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'Y^LE«¥MII¥IEIESinnfe "w******  I,IMW^^*"IWW»"M|"  11 iiiniim nirrrMin
From the estate of the late
JOHN CHRISTOPHER SCHWAB
through his children
KATHARINE FISHER AND
NORMAN VON POST SCHWAB
1924

J

33p jF. Ipopfeinson femitj),
OLD LINES IN NEW BLACK AND WHITE. From
Lowell, Holmes, and Whittier. With 12 full-page illus
trations, from designs in charcoal by F. Hopkinson
Smith. Oblong folio or iu portfolio, 512.00.
The Same. Large-Paper Edition. With Illustrations
printed on Japanese paper, mounted on plate paper. Edi
tion limited to 100 copies. In portfolio (16x22 inches),
S25.00.
WELL-WORN ROADS OF SPAIN, HOLLAND, AND
ITALY, travelled by a Painter in search of the Pictur
esque. With 16 full-page phototype reproductions of
water-color drawings, and text by F. Hopkinson Smith,
profusely illustrated with pen-and-ink sketches. A Holi
day volume. Folio, full gilt, S15.00
The Same. Popular Edition. Including some of the il
lustrations of the above. i6mo, gilt top, $1.25.
A BOOK OF THE TILE CLUB. Containing 114 reproduc
tions of representative Paintings, Eas-Reliefs, Portraits,
and Sketches by members of the Tile Club of New York,
including 27 full-page phototypes. With Sketch of the
Club, and accouut of one of its Meetings by F. Hopkin-
son Smith and Edward Strahan. A Holiday volume.
Folio, gilt top, $25.00.
The Same. Edition de Luxe. Limited to 100 copies.
With full-page illustrations on Japanese paper. Superbly
bound in vellum. Folio, full gilt, 550.00.
A WHITE UMBRELLA IN MEXICO.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
Boston and New York.

A WHITE UMBRELLA
IN MEXICO

F. HOPKINSON SMITH

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
(3thc SlitictsiBe press, Cam6ttti0e
1889

Copyright, 1889,
By F. HOPKINSON SMITH.
All rights reserved.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
Typo-Gravurcs by U~. I\2irtz.

/ dedicate this hook to the most charming of
all the senoritas I know ; the one whose face
lingers longest in my memory while 1 am away,
and whose arms open widest when I return ; the
most patient of my listeners, the most generous
of my critics — my little daughter MARION.

I. A Morning in Guanajuato ... 7
II. After Dark in Silao  29
III. The Opals of Queretaro ... 45
IV. Some Peons at Aguas Calientes 61
V. The Old Chair in the Sacristy
at Zacatecas  79
VI. In the City's Streets . . 100
VII. On the Paseo  119
VIII. Palm Sunday in Puebla de los
Angeles  128
IX. A Day in Toluca  152
X. To Morelia with Moon .... 165
XI. Patzcuaro and the Lake . 177
XII. Tzintzuntzan and the Titian . 195

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE
The Pulque Plant  i
The Patio of my Benefactor ... 7
Church of la Parr6"quia . . . . 15
Garden Park at Guanajuato .... 20
Church of Santiago, Silao  29
The Plains of Silao  35
The Water-Jars of Queretaro . . 45
Church of Santa Clara  51
The Garden of the Senoritas ... 56
Market-Place at Queretaro .... 60
Highway of Aguas Calientes ... 61
Adobe Huts  67
The Old Gardener's Azaleas ... 77
The Old Chair of the Sacristy ... 79
Side Entrance of Cathedral of Zaca-
tecas . . . . 83
The Steps of the Arcades  87
The Great Dome of San Francisco . 100
The Little Dome of the Chapel of
San Antonio  105
Kitchen of the Hotel Jardin, former
ly the Chapel of San Antonio 107

viu

List of Illustrations

The Peon Girl in the Convent Win
dow 
Ancient Cypresses at Chapultepec
Near the Confessional in Puebla
Balconies on Palm Sunday .
The Markets of Puebla .
Snow-Capped Orizaba . .
The River Lerma . .
The Alameda, Morelia .
On the Banks of the Lake .
Moorish Houses of Patzcuaro .
Lake Patzcuaro from the Plain
The Old Convent Church at Tzin
tzuntzan . . .
Before the Railroad
Old Belfry at Tzintzuntzan
Stone Steps of the Convent
The Stations of the Cross
The Sacristy and the Titian

ioS
119
128
130 144152i55 ,65
i77 183
187i95196
19S 200
210 212

INTRODUCTION.
My probe has not gone very far below
the surface. The task would have been
uncongenial and the result superfluous.
The record of the resources, religions.
politics, governments, social conditions
and misfortunes of Mexico already en
larges many folios and lies heavy on many
shelves, and I hope on some consciences.
I have preferred rather to present what
would appeal to the painter and idler. A
land of white sunshine redolent with flow
ers ; a land of gay costumes, crumbling
churches, and old convents ; a land of

Introduction

kindly greetings, of extreme courtesy, of
open, broad hospitality.
I have delighted my soul with the sway
ing of the lilies in the sunlight, the rush
of the roses crowding over mouldy walls,
the broad-leaved palms cooling the shad
ows, and have wasted none of my precious
time searching for the lizard and the mole
crawling at their roots.
Content with the novelty and charm of
the picturesque life about me, I have
watched the naked children at play and
the patient peon at work ; and the haughty
hidalgo, armed and guarded, inspecting
his plantation ; and the dark-skinned seiio-
rita with her lips pressed close to the
gratings of the confessional ; and even
the stealthy, furtive glance of the outlaw,
without caring to analyze or solve any
one of the many social and religious
problems which make these conditions
possible. It was enough for me to find the wild
life of the Comanche, the grand estate of
the Spanish Don, and the fragments of the
past splendor of the ecclesiastical orders
existing side by side with the remnant of

Introduction

that Aztec civilization which fired the
Spanish heart in the old days of the Con
quest. Enough to discover that in this
remnant there still survived a race capa
ble of the highest culture and worthy of
the deepest study. A distinct and pecul
iar people. An unselfish, patient, tender
hearted people, of great personal beauty,
courage, and refinement. A people main
taining in their every-day life an etiquette
phenomenal in a down-trodden race ; of
fering instantly to the stranger and way
farer on the very threshold of their adobe
huts a hospitality so generous, accompa
nied by a courtesy so exquisite, that one
stops at the next doorway to reenjoy the
luxury. It was more than enough to revel in an
Italian sun lighting up a semi-tropical
land ; to look up to white-capped peaks
towering into the blue ; to look down upon
wind-swept plains encircled by ragged
chains of mountains ; to catch the sparkle
of miniature cities jeweled here and there
in oases of olive and orange ; and to real
ize that to-day, in its varied scenery, cos
tumes, architecture, street life, canals

Introduction

crowded with flower - laden boats, mar
ket plazas thronged with gayly dressed
natives, faded church interiors, and aban
doned convents, Mexico is the most mar
vellously picturesque country under the
sun. A tropical Venice ! a semi -barbar
ous Spain ! a new Holy Land.
To study and enjoy this or any other
people thoroughly, one must live in the
streets. A chat with the old woman sell
ing rosaries near the door of the cathe
dral, half an hour spent with the sacristan
after morning mass, and a word now and
then with the donkey-boy, the water-car
rier, and the padre, will give you a better
idea of a town and a closer insight into
its inner life than days spent at the gov
ernor's palace or the museum.
If your companion is a white umbrella,
and if beneath its shelter you sit for hours
painting the picturesque bits that charm
your eye, you will have hosts of lookers-
on attracted by idle curiosity. Many of
these will prove good friends during your
stay, and will vie with each other in do
ing you many little acts of kindness
which will linger lovingly in your memory

Introduction

long after you have shaken the white dust
of their villages from your feet.
It is in this spirit and with this intent
that I ask you to turn aside from the heat
and bustle of your daily life long enough
to share with me the cool and quiet of my
white umbrella while it is opened in Mex
ico.
F. H. S.
New York, December, 1S88.

CHAPTER I.

A MORNING IN GUANAJUATO.
This morning I am wandering about
Guanajuato. It is a grotesque, quaint old
mining town, near the line of the Mexican
Central Railroad, within a day's journey
of the City of Mexico. I had arrived the
night before tired out, and awoke so early
that the sun and I appeared on the streets
about the same hour.
The air was deliciously cool and fra
grant, and shouldering my sketch-trap and
umbrella I bent my steps towards the
church of la parrbquia.
I had seen it the night previous as I
passed by in the starlight, and its stone
pillars and twisted iron railings so de-

8 A White Umbrella in Mexico
lighted me that I spent half the night
elaborating its details in my sleep.
The tide of worshippers filling the
streets carried prayer-books and rosaries.
They were evidently intent on early mass.
As for myself I was simply drifting about,
watching the people, making notes in my
sketch-book, and saturating myself with
the charming novelty of my surroundings.
When I reached the small square fa
cing the great green door of the beautiful
old church, the golden sunlight was just
touching its quaint towers, and the stone
urns and crosses surmounting the curious
pillars below were still in shadow standing
out in dark relief against the blue sky be
yond. I mingled with the crowd, followed into
the church, listened a while to the ser
vice, and then returned to the plaza and
began a circuit of the square that I might
select* some point of sight from which I
could seize the noble pile as a whole, and
thus express it within the square of my
canvas. The oftener I walked around it, the
more difficult became the problem. A

A Morning in Guanajuato

dozen times I made the circuit, stopping
pondering, and stepping backwards and
sideways after the manner of painters
similarly perplexed ; attracting a curious
throng, who kept their eyes upon me very
much as if they suspected I was either
slightly crazed or was about to indulge
in some kind of heathen rite entirely new
to them.
Finally it became plainly evident that
but one point of sight could be relied
upon. This centred in the archway of
a private house immediately opposite the
church. I determined to move in and
take possession.
Some care, however, is necessary in
the inroads one makes upon a private
house in a Spanish city. A watchful por
ter half concealed in the garden of the
patio generally has his eye on the gate
way, and overhauls you before you have
taken a dozen steps with a " Hola, senor '
a quidn busca ustcd ? " You will also find
the lower windows protected by iron rcjas,
through which, if you are on good terms
with the black eyes within, you may per
haps kiss the tips of her tapering fingers.

io A White Umbrella in Mexico

There is a key to the heart of every
Spaniard which has seldom failed me —
the use of a little politeness. This al
ways engages his attention. Add to it a
dash of ceremony and he is your friend
at once. If you ask a Cuban for a light,
he will first remove his hat, then his cigar,
make you a low bow, and holding his
fragrant Havana between his thumb and
forefinger, with the lighted end towards
himself, will present it to you with the
air of a grandee that is at once graceful
and captivating. If you follow his ex
ample and remain bareheaded until the
courtesy is complete he will continue bow
ing until you are out of sight. If you are
forgetful, and with thoughts intent upon
your own affairs merely thank him and
pass on, he will bless himself that he is
not as other men are, and dismiss you
from his mind as one of those outside bar
barians whom it is his duty to forget.
In Mexico the people are still more
punctilious. To pass an acquaintance on
the street without stopping, hat in hand,
and inquiring one by one for his wife,
children, and the various members of his

A Morning in Guanajuato 1 1
household, and then waiting patiently until
he goes through the same family list for
you, is an unforgivable offence among
friends. Even the native Indians are dis
tinguished by an elaboration of manner in
the courtesies they constantly extend to
each other noted in no other serving peo
ple. An old woman, barefooted, ragged, and
dust begrimed, leaning upon a staff,
once preceded me up a narrow, crooked
street. She looked like an animated fish
net hung on a fence to dry, so ragged and
emaciated was she. A young Indian one
half her age crossed her steps as she
turned into a side street. Instantly he
removed his hat and saluted her as if she
had been the Queen of Sheba. "A los
pics de uslfd, scnora " (At your feet, lady),
I heard him say as I passed. " Bcse ustcd
las manos ' (My hands for your kisses,
senor), replied she, with a bow which
would have become a duchess.
I have lived long enough in Spanish
countries to adapt my own habits and
regulate my own conduct to the require
ments of these customs ; and so when

12 A White Umbrella in Mexico
this morning in Guanajuato, I discovered
that my only hope lay within the archway
of the patio of this noble house, at once
the residence of a man of wealth and of
rank, I forthwith succumbed to the law of
the country, with a result that doubly paid
me for all the precious time it took to ac
complish it ; precious, because the whole
front of the beautiful old church with its
sloping flight of semicircular stone steps
was now bathed in sunlight, and a few
hours later the hot sun climbing to the ze
nith would round the corner of the tower,
leave it in shadow, and so spoil its effect.
Within this door sat a fat, oily porter,
rolling cigarettes. I approached him,
handed him my card, and bade him con
vey it to his master together with my most
distinguished considerations, and inform
him that I was a painter from a distant
city by the sea, and that I craved permis
sion to erect my easel within the gates of
his palace and from this coign of vantage
paint the most sacred church across the
way. Before I had half examined the square
of the patio with its Moorish columns and

A Morning in Guanajuato 13
arches and tropical garden filled with
flowers, I heard quick footsteps above
and caught sight of a group of gentlemen
preceded by an elderly man with bristling
white hair, walking rapidly along the
piazza of the second or living floor of the
house. In a moment more the whole party de
scended the marble staircase and ap
proached me. The elderly man with the
white hair held in his hand my card.
" With the greatest pleasure, senor,"
he said graciously. "You can use my
doorway or any portion of my house ; it
is all yours ; the view from the balcony
above is much more extensive. Will you
not ascend and see for yourself ? But let
me present you to my friends and insist
that you first come to breakfast."
But I did not need the balcony, and it
was impossible for me to share his coffee.
The sun was moving, the day half gone,
my stay in Guanajuato limited. If he
would permit me to sit within the shadow
of his gate I would ever bless his gener
osity, and, the sketch finished, would do
myself the honor of appearing before him.

14 A White Umbrella in Mexico

Half a dozen times during the progress
of this picture the whole party ran down
the staircase, napkins in hand, broke out
into rapturous exclamations over its de
velopment, and insisted that some sort of
nourishment, either solid or fluid, was ab
solutely necessary for the preservation of
my life. Soon the populace began to
take an interest, and so blocked up the
gateway that I could no longer follow the
outlines of the church. I remonstrated,
and appealed to my host. He grasped
the situation, gave a rapid order to the
porter, who disappeared and almost im
mediately reappeared with an officer who
saluted my host with marked respect.
Five minutes later a squad of soldiers
cleared out the archway and the street in
front, formed two files, and mounted guard
until my work was over. I began to won
der what manner of man was this who gave
away palaces and commanded armies !
At last the sketch was finished, and
leaving the porter in charge of my traps I
seized the canvas, mounted the winding
staircase, and presented myself at the
large door opening on the balcony. At

A Morning in Guanajuato 15

sight of me not only my host, but all his
guests, rose to their feet and welcomed
me heartily,
crowding about
the chair
against which
I propped the
picture. Then a door
in the rear of
the breakfast-
room opened,
and the senora
and her two
pretty daugh
ters glided in
for a peep at
the work of the
morning, de
claring in one
breath that it

was very wonderful that so many colors
could be put together in so short a time ;
that I must be muy fatigado, and that
they would serve coffee for my refresh
ment at once.
This to a tramp, remember, discovered

1 6 A White Umbrella in Mexico
on a doorstep but a few hours before, with
designs on the hallway !
This done I must see the garden and
the parrots in the swinging cages and the
miniature Chihuahua dogs, and last I
must ascend the flight of brick steps lead
ing to the roof and see the view from the
tip-top of the house. It was when lean
ing over the projecting iron rail of this
lookout, with the city below me and the
range of hills above dotted with mining
shafts, that I made bold to ask my host a
direct question.
" Sefior, it is easy for you to see what
my life is and how I fill it. Tell me, what
manner of man are you ? "
" Con gusto, senor. I am un miner o.
The shaft you see to the right is the en
trance to my silver mine. I am un agricul-
tor. Behind yon mountain lies my haci
enda, and I am un bienhechor (a benefac
tor). The long white building you see to
the left is the hospital which I built and
gave to the poor of my town."
When I bade good-by to my miner,
benefactor, and friend, I called a sad-faced

A Morning in Guanajuato ij
Indian boy who had watched me intently
while at work, and who waited patiently
until I reappeared. To him I consigned
my "trap," with the exception of my um
brella staff, which serves me as a cane,
and together we lost ourselves in the
crowded thoroughfare.
" What is your name, muchacho ? " I
asked. " Matias, senor.''
" And what do you do ? "
" Nothing."
" All day ? "
" All day and all night, sefior."
Here at least was a fellow Bohemian
with whom I could loaf to my heart's con
tent. I looked him over carefully. He
had large dark eyes with drooping lids,
which lent an air of extreme sadness to
his handsome face. His curly black hair
was crowded under his straw sombrero,
with a few stray locks pushed through the
crown! His shirt was open at the throat,
and his leathern breeches, reaching to his
knee, were held above his hips by a rag
of a red sash edged with frayed silk
fringe. Upon his feet were the sandals

18 A White Umbrella in Mexico
of the country. Whenever he spoke he
touched his hat.
"And do. you know Guanajuato?" I
continued. " Every stone, senor."
" Show it me."
In the old days this crooked old city of
Guanajuato was known as Quanashuato,
which in the Tarascan tongue means the
" Hill of the Frogs ; " not from the prev
alence of that toothsome morsel, but be
cause the Tarascan Indians, according to
Janvier, "found here a huge stone in the
shape of a frog, which they worshipped."
The city at an elevation of 6,800 feet is
crowded into a narrow, deep ravine, ter
raced on each side to give standing room
for its houses. The little Moorish look
ing town of Marfil stands guard at the
entrance of the narrow gorge, its heavy
stone houses posted quite into the road,
and so blocking it up that the trains of
mules must needs dodge their way in and
out to reach the railroad below.
As you pass up the ravine you notice
that through its channel runs a sluggish,
muddy stream, into which is emptied all

A Morning in Guanajuato ig
the filth of the City of Frogs above, as
well as all the pumpings and waste wash
ings of the silver mines which line its
sides below.
Into this mire droves of hogs wallow
in the hot sun, the mud caking to their
sides and backs. This, Matias tells me,
their owners religiously wash off once a
week to save the silver which it contains.
As it is estimated that the summer fresh
ets have scoured from the bed of this
brook millions of dollars of silver since
the discovery of these mines in 1548, the
owners cannot be blamed for scraping
these beasts clean, now that their output
is reduced to a mere bagatelle of six mil
lion dollars annually.
On you climb, looking down upon the
houses just passed on the street below,
until you round the great building of the
Alhdndiga de Granaditas, captured by
the patriot priest Hidalgo in 181 o, and
still holding the iron spike which spitted
his head the year following. Then on to
the Plaza de Mejia Mora, a charming
garden park in the centre of the city.
This was my route, and here I sat down

20 A White Umbrella in Mexico
on a stone bench surrounded by flowers,
waving palms, green grass, and pretty
senoritas, and listened to the music of a

very creditable band perched in a sort of
Chinese pagoda in the park's centre.
Matias was equal to the occasion. At
my request he ran to the corner and
brought me some oranges, a pot of coffee,
and a roll, which I shared with him on
the marble slab much to the amusement
of the bystanders, who could not under
stand why I preferred lunching with a

A Morning in Guanajuato 2 1
street gamin on a park bench to dining
with the klite of Guanajuato at the cafe
opposite. The solution was easy. We
were two tramps with nothing to do.
Next Matias pointed out all the celeb
rities as they strolled through the plaza —
the bishop coming from mass, the gov
ernor and his secretary, and the beautiful
Senorita Dona Maria, who had been mar
ried the month before with great pomp at
the cathedral.
" And what church is that over the way
where I see the people kneeling outside,
Matias ? "
" The Iglesia de San Diego, sefior. It
is Holy Thursday. To-day no one rides ;
all the horses are stabled. The senoritas
walk to church and wear black veils, and
that is why so many are in the streets.
To-day and to-morrow the mines are
closed and all the miners are out in the
sunlight." While Matias rattled on there swept by
me a cloud of lace encircling a bewitch
ing face, from out which snapped two
wicked black eyes. The Mexican beau
ties have more vivacity than their cousins

A White Umbrella in Mexico

the Spaniards. It may be that the Indian
blood which runs in their veins gives
them a piquancy which reminds you more
of the sparkle of the French grisette than
of the languid air common to almost all
high-bred Spanish women.
She, too, twisted her pretty head, and
a light laugh bubbled out from between
her red lips and perfect teeth, as she
caught sight of the unusual spectacle of a
foreigner in knickerbockers breakfasting
in the open air with a street tramp in san
dals. Seeing me divide an orange with Ma
tias she touched the arm of her compan
ion, an elderly woman carrying a great
fan, pointed me out, and then they both
laughed immoderately. I arose gravely,
and, removing my hat, saluted them with
all the deference and respect I could con
centrate into one prolonged curve of my
spinal column. At this the duenna looked
grave and half frightened, but the seno
rita returned to me only smiles, moved
her fan gracefully, and entered the door
of the church across the way.
" The caballero will now see the

A Morning in Guanajuato 23
church ? " said the boy slowly, as if the
incident ended the breakfast.
Later I did, and from behind a pillar
where I had hidden myself away from the
sacristan who frowned at my sketch-book,
and where I could sketch and watch un
observed the penitents on their knees
before the altar, I caught sight of my
senorita snapping her eyes in the same
mischievous way, and talking with her
fan, as I have often seen the Spanish wo
men do at the Tacon in Havana. It was
not to me this time, but to a devout
young fellow kneeling across the aisle.
And so she prayed with her lips, and
talked with her heart and fan, and when
it was all thus silently arranged between
them, she bowed to the altar, and glided
from the church without one glance at
poor me sketching behind the column.
When I looked up again her lover had
vanished. Oh ! the charm of this semi-tropical
Spanish life ! The balconies above the
patios trellised with flowers ; the swing
ing hammocks ; the slow plash of the
fountains ; the odor of jasmine wet with

24 A White Umbrella in Mexico
dew; the low thrum of guitar and click
of castanet; the soft moonlight half-re
vealing the muffled figures in lace and
cloak. It is the same old ston-. and yet it
seems to me it is told in Spanish lands
more delightfully and with more romance,
color, and mystery than elsewhere on the
globe. Matias woke me from my revery.
" Sefior, vespers in the cathedral at
four." So we wandered out into the sunlight,
and joined the throng in holiday attire,
drifting with the current towards the
church of San Francisco. As we entered
the side door to avoid the crowd, I stopped
to examine a table piled high with rosa
ries and charms, presided over by a
weather-beaten old woman, and covered
with what was once an altar cloth of great
beauty-, embroidered in silver thread and
silk. It was just faded and ding}- enough
to be harmonious, and just ragged enough
to be interesting. In the bedecking of
the sacred edifice for the festival days
then approaching, the old wardrobes of
the sacristv had been ransacked, and this

A Morning in Guanajuato 25
piece coming to light had been thrown
over the plain table as a background to
the religious knickknacks.
Instantly a dozen schemes to possess
it ran through my head. After all sorts
of propositions, embracing another cloth,
the price of two new ones, and a fresh
table thrown in, I was confronted with
this proposition : —
"You buy everything upon it, senor,
and you can take the table and covering
with you."
The service had already commenced.
I could smell the burning incense, and
hear the tinkling of the altar bell and the
burst from the organ. The door by which
we entered opened into a long passage
running parallel with the church, and con
necting with the sacristy which ran imme
diately behind the altar. The dividing
wall between this and the altar side of
the church was a thin partition of wood,
with grotesque openings near the ceiling.
Through these the sounds of the service
were so distinct that every word could
be understood. These openings proved
to be between the backs of certain saints

26 A White Umbrella in Mexico
and carvings, overlaid with gilt and form
ing the reredos.
Within the sacristy, and within five feet
of the bishop who was conducting the
service, and entirely undisturbed by our
presence, sat four hungry padres at a
comfortable luncheon. Each holy father
had a bottle of red wine at his plate.
Every few minutes a priest would come
in from the church side of the partition,
the sacristan would remove his vestments,
lay them away in the wardrobes, and
either robe him anew, or hand him his
shovel hat and cane. During the process
they all chatted together in the most un
concerned way possible, only lowering
their voices when the pauses in the service
required it.
It may have been that the spiritual
tasks of the day were so prolonged and
continuous that there was no time for the
material, and that it was either here in
the sacristy or go hungry. Or perhaps
it lifted for me one corner of the sheet
which covers the dead body of the reli
gion of Mexico.
These corners, however, I will not

A Morning in Guanajuato 2y
uncover. The sun shines for us all ; the
shadows are cool and inviting; the flow
ers are free and fragrant ; the people cour
teous and hospitable beyond belief ; the
land the most picturesque and enchant
ing. When I look into Matias' sad eyes and
think to what a life of poverty and suffer
ing he is doomed, and what his people
have endured for ages, these ghosts of
revolution, misrule, cruelty, superstition,
and want rise up and confront me, and
although I know that beneath this charm
of atmosphere, color, and courtesy there
lurks, like the deadly miasma of the ra
vine, lulled to sleep by the sunlight, much
of degradation, injustice, and crime, still I
will probe none of it. So I fill Matias'
hand full of silver and copper coins, and
his sad eyes full of joyful tears, and as I
descend the rocky hill in the evening glow,
and look up to the great prison of Guan
ajuato with its roof fringed with rows of
prisoners manacled together, and given
this hour of fresh air because of the sa-
credness of the day, I forget their chains
and the intrigue and treachery which

28 A White Umbrella in Mexico
forged many of them, and see only the
purple city swimming in the golden light,
and the deep shadows of the hills be
hind it.

CHAPTER II.
after dark in
SILAO.
" Caballero ! A
donde va ustcd 1 "
" To Silao, to
see the cathedral
lighted." "Alone?" " Cierto ! un
less you go."
I was half way
across the open
space dividing the railroad from the city
of Silao when I was brought to a stand
still by this inquiry. The questioner was
my friend Morgan, an Englishman, who
had lived ten years in the country and
knew it thoroughly.
He was placed here in charge of the
property of the road the day the last spike
was driven. A short, thickset, clear blue-
eyed, and brown -bearded Briton, whose
word was law, and whose brawny arm

$o A White Umbrella in Mexico
enforced it. He had a natural taste for
my work and we soon drifted together.
" Better take this," he continued, loos
ing his belt and handing me its contents
— a row of cartridges and a revolver.
" Never carried one in my life."
" Well, you will now."
" Do you mean to say, Morgan, that I
cannot cross this flat plain, hardly a quar
ter of a mile wide, and enter the city in
safety without being armed ? "
" I mean to say, mi amigo, that the
mountains around Silao are infested with
bandits, outlaws, and thieves ; that these
fellows prowl at night ; that you are a
stranger and recognized at sight as an
American ; that twenty-four hours after
your arrival these facts were quietly whis
pered among the fraternity ; that every
article of value you have on down to your
collar-button is already a subject of dis
cussion and appraisement ; that there are
nine chances to ten that the blind crip
ple who sold you dulces this morning at
the train was quietly making an inventory
of your valuables, and that, had he been
recognized by the guard, his legs would

After Dark in Silao 31
have untwisted themselves in a minute ;
that after dark in Silao is quite a differ
ent thing from under the gaslight in Broad
way ; and that unless you go armed you
cannot go alone."
" But, Morgan, there is not a tree, stone,
stump, or building in sight big enough to
screen a rat behind. You can see even
in the starlight the entrance to the wide
street leading to the cathedral."
'• Make no mistake, senor, these devils
start up out of the ground. Strap this
around you or stay here. Can you see
my quarters — the small house near the
Estacion ? Do you notice the portico
with the sloping roof ? Well, my friend, I
have sat on that portico in the cool of the
evening and looked across this very plain
and heard cries for help, and the next
morning at dawn have seen the crowd
gathered about a poor devil with a gash
in his back the length of your hand."
As we walked through the dust towards
the city, Morgan continued : —
'¦ The government are not altogether to
blame for this state of things. They have
done their best to break it up, and they

)2 A White Umbrella in Mexico
have succeeded to a great extent. In
Celaya alone the jefe politico showed me
the records where he had shot one hun
dred and thirteen bandits in less than two
years. He does not waste his time over
judge or jury : strings them along in a
row within an hour after they are caught
plundering, then leaves them two days
above ground as a warning to those who
get away. Within a year to cross from
Silao to Leon without a guard was as
much as your life was worth. The dili
gence was robbed almost daily. This be
gan to be a matter of course and passen
gers reduced their luggage to the clothes
they stood in. Finally the thieves confis
cated these. Two years ago, old Don
Palacio del Monte, whose hacienda is
within five miles of here, started in a dili
gence one morning at daylight with his
wife and two daughters and a young
Mexican named Marquando, to attend a
wedding feast at a neighboring planta
tion only a few miles distant. They were
the only occupants. An hour after sun
rise, while dragging up a steep hill, the
coach came to a halt, the driver was pulled

After Dark in Silao jj

down and bound, old Palacio and Mar-
quando covered with carbines, and every
rag of clothing stripped from the entire
party. Then they were politely informed
by the chief, who was afterwards caught
and shot, and who turned out to be the
renegade son of the owner of the very
hacienda where the wedding festivities
were to be celebrated, to go home and
inform their friends to bring more bag
gage in the future or some of them
might catch cold !
" Marquando told me of it the week
after it occurred. He was still suffering
from the mortification. His description
of the fat driver crawling up into his
seat, and of the courteous old Mexican
standing in the sunlight looking like a
scourged media?val saint, and of the dig
nified wave of his hand as he said to him,
' After you, senor,' before climbing up
beside the driver, was delightful. I
laughed over it for a week."
" What became of the sefiora and the
girls ? " I asked.
" Oh, thev slid in through the opposite
door of the coach, and remained in seclu-

34 A While Umbrella in Mexico
sion until the driver reached an adobe
hut and demanded of a peon family
enough clothes to get the party into one
of the outbuildings of the hacienda.
There they were rescued by their friends."
" And Marquando ! " I asked, " did he
appear at the wedding ? "
" No. That was the hardest part of it.
After the ladies were smuggled into the
house, Don Palacio, by that time dec
orated with a straw mat and a sombrero,
called Marquando aside. ' Senor,' he
said with extreme gravity and deep pa
thos, ' after the events of the morning it
will be impossible for us to recognize
each other again. I entertain for you
personally the most profound respect.
Will you do me the great kindness of
never speaking to me or any member of
my family after to-day ? ' Marquando
bowed and withdrew. A few months
later he was in Leon. The governor gave
a ball. As he entered the room he caught
sight of Don Palacio surrounded by his
wife and daughters. The old Mexican
held up his hand, the palm towards Mar
quando like a barrier. My friend stopped,

ArUr Dark in Silao

35

bowed to the floor, mounted his horse,
and left the city. It cut him deeply too,
for he is a nne young fellow and one of
the girls liked him.
We had crossed the open space and

were entering the city. Low buildings
connected by long white adobe wads.
against which grew prick.y -pears, strag
gled out into tae dustv plateau. Cro:n-
:n~ over earthen pots balanced on smoul
dering emters sat old hags, surrounded
by swarthy children watchir.g the prepara
tion of their evening meal. Turning the
shart) anz'e of the street, we stum': led over

¦j<5 A White Umbrella in Mexico
a group of peons squatting on the side
walk, their backs to the wall, muffled to
their eyes in their zarapes, some asleep,
others motionless, following us with their
eyes. Soon the spire of la parrbquia
loomed up in the starlight, its outlines
brought out into uncertain relief by the
flickering light of the torches blazing in
the market-place below. Here Morgan
stopped, and pointing to a slit of an alley
running between two buildings and widen
ing out into a square court, said : —
" This is the entrance to an old patio
long since abandoned. Some years ago
a gang of cutthroats used it to hide their
plunder. You can see how easy it would
be for one of these devils to step behind
you, put a stiletto between your shoulder-
blades, and bundle you in out of sight."
I crossed over and took the middle of
the street. Morgan laughed.
" You are perfectly safe with me," he
continued, " for I am known everywhere
and would be missed. You might not.
Then I adopt the custom of the country
and carry an extra cartridge, and they
know it. But you would be safe here any

After Dark in Silao jy
way. It is only the outskirts of these
Mexican towns that are dangerous to
stroll around in after dark."
There is a law in Mexico called the
ley de fuego — the law of fire. It is very
easily understood. If a convict breaks
away from the chain gang he takes his
life in his hands. Instantly every car
bine in the mounted guard is levelled, and
a rattling fire is kept up until he either
drops, riddled by balls, or escapes unhurt
in the crevices of the foot-hills. Once
away he is safe and cannot be rearrested
for the same crime. Silao has a number
of these birds of freedom, and to their
credit be it said, they are eminently re
spectable citizens. If he is overhauled
by a ball the pursuing squad detail a
brace of convicts to dig a hole in the
softest ground within reach, and a rude
wooden cross the next day tells the
whole story.
If a brigand has a misunderstanding
with a citizen regarding the ownership of
certain personal effects, the exclusive
property of the citizen, and the brigand
in the heat of the debate becomes care-

38 A White Umbrella in Mexico
less in the use of his firearms, the same
wooden cross announces the fact with an
emphasis that is startling. Occurrences
like these have been so frequent in the
past that the country around Silao reminds
one of an abandoned telegraph system,
with nothing standing but the poles and
cross-pieces. Morgan imparted this last information
from one of the stone seats in the alameda
adjoining the church of Santiago, which
we had reached and where we sat quietly
smoking, surrounded by throngs of people
pushing their way towards the open door
of the sacred edifice. We threw away
our cigarettes and followed the crowd.
It was the night of Good Friday, and
the interior was ablaze with the light of
thousands of wax candles suspended
from the vaulted roof by fine wires, which
swayed with the air from the great doors,
while scattered through this sprinkling
of stars glistened sheets of gold leaf
strung on threads of silk. Ranged along
the sides of the church upon a ledge just
above the heads of the people sparkled a
curious collection of cut-glass bottles, de-

After Dark in Silao %g
canters, dishes, toilet boxes, and goblets
— in fact, every conceivable variety of
domestic glass. Behind these in small
oil cups floated burned ends of candles
and tapers. In the sacristy, upon a rude
bier covered by an embroidered sheet, lay
the wooden image of the dead Christ,
surrounded by crowds of peons and Mexi
cans passing up to kiss the painted wounds
and drop a fewcentavos for their sins and
shortcomings. As we passed out into the fresh night
air, the glare of a torch fell upon an old
man seated by a table selling rosaries.
Morgan leaned against one of the pillars
of the railing surrounding the court,
watched the traffic go on for a few min
utes, and then pointing to the entrance of
the church through which streamed the
great flood of light, said : —
" Into that open door goes all the loose
money of Mexico."
When we reached the plaza the people
still thronged the streets. Venders sold
dulces, fruits, candles, and the thousand
and one knickknacks bought in holiday
times ; torches stuck in the ground on

40 A While Umbrella in Mexico
high poles flared over the alameda ; groups
of natives smoking cigarettes chatted
gayly near the fountain ; while lovers in
pairs disported themselves after the man
ner of their kind under the trees. One
young Indian girl and her dusky caballero
greatly interested me. Nothing seemed
to disturb them. They cooed away in
the full glare of a street lantern as un
conscious and unconcerned as if a roof
sheltered them. He had spread his blan
ket so as to protect her from the cold
stone bench. It was not a very wide za-
rape, and yet there was room enough for
two. The poverty of the pair was unmis
takable. A straw sombrero, cotton shirt,
trousers, and sandals completed his out
fit, a chemise, blue skirt, scarlet sash,
and rebozo twisted about her throat her
own. This humble raiment was clean
and fresh, and the red rose tucked coquet-
tishly among the braids of her purple-
black hair was just what was wanted to
make it picturesque.
Both were smoking the same cigarette
and laughing between each puff, he pro-

After Dark in Silao 41
testing that she should have two whiffs
to his one, at which there would be a lit
tle kittenish spatting, ending in his having
his own way and kissing her two cheeks
for punishment.
With us, some love affairs end in smoke ;
here they seem to thrive upon it.
Morgan, however, did not seem to ap
preciate the love-making. He was impa
tient to return to the station, for it was
nearly midnight.
"If you are going to supervise all the
love affairs in Silao you might as well
make a night of it," he laughed. So we
turned from the plaza, entered a broad
street, and followed along a high wall sur
rounding a large house, in reality the pal
ace of Manuel Gonzalez, formerly Presi
dent of the Republic. Here the crowds
in the street began to thin out. By the
time we reached another turn the city was
deserted. Morgan struck a wax taper and
consulted his watch.
" In ten minutes, mi amigo, the train is
due from Chihuahua. I must be on hand
to unlock the freight - house. We will
make a short cut through here."

42 A White Umbrella in Mexico
The moon had set, leaving to the flick
ering lanterns at the street corners the
task of lighting us home. I stumbled
along, keeping close to my friend, winding
in and out of lonely crooked streets, under
black archways, and around the sharp pro
jecting angles of low adobe walls. The
only sound beside our hurrying footsteps
was the loud crowing of a cock miscalcu
lating the dawn.
Suddenly Morgan pushed aside a swing
ing wooden door framed in an adobe wall,
and I followed him through what appeared
to be an abandoned convent garden. He
halted on the opposite side of the quad
rangle, felt along the whitewashed wall,
shot back a bolt, and held open a second
door. As I closed it behind me a man
wrapped in a cloak stepped from a niche
in the wall and leveled his carbine. Mor
gan sprang back and called out to me in
a sharp firm voice : —
" Stand still."
I glued myself to the spot. In fact, the
only part of me that was at all alive was
my imagination.
I was instantly perforated, stripped, and

After Dark in Silao 43
lugged off to the mountains on a burro's
back, where select portions of my ears
were sliced off and forwarded to my
friends as sight drafts on my entire
worldly estate. While I was calculating
the chances of my plunging through the
door and escaping by the garden, this
came from the muffled figure : —
" Quien vtie 'I "
" La libertad" replied Morgan quietly.
" Que nation 1 "
" Un compatriota," answered my com
panion. The carbine was lowered slowly. Mor
gan advanced, mumbled a few words,
called to me to follow, and struck out
boldly across the plain to the station.
" Who was your murderous friend ? a
brigand ? " I asked when I had recovered
my breath.
" No. One of the Rurales, or civil
guards. They are the salvation of the
country. They challenge every man cross
ing their beat after ten o'clock"
" And if you do not halt ? Then what ? "
" Then say a short prayer. There will
not be time for a long one."

44 A White Umbrella in Mexico
As we reached the tracks I heard the
whistle of the night express. Morgan
seized a lantern and swung it above his
head. The train stopped. I counted all
my bones and turned in for the night.

CHAPTER III.

THE OPALS OF QUERETARO.

I arrived with a cyclone. To be ex
act, the cyclone was ahead. All I saw as
I stepped from the train was a whirling
cloud of dust through which the roof of
the station was dimly outlined, a long
plank walk, and a string of cabs.
A boy emerged from the cloud and
grabbed my bag.
" Will it rain ? " I asked anxiously.
" No, sefior. No rain, but much dust."
It was a dry storm, common in this
season and section. Compared with it the
simoon on the Sahara is a gentle zephyr.

46 A White Umbrella in Mexico
When the boy had collected the bal
ance of my belongings, he promptly asked
me two questions. Would I visit the spot
where Maximilian was shot, and would I
buy some opals. The first was to be ac
complished by means of a cab ; the second
by diving into his trousers pocket and
hauling up a little wad. This he unrolled,
displaying half a teaspoonful of gems of
more or less value and brilliancy.
I had not the slightest desire to see the
spot, and my bank account was entirely too
limited for opalescent luxuries. I im
parted this information, rubbing both eyes
and breathing through my sleeve. He
could get me a cab and a hotel — any
where out of this simoon. .
" But, sefior, it will be over in a min
ute." Even while he spoke the sun sifted
through, the blue sky appeared faintly
overhead, and little whirls of funnel-shaped
dust went careering down the track to
plague the next town below.
When I reached the plaza the air was
delicious and balmy, and the fountains
under the trees cool and refreshing.

The Opals tf Omeretmro 47
If one has absolutely nothing to do,
Queretaro is the place in which to do
it. If he suffers from die constitutional
disease of being born tired, here is the
place for him to rest. The grass grows in
the middle of the streets ; at every comer
there is a small open square full of trees ;
under each tree a bench ; on every bench
a wayfarer: they are all resting. If you
interview one of them as to his special oc
cupation, he trill revive long enough to
search among die recesses of his ward
robe and fish out various little wads.
When be unwinds the skein of dhiy
thread which binds one. he will spill out
upon his equally dirty palm a thimble
ful of die national gems, of more or less
value. You wonder where all these opalescent
seed pearls come from, and conclude that
each one of these weary dealers has an
especial hole in die ground somewhere
which he visits at night. Hence his wads,
his weariness, and his daytime loaf.
In reply to your inquiries he says, in a
vague sort of a way. Oh ! from the mines ;
but whether thev are across the moan-

48 A White Umbrella in Mexico
tains or in his back-yard you never know.
Of one thing you are convinced : to be
retailed by the wad, these gems must be
wholesaled by the bushel. You can hardly
jostle a man in Queretaro who has not a
collection somewhere about him. The
flower-woman at the corner, the water-
carrier with his red jars, the cabby, the
express agent, the policeman, and I doubt
not the padre and the sacristan, all have
their little wads tucked away somewhere
in their little pockets.
And yet with all this no one ever saw,
within the memory of the oldest inhab
itant, a single stone in the ear or on
the finger of any citizen of Quere'taro.
They are hoarded for the especial benefit
of the stranger. If he is a poor stranger
and has but one peseta it makes no dif
ference, he must have an opal, and the
spoonful is raked over until a little one
for a peseta is found. Quite an electric
light of a gem can be purchased for five
dollars. The spot and the opal are, however,
the only drawbacks to the stranger, and
even then if it becomes known that upon

The Opals of Queretaro 49
no possible condition could you be in
duced to climb that forlorn hill, half way
up which the poor emperor was riddled
to death, and that you have been born
not only tired but with the superstition
that opals are unlucky, then by a kind of
freemasonry the word is passed around,
and you are spared, and welcomed. This
was my experience. The well - known
poverty of the painter the world over —
instantly recognized when I opened my
umbrella — assisted me, no doubt, in
establishing this relation.
But the charm of Quere'taro is not con
fined to its grass - grown streets. The
churches are especially interesting. That
of Santa Cruz is entirely unique, partic
ularly its interior adornment. Besides,
there is a great aqueduct, five miles long,
built on stone arches, — the most impor
tant work of its kind in Mexico, — sup
plying fresh cool water from the moun
tains, the greatest of all blessings in a
thirsty land. Then there are scores of
fountains scattered through the city, semi-
tropical plants in the plazas, palms and
bananas over the walks, and on the edge

50 A While Umbrella in Mexico
of the city a delightful alameda, filled with
trees and embowered in roses. The
flowers are free to whoever will gather.
Moreover, on the corners of the streets,
under the arching palms, sit Indian wo
men selling water from great red earthen
jars. With that delicate, refined taste which
characterizes these people in everything
they touch, the rims of these jars are
wreathed with poppies, while over their
sides hang festoons of leaves. The whole
has a refreshing look which must be en
joyed to be appreciated. I put down half
a centavo, the smallest of copper coins,
and up came a glass of almost ice-cold
water from the jars of soft-baked porous
clay. Then there is the church of Santa Clara,
a smoky, clingy old church, with sunken
floors and a generally dilapidated ap
pearance within — until you begin to
analyze its details. Imagine a door lead
ing from the main body of the church —
it is not large — to the sacristy. The
door proper is the inside beading of an
old picture frame. Across the top is a

The Opals of Queretaro 51
heavy silk curtain of faded pomegranate.

Around the beading extend the several
members of a larger and still larger frame,

52 A White Umbrella in Mexico
in grooves, flutes, scrolls, and rich elabo
rate carving clear to the ceiling, the whole
forming one enormous frame of solid
gilt. In and out of this yellow gold door
little black dots of priests and penitents
sway the pomegranate curtain looped
back to let them pass. To the right rises
a high choir loft overlaid with gold leaf.
Scattered about on the walls, unplaced,
as it were, hang old pictures and tattered
banners. On the left stands the altar,
raised above the level of the church,
surrounded by threadbare velvet chairs,
and high candelabra resting on the floor,
holding giant candles. Above these hang
dingy old lamps of exquisite design. The
light struggles through the windows, be
grimed with dust. The uncertain benches
are polished smooth. At the far end a
sort of partition of open wooden slats
shuts off the altar rail. Behind this screen
is stored a lumber of old furniture, great
chests, wooden images, and the aban
doned and wornout paraphernalia of re
ligious festivals.
Yet with all this Santa Clara is the
most delightfully picturesque church in-

The Opals of Queretaro 53
terior one can meet with the world over.
Some day they will take up a collection,
or an old Don will die and leave a pot of
money " to restore and beautify the most
holy and sacred the church of Santa
Clara," and the fiends will enter in and
close the church, and pull down the old
pictures and throw away the lamps, chairs
and candlesticks, and whitewash the walls,
regild the huge frame of the sacristy door,
and make dust rags of the pomegranate
silk. Then they will hang a green and
purple raw silk terror, bordered with sil
ver braid, in its place, panel the white
washed walls in red stripes, bracket
pressed-glass kerosene lamps on the col
umns, open the edifice to the public, and
sing Te Deums for a month, in honor of
the donor.
This is not an exaggeration. Step into
the church of San Francisco, now the ca
thedral of Quere'taro, within half a dozen
squares of this lovely old church of Santa
Clara, and see the ruin that has been
wrought. I forget the name of the dis
tinguished old devotee who contributed
his estate to destroy this once beautiful

54 A White Umbrella in Mexico
interior, but his soul ought to do penance
in purgatory until the fingers of time shall
have regilded it with the soft bloom of the
dust and mould of centuries, and the light
of countless summers shall have faded
into pale harmonies the impious contrasts
he left behind him.
I often think what a shock it must be
to the good taste of nature when one
whitewashes an old fence. For years the
sun bleached it, and the winds polished it
until each fibre shone like soft threads of
gray satin. Then the little lichens went
to work and filled up all the cracks and
crannies, and wove gray and black films
of lace over the rails, and the dew came
every night and helped the green moss to
bind the edges with velvet, and the worms
gnawed the splinters into holes, and the
weeds clustered about it and threw their
tall blossoms against it, and where there
was found the top of a particularly ugly
old hewn post a little creeper of a vine
peeped over the stone wall and saw its
chance and called out, " Hold on ; I can
hide that," and so shot out a long, delicate
spray of green, which clung faithfully all

The Opals of Queretaro 55
summer and left a crown of gold be
hind when it died in the autumn. And
yet here comes this vandal with a scythe
and a bucket, sweeps away all this beauty
in an hour, and leaves behind only its
grinning skeleton.
A man who could whitewash an old
worm fence would be guilty of any crime,
— even of boiling a peach.
But with the exception of the cathedral,
this imp of a bucket has fastened very lit
tle of his fatal work upon Queretaro.
When the sun goes down behind the
trees of the plaza the closely barred shut
ters, closed all day, are bowed open, and
between the slats you can catch the flash
of a pair of dark eyes. Later, the fair
owners come out on the balconies one by
one, their dark hair so elaborately wrought
that you know at a glance how the greater
part of the afternoon has been spent.
When the twilight steals on, the doors
of these lonely and apparently uninhab
ited houses are thrown wide open, display
ing the exquisite gardens blooming in the
patios, and through the gratings of the
always closed iron gates you get glimpses

56 A White Umbrella in Mexico

of easy chairs and hammocks with in
dented pillows, telling the story of the
day's exertion. In the twilight you pass

The Opals of Queretaro 57
these same pretty senoritas in groups of
threes and fours strolling through the
parks, dressed in pink and white lawn
with Spanish veils and fans, their dainty
feet clad in white stockings and red-
heeled slippers.
One makes friends easily among a peo
ple so isolated. When it is once under
stood that although an American you are
not connected with the railway, their
hospitality is most cordial.
" I like you," said an old man seated
next me on a bench in the plaza one af
ternoon, " because you are an American
and do not eat the tobacco. Caramba !
that is horrible ! "
My trap, moreover, is a constant source
of astonishment and amusement. No
sooner is the umbrella raised and I get
fairly to work than I am surrounded by a
crowd so dense I cannot see a rod ahead.
It is so rare that a painter is seen in the
streets — many people tell me that they
never saw one at work before — that often
I rise from my stool in despair at the
backs and shoulders in front. I then
pick out some one or two having authority

5<? A White Umbrella in Mexico

and stand them guard over each wing of
the half circle, and so the sketch is com
pleted. .
This old fellow who shared my bench
in the plaza had served me in this capa
city in the morning, and our acquaintance
soon ripened into an intimacy. He was
a clean, cool, breezy-looking old fellow,
with a wide straw sombrero shading a
ruddy face framed in a bushy snow-white
beard. His coat, trousers, shirt, and san
dals were all apparently cut from the
same piece of white cotton cloth. The
only bit of color about him below his rosy
face was a zarape. This, from successive
washings, — an unusual treatment, by the
way, for zarapes, — had faded to a deli
cate pink.
"Not made now," said he, in answer to
my inquiring glance. " This zarape be
longed to my father, and was woven by
my grandmother on a hand loom. You
can get plenty at the store. They are
made by steam, but I cannot part with
this. It is for my son."
I reluctantly gave it up. It was the
best I had seen. When he stood up and

The Opals of Queretaro 59
wrapped it about him he was as delicious
a bit of color as one would find in a day's
journey. Moreover, the old fellow was a
man of information. He knew the his
tory of the founding of the city and the
building of the great aqueduct by the
Marques de la Villa del Villar de la Aguila,
who defrayed most of the expenses, and
whose effigy decorates the principal foun
tain. He saw Maximilian and Generals
Miramon and Mejia leave the convent of
Santa Cruz the morning of their execu
tion, June 19, 1867 ; and remembered per
fectly the war with the United States and
the day the treaty of peace was ratified
widi Congress in 1848. Finally he tells me
that pulque was first discovered in Quere'
taro, and insists that, as this is my last
day in the city, — for on the morrow I go
to Aguas Calientes, — I must go to the
posada opposite and have a mug with
him ; that when I reach the great City of
Mexico I will think of this pulque, the
most delicious in the republic, and find
ing none to compare, will come back to
Queretaro for its mate and so he will see
me again.

60 A White Umbrella in Mexico

We have the pulque, the old man drink
ing my share, and on our way to the sta
tion pass through the market-place. My
last view of this delightful old city is
across this market-place, with the domed
buildings in the background silhouetted
against the
evening sky.
All over the
open space
where the
rush and
traffic of the
morning
had held
sway now lounged and slept hundreds of
tired people, some on the steps surround
ing the square stone column centring the
plaza, others flat on the pavement. Here
they will doze until the sun looks at them
from over the Cerro de las CampaTias.
Then they will shake themselves together,
and each one will go in search of his daily
avocation. It is safe to say that not one
in ten ever finds it.

CHAPTER IV.
SOME PEONS AT AGUAS CALIENTES.
Blinding sunlight ; a broad road ankle
deep in dust ; a double row of great trees
with branches like twisted cobras ; inky
blue black shadows stencilled on the gray
dust, repeating the tree forms above ; a
long, narrow canal but a few feet wide half
filled with water, from which rise little
whiffs of hot steam ; beside it a straggling
rude stone wall fringed with bushes. In
the middle distance, through vistas of tree
trunks, glimpses of brown fields fading
away into pale pink, violet, and green.
In the dim blue beyond, the dome and
towers of a church, surmounting little
spots pf yellow, cream white, and red,

62 A White Umbrella in Mexico
broken with patches of dark green, — lo
cating bits of the town, — with orange
groves between.
Long strings of burros crawl into the
city along this highway loaded down with
great bundles of green fodder ; undulating
masses of yellow dust drift over it, which
harden into droves of sheep as they pass.
Shuffling along its edges, hugging the
intermittent shadows, stroll groups of
natives in twos and threes ; the women in
straw hats with plaited hair, their little
children slung to their backs, the men in
zarapes and sandals carrying crates on
their shoulders packed with live poultry
and cheap pottery.
Such was my first glance at Aguas Ca
lientes. But there is something more.
To the left, along the whole length of the
canal or sluiceway, as far as the eye can
reach, are scattered hundreds of natives
of both sexes, and all ages, lining the wa
ter's edge and disporting themselves in
every conceivable state of deshabille. In
fact, it might as well be stated that the
assemblage is divided into two classes,
those who have something on and those

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes 63
who have nothing. Five hundred of the
descendants of Montezuma quietly taking
their baths at high noon on a public high
way, with only such privacy as the Repub
lic of Mexico and the blue sky of heaven
afford !
Old men hobble along the roadside,
turn off to the left, select a convenient
bush as a clothes-rack, scale off what
scanty raiment they carry with them, and
slide turtle - like into the warm water.
Young Indian girls in bunches of half a
dozen sit by the canal and comb out their
wavy black hair, glossy with wet, while
they chat merrily with their friends whose
heads bob up over the brink, and whose
bodies simmer at a temperature of 900.
Whole families soak in groups, sousing
their babies in the warm water and drain
ing them on the bank, where they glis
ten in the dazzling sunlight like bronzed
cupids. Now and then a tall, straight
young Indian turns aside from out the
dust, winds his zarape about him, and
protected by its folds unmakes his toilet,
and disappears over the edge.
Up and down this curious inland Long

64 A White Umbrella in Mexico

Branch rows of heads bob up from the
sluiceway and smile good-naturedly as I
draw near. They are not abashed or dis
turbed in the slightest degree ; they are
only concerned lest I seek to crowd them
from their places ; theirs by right of occu
pancy. Even the young women lying on the
bank in the shade, with one end of a za
rape tossed over their backs, their only
other garment washed and drying in the
sun, seem more interested in the sketch
trap than in him who carries it. It is
one of the customs of the country.
It is true that near the springs above,
within a mile of this spot, there is a small
pond filled from the overflow of the baths
adjoining, which they can use and some
times do, but the privacy is none the
greater. It is equally true that down the
road nearer the city there are also the
" J-l alios Grandes," where for one peseta
— about twenty-five cents — they can ob
tain a hath with all the encircling privacy
of stone walls, and with the additional
comforts of a crash towel, one foot square,
and a cake of soap of the size and density

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes 65
of a grapeshot. But then, the wages of a
native for a whole day's work is less than
one peseta, and when he is lucky enough
to get this, every centavo in it is needed
for the inside of his dust-covered body.
Nor can he utilize his surplus clothing
as a shield and cover. He has but one
suit, a white shirt and a pair of cotton
trousers. Naturally he falls back upon
his zarape, often handling it as skilfully
and effectively as the Indian women on
the steps leading to the sacred Ganges do
their gorgeous colored tunics, slipping the
dry one over the wet without much more
than a glimpse of finger and toe.
All these thoughts ran through my head
as I unlimbered my trap, opened my white
¦ umbrella, and put up my easel to paint
the curious scene.
" /luenos dias, senor," came a voice over
my shoulder. I looked up and into the
dark eyes of a swarthy Mexican, who was
regarding me with much the same air as
one would a street peddler preparing to
exhibit his wares.
" Does everybody hereabout bathe in
the open air ? " I ventured to ask.

66 A White Umbrella in Mexico
" Why not ? It is either here or not at
all," he replied.
I continued at work, ruminating over
the strange surroundings, the query un
answered. Why not, in fact? A tropical sun,
clouds of dust dry as powder and fine as
smoke, air and water free, nothing else
in their life of slavery.
One has only to look into these sad
faces to read the history of this patient,
uncomplaining race, or to watch them as
they sit for hours in the shadow of some
great building, motionless, muffled to the
mouth in their zarapes and rebozos, their
eyes looking straight ahead as if deter
mined to read the future, — to appreciate
their hopelessness.
From the days of Cortez down to the
time of Diaz, they have been humiliated,
degraded, and enslaved ; all their patriot
ism, self-reliance, and independence has
long since been crushed out. They are a
serving people ; set apart and kept apart
by a caste as defined and rigid as divides
society to-day in Hindoostan — infinitely
more severe than ever existed in the most

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes 6y

benighted section of our own country in
the old plantation days.
They have inherited nothing in the
past but poverty and suffering, and ex-

•WW^sMkw.ln

pect nothing in the future. To sleep, to
awake, to be hungry, to sleep again.
Sheltered by adobe huts, sleeping upon
coarse straw mats, their only utensils the
rude earthen vessels they make them
selves, their daily food but bruised corn
pounded in a stone mortar, they pass their
lives awaiting the inevitable, without hope
and without ambition.
"As a rule," says Consul-General Stro-
ther (Porte Crayon) " none of the working
classes of Mexico have any idea of pres-

68 A White Umbrella in Mexico
ent economy or of providing for the fu
ture. The lives of most of them seem to
be occupied in obtaining food and amuse
ment for the passing hour, without either
hope or desire for a better future."
David A. Wells, in his terse and pithy
" Study of Mexico," speaking of the ha
ciendas and their peon labor, says : —
"The owners of these large Mexican
estates, who are generally men of wealth
and education, rarely live upon them, but
make their homes in the city of Mexico
or in Europe, and intrust the management
of their property to a superintendent who,
like the owner, considers himself a gen
tleman, and whose chief business is to
keep the peons in debt, or, what is the
same thing, in slavery. Whatever work is
done is performed by the peons, — in
whose veins Indian blood predominates,
— in their own way and in their own
time. . . . Without being bred to any me
chanical profession, the peons make and
repair nearly every instrument or tool that
is used upon the estate, and this, too,
without the use of a forge, not even of
bolts and nails. The explanation of such

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes 69
an apparently marvellous result is to be
found in a single word or rather material,
— rawhide, — with which the peon feels
himself qualified to meet almost any con
structive emergency, from the framing of
a house to the making of a loom, the mend
ing of a gun, or the repair of a broken leg."
It is not, therefore, from lack of in
telligence, or ingenuity, or capacity, that
the condition of these descendants of the
Aztec warriors is so hopeless, but rather
from the social isolation to which they are
subjected, and which cuts them off from
every influence that makes the white man
their superior.
So I worked on, pondering over this
hopeless race, outcasts and serfs in a
land once their own, and thinking of the
long account of cruelty and selfishness
which stood against the Spanish nation,
when suddenly from beneath my white
umbrella I noticed three Indians rise from
the ground near the canal, stand apart
from their fellows, and walk towards, me.
As I lifted my eyes they hesitated, then,
as if gathering courage, again advanced
cautiously until they stood within a dozen

yo A White Umbrella in Mexico
yards of my easel. Here they squatted
in the dust, the three in a row, their za-
rapes half covering their faces. I laid
down my palette and beckoned them to me.
They advanced smiling, raised their som
breros with an " a Dios, senor," crouched
down on their haunches, a favorite atti
tude, and watched every movement of my
brush with the deepest interest, exchang
ing significant and appreciative glances as
I dotted in the figures. Not one opened
his lips. Silent and grave as the stone
gods of their ancestors sat they, wholly
absorbed in a revelation as astounding to
them as a vision from an unknown world.
Presently a great flock of sheep wrin
kled past me shutting out my view, and
I reversed my canvas to shield it, and
waited for the dust to settle. During the
pause I slipped my hand in the side
pocket of my blouse, drew out my cigar
ette case, and, touching the spring, handed
its open contents to the three Indians.
It was curious to see how they received
the slight courtesy, and with what surprise,
hesitancy, and genuine delight they looked
at the open case. It was as if you had

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes yi
stopped a crippled beggar on the road
and, having relieved his wants, had lifted
him up beside you and returned him to
his hovel in your carriage.
Each man helped himself daintily to my
cigarettes, laying them on the palm of
his hand, and then watched me closely. I
selected my own, touched my match-safe,
and passed the lighted taper to the Indian
nearest me. Instantly they all uncovered,
placing their sombreros in the dust, and
gravely accepted the light. When I had
exhausted its flickering flame upon my
own cigarette, and taken my first whiff,
they replaced their hats with the same
sort of respectful silence one sometimes
sees in a crowded street when a priestly
procession passes. It was not a matter of
form alone. It did not seem to be simply
the acknowledgment of perhaps the most
trivial courtesy one can offer another in a
Spanish country. There was something
more that lurked around the corners of
their mouths and kindled in their eyes,
which said to me but too plainly : —
"This stranger is a white man and yet
he does not despise us."

y2 A White Umbrella in Mexico
When the sketch was finished, the trap
packed, and I turned to retrace my steps
to my lodgings, all three arose to their
feet, unwound their zarapes, and trailed
them in the dust. I can see them now,
standing uncovered in the sunlight, and
hear their low, soft voices calling after
me : —
" Con Dios va listed, mi amigo."
I continued my rambles, following the
highway into the city, idling about the
streets and jotting down queer bits of ar
chitecture and odd figures in my sketch
book. I stopped long enough to examine
the high saddles of a pair of horses
tethered outside a fonda, their owners
drinking pulque within, and then crossed
over to where some children were playing
" bull fight."
When the sun went down I strolled
into the beautiful garden of San Marcos
and sat me down on one of the stone
benches surrounding the fountain. Here,
after bathing my face and hands in the
cool water of the basin, I rested and
talked to the gardener.

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes y3
He was an Indian, quite an old man,
and had spent most of his life here. The
garden belonged to the city, and he was
paid two pesetas a day to take care of his
part of it. If I would come in the even
ing the benches would be full. There
were many beautiful senoritas in Aguas
Calientes, and on Sunday there would be
music. But I must wait until April if I
wanted to see the garden, and in fact the
whole city, in its gala dress. Then would
be celebrated the fiesta of San Marcos,
their patron saint, strings of lanterns hung
and lighted, the fountains playing music
everywhere, and crowds of people from all
the country around, even from the great
city of Mexico, and as far north as Zacate'-
cas. Then he tucked a cluster of azaleas
into the strap of my " trap " and insisted
on going with me to the corner of the ca
thedral, so that I should not miss the turn
in the next street that led to the pottery
market. All the markets of Aguas Calientes are
interesting, for the country round about
is singularly rich and fertile, and fruits
and vegetables are raised in abundance.

y4 A White Umbrella in Mexico
The pottery market is especially so. It is
held in a small open square near the gen
eral market, surrounded by high build
ings. The pottery is piled in great heaps
on the ground, and the Indian women,
sheltered by huge square and octagon
umbrellas of coarse matting, sit all clay
serving their customers. At night they
burn torches. All the other markets are
closed at noon. The pottery is very
cheap, a few centavos covering the cost of
almost any single piece of moderate size,
and one peseta making you master of the
most important specimen in a collection.
Each province, in fact almost every
village in Mexico, produces a ware having
more or less distinctly marked character
istics. In Guadalajara the pottery is
gray, soft-baked, and unglazed, but highly
polished and often decorated with slrip-
ings of silver and gold bronze. In Za-
catccas the glaze is as hard and brilliant
as a piano top, and the small pulque pots
and pitchers look like polished mahogany
or highly-colored meerschaum pipe bowls.
In Puebla a finer ware is made, some
thing between srood earthenware and

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes 75
coarse, soft porcelain. It has a thick tin
glaze, and the decoration in strong color
is an under-glaze. Here in Aguas Cali
entes they make not only most of these
coarser varieties, but a better grade of
gray stoneware, covered with a yellow
glaze, semi-transparent, with splashings of
red flowers and leaves scattered over it.
The potters are these much despised,
degraded peons, who not only work in
clay, embroider in feathers with exquisite
results (an industry of their ancestors),
but make the finer saddles of stamped
and incised leather, besides producing an
infinite variety of horse equipment un
known outside of Mexico. Moreover, in
Uruapam they make Japanese lacquers,
in Santa Fc: on Lake Patzcuaro, Moorish
iridescent ware, and near Puebla, Vene
tian glass. In a small town in western
Mexico I found a glass pitcher, made by a
Tarascan Indian, of such exquisite mould
and finish that one unfamiliar with the
handiwork of this down-trodden race, see
ing it in its place of honor in my studio,
would say, " Ah, Venetian — Salviati, of
course."

y6 A White Umbrella in Mexico
From the market I sought the church
of San Diego, with its inlaid wooden floor,
and quaint doorway richly carved, and as
the twilight settled, entered the narrow
street that led to my lodgings. At the
farther end, beneath an overhanging bal
cony, a group of children and natives
were gathered about a band of wandering
minstrels. As I drew near, the tinkle of
a triangle and the thrum of a harp accom
panying a weird chant rose on the air.
The quartette in appearance, costume,
and bearing were quite different from any
of the Indians I had seen about Aguas
Calientes. They were much lighter in
color, and were distinguished by a cer
tain air of independence and dignity.
The tallest and oldest of the band held
in his left hand a short harp, quite Greek
in its design. The youngest shook a tam
bourine, with rim and rattles complete,
but without the drumhead. The third
tinkled a triangle, while the fourth, a deli
cate-looking, large-eyed, straight young
fellow, handsome as a Greek god, with
teeth like rows of corn, joined in the
rhythmic chant. As they stood in the

Some Peons at Aguas Calientes yy

darkening shadows beating time with
their sandalled feet, with harp and trian
gle silhouetted against the evening sky,
and zarapes hanging in long straight lines
from their shoulders, the effect was so
thoroughly classic that I could not but
recall one of the great friezes of the Par
thenon. I lighted a cigarette, opened the
window of my balcony, and placing the
bits of pottery I had bought in the mar
ket in a row on my window-sill, with the
old gardener's
azaleas in the
largest jar, lis
tened to the
music, my
thoughts full of
the day's work
and experience.
My memory
went back to
my three friends of the morning, stand
ing in the sunlight, their sombreros in the
dust ; to the garrulous old gardener bend
ing over his flowers ; to the girl selling
pottery ; to the almost tender courtesy
and gentleness of these people, their un-

7<? A White Umbrella in Mexico
changing serenity of temper, their mar
vellous patience, their innate taste and
skill, their hopeless poverty and daily
privations and sufferings ; and finally to
the injustice of it all.
Peons and serfs in their own land !
Despoiled by Cortez, tricked by his suc
cessors, enslaved by the viceroys, taxed,
beaten, defrauded, and despised by almost
every ruler and usurper since the days of
Spanish rule, the whole history of the life
of the Aztec and his descendants, from
the initial massacre at Cholula down to
the present day, has been one long list of
cruelty and deceit.
The music ceased. The old minstrel
approached the balcony and held up his
wide sombrero. I poured into it all my
stock of copper coin. " Aluchas gracias,
sefior," came back the humble acknowl
edgment. Then they disappeared up the
narrow street and the crowd dispersed.
I looked after them long and musingly,
and surprised myself repeating the bene
diction of the morning, —
" Con Dios vayan ustedes, mis amigos."

CHAPTER V.
THE OLD CHAIR IN THE SACRISTY AT
ZACATECAS.

It stood just
inside the door
as I entered
from the main
body of the
church. Rich
ly carved, with
great arms
broadened out
where the el
bows touched,
it had the air
of being espe
cially designed for some overfed, lazy prel
ate. The hand rests were rounded in
wide flutes, convenient spaces for his fat
fingers. The legs bowed out slightly from
the seat, then curved sharply, and finally
terminated in four grotesque claws, each
clutching a great round ball, — here his

80 A White Umbrella in Mexico
toes rested. The back and seat were cov
ered with the rags and remnants of a once
rich velvet, fastened by an intermittent
row of brass nails, some headless, and
others showing only the indent of their
former usefulness. On each corner of the
back flared two gilt flambeaux, standing
bolt upright like a pair of outspread hands.
Over the whole was sifted, and into each
crack, split, and carving was grimed and
channelled the white dust that envelops
Zacate'cas like an atmosphere.
The old chair had evidently had its day,
and it had been a glorious one. What
ceremonies ! What processions, masses,
feasts, had it presided over ! What grave
counsels had it listened to ! What dan
gers escaped, the last but a score of
years ago when this same old cathedral
of Nuestra Senora de la Asuncion was
bombarded by Juarez !
Its curved and stately lines were too
graceful for Mexican handiwork. Per
haps some old Spanish grandee, with peni
tence in his soul, had sent this noble seat
across the sea to the new Spain, in grate
ful remembrance of the most holy and

The Old Chair at Zacatecas 81
blessed Lady of Guadaloupe, the patron
saint of this once powerful church.
If, in the old days, it had belonged to
a set of twelve, or, by reason of its arms,
had presided over a family less blessed,
no fragment of back, leg, or round was
left to tell the tale. A plain square table,
covered with a cotton cloth edged with
cheap lace, upon which stood a crucifix, a
few worn-out, high-backed, hide-bottomed
chairs, and a chest of green painted bu
reau drawers built into the wall and hold
ing the church vestments, were its only
companions. But all these were of a re
cent date and pattern.
I had been in Zacate'cas but a few
hours when I discovered this precious
relic of the last century. I coveted it
at sight ; more, I admit, than I dared
tell the good-natured, patient sacristan
who stood by wondering and delighted,
watching me make a rapid sketch of its
twisted legs and capacious seat. To all
my propositions for its immediate pos
session, however, he only shrugged his
shoulders. I confess that many of them
savored of conspiracy, and all of them of

82 A White Umbrella in Mexico
grand larceny, and that I was entitled to
a speedy trial and a place in the chain-
gang for suggesting any one of them.
" A ragged old chair that will hardly
stand upright ; the only one left. Who
will miss it ? " I argued.
" The padre, senor painter, who is very
old. He loves everything here. This
wretched chair has been his friend for
many years."
" Tell him, mi am/go, that I, too, love
chairs, old ones especially, and will give
him the price of two, four, six new ones,
for this old rattletrap."
" Very well, sefior ; at five o'clock to-day
vespers will be over. Then the padre will
return here. Wait for me in the garden
over the way near the fountain."
The decision was a relief. In Mexico,
as in Spain, it is generally to-morrow or
the day after. Manana por la manana is
the motto of the Spanish-speaking race.
It was now twelve o'clock. Only five
hours to wait. My hopes rose. I reen
tered the cathedral.
It had been a sumptuous church in its
day. Begun in 1612, completed one hun-

The Old Chair at Zacatecas 83

dred and twenty-five years later, and dedi
cated with imposing ceremonies the year
following, it had contained within its walls
all that florid magnificence which distin
guishes the Mexican
churches. All the
interior adornments
had been of plated
gilt, the altars of fine
marble and onyx, the
font of solid silver,
— alone valued at
twenty thousand
pounds sterling.
Four noble steps of
colored marble, still
intact, led the way to
the altar. On each
side ran a railing of
wrought silver of fab
ulous worth. Over this had hung a lamp
of splendid proportions, burning a single
taper, and shedding a rubv light. The
main floor was of marquetry of varied
colored woods, and of a simple Moorish
pattern, marking the prominence of that
Spanish taste which at the period charac-

84 A White Umbrella in Mexico
terized so many of . the great colonial
structures. But sad changes had taken place since
that date, most of them within the last
quarter of this century. Not only had the
superb silver altar-rail, hanging lamp, and
costly font been coined down into Mexi
can dollars, but tapestries and velvets,
chasubles and copes, heavy with embroid
ery in gold and silver, had also found
their way to the crucible. Even the in
tricate marquetry floor had been broken
up, presumably in the search for hidden
vessels, and in its place here and there
were great squares of heavy planking
held down by rude iron spikes, the heads
thrust up and kept bright by the restless
feet of countless worshippers.
The leaders of an impecunious govern
ment executing a forced loan do not stop
at trifles like these !
As I wandered about, comparing its
present shabby surroundings with the rec
ord of its past grandeur, groups of peni
tents would glide in, throw their rebozos
from their faces, and kneel praying. Near
me a single figure closely muffled would

The Old Chair at Zacatecas 85
press her face against the sliding panel of
the queer confessional box and pour into
the ear of the listless priest the story of
her sin. Over by the altar a solitary In
dian, wrapped in his zarape, his wide
straw sombrero by his side, would bend
forward until his forehead touched the
cold pavement and so remain motionless.
About in the aisles or prostrate before
the rude wooden figures of the saints
knelt other groups of worshippers, often
an entire family together, telling their
beads with their lips and watching me with
their eyes as I noted in my sketch-book
the picturesque bits about me. Finally I
completed the circuit of the interior, and
a flood of sunlight poured in through an
open door. This led me to the street and
so on into the market-place.
No such scene exists in any quarter of
the globe where I have wandered : a
brilliant sky blue as a china plate ;
blinding sunlight ; throngs of people in
red, orange, or blue ; women in rebozos
and scarlet sashes ; men wearing vermil-
lion zarapes about their shoulders, with
wide hats of felt trimmed with silver, and

86 A White Umbrella in Mexico
breeches of pink buckskin held together
down the sides by silver buttons ; donkeys
piled high with great sacks of silver ore ;
cavaliers on horseback with murderous
rowels in the heels of their riding-boots,
their Mexican saddles festooned with
lassos and lariats ; soldiers carrying car
bines and mounted on spirited horses
guarding gangs of convicts, each one of
whom staggers under a basket of sand
held to his back by a strap across his
forehead ; great flocks of sheep blocking
up the narrow streets, driven by shep
herds on horseback, changing their pas
ture from one hillside to another ; the
whole completes a picture as strange as
it is unique.
In the centre of the plaza stands a curi
ous fountain, surrounded by a low wall
breast-high. Around this swarm hun
dreds of women. Hanging over it are
half a hundred more, reaching as far
across the circular wall as their arms
will permit, scooping up the thin sheet
of water into saucers with which they
filled their jars. On the pavement, pro
tected by huge square umbrellas of straw

The OU Cbair ai ZjcjUxjs #7
mats, with ribs like a boy"s kite, squat
ting Indian women sell oranges, prickly
pears, figs, lemons, cAcrimoris, great mel
ons, and other tropical fruits. On the

corners of the streets, under rags of awn
ing, sit cobblers ready :? cut and fit a
sandal while you wait, their whole stock
in trade but a pile of scraps of sole
leather, a trhte larger than the human
foot, some leather thongs, and a sharp
curved knife. Adjoining the market, fa
cing an open square, rises a great build
ing supported by immense square pillars

88 A White Umbrella in Mexico
forming an arcade. At the foot of each
pillar a garrulous Mexican shouts out the
wares of his impromptu shop at half min
ute intervals. Then comes the alameda
or public garden, bright with flowers and
semi-tropical plants, with a summer-house
of the time - honored pattern, octagon,
lined with benches and in the centre a
table containing, as usual, the fragments of
the last lounger's lunch.
Here I rested out of the glare and din.
Suddenly, while looking down upon the
street across the green, listening to the
plash of the fountain and watching the
senoritas on their way to mass, I saw a
rush of people crowding the streets below,
and heard the clear musical notes of a
woman's voice rising above the street
cries. As the mob forced its way past
the corner leading from the cathedral and
up the main street fronting me, I caught
sight of a ceremony not often seen in
Zacatecas, certainly but rarely met with
elsewhere. In the middle of the street, upon their
knees on the rough stones, walked or
rather crawled two native Indian girls

The Old Chair at Zacatecas 89
dressed in white, their heads bare, their
black hair streaming down their backs,
their eyes aflame with excitement. Both
clasped to their breasts a small crucifix.
Surrounding them were a dozen half-
crazed devotees, whose frenzied cries
swelled the chant of the youngest peni
tent. Suddenly, from out a pulque shop
on the opposite corner, darted three men,
evidently peons. With a quick movement
they divided the pressing crowd, sprang
ahead of the girls, and, tearing their own
zarapes from their shoulders, threw them
in turn in front of the penitents. As the
girls crawled across them, the first peon
would again seize his zarape, run ahead,
and respread it.
" It is a penance, senor," said a by
stander, evidently a Spaniard, " not often
seen here. The girls believe they have
committed some great sin. They are on
their way to Los Remedios, the chapel that
you see on the hill yonder. But for these
drunken peons they would leave a bloody
track." Whether drunk or sober, by bigot or
scoffer, it was a graceful act. Surely the

go A White Umbrella in Mexico
gallant Sir Walter paid no more courtly
tribute to the good Queen Bess when he
threw his cloak beneath her dainty feet
than did these poor peons to their dusky
sisters. But it was still some hours before the
padre would be at leisure and I get defi
nite news of my coveted chair.
I would lunch at the Zacatecano, for
merly the old Augustinian convent, now
the only inn this quaint old town can
boast of, take a run by the tram to Gua
daloupe past the silver mines, and be back
in time for the sacristan.
As I entered, the landlord extended
both hands as if he had been my dearest
friend. He proved to be, later.
" Certainly, senor. What shall it be ?
We have a cutlet ; we also have a salad.
Beer ? Plenty. San Louis, Bass, Mexican.
Which shall I open for the illustrious
painter ? "
The painter ordered a bottle of Bass,
and being thirsty and a long way from
home, and with the remembrance of many
a foaming tankard in other benighted
quarters of the earth, ordered another.

The Old Chair at Zacatecas g i
If the landlord was polite at the first bot
tle, he became positively servile at the
second. A third would have finished him,
and my bank account. From the bill I
learned that one bottle of Bass is equal
to the wages of one able-bodied man
working five days ; two bottles, the price
of a donkey ; three bottles, no man can
calculate. Thus it is that a cruel government grinds
the masses !
But the cutlet was tender and juicy,
with just a dash of garlic ; the salad of
lettuce of a wrinkled and many seamed
variety, with sprays of red pepper cut ex
ceedingly fine and scattered through it,
and, blessed be Bass ! the priceless bottles
were full of the same old amber-colored
nectar one always draws from under the
same old compact, tin-foil covered corks.
But to Guadaloupe and back before
mass ended.
You reach this suburb of Zacatecas by
a modern tramway which starts a car
every hour ; a sort of Mexican toboggan-
slide, for the whole six miles is down hill
by gravity. At the other end is the Iglesia

92 A White Umbrella in Mexico
y Capilla de Guadaloupe, — an exquisite
modern chapel, — besides an old garden, a
new market, a straggling suburb, and vari
ous teams of mules to toboggan you back
again. I stepped from the car and began sight
seeing. The chapel, the gift of a pious
lady, is semi-oriental with its creamy-white
minarets shooting up from behind a mass
of dark cedars relieved against the intense
blue sky ; the garden is overrun with
sweet peas, poppies, calla lilies, and gera
niums blooming amidst fleecy acacia-trees
waving in the dazzling sunlight ; the mar
ket has the usual collection of coarse pot
tery and green vegetables, with gay booths
hung with bright zarapes and rebozos, and
the straggling suburb is as picturesque
and full of color as any other Mexican
suburban village. I noted them all and
each one, and they interested me intensely.
One other thing interested me infinitely
more. It was an individual who came to
my rescue in the midst of a dislocated
Spanish sentence. I was at the moment
in a curious old cloister adjoining the new
chapel of Guadaloupe, examining with the

The Old Chair at Zacatecas 93
aid of a rotund attendant the diabolical
pictures that lined its walls, when a tall,
well-built young fellow wearing a slouch
hat stopped immediately in front of the
most repulsive canvas of the collection,
and, after listening to my halting inquiry,
supplied the missing word in excellent
Spanish. Then shifting his hat to the op
posite ear, he pointed to the supposed
portrait of an ancient martyr surrounded
by lurid flames behind iron bars, and re
marked quietly : —
" Beastly ugly old saint, is n't he ?
Looks like an underdone steak on a
grill." " You speak English, then ? "
" Why not ? You wouldn't want me to
cling to this jargon forever, would you ? "
From that instant the collection was
forgotten. He was about thirty years of age, with
a bronzed face, curling mustachios, and
arching eyebrows that shaded a pair of
twinkling brown eyes. A sort of devil-
may-care air seemed to pervade him,
coupled with a certain recklessness dis
cernible even in the way he neglected his
upper vest buttons, and tossed one end of

94 A White Umbrella in Mexico
his cravat over his shoulder. He wore a
large, comfortable, easily adjusted slouch
hat which he kept constantly in motion,
using it as some men do their hands to
emphasize their sentences. If the an
nouncement was somewhat startling the
hat would be flattened out against the
back of his head, the broad brim stand
ing out in a circle, and framing the face,
which changed with every thought behind
it. If of a confidential nature it was
pulled down on the side next to you like
the pirate's in the play. If his communi
cation might offend ears polite, he used
one edge of it as a lady would a fan, and,
from behind it, gave you a morsel of scan
dal with such point and pith that you for
gave its raciness because of the crisp and
breezy way with which it was imparted.
He hailed from New Orleans ; had
lived in Zacate'cas two years ; in western
Mexico ten more ; was an engineer by
profession; had constructed part of the
International road, and was now looking
after some of its interests in Zacate'cas.
" My name ? Moon. Fits exactly, my
dear fellow, for I 'm generally up all night.

The Old Chair at Zacatecas 95
Been here long ? " He rattled on. " You
ought to stay a month. Richest town in
all Mexico. Just a solid silver mine un
der your feet all the way from here to
Zacate'cas. Best people I know anywhere,
and more pretty girls to the square mile
than any spot on this terrestrial."
And then followed a running descrip
tion of his life here and at home, inter
spersed with various accounts of his
scrapes and escapades, from which I gath
ered that he knew everybody in Zacate
cas, including the priest, the command
ant, and the pretty girl in the balcony.
This biographical sketch was further en
riched by such additional details as his
once filling a holy father full of cognac
to induce him to grant a right of way for
a railroad through the convent garden ;
of his being helped out of prison by the
governor, who was his friend and who
locked up his accuser ; and of his making
love to a certain charming senorita when
ever he got a chance, which, he declared,
was now precious seldom, owing to a
cross-eyed mother who saw both ways at
once, and a duenna who hated him.

96 A White Umbrella in Mexico
Would I take the tram and go back to
Zacate'cas with him ?
Yes, if he would stop at the cathedral
at five and wait until vespers were over.
" So you have caught on, have you ? "
Then in a confidential manner : " Come,
now, give me her name. Reckon I know
her. Bet it 's the black-eyed girl with the
high comb. She 's always cutting her eye
at the last stranger."
It was difficult to make this dare-devil of
a Southerner understand that my engage
ment was entirely with a simple-minded,
mild-eyed old sacristan, and not with one
of Zacatecas' bewitching senoritas.
"What sacristan? Old Miguel? A
greasy-looking, bandy-legged old bald-
head ? Wears a green jacket ? v
I admitted that the description classi
fied him to some extent.
Moon broke out into a laugh that
started the six mules in a gallop up the
tramway. Did he know him? Well, he should
think so. Best post-office in Zacatecas,
especially at very early mass. What was
he doing for me ? Smuggling letters ?

The Old Chair at Zacatecas gy
No, buying a chair.
Moon laid one hand tenderly on my
shoulder, shifted his slouch hat over his
right ear, and in his peculiar vernacular
characterized my statement as "diapho-
nous," and then in a coaxing tone de
manded the name of the girl.
" My friend, there is no girl. Wait
until we pass the cathedral. It is now
five o'clock. The sacristan is expecting
me in the garden and he shall tell you the
rest. There he is now waiting under the
palms." " See here, Miguel," broke in Moon as
we alighted, ignoring the sacristan's ob
sequious salutations. " What about this
girl's chair ? Come, out with it."
Miguel looked at Moon and then turned
to me and smiled grimly.
" It is always the senoritas with senor
Moon," he said, and then he repeated our
interview of the morning, winding up with
my incomprehensible infatuation for the
four-legged relic, and his unsuccessful ef
forts with the padre to sell or exchange it
for any number of new chairs, great or
small.

98 A White Umbrella in Mexico
" It is really impossible, sefior painter.
The padre says it is an old one of many
years," continued the sacristan.
" If the painter wants the old ruin, he
shall have it, you bow-legged old mail-
bag." " The padre will not, Senor Moon ; not
for ten new ones. I have exhausted
everything." " What padre ? " replied Moon.
" Padre Ignatius."
" Old Ig is it ? No, he would n't part
with an adobe brick." Then turning to
me : " What did you tell him you wanted
it for ? "
"For my studio."
" Studio be  . Go, Miguel, and tell
Padre Ignatius that my very old and very
dear friend, the painter, is a devout Cath
olic from the holy city of New York ; that
he has an uncle, a holy father, in fact, a
bishop, who is very poor and who charged
him to bring from the ancient city of Za
catecas a sacred relic from this very
church, and that this aged, low-backed old
cripple of a chair will exactly fill the bill.
Go ! Vtte ! But stop ! " (In a lower

The Old Chair at Zacatecas. 99
tone.) "Did you give it to her — the lit
tle one — when — after early mass ?
Bueno I"
A long wait at the door of the sac
risty ; then a footfall in the darkening
twilight. " Senor, the padre says he will consider.
The price is of course very small, and but
that your uncle the holy bishop is very
poor it could not be, but as a " —
"Hold up, Miguel. All right. Send
the chair to the painter's lodgings."
When I reached the church door and
the street and looked back, I could see
the red towers of the cathedral gleaming
pink and yellow in the fading light of the
afterglow, and far up the crooked street I
could hear my voluble friend of an after
noon whistling an air from Norma.
At the door of my lodgings I found the
chair.

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE CITY S STREETS.

¦>V ''- -

%fLt f1
No one at all famil
iar with the history of
Mexico can wander
about the streets and suburbs of this its
principal city without seeing at every turn
some evidence of the vast changes which
have marked its past, and which have
made its story so thrilling.
If Prescott's pleasing fiction of Teo-
callis towering to the stars, the smoke of
whose sacrifices curled upwards day and
night ; of gorgeous temples, of hanging

In the City's Streets 101
and floating gardens, myriads of feather-
clad warriors armed with spear and shield,
swarms of canoes brilliant as tropical
birds, and of a court surrounding Monte
zuma and Guatimotzin, more lavish than
the wildest dream of the Orient, — if all
this is true, — and I prefer to believe it
rather than break the gods of my child
hood, — so also is the great plaza of the
cathedral, and the noble edifice itself with
splendid facade and majestic twin towers,
the hundreds of churches about which
cluster the remains of convent, monas
tery, and hospital ; the wide paseos, the
tropical gardens, the moss -bearded cy
presses four centuries old under which the
disheartened Aztec monarch mourned the
loss of his kingdom, the palaces of the
viceroys, the alamedas and their foun
tains. If you push aside the broad -leaved
plants in the grand plaza you will find
heaped up and half covered with tangled
vines the broken fragments of rudely carved
stones, once the glory of an Aztec temple.
If you climb down the steep hill under
Chapultepec and break away the matted

W2 A White Umbrella in Mexico
underbrush, you will discover the muti
lated effigy of Ahuitzotl, the last of Mon
tezuma's predecessors, stretched out on
the natural rock, the same the ancient
sculptor selected for his chisel in the days
when the groves about him echoed with
song, and when these same gnarled cy
presses gave grateful shadow to priest,
emperor, and slave.
Stroll out to Santa Anita ; examine the
chinampas — the floating gardens of the
old Mexican race. They are still there,
overgrown with weeds and anchored by
neglect. As in the old times so now on
every feast day the narrow canal of las
Vigas leading to the chinampas is crowded
with boats ; the maidens bind wreaths of
poppies about their heads, and the dance
and song and laughter of the light-hearted
race — light-hearted when even for a day
they lay their burdens down — still rings
out in the twilight air.
The two civilizations, the pagan and
the Christian, are still distinct to those
who look below the surface. Time has
not altered them materially. Even to-day
in the hollows of the mountains and amid

In the City's Streets 103
the dense groves on the tropical slopes,
the natives steal away and prostrate them
selves before the stone images of their
gods, and in the churches of the more re
mote provinces the parish priest has found
more than once the rude sculptured idol
concealed behind the Christian altar. To
the kneeling peon the ugly stone is his
sole hope of safety and forgiveness.
Important changes are taking place,
however, which predict a happier future
for Mexico. The monastery of San Hipd-
lito, once the palace of Bucareli, now con
tains a printing press. The convent of
Nuestra Seiiora de la Concepcion is a pub
lic school. The church of San Agustin,
a public library, and through the silent
arches of many cloisters, and through
many a secluded convent garden run
broad avenues filled with the gay life of
the metropolis. Moreover to-day, every
man, be he pagan, Christian, or Jew,
may worship his particular god according
to the dictates of his own conscience, in
any form that pleases him.
Nothing so pointedly marks for me the
strange contrasts which these changes

104 A While Umbrella in Mexico
have brought about, as my own quarters
at the Hotel Jardin.
I am living in two rooms at the end of
a long balcony overlooking a delicious
garden, redolent with azaleas, pomegran
ates, and jasmine, in full bloom. I am
at the extreme end of the balcony, which
is several hundred feet long, and next to
me is a stained and battered wall, in-
crusted with moss and lichen, supported
by buttresses running sheer into the pop
py beds. This wall sustains one side of
a building which is surmounted by a
quaint tile roof.
My rooms are high-ceiled and spacious,
and floored with red brick. The walls,
judged from the width of the door jambs,
are of unusual strength.
At the other end of the balcony, from
out the roof, rises a dome which glis
tens in the setting sun. It is covered
with exquisite Spanish tiles of blue and
yellow, each one of which forms part of
a picture telling the story of the Cross.
Beyond the garden, several squares away,
cut sharp against the afternoon sky, curves
the beautiful dome of the cathedral of San

/// the City's Streets 105
Francisco, beneath whose frescoed roof
once rested the bones of Cortez.

Scarce twenty-five years ago the square
bounded by this little dome with the Span
ish tiles, this great dome of the cathedral,
and the outside of the mould-stained con
vent wall, formed the great religious foun
dation of San Francisco, the richest and
most powerful of the ecclesiastical hold
ings in Mexico. From this spot radiated
the commanding influence of the order.
Here masses were heard by Cortez. Here
through three centuries the great festi-

106 A White Umbrella in Mexico
vals of the church were taken part in by
the viceroys. Here was sung the first
Te Deum of Mexican independence, and
here seventeen years later were held the
magnificent funeral services of the libera
tor Yturbide.
How great the changes ! To-day a Prot
estant congregation worships in the grand
old cathedral, its interior a horror of
whitewash and emptiness ; a modern ho
tel supplants the old infirmary and palace
of the commissioners general of the or
der ; a public livery stables its horses in
the refectory, and four broad streets trav
erse the length and breadth of the sacred
ground, irrespective of chancel, cloister,
or garden. Through the top of the
exquisite cupola surmounting the little
glazed tile dome covering the chapel of
San Antonio is thrust a sheet iron stove
pipe. Within this once beautiful house
of prayer, the space covered by the altar
is now occupied by an enormous French
range, upon which is ruined all the food
of the Hotel Jardin. In the delightful
arched windows piles of dirty dishes re
place the swinging lamps ; near an exit

In the City's Streets

toy

where once stood the font, a plate-warmer
of an eastern pattern gives out an oily
odor ; and where the acolytes swung their
censers, to-day swarms a perspiring mob
of waiters urgent to be served by a chef
who officiates in the exact spot where the
holy archbishop celebrated high mass.
High on the cornice of the dome still
clings the figure of San Domingo. His

wooden bones and carved teeth should
rattle and chatter themselves loose as he
gazes down upon the awful sacrilege, for
above him, where once the wings of the

108 A White Umbrella in Mexico
Dove of the Holy Spirit overspread the

awe-hushed penitents, now twists with a
convenient iron elbow a rusty pipe, that
carries the foul breath of this impious

In the City's Streets 109
range into the pure air of the heaven
above. As I sit on my section of the balcony
and paint, I can see within a few yards of
my easel an open window, framed in the
mouldy convent wall. The golden sun
light streams in, and falls upon the
weather-stained stones, and massive iron
bound shutter, touches a strip of dainty
white curtain and rests lovingly upon
the head of a peon girl who sits all day
sewing, and crooning to herself a quaint
song. She watches me now and then
with great wondering eyes. As I work
I hear the low hum of a sewing-machine
keeping time to her melody. Suddenly
there is a quick movement among the
matted leaves clinging to the festering
wall, and from out a dark crevice creeps
a slimy snake-like lizard. He listens and
raises his green head and glides noise
lessly into the warm sunlight. There he
stretches his lithe body and basks lazily.
I laid down my brushes, and fell into
a revery. The sunlight, the dark-eyed In
dian girl, the cheery hum of her shuttle,
and the loathsome lizard crawling from

no A White Umbrella in Mexico
out the ruins of a dead convent wall told
me the whole story of Mexico.
The old church of San Hipdlito stands
within a stone's throw of the spot where
Alvarado, Cortez's greatest captain, is said
to have made his famous leap on that
eventful night of July i, 1520, the Noche
Triste. Indeed, it was built by one of the
survivors of that massacre, Juan Garido, in
commemoration of its horrors. Not the
present structure, but a little chapel of
adobe, which eighty years later was pulled
down to make room for the edifice of to
day. You can still see upon the outside
wall surrounding the atrium of the pres
ent building a commemorative stone tab
let, bearing alto-relievos of arms, trophies,
and devices of the ancient Mexicans, with
this inscription : —
" So great was the slaughter of Span
iards by the Aztecs in this place on the
night of July 1, 1520, named for this
reason the Dismal Night, that after having
in the following year reentered the city
triumphantly, the conquerors resolved to
build here a chapel, to be called the
Chapel of the Martyrs ; and which should

In the City's Streets m
be dedicated to San Hipdlito, because the
capture of the city occurred upon that
saint's day."
Janvier says: "Until the year 1812,
there was celebrated annually on the 13th
of August at this church a solemn cere
mony, both religious and civil, known as
the Procession of the Banner (Paseo del
pendon), in which the viceroy and the great
officers of the State and the nobility to
gether with the archbishops and dignita
ries of the Church took part. Its princi
pal feature was the carrying in state of
the crimson banner formerly borne by
the conquerors, and still preserved in the
National Museum."
There was nothing to indicate the ex
istence of any such ceremony the day I
strolled into its quiet courtyard. The
wooden gates, sagging and rotting on
their hinges, were thrown back invitingly,
but the broad flags of the pavement, over
grown with weeds and stubby grass thrust
up between the cracks, showed but too
plainly how few entered them.
Some penitents crossed the small in-
closure in front of me, and disappeared

H2 A While Umbrella in Mexico
within the cool doorway of the church.
I turned to the left, hugged the grate
ful shadow of the high walls, reached
the angle, opened my easel and began to
paint. It has a very dignified portal, this old
church of San Hipdlito, with half doors
panelled and painted green, and with
great whitewashed statues of broken-nosed
saints flanking each side, and I was soon
lost in the study of its ornament and
color. For a while nobody disturbed me
or gave me more than a passing glance.
Presently I was conscious that an old
fellow watering some plants across the
court was watching me anxiously. When
I turned again he stood beside me.
" Sefior, why do you sit and look at the
church ? "
" To take it home with me, mi amigo."
" That cannot be. I will tell the padre."
He was gone before I could explain. In
five minutes he returned, pale and trem
bling and without his hat. Behind him
came an old priest with a presence like a
benediction. Clinging to his hands were
two boys, one with eyes like diamonds.

In the City's Streets 113
Before I could explain the old man's
face lighted up with a kindly smile, and
he extended his hand.
" Nicolas is very foolish, sefior. Do
not mind him. Stay where you are.
After service you can sit within the
church and paint the interior, if you like.
If the boys will not annoy you, please let
them watch you. It will teach them some
thing." The little fellows did not wait for any
further discussion. They both kissed his
hand, and crept behind my easel. The
youngest, with the diamond eyes, Pa-
checo, told me without drawing his
breath his name, his age, where he went
to school, that the good padre was his
uncle, that his father had been dead for
ever almost, and that they lived across
the way with their mother. The oldest
stood by silently watching every move
ment of my brush as if his life depended
on it.
" And do you love the padre ? " I
asked, turning towards him.
" Yes." He replied in a quick decided
tone as if it was a sacrilege to question

U4 ^ White Umbrella in Mexico
it. " And so would you. Everybody,
everybody loves the padre."
" Is it not true ? " This last to the
sacristan, who had come out to see the
painter, the service having begun.
The sacristan not only confirmed this,
but gave me a running account of the mis
fortunes of the church even in his day, of
its great poverty, of the changes he had
seen himself. No more processions, no
more grand masses ; on Easter Sunday
there was not even money enough to buy
candles. He remembered a lamp as high
as this wall that was stolen by the govern
ment, — this in a whisper behind his
hand, — all solid silver, and a pair of can
dlesticks as big round as the tree yon
der, all melted down to pay for soldiers.
Caramba ! It was terrible. But for the
holy padre there would be no service at
all. When the padre was young he lived
in the priest's house and rode in his car
riage. Now he is an old man, and must
live with his sister over a posada. The
world was certainly coming to an end.
I let the old sacristan ramble along,
wishing the service over, that I might see

In the City's Streets 115
again the good padre whom everybody
loved. Soon the handful of people who, dur
ing the previous hour, had stolen in, as it
were, one by one, crowded up the door
way and dispersed. It was a meagre
gathering at best.
Then the old priest came out into the
sunlight, and shaded his eyes with his
hand, searching for me in the shadowed
angle of the wall. As he walked across
the court I had time to note the charm
ing dignity of his manner, and the al
most childlike smile that played across
his features. His hair was silver white,
his black frock faded and patched, though
neatly kept, and his broad hat of a pat
tern and date of long ago. The boys
sprang up, ran to him, caught him about
the knees, and kissed his hands. Not as
if it was a mark of devotion or respect,
but as if they could not help it. The sac
ristan uncovered his head. For myself,
I must confess that I was bareheaded and
on my feet before I knew it. Would I
come to his house and have a cup of cof
fee with him ? It was but across the

ii6 A White Umbrella in Mexico
street. The sacristan would see that my
traps were not disturbed. At this the
boys danced up and down, broke through
the gate, and when we reached the nar
row door that led to the balcony above,
Pacheco had already dragged his mother
to the railing, to see the painter the good
padre was bringing home.
It was a curious home for a priest.
There were but three rooms, all fronting
on a balcony of the second floor, overlook
ing a garden in which clothes were dry
ing among and above the foliage. It was
clean and cheery, however. Some pots of
flowers bloomed in the windows, and
there was a rocking-chair covered with
a cotton cloth, a lounge with cushions,
a few books and knickknacks, besides a
square table holding a brass crucifix and
two candles. In the corner of the adjoin
ing room was an iron bedstead and a few
articles of furniture. This was where the
padre slept.
" The times are changed, good father ? "
I asked, when he had finished filling his
cup. " Yes, my son, and for the worse." And

In the City's Streets 1 iy
then clearly but without bitterness, or any
other feeling apparently, except the deep
est sorrow, he told me the story of the
downfall of his church in Mexico. It is
needless to repeat it here. The old fa
ther thought only of the pomp, and splen
dor, and power for good, of the religion
he loved, and could not see the degrada
tion of the days he mourned. Within a
stone's throw of where we sat the flowers
were blooming, and the palms waving
in the plaza of San Diego, over the ex
act spot where, less than a century ago,
the smoke of the auto de fe curled away
in the sunlight. I did not remind him
of it. His own life had been so full of
every good deed, and Christian charity,
and all his own waking hours had been
so closely spent either at altar or bedside,
that he could not have understood how
terrible could be the power of the Church
he revered, perverted and misused.
When he ceased he drew a deep sigh,
rose from his chair, and disappeared into
the adjoining room. In a few moments he
returned, bearing in his arms a beautiful
cope embroidered in silver on white satin.

1 18 A White Umbrella in Mexico
"This, my son," said he, "is the last
relic of value in San Hipdlito. It is, as
you see, very precious, and very old. A
present from Pope Innocent XII., who
sent it to the brotherhood, the Hipdlitos,
in the year 1700. The pieces that came
with it, the chasubles, stole, and other
vestments are gone. This I keep by my
bedside." He folded it carefully, returned it to its
hiding-place, and accompanied me to the
outer door. I can see him now; his white
hair glistening in the light, the boys cling
ing to his hands.

CHAPTER VII.

ON THE PASEO. The Eng
lish dogcart
and the
French bon-
n e t have
just broken
out in the
best society
of Mexico.
The disease
doubtless came in with
the r ai 1-
roads. At pres
ent the cases are sporadic, and only the
young caballero who knows Piccadilly and
the gay senorita who has watched the bril
liant procession pass under the Arc de Tri-
omphe are affected. But it is nevertheless

120 A White Umbrella in Mexico
evident that in the larger cities the con
tagion is spreading, and that in a few
years it will become epidemic.
Nowhere should the calamity of a
change in national habits and costumes
be more regretted than here. Stroll up
the Paseo de la Reforma at sundown, —
the Champs Elysees of Mexico, — and
watch the endless procession of open
carriages filled with beautiful women with
filmy mantillas shading their dark eyes,
the countless riders mounted on spirited
horses, with saddle pommels hung with
lasso and lariat ; run your eye along the
sidewalk thronged with people, and over
the mounted soldiers in intermittent
groups, policing the brilliant pageant, and
tell me if anywhere else in the world you
have seen so rich and novel a sight.
A carriage passes, and a velvet-eyed
beauty in saluting an admirer drops her
handkerchief. In an instant he wheels,
dashes forward, and before you can
think, he has picked up the dainty per
fumed cambric from the dust without
leaving his saddle, and all with the ease
and grace of a Comanche.

On the Paseo 121
Should a horse become unmanageable
and plunge down the overcrowded thor
oughfare, there are half a dozen riders
within sight who can overtake him before
he has run a stone's throw, loop a lasso
over his head, and tumble him into the
road. Not ranchmen out for an afternoon
airing, but kid-gloved dandies in white
buckskin and silver, with waxed mous
taches, who learned this trick on the ha
ciendas when they were boys, and to
whom it is as easy as breathing. It is
difficult to imagine any succeeding gen
eration sitting back-a-back to a knee-
breeched flunkey, and driving a curtailed
cob before a pair of lumbering cart
wheels. Analyze the features of a Spanish or
Mexican beauty. The purple-black hair,
long drooping lashes, ivory-white skin, the
sinking, half -swooning indolence of her
manner. Note how graceful and becom
ing are the clinging folds of her mantilla,
falling to the shoulders, and losing itself
in the undulating lines of her exquisite
figure. Imagine a cockchafer of a bonnet,
an abomination of beads, bows, and ban-

122 A White Umbrella in Mexico
gles, surmounting this ideal inamorata.
The shock is about as great as if some
scoffer tied a seaside hat under the chin
of the Venus de Milo.
Verily the illustrated newspaper and
the ready-made clothing man have re
duced the costume of the civilized and
semi-barbarous world to the level of the
commonplace ! I thank my lucky stars that
I still know a few out-of-the-way corners
where the Castanet and high-heeled shoe,
the long, flowing, many-colored tunic, the
white sabot and snowy cap, and the san
dal and sombrero, are still left to delight
me with their picturesqueness, their har
mony of color and grace.
All these reflections came to me as I
strolled up the Reforma, elbowing my way
along, avoiding the current, or crossing it,
for the shelter of one of the tree trunks
lining the sidewalks, behind which I made
five-minute outlines of the salient features
of the moving panorama. When I reached
the statue of Columbus, the crowd be
came uncomfortable, especially that part
which had formed a "cue," with the head
looking over my sketch-book, and so I

On the Paseo 123

hailed a cab and drove away towards the
castle of Chapultepec. The Paseo ends
at this famous spot.
The fortress is built upon a hill that
rises some two hundred feet above the
valley, and is environed by a noble park
and garden, above which tower the fa
mous groves of hoary cypresses. On this
commanding eminence once stood the
palace of Montezuma, if we may believe
the traditions. Indeed, Prescott dilates
with enthusiasm upon the details of its
splendor, and of its luxuriant adornment,
these same cypresses playing an impor
tant part in the charming extravaganza
with which he delighted our youth. The
records say that when the haughty Span
iard knocked at the city's gate and de
manded his person, his treasure, and his
arms, the vacillating monarch retired to
the cool shadows of these then ancient
groves, collected together a proper per
centage of his wives, and wept. This
may be fiction, and that pious old monk,
Bernal Diaz, Cortez's scribe, inspired by
a lively sense of the value of his own
head, and with a loyal desire to save

124 A White Umbrella in Mexico

his master's, may alone be responsible
for it.
For this I care little. The trees are
still here, the very same old gnarled and
twisted trunks. The tawny Indian in
feathers, the grim cavalier in armor ; fine
ladies in lace ; hidalgos in velvet, all the
gay throngs who have enlivened these
shady aisles, each bedecked after the man
ner and custom of their times, are gone.
But the old trees still stand.
What the great kings of Tenochtitlan
saw as they looked up into their shelter
ing branches, I see : the ribbed brown
bark sparkling with gray green lichen ;
the sweep of the wrinkled trunk rushing
upward into outspreading arms ; the clear
sky turquoised amid matted foliage ; the
gray moss waving in the soft air. With
these alive and above me, I can imagine
the rest, and so I pick out a particularly
comfortable old root that curves out from
beneath one of the great giants, and sit
me down and persuade myself that all the
Aztec kings have been wont to rest their
bones thereon. From where I lounge, I
can see away up among the top branches

On the Paseo 125

the castle and buildings of the military
school, and at intervals hear the bugle
sounding the afternoon's drill. Later I
toil up the steep ascent, and from the
edge of the stone parapet skirting the
bluff, drink in the glory and beauty of
perhaps the finest landscape in the world.
There are two views which always rise
up in my memory when a grand pano
ramic vision bursts upon me suddenly.
One is from a spot in the Sierra Nevada
Mountains, in Granada, called " La L'ltima
Suspira de Mores." It is where Boabdil
stood and wept when he looked for the
last time over the beautiful valley of the
Vega, — the loveliest garden in Spain, —
the red towers and terraces of the Al-
hambra bathed in the setting sun. The
other is this great sweep of plain, and dis
tant mountain range, with all its wealth of
palm, orange, and olive ; the snow-capped
twin peaks dominating the horizon ; the
silver line of the distant lakes, and the
fair city, the Tenochtitlan of the ancient,
the Eldorado of Cortez, sparkling like a
jewel in the midst of this vast stretch of
green and gold.

126 A While Umbrella in Mexico

Both monarchs wept over their domin
ions. Boabdil, that the power of his race
which for six hundred years had ruled
Spain was broken, and that the light of
the Crescent had paled forever in the ef
fulgence of the rising Cross. Montezuma,
that the fires of his temples had forever
gone out, and that henceforward his peo
ple were slaves.
Sitting here alone on this stone parapet,
watching the fading sunlight and the long
creeping shadows and comparing Mexico
and Spain of to-day with what we know
to be true of the Moors, and what we
hope was true of the Aztecs, and being in
a reflective frame of mind, it becomes a
question with me whether the civilized
world ought not to have mingled their
tears with both potentates. The delight
ful historian sums it up in this way : —
" Spain has the unenviable credit of
having destroyed two great civilizations."
Full of these reveries, and with the
question undecided, I retraced my steps
past the boy sentinels, down the long hill,
through the gardens and cypresses, and
out into the broad road skirting the great

On the Paseo 12:

aqueduct of Bucareli. There I hailed a
cab, and whirled into the city brilliant
with lights, and so home to my lodgings
overlooking the old convent garden.

CHAPTER VIII.
PALM SUNDAY IN PUEBLA DE LOS AN
GELES.

Some one hundred miles from the city
of Mexico, and within twice that distance
of Vera Cruz and the sea, and some seven
thousand feet up into the clear, crisp air,
lies the city of Puebla. The streets are
broad and clean, the plazas filled with
trees and rich in flowers, the markets ex
ceptionally interesting. Above this charm
ing city tower, like huge sentinels, the two
great volcanoes Popocatapetl and Iztacci-
huatl. The legend of its founding is quaint
and somewhat characteristic ; moreover,
there is no shadow of doubt as to its
truth.

In Puebla de los Angeles 1 29

The good Fray Julian Garces, the first
consecrated bishop of the Catholic Church
in Mexico, conceived the most praise
worthy plan of founding, somewhere be
tween the coast and the city of Mexico, a
haven of refuge and safe resting-place for
weary travellers. Upon one eventful
night, when his mind was filled with this
noble resolve, he beheld a lovely plain,
bounded by the great slope of the volca
noes, watered by two rivers, and dotted
by many ever-living springs, making all
things fresh and green. As he gazed, his
eyes beheld two angels with line and rod,
measuring bounds and distances upon the
ground. After seeing the vision, the
bishop awoke, and that very hour set out
to search for the site the angels had
shown him ; upon finding which he joy
ously exclaimed, "This is the site the
Lord has chosen through his holy angels,
and here shall the city be ; " and even
now the most charming and delightful of
all the cities on the southern slope is this
Puebla de los Angeles. Nothing has oc
curred since to shake confidence in the
wisdom of the good bishop, nor impair the

1 30 A White Umbrella in Mexico

value of his undertaking, and to-day the
idler, the antiquary, and the artist rise up
and call him blessed.
But the pious bishop did not stop here.
As early as 1536
he laid the cor
ner-stone of the
present cathe
dral, completed
one hundred
and fifty years
I later. This no
ble edifice, in its
I interior adorn-
in e n t s , lofty
nave, broad
— _ . . „ — «- aisles divided by
*^— -dps- --,-¦' massive stone
[ columns, inlaid
floor of colored
marble, altars,
chapels, and
choirs, as well as in its grand exterior,
raised upon a terrace and surmounted by
majestic towers, is by far the most stately
and beautiful of all the great buildings of
Mexico.

1 -5.,-:i \ .\.

In Puebla de Los Angeles 131
Before I reached the huge swinging
doors, carved and heavily ironed, I knew
it was Palm Sunday ; for the streets were
filled with people, each one earning a
long thin leaf of the sago palm, and the
balconies with children twisting the sa
cred leaves over the iron railings, to mark
a blessing for the house until the next
festival. I had crossed the plaza, where I had
been loitering under the trees, making
memoranda in my sketch-book of the
groups of Indians lounging on the benches
in the shade, and sketching the outlines
of bunches of little donkeys dozing in the
sun ; and, mounting the raised terrace
upon which the noble pile is built, found
myself in the cool, incense-laden interior.
The aisles were a moving mass of people
waving palms over their heads, the vista
looking like great fields of ferns in the
wind. The service was still in progress.
and the distant bursts of the organ re
sounded at intervals through the arches.
I wedged my way between the throngs
of worshippers, — some kneeling, some
shuffling along, keeping step with the

132 A While Umbrella in Mexico
crowd, — past the inlaid stalls, exquisite
carvings, and gilded figures of saints, until
I reached the door of the sacristy. I al
ways search out the sacristy. It contains
the movable property of the church, and
as I have a passion for moving it, — when
the sacristan is of the same mind, — I
always find it the most attractive corner
of any sacred interior.
The room was superb. The walls
were covered with paintings set in gilded
frames ; the chests of drawers were
crammed with costly vestments ; two ex
quisite tables covered with slabs of onyx
stood on one side, while upon a raised
shelf above them were ranged eight su
perb Japanese Imari jars, — for water, I
presumed. When I entered, a line of students
near the door were being robed in white
starched garments by the sacristan ; groups
of priests, in twos and threes, some in
vestments, others in street robes, were
chatting together on an old settle ; and
an aged, white-haired bishop was listen
ing intently to a young priest dressed in a
dark purple gown, — both outlined against

In Puebla de los Angeles 133
an open window. The whole effect re
minded me of one of Vibert's pictures. I
was so absorbed that I remained motion
less in the middle of the room, gazing
awkwardly about. The next moment the
light was shut out, and I half smothered
in the folds of a muslin skirt. I had been
mistaken for a student chorister, and the
sacristan would have slipped the garment
over my head but for my breathless pro
test. Had I known the service, I think I
should have risked the consequences.
The sacristy opened into the chapter-
room. The wanderer who thinks he must
go to Italy to find grand interiors should
stand at the threshold of this room and
look in ; or, still better, rest his weary
bones for half an hour within the perfectly
proportioned, vaulted, and domed apart
ment, hung with Flemish tapestry and
covered with paintings, and examine it at
his leisure. He can select any one of the
superb old Spanish chairs presented by
Charles V., thirty-two of which line the
walls ; then, being rested, he can step into
the middle of the room, and feast his eyes
upon a single slab of Mexican onyx cover-

1 34 ^ White Umbrella in Mexico
ing a table large enough for a grand coun
cil of bishops. I confess I stood for an
instant amazed, wondering whether I was
really in Mexico, across its thousand miles
of dust, or had wandered into some old
palace or church in Verona or Padua.
At the far end of this chapter-room sat
a grave-looking priest, absorbed in his
breviary. I approached him, hat in hand.
" Holy father, I am a stranger and a
painter. I know the service is in progress,
and that I should not now intrude ; but
this room is so beautiful, and my stay in
Puebla so short, that I must crave your
permission to enter."
He laid down his book. " Mi amigo,
you are welcome. Wander about where
you will, here and by the altar. You will
disturb no one. You painters always re
vere the church, for within its walls your
greatest works are held sacred."
I thought that very neat for a priest
just awakened from a reverie, and, thank
ing him, examined greedily the superb old
carved chair he had just vacated. I did
revere the church, and told him so, but
all the same I coveted the chair, and but

In Puebla de los Angeles 1 35
for his compliment and devout air would
have dared to open negotiations for its
possession. I reasoned, iconoclast that I
am, that it would hardly be missed among
its fellows, and that perhaps one of those
frightful renovations, constantly taking
place in Mexican churches, might over
take this beautiful room, when new ma
hogany horrors might replace these ex
quisite relics of the sixteenth century, and
the whole set be claimed by the second
hand man or the wood pile.
Then I strolled out into the church
with that vacant air which always marks
one in a building new to him, — especially
when it overwhelms him, — gazing up at
the nave, reading the inscriptions under
the pictures, and idling about the aisles.
Soon I came to a confessional box. There
I sat down behind a protecting column.
There is a fascination about the con
fessional which I can never escape. Here
sits the old news-gatherer and safe-deposit
vault of everybody's valuable secrets,
peaceful and calm within the seclusion of
his grated cabinet ; and here come a
troop of people, telling him all the good

1 36 A White Umbrella in Mexico
and bad things of their lives, and leaving
with him for safe-keeping their most pre
cious property, — their misdeeds. What
a collection of broken bonds, dishonored
names, and debts of ingratitude must he
be custodian of !
The good father before me was a kindly
faced, plethoric old man ; a little deaf, I
should judge, from the fanning motion of
his left hand, forming a sounding-board
for his ear. About him were a group of
penitents, patiently awaiting their turns.
When I halted and sought the shelter of
the pillar, the closely veiled and muffled
figure of a richly dressed sefiora was bowed
before him. She remained a few moments,
and then slipped away, and another figure
took her place at the grating.
I raised my eyes wistfully, wondering
whether I could read the old fellow's face,
which was in strong light, sufficiently well
to get some sort of an inkling of her con
fidences ; but no cloud of sorrow, or ruffle
of anger, or gleam of curiosity passed
over it. It was as expressionless as a
harvest moon, and placid as a mountain
lake. At times I even fancied he was

In Puebla de los Angeles 1 3y
asleep ; then his little eyes would open
slowly and peep out keenly, and I knew
he had only been assorting and digesting
his several informations.
One after another they dropped away
silently, — the Indian in his zarape, the
old man in sandals, and the sad - faced
woman with a black rebozo twisted about
her throat. Each had prostrated himself,
and poured through that six inches of
space the woes that weighed heavy on his
soul. The good father listened to them
all. His patience and equanimity seemed
marvellous. I became so engrossed that I forgot I
was an eavesdropper, and could make no
sort of excuse for my vulgar curiosity
which would satisfy any one upon whose
privacy I intruded ; and, coming to this
conclusion, was about to shoulder my trap
and move off, when I caught sight of a
short, thick-set young Mexican, muffled
to his chin in a zarape. He was leaning
against the opposite column, watching
earnestly the same confessional box, his
black, bead - like eyes riveted upon the
priest. In his hand he held a small red

1 38 A White Umbrella in Mexico
cap, with which he partially concealed his
face. It was not prepossessing, the fore
head being low and receding, and the
mouth firm and cruel.
As each penitent turned away, the man
edged nearer to the priest, with a move
ment that attracted me. It was like that
of an animal slowly yielding to the power
of a snake. He was now so close that
I could see great drops of sweat run
ning down his temples ; his breath came
thick and short ; his whole form, sturdy
fellow as he was, trembled and shook.
The cap was now clenched in his fist and
pressed to his breast, — the eyes still fas
tened on the priest, and the feet moving a
few inches at a time. When the last pen
itent had laid her face against the grating,
he fell upon his knees behind her, and
buried his face in his hands. When she
was gone, he threw himself forward in her
place, and clutched the grating with a
moan that startled me.
I arose from my seat, edged around the
pillar, and got the light more clearly on
the priest's face. It was as calm and se
rene as a wooden saint's.

In Puebla de los Angeles 1 39
For a few moments the Mexican lay in
a heap at the grating ; then he raised his
head, and looked cautiously about him.
I shrank into the shadow. The face was
ghastly pale, the lips trembled, the eyes
started from his head. The priest leaned
forward wearily, his ear to the iron lat
tice. The man's lips began to move ; the
confession had begun. Both figures re
mained motionless, the man whispering
eagerly, and the priest listening patiently.
Suddenly the good father started forward,
bent down, and scanned the man's face
searchingly through the grating. In an
other instant he uttered a half-smothered
cry of horror, covered his face with the
sleeve of his robe, and fell back on his
seat. The man edged around on his knees
from the side grating to the front of the
confessional, and bowed his head to the
lower step of the box. For several min
utes neither moved. I flattened myself
against the column, and became a part of
the architecture. Then the priest, with
blanched face, leaned forward over the
half door, and laid his hand on the peni-

140 A White Umbrella in Mexico
tent. The man raised his head, clutched
the top of the half door, bent forward,
and glued his lips to the priest's ear. I
reached down noiselessly for my sketch-
trap, peeled myself from the column as
one would a wet handbill, and, keeping
the pillar between me and the confes
sional, made a straight line for the sac
risty. Before I reached the door the priest
overtook me, crossed the room, and dis
appeared through a smaller door in the
opposite wall. I turned to avoid him, and
caught sight of the red cap of the Mexican
pressing his way hurriedly to the street.
Waiting until he was lost in the throng, I
drew a long breath, and dropped upon a
bench. The faces of both man and priest
haunted me. I had evidently been the un
suspected witness of one of those strange
confidences existing in Catholic countries
between the criminal and the Church. I
had also been in extreme personal danger.
A crime so terrible that the bare recital
of it shocked to demoralization so unim
pressionable a priest as the good father

In Puebla de los Angeles 141
was safe in his ear alone. Had there
been a faint suspicion in the man's mind
that I had overheard any part of his
story, my position would have been dan
gerous. But what could have been the crime ?
I reflected that even an inquiry looking
towards its solution would be equally
hazardous, and so tried to banish the in
cident from my mind.
A jar upon the other end of the bench
awoke me from my reverie. A pale,
neatly dressed, sad-looking young fellow
had just sat down. He apologized for
disturbing me, and the courtesy led to his
moving up to my end.
" English ? "
" No, from New York."
" What do you sell ? "
" Nothing. I paint. This trap con
tains my canvas and colors. What do
you do ? " I asked.
" I am a clerk in the Department of
Justice. The office is closed to-day, and
I have come into the church out of the
heat, because it is cool."
I sounded him carefully, was convinced

/^2 A White Umbrella in Mexico
of his honesty, and related the incident
of the confessional. He was not sur
prised. On the contrary, he recounted to
me many similar instances in his own ex
perience, explaining that it is quite nat
ural for a man haunted by a crime to
seek the quiet of a church, and that often
the relief afforded by the confessional
wrings from him his secret. No doubt
my case was one of these.
" And is the murderer safe ? "
" From the priest, yes. The police
agents, however, always watch the
churches." While we were speaking an officer
passed, bowed to my companion, retraced
his steps, and said, " There has been an
important arrest. You may perhaps be
wanted." I touched the speaker's arm. " Par
don me. Was it made near the cathe
dral ? "
" Yes ; outside the great door."
" What was the color of his cap ? "
He turned sharply, looked at me search-
ingly, and said, lowering his voice, —
" Red."

In Puebla de los Angeles 143
A few days later I wandered into the
market-place, in search of a subject. My
difficulty was simply one of selection. I
could have opened my easel at random
and made half a dozen sketches without
leaving my stool ; but where there is so
much wealth of material one is apt to be
over-critical, and, being anxious to pick
out the best, often loses the esprit of the
first impression, and so goes away without
a line. It was not the fault of the day or
the market. The sun was brilliant beyond
belief, the sky superb ; the open square
of the older section was filled with tumble
down bungalow - like sheds, hung with
screens of patched matting ; the side
walks were fringed with giant thatched
umbrellas, picturesque in the extreme ;
the costumes were rich and varied : all
this and more, and yet I was not satis
fied. Outside the slanting roofs, heaped
up on the pavement, lay piles of green
vegetables, pottery, and fruit, glistening
in the dazzling light. Inside the booths
hung festoons of bright stuffs, rebozos
and pan uelos, gray and cool by contrast.
Thronging crowds of natives streamed in

144 A White Umbrella in Mexico
and out the sheds, blocked up narrow
passageways, grouped in the open, and
disappeared into the black shadows of an
inviting archway, beyond which an even
crisper sunlight glowed in dabs, spots,
and splashes of luxuriant color.

% wim$

There was everything, in fact, to intox
icate a man in search of the picturesque,
and yet I idled along without opening my
sketch-book, and for more than an hour
lugged my trap about : deciding on a group
under the edge of the archway, with a
glimpse of blue in the sky and the towers
of the church beyond ; abandoning that
instantly for a long stretch of street lead-

In Puebla de los Angeles 145
ing out of a square dotted with donkeys
waiting to be unloaded ; and concluding,
finally, to paint some high-wheeled carts,
only to relinquish them all for something
else. I continued, I say, to waste thus fool
ishly my precious time, until, dazed and
worn out, I turned on my heel, hailed a
cab, and drove to the old Paseo. There
I entered the little plazucla, embowered
in trees, sat down opposite the delightful
old church of San Francisco, and was at
work in five minutes. When one is daz
zled by a sunset, let him shut his eyes.
After the blaze of a Mexican market, try
the quiet grays of a seventeenth-century
church, seen through soft foliage and
across cool, shady walks.
This church of San Francisco is another
of the delightful old churches of Puebla.
I regret that the fiend with the bucket and
the flat brush has practically destroyed al
most the whole interior except the choir,
which is still exquisite with its finely
carved wooden stalls and rich organ, —
but I rejoice that the outside, with its
quaint altar fronting on the plazucla fa-

146 A White Umbrella in Mexico
gade of dark brick ornamented with pan
els of Spanish tiles, stone carvings, stat
ues, and lofty towers, is still untouched,
and hence beautiful.
Adjoining the church is a military hos
pital and barracks, formerly an old con
vent. I was so wholly wrapped up in my
work that my water-cup needed refilling
before I looked up and about me. To
my surprise, I was nearly surrounded by
a squad of soldiers and half a dozen offi
cers. One fine-looking old fellow, with
gray moustache and pointed beard, stood
so close that my elbow struck his knee
when I arose.
The first thought that ran through my
head was my experience of Sunday, and
my unpardonable imprudence in impart
ing my discoveries of the confessional to
the sad-faced young man on the bench.
Tracked, of course, I concluded, — ar
rested in the streets, and held as a wit
ness on bread and pulque for a week.
No passport, and an alibi out of the ques
tion ! A second glance reassured me.
The possessor of the pointed beard only
smiled cordially, apologized, and seated

In Puebla de los Angeles I4y
himself on the bench at my right. His
intentions were the most peaceful. It
was the growing picture that absorbed
him and his fellow-officers and men. They
had merely deployed noiselessly in my
rear, to find out what the deuce the
stranger was doing under that white um
brella. Only this, and nothing more.
I was not even permitted to fill my
water-bottle. A sign from my friend, and
a soldier, with his arm in a sling, ran
to the fountain, returned in a flash, and
passed the bottle back to me with so rev
erential an air that but for the deep ear
nestness of his manner I should have
laughed aloud. He seemed to regard the
water-bottle as the home of the witch that
worked the spell.
After that the circle was narrowed, and
my open cigarette-case added a touch of
good fellowship, everybody becoming quite
cozy and sociable. The officer was in
command of the barracks. His brother
officers — one after another was intro
duced with much form and manner —
were on duty at the hospital except one,
who was in command of the department of

148 A White Umbrella in Mexico
police of the city. A slight chill ran down
my spine, but I returned the command
ant's bow with a smile that established
at once the absolute purity of my life.
For two hours, in the cool of the morn
ing, under the trees of the little plazuela,
this charming episode continued ; I paint
ing, the others around me deeply inter
ested ; all smoking, and chatting in the
friendliest possible way. At the sound of
a bugle the men dropped away, and soon
after all the officers bowed and disap
peared, except my friend with the pointed
beard and the commandant of the police.
These two moved their bench nearer, and
sat down, determined to watch the sketch
to the end.
The conversation drifted into different
channels. The system of policing the
streets at night was explained to me, the
manner of arrest, the absolute authority
given to the jefe politico in the rural dis
tricts, — an execution first, and an inves
tigation afterwards, — the necessity for
such prompt action in a country abound
ing in bandits, the success of the govern
ment in suppressing the evil, etc.

In Puebla de los Angeles 149
" And are the crimes confined wholly to
the country districts ? " I asked. " Are
your cities safe ? "
" Generally, yes. Occasionally there is
a murder among the lower classes of the
people. It is not always for booty ; re
venge for some real or fancied injury
often prompts it."
" Has there been any particularly bru
tal crime committed here lately ? " I asked
carelessly, skirting the edge of my preci
pice. " Not exactly here. There was one at
Atlixco, a small town a few miles west of
here, but the man escaped."
" Have you captured him ? "
" Not yet. There was a man arrested
here a few days ago, who is now await
ing examination. It may be that we have
the right one. We shall know to-mor
row." I kept at work, dabbing away at the
mass of foliage, and putting in pats of
shadow tones.
" Was it the man arrested near the ca
thedral on Palm Sunday ? "
" There was a man arrested on Palm

150 A White Umbrella in Mexico
Sunday," he replied slowly, " How did
you know ? "
I looked up, and found his eyes riveted
on me in a peculiar, penetrating way.
" I heard it spoken of in the church,"
I replied, catching my breath. My foot
went over the precipice. I could see into
the pit below.
"If the American heard of it," said he
in a low voice, turning to my friend, "it
was badly done."
I filled a fresh brush with color, leaned
over my canvas, and before I looked up a
second time had regained my feet and
crawled back to a safe spot. — I could
hear the stones go rumbling down into
the abyss beneath me. Then I concen
trated myself upon the details of the fa
cade, and the officer began explaining the
early history of the founding of the church,
and the many vicissitudes it had experi
enced in the great battles which had raged
around its towers. By the time he had fin
ished the cold look went out of his eyes.
The sketch was completed, the trap
bundled up, three hats were raised, and
we separated.

In Puebla de los Angeles 151
I thought of the horror-stricken face of
the priest and the crouching figure of the
Mexican ; then I thought of that pene
trating, steel-like glance of the command
ant. So far as I know the priest alone shares
the secret.

CHAPTER IX.

A DAY IN TOLUCA.

Hitherto my travels, with the excep
tion of a divergence to Puebla, have been
in a straight line south, beginning at the
frontier town of El Paso, stopping at Za
catecas, Aguas Calientes, Silao, Guana
juato, and Queretaro, — all important cities
on the line of the Mexican Central Rail
road, — and ending at the city of Mexico,
some twelve hundred miles nearer the
equator. It is true that I have made a flying trip
over the Mexican Railway, passing under
the shadow of snow-capped Orizaba, have

A Day in Toluca 153
looked down into the deep gorges of the
Infiernillo reeking with the hot humid air
of the tropics, and have spent one night
in the fever-haunted city of Vera Cruz ;
but my experiences were confined to such
as could be enjoyed from the rear platform
of a car, to a six by nine room in a stuffy
hotel, and to a glimpse at night of the sea,
impelled by a norther, rolling in from the
Gulf and sousing the quay incumbered
with surf boats. Had I been a bird belated
in the autumn, I could have seen more.
This bright April morning I have
shaken the dust of the great city from my
feet, and have bent my steps westward to
wards the Pacific. In common parlance,
I have bought a first-class ticket for as
far as the national railroad will take me,
and shall come bump up against the pres
ent terminus at Patzcuaro.
On my way west I shall stop at Toluca,
an important city some fifty miles down
the road, tarry a while at Morelia, the most
delightful of all the cities of western Mex
ico, and come to a halt at Patzcuaro. In
all some three hundred miles from where
I sit in the station and look out my car

1 54 A White Umbrella in Mexico.
window. I am particular about these
distances. At Patzcuaro I shall find a lake bear
ing the same name. Up this lake, nearly
to the end, an Indian adobe village, at the
end of the village a tumbling-down church
and convent, within this convent a clois
ter, leading out of the cloister a narrow
passage ending in a low-ceiled room with
its one window protected by an iron
grating. Through this fretwork of rusty
iron the light streams in, falling, I am
told, upon one of the priceless treasures
of the world — an Entombment by Titian.
This, if you please, is why my course
points due west.
The scenery along the line of the road
from the City of Mexico to where the di
vide is crossed at la Cima — some ten
thousand feet above the level of the sea,
and thence down into the Toluca valley —
was so inexpressibly grand that I was
half the time in imminent danger of deco
rating a telegraph pole with my head, in
my eagerness to enjoy it.
Great masonry dams hold back lakes

A Day in Toluca

'55

of silver shimmering in the sunlight ; deep
gorges lie bottomless in purple shadows ;
wide stretches of table-land end in vol-
dead, and creviced with

canoes

ragged,

snow ; and sharp craggy peaks, tumbling
waterfalls, and dense semi-tropical jun
gles start up and out and from under me
at every curve.
On reaching the valley of Toluca, the
road as it nears the red-tiled roofs of the
city follows the windings of the river Ler
ma, its banks fringed with natives bath
ing. On reaching the city itself the clean,

156 A White Umbrella in Mexico
well-dressed throng at the depot explains
at a glance the value of this stream apart
from its irrigating properties.
And the city is clean, with a certain
well-planned, well-built, and orderly air
about it, and quite a modern air too.
Remembering a fine gray dust which
seems to be a part of the very air one
breathes, and the great stretches of gar
dens filled with trees, and the long drought
continuing for months, I should say that
the prevailing color of Toluca's vegeta
tion is a light mullein-stalk green. Then
the houses are a dusty pink, the roofs a
dusty red, and the streets and sidewalks a
dusty yellow, and the sky always and ever,
from morn till night, a dusty blue. It is
the kind of a place Cazin, the great
French impressionist, would revel in. So
subtle and exquisite are the grays and
their harmonies that one false note from
your palette sets your teeth on edge.
But Toluca is not by any means a mod
ern city, despite its apparent newness, its
air of prosperity, and its generally brushed-
up appearance. It is one of the oldest of
the Spanish settlements. No less a per-

A Day in Toluca i ^y
sonage than the great Cortez himself re
ceived its site, and a comfortable slice of
the surrounding country thrown in, as a
present, from his king. In fact it is but a
few years, not twenty, since the govern
ment pulled down the very house once oc
cupied by the conqueror's son, Don Mar
tin Cortez, and built upon its site the
present imposing state buildings fronting
the plaza major.
This pulling down and rebuilding proc
ess is quite fashionable in Toluca, and has
extended even to its churches. The prim
itive church of San Francisco was replaced
by a larger structure of stone in 1585, and
this in turn by an important building
erected in the seventeenth century ; and
yet these restless people, as if cramped
for room, levelled this edifice to the ground
in 1874 and started upon its ruins what
purposes to be a magnificent temple, judg
ing from the acres it covers. In fourteen
years it has grown twelve feet high. Some
time during the latter part of the next
century they will be slating the roof.
Then there are delightful markets, and a
fine bull-ring, and in the suburbs a pretty

158 A White Umbrella in Mexico
alameda full of matted vines and over
grown walks, besides two gorgeous thea
tres. Altogether Toluca is quite worth
dusting off to see, even if it does not look
as old as the Pyramids or as dilapidated
as an Arab town.
In all this newness there is one spot
which refreshes you like a breeze from
afar. It is the little chapel of Nuestra
Sefiora del Carmen, laden with the quaint-
ness, the charm, and the dust of the six
teenth century. It has apparently never
yet occurred to any Tolucian to retouch
it, and my only fear in calling attention
to it now is, that during the next annual
spring-cleaning the man with the bucket
will smother its charm in whitewash.
It was high noon when I sallied out
from my lodgings to look for this forgot
ten relic of the past. I had spent the
morning with that ubiquitous scapegrace
Moon, whom I had met in Zacate'cas some
weeks before and who had run up to To
luca on some business connected with the
road. He nearly shook my arm off when
he ran against me in the market, inquired
after the chair, vowed I should not wet a

A Dav in Toluca

'59

brush until 1 broke bread with him, and
would have carried me off bodily to break
fast had I not convinced him that no man
could o.i I two meals half an hour apart.
Ho was delighted that 1 could find noth
ing, as he expressed it, " rickety " enough
to paint in Toluca, and then relenting led
me up to a crack in a ciookcd street,
pointed ahead to the chapel, and deserted
me with the remark : —
"Try that. It is as musty as a cheese,
and about a million years old."
I passed through a gate, entered the sa
cred building, and wandered out into a
palio or sort of cloister. Instantly the
world and its hum was gone. It was a
small cloister, square, paved with marble
flags, and open to the blue sky above. IV-
neath the arches, against the wall, hung a
few paintings, old and weather-stained,
Opposite from where 1 stood was an open
door. 1 crossed the quadrangle and en
tered a ccvily furnished apartment. The
ceiling was low and heavily beamed, the
iloor laid in brick tiles, and the walls
faced with shelves loaded with books
bound in vellum with titles labelled in ink.

160 A White Umbrella in Mexico
Over the door was an unframed picture,
evidently a Murillo, and against the op
posite wall hung several large copies of
Ribera. In one corner under a grated
window rested an iron bedstead, — ¦ but
recently occupied, — and near it an arm
chair with faded velvet cushions. A low
table covered with books and manuscripts,
together with a skull, candle, and rosary,
a copper basin and pitcher, and a few
chairs completed the interior comforts.
Over the bed, within arm's reach, hung
a low shelf upon which stood a small glass
cup holding a withered rose. The cup was
dry and the flower faded and dust covered.
A second and smaller room opened out
to the left. I pushed aside the curtains
and looked in. It was unoccupied like
the first. As I turned hurriedly to leave
the apartments my eye fell upon a copy
of Medina's works bound in vellum, yel
low and crinkled, the backs tied by a
leathern string. I leaned forward to note
the date. Suddenly the light was shut
out, and from the obstructed doorway
came a voice quick and sharp.
" What does the stranger want with the

A Day in Toluca 161
padre's books ? " I looked up and saw a
man holding a bunch of keys. The situa
tion was unpleasant. Without changing
my position, I lifted the book from the
shelf and carefully read the title-page.
" Will he be gone long ? " I answered,
slowly replacing the volume.
" You are waiting, then, for Fray Ge
ronimo ? Many pardons, senor, I am the
sacristan. I will find the padre and bring
him to you."
I sank into the armchair. Retreat now
was impossible. This will do for the sac
ristan I thought, but how about the priest ?
In a moment more I caught the sound
of quickening footsteps crossing the patio.
By the side of the sacristan stood a bare
headed young priest, dressed in a white
robe which reached to his feet. He had
deep-set eyes, which were intensely dark,
and a skin of ivory whiteness. With a
kindly smile upon his handsome intellect
ual face, he came forward and said : —
" Do you want me ? "
I laid my course in an instant.
" Yes, holy father," I replied, rising, "to
crave your forgiveness. I am an Ameri-

1 62 A White Umbrella in Mexico
can and a painter ; see, here is my sketch
book. I entered your open door, believ
ing it would lead me to the street. The
Murillo, the Riberas, the wonderful col
lection of old books, more precious than
any I have ever seen in all Mexico, over
came me. I love these things, and could
not resist the temptation of tarrying long
enough to feast my eyes."
" Mi amigo, do not be disturbed. It is
all right. You can go, Pedro," — this to
the sacristan. " I love them too. Let us
look them over together."
For more than an hour we examined
the contents of the curious library. Al
most without an exception each book was
a rare volume. There were rows of eccle
siastical works in Latin with red lettered
title-pages printed in Antwerp. Two
editions of Don Quixote with copper
plates, published in Madrid in 1760, be
sides a varied collection of the early Mexi
can writers including Alarcon, the drama
tist, and Gongora, the poet-philosopher.
Then in the same gracious manner he
mounted a chair and took from the wall
the unframed Murillo, " A Flight into

A Day in Toluca 163

Egypt." and placed it in the light, saying
that it had formerly belonged to an ances
tor and not to the church, and that believ
ing it to be the genuine work of the great
master, he had brought it with him when
he came to Toluca. the face of the Ma
donna being especially dear to him. Next
he unlocked a closet and brought me an
ivory crucifix of exquisite workmanship,
the modelling of the feet and hands re
calling the best work of the Italian school.
He did not return this to the closet, but
placed it upon the little shelf over his bed
close to the dry cup which held the with
ered rose. In the act the flower slipped
from the glass. Noticing how carefully
he moved the cup aside, and how tenderly
he replaced the shrivelled bud, I said
laughingly : —
•• You not only love old books, but old
flowers as well."
He looked at me thoughtfully, and re
plied gravely : —
" Some flowers are never old."
In the glare of the sunlight of the street
I met Moon. He had been searching for
me for an hour.

164 A White Umbrella in Mexico
" Did you find that hole in the wall ? "
he called out. " Come over here where
the wind can blow through you. You
must feel like a grave-digger. Where is
your sketch ? "
I had no sketch and told him so. The
interior was in truth delightfully pictur
esque, but the young priest was so charm
ing that I had not even opened my trap.
" What sort of a looking priest ? "
I described him as closely as I could.
" It sounds like Geronimo. Yes —
same priest."
" Well — ? "
" Oh ! the old story and a sad one.
Gray dawn • — muffled figures — obliging
duenna — diligence — governor on horse
back — girl locked up in a hacienda —
student forced into the church. Queer
things happen in Mexico, my boy, and
cruel ones too."

CHAPTER X.

to morelia with MOON.

Moon insists on going to Morelia with
me. He has a number of reasons for this
sudden resolve : that the senoritas are
especially charming and it is dangerous
for me to go alone ; that he knows the
sacristan major of the cathedral and can
buy for me for a song the entire movable
property of the church ; that there is a
lovely alameda overgrown with wild roses,
and that it is so tangled up and crooked
I will lose the best part of it if he does

1 66 A White Umbrella in Mexico
not pilot me about ; and finally, when I
demur, that he has received a dispatch
from his chief to meet him in Morelia on
the morrow, and he must go anyhow.
He appears the next morning in a
brown linen suit, with the same old som
brero slanted over one eye, and the loose
end of his necktie tossed over his shoul
der. On the way to the station he holds a
dozen interviews with citizens occupying
balconies along the route. He generally
conducts these from the middle of the
street, pitching his voice to suit the eleva
tion. Then he deflects to the sidewalk,
runs his head into the door of a posada,
wakes up the inmates with a volley of sal
utations, bobs out again, hails by name the
driver of a tram, and when he comes to
a standstill calls out that he has changed
his mind and will walk, and so arrives at
the station bubbling over with good hu
mor, and as restless as a schoolboy.
I cannot help liking this breezy fellow
despite his piratical air, his avowed con
tempt for all the laws that govern well-reg
ulated society, and his professed unbelief
in the sincerity of everybody's motives.

To Morelia with Moon i6y
His acquaintance is marvellous. He
knows everybody, from the water-carrier
to the archbishop. He speaks not only
Spanish but half a dozen native dialects
picked up from the Indians while he was
constructing the railroad. He has lived in
every town and village on the line ; knows
Morelia, Patzcuaro, Tzintzuntzan, and the
lake as thoroughly as he does his own
abiding-place at Zacatecas ; is perfectly
familiar with all the mountain trails and
short cuts across plains and foothills ; is
a born tramp, the best of Bohemians, and
the most entertaining travelling compan
ion possible.
His baggage is exceedingly limited. It
consists of a tooth-brush, two collars, and
a bundle of cigars. He replies to my re
marks on its compactness, that " anybody's
shirts fit him, and that he has plenty of
friends up the road." And yet with all
this there is something about the fearless
way in which he looks you straight in the
eye, and something about the firm lines
around his mouth, that, in spite of his
devil-may-care recklessness, convinces you
of his courage and sincerity.

1 68 A White Umbrella in Mexico
" Crawl over here," he breaks out from
the end of the car, " and see this hacienda.
Every square acre you see, including that
range of mountains, belongs to one Mexi
can. It covers exactly one hundred and
twenty square miles. The famished pau
per who owns it has taken five millions of
dollars from it during the last fifteen
years. For the next eighteen miles you
will ride through his land."
" Does he live here ? " I inquired.
" No, he knows better. He lives in
Paris like a lord, and spends every cent
of it."
We were entering the lake country, and
caught glimpses of Cuitzo shimmering
through the hills.
" These shores are alive with wild fowl,"
continued Moon ; " there goes a flight of
storks now. You can bag a pelican and
half a dozen flamingoes any morning
along here before breakfast. But you
should see the Indians hunt. They never
use a gun when they go ducking. They
tie a sharp knife to a long pole and spear
the birds as they fly over. When they
fish they strew green boughs along the

To Morelia with Moon i6g
water's edge, and when the fish seek the
shade, scoop them up with a dip net made
from the fibre of the pulque plant. This
country has changed but little since that
old pirate Cortez took possession of it,
as far as the Indians go. Many of them
cannot understand a word of Spanish now,
and I had to pick up their jargon myself,
when I was here."
" Hello, Goggles 1 " he shouted out,
suddenly jumping from his seat as the
train stopped. I looked out and saw a
poor blind beggar, guided by a boy with
a stick. " I thought you were dead long ago."
In a moment more he was out of the
train and had the old man by the hand.
When he turned away, I could see by the
way the blind face lighted up that he had
made him the richer in some way. The
boy too seemed overjoyed, and would
have left his helpless charge in the push
ing crowd but for Moon, who snatched
away the leading stick, and placed it in
the beggar's hand again. Then he fell to
berating the boy for his carelessness, with
out, however, diminishing in the least the

lyo A White Umbrella in Mexico
latter's good humor, raising his voice un
til the car windows were filled with heads.
All this in a dialect that was wholly un
intelligible. "You know the beggar," I remarked.
"Of course. Old Tizapan. Lost his
eyes digging in a silver mine. That little
devil is his grandson. If I had my way
I would dig a hole and fill it up with
these cripples."
When we reached Morelia it was quite
dark, and yet it was difficult to get Moon
out of the station, so many people had
a word to say to him. When we arrived
at the hotel fronting the plaza he was
equally welcome, everybody greeting him.
It was especially delightful to see the
landlord. He first fell upon his neck and
embraced him, then stood off at a dis
tance and admired him with his arms
akimbo, drinking in every word of Moon's
raillery. At the bare mention of dinner,
he rushed off and brought in the cook
whom Moon addressed instantly as Grid
dles, running from Spanish into English
and French, and back again into Spanish,
in the most surprising way.

To Morelia with Moon lyi
" We will have a Mexican dinner for the
painter, Griddles ! No bon bouche, but a
square meal, un buena comida ! magnifica !
especially some little fish baked in corn
husks, peppers stuffed with tomatoes with
plenty of chile, an onion salad with garlic,
stewed figs, and a cup of Uruapam coffee,
— the finest in the world," — this last to
me. Later all these were duly served and
deliciously cooked, and opened my eyes
to the resources of a Mexican kitchen when
ordered by an expert.
In the morning Moon started for his
friend the sacristan. He found him up a
long flight of stone steps in one end of
the cathedral. But he was helpless, even
for Moon. We must find Padre Bailo, who
lived near the Zocolo. He had the keys
and charge of all the wornout church
property. Another long search across
plazas and in and out of market stalls,
and Padre Bailo was encountered leaving
his house on his way back to the cathe
dral. But it was impossible. Manana
por la manana, or perhaps next week, but
not to-day. Moon took the dried-up old

iy2 A White Umbrella in Mexico
fossil aside, and brought him back in five
minutes smiling all over with a promise
to unlock everything on my return from
Patzcuaro. " Now for the alameda. It is the most
delightful old tangle in Mexico : rose-
trees as high as a house ; by-paths over
grown with vines and lost in beds of vio
lets ; stone benches galore ; through the
centre an aqueduct so light it might be
built of looped ribbons; and such seno
ritas ! I met a girl under one of those
arches who would have taken your breath
away. She had a pair of eyes, and a foot,
and " —
" Never mind what the girl had, Moon.
We may find her yet on one of the
benches and I will judge for myself.
Show me the alameda."
" Come on, then."
At the end of a beautiful street nearly
half a mile long, — in reality a raised stone
causeway with stone parapets and stone
benches on either side, and shaded its en
tire length by a double row of magnificent
elms, — I found the abandoned Paseo de
las Lechugas (the street of the Lettuces).

To Morelia with Moon iy3
Moon had not exaggerated the charm
of its surroundings. Acacias and elms
interlaced their branches across the walks,
roses ran riot over the stone benches,
twisted their stems in and out of the rail
ings, and tossed their blossoms away up
in the branches of the great trees. High
up against the blue, the graceful aqueduct
stepped along on his slender legs tram
pling the high grass, and through and into
and over all, the afternoon sun poured its
flood of gold.
The very unkempt deserted air of the
place added to its beauty. It looked as
if the forces of nature, no longer checked,
had held high revel, and in their glee had
well-nigh effaced all trace of closely
cropped hedge, rectangular flower-bed,
and fantastic shrub. The very poppies
had wandered from their beds and stared
at me from the roadside with brazen faces,
and the once dignified tiger- lilies had
turned tramps and sat astride of the
crumbling curbs, nodding gayly at me as
I passed. " Did I not tell you ? " broke out Moon.
" How would you like to be lost in a tan-

iy4 A White Umbrella in Mexico
gle like this for a month with a Fatinitza
all eyes and perfume, with little Hotten
tots to serve you ices, and fan you with
peacock tails ? "
I admitted my inability to offer any
valid objection to any such delicious ex
perience, and intimated that, but for one
obstacle, he could bring on his Hotten
tots and trimmings at once — I was en
route for Patzcuaro, Tzintzuntzan, and the
Titian. This was news to Moon. He had ex
pected Patzcuaro, that being the terminus
of the greatest railroad of the continent,
— P. Moon, Civil Engineer, — but what
any sane man wanted to wander around
looking for a dirty adobe Indian village
like Tzintzuntzan, away up a lake, with
nothing but a dug-out to paddle there in,
and not a place to put your head in after
you landed, was a mystery to him. Be
sides, who said there was any Titian ? At
all events, I might stay in Morelia until
I could find my way around alone. The
Titian had already hung there three hun
dred years, he thought it would hold out
for a day or two longer.

To. Morelia with Moon iy$
So we continued rambling about this
most delightful of all the Mexican cities ;
across the plaza of La Paz at night ; sit
ting under the trees listening to the mu
sic, and watching the love-making on the
benches ; in the cathedral at early mass,
stopping for fruit and a cup of coffee at
the market on the way ; through the col
lege of San Nicholas where Fray Gero
nimo had studied ; to the governor's
house to listen to a concert and to present
ourselves to his excellency, who had sent
for us ; to the great pawn-shop, the Monte
de Piedad, on the regular day of sale, and
to the thousand and one delights of this
dolce far nicntc city ; returning always at
sundown to the inn, to be welcomed by
the landlord, who shouted for Griddles the
moment he laid eyes on Moon, and began
spreading the cloth on the little table un
der the fig-tree in the garden.
. After this Bohemian existence had
lasted for several days I suddenly remem
bered that Moon had not been out of my
sight five waking minutes, and being anx
ious for his welfare, I ventured to jog his
memory.

iy6 A White Umbrella in Mexico
" Moon, did you not tell me that you
came here on orders from your chief, who
wanted you on urgent business and was
waiting for you ? "
"Yes."" Have you seen him ? "
" No."
" Heard from him ? "
" No. "
" What are you going to do about it ? "
" Let him wait."

CHAPTER XI.
PATZCUARO AND THE LAKE.
When I rapped at Moon's door the
next morning he refused to open it. He
apologized for this refusal by roaring
through the transom that the thought of
my leaving him alone in Morelia had
caused him a sleepless night, and that he
had determined never to look upon my
face again ; that he had " never loved a
dear gazelle," etc., — this last sung in a
high key ; that he was not coming out ;
and that I might go to Patzcuaro and be
hanged to me.
So the landlord and Griddles escorted

iy8 A White Umbrella in Mexico
me to the station, the chef carrying my
traps, and the landlord a mysterious bas
ket with a suggestive bulge in one corner
of the paper covering. As the train
moved slowly out, this basket was passed
through the window with a remark that
Mr. Moon had prepared it the night be
fore, with especial instructions not to de
liver it until I was under way. On remov
ing the covering the bulge proved to be
glass, with a tin foil covering the cork, on
top of which was a card bearing the
superscription of my friend, with a line
stating that "charity of the commonest
kind had influenced him in this attempt
to keep me from starving during my idi
otic search for the Titian, that the dulces
beneath were the pride of Morelia, the
fruit quite fresh, and the substratum
of sandwiches the best Griddles could
make." I thanked the cheery fellow in my heart,
forgave him his eccentricities, and won
dered whether I should ever see his like
again. An hour later I had finished the cus
tomary inventory of the car : the padre

Patzcuaro and the Lake ryg
very moist and very dusty as if he had
reached the station from afar, mule-back ;
the young Hidalgo with buckskin jacket,
red sash, open slashed buckskin breeches
with silver buttons of bulls' heads down
the seam, wide sombrero, and the ivory
handle of a revolver protruding from his
hip pocket ; the two demure senoritas
dressed in black with veils covering their
heads and shoulders, attended by the
stout duenna on the adjoining seat with
fat pudgy hands, hoop earrings, and rest
less eyes ; the old Mexican, thin, yellow,
and dried up, with a cigarette glued to
his lower lip.
I had looked them all over carefully,
speculating as one does over their several
occupations and antecedents, and feeling
the loss of my encyclopaedic friend in
unravelling their several conditions, when
the door of the car immediately in front
of me opened, and that ubiquitous in
dividual himself slowly sauntered in, his
cravat flying, and his big sombrero flat
tened against the back of his head. The
only change in his costume had been the
replacing of his brown linen suit with one

180 A White Umbrella in Mexico
of a fine blue check, newly washed and
ironed in streaks. From his vest pocket
protruded his customary baggage, — the
ivory handle and the points of two cigars.
" Why, Moon ! " I blurted out, com
pletely surprised. " Where did you come
from ? "
"Baggage car — had a nap. Got the
basket, I see."
" I left you in bed," I continued.
"You didn't. Was shivering on the
outside waiting for the landlord's clothes.
How do they fit ? Left mine to be
washed." "Where are you going?" I insisted,
determined not to be side-tracked.
"To Patcuzaro." Then with a merry
twinkle in his eye he leaned forward,
canted his sombrero over his left eye, and
shading his mouth with its brim whis
pered confidentially, " You see, I got a
dispatch from my chief to meet him in
Patzcuaro, and I managed by hurrying a
little to catch this train."
Patzcuaro lies on a high hill overlook
ing the lake. The beautiful sheet of wa
ter at its foot, some twenty miles long

Patzcuaro and the Lake 181
and ten wide, is surrounded by forest-
clad hills and studded with islands, and
peopled almost exclusively by Indians,
who support themselves by fishing.
The town is built upon hilly broken
ground, the streets are narrow and crook
ed, and thoroughly Moorish in their char
acter, and the general effect picturesque
in the extreme.
On alighting from the train it was evi
dent that the progressiveness of the nine
teenth century ended at the station.
Drawn up in the road stood a lumbering
stage-coach and five horses. It was as
large as a country barn, and had enor
mous wheels bound with iron and as
heavy as- an artillery wagon's. In front,
there hung a boot made of leather an
inch thick, with a multitude of straps and
buckles. Behind, a similar boot, with
more straps and buckles. On top was
fastened an iron railing, protecting an
immense load of miscellaneous freight.
There was also a flight of steps that let
down in sections, with a hand-rail to as
sist the passenger. Within and without,
on cushions, sides, curtains, over top, bag-

1 82 A White Umbrella in Mexico
gage, wheels, driver, horses, and harness
the gray dust lay in layers, — not sifted
over it, but piled up in heaps.
The closest scrutiny on my companion's
part failed to reveal the existence of any
thing resembling a spring made either of
leather, rawhide, or steel. This last was a
disappointment to Moon, who said that
occasionally some coaches were built that
way. But two passengers entered it, — Moon
and I ; the others, not being strangers,
walked. The distance to the town from
the station is some two miles, up hill. It
was not until my trap rose from the floor,
took a flying leap across the middle of the
seat, and landed edgewise below Moon's
breastbone, that I began to fully realize
how badly the authorities had neglected
the highway. Moon coincided, remarking
that they had evidently blasted it out in
the rough, but the pieces had not been
gathered up.
We arrived first, entering the arcade of
the Fonda Concordia afoot, the coach
lumbering along later minus half its top
freight.

Patzcuaro and the Lake

ii

A cup of coffee, — none better than this
native coffee, — an omelet with peppers,
and some
fruit, and
Moon start
ed out to
m a k e ar
rangementsfor my trip
up the lake
to T z i n -
tzuntzanand the Titian, and 1
with my sketch-book
to see the town.
A closer view was
not disappointing.
Patzcuaro is more
Moorish than any
city in Mexico. The
houses have over
hanging eaves sup
ported by roof raf
ters similar to those
seen in southern Spain. The verandas
are shaded by awnings and choked up
with tlowers. The arcades are flanked by

184 A White Umbrella in Mexico
slender Moorish columns, the streets are
crossed by swinging lanterns stretched
from house to house by iron chains, the
windows and doorways are surmounted
by the horseshoe arch of the Alhambra,
and the whole place inside and out re
minds you of Toledo transplanted. Al
though seven thousand feet above the
level of the sea, it is so near the edge of
the slope running down into the hot coun
try that its market is filled with tropical
fruits unknown on the plateau of Mexico
farther east, and the streets thronged with
natives dressed in costumes never met
with in high latitudes.
Tradition has it that in the days of the
good Bishop Quiroga, when the See of
Michoacan was removed hither from Tzin
tzuntzan, Patzcuaro gave promise of being
an important city, as is proved by the un
finished cathedral. When, however, the
See was again removed to Morelia the
town rapidly declined, until to-day it is the
least important of the old cities of Michoa
can. The plaza is trodden down and sur
rounded by market stalls, the churches are
either abandoned or, what is worse, reno-

Patzcuaro and the Lake 185
vated, and there is nothing left of interest
to the idler and antiquary, outside of the
charm of its picturesque streets and loca
tion, except it may be the tomb of the
great bishop himself, who lies buried un
der the altar of the Jesuit church, the
Campania, — his bones wrapped in silk.
I made some memoranda in my sketch
book, bought some coffee, lacquer ware,
and feather work, and returned to the inn
to look for Moon. He was sitting under
the arcade, his feet against the column
and his chair tilted back, smoking. He
began as soon as I came within range : —
" Yes, know all about it. You can go
there three ways : over the back of a don
key, aboard an Indian canoe, or swim."
" How far is it ? "
" Fifteen miles."
The Titian looked smaller and less im
portant than at any time since my leaving
the city of Mexico.
" What do you suggest ? "
" I am not suggesting, I 'm a passen
ger." " You going ? "
" Of course. Think I would leave you

1 86 A White Umbrella in Mexico
here to be murdered by these devils for
your watch key ? "
The picture loomed up once more.
" Then we will take the canoe."
" Next week you will, not now. Listen.
Yesterday was market day ; market day
comes but once a week. There are no
canoes on the beach below us from as far
up the lake as Tzintzuntzan, and the fish
ermen from Zanicho and towns nearer by
refuse to paddle so far."
He threw away his cigar, elongated
himself a foot or more, broke out into a
laugh at my discomfiture, slipped his
arm through mine, and remarked apolo
getically " that he had sent for a man and
had an idea."
In half an hour the man arrived, and
with him the information that some em
ployees of the road had recently con
structed from two Indian dug-out canoes
a sort of catamaran ; that a deck had been
floored between, a mast stepped, and a
sail rigged thereon. The craft awaited
our pleasure.
Moon's idea oozed out in driblets.
Fully developed, it recommended the im-

Patzcuaro and the Lake i8y
mediate stocking of the ship with provi
sions, the hiring of six Indians with sweep
oars, and a start bright and early on the
morrow for Tzintzuntzan ; Moon to be
commodore and hold the tiller ; I to have

the captain's stateroom, with free use of
the deck.
The morning dawned deliriously cool
and bright. Moon followed half an hour
later, embodying all the characteristics of
the morning and supplementing a few of
his own, — another suit of clothes, a cloth
cap, and an enormous spyglass.

1 88 A White Umbrella in Mexico
The clothes were the result of a further
exchange of courtesies with a brother en
gineer, the cap replaced his time-worn
broad sombrero, " out of courtesy to the
sail," he said, and the spyglass would be
useful either as a club of defence, or to
pole over shoal places, or in examining the
details of the Titian. " It might be hung
high, and he wanted to see it."
These explanations, however, were cut
short by the final preparations for the
start, — Moon giving orders in true nau
tical style, making fast the rudder, calling
all hands aft to stow the various baskets
and hampers, battening down the trap door
hatches, and getting everything snug and
trim for a voyage of discovery as absurd
to him as if entered upon for the finding
of the Holy Grail.
Finally all was ready, Moon seized the
tiller, and gave the order to cast off. A
faint cheer went up from the group of na
tives on the shore, the wind gave a kindly
puff, the six Indians, stripped to their
waists, bent to their oars, and the catama
ran drifted clear of the gravel beach, and
bore away up the lake to Tzintzuntzan.

Patzcuaro and the Lake 1 89
She was certainly as queer a looking
craft as ever trailed a rudder. To be ex
act, she was about thirty feet long, half as
wide, and drew a hand's-breadth of water.
Her bow flooring was slightly trimmed to
a point ; her square stern was protected
by a bench a foot wide and high, — form
ing a sort of open locker under which a
man could crawl and escape the sun ;
her deck was flat, and broken only by the
mast, which was well forward, and the
rests or giant oarlocks which held the
sweeps. The rudder was a curiosity. It
was half as long as the boat, and hung
over the stern like the pole of an old-
fashioned well-sweep. When fulfilling its
destiny it had as free charge of the deck
as the boom of a fishing smack in a gale
of wind. Another peculiarity of the rud
der was its independent action. It not
only had ideas of its own but followed
them. The skipper followed too after a
brief struggle, and walked miles across
the deck in humoring its whims. The
sail was unique. It was made of a tarpau
lin which had seen better days as the fly
of a camping tent, and was nailed flat to

190 A White Umbrella in Mexico
the short boom which wandered up and
down the rude mast at will, assisted by
half a dozen barrel hoops and the iron
tire of a wheelbarrow. Two trap doors,
cut midway the deck, led into the bowels
of the dug-outs, and proved useful in
bailing out leakage and overwash.
As I was only cabin passenger and so
without responsibility, I stretched my
length along the bench and watched
Moon handle the ship. At first all went
smoothly, the commodore grasped the til
ler as cordially as if it had been the hand
of his dearest friend, and the wilful rud
der, lulled to sleep by the outburst, swayed
obediently back and forth. The tarpau
lin, meanwhile, bursting with the pride of
its promotion, bent to the breeze in an
honest effort to do its share. Suddenly
the wind changed ; the inflated sail lost
its head and clung wildly to the mast, the
catamaran careened, Moon gave a vicious
jerk, and the rudder awoke. Then fol
lowed a series of misunderstandings be
tween the commodore and the thoroughly
aroused well-sweep which enlivened all
the dull passages of the voyage, and in-

Patzcuaro and the Lake igi
troduced into the general conversation
every variety of imprecation known to me
in languages with which I am familiar,
assisted and enlarged by several dialects
understood and appreciated only by the
six silent, patient men keeping up their
rhythmic movement at the sweeps.
When we reached the first headland
on our weather bow the wind freshened
to a stiff breeze, and after a brief struggle
Moon decided to go about. I saw at a
glance that the catamaran held different
views, and that it was encouraged and
" egged " on, so to speak, by its co-con
spirator the rudder.
" You men on the right, stop rowing."
This order was emphasized by an empty
bottle thrown from the locker. The three
Indians stood motionless.
" Haul that boom," — this to me, sketch
ing with my feet over the stern.
I obeyed with the agility of a man-
o'-war's man. The sail flapped wildly, the
rudder gave a staggering lurch, and Moon
measured his length on the deck !
By the time the commodore had re
gained his feet he had exhausted his vo-

192 A White Umbrella in Mexico
cabulary. Then with teeth hard set he
lashed the rebellious rudder fast to the
locker, furled the crestfallen sail, and re
signed the boat to the native crew. Five
minutes later he was stretched flat on the
deck, bubbling over with good humor, and
gloating over the contents of the hampers
piled up around him.
" That town over your shoulder on .the
right is Xanicho," he rattled on, pointing
with his fork to some adobe huts clus
tered around a quaint church spire.
" If we had time and a fair wind, I should
like to show you the interior. It is ex
actly as the Jesuits left it three hundred
years ago. Away over there on the right
is Xaracuaro. You can see from here the
ruins of the convent and of half a dozen
brown hovels. Nobody there now but
fishermen. The only white man in the
village is the priest, and I would not
wager to his being so all the way through.
A little farther along, over that island, if
you look close you can see a small town ;
it is Igiiatzio. There are important Az
tecs remains about it. A paved roadway
leads to the adjoining village, which was

Patzcuaro and the Lake 193

built long before the coming of the Span
iards. I do not believe all the marvellous
stories told of the Aztec sacrifices, but
over the hill yonder is the ruins of the
only genuine Teocalli, if there ever was
such a thing, in Mexico. I have made
a study of these so-called Aztec monu
ments and have examined most of the
Teocallis or sacrificial mounds of Mon
tezuma's people without weakening much
my unbelief, but I confess this one puz
zles me. One day last winter I heard
the Indians talking about this mound,
and two of us paddled over. It lies in
a hollow of the hills back of the town,
and is inclosed by a stone wall about
one thousand feet long, eight feet high,
and four feet wide. The Teocalli itself
stands in the middle of this quadrangle.
It is constructed in the form of a trun
cated cone about one hundred feet square
at the base and nearly as high, built
entirely of stone, with an outside stairway
winding around its four sides. On one
corner of the top are the remains of a
small temple. I do not think half a hun
dred people outside the natives have ever

194 A White Umbrella in Mexico
seen it. If it is not a Teocalli there is
not one in all Mexico. The fact is, no
other Aztec mound in Mexico is worthy of
the name, — not even Cholula."
Suddenly a low point, until now hidden
by an intervening headland, pushed itself
into the lake. Moon reached for his spy
glass and adjusted the sliding tube.
" Do you see those two white specks
over that flat shore ? "
"Perfectly."" And the clump of dark trees surround
ing it ? "
" Yes."
" Well, that is Tzintzuntzan. The big
speck is what is left of the old Franciscan
convent, the clump of trees is the olive
orchard, the ancient burial-place of the
Aztecs. The little speck is the top of the
dome of the convent chapel, beneath
which hangs your daub of a Titian."

CHAPTER XII.
TZINTZtJNTZAN AND THE TITIAN.
The catamaran rounded the point,
floated slowly up to the beach, and an
chored on a shoal within a boat's-length
of the shore. Strung along the water's
edge, with wonder - stricken faces, were
gathered half of the entire population of
Tzintzuntzan. The other half were com
ing at full speed over the crest of the hill,
which partly hid the village itself.
There being but two feet of water, and
those wet ones, Moon shot an order in an
unknown tongue into the group in front,

j 96 A White Umbrella in Mexico

1 starting two
-y - - . ' of them for-
/\ .('-¦v'! - . ¦-$ ward, swung
^ ^ssA.^^^" *' nmiseuC grace-
^  ^ f^^j fully over the
shoulders of
the first, - — I clinging to the sec-

! ft
I it " ond, — and we landed dry shod
in the midst of as curious a
crowd of natives as ever greeted the great
Christopher himself.
The splendor which made Tzintzuntzan
famous in the days of the good Bishop
Quiroga, when its population numbered
forty thousand souls, has long since de
parted. The streets run at right angles,
and are divided into squares of apparently
equal length, marking a city of some im
portance in its day. High walls surround
each garden and cast grateful shadows.
Many of these are broken by great fissures
through which can be seen the ruins of
abandoned tenements overgrown with
weeds and tangled vines. Along the tops
of these walls fat melons ripen in the
dazzling sun, their leaves and tendrils
white with dust, and from the many seams

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian I9y

and cracks the cacti flaunt their deep-red
blossoms in your face.
We took the path starting from the
beach, which widened into a broad road
as it crossed the hill, over which could
be seen the white spire of the church.
This was beaten down by many feet, and
marked the daily life of the natives — -from
the church to pray, to the shore to fish.
With the exception of shaping some crude
pottery, they literally do nothing else.
As we advanced along this highway, —
Moon carrying his spy-glass as an Irish
man would his hod over his shoulder, I
my umbrella, and the Indians my sketch
trap and a basket containing something
for the padre, — the wall thickened and
grew in height until it ended in a cross
wall, behind which stood the ruins of a
belfry, the broken bell still clinging to the
rotting roof timber. Adjoining this was a
crumbling archway without door or hinge.
This forlorn entrance opened into the
grounds of the once powerful establish
ment of San Francisco, closed and in
ruins since 1740. Beyond this archway
stood another, protected by a heavy double

ig8 A White Umbrella in Mexico

iron grating, which once swung wide to let
pass the splendid pageants of the time,
now rust - in-
crusted, and
half buried in
the ground.
Once inside,
the transition
was delightful.
There was a
great garden
or orchard
planted with
olive trees of
enormous size,
their tops still
alive, and their
trunks seamed
and gnarled
with the storms of three and a half cen
turies, beneath which lie buried not only
the great dignitaries of the Church, but
many of the allies and chiefs of Cortez in
the times of the Tarascan chieftancy.
On one side of this orchard is the
chapel of the Tercer Order and the Hos
pital and the convent church, now the

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 199
parroquia. We crossed between the trees
and waited outside the convent building
at the foot of a flight of stone steps, built
along an angle of a projection and lead
ing to the second floor of the building.
These steps were crowded with Indians,
as was also the passageway within, wait
ing for an audience with the parish priest,
whose apartments were above.
Nothing can adequately describe the
dilapidation of this entrance and its sur
roundings. The steps themselves had
been smeared over with mortar to hold
them together, the door jambs were lean
ing and ready to fall, the passageway it
self ended in a window which might once
have held exquisite panels of stained
glass, but which was now open to the ele
ments save where it was choked up with
adobe bricks laid loosely in courses. The
rooms opening into it were tenantless,
and infested with lizards and bats, and
the whole place inside and out was fast
succumbing to a decay which seemed to
have reached its limit, and which must
soon end in hopeless ruin.
We found the padre seated at a rude

200 A White Umbrella in Mexico

table in the darkest corner of a low-ceiled
room on the left of the corridor, surrounded
  . by half a dozen In
dian women. He

was at dinner, and
the women were
serving him from
coarse earthen
dishes. When he
turned at our intru
sion, we saw a short,
thickset man, wear
ing a greasy black
frock, a beard a
week old, and a
smile so treacher
ous that I involun
tarily tapped my inside pocket to make
sure of its contents. He arose lazily,
gathered upon his coat cuff the few stray
crumbs clinging to his lips, and with a
searching, cunning air, asked our busi
ness. Moon shifted his spy-glass until the
large end was well balanced in his hand,
and replied obsequiously, "To see the
famous picture, holy father. This, my

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 201
companion, is a distinguished painter from
the far East. He has heard of the glory
of this great work of the master, of which
you are the sacred custodian, and has
come these many thousand miles to see it.
I hope your reverence will not turn us
away." I saw instantly from his face that he
had anticipated this, and that his temper
was not improved by Moon's request. I
learned afterwards that a canoe had left
Patzcuaro ahead of the catamaran, and
that the object of our visit had already
been known in Tzintzuntzan some hours
before we arrived.
"It is a holy clay," replied the padre
curtly, " and the sacristy is closed. The
picture will not be uncovered."
With this he turned his back upon us
and resumed his seat.
I looked at Moon. He was sliding his
hand nervously up and down the glass,
and clutching its end very much as a man
would an Indian club.
"Leave him to me," he whispered
from behind his hand, noticing my disap
pointment ; " I 'U get into that sacristy, if

202 A White Umbrella in Mexico
I have to bat him through the door with
this." In the hamper which Moon had in
structed Griddles the chef to pack for my
comfort the day before at Morelia, was a
small glass vessel, flat in shape, its con
tents repressed by a cork covered with tin
foil. When Moon landed from the cata
maran this vessel was concealed among
some boxes of dulces and fruits from
the southern slope, inclosed in a wicker
basket, and intrusted to an Indian who
now stood within three feet of the table.
" You are right, holy father," said
Moon, bowing low. " We must respect
these holy days. I have brought your
reverence some delicacies, and when the
fast is over, you can enjoy them."
Then he piled up in the midst of the
rude earthen platters and clay cups and
bowls, — greasy with the remnants of the
meal, — some bunches of grapes, squares
of dulces, and a small bag of coffee. The
flat vessel came last ; this Moon handled
lovingly, and with the greatest care, rest
ing it finally against a pulque pot which
the padre had just emptied.

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 203
The priest leaned forward, held the flat
vessel between his nose and the window,
ran his eyes along the flow line, and glan
cing at the women turned a dish over it
bottom side up.
" When do you return ? " he asked.
"To-day, your reverence."
There was a pause, during which the
padre buried his face in his hands and
Moon played pantomime war dance over
the shaved spot on his skull.
" How much will the painter give to
the poor of the parish ? " said the padre,
lifting his head.
After an exposition of the dismal pov
erty into which the painter was plunged
by reason of his calling, it was agreed that
upon the payment to the padre of cinco
pesos in silver — about one pound sterling
— the painter might see the picture, when
mass was over, the padre adding, —
" There is presently a service. In an
hour it will be over, then the sacristan can
open the door."
Moon counted out the money on the
table, piece by piece. The padre weighed
each coin on his palm, bit one of them,

204 4 White Umbrella in Mexico
and with a satisfied air swept the whole
into his pocket.
The tolling of a bell hurried the women
from the room. The padre followed slow
ly, bowing his head upon his breast.
Moon and I brought up the rear, passing
dbwn the crumbling corridor over the un
even flooring and upturned and broken
tiles and through a low archway until we
reached a gallery overlooking a patio.
Here was a sight one must come to Mex
ico to see. Flat on the stone pavements,
seated upon mats woven of green rushes,
knelt a score or more of Indian women,
their cheeks hollow from fasting, and their
eyes glistening with that strange glassy
look peculiar to half-starved people. Over
their shoulders were twisted black rebo
zos, and around each head was bound a
veritable crown of thorns. In their hands
they held a scourge of platted nettles.
They had sat here day and night without
leaving these mats for nearly a week.
This terrible ceremony occurs but once
a year, during passion week. The pen
ance lasts eight days. Each penitent pays
a sum of money for the privilege, and her

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 205
name and number is then inscribed upon
a sort of tally-board which is hung on the
cloister wall. Upon this is also kept a
record of the punishment. The penitents
provide their zarapes and pillows and the
rush mats upon which to rest their weary
bones ; the priest furnishes everything,
else, — a little greasy gruel and the stone
pavement. The padre threaded his way through the
kneeling groups without turning his head
to the right or left. When his footsteps
were heard they repeated their prayers the
louder, and one young girl, weak from
long fasting, raised her eyes to the priest's
pleadingly. His stolid face gave no sign.
With downcast eyes she leaned forward,
bent low, and kissed the hem of his frock.
As she stooped Moon pointed to the
marks of the cruel thorns on her temples.
" Shall I maul him a little ? " he whis
pered, twisting the glass uneasily.
"Wait until we see the Titian, " I
pleaded. The cloister led into the chapel. It
was bare of even the semblance of a
house of worship. But for the altar in

206 A White Umbrella in Mexico
one end, and the few lighted candles, it
might have passed for the old refectory of
the convent. We edged our way between
the kneeling groups and passed out of a
side door into an open court. Moon
touched my arm.
" See ! that about measures the poverty
of the place, he said. One coffin for the
whole village."
On a rude bier lay a wooden box, nar
rowed at one end. It was made of white
wood, decorated on the outside with a
rough design in blue and yellow. The
bottom was covered with dried leaves, and
the imprint of the head and shoulders of
the poor fellow who had occupied it a few
hours before was still distinct.
"Two underneath, one inside, a mum
bled prayer, then he helps to fill the hole
and they save the box for the next. A
little too narrow for the padre, I am
afraid," soliloquized Moon, measuring the
width with his eye.
Another tap of the bell, and the Indians
straggled out of the church and dispersed,
some going to the village, others halting
under the great tree trunks, watching us

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 2oy
curiously. Indeed, I had before this be
come aware of an especial espionage over
us, which was never relaxed for a single in
stant. A native would start out from a
doorway as soon as we touched the thresh
old, another would be concealed behind a
tree or projecting wall until we passed.
Then he would walk away aimlessly, look
ing back and signalling to another hidden
somewhere else. This is not unusual with
these natives. They have always resented
every overture to part with their picture,
and are particularly suspicious of stran
gers who come from a distance to see it,
they worshipping it with a blind idolatry
easily understood in their race.
This fear of invasion also extends to
their village and church. It has been
known for several years that an under
ground passageway led from a point near
the church to the old convent, and in
1855 a party of savants, under the direc
tion of Father Aguirre, began to uncover
its entrance. No open resistance was
made by the natives, but in the silence of
the night each stone and shovelful of
earth was noiselessly replaced.

208 A White Umbrella in Mexico
A few years later the Bishop of Mexico
offered for this picture the sum of twenty
thousand pesetas, a sum of money fabu
lous in their eyes, and which if honestly
divided would have made each native
richer than an Aztec prince. I do not
know whether their religious prejudices
influenced them, or whether, remembering
the quality of the penance gruel, they dare
not trust the padre to divide it, but all
the same it was refused. Moon assured
me that if the painting ever left its rest
ing place it must go without warning, and
be protected by an armed force. It would
be certain death to any one to attempt its
removal otherwise, and he firmly believed
that sooner than see it leave their village
the Indians would destroy it.
" Senor, the padre says come to him."
The messenger was a sun-dried, shriv
elled Mexican half-breed, with a wicked
eye and a beak-like nose. About his head
was twisted a red handkerchief, over which
was flattened a heavy felt sombrero. He
was barefooted, and his trousers were held
up by a leather strap.
" Who are you ? " said Moon.

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 209

" I am the sacristan."
" I thought so. Lead on. A lovely
pair of cherubs, are they not ? "
The padre met us at the door. He had
sad news for us ; his mortification was ex
treme. The man who cleaned the sac
risty had locked the door that morning
and started for Quiroga on a donkey. No
one else had a key.
I suggested an immediate chartering of
another, and somewhat livelier donkey,
with instructions to overtake and bring
back the man with the key, dead or alive.
The padre shrugged his shoulders, and
said there was but one donkey in the vil
lage, — he was underneath the man with
the key. Moon closed one eye and turned
the other incredulously on the priest.
" When will the man return ? "
" In three days."
" Your reverence," said the commo
dore slowly, "do not send for him. It
might annoy him to be hurried. We will
break in the door and pay for a new
lock." Then followed a series of protests, be
ginning with the sacrilege of mutilating so

21 o A White Umbrella in Mexico
sacred a door, and ending with a sugges
tion from the saffron-colored sacristan
that an additional cinco pesos would about
cover the mutilation, provided every cen-
tavo of it was given to the poor of the

,

parish, and that the further insignificant
sum of five pesetas, if donated to the es
pecial use of his sun-dried excellency,
might induce him to revive one of his lost
arts, and operate on the lock with a rusty
nail. Moon counted out the money with a
suppressed sigh, remarking that he had
" always pitied the poor, but never so
much as now." Then we followed the

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 21 t
padre and the sacristan down the winding
steps leading to the cloister, through the
dark corridor, past the entrance to the
chapel, and halted at an arch closed by
two swinging doors. His yellowness fum
bled among some refuse in one corner,
picked up a bit of debris, applied his eyes
to an imaginary keyhole, and pushed open
a pair of wooden doors entirely bare of
lock, hasp, or latch. They had doubtless
swung loose for half a century ! I had to
slip my arm through Moon's and pin his
toes to the pavement to keep him still.
The padre and the half-breed uncov
ered and dropped upon their knees. I
looked over their heads into a room about
thirty feet long by twenty wide, with a
high ceiling of straight square rafters.
The floor was paved in great squares of
marble laid diagonally, the walls were
seamed, cracked, and weather - stained.
The only opening other than the door was
a large window, protected on the outside
by three sets of iron gratings, and on the
inside by double wooden shutters. The
window was without glass. The only arti
cles of furniture visible were a round ta-

212 A White Umbrella in Mexico
ble with curved legs occupying the centre
of the room, a towel-rack and towel hung
on the wall, and a row of wooden drawers
built like a bureau, completely filling the
end of the room opposite the door. Over
this was hung, or rather fitted, the three
sides of a huge carved frame, showing
traces of having once been gilded, — the
space was not high enough to admit its top

member. Inside
this frame glowed
the noble picture.
I forgot the padre, the oily-tongued sacris
tan, and even ray friend Moon, in my won
der, loosened my trap, opened the stool,
and sat clown with bated breath to enjoy it.

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 213
My first thought was of its marvellous
preservation. More than three hundred
years have elapsed since the great master
touched it, and yet one is deluded into
the belief that it was painted but yester
day, so fresh, pure, and rich is its color.
This is no doubt due to the climate, and
to the clear air circulating through the
open window.
The picture is an Entombment, sixteen
feet long by seven feet high. Surround
ing the dead Christ wrapped in a winding
sheet, one end of which is held in the
teeth of a disciple, stands the Virgin,
Magdalen, Saint John, and nine other fig
ures, all life-size. In the upper left hand
corner is a bit of blue sky, against which
is relieved an Italian villa, — the painter's
own, a caprice of Titian's often seen in
his later works.
The high lights fall upon the arm of
the Saviour drooping from the hammock-
shaped sheet in which he is carried, and
upon the head covering of the Virgin
bending over him. A secondary light is
found in the patch of blue sky. To the
right and behind the group of disciples

214 4 White Umbrella in Mexico
the shadows are intensely dark, relieving
the rich tones of the browns and blues
in the draperies, and the flesh tones for
which the painter is famous. The exquisite
drawing of each figure, the gradation of
light and shade, the marvellous composi
tion, the relief and modelling of the Christ,
the low but luminous tones in which it is
painted, the superb harmony of these
tones, all pronounce it the work of a
master. The questions naturally arise, Is it by
Titian ? and if so, how came it here in an
Indian village in the centre of Mexico,
and why has it been lost all these years
to the art world ? To the first I answer,
if not by Titian, who then of his time could
paint it ? The second is easier : until the
railroads of the last few years opened up
the country, Mexico's isolation was com
plete. A slight resume of the history of its
surroundings may shed some light on the
question. After the ruin wrought in Mi-
choacan in the early part of the six
teenth century by the evil acts of Nifio
de Guzman, — the president of the first

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 215
Audencia, — terminating in the burning
of the Tarascan chief Sinzicha, the people,
maddened with terror, fled to the moun
tains around Tzintzuntzan and refused to
return to their homes. To remedy these
evils, the Emperor Charles V. selected
the members of the second Audencia from
among the wisest and best men of Spain.
One of these was an intimate friend of the
emperor, an eminent lawyer, the Licen
ciado Vasco de Quiroga. Being come to
Mexico, Don Vasco, in the year 1533, vis
ited the depopulated towns, and with ad
mirable patience, gentleness, and love,
prevailed on the terror-stricken Indians
to have faith in him and return to their
homes.1 The Bishopric of Michoacan was then
founded, and this mitre was offered to
Quiroga, though he was then a layman.
Thereupon Quiroga took holy orders, and
having been raised quickly through the
successive grades of the priesthood, was
consecrated a bishop and took possession
of his see in the church of San Francisco
in Tzintzuntzan August 22, 1538. He
1 Janvier's Mexican Guide.

2i 6 A White Umbrella in Mexico
was then sixty-eight years old. As bishop,
he completed the conquest through love
that he had begun while yet a layman.
He established schools of letters and the
arts ; introduced manufactures of copper
and other metals ; imported from Spain
cattle and seeds for acclimatization ;
founded hospitals, and established the
first university of New Spain, that of San
Nicholas, now in Morelia.
When Philip II. ascended the throne the
good deeds of the holy bishop had reached
his ears, and the power and growth of his
see had deeply touched the heart of the
devout monarch, awakening in his mind
a profound interest in the welfare of the
church at Tzintzuntzan and Patzcuaro.
During this period the royal palaces at
Madrid were filled with the finest pictures
of Titian, and the royal family of Spain
formed the subjects of his best portraits.
The Emperor Charles V. had been and
was then one of the master's most lib
eral patrons. He had made him a count,
heaped upon him distinguished honors,
and had been visited by him twice at
Augsburg and once at Bologna where he

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 2iy
painted his portrait. It is even claimed
by some biographers that by special in
vitation of his royal patron Titian vis
ited Spain about the year 1550, and was
entertained with great splendor at the
court. Moreover, it is well known that
he was granted a pension, and that this
was kept up by Philip until the painter's
death. Remembering the dates at which these
events took place ; the fanatical zeal of
Philip, and his interest in the distant
church, redeemed and made glorious by
Quiroga, the friend and protegk of his royal
predecessor ; the possible presence of Ti
tian at the court at the time, certainly the
influence of his masterpieces, together
with the fact that the subject of this pic
ture was a favorite one with him, notably
the Entombment in Venice and the rep
lica at the Louvre, it is quite within the
range of probability that Philip either or
dered this especial picture from the mas
ter himself, or selected it from the royal
collection. It is quite improbable, in view of the
above facts, that the royal donor would

21 8 A White Umbrella in Mexico
have sent the work of an inferior painter
representing it to be by Titian, or a copy by
one of his pupils.
Another distinguishing feature, and by
far the most conclusive, is its handling.
Without strong contrasting tones of color
Titian worked out a peculiar golden mel
low tone, — which of itself exercises a
magical charm, — and divided it into in
numerable small but significant shades,
producing thereby a most complete illu
sion of life. This Titianesque quality is
particularly marked in the nude body of
the Christ, the flesh appearing to glow
with a hidden light.
Moon's criticisms were thoroughly char
acteristic. He hoped I was satisfied. Did
I want to see both sides of it ; if I did,
he would push out the rear wall. Would
the spy-glass be of any use, etc. I waved
him away, opened my easel, and began a
hurried memorandum of the interior, and
a rough outline of the position of the fig
ures on the canvas. When his retreating
footsteps echoed down the corridor, I
closed the doors gently behind him and
resumed my work. The picture ab-

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 219
sorbed me. I wanted to be shut up alone
with it.
A sense of a sort of temporary owner
ship comes over one when left alone in
a room containing some priceless treas
ure or thing of beauty not his own. It
is a selfish pleasure which is undisturbed,
and which you do not care to share with
another. For the time being you monop
olize it, and it is as really your own as
if you had the bill of sale in your pocket.
I deluded myself with this fancy, and be
gan examining more closely the iron grat
ings of the window and the manner of
fastening them to the masonry, wonder
ing whether they would always be secure.
I inspected all the rude ornaments on
the front of the drawers of the wide low
bureau which stood immediately beneath
the picture ; opened one of them a few
inches and discovered a bundle of vest
ments dust covered and spattered with
candle grease. Lifting myself up I noted
the carving of the huge frame, and fol
lowed the lines of the old gilding into
its dust-begrimed channels ; and to make
a closer study of the texture of the can-

220 A White Umbrella in Mexico
vas and the handling of the pigments, I
mounted the bureau itself and walked the
length of the painting, applying my pocket
magnifying glass to the varnished sur
face. When I stood upright the drooping
figure of the Christ reached nearly to the
level of my eye. Looking closer I found
the over-glaze to be rich and singularly
transparent, and after a careful scrutiny
fancied I could separate into distinct
tones the peculiar mosaic of color in
which most of all lies the secret of Ti
tian's flesh. In the eagerness of my search
I unconsciously bent forward and laid
my hand upon the Christ.
" Cuidado ! Estrangero, es muerte ! '" (Be
ware ! Stranger, it is death ! ") came a
quick angry voice in my rear.
I started back with my heart in my
mouth. Behind me, inside the doors,
stood two Indians. One advanced threat
eningly, the other rushed out shouting for
the padre. In an instant the room was
crowded with natives clamoring wildly,
and pointing at me with angry looks and
gestures. The padre arrived breathless,
followed by Moon, who had forced his

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 221
way through the throng, his big frame
towering above the others.
During the hubbub I kept my place on
the bureau, undecided what to do.
" You have put your foot in it ! " said
Moon, to me, in English in a tone of
voice new to me from him. " Do exactly
what I tell you, and perhaps we may get
away from here with a whole skin. Turn
your face to the picture." I did so.
" Now come down from that old clothes-
press backwards, get down on your knees,
and bow three times, you lunatic."
I had sense enough left to do this rev
erently, and with some show of cere
mony. Then without moving a muscle of his
face, and with the deepest earnestness,
Moon turned to the padre and said : —
" The distinguished painter is a true
believer, holy father. His hand had lost
its cunning and he could no longer paint.
He was told in a dream to journey to
this place, where he would find this sa
cred treasure, upon touching which his
hand would regain its power. See ! Here
is the proof."

222 A White Umbrella in Mexico
The padre examined the sketch resting
upon my easel, and without taking his eye
from Moon, repeated the miracle to the
Indians in their own tongue. The change
in their demeanor was instantaneous.
The noise ceased ; a silence fell upon the
group and they crowded about the draw
ing wonderstruck. Moon bowed low to
the padre, caught up the standing easel,
threw my trap over his shoulder, pushed
me ahead of him, an opening was made,
— the people standing back humbly, —
and we passed through the crowd and out
into the sunlight.
Once clear of the church he led the way
straight to the catamaran, hoisted the sail,
manned the sweeps, swung the rudder
clear of the shoal, and headed for Patz
cuaro. When everything was snug and
trim for the voyage home, and the cata
maran had drifted slowly out into the
deep water of the lake, the commodore
lounged down the deck, laid his hand
upon my shoulder, and said, half reprov
ing1^ —
" Well, you beat the devil."

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 223
When we pushed off from Tzintzuntzan,
the afternoon sun was glorifying our end
of the universe, and in our delirium we fan
cied we had but to spread our one wing
to reach bed and board, fifteen miles
distant, before the rosy twilight could
fade into velvet blue. But the wind was
contrary. It was worse — it was mali
cious. It blew south, then north, and
then took a flying turn all around the
four points of the compass, and finally
settled down to a steady freshness dead
ahead. For hours at a time low points of
land and high hills guarded by sentinel
trees anchored themselves off our weather
bow as if loath to part from us, and re
mained immovable until an extra spurt at
the sweeps drove them into the darkness.
To return was hazardous, to drift ashore
dangerous, to advance almost impossible.
As the night wore on the wind grew tired
of frolicking and went careering over the
mountains behind us. Then the lake grew
still, and the sweeps gained upon the
landscape and point after point floated
off mysteriously and disappeared in the
gloom.

224 A White Umbrella in Mexico
All night we lay on the deck looking up
at the stars and listening to the steady
plashing of the sweeps, pitying the poor
fellows at their task and lending a hand
now and then to give them a breathing
spell. The thin crescent of the new moon,
which had glowed into life as the color
left the evening sky, looked at us wonder-
ingly for a while, then concluding that we
intended making a night of it, dropped
down behind the hills of Xanicho and went
to bed. Her namesake wrapped his own
coat about me, protesting that the night
air was bad for foreigners, threw one end
of the ragged tarpaulin over his own
shoulders, tucked a hamper under his
head, and spent the night moralizing over
the deliberate cruelty of my desertion in
the morning.
It was a long and dreary voyage. The
provender was exhausted. There was not
on board a crumb large enough to feed a
fly. Between the padre, the six Indians,
and ourselves every fig, dulce, bone, crust,
and drop had disappeared.
When the first streak of light illumined
the sky we found ourselves near enough

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 225
to Patzcuaro to follow the outline of the
hills around the town and locate the little
huts close to the shore. When the dawn
broke clear we were pushing aside the
tall grass near the beach, and the wild
fowl, startled from their haunts, were
whirling around our heads.
The barking of a dog aroused the in
mates of a cabin near the water's edge,
and half an hour later Moon was pound
ing coffee in a bag and I devilling the
legs of a turkey over a charcoal brazier —
the inmates had devoured all but the
drumsticks the night before. We were
grateful that he was not a cripple. While
the savory smell of the toasted caconc,
mingled with the aroma of boiling coffee,
filled the room, Moon set two plates, cut
some great slices of bread from a loaf
which he held between his knees, and
divided equally the remnants of the frugal
meal. Two anatomical specimens picked
clean and white and two empty plates
told the story of our appetites.
" At eight o'clock, caro mio, the train
returns to the East. Do you still in
sist on being barbarous enough to leave

226 A White Umbrella in Mexico
me ? What have I done to you that you
should treat me thus ? "
I pleaded my necessities. I had reached
the end of my journey. My task was
completed ; henceforth my face must be
set towards the rising sun. Would he
return as far with me as Zacatecas, or
even to the city of Mexico ?
No, he expected a dispatch from his
chief. He would stay at Patzcuaro.
I expected this. It was always his
chief. No human being had ever seen
him ; no messenger had ever brought news
of his arrival ; no employee had ever ex
plained his delay. In none of the cit
ies through which we had travelled had
Moon ever spent five minutes in looking
him up, or ten seconds in regretting his
absence. When my traps were aboard, and the
breezy, happy - hearted fellow had wrung
my hand for the twentieth time, I said to
him : —
" Moon, one thing before we part. Have
you ever seen your chief for a single in
stant since we left Toluca ? "
He looked at me quizzically, closed his

Tzintzuntzan and the Titian 22y
left eye, — a habit with him when anything
pleased him greatly, — and replied : —
" A dozen times."
" Where ? " I asked doubtingly.
" When I shave."

J1S. 39002 0403°^