques Marichal Neils, La Frances, lay their 
 creamy clusters on the roofs, and drape the corridors, 
 acacias, sweet olives and jessamines, than which noth- 
 ing is sweeter. Great summer houses embowered in 
 plumbago and Martha Washington geraniums. Pop- 
 pies, brilliant, intense, sending out their toxic per- 
 
 56 
 
in 9@eiico 
 
 fume, dyed with the very heart's blood of the burn- 
 ing tropics. 
 
 Some way I do not care for poppies as I do for 
 the other flowers — the gaudy amapohs. For a brief 
 season they flaunt their vagrant colors, then throw- 
 ing off their soporific perfume they scatter their 
 petals, droop their heads, and, drooping thus, they 
 die. They seem some way, to tell of unholy love, and 
 of broken vow^s, and bleeding hearts. 
 
 Out in the gardens there are roses and marguerites 
 grown into trees, violets, forget-me-nots and sweet 
 peas, as fresh and as sweet as a morning in June, 
 exhaling each its ow^n exquisite fragrance. Beds bor- 
 dered with the most varied and gorgeous colors, in 
 the midst of which heliotrope trails low its weight 
 of purple blossoms, and tuberoses droop, heavy with 
 perfume and its waxen crown. And the orchids! 
 The rarest and most fantastic of nature's creation in 
 the flower world, is found here in the perfection of 
 its indigene elements. Some of them opalescent, like 
 the pale sea mist, others pinkish-mauve tan, with 
 heart of richest Indian red, white, wdth veins as blue 
 as the sky, and many other indescribable tints and 
 tones. Once I saw one of these strange flowers 
 growing like the flaming hilt of a poniard from a 
 cypress in Chapultepec Park, and many times I have 
 seen them attached to a chirimoya, or guava, looking 
 like some fanciful bird of brilliant plumage. While 
 many varieties are exquisitely beautiful, others to- 
 gether with many air plants, are w^eird, uncanny, 
 abortive, reminding one of some strange and shape- 
 less animal. 
 
 To me, one of the most picturesque and spec- 
 
 57 
 
CU^a anD ©tftelDteoa 
 
 tacular of all Mexican fiestas is the Battle of Flow- 
 ers, the principal part of which takes place on the 
 Viga. The Viga is a canal built more than a thou- 
 sand years ago, so the chroniclers say, to conduct 
 water from Lake Xochimilco to the city. Bordering 
 the Viga, and some miles up from the city are the 
 chinampas, or floating gardens, in which are grown 
 many of the vegetables and flowers seen in the city 
 markets. These gardens do not really float, nor ever 
 did, but their construction was begun many hundreds 
 of years ago by the peons sticking tufts of grass and 
 pieces of earth and debris into firm places, in the 
 marshes on each side of the Viga, and as the years 
 went by these pieces of tuft collected more residue 
 till they became tillable. On the third of February 
 of each year the world goes out to the Viga to witness, 
 what is called the Battle of Flowers, though it really 
 is not a battle at all, but an old world enchantment. 
 All the little canoes that float up and down the Viga 
 are decked out in holiday array. Each is rowed by 
 an Indian dressed in white, and wearing a huge straw 
 sombrero, who stands at the helm propelling the boat 
 with one long pole, gondolier fashion. These little 
 boats are a fantastic picture in themselves, lending 
 an indefinable charm to the gay panorama. Some 
 of them are decked out in yellow and red — Spanish 
 colors — others in red, white and green — the Mexican 
 colors — while others are festooned in natural flowers. 
 The awnings put up for the occasion are embellished 
 with coverings and flying streamers of bright-colored 
 paper, or adorned with hangings of roses, marguerites 
 and other flowers. For a few dollars you can hire 
 one of these canoes for the morning or afternoon, 
 and early in the day hundreds are afloat under their 
 
 S8 
 
in ^tnco 
 
 gaudy awnings. The Indians, who rent the floating 
 gardens, bring down loads of flowers and vegetables 
 in the large, flat canoes. On one are piles of brilliant, 
 appetizing radishes, stacks of the whitest white onions 
 and celery, squashes, cauliflower, all arrayed with a 
 view to color and effects. Following in the wake 
 of this canoe is another filled with every variety of 
 tropical flowers. These boats are a part of the show, 
 though their owners turn many a centavo by selling 
 their contents to the hungry, happy throng. 
 
 There goes a boat load of girls in Spanish dress, 
 bright satin skirts, bodices furbished with broad 
 sashes, and long strings of beads. Everybody sings 
 in Mexico, and sings well, and as this boat load of 
 girls goes by, they smilingly toss a chaplet of flowers 
 into your boat and continue singing their roundelay. 
 Over there is a crowd of young men in charro cos- 
 tume with flying red ties, and there another of Span- 
 ish knights of the fifteenth century, who twang their 
 guitars and make violent love to you, and every now 
 and then a boat load of boys and girls singing college 
 and love songs and flying the stars and stripes, will 
 glide past. 
 
 On the shores are thousands of people walking 
 up and down, throwing confetti, eating dulces, rad- 
 ishes, or long stalks of celery. Sad-browed women 
 in black or blue rebozos, boys of the upper class in 
 Paris clothes, Indian boys in long, narrow, cotton 
 trousers and shirts, hatless, shoeless, looking on with 
 stoic unsmiling faces. 
 
 The spectacle is picturesque and gay beyond de- 
 scription, its intense mediaeval flavor adding a double 
 zest and attractiveness. The brightness, the color, 
 the noiseless, gliding boats, the music, flowers, the 
 
 59 
 
dBli^a anO CtbelQteDa 
 
 play of the sunlight, the surge of the waters, the 
 capricious wind, beautiful maids, and ^ handsome 
 youths, the light from lambent eyes — this is the Bat- 
 tle of Flowers. 
 
 The fruits of Mexico, as do the flowers and vege- 
 tables, form an interesting array; there are apples, 
 peaches, pears, apricots, and many varieties of ber- 
 ries from the north land. Oranges, lemons, bananas, 
 limes, of semi-tropical growth. Besides these are 
 many varieties peculiar only to the tropics. One of 
 the most plentiful is the spicy, pungent guava, dis- 
 liked by most, but eagerly devoured by a few. There 
 are chicopotes, looking like miniature pumpkins. 
 Chirimoyas, sometimes called ice cream fruit, being 
 about as big as a cocoanut, and having creamy, deli- 
 cate meat. The prime favorite, however, is the mango, 
 a kind of Burbank cross between a pear and a banana 
 in appearance. It has a tough, yellow skin, with a 
 blush on one side like a pear, a large seed, and juicy, 
 delicious meat. The taste for mangoes does not come 
 naturally, but in time is easily and surely acquired, 
 the only objection being in the difficulty of keeping 
 them stationary while you eat them. The Mexicans 
 have mango forks that they spear them with, but 
 Americans, generally, do not use them, so manage 
 the best they can. The fruit frequently flies out of 
 your hand and goes bounding across the table on 
 to the floor, or perhaps into the soup bowl of your 
 next neighbor. The juice bursts through your lips, 
 trickles down and drops oflf your chin ; it runs through 
 your fingers and goes coursing down your hands, 
 but it is worth all this. There is about many of them 
 a taste of turpentine, a kind of refined flavor, sug- 
 gestive of all the conifers. This does not sound tempt- 
 
 60 
 
in &^t^ico 
 
 ing, I know, but you have only to try one to be con- 
 vinced. 
 
 Frank says the only objection he has to mangoes 
 is that it is not always convenient to eat them in a 
 bathtub. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A DIARY 
 
 March 23rd. 
 
 Went to the Alameda with Mrs. R and that 
 
 dear baby this morning. How lovely everything is there 
 now, but wish they had not put those stone seats 
 around that middle glorietta. They are as cold and 
 comfortless as charity. 
 
 How very artistic these Mexicans are ! You notice 
 it at every turn ; in the carvings, in the buildings, the 
 setting of a statue, the arrangement of a flower bed. 
 There is, underlying it all, a harmonious blending of 
 colors, a poetic fancifulness, that seems to accord 
 with the surroundings. One reason of the Aztec ideal- 
 ism is because he uses the thing at hand ; the cactus on 
 the desert, the flowers of the hot country, the native 
 fruits, birds and animals, all appear in his accurate, 
 and many times homely, representations. How indig- 
 nant that gendarme was this morning when the little 
 Indian boy rolled in the grass, though there were a 
 lot of dogs— common curs — rolling all over it. 
 ^ The grass is for dogs, it seems, and not for poor 
 Httle Indian boys, who live on dirt or stone floors all 
 day and sleep on straw mats at night. Strange world ! 
 
 March 30th. 
 
 This is the queerest country I ever saw, in some 
 respects. To-day I wandered through a little side 
 
 61 
 
(Elija ana (Bthtlt^ttm 
 
 street where they have some beautiful things displayed 
 in the windows, and some of the oddest things and 
 strangest collections one could imagine. In one store 
 they had shoes and flower seeds, and in another 
 canary birds and old iron, but that is not really strange 
 in a country where they keep embroidery, silk and 
 side combs in barber shops, and hair pins and rubber 
 shoes in hardware stores. 
 
 April 3rd. 
 
 I stopped in that beautiful church just across from 
 the Iron Palace, as I came up this morning. This 
 church, by the way, is well worth a little of one's 
 time ; not on the inside, perhaps, because there is noth- 
 ing of particular interest there; but the outside is 
 exquisite. It nestles among all those business houses 
 with a very unobtrusive air, but there is a richness 
 about the fading colors, and the figures that are set 
 in curved niches are beautifully and artistically done. 
 
 Saw a picture in the church that would have de- 
 lighted the heart of an impressionist: an old man 
 kneeling on the floor, a statue in bronze. His fea- 
 tures were tense, strained, and leaning forward, with 
 his eyes fixed on the crucifix — the Inri — ^in front; 
 he seemed the impersonation of adoration. His faded 
 coat hung on him in limp wrinkles, and a ragged old 
 hat lay on the floor beside him. How I longed to 
 paint him as he was ! 
 
 There was evidently a funeral in operation, as a 
 bier stood half concealed behind a screen, and an old 
 priest in sagging vestment was saying mass before 
 a little white altar. In the eastern transcept some 
 nuns were singing the Office of the Dead, and from 
 
 62 
 
itt 9@e3Eico 
 
 a chapel in the rear there floated the odor of burning 
 incense. 
 
 April 5th. 
 
 It is lilac-time in the home land, and very often 
 my heart aches for a breath of their sweet, delicate 
 perfume, and a sight of their purple splendor. The 
 flowers are beautiful in Mexico, beautiful beyond 
 compare, but somehow they do not appeal to me in 
 the same way as those that bloom in the gardens at 
 home. Perhaps it is the association, or the stories 
 we read about them. But what a beautiful memory 
 hangs about the lavender and rosemary of our grand- 
 mothers, and how exquisite wxre the flowers of early 
 maidenhood ! You will never forget the fragrance 
 of the hyacinth sent by your first sweetheart. The 
 years come and the years go, but the breath of a hya- 
 cinth will always bring up the memory of those white 
 waxen flowers, as they lay in the box among the pink 
 cotton. 
 
 When I was a child I thought it was the quintes- 
 sence of aristocracy to have pink peonies and bleed- 
 ing heart in your front yard. Didn't the Lees, Var- 
 damians and Keebles have pink peonies and white 
 Hlacs and bleeding heart, and what better proof could 
 be wanted? 
 
 April, fickle and feminine, is indulging in some of 
 her most capricious trickeries up in that home land. 
 To-day she is sobbing her heart out in a downpour 
 of tears ; yesterday she wept in fitful gusts ; to-morrow 
 she will be all smiles and caresses, gay, debonair, full 
 of seductive allurements. And so on throughout the 
 month, running the whole gamut of emotions, from 
 
 63 
 
OBIi^a anir dBtfteiareSa 
 
 the wildest, gayest abandon, to the lowest depth of 
 complaining despair. 
 
 Spring comes on shyly at first in that great North 
 country. The snow disappears from the hilltops and 
 trickles into the rills, the rills go on and swell the 
 rivers. Vivid tufts of grass begin to show in the 
 sheltered fence corners, and down by the meadow 
 brook. Trillium, bloodroot and lady-slippers peep 
 out to see what it is all about, and soon the woodlands 
 are ablossom with dogwood and service berry. Those 
 soft April tears sink deep into the earth, down be- 
 neath the frost and the sod, and quicken into new life 
 the tender roots that have nestled there. With coy 
 reluctance they peep out to see what manner of world 
 it is to which they are coming ; they behold its beauty, 
 the grass, the flowers, the green, and all the gay colors 
 with a glad, mad rush, and May, the amorous wight, 
 sits embowered in her blossoms. 
 
 April 15th. 
 
 We went out this morning to see the killing of 
 Judas, an operation that is gone through with each 
 year on the Saturday preceding Easter. We saw sev- 
 eral of him, and how grotesquely dressed he was! 
 Frank says he does not wonder that Judas killed 
 himself if he could have foreseen how he was to be 
 caricatured. 
 
 One had on bright blue trousers, gray coat with 
 huge buttons, and a flaming red tie. Another was 
 ensconsed in pale pink trousers, yellow coat and 
 polkadot vest, not exactly one's idea of the garb of 
 this Prince of Traitors, costumes such as the eye 
 of man has not seen. 
 
 Francisca tells me that when they hang a Judas 
 
 64 
 
in ^ttico 
 
 at a corner near a butcher shop he is filled with meat, 
 and if the killing takes place near a bakery he is 
 filled with bread. Then he is suspended on a string 
 drawn across the street from house to house, and 
 the howling mob proceed to dismember him. First 
 a ghastly foot disappears, then a long, shapeless leg, 
 till finally his body is broken and the contents begin 
 to roll out. The poor people, crowded beneath, begin 
 to scramble and fight like hungry animals to catch 
 the pieces of bread or meat that shower around them. 
 
 May 2nd. 
 
 Got a letter from Helen yesterday. If there is one 
 true and faithful soul in this world, and one who loves 
 me, it is she. So glad she is going to send me some 
 new clothes. I know the white dress is lovely. 
 
 May 3d. 
 
 The box has arrived and its contents filled me with 
 joy. The w^hite dress is trimmed in shirred ruffles 
 and butter-colored lace, with ribbons to match; there 
 is a hat made entirely of violets, some shoes and stock- 
 ings that would make Trilby green with envy, and 
 two or three of the giddiest breakfast jackets. 
 
 May 7th. 
 
 There seems to be something innately cruel and 
 vicious about these Indians. This afternoon while 
 I was sitting in the Zocalo, a poor little lizard fell 
 out of a tree and some men and boys began immedi- 
 ately to torture it. I do not like lizards myself for 
 close companionship, but I can't bear to see anything 
 suffer. That sounds like an extract from a Sunday 
 School book, but it's true just the same. Then, later, 
 
 6s 
 
mi^a anD OBtbel arena 
 
 as I came up the street a big, dirty peon kicked a 
 poor little dog, and it was a nice, clean dog, too. 
 It is true, it was yellow, but it could not help that. 
 I always did think it showed a mean disposition to 
 lay that up against a dog. 
 
 May 20th. 
 
 It is cool and delightful this morning, and Ethel- 
 dreda and I spent some time in the Zocalo watching 
 the passing crowd, and making friends with old 
 Angela, who has a lace stand under the Portales. We 
 also ran across Pelleas and Ettarre and made an en- 
 gagement to go out to Guadalupe with them to- 
 morrow. They are an old couple whom we discov- 
 ered some time ago, and from the fitness of things, 
 we appHed the above title to them. They came from 
 the States in the early spring, and wherever we 
 chanced to go, to the flower market, the plaza, the 
 Thieves' Market, or walking on the Paseo, there, in 
 a short time, would appear this amiable old couple. 
 At first we smiled amusedly at each other; then we 
 ventured a salutation, and before any of us realized 
 it, we were warm friends. 
 
 Ettarre has a sweet, gentle face with a complexion 
 as fresh as a girl's, the most motherly voice, though 
 she has never had any children, and beautiful snow- 
 white hair. And Pelleas is just as tender and loving 
 to her as on the first day they were married. That 
 is really the reason we like him so much, though 
 he is kind and attentive to every woman without be- 
 ing at all obtrusive, and that his gentle attentions 
 to Ettarre are not assumed for the outside world, her 
 happy, contented face testifies. Then he knows every- 
 thing, and is . so modest about it. Etheldreda says 
 
 66 
 
in a^eiico 
 
 she has not consulted a guide book, or art list, since 
 they came. 
 
 May 22nd. 
 
 It is strange how these Mexicans love the beautiful 
 and artistic. There is always a crowd of peons in 
 front of Pellandinis. That picture of the crucifix 
 they have there now is admirably done, but one can 
 scarcely see it for the crowd. I remember when 
 Fabres had his pictures on display at the art museum 
 most of the people to be found there were from the 
 lower classes. It is very different in the States. 
 
 June 5th. 
 
 I think the rainy season, or Time of Waters, as 
 the Mexicans poetically say, has begun in real earnest, 
 or at least one would judge so. The rain has been 
 coming down in sluices for more than three days. 
 You have read about the way the water comes down 
 at Lodore, but that is nothing— not a circumstance— 
 to the way it comes down in Mexico. You start 
 out some fine afternoon, and as you go down the 
 steps, you think possibly you would better take your 
 umbrella, not that it is going to rain, but it is a kind 
 of a habit one acquires. After a time, however, you 
 will, perchance, see a skim of mist coming gently up 
 over the sky, and away off in some indefinite kind of 
 place one may see through a street that leads to the 
 mountains, a purposeless-looking cloud. But, sad to 
 relate, this cloud gives no warning ; there are no pre- 
 monitory rumblings, no soft swift gusts of wind, 
 flashes of lightning, nor any of those things one has 
 learned to believe should accompany a well-ordered 
 rain. All at once, when you are most unsuspecting, 
 
 67 
 
(Eli^a anti OEtftelDteaa 
 
 and when your mind is most on pleasure bent, a few 
 spatters will fall, and before you can seek refuge in 
 a patio — anybody's patio — it seems that the sky, the 
 clouds, the whole atmosphere, has melted into a soak- 
 ing, deluging rain. 
 
 June 24th. 
 
 This day is little reckoned in most parts of the 
 world, but here in Mexico it ranks among the most 
 important of the whole two months of feast days. 
 For some cause, it is the day everybody takes a bath, 
 and I fear — tell it not in Gath! — that it is the only 
 day on which some of them bathe. 
 
 The real thing to do is to get up at three o'clock 
 in the morning and take an ice-cold bath, and the 
 saying goes that you will thereafter be always young 
 and beautiful. I presume that I am too skeptical 
 in my nature to try it, however much I should like 
 to attain that end. Francisca says, though, that her 
 mother said that a friend told her, that she knew of a 
 lady who once tried it, and that she was so beautiful 
 afterwards that everybody stopped to gaze at her as 
 she stood in the balcony. 
 
 The ecclesiastical reason given for the observance 
 of the day is said to be the anniversary of the day 
 on which John the Baptist baptized in the river Jor- 
 dan. I am unprepared, however, to certify it. 
 
 The bath houses all over the city are decorated with 
 flowers and palms, the band plays all day, as the 
 crowd waits to be served. On leaving the bath house 
 you are presented with a bouquet of flowers, or a 
 string of pears, though nobody seems to know what 
 connection there is between pears and the river 
 Jordan. 
 
 68 
 
in Q^eiico 
 
 July nth. 
 
 Have been trying to read some Spanish novels 
 lately, but it seems to me they are all pretty much 
 the same. A rather disconnected account of an un- 
 equal battle between Cupid and an irate father, in 
 which the irate father generally comes off victor. 
 The heroine then contracts a loveless marriage and 
 enters into a commonplace, uneventful life, or does 
 the other thing, and lives with the man she loves 
 without marriage. In either case it seems that her 
 life is colorless, and lacking in any vital interest, 
 and some way leaves one feeling very depressed, 
 just as though something were going to happen. The 
 Man in Gray says there are no such things as premo- 
 nitions, though; that if you feel them coming on to 
 take a pill, soak your feet in hot water and go to 
 bed early. 
 
 July 15th. 
 
 Just read "El Sacrificio de Eliza," and fear I shall 
 not live long. 
 
 July 17th. 
 
 Have just found something that I scribbled on an 
 envelope, and I know it must be something very 
 interesting if I could just read it. Am sure the world 
 will be the loser. My family think I write dread- 
 fully, but you know I rather like my chirography, for 
 this one reason, at least, it isn't like anybody's else 
 IVe ever seen, not even Shakespeare's. I sometimes 
 think of a man I heard about years ago, when I try to 
 read something I had written previously. This man 
 was accustomed to remark that no one knew what 
 he had written but himself and God. One day he 
 
 69 
 
(JBIi^a anD dBtftelDreDa 
 
 picked up a bit of scribbling, and being unable to 
 make out a word of it, he added below, "Nobody 
 knows what I have written but God and He won't 
 tell." 
 
 September ist. 
 
 Now, all of my friends thought that the first thing 
 I would write them when coming to Mexico would 
 be an account of a bull fight, but the fact is I have 
 never yet seen one. The Man in Gray kindly tells me 
 that any time I make up my mind to go he is at my 
 command. But some way the exact time has never 
 come when I felt I was equal to it. In the first place 
 bull fights always come on Sunday, and some way 
 I just could not reconcile the two. I suppose it's my 
 Presbyterian conscience. You know I have discov- 
 ered that one of the most inconvenient things with 
 which to go a-touring is a Presbyterian conscience. 
 Of course, we may do things just as bad as going 
 to bull fights on Sunday, but we have not been taught 
 to think so. But just to think of a bull fight any 
 time gives me the shivers. The uncontrolled ex- 
 citement, the howling frenzy, the abandon of human 
 beings to the delight in blood and carnage; the poor 
 wounded and dying animals that look with appealing 
 or defiant eyes at the merciless faces above, all pre- 
 sent a picture to my mind's eye at once inexpressibly 
 revolting and cruel. Fuentes, the very prince of bull 
 fighters, has been in Mexico this winter, and Solomon 
 in all his glory was not arrayed like one of him. 
 Purple and gold lace, crimson and jewels, and all 
 betopped by a sombrero, so expensive and over- 
 shadowing, so tall and elegant, and all embroidered 
 in gold and bestudded with gems. A small fortune 
 
 70 
 
m ^tmo 
 
 in itself. Elheldreda and I were honored by a pro- 
 found obeisance and a dazzling smile from him one 
 day as we were walking down the Paseo, and he 
 driving by in a glittering victoria. Then we saw 
 him again one evening even in greater splendor. It 
 was at the Maison Doree after the opera, and much 
 of the fashionable world was abroad. People by 
 twos or threes strolled in and critically selected a table. 
 There were billows of chiffon and laces, long droop- 
 ing ostrich tips, diamonds and pearls — the Mexican 
 woman does not care for colored jewels — sweeping 
 opera cloaks and ultra Paris gowns. The men were 
 all in their perennial dead black. There are only 
 two types of the Mexican man, one tall, narrow- 
 chested, pale, and aristocratic, the other short and 
 stout — very stout. 
 
 Mario, the favorite native tenor, with a note that 
 brings up memories of Campanini, lounged in a little 
 alcove, and talked volubly with an aged statesman 
 and his wife. 
 
 Frorn the orchestra in the balcony overhead, with 
 its setting of ferns and palms, came strains of a pen- 
 sive waltz from Chaminade that seemed strangely 
 ill-suited to the time and occasion. The air was 
 heavy with fumes of the wines, the scent of perfume, 
 and fading flowers, and the smoke from cigarettes, 
 while the low-hung ceiling seemed to droop and 
 press down upon the occupants. 
 
 After a time Fuentes, even more gorgeously 
 dressed than usual, strolled in with several compan- 
 ions, and, laughing boisterously, took a seat near us. 
 Two of the men ordered only wine and small cakes, 
 but the brawny bull fighter first ate a large steak with 
 bread and salad, then ended up with a generous glass 
 
 71 
 
aBli5a anD OBtftelDteOa 
 
 of absinthe. He soon discovered our company and 
 began ogling the ladies in the most objectionably 
 obtrusive way. Frank glowered at him with such 
 ferocity, however, that he evidently considered dis- 
 cretion the better part of valor, and immediately de- 
 sisted. 
 
 September 5th. 
 
 Tetrazzini has come to town and is now faring forth 
 at the Arbun. You would not think that bull fights 
 and bull fighters would bring up memories of Tetraz- 
 zini, but that is where the story comes in. Tetrazzini 
 is the "new Patti" they say, and I think in time she 
 will come to deserve the appellation. Very Italian, 
 very vivacious, amorous and fascinating she is in 
 her opera costumes, with a manner at once sedate 
 and alluring, serious, yet gay. There is something 
 stilted about her, too, as there is with nearly all 
 women of Italian birth or antecedents. Still, there 
 is with it all a truth to the emotion she portrays 
 that is very pleasing. With a note as clear and sweet 
 as the native zeuzontl she maintains a range and a 
 compass wonderfully true and vibrant in this high 
 and sensitive atmosphere. It is said that the piquant 
 little prima donna attended a bull fight not long ago 
 in which the unconquered Fuentes came off more 
 than conqueror, and crowned himself anew with 
 dazzling glory. Tetrazzini saw the valiant hero in 
 all his splendor of purple velvet, jeweled daggers 
 and gold lace, and fell a victim to his unrivaled 
 charms. Shortly after this, however, the fortune of 
 Fuentes turned a little in its spinning, and fate played 
 him a scurvy trick in allowing him to be somewhat 
 seriously wounded by a too far goaded and unusually 
 
 72 
 
in Qpeiico 
 
 dexterous bull. The singer expressed a desire to 
 visit the fallen hero that she might offer her sympa- 
 thies. The doctor, who admitted the lady, expected 
 to see his patient overcome, abashed, and grateful 
 for the tender interest he had awakened in the breast 
 of the great singer; but instead of any such emotion 
 being evinced, he turned and whispered to the doctor, 
 ''What do you think her jewels are worth?" 
 
 This is the i6th of September, the Mexican fourth 
 of July. All morning the soldiers, cavalry and in- 
 fantry, ten thousand strong, were marching through 
 the streets from the National Palace to Chapultepec, 
 and drilling out on El Campo de las Guerras. It is 
 an inspiring sight to see ten thousand soldiers march- 
 ing to the beat of the drum and the strains of martial 
 music, and to halt at the bugle call. It makes one 
 feel real patriotic, and that one ought to have an old 
 grudge against somebody, for something, you don't 
 know exactly what. 
 
 Peons filled with patriotism and pulque, rush 
 through the streets crying "Mueren los Gachupinos" 
 (Death to the Spaniards), and it is said that few of 
 that nationality are brave enough to show themselves 
 on this day. The most interesting of the day's spec- 
 tacles are the picturesque rurales — the republic's mar- 
 shals, who bring up the rear of the procession. Many 
 of these men were once noted bandits and highway- 
 men. When they were captured President Diaz 
 looked them over, and with the astuteness peculiar to 
 him, selected those who could be turned into trust- 
 worthy citizens, and sent them out to guard the fron- 
 tier, and the others to be shot. They make a pictur- 
 esque company indeed. All are mounted on red and 
 white spotted horses, and wear the charro costume, 
 
 73 
 
€Ii?a anti OEtfielDtesa 
 
 which consists of very light yellow leather trousers, 
 with fringe up the side, short fringe-trimmed coats, 
 flying red four-in-hand tie, and dull gray embroid- 
 ered sombrero. They are sturdy men, and brave, and 
 have done much toward reducing the lawlessness once 
 rife in the land. 
 
 At twelve o'clock to-night President Diaz will come 
 into one of the balconies of the palace and ring the 
 bell once rung by Hidalgo ; on the stroke of this bell 
 the fifty thousand persons packed in La Plaza de las 
 Armas — the Zocalo — and the converging streets, will, 
 on the instant, burst into a prolonged cry known as 
 the "Grito." 
 
 One of the chief charms of Mexico to visitors from 
 the North is its mediaeval flavor, in the midst of the 
 manifestations of modern progress. On all these 
 feast days, both political and religious, one sees many 
 unusual costumes, and customs. There seems to be a 
 direct bridge between the twentieth century and the 
 dim, shadowy, pre-reformation Old World. Always 
 there is the throwing of confetti, the flying of the 
 highly colored paper ribbons, and many provincial 
 costumes and diversions. 
 
 To-day all of the buildings on San Francisca are 
 draped in festoons of natural flowers, and the flags 
 of many lands. On the American Bank the green, 
 white and red float out with the Stars and Stripes. 
 Here is the German and Mexican, there the French 
 or English. Truly a cosmopolitan sight! 
 
 October 6th. 
 
 Went down this morning to get a spool of thread 
 from old Juana, who keeps a little store just under 
 
 74 
 
in Q&erico 
 
 us. In her little place, about six by eight feet, she 
 has an assortment of thread, buttons, needles, pins, 
 hooks and eyes, the three latter being Brobdignagian 
 as to proportions. Besides these she carries in stock, 
 beads, a little cheap jewelry, candles for lighting 
 churches and altars, rosaries, lamp wicks, straw mats, 
 and the ever-present lottery ticket. In the open wm- 
 dow there is always displayed a row of huge bun sand- 
 wiches, with a slice of some kind of pressed meat and 
 a few rings of chile and onion, and last but not least, 
 a goodly pile of chirimuscas. I am very fond of nearly 
 all of the Mexican dukes— a name applied indiscrimi- 
 nately to nearly all kinds of sweets — but the chiri- 
 musca, a long twisted stick of yellow molasses candy, 
 is one of my prime favorites. Next in my affections 
 are the candied fruits and vegetables. You would not 
 believe it, but they make the most delicious dulces 
 out of squashes and pumpkins, and the candied nuts 
 are well known to many Americans. 
 
 Juana, unlike most women of her race, is not at all 
 amiable and pleasing. She lacks that caressing, 
 wheedling tone and manner that most of them have, 
 and usually carries a half scowl on her face. As 
 I walk up each day and lay my centavo down she 
 says ''Chirimusca, sefiorita?" then turns her Amazon- 
 ian back squarely to me. Now, this is not true of 
 Benito. He has the most optimistic, and contented 
 nature of any one of my acquaintances. Benito is 
 four, and brown and soft like polished sandalwood, 
 with' his coarse black hair making a half circle around 
 his face, his big, black eyes shining merrily up at you. 
 He runs up and down the street in front of his Grand- 
 mother Juana's store, or plays in our patio with the 
 
 75 
 
(Eli^a anti CtftelSreOa 
 
 portera's little daughter Lupe. Winter or summer, 
 night or day, his costume is the same. Shoeless, hat- 
 less, he goes with long, straight cotton trousers that 
 reach to his ankles, a dark checked cotton shirt, and sus- 
 penders like a man. These complete his outfit. Though 
 Benito is so merry and philosophic, he is also very 
 exclusive; having only three close friends, those be- 
 ing the portera Anastasia, Lupe and myself. 
 
 The Man in Gray, Frank and even warm-hearted, 
 tender Etheldreda have failed to gain his full confi- 
 dence. They have offered toys, dulces and the usual 
 open-sesame, the centavo, all to no effect, and I think 
 I should never have gained this end had I not given 
 him the little pie made of real American cherries — 
 cherries from the hillside orchard in old Missouri. 
 And who would not be won by such a votary! 
 
 November 6th. 
 
 These Aztecs have the most poetical way of ex- 
 pressing themselves. The other day I asked Fran- 
 cisca how long she had been with me, and she replied, 
 "Hast lost thy memory, sefiorita? Have been with 
 thee four moons already." 
 
 Again I asked: ''Have you been happy with me, 
 Francisca ?" And she replied : 
 
 "Yes, sefiorita, all of the days I have been very 
 contented and happy. You are very amiable and 
 sympathetic with me." 
 
 Once we were picnicking at Xochimilco and I asked : 
 
 "Francisca, where are Las Tres Marias? I cannot 
 find them to-day." 
 
 "Oh, Jesus, sefiorita," she answered, laughing. 
 "Dost imagine the mountain ran away whilst thou 
 dreamt? They are back there under the clouds." 
 
 76 
 
m ^tmo 
 
 November 15th. 
 
 Stood in broiling sun two hours to-day to see Presi- 
 dent Diaz go by — Observation — Wonder how long he 
 would stand to see me go by. 
 
 November 28th. 
 
 Frank has been gone about three weeks and we 
 miss the boy dreadfully. At least I do, though Eth- 
 eldreda assures me she has scarcely thought of him. 
 She told me some time ago, however, in one of her 
 confidential moods that when she was lonely or low- 
 spirited she always sang The Heart Bowed Down. 
 And I have observed that for the last week or more 
 she has gone to bed at night, and gotten up in the 
 morning humming that heart-breaking air. I would 
 not remind her of it for worlds, however. It's only 
 the Eternal Feminine. 
 
 Frank is down in Yucatan visiting the ruins which 
 are among the most interesting on the continent. We 
 heard from him the other day at Merida. ''From 
 San Luis Patosi," he wrote, "we came to Tampico on 
 the Orange Blossom route. This takes us through 
 the famous coffee region, you remember, and some 
 say the Mexican paradise, and it certainly is grand all 
 right. To the north and south lay the mountains 
 overhung in draperies of turquoise blue, and embow- 
 ered in everlasting verdure; while to the east the 
 Mexican Gulf surges over its coral reefs. This re- 
 gion is inhabited by the Huestecos, the remnant of 
 a once powerful tribe. These Indians are cleanly, 
 honest and industrious. It is the boast that no doors 
 are locked among the Huestecos. The approach to 
 Campeche is uninteresting enough, the northern coast 
 being skirted by an almost continuous line of low 
 
 77 
 
(Klt^a anD OBtfjelDreDa 
 
 dunes, while the country itself is bleak, arid, and al- 
 most streamless. Much wonder has been expressed 
 that it could have once been the home of so flourish- 
 ing a civilization. Last week we saw the ruins of 
 Ake with its huge pyramid, and yesterday and day 
 before we were at Naxmal. These ruins stand un- 
 rivaled for their magnitude, the richness of its sculp- 
 tured fagade, and the almost classic beauty of its 
 statuary. 
 
 But the heat! !!!????!!!??? 
 
 After writing thus fully on the subject, will only 
 add that the government thermometer is registering 
 I GO in the deepest shade. Ruins are well enough in 
 their way, but I'll be proper glad to get back and 
 look at something fresh and young once more — 
 American young ladies, for instance. 
 
 November 30th. 
 
 This morning I was awakened about six o'clock by 
 that uncanny rotary-peristaltic motion, that sickening 
 tremolo, with which I have become so familiar, and 
 the cry of ''temblor! tem-tem-b-1-o-r !" in the streets. 
 Francisca, with a rebozo thrown over a pink calico 
 dress skirt, and yellow cotton chemise, her shining 
 hair more disheveled than I had ever seen it, came 
 rushing into my room. 
 
 "Valgame, Dios! senorita." Then she begged that 
 I would have haste, and not be like the woman 
 crazy in the street of the Fifth of May who had re- 
 fused to go down till she had put on her dress 
 fashionable, and put up her hair yellow. She im- 
 plored the help of Guadalupe, the Mother Mary, and 
 several special saints, though I failed to see what as- 
 
 78 
 
in ^mco 
 
 sistance they could have rendered had they been there, 
 as Francisca really hindered more than she helped. 
 She put my kimona on upside down, broke both 
 draw-strings off my petticoat, then searched under the 
 bed in vain for some kind of foot apparel, "Cham 
 bon! seiiorita, have a little hurry." 
 
 Etheldreda, in a sea-green kimona, with huge blue 
 storks sailing over it, one red Japanese slipper in her 
 hand and one on a bare foot came pell mell through 
 the door and sank into a chair. Francisca shook her 
 to her feet, and with the family in the next vivienda, 
 the senor, the senora and the children, all in vari- 
 ous stages of undress, we fled. The senora panting 
 down the winding stone steps as fast as her short, fat 
 legs could carry her, exclaiming, "Por Dios !" at every 
 step. Anastasia, the portera, appeared a trifle more 
 calm than the rest of us, though it seemed to take an 
 eternity to let down the huge iron chain and produce 
 the key, which must weigh about two pounds. By this 
 time it was all over, so we went trailing up the steps 
 again into the balcony. 
 
 The women who were astir knelt on the ground 
 saying their beads, while the men, also in praying 
 attitude, were uncovered, their sombreros by their 
 sides. One peculiar thing about these earthquakes 
 is that if they are at all severe, the horses stop per- 
 fectly still and refuse to move an inch till it is all 
 over. Some people say they like earthquakes. They 
 enjoy the peculiar sensation and the sight of the 
 lights, the telephone posts moving in such a super- 
 natural way; but it's queer taste to me. I will have 
 to admit, like the horse and peon, I am filled with 
 abject terror. 
 
 79 
 
(Bli^a anD CtbelDteOa 
 
 December i6th. 
 
 Oppressive dull green clouds have been hanging 
 just over the house-tops for days. There has been no 
 rain to relieve the monotony, only once or twice a 
 fine angry dash came against the v^indov^ panes. 
 The dust has blown about in an aimless, irritating 
 kind of way, and it has been so cold and dispiriting 
 that I have longed for the crackling wood fire in 
 the library at home. The sun is all right — when it 
 shines — but nothing can come up to a fireplace with 
 wood burning in it, for solid comfort. It would soften 
 the meanest heart on earth, I think. 
 
 Etheldreda stood in the balcony and made her dole- 
 ful plaint. 
 
 'T don't believe that cloud ever will lift. Was 
 there ever a time, Pelleas, when the sun shone?" 
 
 ''Ah-h ! yes," said Pelleas in the most cheerful 
 manner and tone, just as though it were a gay May 
 day. 
 
 "I have never known, child, a cloud that did not 
 pass away, nor have I known the sun to fail to shine 
 when it was gone. Why, it is the sun that gives that 
 cloud the yellow look." 
 
 A train load of American tourists came in yester- 
 day, and as there were so many of them in the Ala- 
 meda this morning the band played "King Cotton," 
 *'My Old Kentucky Home," and ''Dixie," and these 
 familiar and beloved airs warmed the cockles of our 
 hearts a little. 
 
 80 
 
in a^ejico 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 In Mexico, as in most countries where people live 
 out of doors the year around, the plazas and public 
 gardens play quite an important part in its social 
 life. Here, every town and city has its plaza where 
 all degrees and conditions of people congregate, or 
 keep appointments, and where bands play the most 
 delightful music, at least two days in the week. And 
 it is not rag-time, or trashy music that one hears, 
 either; but music by the best composers, or from the 
 best operas. It is not uncommon to see an Indian, 
 unwashed and uncombed, shoeless and shirtless, 
 dressed only in short coat, trousers and sombrero, 
 going down the street whistling an air from "II 
 Trovatore,'' or perhaps "Aida." 
 
 In Mexico City the principal plazas are the Zocalo, 
 the Alameda and Chapultepec, besides numerous 
 smaller ones. The Zocalo is in the center of the city, 
 with the National Palace built by Montezuma on the 
 east, the Cathedral on the north, and the Portales to 
 the south and west. It is tastefully laid out in flower 
 beds, with shade trees scattered about, and a kiosk 
 in the center for the orchestra. 
 
 The Alameda is said to be one of the most beauti- 
 ful public gardens in the world. Here and there are 
 groves of stately beeches, and the dusky eucalyptus; 
 the walks are bordered by bananas and palms, and 
 there is a large pergola completely overrun with 
 
 8i 
 
(BlU^ atiD (BtbtltttM 
 
 Martha Washington geranium, and plumbago goes 
 dimbing up among the branches of the trees. The 
 statuary in the Alameda is particularly chaste and 
 beautiful, and the fountains, with their mythological, 
 or fanciful figures, dispensing water into the large 
 carved basin, add to the picturesqueness of the place. 
 This, being the most centrally located, is the most fre- 
 quented. Students go there to study and meditate, 
 nurses take the children to romp and play, the weary 
 and sick go to rest and recuperate, and the young 
 girls, from Protestant schools and convents, flock 
 there in numbers. Many an encounter that had its 
 incipiency in the Alameda ends in marriage, or — a 
 tragedy. 
 
 The setting to the picture would be something like 
 this. An early morning with the flowers sparkling 
 and radiant, from a gentle shower of the night previ- 
 ous. The trees alive with song birds, the air filled 
 with an elusive fragrance. A gay and idle young 
 cavalier out for adventure, and a bewitching young 
 girl going through with her female attendant, on her 
 return from an early walk or mass. There is a half 
 glance from seductive eyes, a suspicious smile, and 
 the girl goes demurely on down the banana walk 
 with the gay young cavalier following in her wake. 
 Possibly she bestows no more notice than the glance 
 on this first occasion, but the next time there is a 
 flash of a Venetian blind, and a dazzling smile. In 
 a day or two there comes a letter, perhaps another, 
 and still another before there is a reply. After the 
 exchange of one or more letters, the young man 
 sends a white silk handkerchief to his enamorita, 
 which, if she accepts, signifies virtually that she ac- 
 cepts the donor, and then begins that mode of court- 
 
 82 
 
in ^mto 
 
 ship known among the Americans as ''playing bear," 
 and which consists in the young man standing on 
 the pavement below, swearing eternal devotion and 
 fidelity to a lady love in a balcony two or three floors 
 above. 
 
 Just across the street from us, a little weazened, 
 bow-legged Don Quixote, about twenty-five, I should 
 say, comes every few days and thus makes love to his 
 Dulcinea, a big, fat woman nearing forty. This has 
 been going on nearly seven years, the neighbors 
 tell me, but a heartless father interferes, and only 
 yesterday I saw little Quixote go scuffling off in the 
 rain, looking like a drenched rat, as papa came across 
 the patio into the street. 
 
 I have often seen them clasping their hearts, wring- 
 ing their hands, and smiling in apparent desperation 
 and vowing all kinds of vows, but really — Spanish is 
 ideal for love making. I am sure no other language 
 could surpass it for expression in this particular de- 
 partment of the fine arts. Let those who are skepti- 
 cal listen to the declaration, 'Te quiro, Linda," and 
 they will forever be convinced. 
 
 But you must not think that after a Mexican young 
 lady is really engaged the sailing is made on any 
 fairer seas. The young man must continue his woo- 
 ing from the street, the lady remaining in the bal- 
 cony. After a time the mother of the girl becomes 
 cognizant of the state of affairs, but she, too, was 
 once young and in love, spending hours bending low 
 over the balcony rail talking to her lover below; so 
 she pretends not to see anything at all. But the 
 father! When he finds out what is going on, seems 
 to feel called upon to go into a towering rage, making 
 all manner of threats and warning. He does not 
 
 83 
 
OBIi^a anO (JBtfjelDtefta 
 
 really mean it, or expect it to have any effect what- 
 ever. It is to him just a necessary custom that must 
 be kept up when his daughters are concerned, be- 
 cause the love-making still goes on from the bal- 
 cony, letters still fly between, and there are perhaps 
 a few hurried, impassioned words in the plaza, as 
 the young lady's attendant waits demurely out of 
 hearing. Just before the marriage takes place the 
 young man is, perhaps, given the privilege of calling 
 on his affianced, but always in the presence of the 
 mother, or it may be the entire family. 
 
 While the Mexican girl of the middle and upper 
 classes is bound about by unyielding conventionalities 
 and customs, that have endured with the centuries, 
 the Indian girl is as free as the air she breathes. 
 She comes and goes, on street and plaza, from mar- 
 ket to church, and on excursions of pleasure, alone 
 and unrebuked. She mates as the birds mate, with 
 as little preparation, and as little ceremony. 
 
 Perchance, some day in the market a swarthy young 
 Aztec happens along. He is attracted, perhaps, by a 
 laughing mouth, or the turn of an ankle. To show 
 his state of feelings he may tweak her cheek, poke 
 her in the ribs, or bestow some other such polite 
 attentions, after which he leans against a vegetable 
 booth and grins mawkishly at her. If she likes his 
 appearance she smiles her pleasure; then he, taking 
 her by the hand or pulling her rebozo, leads her away 
 to his home, that is, if he has a home, and if not, 
 she spends the time on the streets. The condition 
 of many of these people is very deplorable, it being 
 said that there are twenty thousand of this class in 
 Mexico City alone who have no bed but the stones 
 on the streets, and no covering but the canopy of 
 
 84 
 
m ^uito 
 
 heaven. This lazzaroni population is the despair of 
 the poHce, and the forlorn hope of the philanthropist. 
 The suggestion that is sometimes heard that they 
 be forcibly deported to the hot country to work on the 
 haciendas is only a facile and supercilious one. These 
 people have been a factor of Mexican life since the 
 days M^hen Mexico City was Tenochtitlan, and are 
 liable to remain so. 
 
 In 1823 H. G. Ward, the British charge d'affairs, 
 a shrewd observer of the country and its people, 
 wrote: "By far the most disagreeable part of Mexico 
 is its lazzaroni population * * * Dress, they have 
 none; a blanket full of holes for the men, and a tat- 
 tered petticoat for the women, form the utmost extent 
 of the attire of each." — and this is true even to this 
 day. 
 
 The attire of many of the women of the populacho 
 consists of a coarse cotton chemise, a blanket skirt 
 drawn tight across the back, the entire fulness in the 
 front, and if she has attained to the age of woman- 
 hood, a blue rebozo suspended from the neck and 
 containing a diminutive piece of humanity. 
 
 The women of the servant class wear rather short 
 full skirts, a short basque or loose waist, very sharp- 
 pointed shoes, and the hair in two long braids down 
 the back. 
 
 The men of this class, the mozos, cargadores and 
 street venders, wear loose white coats, tight trousers 
 with a spring at the ankle, and the eternal sombrero. 
 Sometimes it is said the entire wealth of the family 
 is contained in one of these splendid head adorn- 
 ments. 
 
 The most picturesque of the costumes worn by the 
 men are those of the gendarmes, and one imported 
 
 8s 
 
OBli^a anO dBtftelHrena 
 
 hundreds of years ago from some province in Spain, 
 known as the charo costumes. The gendarmes wear 
 dark blue, close-fitting braided coats, trousers of the 
 same color bagging over tall laced boots, white gloves 
 and military caps. 
 
 The charo dress is usually of leather or heavy cloth 
 consisting of tight trousers with coins or fringe^ up 
 the sides and coats similarly trimmed, coming just 
 to the waist. 
 
 While the condition of the populace is confessedly 
 forlorn and discouraging, still one who takes the 
 trouble to note the interest they manifest for the fine 
 arts cannot regard their state as altogether hopeless. 
 
 You will notice how they gather about the art shop 
 windows, eagerly devouring every detail of an en- 
 graving, studying the photographs and paintings. 
 They note every particular of the mechanical and 
 scientific devices displayed in the windows — ^the writ- 
 ing machines, optical instruments, phonographs, sew- 
 ing machines and all such appliances. 
 
 That the uplift of these people is a sore and 
 puzzling problem to the sociologist and philanthropist 
 cannot be gainsaid; still that there is much to en- 
 courage must also be admitted. 
 
 The awakened interest in charities and charitable 
 institutions, the enlarged and broadened facilities of 
 the public schools and the yearly increase of the at- 
 tendance are all favorable indications. 
 
 The desire for improvement and advancement is 
 noticeable particularly among the women who seem to 
 have been touched by the spirit of the Great West, 
 who seem to long for something different — something 
 more elevating than they have known. 
 
 One cannot help but admire these women of the 
 
in ^mto 
 
 servant class who with cleanly bodies and garments, 
 steadfast and earnest of purpose, faithfully go about 
 performing the duties assigned them. 
 
 But yet the Indian girl, with all her lack of educa- 
 tion and uplifting influences, is on the whole, if she 
 has plenty to eat and wear, as happy as the girl or 
 woman of the higher classes. 
 
 To an American the life of a Mexican woman 
 seems severely ordered. She is brought up in the 
 seclusion of home and the convent or small private 
 school under the strictest guardianship. There are 
 few opportunities for outside influences to creep in 
 and interfere with the carefully trained habits molded 
 by nun and priest. The customs brought from old 
 Spain still continue, and the woman is moulded to 
 fit them. 
 
 She is seldom permitted to leave home either as 
 daughter or wife unless attended by some female 
 member of the family or servant. On occasions she 
 makes a few conventional calls, but social functions 
 are rare, and she attends those only under the strictest 
 chaperonage. 
 
 They have no clubs, no societies, no "pink teas" ; 
 but one thing they do have, that constant delight of 
 the human heart, and that is — gossip ; for the Mexican 
 woman is a born gossip when the opportunity offers. 
 
 Her time by force of conditions is occupied by the 
 learning of accomphshments and the practice of 
 religious observances, rather than with the serious 
 branches of education or domestic requirements. 
 
 She considers manual labor altogether beneath her, 
 and as servants are so plentiful and cheap it is not 
 necessary that she labor with her hands. 
 
 But w4th all her retirement and seclusion from the 
 
 87 
 
€li5a anD (EtfielDtelia 
 
 world I am impressed how early she seems to know 
 and understand the intense, the mysterious things of 
 life. 
 
 To an American girl in her teens, life and the 
 stress of it are as nebulous as the Milky Way. With 
 her untrammeled youth, her friends, her outdoor 
 sports, education and travel, her mind remains fresher 
 and more wholesome. She learns, perhaps, the tragic 
 impassioned emotions that come to some. 
 
 The American girl has even gran pasiones, but it is 
 life that teaches these things to her — but the Mexican 
 girl, even in early youth, dreams of throwing herself 
 into the arms of her lover, waiting below, of a flight, 
 leaving all behind. 
 
 The American girl expects to get married some day, 
 it is true, but she dreams of a big wedding, of be- 
 witching bridesmaids, flowers and music, a husband 
 that will be all devotion and tenderness, with money 
 for all things needful. She will love the man, of 
 course, as she never under any circumstances con- 
 siders marrying without love — in her dreams — ^but 
 there are no tragedies and no melodramas in her vision 
 of the future. 
 
 It is to the male population of Mexico that the 
 gods are the most kind. He and the children receive 
 the lion's share of all favors bestowed ; woman occupy- 
 ing a rather inconsequential and unimportant sphere. 
 It is he who basks in the liberties and privileges that 
 she is denied. 
 
 By ones, twos, threes and dozens he loiters in the 
 plazas, eats and drinks in the restaurants while his 
 womankind looks on from carefully barred windows, 
 or drives under strict surveillance up and down the 
 paseo, or walks sedately along the streets. 
 
in 9@eiico 
 
 Not all the men of Mexico are frivolous, by any 
 means; there are many earnest, serious business and 
 professional men among them, and not a few pro- 
 found scholars; but a great many, especially those of 
 Spanish birth, are idle, gay and volatile, always on 
 the lookout for intrigue and adventure. 
 
 Whether, however, he is serious, profound or friv- 
 olous, he is, to a man, a born Sir Launcelot. 
 
 The marriage vow to him is a gossamer web, lightly 
 brushed aside by the first glance from alluring eyes 
 or the first bewitching face. 
 
 **Ah," said the little seamstress, one day, our Anita 
 with lambent eyes and a voice with a coo in it, "you 
 Americans are so cold, cold; you do not know what 
 it is to love — to love really. You know there is a 
 story among us that many years ago, when the world 
 was young, Popocatapetl madly loved the beautiful 
 white lady. For ages and ages he tried with prayers, 
 passionate pleadings, and threatenings, to win her, 
 but with haughty disdain and contempt she repulsed 
 him, and drew her white robe of chastity more closely 
 about her." 
 
 "And what about poor Popo?" I asked as Anita 
 paused to take some pins from her mouth. "Well, 
 senorita, he blazed in his fury and disappointment, 
 his fires bursting forth in rage and destruction, but 
 she was in no way overcome, and looked up at him 
 in coldness and unconcern. But," went on Anita, as 
 she adjusted the flounce on my reception gown, "I do 
 not think she repulsed him on account of her great 
 chastity, sefiorita — no — that was not the reason, it 
 was because she did not really love him. 
 
 "One evening I went to the theater with Manuel, 
 and the French woman in the play rushed onto the 
 
 89 
 
OBIi^a anD ©tftelOreDa 
 
 stage and passionately embraced her lover. A little 
 later an American woman came out and with folded 
 arms calmly said, 'I love — ^you.' She was the stately 
 white lady." 
 
 ''But Anita," I said, ''hasn't your lover a wife?" 
 I have heard that he has." "Yes," calmly replied the 
 little seamstress, turning her soft eyes up to me. 
 "But," she continued passionately, "he does not love 
 her; he loves me — only me." "Yes, Anita," I asked, 
 "but is that right?" "Who can say?" she carefully 
 replied. "Sefiorita," she went on, with a coo in her 
 voice, "he loves me with his whole heart ; he has told 
 me so millions of times, and I love him the same. 
 He never loved his wife when he married her. She 
 is not amiable; she is not lovely; and, sefiorita, love 
 excuses everything," 
 
 That, I find, is the creed of the Latins. "Perhaps, 
 Anita, in your land and among your people; but in 
 my country nothing condones the breaking of the mar- 
 riage vow. Love has nothing to do with it at all." 
 "What a cold and heartless creed yours is," com- 
 mented Anita with compassion. 
 
 *'But have you Americans no sins? Have you not 
 divorces, many of them, and many marriages?" 
 
 As I walked away from Anita, I went in thoughtful 
 mood. I pondered on the many hasty marriages, the 
 hasty divorces and the more hasty after marriages. 
 
 Which, I thought, is the false standard? Which 
 is the greatest national sin? Little Anita keeping 
 faith in her faithfulness, honor in her dishonor, or 
 the rapid and shameless passage from one husband to 
 another. 
 
 "How marry you Americans?" inquired fifteen- 
 year-old Jorge, one day. Jorge's father is a member 
 
 90 
 
in a^e^icp 
 
 of President Diaz's cabinet, and as Jorge aspires to 
 be a statesman some day,, he is anxious to learn the 
 language and customs of the Americans. 
 
 "Just about as they do in your country," I replied. 
 "A minister performs the ceremony just as the priest 
 does, and there is music and flowers and beautiful 
 clothes. "Yes, I know that is the way the Christians 
 marry, but how marry the Protestantes ?" "Just the 
 same," I replied. "They do not remain always mar- 
 ried, do they? They have deevorcees every two years, 
 is it not?" "Not all of them," I answered, and the 
 words of Burns of blessed memory came to my mind. 
 
 "Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, to see our- 
 sels as ithers see us." 
 
 I had seen the vision it is not every one's privilege 
 to see — the vision of our land as others see it, and 
 the view was not pleasing. 
 
 91 
 
OBlfia ana (Etfieiateaa 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The development of Mexico during the past three 
 or four decades has been one of the miracles of the 
 ages. Like a great chrysalis enwrapped in supersti- 
 tion and apathy she slept while the eternal years rolled 
 by — slept, and knew no waking. 
 
 The Nazarene sailed the sea of Galilee, wrought 
 miracles, and carried his cross to Calvary. Armies 
 thundered down the earth, empires rose and fell, and 
 Mexico still brooded in her lethargy. 
 
 But, in these latter days, there has come a change: 
 the chrysalis is beginning to stir. Already she has 
 burst her shell, and is spreading out her wings over 
 the coral-reefed southern seas, and over the cloud- 
 topped mountains. In those wings glitter the gems 
 of the earth : rubies, topazes, sapphires and pearls, and 
 the veins are of silver and gold. A new hope and con- 
 fidence has come to this rising power, and already 
 her pulse throbs with the pulse of the world. She 
 has builded railroads, tunnels and bridges, has watered 
 the desert and turned the mountain side to account, 
 commerce is increasing and the nations respect her, as 
 she always plays fair. 
 
 Public schools are springing up from the ruins of 
 convents and the monasteries, and the Indian is being 
 taught to read. The picturesque bandits, the Robin 
 Hoods of the tropics, have been driven from their 
 mountain fastnesses and shot, or turned into useful 
 
 92 
 
in S^tmo 
 
 rurales. The flaming light from the great flying 
 engine, shining like a frenzied Cerberus, pierces the 
 purple mists of the tropical nights. There is a dis- 
 aster in New York, a calamity in Paris, and instantly 
 the message flashes down the Sierras. From factories 
 clinging to mountain sides, and a-down the valley of 
 the Lerma, dense clouds of sooty smoke hover low; 
 while tongues of steam hiss into the air, and an elec- 
 tric light shines on the statue of Cuachtemoc ! 
 
 This miraculous change, this marvel of improve- 
 ment, has been wrought in no small degree by the 
 courage, foresightedness and wisdom of one man — the 
 president — Porfirio Diaz, and there is no need of the 
 prophetic power of Cassandra to foresee what other 
 changes the future will bring. There are few rulers 
 on the globe to-day, more absolute than President 
 Diaz, of the Republic of Mexico. Scarcely is the 
 Czar of Russia more absolute, on his gilded throne, 
 than Diaz in his simple chair of state. The principal 
 difference in the government of the two being, how- 
 ever, constituted mainly in the difference between the 
 men. The czar rules with the frightened vehemence 
 of a weakhng, Diaz with the firm hand, the calm as- 
 surance, and sympathetic insight of a diplomat and a 
 loving father. Astute, sagacious, alert, a scholar, 
 a diplomat, and a statesman, he holds the grasp of 
 things with the firmness that denotes the man of 
 power, a nature born to rule. 
 
 It has been said, somewhat in jest, that the govern- 
 ment of Mexico is a Triumvirate, consisting of the 
 cabinet, Mrs. Diaz, the wife of the president, and the 
 president. This, in part, may be true, but, on the 
 whole he rules per se. 
 
 President Diaz's policies are remedial, progressive, 
 93 
 
OBli^a ano ©tfielliteoa 
 
 looking toward the uplift of the nation, and the na- 
 tions' people. They are also mandatory rather than 
 advisory, still are they nearly always wise and just, 
 and the astute of the country realize this. He has 
 tact, zeal, perspicuity of words — a prophet born to 
 the hour — and that final consecration of genius, the 
 power to understand men and conditions with almost 
 infallible discernment. 
 
 Mexico is a country of the most excessive contra- 
 dictions, still it cannot be said to be volatile or un- 
 stable. Nature, with the most audacious trills and 
 interludes, runs the whole arpeggio from the gravest 
 to the gay. Extremes meet in the most expectant 
 and natural way. From the highest pinnacle of wealth 
 and elegance the scale descends to the lowest depth 
 of degradation and vice. 
 
 Fruits of all zones, winds of all climes find a home 
 there. From the frozen crests, the lofty mountains 
 look with disapproval down on the gorgeous plumage 
 of the birds, the flagrant hues of the flowers, and on 
 the voluptuous sons and daughters of the land, where 
 the Sun-god weds with the Princess Poppy. Up on 
 the highlands, the air blows as fresh as from the 
 plains of Araby, distilled with the scent of pine and 
 the odor of the rose, while deep in the swamps the 
 crocodile glides through the slime, and the alligator 
 basks in the sun. Venomous reptiles hiss and writhe, 
 and a miasma comes up from the green scum as 
 deadly as from La Campagna di Roma. 
 
 Mexico is a land of constant delight to the an- 
 tiquarian, no matter what the period or time. Here 
 he may find eighteenth century china, seventeenth 
 century fans, or laces, renaissance paintings, Aztecs' 
 relics, or the pre-historic emblems of the inhabitants 
 
 94 
 
in ^tnco 
 
 of this fair land, who ruled thousands of years before 
 the Christian era. 
 
 Mexico is an extension, in many parts, a virgin 
 field. The archaeologist and the ethnologist, both find 
 an inexhaustible field among her buried antiquities. 
 Ancient cities are unearthed with their time-worn 
 stone columns, suggesting the architecture of Egypt 
 and India. Grim idols are hidden away in temples 
 whose superb proportions vie with those of ancient 
 Greece. 
 
 In the curio stores, national pawn shops, and in the 
 Thieves' Market at the capitol, can be found many 
 rare and beautiful works of art. Exquisitely carved 
 ivory jew^el and patch boxes, crucifixes and rosaries, 
 wonderful hand-wrought ornaments in silver, and 
 scented woods, and bits of the daintiest china. One 
 can sometimes run across sets of majolica vases, of 
 Sevres, Wedgwood and silver, vases of every kind 
 and description. Several enterprising Americans have 
 beautiful collections of Spode that they have gleaned 
 from the poorest Mexican jacals throughout the coun- 
 try. And the exquisite old jewels, rare and costly! 
 I wish you might see them, corals, topazes, diamonds, 
 and rubies, in the quaintest and heaviest settings. 
 
 There are mantillas of creamy Spanish lace that 
 look like woven silver, black lace mantillas, maltese 
 laces, drawn-work in guipure, and Greek designs, 
 miniature bead work, rare paintings of saints and 
 madonnas, and still I might continue the list. 
 
 But, to me, the most interesting of all these things 
 is the native pottery, some of which is grotesque and 
 repulsive in design, while some is beautiful and nat- 
 ural. Quantities of this pottery that have been taken 
 from the tombs of chiefs and other notables, and the 
 
 95 
 
(lBU?a anO OBt&eltitetia 
 
 statuary and rare jade ornaments that came from the 
 ruins of Mitla and Palenque indicate, according to 
 some archaeologists, a Mexican civilization older than 
 that of Persia and Egypt. 
 
 Much of the pottery, both ancient and modern, is 
 archaic in design, embracing some of the most grace- 
 ful and beautiful of these pre-historic potteries. The 
 little terra-cottas, the "earthwork" from Guanajuato 
 are beautiful and interesting in the extreme. 
 
 They depict Mexican life as it is to-day, true and 
 artistic. The knavish street vender, the man with his 
 pigskin of pulque, the young girl and her dove, a 
 child crying over a broken toy, are wrought with a 
 precision as true as life itself. 
 
 From Guadalupe comes the black-glazed ware, heavy 
 pitchers, cups, and other receptacles representing vege- 
 tables, squat animals and birds. The more attractive 
 green-glazed ware comes from Guadalazajara, and 
 the articles of use from Toluca. The most beautiful 
 of these ceramic arts are the terra-cottas, with the 
 mosaic settings made at the little Indian village of 
 San Antonio, just across the gorge from Cuernavaca. 
 The rose jars, teapots, pitchers and other things are 
 the rarest and most truly artistic. It is a picturesque 
 and fascinating scene of a great feast day to watch 
 the little booths spring up around the plazas, wherein 
 are shown the different kinds of pottery, irnages of 
 saints, and amulets for keeping away evil spirits. 
 
 96 
 
in ^ttito 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 I am beginning to entertain grave suspicions that I 
 have become too good-natured and self-sacrificing. 
 Now, this is a fault I particularly do not want to 
 cultivate, as it is prone to degenerate into a vice 
 when it becomes excessive. Not only on my own 
 account do I want to curb this tendency, as it causes 
 me so much discomfort and inconvenience, but it 
 stimulates selfishness on the part of others. As I have 
 grown older, and accumulated more experience in 
 consequence, I have come to say, "Lord, save me from 
 the person who is a maniac on the subject of unsel- 
 fishness." Give me rather the individual who habitu- 
 ally helps himself to the biggest and tenderest stalks 
 of asparagus, the choicest berries, and the best seat 
 at the play. He is far more comfortable to live 
 with. The other type gives all the choicest viands to 
 the other person, relinquishes his seat in the car, car- 
 riage, or at the play, when nobody wants him to do so, 
 and there is no need for it. For thereafter he assumes 
 a martyr-like attitude, and an air of self-glorification 
 that is particularly discredited by the renowned 
 theologian of Tarsus. And by this constant reminder 
 of all he has done for you makes you earnestly 
 wish he had occupied the entire box at the play, or 
 eaten the whole dish of asparagus. The Man in Gray, 
 after a quiet, constrained good-by, went away with 
 that hurt look in his eyes, because I would not go out 
 
 97 
 
(gti^a anP (gtftelDtena 
 
 on the Viga for a row, or a trolley ride across 
 country. Frank was encouraged in his natural mascu- 
 line tendency to disregard the happiness of others, 
 while I was miserable and discontented. And thus 
 I repeat it is not best for one to be too good-natured 
 and self-sacrificing, as it causes more of unhappiness 
 and discontent than it does of pleasure and enjoyment. 
 A happy medium is best, a part of both selfishness and 
 unselfishness, and the world runs well. 
 
 The winged Mercury on his pedestal, at the en- 
 trance to the banana walk, looked on with evident dis- 
 approval, and Artemis, who stood in the fountain 
 sending back sprays of liquid diamond into the basin, 
 glanced, with a woman's curiosity, at Etheldreda as 
 she turned and waved a little affected adieu to Frank 
 as we stood in the balcony, then walked in the other 
 direction. 
 
 For two afternoons now I have stayed indoors and 
 talked to Frank, or, more properly speaking, should 
 say talked at him, while he lounged discontentedly in 
 my most uncertain bamboo chair, strode nervously 
 up and down the corridor, savagely chewing the end 
 of his cigar, or making frequent detours into the 
 balcony to glare wrathfuUy a the young Englishman 
 loitering in the Alameda with Etheldreda. 
 
 For a long time we sat in silence, while the bells 
 of San Fernando clanged insistently, and the doves 
 moaned in the turret. Then, in spirit, I flew out over 
 the sun-steeped city: over the burning streets, the 
 flat house-tops, the shimmering turrets and shadowy 
 domes, and with a non-committal, dusky Charon pro- 
 pelling our beech canoe, seated by the side of my com- 
 panion, whether in silence or in speech it did not mat- 
 ter — drifted out on the Viga. 
 
 98 
 
in ^tmto 
 
 Away to the south stood Ajusco and Las Tres 
 Marias showing, as on rare occasions, as clear cut as 
 so many cameos; now here, and now there were 
 patches of vivid green, and the Viga lay like a silver 
 band, from the city to Lake Xochimilco. Bending 
 low as we disappeared under San Pedro bridge, glid- 
 ing through the shade of a giant aguahuite, that had 
 for a thousand years and more pierced the black loam 
 with its sinuous roots; then on past the floating gar- 
 dens, where the flowers, bizarre in their colors, glowed 
 and trembled, under the caressing touch of the south 
 wind, and the ardent rays of the sun. 
 
 Beyond the haze and the vapor lay Texcoco and her 
 clustered lakes. On her limpid bosom were reflected 
 the pale sea mist, the billowy clouds that tumbled over 
 the chaste White Lady, and the lambent eyes of Aztec 
 maidens, looking into the cool depth to discover the 
 face of a lover. Legions of ducks and geese glided 
 over the smooth surface, or squawked from one vant- 
 age ground to another, while the angular crane and 
 water hen stalked about in the mire. 
 
 A holy calm pervaded the Texcucan Valley, that lay 
 like a bowl surrounded by sun-crowned mountains on 
 the crest of the Sierras. 
 
 The silence was broken only by the song of a 
 caged bird, and the cry of a macaw in the branches 
 of a chirimoya. The wistfulness of a late afternoon 
 crept over the scenes; the scent of the flowers came 
 sweet and heavy, the odor of the violet, the breath 
 of the rose, and an indescribable fragrance, like the 
 soul of a dead mignonette. We floated on — the scene 
 changed, and there was borne to us the smell of dying 
 vegetation, and the lethal poison of crushed night- 
 shade. 
 
 99 
 
(Klija anO OBtftelDreOa 
 
 A white-haired verger carrying a crucifix and an 
 altar cloth passed into a church hidden away in a 
 little Indian village. The bells began to clang, the 
 trolley car to buzz and swing on its way to the city, 
 and 
 
 Things are getting serious with Frank, I am afraid, 
 but what can I do ? I have reasoned with Etheldreda, 
 coaxed and scolded her, and she has come to me with 
 a broken and contrite spirit, promising me she would 
 be good, then go on in the same old way: one week 
 beaming on Frank with the greatest tenderness, the 
 next it was the Englishman, or somebody else. 
 
 I really cannot blame Frank, however, as this bold, 
 young wooer must travel far, and travel wide before 
 he could find a maiden more winsome, adorable and 
 witty than Etheldreda. Dame Nature was in a benefi- 
 cent mood the day she bestowed her gifts on Ethel- 
 dreda, as, in addition to her personal graces, she pos- 
 sesses a ready mind and many a sterling quality. 
 
 That was a wise person in his day and generation, 
 who first called nature "Dame," and if the truth be 
 told, I doubt not it were a man. Nobody not of femi- 
 nine quality could, at one time, shower favors with 
 such unseemly prodigality, and at another dole them 
 out with such niggardly stinginess. Is it not pathetic 
 how few charms some people have and how abundant 
 are those of others? Were I the Recording Angel 
 I should deal gently with those — especially the women 
 — who lack these charms, and know it. 
 
 But Etheldreda, while possessing these good quali- 
 ties of heart and mind, was something of a 
 
 No, I cannot say that the girl was a coquette at 
 all, but the fact truly is that everybody, especially 
 
 lOO 
 
in ^ttito 
 
 the men, loved her, and really could not help them- 
 selves. 
 
 We were walking along Colon some weeks ago, it 
 was Covadonga Day — the Spanish national holiday — 
 and we were returning from a kermesse at San Angel. 
 Suddenly Etheldreda clutched Frank ecstatically by 
 the arm, and with a primrose color flushing her 
 cheeks, and a joy coming into her eyes, exclaimed, 
 "Look ! isn't that the most beautiful thing in Mexico ?" 
 
 Frank never once looked toward the direction to 
 which she pointed, but gazed only at the lovely 
 piquant face so near his arm and with a look in his 
 eyes I had never seen there before. Etheldreda, 
 too, glanced up, and when she beheld the look of the 
 man, the color deepened in her face, and, with a man- 
 ner a little subdued and frightened, she laughingly 
 said, "Oh, stupid! look where I'm pointing," and she 
 again motioned toward the stars and stripes that 
 waved over the American consulate. 
 
 "Yes, that is a fine old rag," replied Frank with 
 some enthusiasm; but I knew from his face that day, 
 and his manner after, that the young Englishman 
 would better look to his laurels. That determined 
 worshipful look on the face of my sturdy young Am- 
 erican meant mischief to somebody. 
 
 "Maria was in ecstasies when I came by there this 
 morning," I remarked after another outburst from 
 Frank. 
 
 "What caused Maria's ecstasies?" inquired my 
 visitor, from the balcony, and with the supreme in- 
 difference of a young man toward one maiden when 
 he is intensely interested in another. 
 
 "Why, Carlos came with her wedding dress, and 
 
 lOI 
 
©li^a anD ©tftelDtena 
 
 it was lovely. A soft, glistening satin, trimmed in 
 guipure and appliqued designs in seed pearls and " 
 
 "Why did Carlos take the dress home? Is he act- 
 ing as delivery boy for Madame D ?" asked 
 
 Frank, looking with unseeing eyes at a pale copy 
 of Thumann's "Spring." 
 
 "Well, he has a right to take it, I presume, con- 
 sidering he bought and paid for it." 
 
 "Bought and paid for it?" repeated the young man 
 in evident surprise. "How did he happen to do 
 that?" 
 
 "Why, don't you know that the prospective groom 
 selects and pays for the whole trousseau in this 
 country ?" 
 
 "No — I didn't. Does he, now, honor bright?" said 
 Frank incredulously, and arranging the pin in his 
 tie. 
 
 "Honor bright; every stitch of it." 
 
 **The dresses, stockings, lingerie — and everything?" 
 
 "Everything," I replied. 
 
 "Well, I'll be Say," he inquired, bending to- 
 ward me, a roguish twinkle in his eye, "say, now, 
 how do they get the measurements?" 
 
 Now this phase of the subject had never presented 
 itself to my feminine mind, and I said so. 
 
 "Never even thought of it?" again repeated young 
 Mr. Carpenter with incredulity. "Well, how do you 
 suppose they do?" he persisted; then throwing back 
 his big blond head, burst into a roar of laughter, 
 that naughty American boy. 
 
 102 
 
in ^nito 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 It would be difficult to say which is more peculiarly 
 national and of more general utility in Mexico, the 
 maguey plant, the frijole, or the blue robozo of the 
 women. 
 
 From the maguey plant, pulque, the national drink 
 of the lower and middle classes is made, and its roots 
 produce mescal, Mexican whiskey. The sharp, spiny 
 ends of the leaves are used as pins and needles, the 
 fibre for thread, and the dried leaves as covering for 
 the adobe huts of the Indians. 
 
 As for the frijoles, who can say what would be the 
 fate of the Mexican republic if its supply of frijoles 
 were cut short for any length of time. An Aztec's 
 life without beans would be barren indeed, and the 
 aristocrat would fare little better ; but the blue cotton 
 rebozo of the Indian women occupies a place of its 
 own, at once unique and interesting. With it draped 
 about her head, she shields herself from the sun and 
 the weather. On great feast days it is worn sedately 
 or coquettishly around her shoulders as an ornament. 
 With it she encourages her lover, or repels him. At 
 night she folds it and puts it under her head for a 
 pillow, and last, but not least, it is used as a recep- 
 tacle for the baby hanging about the mother's neck 
 as she goes about her duties or trotting down the 
 street. 
 
 103 
 
(Elt^a anD CtfteiateBa 
 
 And the pulque ! Well, it cannot be described, but 
 must be tasted and smelled to be understood. I have 
 never bought any myself, but when Francisca goes 
 out for her daily allowance of beans, tortillas and 
 chile — with a dash of meat — she always gets a little 
 pulque, as Aztecs consider water eminently unwhole- 
 some. Francisca, on several occasions, has tempted 
 me to drink a little of this beverage, and, for her 
 amusement, I tried to do so, she standing by, con- 
 vulsed with laughter, holding the cup to my lips while 
 I held my nose. As I have said, you cannot de- 
 scribe the taste of pulque, but it is something like a 
 combination of stale buttermilk, sour yeast and bad 
 beer, and if such a thing be possible, the smell is 
 even worse. 
 
 There is one thing that every visitor to Mexico 
 must reckon with, and that is the flea. 
 
 *'Oh, a small thing," you say; yes, that's just where 
 the trouble comes in. If it were bigger you might 
 better combat the ferocity of its attacks; but, un- 
 fortunately, its size is not commensurate with its 
 bite. 
 
 I am sure that Mr. Johnson had the Mexican flea 
 in mind when he wrote: 
 
 The flea 
 Is wee. 
 
 But, mercy me! 
 It's just as big as it can be. 
 If bigness wuz 
 As bigness does 
 'T would be as big — as, 
 Dear me Suz." 
 104 
 
in Q^tmo 
 
 I shall never forget the first time I was bitten by- 
 one of these aborigines. It was late at night when, 
 suddenly, I was awakened by the sharpest and most 
 villainous bite I had ever experienced. That I had 
 not been attacked by a centipede or, at least, a taran- 
 tula, nothing could have convinced me. From child- 
 hood I have possessed, I presume, what you might 
 call an abnormal imagination. I could feel the poison- 
 ous venom coursing through my blood. My heart 
 began to beat rapidly and my arm to swell — I would 
 have sworn it. At last, when I could bear it no 
 longer, I called Francisca, who came running to me, 
 a lighted candle held high above her head, her dense 
 black braids crossed over her breast. 
 
 'Jesus Maria! Seiiorita, que tienes !" she ex- 
 claimed, as she beheld me sitting bolt upright by the 
 bed. 
 
 "Francisca!" I tragically exclaimed, "come here; 
 I am sure I am in a very serious condition. Some 
 venomous insect has bitten me. Look on the bed!" 
 
 Francisca turned pale, called on Mary and all the 
 saints ; then walked boldly up to the bed. She shook 
 the sheets and bed clothes, peeped down the pillow 
 cases, searched all over the top of the bed and under 
 it, but without avail. 
 
 "There is nothing, senorita," she assured me with 
 conviction. *T can find nothing." 
 
 ''But, something has bitten me, Francisca; I will 
 swear to it. Look here, on my arm, and see the 
 wound." 
 
 Francisca carefully and tenderly rolled back the 
 sleeve of my gown, and, bending over, peered at the 
 wounded member; then, with an exclamation of 
 mingled relief and disgust, she said: 
 
 105 
 
(Bli^a anO OEtftelDreDa 
 
 "Una pulga, senorita," and, looking, I saw the un- 
 mistakable red spot these little wretches always leave 
 as their trade mark. 
 
 Maria and Carlos were married in the little church 
 of Santa Tereza last Thursday, and I miss her gay, 
 vivacious chatter and sprightly badinage very much. 
 
 It was rather a pretty wedding, despite the fact 
 that one or two filthy beggars hung about the nave, 
 and the people were coming and going to and from 
 mass and the confessional, all during the ceremony. 
 
 Maria looked beautiful and as stately as her short 
 and rather stout figure would permit. Her stiff white 
 satin gown had a court train, the tulle veil reached 
 to the floor, and on her head was a crown of arti- 
 ficial orange blossoms. After the wedding ceremony 
 she and Carlos went to a photographer — according 
 to an unbroken custom — and had their pictures taken, 
 Carlos sitting, bolt upright, in a high-back chair, she 
 standing by his side, her hand on his shoulder. A 
 Mexican is not really married till he goes through 
 this ceremony, and just such a picture as I have de- 
 scribed hangs in every home. They have been gone 
 a week now and Maria writes me that they have 
 journeyed to the southward, and that each day has 
 been a golden processional. They are going to house- 
 keeping out on the Paseo when they come back, and 
 our little company, Etheldreda, Frank, the Man in 
 Gray, Pelleas and Ettarre and myself have a standing 
 invitation to take dinner with them twice a month. 
 Sefiora B is inconsolable, and weeps on my shoul- 
 der every time I see her, "She was my only child ; my 
 first born and my last; my little wee lamb," she 
 moans. "My husband went away years ago to the 
 skies, and now my Maria has gone; but I should 
 
 io6 
 
in ^mco 
 
 not grieve so much because last year Carlos became 
 very jealous and did not come to the balcony to 
 talk to her for many weeks, and, Oh, Jesus ! I thought 
 my little girl would die. But," went on Senora, "she 
 took some alms to the great Saint Andrew, and prayed 
 to him, and he was very kind and heard her prayer, 
 so Carlos came back. Yes, senorita, he is the most 
 gracious saint. If your lover is angry, or is untrue, 
 or you should need money, and you will go to Saint 
 Andrew in the Church of Our Lady of Lourdes he 
 will make things all right for you. Only," she added 
 naively,^ ''he does not always answer your prayer. 
 Sometimes he wants to try your faith." I miss Maria 
 not only on account of her gay vivacity, her ready wit 
 and humor and frequent informal visits, but also on 
 account of her constant efforts to save me from ac- 
 cident or death. 
 
 I have said that President Diaz is the ruler of 
 Mexico, but there are those whose powers are more 
 absolute, who are even greater autocrats than the 
 president; namely, the hack drivers of the country. 
 
 Each city is the owner of a system of coaches, the 
 different grades being indicated by the color of the 
 trimmings. The most luxurious are the blue coaches, 
 the commonly used, red, being next in order, and the 
 despised yellow coming last, and hiring for sixteen 
 cents an hour. The drivers of the coaches, great, 
 pulque-soaked Mephistopheles, go hallooing down the 
 street, slashing and jerking their horses and trying 
 to run down everything that dare come in the way. 
 The rich and the poor, the high and the low, alike flee 
 before the flying vehicles and their brutish drivers. 
 
 People, generally, and especially the natives, when 
 they reach a street crossing look anxiously up and 
 
 107 
 
OEIi^a anD (KtfielDreaa 
 
 down, then make a dash as if for Hfe. When 1 am 
 on the street with Maria she seems to feel it her 
 duty, as well as pleasure, to watch over me; so at 
 every street corner she clutches me frantically by the 
 arm, and, looking quickly up and down, says, tragic- 
 ally, "Eliza, do stop ! don't you see there's a coach 
 coming! You Americans are so reckless." I came 
 in the other day after making a particularly narrow 
 escape and said, *'Etheldreda, there is one request I 
 want to make of you, and that is, that if I am run 
 down and killed by a yellow coach you will not let 
 it get into the papers. You will have it a red coach 
 at least." "Yes," she replied, ''I will gladly grant 
 that promise, if you will promise me if I die in Mexico 
 you will not let them put a wreath of tin flowers on 
 me." Why Mexicans submit to such indignities I 
 cannot understand, unless it is for the same reason 
 we Americans submit to having several tens of thou- 
 sands of ourselves mutilated and murdered in rail- 
 road and street car wrecks every year. In Mexico 
 when there is a wreck, the conductor and engineer, 
 who are almost universally Americans, flee to the bor- 
 der into the States, just as though they were crimi- 
 nals, and, in fact, are treated as such. This, on first 
 thought, seems very severe, until it is known that 
 wrecks of any kind are extremely rare in President 
 Diaz's country — American government — take notice 
 — and that they do not grow more frequent as with 
 us. 
 
 Etheldreda came excitedly into my room yesterday 
 afternoon and said, in a stage whisper, "Eliza, come 
 out here; I think the man in the next vivienda and 
 his visitors are going to have a fight." I took an in- 
 different turn or two in the corridor and then came 
 
 io8 
 
in ^tmo 
 
 back. "Oh, no, Etheldreda, there is no dangfer; 
 they are just having an amiable, though animated, 
 discussion as to the respective merits of 'Figaro' and 
 'Rigoletto.' " I did not blame Etheldreda for think- 
 ing as she did. I remember when I was new to the 
 country and its people I would see two men rush ex- 
 citedly up, and clasping their arms around each other, 
 begin gesticulating and talking in the most earnest and 
 vehement way. My heart would actually stand still as 
 the thought flashed through my mind that there was 
 going to be a fight. But, after talking thus for a 
 few minutes, they would burst out laughing, embrace 
 each other affectionately and tenderly, and, after a 
 prolonged handshake, each went his way. It has been 
 said that a Mexican cannot talk if you tie his hands 
 behind his back, and while I have never seen it dem- 
 onstrated, am prepared to accept the statement as 
 true. 
 
 109 
 
(Bli^a a«B €tbtinum 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Vera Cruz is not a particularly interesting place 
 in itself, except that there you may take ship for 
 your **ain countrie," but the route down leads you 
 through some of the grandest, most majestic scenery 
 in this Httle world of ours, and should not be over- 
 looked, if it is the initial experience. 
 
 Taking the Queen's Own, you follow the old stone- 
 paved highway, that stretches from the port of 
 Vera Cruz to Mexico City, the road along which Cor- 
 tez brought his army of invasion. 
 • Through fields of maguey, and the lush alfalfa, past 
 flower and fruit gardens, and little Indian villages, 
 quaint and ancient, hidden away in verdant groves, 
 and over wayward streams that go tossing on to 
 the sea. Under the purple west, Texcoco and her 
 teeming lakes glitter like polished silver, mountains 
 approach and recede, and Mexico City Hes across the 
 valley, forever changing, mystical, strange, under her 
 wonderful Chiaroscuro, her fading minarets, and di- 
 minishing domes. 
 
 The train plunges madly on, the distance lengthens, 
 and she slowly filters out of sight through the mists, 
 a vanishing dream, a passing enchantment. 
 
 Every hour of the way, new pictures are unfolded 
 before you, pictures subHme and grand, pictures peace- 
 ful and fair, pictures of the rarest, most wonderful 
 beauty. Passing through tunnels that cut into the very 
 heart of the mountains, into rock-ribbed rugged 
 
 IIO 
 
in ^tmto 
 
 gorges, upward and upward, through ethereal vapors 
 to the very home of the clouds. Now, perhaps you 
 may see and understand all those mysteries of cloud 
 and haze, may read the story of storm and showers, 
 the story of the changing mists, the nebulous 
 vapors, and of the rain drops that ooze through it 
 all. You may perhaps learn the very texture of the 
 fleecy clouds, the wonder of the varying forms, and 
 touch the rainbow with your hands. 
 
 But you may chase them to their lair, and it is 
 always the same; elusive, unattainable, a vaporous 
 relucent ignis fatuus, always just a little beyond, or 
 above, the rainbow, showing diaphanous and cold. 
 The clouds as white and feathery as the foam of 
 the sea, or black and dense as a winter's night. Al- 
 ways to the north with his sun-crowned head topping 
 the sky, his feet bathed in perennial springs looms 
 Mount Orizaba. Long ages past the last spark died 
 from the smouldering embers, the molten lava lies 
 congealed on his sides, and he sits in fervid inactivity 
 looking out toward Colima, as he wrathfully belches 
 forth lava and flames. 
 
 The scene changes with every revolution of the 
 wheel. There are mountains here, and there and 
 everywhere. You gaze down into luxurious valleys, 
 into impenetrable gorges and deep barrancas, up 
 rugged steeps, and unexplored crags and peaks, into 
 dizzy heights. And the unspeakable beauty of it all ! 
 
 The ages have come, and the ages have gone, 
 leaving each its quota of beauty, wealth, utility. 
 Porphyry, granite and marble, rubies, sapphires and 
 pearls, strata and sub-strata, lava, fire and heat, the 
 wind, rain and dew, froth and foam, the great sea 
 over it all. Aeons of verdure, cycles of snow. Truly, 
 
 III 
 
(Bli^a anD (BtUltium 
 
 only the fool hath said in his heart, "There is no 
 God." 
 
 Along in the afternoon the highest point is reached, 
 and it seems as though you will soon invade the very 
 celestial regions, but all of a sudden you go down, 
 down out of the clouds and mists, into a cypress 
 swamp. Green slime covers the rotting logs, rep- 
 tiles glide about in the mire, and uncanny air plants 
 cHng to the trees, immersed in impenetrable gloom. 
 Again an upward climb is begun. Back and forth 
 up the wooded side of a mountain, around his lofty 
 crest, and you drop into the quaint old town of Cor- 
 dova, the gateway to La Tierra Caliente, the heart of 
 the tropics. 
 
 No need to go to Africa or India to see the 
 jungles, as you have them here before your eyes 
 in Mexico; the jungles with all their wild, untamed 
 vegetation, and their fierce and untamed animals and 
 beasts of prey. 
 
 Nor need you go to Egypt to view the pyramids, 
 the ruins and temples. Nor to Switzerland to gaze 
 upon snow-capped mountains, nor yet to Italy for 
 works of art, for Mexico abounds in all that is quaint 
 and picturesque. 
 
 The houses of the peons in this region are made 
 of cane and thatched with straw, and the people are 
 more conspicuous even than those of the upland for 
 their undress. They need to work but little, as there 
 is food for the plucking, and the dress at all seasons 
 of the year is of the smallest consequence. All about 
 you is the tropical luxuriance ; groves of mahogany, 
 rosewood and copal, plantations of coffee and rubber. 
 Reptiles and insects infest the deep woods, and blood- 
 thirsty animals spring on their prey. Monkeys chatter 
 
 112 
 
in ^enco 
 
 among the trees and swing from branch to branch, 
 and gay-plumaged birds scold from ambush. 
 
 The train gHdes on through swamps and fertile 
 valleys, past huge begonias, orchids, fuchias weighted 
 down with purple and crimson bells ; ripened fruit, and 
 spices gone to waste, on into Vera Cruz, sitting by 
 the sea. 
 
 The sun sank into a sapphire mist as we reached 
 our hotel, the last radiant gleams filling every house 
 with the coveted "golden windows" and bestudding 
 each minaret and turret with scintillating gems. The 
 twilight hush stole over the city. A myriad fireflies 
 lit up the night with phosphorescent glow, and the 
 wind slept on the foam of the sea. 
 
 There are a number of modern manufactures and 
 enterprises in Vera Cruz, a world of ancient houses 
 discolored by time, and the salt sea winds, and a 
 church, earthquake-riven from tiled nave to glazed 
 dome. The most beautiful sight about the place, 
 however, is the great southern sea lying in front and 
 stretching away and away to the low dunes on 
 Louisiana's shore and the coral reefs of Florida. 
 
 As you stand out to sea and look back upon the 
 town compact against her magical changing back- 
 ground, with here and there a lonely palm tree stand- 
 ing out in the midst of the rich tropical growth, 
 Vera Cruz looks like an old world mosaic, in fading 
 tans, dull mauves and discolored pinks and grays. 
 
 To the south, the north and west lays the great 
 country of the Montezumas with her varied and won- 
 derful scenery, her strange vegetation, and stranger 
 animals, her fascinations and contradictions, her 
 ruined temples, pyramids and undeciphered hiero- 
 glyphics, her adobe ruins and works of art. 
 
 113 
 
(Eli^a anil CtftelDreBa 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Some weeks ago Maria took Etheldreda and me one 
 afternoon to call on her godmother, the Senora Del 
 Valle. It was the day of the feast of Our Lady of 
 the Snows, in consequence of which we dressed in 
 our best dresses, and engaged the most dazzling blue 
 coach Francisca could find on the Paseo. 
 
 The Seriora Del Valle lives in a brownstone house 
 within about a stone's throw from La Puerta de Vera 
 Cruz. The fortress-like doors would easily have 
 withstood the siege of Queretero, but instead of the 
 knocker being a long, slender brass hand, it was a 
 round ring encircled in laurel. The patio was paved 
 in slabs of black and white marble, and the marble 
 stairway leading up to the living apartments, held a 
 brass balustrade. In one corner of the patio stood 
 the family close carriage, but most of the lower floor, 
 as is so frequently the case even among the rich and 
 aristocratic, was used for offices and other places of 
 business. 
 
 When we reached the second floor, however, we 
 felt we had left the world of barter and exchange 
 behind, and had entered a tropical hanging garden. 
 Over the trellis, that separated the front from the 
 back corridor, roses clambered, maman cochets, white 
 souperts, safranas, all sending out an odor of earth 
 and blossom. In large pots around the corridor 
 were huge palms, giant fuschias, hibiscus, blue and 
 
 114 
 
in ^mto 
 
 white begonias and ferns. A sphinx-like Mozo, bare- 
 foot, but wearing a twenty-five-dollar sombrero, con- 
 ducted us up the stairway and along the corridor, till 
 we were met by the personal maid of the sefiora, who 
 seated us in the parlor. 
 
 The glory of every Mexican house is the parlor, 
 or sala. Often it happens when the salary is small 
 and the family large, the only pretense at elegance 
 is found in the parlor, the other rooms being cheerless, 
 with little attempt at comfort or convenience. It is 
 sometimes the case that, like the churches, the in- 
 terior of Mexican residences is disappointing; the 
 drapery, upholstering, and general appearance being 
 too heavy and stiff. I have seen one or two excep- 
 tionally handsome and attractive parlors that were 
 furnished in Louis XVI designs, others not quite so 
 handsome in Marie Antoinette, and a few in the awful 
 Rococo. A great deal of gilt furniture is used 
 throughout the entire republic, and this is almost 
 universally in the best taste, and of the most beau- 
 tiful and delicate designs. 
 
 The bedrooms, even in the houses of the wealthy, 
 are often rather shabby, the worn Brussels carpets 
 from the other rooms being used in them. My lady's 
 toilet table is always well filled, however, as Mexican 
 women are universally fond of cosmetics and per- 
 fumes, and all the many accessories to woman's toilet. 
 On the washstand is the largest basin you have ever 
 seen, generally of porcelain and of the daintiest and 
 most exquisite colors and decorations. In these bed- 
 rooms, and, occasionally, in out-of-the-way hotels or 
 bath houses, you come across pieces of old furniture 
 that are so beautiful and rare it makes you heartsick 
 with envy. 
 
 115 
 
OBIi^a attD OBtftelDteaa 
 
 The dining room of a Mexican house is usually 
 rather plain and severe, only a little coarse china 
 showing on the sideboard, as all the fine china and 
 silverware must be kept under lock and key. 
 
 The kitchen is, to my mind, rather picturesque, with 
 its big terra-cotta brazero — a long furnace made of 
 brick, for cooking — and its array of baskets filled 
 with all manner of things from the markets, and the 
 walls with their coverings of cups, mugs, pitchers, 
 and all kinds of pottery hung upon nails. 
 
 Mexicans have three meals a day, with nothing 
 served between except when there are visitors, then 
 wine and cake is brought in. 
 
 Breakfast is a very informal affair, consisting of 
 rolls, and coffee — and beans, "nationales," as the 
 Americans very appropriately call them. 
 
 Dinner is served from one to three, and there are 
 usually six or seven courses, commencing always with 
 soup and small French rolls. Then there is a meat 
 course, veal, fish or chicken, perhaps with salad, fol- 
 lowed by rice, fried eggs or some vegetable, another 
 meat course, usually one of the native dishes, then a 
 dulce of some kind — wine being served during the 
 entire meal except with dessert. Afterwards coffee — 
 and beans. This is an ordinary meal, but when there 
 are great dinings among the wealthy there are often 
 more than twenty courses served. 
 
 I wish you might taste some of these native dishes, 
 young duck with pineapple sauce, for instance, and 
 roast chicken stuffed with just a soupgon of garlic, 
 which, by the way, is all of garlic you need, and you 
 cannot say you have really lived if you have never 
 tasted mole de guajolote, a remarkable rendering of 
 
 Ii6 
 
in ^nito 
 
 turkey with a tomato sauce, containing all the delec- 
 table spices and herbs that grow on the face of the 
 globe. Then there are enchiladas, pigeon pie, and 
 mutton that marinates for days in claret and strong 
 vinegar, with shallots, tarragon, spices, grated onion, 
 bay leaves, rice, marjoram, and all the rest of grand- 
 mother's garden. 
 
 Supper, like the breakfast, is usually a light meal, 
 and among the natives is served anywhere from eight 
 to eleven. There is probably some cold meat left from 
 dinner, rolls, rice, tea — and beans. 
 
 As I was saying, in every Mexican parlor a large 
 gilt mirror hangs upon the wall. Some of these mir- 
 rors are colossal as to size, the framing being in the 
 most exquisite designs, while others are rather ornate 
 in adornment. Under this mirror is placed a sofa 
 and four companion chairs, two rockers, and two 
 straight, in the form of an open square. The servant 
 who admits you seats you in one of these chairs. It 
 is a special mark of favor to be asked to sit on the 
 sofa, I am told, though the rockers on each side, also, 
 denote that you are considered of some social impor- 
 tance. When the hostess enters the room you must 
 arise; she will request you to be seated, motioning 
 either to the chairs or sofa, but you must refuse. Then 
 she again waves her hand, and begs you to be seated, 
 remaining herself standing all this time; but you mo- 
 tion to her to be seated first, your manner indicating 
 firm decision. The hostess then lays her hand on your 
 arm, and supplicates you to be seated before herself, 
 but you, with a demeanor that indicates you would 
 suffer torture first, remain standing. Then after an- 
 other pleading appeal, and unchangeable resolution on 
 
 117 
 
OBli^a anO (EtftelDteDa 
 
 both sides, the lady motions with cordial grace toward 
 the sofa — or chair — and you with smiling inclination 
 drop into a seat. 
 
 Of course, you knew from the first, and the lady 
 knew from the first, that you would do just this thing, 
 but the foregoing ceremony could not have been omit- 
 ted under any circumstances. 
 
 When we were seated after the entrance of Senora 
 Del Valle, I saw that she was a little old woman, with 
 rather a hard face, though vivacious and witty in con- 
 versation. She was dressed in plain black with full 
 skirt and loose waist, but she wore a piece of rare old 
 lace about her neck, and her fingers were covered with 
 rings, most of them diamonds. 
 
 A servant, after a time, brought in wine and little 
 sweet cakes, which she served on a gold-lined waiter, 
 and cups to match. The senora was very agreeable, 
 telling us a number of sketchy stories of the reign of 
 Maximillian. one or two being piquant and naughty, 
 the others pathetic or tragical. 
 
 I was delighted after a time, however, when our 
 hostess told Maria to show us about the parlor, and 
 the library beyond; delighted not only on account of 
 the privilege of looking at the beautiful things about 
 us, but because of Etheldreda. During the entire visit 
 we had been sitting bolt upright — despite the inviting 
 velvet cushions behind us — listening in the most con- 
 ventional attitudes and manners to all the senora had 
 to say. We did all this following the initiative of 
 Maria, and the strain was becoming a little too much 
 for Etheldreda, who had giggled once or twice at the 
 most touching point in madame's story, notwithstand- 
 ing several black looks from Maria. Maria stands in 
 great awe of her godmother, and is always in her 
 
 ii8 
 
in a^exiCD 
 
 most conventional and unapproachable manners when 
 in her presence, which, by the way, is not savine a 
 little. ^ 
 
 But the parlor was surely worth while. We sank 
 ankle deep into the pile of dark sage green moquette, 
 all covered with sprays of pale pink roses that stretched 
 away to the wall. 
 
 There were great Corinthian pillars here and there 
 about the spacious room — which occupied the whole 
 front of the house— designed both to add ornament, 
 and hold up the ceiling as well. 
 
 The furniture was all in gilt of the usual pleasing 
 design. There must have been eight or ten suits, like 
 the one under the mirror, the Empire sofas and chair 
 to match, excepting it was of mahogany upholstered in 
 red velvet, while these were in brocaded satin of the 
 heaviest and most elegant quality. Most of them had 
 a background of sea green, with flowers of pale pink 
 roses of such deep relief you could almost pluck them, 
 others were purple iris or sprigs of rose-du-barry. 
 
 The tables, cabinets, and tabarets were also in gilt 
 with borders of the most exquisite miniatures. 
 
 Near the large windows, reaching from floor to ceil- 
 ing, were huge Japanese jardinieres containing olean- 
 der, lemon and orange trees. Then there was a con- 
 sole of the first Napoleon's time, rare vases, loving- 
 cups of sohd silver, pitchers, gold lined and heavy, 
 ornaments in carved ivory and mother-of-pearl. The 
 walls seemed to blend with the furnishings of the room, 
 making a perfect perspective, being in Italian Renais- 
 sance. Every few paces there hung a tapestry, of mar- 
 tial design, perhaps, or of the vintage or mythological, 
 each bordered by a heavy gilt frame, the intervening 
 space being tinted a deHcate biscuit. 
 
 119 
 
©li^a anD ©tftelDteDa 
 
 As we looked about us, the sunlight sifting through 
 the lowered Venetian shades, the suggestion of the 
 glow outside, the half-light within, and then at the 
 commanding figure of the old Spanish woman seated 
 on the sofa under the mirror, smiling and pleased at 
 our admiration, and exclamations of wonder, Ethel- 
 dreda and I felt as though we had been spirited to a 
 splendid castle in the outskirts of Madrid. 
 
 120 
 
in 9^tmo 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 There comes a day in Mexico when there is nothing 
 wanting to complete the perfect whole. The sky is a 
 shimmering, translucent topaz, the air as soft as a 
 Circe's touch. There has been a shower over night, 
 and the earth is as sweet and fragrant, as young and 
 fresh, as on that first morning in the fair garden of 
 Eden. 
 
 You hear music, you breathe music. The universe is 
 a poem set to music. The air is filled with sounds 
 symphonious, as if all the melodies of nature were 
 blended together in one grand chorus. 
 
 It was such a day as this when we left Mexico City 
 for Guadalaxajara and Lake Chapala; a day as perfect 
 as a pearl. 
 
 There were in the company Pelleas and Ettarre, 
 Maria and Carlos and Maria's mother, Etheldreda, 
 Frank, the Man in Gray, and myself. 
 
 The sun had crimsoned all the east, and sent her 
 variegated rays shivering over housetop and church 
 spire, when we steamed out of the station, leaving 
 behind us the ancient Queen of the lakes, with its 
 palaces, cupolas, towers, its wealth of tropical plants, 
 and its scented groves. On through the ancient prin- 
 cipalities of Tacuba and Tlalnapantla we sped, into the 
 open country. 
 
 All about us lay a scene as grandly picturesque as 
 it is often given man to look upon. Ajusco gloomy 
 
 121 
 
(Bl^a anD OBtbelOreOa 
 
 and forbidding, his brow disfigured by dirty patches 
 of snow, crowned the incomparable plains to the south. 
 Tlalpam, rose-bowered, dainty and smiling, sat at his 
 feet, while before, lay fields of vivid green, stretching 
 away into interminable distances. 
 
 To the west, the Cordilleras of Las Cruces raised 
 their lofty heads amid clouds of sapphire blue; while 
 to the north the red-brown hills of Tepeyac stood 
 dimly outlined, the chapel at the summit, the white 
 stone sails, and indescribable temple of Guadalupe 
 showing through the pale morning vapors. Popocate- 
 petl and Ixtlachiuhuatl, the White Lady, crowned in 
 perpetual snows, stood guard at the east, looking down 
 on the doings of the Httle world below. 
 
 The whole of the beautiful valley is sprinkled with 
 countless little whitewashed villages, the adobe houses, 
 the red tiles of the roofs and the domes of the churches 
 showing contentedly among the green of the trees. 
 Here and there are ancient highways bordered by cy- 
 press trees, and the Viga winding in and out through 
 the dazzling green of the fields like a band of shim- 
 mering silver. 
 
 The sun rose higher and higher, the dew vanished 
 from the foliage and the grass, the wind blew with 
 exhilaration, from mountain and lake. Passing 
 through fields of maguey and their quickly receding 
 rows, with here and there a paluquero in his brilHant 
 red zarape, with a huge gourd drawing out the sweet 
 water from the plant, on past ranches, fruit and flower 
 gardens, villages and towns, we came down from the 
 crest of the Sierras, from the ancient plains of Ana- 
 huac, descending by gentle gradation into the lovely 
 valley of the Lerma. 
 
 We changed cars at Irapuata, where strawberries 
 
 122 
 
in Q^eiico 
 
 ripen from June to January, and from January to 
 June again, and from there we bent our course directly 
 toward the Pacific. It is a most beautiful and inter- 
 esting journey from the capital to Lake Chapala, as 
 the way takes you through many an old and historic 
 town. 
 
 Out and away lies Toluca, where laces and pottery 
 are made, and at Penjamo, a town ancient and decor- 
 ous, that lifts its housetops above the trees, they told 
 us that the birthplace of Hidalgo, the Washington of 
 Mexico, lay only three miles away. 
 
 We tarried at Queretero long enough to visit the 
 church of Santa Rosa, with its flying buttresses, and 
 the buildings where the Emperor Maximillian and his 
 three generals were imprisoned. It is fortunate for 
 the traveller to Guadalaxajara that the journey takes 
 him into the fair valley of the Lerma also. Now and 
 then may be seen a native lightly propelling his swiftly 
 gliding canoe. It may be he is rowing in stolid silence, 
 or again a mild Bacchanalian or war song comes float- 
 ing out over the limpid waters. 
 
 We stood on the rear end of a vestibule car late in 
 the afternoon, to catch a glimpse of the approaching 
 city. Past Mesquite and Nopal we flew, the receding 
 scenes growing dim in the late afternoon. We looked 
 away to the azure mountains, to the foothills, the vivid 
 green plains and deep barrancas. Over to the left we 
 passed a tumbled-down church, an adobe village, and 
 further on a discouraged irrigating ditch came crawl- 
 ing in, and then Guadalaxajara, the Florence of Am- 
 erica, came into view. The rays of the sun gilded the 
 towers and domes of the churches and shimmered on 
 the iron barred mullioned windows. 
 
 There are sounds subHme that have been forgotten, 
 123 
 
OBIifa anB (BtUmtm 
 
 visions that have passed from the mind, but to the last 
 day of my Hfe I shall never forget my first view, and 
 my first impression, of this Pearl of the Orient, as the 
 residents call it. 
 
 Guadalaxajara is, I think, the brightest, gayest city 
 in the land. The architecture, the people, the city itself 
 seems to have an individuality of its own. This city, 
 on a plateau five thousand feet above the sea, with its 
 oriental buildings, is a quaint mosaic shining like a 
 mirage in the white calcium lights. 
 
 A soft white moon came slowly up. The mystic 
 hour of vespers had passed, and the music died away 
 in solemn cadence. The heavy buds on the orange 
 trees, and the pomegranate were clamoring to be set 
 free, the rose ran riot on the old stone wall, the chiri- 
 moya dropped its foamy dead-sweet fruit, and the 
 olives showed dull green among their leaves. 
 
 We strolled out to the plaza, the most joyous, attrac- 
 tive place in the city, and with the throng gone out 
 before us, we listened to the music that came down 
 from a little Moorish pavilion in the center. Later 
 on we heard the plaintive strains of a guitar, as it was 
 played by some disconsolate lover, and watched a 
 swarthy Lothario making love to a little almond-eyed 
 senorita in a balcony three floors above. If Guada- 
 laxajara had no other inducement to oifer to the lover 
 of the beautiful and artistic, no sights or sounds to 
 take one thither, it has enough in its wonderful Basi- 
 lica to recompense one for the journey. 
 
 The memories of this old church with its imposing 
 architecture, its rare and unread carvings and hiero- 
 glyphics, its eternal beauty, remains indelibly fixed on 
 the memory. 
 
 From the Tuscan-Gothic tower you may look out on 
 124 
 
In Qie^ico 
 
 the panorama spread around, and watch the lights 
 come and go over the mountains, that bring out afresh 
 the glory of the everlasting vision. 
 
 In the sacristry of the Basilica is found Murillo's 
 Assumption, which is only one of the many works of 
 the old masters that are hidden away in these 
 churches. Besides the Basilica there are numerous 
 other churches, picturesque and varied, discolored by 
 time and the elements, hoary with age, overrun with 
 ivy and moss. 
 
 The sanitarium which was once a Spanish gover- 
 nor's mansion, is worth one's while, and the pottery, 
 where the inimitable terra-cotta figures are made, is 
 just beyond the confines of the town. 
 ^ The hotels are beautiful and imposing in construc- 
 tion, being clean and well kept. It was perhaps a 
 fancy of mine, but it seemed to me that the women of 
 Guadalaxajara were more beautiful and comely than 
 those I had seen in other cities of the Republic. 
 
 We were there during the religious feast in April, 
 when the women of all the land dress wholly in black, 
 and the Mexican woman looks so well in nothing as in 
 this color, and no woman can wear the reboza or the 
 lace mantilla as do those of their race. Women of 
 other nations sometimes affect the mantilla, but it is 
 left to them to wear it with that peculiar grace and 
 ease that is all their own, and has taken centuries of 
 usage to acquire. And when the Latin is blended with 
 the Aztec it seems all the more a befitting head-cover- 
 ing. As we walked the streets of this mountain city, 
 and gazed up into balconies or through barred win- 
 dows, I looked into faces with unfathomable eyes, wist- 
 ful lips and shadowy hair, faces that bespoke the blood 
 of a lineage that leaves behind the memory of man. 
 
 125 
 
(Bli'^a anB CtfielDteDa 
 
 A lineage of priest and king, whose mystic Aztec rites, 
 weird powers, knowledge of the sacrificial and the 
 cloister, seem latent in these fair daughters of Mexico, 
 whose direct descendants they are. As I saw them 
 in their native halls, loitering in the market and plaza, 
 they seemed to awaken dreams of things forgotten, 
 like a breath of incense from crumbled temples. 
 
 126 
 
in Q^eiico 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Dr. Felix Oswald, in writing of Lake Chapala, says : 
 "The world in general knows of its greatest men, but 
 it is more certain that men in general are unacquainted 
 with the fairest regions of their world. I am sure 
 there are towns of ten thousand inhabitants in the 
 United States, and much larger in Western Europe, 
 where it would be impossible to find one man who ever 
 in his life had heard even the name of Lake Chapala, 
 while every other schoolmaster in America or Europe 
 could write a treatise on Lake Lemon or Loch Lo- 
 mond. Thousands of American schoolboys have read 
 about Lago di Como, and many an illiterate Western 
 farmer knows the Boden Sea is drained by the Upper 
 Rhine, but not two men in a city full of European 
 professors would be able to say if the fairy lake of the 
 Rio Lerma is in Mexico or the Philippine Islands." 
 
 On the return from Guadalaxajara, to reach Lake 
 Chapala, you leave the train at Atequiza, a typical 
 little Indian village about a mile distant from the 
 sleepy Lerma, and six from Lake Chapala. She sits 
 among her orange groves and wheat fields, quaint and 
 contented, catching sight of the far-away world from 
 trains that pass through, and the travelers who alight 
 to go in the rumbling old stage on to Chapala. 
 
 The adobe houses of Atequiza disgorge most of 
 their inmates, who look on with lively interest, as we 
 make ready to start, and with the driver shouting and 
 
 127 
 
OEIija anD (CtftelflteDa 
 
 lashing the horses, we rumble down the main street 
 to the open country beyond. We halt, however, when 
 the hacienda is reached, to permit us a view of this 
 stately old stone building with the orange groves in 
 front and yellow wheat fields stretching away to in- 
 definable distances. On the portico, with its stone 
 floor and massive Corinthian pillars, were seated men 
 in charro suits, and embroidered sombreros, reading 
 or talking in gesticulatory animation. 
 
 The town of Chapala sits on the northern shore of 
 the lake, with an eminence embowered in tropical ver- 
 dure in the rear, and the changing waters at her feet. 
 There is a good hotel a Httle way back from the shore, 
 and near the stone pier are a number of picturesque 
 cottages owned by private individuals. 
 
 There is fine bathing all the year round at Lake 
 Chapala, and as the breakers are seldom high it is 
 comfortably safe, as well as highly invigorating. 
 
 This morning I sat at my window and watched a 
 half dozen or more Indian boys, disporting in the 
 shifting, glistening waters. They floated and sank, 
 dived and plunged, the sunlight playing on their shin- 
 ing backs ; supple, alert, graceful, veritable young Hia- 
 wathas, in truth a part of the scene about them. 
 
 After a time they bounded like young water dogs 
 from the waves, their long black hair dripping, their 
 eyes mischievous and laughing, then as quick as 
 thought disappeared under cover of a gorgeous bogu- 
 bilia vine all in flower and gone to waste. 
 
 It was a scene that would have made glad the heart 
 of Sorolla, the life, the movement, the atmosphere. 
 How tenderly and sensitively he would have molded 
 their youthful forms, how vividly interpreted the ex- 
 uberance of their mood. 
 
 128 
 
in Q^ttito 
 
 Lake Chapala is a jewel, with a crown setting of 
 mountains many miles away. It is about seventy miles 
 long and twenty wide, so you can not reasonably ex- 
 pect to see the whole of it in one visit. The sportsmen 
 tell me that it is abounding in fish, and that the my- 
 riads of wild fowl that gather there make it a veritable, 
 though undiscovered, hunters' paradise. Wild geese 
 and ducks fly over its waters and nest on the shore, 
 pelicans and cranes wade majestically about, and plov- 
 ers and doves grow fat and toothsome in the grain in 
 the valley near by. The climate of Chapala is per- 
 petual Indian summer, only the color is always green, 
 the flowers always in bloom, and the days go by in a 
 leisurely, langourous sort of way. On the shore are 
 orange groves and rank aquatic plants, and on the ver- 
 dured slopes cattle and horses feed. 
 
 There is considerable distance between the towns 
 that skirt the shores, the traffic being carried on 
 by low-lying craft, which Frank says are a combina- 
 tion of Mississippi dugout and an Arab dhow, with 
 all the varied inconvenience of both. As I have never 
 boarded one, I cannot certify to this statement, but the 
 crew is interesting enough — when viewed from some 
 distance. They are all in rather picturesque undress, 
 some of them being a cross between Malay pirate and 
 a New Orleans stevedore, while the others are gay 
 young fellows, always ready for a song, a game of 
 chance, or an amorous adventure. Besides these com- 
 mercial boats there are a number of gasoline launches, 
 while uncounted smaller boats and canoes skim like 
 swallov/s over the smooth waters. 
 
 On a fair and cloudless day you may stand on the 
 shore as the sun goes dovni, your soul filled with joy 
 at the beauty and unsung fascinations of the scene. 
 
 129 
 
mi^a anil (EtfielDteBa 
 
 The pantheistic conception of the distant blue of the 
 mountain tops lit up with fleeting amber and gold, with 
 the passionate throb of the restless sea, the changing 
 brilliancy of the dyes that stain the valley, the white 
 sail-boats afloat on the wind-swept waters, the breath 
 of the orange blossoms from the gardens above, the 
 song of the zeuzontl in the sweet olive groves, the 
 sky aflame with all the vivid colors and warmth of this 
 torrid land. 
 
 Chapala is always attractive, always beautiful, but 
 it is transcendently so when viewed in the glory of a 
 setting sun ; a wealth of color floods the sky, changing 
 with kaleidoscopic rapidity, startling blues, impossible 
 yellows, pulsating reds, purple and violet, passing frorn 
 one to the other in gorgeous bewilderment. But you 
 must look and wonder while you may, as the pigments 
 soon die out, the spectacle is passed, a tropical sunset 
 is over — then the aftermath. The glow quickly fades 
 away, the sky changes from a dull gray to a soft filmy 
 white, the full silvery moon rides high, casting radiat- 
 ing beams into the waters of the placid lake, and the 
 world lays soothed and hushed under the unspeakable 
 sorcery of a tropical night. The glow-worms among 
 the pomegranates, and in their mossy beds, the fireflies 
 with their phosphorescent gleams light up the dark re- 
 cesses, and a myriad insects drone through the air. 
 A light breeze comes over the mountains, gently blow- 
 ing the orange and sweet olive trees, and caressing the 
 roses on the corridor walls. The strains of a plaintive 
 Aztec love song, blended with the music of a deftly 
 fingered guitar, float over the waters. An insistent 
 night bird makes melody in the willows on the shore, 
 while down the street a half drunken priest with cabal- 
 istic movement sings in weird incantation. 
 
 130 
 
in ^mto 
 
 It was a fair May day. There had been a heavy 
 deluge over night, and the morning had dawned gray 
 and sullen. As the day wore on, however, the sun 
 began to shine a little, ungraciously enough at first, it 
 is true, then with a shade more warmth and friendli- 
 ness, till the clouds had finally given way and rolled 
 over the mountains to Michiocan, and the south. Car- 
 los and Marie in a little canoe had melted out of sight 
 adown the shores of the lake, whose waters like a 
 perfect negative reflected the clouds, the amethyst 
 mists come in from the sea, and the towns in theii 
 setting of green and gold. 
 
 Senora B and Ettarre were seated in the per- 
 gola, the senora with an unopened French novel in 
 her lap, Ettarre with an uncut magazine, both talking 
 volubly and at the same time, while Pelleas in an un- 
 painted boat, rowed industriously to leeward. But 
 Pelleas was always doing something industriously. 
 If he were not doing something for somebody else, 
 he was going about discovering some new beauty in 
 art, or nature. He had the most wonderful faculty 
 for hunting up moss-grown viaducts, long since gone 
 to disuse, crumbling walls overrun with verdure, a 
 picture tucked away in some niche of a church, 
 or a view, filled with enchantment. I verily be- 
 lieve Pelleas could walk over a barren mountain and 
 find some new beauty every ten steps. But that's 
 Pelleas. 
 
 "Don't you want to go with us up to the top of the 
 hill over there?" asked Etheldreda as the Man in 
 Gray arranged some cushions in the little rustic seat 
 under the mango tree near the shore. Frank looked 
 uncompromisingly out over the lake. 
 
 131 
 
(Bli^a ana ©tftelDreDa 
 
 "No, thank you, I believe we don't care to go," I 
 answered. 
 
 "Oh, I thought you considered the view from that 
 point perfectly ravishing," with a little affected sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "I do, but I don't think I can climb that hill even 
 to get the view to-day." 
 
 "Well, perhaps you would prefer to go for a row 
 on the lake," persisted Etheldreda, pretending she 
 really wanted us to go with them and enjoy our- 
 selves. 
 
 Frank looked pleadingly at the young girl who 
 stood deliciously fresh and cool in a white muslin 
 dress. 
 
 "No, thank you, we won't go on the lake either as 
 much as we would like," I replied, making room for 
 the Man in Gray. 
 
 Etheldreda being a woman, pretended that she 
 wanted us to accompany them, but Frank being a 
 man, made no pretense whatever, but looked inex- 
 pressibly relieved when we declined Etheldreda's in- 
 vitation. 
 
 "What do you want to do then ?" asked Etheldreda, 
 fanning with her handkerchief, though she was not 
 the least particle warm. 
 
 "Only to be let alone," replied the Man in Gray, 
 sitting down beside me. Being a man he also made 
 no pretense. 
 
 "Isn't it glorious? Isn't it superb?" And Ethel- 
 dreda pushed her lingerie hat back from her flushed 
 forehead. 
 
 "Just splendid !" assented Frank, looking with great 
 contentment at the radiant face beside him, then on 
 the scene below. 
 
 132 
 
in Q^mto 
 
 "I really believe it is Mt. Olive. Can't you smell 
 the odor of the olive trees down below?" 
 
 "Yes I can, and I kind of believe this is a view of 
 the new Jerusalem/' indicating the wonderful beauty 
 of the scene about and below them. ^ 
 
 ''Say what do you suppose this old sister is after? 
 asked Frank as an old Indian woman with face 
 wrinkled and hardened, her dress that had once been 
 black faded to a dingy brown, her two long braids 
 matted and dirty, came up and quietly took a seat 
 near the young couple. 
 
 ''Oh, these people do not approve of young people 
 being out alone and she has properly come out to 
 chaperone us," laughed Etheldreda. ^^ 
 
 "Wonder how long she's warranted to stay, ob- 
 served Frank, taking off his panama and fanning him- 
 self with it. T-^i ,j 1 
 
 "I can't conjecture, shall we run?" Etheldreda re- 
 plied in a stage whisper, as the old woman rolled a 
 corn husk cigarette, smiling affectionately at them 
 after she had applied a match to it. ^ . . 
 
 "No wait a minute. Let's see what she is going 
 to do,''' and Frank laid a caressing, detaining hand 
 on Etheldreda's arm. 
 
 But the old woman sat and smoked, watching the 
 young pair, and they in turn looked curiously at her, 
 till Etheldreda finally said: 
 
 "She's getting terribly on my nerves. Give her 
 
 some centavos and let her go." 
 
 The old Aztec called down the benediction of all 
 the saints on the heads of the two as she pocketed 
 the coins, and after wishing them a happy continua- 
 tion of their wedding trip, went slowly off down the 
 hill. 
 
 133 
 
(Cli^a an» OEtfielDreDa 
 
 When she had disappeared in a grove of mangoes, 
 Frank turned and looked at his companion, who had 
 dropped onto a moss grown bank, her face covered 
 with blushes, and burst into a hearty ringing laugh 
 that woke the woodland echoes. 
 
 "The silly old thing," said Etheldreda disgustedly, 
 "I wonder now what made her think we were mar- 
 ried." 
 
 "I wonder now," he began mischievously, then 
 added more earnestly, "Well I suppose she thought 
 she would push matters along a little, because she 
 could not help but see how it is with me. Don't you 
 know, Httle girl, that life is too good to be lived 
 alone?" 
 
 "I don't know about life," replied Etheldreda, as 
 the coolest and sweetest little breeze came down and 
 fanned her curls, "I was thinking of that lovely boat 
 ride all of us had on the lake last night." 
 
 "Now, don't tell fibs," Frank said, moving closer to 
 his companion. "All of us are not concerned in this 
 at all. It is only you and me." 
 
 The white spray came up and kissed the flowers 
 on the shore, the light lay tremulous on the darkened 
 waters, and the birds twittered low in the underbush. 
 
 "You know, Etheldreda, how much I care — or rather 
 you don't know," he added, a great earnestness in his 
 voice. 
 
 "Oh !" cried Etheldreda, springing to her feet, and 
 looking a little frightened. "I really think we would 
 better be going. Don't you think so?" 
 
 "Hadn't given the subject any thought, but am 
 positive there is no need for it. There is one thing, 
 though, I am going to do before I go, and that is kiss 
 you," laying a compelling hand on her arm. "I have 
 
 134 
 
in ^nito 
 
 wanted to ever since the first time I saw you in the 
 bosque. Listen! Etheldreda, you have been evading 
 the question, but you can't do so any more. I love 
 you, and you know it." And holding her close he 
 kissed her full on the lips. 
 
 Etheldreda gave a little scream, and drawing her- 
 self away, went over and leaned against a pine, the 
 long bough swaying about her. 
 
 There was silence for a few minutes, then Frank 
 saw that she was wiping her eyes, and her slender 
 form was shaking. 
 
 **Say," he began with contrition in his voice, "I 
 guess I was too sudden about that. You'll forgive 
 me, won't you, Etheldreda?" 
 
 Going over to her he drew her hands away and 
 lifting up her chin looked into her eyes, instead of 
 finding them tear-stained as he had feared there was a 
 tender smile in their liquid depth. 
 
 Down on the hillside a macaw screamed in an 
 olive tree, the pine needles fell noiselessly about them, 
 and the wind soughing through the trees bore the 
 fragrance of frankincense and myrrh. 
 
 "There !" exclaimed Frank, after a long bHssful si- 
 lence. "Let's go over here and sit down on that 
 rock?" 
 
 "Why?" inquired Etheldreda mischievously. "Do 
 you feel weak?" 
 
 "Yes, I do feel rather knocked out. That's the first 
 time I ever proposed, and it's hard work." 
 
 "Proposed?" Affected surprise. "Why, have you 
 proposed to anybody? I'm sure you haven't to me." 
 
 "Keep quiet now, little girl, and just look at that 
 view out across the lake." 
 
 135 
 
(EIi5a atto (Et|)elDteaa 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 "It was a marvelous time of original and beautiful 
 work that covered Mexico with churches, and set up 
 in all the remote and almost inaccessible villages, 
 towers and domes that match the best work of Italy 
 and recall the triumphs of Moorish art," wrote 
 Charles Dudley Warner, who was an enthusiastic 
 admirer of Mexican art and architecture. 
 
 Every student of art, and admirer of the pictur- 
 esque and beautiful, cannot fail to be impressed with 
 the variety of design, and grandeur of construction, 
 of the cathedrals that are so lavishly scattered over 
 Mexico. Most of these date back hundreds of years, 
 and were built in a time when the Spanish patricians 
 lorded over the humble people of the land, and com- 
 pelled them to do their bidding with little or no 
 reward. While the cathedrals were designed by 
 Spanish architects, it is also very evident that the work 
 was done by native Indians. On the fagades, towers 
 and portals are designs and figures, unlike the archi- 
 tectural decorations in any other country. They are 
 often difficult to interpret, and we come to the con- 
 clusion that in them are many Indian traditions, of 
 a prehistoric art and ornamentation. A great many 
 of these carvings are not translatable, and have more 
 in common with the carvings on prehistoric temples 
 than with that on any Christian edifices, much of 
 
 136 
 
in ^tnto 
 
 them bearing a striking resemblance to Egyptian and 
 Persian art. 
 
 The artists who designed these cathedrals, seemed 
 to have had free play, to express their love of beauty 
 and originality, in tower, fagade, roof and dome, and 
 except in a general form, there is nowhere any simi- 
 larity between them. Often, as one goes whizzing 
 through some small town, or even in the open coun- 
 try, there can be seen above the green tops of ancient 
 trees, the marvelous domes and towers that recall the 
 tombs of sheiks and califs, abundant in all Moslem 
 countries ; then again will appear a slender tower 
 that recalls a graceful minaret. The beauty and 
 originality is almost entirely in the exterior, however. 
 Nearly all of them, with their varied striking outline, 
 picturesque whole, imposing situations, the fading 
 colors, and decaying decorations, are distinct, but the 
 gaudy, modern interiors are strikingly similar, and 
 almost universally commonplace. 
 
 One interesting thing about the cathedrals of 
 Mexico is their diversified and often surprising loca- 
 tions. In the United States the church in the small 
 town is found in the center of the village green, and 
 each one is almost an exact counterpart of the other, 
 but here they are built in all kinds of unusual forms 
 and interesting places. At Sante Fe there is a grand, 
 weather-beaten old structure that seems to hang pre- 
 cipitately over a deep gorge, and many a chapel or 
 church, stands at the summit of some mountain. And 
 in the country one can see the domes and towers of 
 cathedrals arising from the midst of a limitless ex- 
 panse of maguey, or standing boldly out in the open 
 plain, with every outline clearly defined. 
 
 To me these structures are always objects of de- 
 
 137 
 
Clija and Ctfteldtetra 
 
 light and inspiration. Hoary with age, and overhung 
 with impenetrable mystery, they are dispersed at fre- 
 quent intervals, the leadings from one to the other, 
 winding like a huge pulsing artery, through the coun- 
 try or the heart of the city. 
 
 In fading terra-cottas, mist-grays, and pale yellows, 
 with walls discolored and earthquake riven, they stand 
 as treasure houses. In their vaults are jewels, vessels 
 and ornaments set with precious gems, there are 
 paintings by the old world masters, tapestries, carved 
 ivory, and rich workings in silver and gold. Like 
 monumental Epics they seem to tell, in sad recital, 
 of the groans and tears, the weighted backs, of the 
 oppressed heroes who wrought their construction. 
 
 The Holy Metropolitan Church of Mexico, uni- 
 versally known as the Cathedral, is one of the largest 
 and most ambitious churches in the western hemi- 
 sphere. It is built on the very foundation of the 
 ancient pagan temple of the Aztecs, the corner stone 
 of the present building having been laid in 1573, the 
 first service being held in 1573, but it was not till 
 1626 that it was formally dedicated. One may get 
 some idea of the size of this church, when it is known 
 that there are fourteen different chapels in the 
 building. 
 
 San Cosmus is one of the oldest cathedrals in the 
 country, having been established about the year 1538. 
 This monastery became a military post in 1855, and 
 it was in the tower of this cathedral that Lieutenant 
 U. S. Grant placed the howitzer that was used to 
 such advantage in the battle of September 13, 1847. 
 
 About three miles west of the city's boundary is 
 the hill Totoltepec, on the top of which is the sane- 
 
 138 
 
in 9^tuto 
 
 tuary of Our Lady of Succor, called the Church of 
 Nuestra Senora de los Remedios. 
 
 There is a beautiful and interesting legend about 
 this building which is so named from the fact that 
 the Virgin in whose honor it was built was supposed 
 to have saved the lives of many thousands of Spanish 
 soldiers. 
 
 The original cathedral and monastery of San Fran- 
 cisco is one of the greatest in all Mexico, and its 
 name is closely identified with the great events of 
 the country, from Cortez to Jaurez. The grounds 
 once covered three squares in what is now the heart 
 of the city. Cortez heard masses from its altars, here 
 his bones were interred, and here was sung the first 
 Te Deum of Mexican independence. 
 
 Hidden away in these buildings, in the most seques- 
 tered places, are found noted works of the old mas- 
 ters. 
 
 In San Diego, a church founded by Franciscan 
 monks are the Prayer in the Garden, and the Last 
 Supper. These and many others are in perfect condi- 
 tion, showing wonderful richness of color and perfec- 
 tion of outline, which neither the corroding of time, 
 nor the dust from the sacristan's broom have dimmed 
 or erased. 
 
 There are churches more colossal and grand, and 
 others more picturesquely situated, but there are none 
 more exquisitely beautiful, more chaste and artistic, 
 than the Temple of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which 
 sits on the hill Tepeyac, just beyond the northern 
 confines of the city. 
 
 The Madonna, so the story runs, appeared to the 
 humble Indian, Juan Diego, on this hill, and com- 
 
 139 
 
OBli^a atiD (CtfieltireBa 
 
 manded that a shrine be built in honor of herself. 
 The Bishop was skeptical, however, and it was not 
 till she had thrice made her command that he was 
 finally convinced. A cluster of churches have sprung 
 up around the spot, but the original one is the largest 
 and most imposing. It is a pale gray structure of 
 the Gothic design, with something of the Moorish 
 about it. The roof is dull red tile, contrasting artis- 
 tically with the gray of the buildings. In the center 
 is a huge dome, and on the four corners are richly 
 ornamented towers. 
 
 The interior is more complete, and in better taste 
 than any I have observed, the floor being laid in 
 white and black slabs of Carrara marble. The largest 
 chapel is the repository for the mysterious picture of 
 the Virgin, and the altar where it is kept has a rail- 
 ing around it contaming seventy-six tons of solid 
 silver. 
 
 This legend of the Madonna has the sanction of 
 Rome, and several feast days in her honor have been 
 established by the Papal Bull of Benedict XIV and 
 others. 
 
 The principal feast day is December 12th, and In- 
 dians come from all over the Republic to worship at 
 her shrine on this day. Those who cannot afford to 
 ride on trains, come on horses or burros, and many 
 of them, though foot-sore and weary, walk hundreds 
 of miles over mountains and plain, through gorges 
 and tunnels, bringing their pitiful offerings of fruit 
 or grain. Thus they go on bended knee to the shrine, 
 or to the Holy Well to be healed by its magic waters. 
 
 It is a strange wild scene on Guadalupe day, to 
 stand as the sun goes down on the brow of the hill 
 Tepeyac. 
 
 140 
 
in ^eitco 
 
 Above is the chapel, its turret silhouetted against 
 the gleaming sky, the stone steps leading from one 
 shrine to another, the temple down below. Thou- 
 sands of pilgrims crowd each other in the plaza in 
 front of the temple, surge up and down the hill slope, 
 passing to and fro on the steps. Here and there is 
 seen a non-committal stolid old warrior, picturesque 
 in leather sandals and bright red blanket, and many a 
 young brave in bright zarape. 
 
 Then as night come down the fires are started 
 under the little brazeros to prepare the evening meal 
 of tortillas and frijoles. As these lights spring up 
 here and there, it would seem that the ancient fire 
 worshippers were paying homage on every hill, and 
 you feel as though you were looking down on some 
 pagan rite, rather than a Christian observance. 
 
 There are many kinds of ecclesiastical doctrines, 
 many kinds of church polities to be found in the 
 Republic, but the Protestant Churches are, as it were, 
 just camping on the frontier. They have not entered 
 the heart of the country at all, have not captured a 
 single citadel. The field is white to the harvest for 
 the Iconoclast and the Non-tractarian, and he will 
 have done a mighty deed, who teachers the people to 
 "burn their books of divination in the market place,'* 
 and to forsake their sorcery, the powerful "Malo 
 Ojo." 
 
 When Cortez came bringing the sacrament, the cru- 
 cifix, and the rosary, he simply engrafted the Romish 
 forms onto a Pagan belief. As in ancient days, the 
 Aztec brought his offerings, to appease the wrath of 
 the War God Mezitli, so now he brings his fruit and 
 grain to propitiate his Patroness Guadalupe. 
 
 It has been said that the men of Mexico live Agnos- 
 141 
 
©H^a anO (EtfielDtetia 
 
 tics, but — die Catholics. I cannot certify as to their 
 belief and profession at the hour of death, but cer- 
 tain it is that in life they are uncompromising agnos- 
 tics, scoffing at all beliefs alike. 
 
 When Saint Paul stood on the Hill of Mars talk- 
 ing to the Literati and the Dillettante of Athens, he 
 found a nation diligently seeking the "Unknown 
 God," but the educated man of Mexico apparently 
 seeks no God of any kind, but with a shrug and a 
 gesture, relegates all such matters to the woman and 
 the weak-minded. 
 
 142 
 
in Q^e^ico 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Every American dweller in Mexico City goes to 
 Cuernavaca at least once a year, though perhaps it 
 may be for only a few days or weeks, but the city 
 ceases to agree with him, so he thinks, and go he 
 must. If his heart beats too slow, it is the altitude 
 that causes it, if it beats too fast, it is the altitude. 
 Should he begin to grow thin, the same cause is 
 assigned, if he grows too stout, the altitude is again 
 called into requisition. At any rate he goes, and the 
 altitude bears the blame of it all. Everybody asks 
 you with an affirmative inflexion "You've been to 
 Cuernavaca?" Then you must surely go, never go 
 back to the States without seeing Cuernavaca." 
 
 I followed their advice, and went, but sometimes I 
 rue the day that took me there, because had I never 
 seen the place, had never lingered there, it would 
 never have woven its spell about me. And let me tell 
 you, never go there if you do not want to have it 
 pull upon your heart-strings, till it seems they will 
 break with the longing to go back again, and like the 
 Magician of the Nile, it VN^ill weave its spell about 
 you too. But of course you will go, and in order to 
 do so, you will have to get up at a very unchristian 
 hour in the morning, and go tearing to the station to 
 catch an early train, as there is only one going each 
 day. And the way will take you out through the beauti- 
 
 143 
 
dEIi^a ana OBtfielftrena 
 
 ful, dew-kissed suburban places, along the trail where 
 in by-gone days, the caravans passed with their bur- 
 dens of priceless value. There were silks from China, 
 gold from Japan, ceramic art products found only in 
 fair Cathay, cinnamon and spices from India. The 
 trail went out across the valley, passing historic Cha- 
 pultepec and those ancient palaces lost in virgin 
 forest, whose ever-renewed youth seems to mock at 
 modern civilization. You slowly climb the Cordil- 
 leras of the Barrientos, wind around the foot of 
 gloomy Ajusco, and zigzag down to Cuernavaca. 
 
 Those were stirring days and life was strenuous 
 in this era of bloodshed and unprincipaled commerce. 
 
 Pirates in low black-hulled crafts with rakish sails, 
 lay in wait for the galleons with their precious 
 freight, and many is the thrilling story told of the 
 doings of those days. 
 
 The burdens of the argosies themselves were not 
 always the result of peaceful legitimate barter, and 
 not infrequently a burly cacique, or his beautiful 
 daughter, were held for ransom. 
 
 Then there are stories of sacked cities, pillaged 
 haciendas, of stolen women, and midnight horrors. 
 
 As you wind up the mountain, one of the world's 
 grandest views is spread out before you. Down in 
 the valley are haciendas, green as the fields of Eden. 
 Texcoco, calm and limpid, sleeps under the opaline 
 mists, rivers show dark blue, or gHstening as the 
 clouds gather or dispel. There are acres of lilies 
 blooming for the unlettered Indian in his straw hut, 
 luxurious ferns and vines festoon the summits of the 
 gorges, and bizarre semi-tropical trees and flowers 
 flash into sight and disappear. 
 
 We cross the battlefield of Contreras, and by tardy 
 144 
 
in a^eiico 
 
 revolutions come to that of Monte de la Cruces, where 
 Hidalgo gained his great victory. Here we come 
 into one of the apple regions of the country, and at 
 every station the natives meet the train with baskets 
 of fruit for sale. 
 
 As you go higher up, you pass through Indian 
 villages of pitiful little straw huts, with the people 
 poorer than poverty itself, and the begging becomes 
 more insistent. 
 
 At last the summit is reached, and in winding 
 slowly down the gray craggy sides of Ajusco, a new 
 vista meets the eye. Fields of cane and forests of 
 semi-tropical fruits, gray pines and spruces standing 
 lonely on the mountain side, streams of lava, like 
 petrified waves upon the beach, distant peaks, shift- 
 ing clouds and shadows, a rain storm down in the 
 valley, mists gathering above, villages, churches — an 
 ever-changing panorama. 
 
 Cuernavaca is just the place to dream one's life 
 away. It is as if you had plucked your Lotus bough, 
 and wandered with your love, into a realm of misty 
 beauty, and poetic fancy. 
 
 The world on the other side of the mountain seems 
 remote and intangible. Its changing pageant, its repe- 
 tition of history, its heartaches and cares seem far 
 away and unreal. What is strife and competition, but 
 weariness? What are the desires, but a wearing of 
 the heart? What is ambition, but a fever? 
 
 There are not so many places of interest to see 
 there, it is just Cuernavaca itself that draws so on 
 your heart-strings. 
 
 Cortez's palace is one of the show places, and is sit- 
 uated in the center of the town, being now used as the 
 City Hall. 
 
 145 
 
(Sli^a ano (Btbtltittm 
 
 Then there is San Antonio, the little Indian ham- 
 let across a rocky gorge, where the pottery is made. 
 
 Chapultepec Falls is worth seeing in the rainy sea- 
 son, but to me, the most attractive spot in all the 
 valley is the Borda garden. This garden was de- 
 vised many years ago by a Frenchman whose name 
 it bears, but the fact that it was once the home of 
 Maximillian's Queen Carlotta, makes it of special in- 
 terest to the world. To reach it, you pass down the 
 narrowest of narrow cobbled streets, through a 
 carved, arched doorway into a roughly paved saguan, 
 and thence to the garden beyond. The house, a long 
 low structure, occupies a part of the front, and one 
 side. It is built of adobe, of a somewhat modified 
 Spanish design, with a corridor extending along its 
 entire length. 
 
 An American artist had his studio in one of the 
 rooms overlooking the street, and through the open 
 doorway could be seen a part of the richly carved 
 fagade of the cathedral, and the rhythmic outlines of 
 a weather-beaten dome. The adobe walls were cov- 
 ered with Impressionist sketches ; glimpses of moun- 
 tain scenes, the sides of irregular houses, and terra- 
 cotta tiled roofs, dusty maguey plants with a red 
 blanketed Indian beneath, and many other scenes of 
 picturesque Mexico. 
 
 We came upon a party of tourists, the Man in 
 Gray and I, as we passed under the rose arbor, to 
 the hushed and silent fountain beyond. The man in 
 the crowd carried a tabulated list of the garden. 
 
 "A — A," he murmured. "Oh, yes. Arbor — rose ar- 
 bor. Here it is," and further on: 
 
 "C — C, coffee plant. Never saw any coifee growing 
 did you, mother?" 
 
 146 
 
 p^t>ad^W^*irf' .h b i 'tfr'il ' i i » , <i t dli>iu>»* ■ 
 
fn ^ttico 
 
 Yes, the truth must be told, he was an American. 
 
 Now the Man in Gray would never have come to 
 the Borda garden with a tabulated list ; that is not the 
 way to study this exquisite dream-garden. The beauty 
 and pathos of its partial decadence, the breathless se- 
 clusion of the place, the discolored statuary, the fad- 
 ing rose petals, the plaintive note of the song bird, 
 touch into life the poetic fancy and still all idle con- 
 versation. 
 
 "This rose arbor," said the Man in Gray, as we 
 passed into the Mango grove, "is said to have been 
 the favorite w^alk of Carlotta, as she played her little 
 part of Empress among us. With her ladies in wait- 
 ing, she came here in the dusk of the evening, and 
 loitered about, or played with the gold fish in the 
 glorietta. She really displayed more astuteness in the 
 affairs of the empire than her husband, and some- 
 times, it is said, he talked with her here, asking her 
 advice on matters of state. But his lighter, gayer 
 hours, his hours of love and happiness, were spent 
 with her whose house lies just beyond the outskirts 
 of the town. You have seen it? That Httle lake oyer 
 there he had made for Carlotta, and in the evening 
 she sat on those stone steps, with her ladies, while 
 the entertainers of her household gave theatricals, on 
 the waters before her. He wanted to provide ample 
 amusement for her while he rode away, and lingered 
 by the side of his mistress. 
 
 "You seem to feel her presence still in the garden ; 
 you can almost hear her voice, the gentle rustle of 
 her gown, and see the glint of the sunlight on her 
 stately head." 
 
 And this is true, always her spirit seems to Imger 
 about the garden and to haunt the empty house. It 
 
 147 
 
Cli^a ans (CtftelDreaa 
 
 seems to hush the noise of the waters, to glide like a 
 pale wraith among the deep shadows, to mingle in 
 the sunshine, and the breath of the flowers. In imag- 
 ination you see her as she walks along the paths, or 
 stands on the watch tower looking across the valley 
 toward the star-crowned, snow-clad peaks, filled al- 
 ways with sad foreboding, and the prescience of com- 
 ing evil. 
 
 Dressed in the splendor of courtly robes, or in the 
 somber gown of a cloistered nun, she sat in the twi- 
 light, and with prayer book in hand, read the coming 
 tragedy in the stars. Not chasing butterfly fancies, 
 but always serious and self-contained, she discussed 
 the affairs of government with wily statesmen, or in 
 a manner at once gracious, and beautiful, talked with 
 her attendants. A day of sapphire skies had drawn 
 to a close. The warmth was going from the earth, 
 and a cool fresh breeze came blowing down the valley 
 from Cautla and the south. Mangoes and pomegran- 
 ates lay melting on the ground, the trailing coffee 
 plant with its purpling pods drooped by the way, and 
 the aroma of spices filled the air. The feathered 
 choristers spread their wings, floated, rose and sank, 
 or perched on a swaying banana leaf, swelled their 
 throats in happy oblivion of the tragic memory of the 
 ill-fated queen. 
 
 The zeuzontl high on the chirimoya, trilled a 
 sparkling aria in the Oratorio, while the golandrinas 
 in less joyous cadence, bore the burden of the song. 
 The lilies nodded on their stems, the rose buds 
 drowsed in their sepals, while only the wakeful stars 
 kept watch, as the night wind stole the perfume, and 
 bore it over the wall to the lovers waiting below. 
 
 We sat one evening, the Man in Gray and I, under 
 148 
 
in ^tmto 
 
 the rose vine. It was the hour of the vesper songs. 
 The Paternoster rose and swelled, echoing from 
 scarred aisle to the tessellated dome. Ave Maria 
 floated out on the hush of the evening, and died away 
 in melancholy reverberatim. The magnifigat burst 
 into jubilant strain, as the joy of the Virgin Mary 
 came to us down the centuries, replete with adoration 
 and praise. 
 
 A young Indian Neophyte knelt near the confes- 
 sional and looked with rapt, strained eyes at the cru- 
 cifix beyond, a swarthy priest in purple and gold said 
 mass in an inner chapel, and a pair of plighted lovers 
 came out of the door and walked away, hand in hand. 
 
 At last when the music had died away across the 
 valley, and the stillness of the night was broken only 
 by the insistent buzz of many insects, my companion 
 turned to me and said: 
 
 "Must you really go back?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied, "I must go back, I have lingered 
 too long already in the poppy fields of Mexico. I 
 would stay if I could " 
 
 "Why don't you say it is your duty to go. That is 
 the usual formula of one's friends, when they want 
 to evade a question." 
 
 "Yes, it is my duty,"I assented. 
 
 "What is duty, anyway, but the most disagreeable 
 thing one can think of?" 
 
 "My heart bids me to stay. My conscience bids me 
 to go." 
 
 "Your conscience? What has the conscience to do 
 with it? You mean it is your desire to go." 
 
 "Yes, and no. My family, my duty, and my native 
 land, call me, and I must go, though it be with a sad 
 heart. Who knows but some day I may return. But 
 
 149 
 
(Eli^a ana OBtfielBteBa 
 
 sometimes there comes over me such a longing to 
 smell the apple blossoms in the orchard under the 
 hill, to hear the voices, and touch the hands of long 
 forgotten friends, to see the home of my childhood, 
 and the graves of my buried dead. Then, why should 
 I stay on, when we must surely say good bye at last." 
 
 A traveler once said to his friend standing on the 
 banks of the Tiber : 
 
 "You may take leave of Rome, but be consoled 
 Rome will not take leave of you." 
 
 And so it is with Mexico. If you remain there for 
 only a few weeks, take a cursory glance about you, 
 and encounter the many disagreeable and unpleasant 
 things, you may go home with the idea, that it is a 
 picturesque and beautiful country with a decided touch 
 of the mediaeval and quaint. You will be impressed 
 by the unusual customs, and picturesque costumes; 
 the silhouetted mountain, the pictured valley, the ruins, 
 and the beauty of the cathedrals, but also you will 
 get the idea that there is much in the country that is 
 unsightly and even repulsive. But should you remain 
 for any appreciable length of time, she will hold out 
 her cup of magic to you also. Be sure, you will al- 
 ways see the moon, hanging white as snow over the 
 gray turret, the pale mists, disappearing down the 
 valley, like wraiths of vanishing races, Lake Chapala 
 sighing among her orange groves. Even in the cold 
 of winter, you will feel the intense breath of the burn- 
 ing sun, look up into the languorous skies, and out 
 on the sorcery of a tropical night. The song of the 
 nightingale and the mocking bird will come to you, 
 and in your dreams you will hear the soft alluring 
 monotone of the Indian maiden, and the guttural of 
 
 150 
 
in ^uito 
 
 the Spaniard. There will float before you the vision 
 of the Temple ; frieze and fresco, dome and turret, 
 chiseled fagade, sculptured niche, the odor of incense, 
 the mystic hour of the vesper songs. You will hear 
 the quiet tread of many feet, the dull roll of countless 
 carriages, the musical, depressing bugle notes of the 
 gendarme, as he calls out the watches of the night. 
 
 There will pass before you, the never-ending pro- 
 cession of sad-browed, blue-rebozoed women, and 
 white-robed men, the unceasing train of patient, heavy- 
 burdened burros. 
 
 All these things and many more one can see, and 
 the air soft, seductive, treacherous, steals over and 
 envelops one hke the odor from the poppy fields of 
 India, and one feels that one has indeed wandered off 
 into the land of the Lotus Eaters. 
 
 THE END 
 
 151 
 
OCT 2t .19iJ 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 OCT 21 i^«l 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 017 505 071 1 % 
 
 -A