The Overland Monthly/Volume 1/By Rail through France
BY RAIL THROUGH FRANCE.
WE have come five hundred miles by rail through the heart of France. What a bewitching land it is! What a garden! Surely the leagues of bright green lawns are swept and brushed and watered every day, and their grasses trimmed by the barber. Surely the hedges are shaped and measured, and their symmetry preserved, by the most architectural gardeners. Surely the long, straight rows of stately poplars that divide the beautiful landscape like the squares of a checker-board are set with line and plummet, and their uniform height determined with a spiritlevel. Surely the straight, smooth, purewhite turnpikes are jack-planed and sand-papered every day. How else are these marvels of symmetry, cleanliness and order attained? It is wonderful. There are no unsightly stone walls, and never a fence of any kind. There is no dirt, no decay, no rubbish, anywhere— nothing that even hints at untidiness, nothing that even suggests neglect. All is orderly and beautiful—everything is charming to the eye.
We had such glimpses of the Rhone gliding along between its grassy banks; of cosy cottages buried in flowers and shrubbery; of quaint old red-tiled villages, with massy medieval cathedrals looming out of their midst; of wooded hills with ivy-grown towers and turrets of feudal castles projecting above the foliage; such glimpses of Paradise, it seemed to us, such visions of fabled fairy-land!
We knew, then, what the poet meant, when he sang of
"—thy cornfields green, and sunny vines,
O pleasant land of France!"
And it is a pleasant land. No word describes it so felicitously as that one.
We are not infatuated with these French railway cars, though. We took first-class passage, not because we wished to attract attention by doing a thing which is uncommon in Europe, but because we could make our journey quicker by so doing. It is hard to make railroading pleasant, in any country. It is too tedious. Stage-coaching is infinitely more delightful. Once I crossed the plains and deserts and mountains of the West, in a stage-coach, from the Missouri line to California, and since then all my pleasure trips must be measured to that rare holiday frolic. Two thousand miles of ceaseless rush and rattle and clatter, by night and by day, and never a weary moment, never a lapse of interest! The first seven hundred miles a level continent, its grassy carpet greener and softer and smoother than any sea, and figured with designs fitted to its magnitude—the shadows of the clouds. Here were no scenes but summer scenes, and no disposition inspired by them but to lie at full length on the nail-sacks, in the grateful breeze, and smoke the pipe of peace—what other, where all was repose and contentment? In cool mornings, before the sun was fairly up, it was worth a lifetime of city toiling and moiling, to perch in the foretop with the driver, and see the six mustangs scamper under the sharp snapping of a whip that never touched them; to scan the blue distances of a world that knew no lords but us; to cleave the wind with uncovered head, and feel the sluggish pulses rousing to the spirit of a speed that pretended to the resistless rush of a typhoon! Then, thirteen hundred miles of desert solitudes; of limitless panorama of bewildering perspective; of mimic cities, of pinnacled cathedrals, of massive fortresses, counterfeited in the eternal rocks and splendid with the crimson and gold of the setting sun; of dizzy altitudes among fog-wreathed peaks and never-melting snows, where thunders and lightnings and tempests warred magnificently at our feet, and the stormclouds above swung their shredded banners in our very faces!
But I forget. I am in elegant France now, and not skurrying through the great South Pass and the Wind River Mountains, among antelopes and buffaloes, and painted Indians on the warpath. It is not meet that I should make too disparaging comparisons between hum-drum travel on a railway and that royal summer flight across a continent in a stage-coach. I meant in the beginning to say that railway journeying is tedious and tiresome, and so it is— though at the time, I was thinking particularly of dismal fifty-hour pilgrimages between New York and St. Louis. Of course our trip through France was not really tedious, because all its scenes and experiences were new and strange; but it had its "discrepancies."
The cars are built in compartments that hold eight persons each. Each compartment is partially subdivided, and so there are two tolerably distinct parties of four in it. Four face the other four. The seats and backs are thickly padded and cushioned, and are very comfortable; you can smoke if you wish; there are no bothersome peddlers; you are saved the infliction of a multitude of disagreeable fellow-passengers. So far, so well. But then the conductor locks you in when the train starts; there is no water to drink in the car; there is no heating apparatus for night travel; if a drunken rowdy should get in, you could not remove a matter of twenty seats from him or enter another car; but above all, if you are worn out and must sleep, you must sit up and do it in naps, with cramped legs and in torturing misery that leaves you withered and lifeless the next day—for behold they have not that culmination of all charity and human kindness, a sleeping car, in all France. I prefer the American system.
In France, all is clock-work, all is order. They make no mistakes. Every third man wears a uniform, and whether he be a marshal of the Empire or a brakeman, he is ready and perfectly willing to answer all your questions with tireless politeness, ready to tell you which car to take, yea, and ready to go and put you into it to make sure that you shall not go astray. You cannot pass into the waiting-room of the depot till you have secured your ticket, and you cannot pass from its only exit till the train is at its threshold to receive you. Once on board, the train will not start till your ticket has been examined—till every passenger's ticket has been inspected. This is chiefly for your own good. If by any possibility you have managed to take the wrong train, you will be handed over to a polite official who will take you whither you belong, and bestow you with many an affable bow. Your ticket will be inspected every now and then along the route, and when it is time to change cars you will know it. You are in the hands of officials who zealously study your welfare and your interest, instead of turning their talents to the invention of new methods of discommoding and snubbing you, as is very often the main employment of that exceedingly self-satisfied monarch, the railroad conductor of America.
At the depots no frantic crowding and jostling, no shouting and swearing, and no swaggering intrusion of services by rowdy hackmen. These latter gentry stand outside—stand quietly by their long line of vehicles, and say never a word. A kind of hackman-general seems to have the whole matter of transportation in his hands. He politely receives the passengers and ushers them to the kind of conveyance they want, and tells the driver where to deliver them. There
is no "talking back," no dissatisfaction about overcharging, no grumbling about anything.
But the happiest regulation in French railway government, is—twenty minutes to dinner! No five-minutes boltings of flabby rolls, muddy coffee, questionable eggs, gutta-percha beef, and pies whose conception and execution are a dark and bloody mystery to all save the cook that created them! No; we sat calmly down—it was in old Dijon, which is so easy to spell and so impossible to pronounce—and poured our rich Burgundian wines and munched calmly through a long table d' hote bill of fare, snailpatties, delicious fruits and all; then paid the trifle it cost and stepped happily aboard the train again, without once cursing the railroad company! A rare experience, and one to be treasured forever!
They say they do not have accidents on these French roads, and I think it must be true. If I remember rightly, we passed high above wagon roads, or through tunnels under them, but never crossed them on their own level. About every quarter of a mile, it seemed to me,a man came out and held up a club till the train went by, to signify that everything was safe ahead. Switches were changed a mile in advance, by pulling a wire rope that passed along the ground by the rail, from station to station. Signals for the day and signals for the night gave constant and timely notice of the position of the switches.
No, they have no railroad accidents to speak of, in France. But why? Because when one occurs, somebody has to hang for it! Not hang, may be, but be punished with such vigor of emphasis as to make negligence a thing to be shuddered at by railroad officials for many a day thereafter. "No blame attached to the officers "—that lying and disaster-breeding verdict so common to our soft-hearted juries—is seldom rendered in France. If the trouble occurred in the conductor's department, that officer must suffer if his subordinates cannot be proven guilty; if in the engineer's department, and the case be similar, the engineer must answer. The old travelers—those delightful parrots who have "been here before," and know more about the country than Louis Napoleon knows now or ever will know— tell us these things, and we believe them because they are pleasant things to believe, and because they are plausible and savor of the rigid subjection to law and order which we behold about us everywhere.
Meanwhile we are getting foreignized rapidly and with facility. We are getting reconciled to halls and bedchambers with unhomelike stone floors and no carpets—floors that ring to the tread of one's heels with a sharpness that is death to sentimental musing. We are getting used to tidy, noiseless waiters, who glide hither and thither, and hover about your back and your elbows like butterflies, quick to comprehend orders, quick to fill them, thankful for a gratuity, without regard to the amount, and always polite—never otherwise than polite. That is the strangest curiosity yet—a really polite hotel waiter who isn't an idiot. We are getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst also of parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking. We are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles —the only kind of ice they have here. We are getting used to all these things, but we are wot getting used to carrying our own soap. We were sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and tooth-brushes, but this thing of having to ring for soap every time we wash is new to us, and not pleasant at all. We think of it just after we get our heads and faces thoroughly wet, or just when we think we have been in the bath-tub long enough, and then of course an annoying delay follows. It recalls Marseilles. Those Marseillaise make Marseillaise hymns, and Marseilles vests, and Marseilles soap for all the world; but they never sing their hymns, or wear their vests, or wash with their soap themselves.
We have learned to go through the lingering routine of the table d'hote with patience, with serenity, with satisfaction. We take soup; then wait a few minutes for the fish; a few minutes more and the plates are changed and
strange fashion of telling a perfectly straight story till you get to the "nub" of it, and then a word drops in that no man
can translate, and that story is ruined.
Tonnere, venerable Sens, Melun, Fontainbleau, and scores of other beautiful cities, we swept, always noting the ab-
By Lyons and the Saone (where we saw the lady of Lyons and thought little of her comeliness); by Villa Franca,
sence of foul ditches, broken fences, cow-lots, unpainted houses and mud; and always noting, as well, the presence the roast beef comes; another change, of cleanliness, grace, taste in adorning and we take peas; change again and and beautifying, even to the disposition take lentils; changeand take snail-pat- of a tree or the turning of a hedge; the ties (I prefer grasshoppers); change and marvel of roads in perfect repair, void of take roast chicken and salad; then ruts and guiltless of even an inequality strawberry pie and ice cream; then of surface; we bowied along, hour after green figs, pears, oranges, green al- hour, that brilliant summer day, and as monds, etc.; finally, coffee. Wine with nightfall approached we entered a wil- every course, of course, being in France. derness of odorous flowers and shrub- With such a cargo on board, digestion bery, sped through it, and then, excited, is a slow process, and we must sit long delighted, and half persuaded that we in the cool chambers and smoke-and were only the sport of a beautiful dream, read French newspapers which have a lo, we stood in magnificent Paris ! HIGH NOON OF THE EMPIRE. HE summer of 1864, and thence- full possession of the Imperial party. forward until the spring of the All the large towns south of San Luis succeeding year, may be called the high Potosi, including the capital, Leon, noon of the Mexican Empire. Within Guadalajara, Puebla, Querétaro, Guana- that period the European powers, not juato and Jalapa, and all the fortified even excepting the little German prin- seaports giving access to the interior on cipalities, had formally recognized and both sides of the continent, had been sent their embassadors to the new- surrendered, most of them peaceably, to born nation of the West. The United the Imperial forces. The contest had States alone held menacingly aloof, been for the moment abandoned. The and continued earnestly to remonstrate Empire was everywhere triumphant. Ju- against the Imperial institution lodged arez, with a handful of guerrillas had upon their southern frontier. Marshal withdrawn into the confines of Sonora, Bazaine had returned from the conquest ready upon an emergency to cross for of Oaxaca, the last Liberal stronghold to safety into the United States; while the southward. The great continental Colonel Garnier with some two thous- routes, connecting the central upland and tirailleurs and Turcos was far on plateaux with the two oceans, were in the march to hunt the Liberal Mexican in his last place of refuge. Such of the Mexican population as had been opposed to him, worn out with their half century of civil wars, were now beginning to ask themselves if the advent of the accomplished young Austrian Prince and his amiable Carlotta would not, after all, prove to be a positive benefit to the country, by putting an end to the wearisome conflicts between ambitious leaders, and still more important, be their surest bulwark against the dreaded encroachments of their northern neighbor; for with them the belief is inborn, that sooner or later the great republic will overrun and absorb Mexico and her civil and religious institutions.
The Mexican capital, at this epoch, presented a strange and absorbing scene, such as will scarcely ever again be witnessed—the spectacle of a large city in North America occupied by European troops, with the view of founding monarchical institutions in the new world. It was, for the moment, perhaps, the most cosmopolitan of cities. Curious varieties of costume, graceful or grotesque, representing the peoples of central and eastern Europe, met one at every turn. There were heard the incomprehensible tongues of Servia, Crotia, Dalmatia, and the Lower Danube, mingling with the equally bewildering phrases of the Polish and Hungarian; while to offset the softer accents of French, Spanish and other Latin languages, arose now and then the screaming ejaculations of the Egyptian and Nubian, known in Mexico under the general name of "Turcos"—a gibberish defying the lingual lore of any but those practiced, bronzed campaigners, who, since the days of Louis Phillipe, have been advancing the tricolor in the wilds of Africa. Delegates from every corner of Europe were there, and to all of these was a dash of romance in the Mexican expedition peculiarly appetising. All had formed roseate visions of pleasures in the fabled "Halls of the Montezumas," amid gorgeous tropical scenery, birds of burning plumage, and under skies of perpetual summer; and those whose fortunate lot it was to be quartered in the great city, lost no opportunity to make the reality fully equal the dream.
The native population, delighted with the novel scenes around them so opposite to the usual monotony of life in Mexico, followed after the daily pageant like pleased children. They were in no respect behind their European invaders in the race for diversion. The streets of the city flashed with brilliant costumes, and resounded with stirring music; money jingled in the cafes; huge-hodied lumbering carriages gleaming with silver ornaments, and drawn by large easy-paced mules, with silver-mounted harness, moved with dignified trot through the principal thoroughfares, their fair occupants exchanging greetings with friends on either side; venders of lottery tickets, beggars and street musicians flourished. Mexico wore anything but the air of a city under military rule. It was a very Babel of tongues; a panorama of varied costume; an ever-moving throng, combining the military splendor and polished civilization of Europe, with the semibarbaric elements of a strange and decadent race, retaining even to this day many of the characteristics described by the old Spanish chroniclers as existing in the days of Hernando Cortes. Austrian, Polish, French, Belgian and Mexican uniforms mingled in the crowd; the Zouaves, of whom there were several thousands in the city, predominating. At all hours the latter were to be seen walking with that loose, swinging gait peculiar to this branch of the French service. They seem to have been selected with a special view to litheness of form and power of endurance. Whole regiments of them had served in Africa, whence they had brought swarthy, bronzed faces, and great muscular development. Every man was an athlete.
Standing at the corner of the grand plaza, and the calle de los Plateros, one of the chief fashionable promenades, one might see in half an hour a bewildering contrast of uniforms, passing and repassing—now a group of officers of the Chasseurs d'Afrique in red and blue, mounted on genuine Arabian horses groomed to perfection and prancing under the light weight of the riders. These French cavalrymen, however, presented a sorry contrast in horsemanship to the graceful riding of the Mexicans, with their resplendent saddles and trappings. This variety of colors was particularly striking on Sundays, at the celebration of military mass at the Cathedral—the largest building on the Western continent—where several thousands of military and citizens stood upon its pavement.
The new order of affairs in the capital did not lessen the public taste for amusement. Of four theaters, the principal were the Imperial and Iturbide. The former was par excellence the theater of Mexico, and as its name would indicate, enjoyed exclusively the patronage of their majesties. Here the Italian and French operas held full sway two or three months during the winter. The Imperial box faced the stage, and was elegantly decorated with mirrors, crimson velvet, gilded columns and coats of arms. When the Imperial couple entered their box, which however was seldom, (and never after intelligence of the death of the King of Belgium reached Mexico) the entire audience rose and remained standing until royalty was seated. This was by no means exacted, but was the spontaneous tribute of a people who appreciated the character and disposition of the young couple, against whom there was never harbored the hatred manifested towards Bazaine and his insolent Frencn officials. The Emperor moreover was a liberal patron of the opera, which he generously subsidized during its stay in Mexico.
On occasions honored by the presence of Maximilian and Carlotta, the elite and fashion and the heiresses to the great fortunes of Mexico shone out in all the splendor of magnificent silks and priceless diamonds. The building was packed with representatives of the wealth and elegance of Mexico's capital. The boxes at the Imperial were taken for the season; the most desirable and highest priced having been those nearest the Empress. Each box had an elegant retiring or lounging room, where, between the acts, ices were served, (the ice being brought from the frozen summit of Ystaccihuatl) and the ladies changed their dresses—coming out, from first to last, in about as many varieties of plumage as the prima donna herself.
The Imperial is somewhat larger than Niblo's in New York, and will seat upwards of three thousand persons. It is built entirely of stone, and tastefully ornamented with paintings, frescoes, marbles, and basso relievo in bronze. The building is of great extent, admitting of a spacious entrance vestibule and smoking hall, where the critics promenade, smoke and chat between acts, and a stage of very grand proportions. In carnival time the parquette floor was elevated by machinery to a level with the stage, and then fashionable and gay Mexico let herself loose for the while and joined in the delirious whirl of masquerade dance. Until now, these had been a sort of a half-way affair in Mexico; but the graceful waltzers among the German officers, and the frantic devotees to the Terpsichorean art among the French, soon established the masquerade in all its glory in the Aztec capital. The coup d'eil in the Imperial opera house on a grand occasion, especially when the European troupe, with its constellation of stars were giving Italian opera, was dazzling—something memorable in fact. Perhaps no other theatre in the world could present so many noteworthy and exciting features—interesting from the nature of the events with which they were associated; and forming themselves a part of the remarkable political drama upon which the curtain has so recently fallen in sadness and gloom.
Beside the Mexican beauties of greater or less celebrity—a beauty consisting chiefly of fine eyes and luxuriant hair, no rarity among Spanish-American belles—the dress-circle contained numerous fine women from Europe, some of noble birth, marchionesses, countesses, etc., and presenting a radiant contrast of light hair, blue eyes and delicate complexions to the morenas of native extraction. Altogether, that array of beauty offered a brilliant picture, especially if the Emperor and Empress happened to be present. Everybody was expected then to be in extreme full dress, and a connoisseur in toilet, lorgnette in hand, would find enough to occupy his attention. It was a sumptuous array of rich dresses, incredible jewelry, and gorgeous regimentals. The Imperial couple rarely sat out the opera, and on their departure with the favored two or three who had been honored with a place in their box the same marks of respect were shown by the audience. The writer, with the usual carelessness of his sex in such matters, on this occasion failed to note the details of Carlotta's dress, though seated at no great distance from the Imperial box. The general impression however, produced, was of the most exquisite taste—richness of material, blended with simplicity of ornaments—while the lady, the cynosure of all eyes, bore herself with the ease and dignity becoming her royal birth and exalted station. So did the charming Carlojta appear to two or three Americans whose republican origin, perhaps, constituted them impartial critics of the Empress of Mexico.
Like most large cities, Mexico presents the extremes of wealth and poverty. Beggary is reduced to a system. Incorrigible offenders are known to the police as having for years imposed upon the sympathies of strangers by drugging their own children (or those hired for the purpose) and passing them off for diseased or dying. Attempts were made under the Empire to stop this, but ineffectually. The lame, the blind, and the deformed are thrust in one's path, in every stage of disgusting loathsomeness, clamorous for charity. Deformed creatures too horrible to contemplate are carried in chairs and placed under one's window, until exorcised with a few pieces of copper money; and others crawl along the pavement, shod hands and feet with square blocks of wood to prevent their toilsome progress from wearing away the flesh. There are beggars of all degrees and kinds—church, secular, and society beggars, and those who have their expenses paid and hand over their earnings to their employers. In the dense throngs in the streets these helpless creatures form a feature memorable for their very hideousness.
Turning to the other extreme of society, the city of Mexico contains immense wealth, which is lavished in all the means of comfort and luxury known to civilized life. Houses, whose forbidding exterior of stone and plaster, with grated prison-like windows, give no idea of the grandeur within, are adorned with all that art and wealth can supply, brought from abroad at incredible expense. Costly and elegant furniture, libraries, pianos, paintings, and statuary, and all that goes to complete the appointments of a sumptuous mansion, are displayed oftener with reckless profusion than in conformity with good taste. The private equipages in the streets are a special means of exhibiting wealth. Many are richly ornamented with silver; mules are in general demand for carriages, though a fine span of English or American horses now and then dash along, the reins held by liveried coachmen, while behind sits the footman in all the splendor of red, green and yellow.
The principal drives are the Paseo de Bucareli, the Paseo de la Viga, along the Calle de los Plateros and the Ale- meda. The last named—a park of about twelve acres, handsomely adorned with flowers, shrubs, large shade trees and statuary—is the resort of the fashionable world of Mexico for morning drive and equestrian exercise, and here may be seen some of the famous Mexican riding in all its native grace ‘and love of dis- play; for nowhere does the Mexican gentleman feel so proud as on his horse, with his splendid silver-mounted saddle and gaily ornamented serape. Ona fine morning, hundreds of horsemen are cur- veting along the romantic roads of the Alemeda, now half hidden among the foliage, disappearing behind the fount- ains and wheeling into sight again, all in apparent confusion, but yet owing to the perfect control of their animals, never coming in contact.
During the Empire the officers were particularly fond of airing their uniforms on the Alemeda, the Austrian and French trotting their heavy imported animals with the peculiar hard, jolting cavalry gait, always losing in contrast with the graceful horsemanship around them. When one of these foreigners (generally effeminate looking gentlemen, with pale faces and spectacles) went thumping by, the Mexicans would quietly make room without a smile; but doubtless these exhibitions of angular elbows, and un- gainly motions made fun enough in some more fitting place, where the rules of po- liteness would not be violated bya hearty laugh.
At no time since the days of its an- cient glory in the reigns of the Aztec kings, has the capital of Mexico con- tained so large a population as dur- ing the late Empire. The exhausting wars waged between the Liberal and Church factions had finally driven the wealthy proprietors towards the chief popular centres—the greater number gravitating to the city of Mexico; so that during 1864, there were near two hundred and fifty thousand people with- in the walls, seeking there the pro- tection to life and security to property guaranteed by the Imperial government against the raids of bands of robbers, whose motto was indiscriminate plunder on the highway, of friend and foe alike, and gravely claiming the rights of mili- tary prisoners when captured and exe- cuted for their crimes. Merchants and tradesmen who flocked to Mexico at this time, invited by the era of peace which it was believed the Empire would ensure to the distracted country, were surprised to find it the largest and rich- est city of the American tropics; and so far from realizing their ideal of adobe huts and mud-thatched sheds, as sug- gested by the rural architecture of tropical-American towns oftenest vis- ited by travelers, they entered a spa- cious, noble city, whose broad, level and cleanly thoroughfares, handsomely paved and lighted, were crowded with a dense, thriving population, the mart and commercial centre of all that part of the continent.
Nothing could be more erroneous than to picture the Mexican capital after the sea-coast towns. Seated high in the temperate regions of the interior, among the very clouds ; under the shad- dow of immense volcanoes clad with perpetual snows ; approached from all directions by dizzy mountain roads, whose bridges of solid masonry have from time immemorial defied the storms and torrents, and still compel the ad- miration of the traveler; its history, glowing with romance, and its great cathedral domes and massive towers of semi-Moorish architecture telling of its ancient grandeur, of doughty Spanish warriors, and the heroic deeds of Cortez and his mailed cavaliers; containing within herself all that the most exacting Sybarite could desire in the comforts and elegancies of refined modern life ; a climate delicious to a proverb; society peculiarly cosmopolitan, and embracinga variety of languages—the capital of Mexico may well claim to be one of the most interesting cities in the world and with scarcely a rival in what constitutes a luxurious and charming abode for man. Compactly and regularly built, principally of stone, the first impression is of strength and solidity. The eye rests upon imposing churches, convents and public buildings of curious architecture and adorned with venerable sculpture; shops with richly emblazoned signs and filled with costly imported goods; sumptuously furnished saloons; ancient market places standing on the site of those of the Aztec kingdom; aqueducts, statues and fountains. The stranger observes with the deepest interest the movements of this quaint old capital isolated among the mountains; its gaudy equipages, its fashion and elegance, its discordant sounds and piercing street cries, its evidences of enormous wealth and squalid wretchedness. Beggars and millionaires; stolid looking Indians wrapped in parti colored serape, and veiled ladies sailing along under the folds of the graceful mantilla. Officers airing their epaulettes; cavalrymen in showy uniforms; priests in long black gowns and shovel hats; street musicians, venders of all sorts of wares— everything denoting the various grades of society in a populous country. The mode of life differs little, if any, from that of most large Spanish-American cities: the early rising to enjoy the fresh balmy air; the morning coffee, ride, bath and pasear; the breakfast at noon; the afternoon siesta; dinner, and the evening's amusements of ball, theatre, or the bands performing on the grand plaza or at the Alemeda. It is a city of clock-towers and bells. Night and day their deep-mouthed voices continually remind one of the omnipresent Catholic church, its solemnities and forms.
During the Empire, there were many excellent restaurants, where French cooks held sway and made happy the epauletted gourmands who assembled there to dine and exchange noisy local gossip. A mile out of town on the Tacubaya road were the famous Tivoli gardens, where, under the most inviting of little pavilions, were laid tables for breakfast or dinner, amid the rustling of the cool tropical foliage and the notes of birds flitting about in the leafy stillness. Here, too, the most obsequious of French servants uncorked the champagne, prepared your pousse café and aided you in lighting the fragrant Havana. Not at the Trois Freres in Paris, nor at Delmonico's in New York, shall you find whiter table linen, more devoted attendance, or more exquisite cooking.
In the winter of 1864 the Emperor and Empress resided at the castle of Chapultepec, about three miles from the city, (famous in the history of our Mexican war) and rode thence every morning to the palace in town for transaction of public business, generally arriving at nine o'clock and returning at five. Both were early risers, and were constantly employed. A file of Belgian troops always stood in the palace gateway, and presented arms, amid the rolling of drums and sounding of bugles, to the Imperial carriage as it passed out or in. This was an open barouche of English manufacture, modestly ornamented, and drawn by four large dun-colored mules with silver-mounted harness. These were a part.of the Imperial stables, and were presented by a wealthy Mexican at or near Guanajuato. They were said to be the finest mules in Mexico, and of a value far exceeding that of the most approved blood horses, of which Maximilian had several, in charge of English grooms: for it was the policy of the Emperor to conform as much as possible to the customs of his adopted land.
One of the animals was ridden by a Mexican driver, and four Mexican outriders surrounded the equipage; two riding on either side and keeping close to the barouche, and two about five yards in advance. All these were armed with carbines, slung across their backs, and a profusion of smaller weapons at their belts. Bold, trusty fellows they looked, with their picturesque national costume and substantial trappings, evidently meant rather for service than for show. Ina country where all are riders, these men had been noted for their daring and skillful horsemanship. They sat their steeds with admirable grace and steadiness, and it was observed that they never for a moment turned aside, but looked straight to the front as the little cortege passed rapidly along. To these four brigand-looking riders, whose swarthy faces seemed all the more sinister under the broad brimmed sombrero which shaded their gleaming eyes, were entrusted during several hours each day the lives of the Emperor and Empress. And they proved to the last worthy the charge confided to them, while the people were pleased with this exhibition of confidence in their own countrymen.
To be armed when traveling, for ever so short a distance beyond the walls of Mexico, is and always was prudent for even ordinary persons, but for a ruler, be he Governor, Emperor or President, it is a necessity. For the capture and holding for ransom of an Emperor and Empress by a band of swift mountain guerrillas, was worth all the risk of the undertaking. Carlotta and a few lady attendants were once saved from such a fate as she was riding without guards near Chapultepec, by some Indian women who had experienced her charity, and the little party had barely time to escape the half dozen robbers who lay in wait for the carriage, and whose whereabouts was indicated by the poor creatures who always addressed their good patroness by the familiar but endearing name of "Niña."
Maximilian and Carlotta often appeared in public. They usually occupied the barouche alone; but sometimes the remaining seats were filled by their guests who had been invited to dine at Chapultepec. The little troop as above described, upon issuing from the grand entrance of the palace, opening upon the Plaza, drove past the Cathedral, generally down the Calle de los Plateros and thence to the western gates of the city. Towards evening, the streets of Mexico are generally thronged. Then the heat of the day has subsided, and all the world is either on the sidewalks for a pasear, or gazing from the balconies upon the moving panorama beneath. If Mexico can ever be seen or fully comprehended, it is then.
The passing of the Imperial carriage, though almost of daily occurrence, was an event, and a particularly pleasing one to the Mexicans. The pace was always a rapid trot, the clattering of so many ringing hoofs, and the rumbling of the heavy English vehicle, of course attracting general attention. Thousands of hats were removed, the Emperor continually lifting his own and bowing right and left, so as almost to keep up a constant swaying of the body to and fro. The salutations were addressed apparently to none in particular, but to the crowds who filled the streets. If any gentlemen were seated with him in the vehicle they remained uncovered while running this gauntlet of extreme politeness, but the popular greetings were returned by royalty alone.
The Emperor as he passed swiftly by had the appearance of a tall, handsome, gentlemanly person, with a particularly frank and cheerful expression, a deep blue eye, light curling hair, and looking—owing perhaps, to the grave responsibilities he had assumed—rather older than thirty-three, which at this time was his age. He dressed in the extreme of fashion. His apparel, which was generally that of a civilian, was always handsome and if in uniform, showy; and there was about him an air of elegance and scholarly culture well becoming his fine person; for Maximilian enjoyed the reputation of being one of the most accomplished princes of Europe, speaking six languages perfectly, and being withal an author both in poetry and prose of acknowledged merit. Subsequent personal interviews both with the Emperor and Empress confirmed, in the mind of the writer, all he had heard of their nobleness of disposition, and genuine kindness of heart.
In these public drives Carlotta always sat on the right, and continually bowed and smiled from beneath her parasol in acknowledgment of the popular acclamations. But for these especial marks of respect and courtesy from the throngs, the Imperial party might easily have been mistaken for the family of some wealthy or distinguished citizen: Maximilian with his hat (always a white one) rather jauntily placed, and Carlotta having the dress and appearance of a young lady of the English aristocracy, which the rather full face, fresh color and English style, seemed to favor. Carlotta passed several years at the court of Queen Victoria, her relative and warm friend. At the time of her advent in Mexico she was twenty-three years of age, tall, graceful, and with a face rather haughty than beautiful, yet beaming with the promptings of a gentle and kind heart: she was the friend of the distressed, and literally thousands now live in Mexico who cherish her memory for unnumbered acts of charity. One of the richest ladies of Europe in her own right, she drew liberally on her private fortune to alleviate suffering in every form, and to forward the beneficent objects of the Empire.
There was enough of romance in the mysterious past of that distant land, enough of interest in its wretched present, enough of hope for its future, to tempt the high-souled Maximilian to devote himself to its regeneration, and to placing Mexico in the front rank of nations. Sad indeed to reflect that these aspiring day dreams and worthy ambitions were at last to bear the bitter fruit of disappointment, death and hopeless gloom. Sadder still for Mexico, who in destroying the heroic prince seems to have thrown away her last hope of nationality.